The Old-School Way of Communicating PV Marshal Mozor

Another day, another dull beginning. It wasn’t as though Marshal put much effort toward the pursuit of novelty, preferring instead to maintain his routine of solitude and simplicity; people, after all, only complicated the mess he referred to as a life, and oddity bred potential for disaster. He’d experienced enough in his life, he reckoned, and had done his best to shut out the new. If he left the world alone, more times than not, it provided him the same courtesy.
But there were times when the monotony thrummed its unchanging note a touch too loud, and that hollow hum played on his ears in a way that ached. Today that note reverberated as though released in an echo chamber. The subdued ache had sharpened, and his food lay still, untouched by all but his downcast eyes..

Just as the day before, the Gryffindor had awoken from a restless sleep earlier than was necessary. Just as the day before, he had laid there, still as if his light slumber had never ended, gaze fixed on a point he could no longer recall. Just as the day before, he’d wished the bed at his back would swallow him whole, taking with him the memories any person possessed of his existence.
And just like every day before that, his wish had gone unheeded, until he’d been forced to accept that reality would persist one day more, and had finally rolled onto his feet.

Breakfast, at least, had never abandoned him. He’d never felt a pancake’s betrayal, nor watched a piece of bacon turn its back and walk away. No, food had never hurt him the way people had, yet today even powdered sugar could not make him feel seen.
Conversation buzzed about his head, and he would have swatted it away had it been a fly. None of their words were meant for him, and he wouldn’t have entertained them if they were. Still, perhaps if there were one person left who cared to spare a thought his way…

The light thwap of paper drew him to start, yet his surprise would be imperceptible, outwardly present only in the way his eyes snapped toward the movement. There, where only empty space had occupied moments before, sat a sheet of parchment, folded in a purposeful way and placed before his plate.
Head lifted from its downturned angle, the sixth year glanced from left to right, suspicion coating his face as he found no apparent culprit. None sat directly beside him, no other gaze at the table was turned his way, and he’d felt no draft of air to betray a passing messenger, human or fowl. Yet he knew it hadn’t been there a minute prior, and it was clearly intended for him.

Returning to the note with a hooded glare, the lion plucked it from the table, undid the folds, and found a note penned within. One short sentence, punctuated with the affectation of inquiry, followed by its author’s endorsement.

I'm sorry to bother you, but you are Marshal Mozor, yes?
- Verity, from your Levitation Charm lesson

Brow furrowed in blatant displeasure, Marshal cast his hazel-tinged gaze toward another table — designated for Hufflepuff — passing over numerous faces until he found the one he sought. Young, with almonds set in place of eyes, and framed with the golden hair of that girl who had declined to use her sock for the practice of a spell.
As their eyes met, his own were hard, features set in disapproving stone. What, he wondered, could this first year possibly want from him? A distant, apathetic upperclassman who had taught her one charm because his assistance had been requested.
It occurred to him that she had likely utilized that very charm to send the note his way, which would explain its sudden appearance from above his downcast vision, and also prove she’d learned the lesson well enough. Had she intended to impress him? Or appeal to him in some way? He wasn’t certain, but he did know he harbored little interest in whatever she hoped would come next. This, he knew, was precisely the reason he remained alone. But it was better than repeating the pain of years fore.

Pulling his wand from its resting place in the sleeve of his robe, the older student extended it in Verity’s direction, uttering a quiet, ”Flagrate.” As he did so, a thin thread of flame would emerge from the wand’s tip, then linger in the shape traced thereafter, suspended in air. That shape quickly formed into an N, written backwards from his position, thus correct in orientation from the girl’s perspective. The N was swiftly followed by an O, and the fiery message came to an end, flame retracting into Marshal’s wand, yet the written word remained.
Visible behind the floating “NO,” the young man raised his brow at the first year in pointed punctuation. Pity he hadn’t added a period, just to seal the sentiment.

@Verity Engels