Good Music
Maurice was beginning to think his date would never show up.
It was a disheartening thought that wedged itself into his mind somewhere between arrival and present. He had been staring at the reflection of moonlight against the surrounding lake when it suddenly occurred to him that he very well may have been stood up. A few things rearranged themselves in his mind and a million thoughts began to weave themselves from the careless hands of fear. He abruptly felt very sick, and had to look away from the water.
This was one of the many new feelings Maurice had been experiencing in his third year at Hogwarts. Fear, not in regards to his own well-being, but in his connections with others. Fear that ate away at his gut, tainted his mind, and made his legs all wobbly. He wondered if the carriages were still nearby. He wondered how easily he could drive a carriage. He scrapped the thought.
He hated this. The desire to be back home, back in Pau, grew strong. Moments like these were the main reason Maurice had avoided dances and school-sanctioned events: the loneliness. It was such a hassle to find the right crowd, and showing up alone was pretty much a sentencing to hours of lonesome wandering capped off with a sensation of incompleteness you wouldn't be able to shake for days afterward.
He wanted so desperately to get his mind away from all of it. That was when he remembered the pair of wired earphones tucked safely into the pocket of his poorly ironed slacks. In a flood of great relief, he plucked the pair from his pocket and slotted one in his left ear. Clicking the play on his small portable Mp3 player, he allowed his mind to drift from the moment for just a moment, and fade into the soothing sound of his sister's raging voice drowned out by a violent guitar.
PC: Charlotte Winfield
Good Music
Archer was stuck in a most paradoxical relationship with the Hogwarts balls. A true quagmire even he, fickle as his whims were, could not explain. As much as he whined to himself every time he attended the damned occasion, he still came back for more. He never dressed up, never did those long locks of black hair, never prepared himself for the festive, merry mood everyone else seemed to be in. Instead, even at the ball he hosted himself, he found corners to observe. That was putting it too sophisticatedly. What he really meant was sleep stood up and eyes wide open.
He knew the feeling of being lonely even in a crowd, especially in a crowd. Some days, he was on a completely different plane of existence than anyone else. It wasn’t quite that he didn’t fit in, it was more so that he didn’t want to and he was now being punished with the consequences.
Was it masochism in the way that he liked it, watching the world go by in a blur, with him as the centre of clarity as a spotlight illuminated his being, displaying him like an antique heirloom at the same time it horrifically ostracised him. Loneliness was an all too familiar emotion for Archer, and as much as it twisted his gut feeling it, sometimes he couldn’t get enough of it. Mad, he knew — as mad as he was himself.
And so Archer decided to venture into the death trap that was a Hogwarts ball anyway. His steps were heavy, unexpectant, face certainly not graced by anything like a smile. It was unfair to say he was trudging, but he was evidently unenthused towards the occasion. He was underdressed with low spirits and lower expectations. This, as with any other time, begged the question: why the hell was he even here?
By the entrance of the ball stood a boy with blond hair — well tended to, unlike a certain Archer Duncan’s, fair skin, and sharp features for what seemed to be a peer. Archer had never seen him before, and as much as it may come off as a surprise from his blatant lack of socialisation, the observant boy knew his fair share of faces. Considering he looked around his year, the only logical explanation was his foreignness, and the out of place look in his rosy-cheeked face certainly did not help. There was a look of innocence about his visage, as if all his problems were simply trivial ones.
He decided to make a gingerly approach. Lifting his head as he took swift, long strides over, something slowly akin to confidence must have momentarily possessed him as he made the choice he would regret seconds later. Too late to turn back now; he’d already reached the other boy. Leaning against the railing beside him Archer gently tilted his head in inquiry, hoping the boy would notice his presence and his question. He turned his head upwards, asking lackadaisically, voice not loud yet not soft, “What are you listening to?”
@Maurice Andrieux
He knew the feeling of being lonely even in a crowd, especially in a crowd. Some days, he was on a completely different plane of existence than anyone else. It wasn’t quite that he didn’t fit in, it was more so that he didn’t want to and he was now being punished with the consequences.
Was it masochism in the way that he liked it, watching the world go by in a blur, with him as the centre of clarity as a spotlight illuminated his being, displaying him like an antique heirloom at the same time it horrifically ostracised him. Loneliness was an all too familiar emotion for Archer, and as much as it twisted his gut feeling it, sometimes he couldn’t get enough of it. Mad, he knew — as mad as he was himself.
And so Archer decided to venture into the death trap that was a Hogwarts ball anyway. His steps were heavy, unexpectant, face certainly not graced by anything like a smile. It was unfair to say he was trudging, but he was evidently unenthused towards the occasion. He was underdressed with low spirits and lower expectations. This, as with any other time, begged the question: why the hell was he even here?
By the entrance of the ball stood a boy with blond hair — well tended to, unlike a certain Archer Duncan’s, fair skin, and sharp features for what seemed to be a peer. Archer had never seen him before, and as much as it may come off as a surprise from his blatant lack of socialisation, the observant boy knew his fair share of faces. Considering he looked around his year, the only logical explanation was his foreignness, and the out of place look in his rosy-cheeked face certainly did not help. There was a look of innocence about his visage, as if all his problems were simply trivial ones.
He decided to make a gingerly approach. Lifting his head as he took swift, long strides over, something slowly akin to confidence must have momentarily possessed him as he made the choice he would regret seconds later. Too late to turn back now; he’d already reached the other boy. Leaning against the railing beside him Archer gently tilted his head in inquiry, hoping the boy would notice his presence and his question. He turned his head upwards, asking lackadaisically, voice not loud yet not soft, “What are you listening to?”
@Maurice Andrieux
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht