Um... Professor?
Reducio
@Solomon Lear
Camille Eve mounted the stairs hesitantly, approaching the Headmaster's Office. "Oh my God - it's right there!" she blurted suddenly, seeing the door at the end of the hall. Quickly, her hand clapped over her mouth in a feeble attempt to stop the words that had already left. She'd never really had a conversation with the Headmaster, and she was pretty sure he had no idea who she was. She'd owled him before, but he had never responded. So here she was.
Taking a deep breath, the young Slytherin started down the hallway towards Professor Lear's office. She pushed her shoulders back and walked with as much confidence as she could muster. It's just the Headmaster - will you relax? Just the Headmaster. If anyone was watching her, they would see the brunette rolling her eyes at seemingly nothing. Walk, would you? she chided, picking up the pace a touch as she neared the door.
Alright, it's just ahead. Calm down... calm down... Camille took a deep breath and stood in front of the door to the Headmaser's office. "Just raise your fist," she whispered to herself. "And knock." Her knuckles rapped the door three times, rather firmly she was proud to say. "Professor?"
Um... Professor?
The door would open inward in response to her knock. The door was unlocked as it often was. It was not that the Headmaster feared security, it was that he did not need it, not here. Solomon was likely the safest man in all of Hogwarts. For the most part whatever monstrosities and dangers lurked in these halls or on these grounds seemed to avoid the Headmaster. In fact, disaster seemed to wait for the moment his back was turned. It was more stressful than actually dealing with the threat.
Stone walls on every side of this circular room bore the faces of the former Headmasters, most sleeping despite the hour. Their esteemed faces were warmly lit under a candlelit chandelier and a crackling fire in the hearth. The sorting hat sat on a high shelf, one too high for a child to reach after a recent incident. The sorting hat was also sleeping, softly snoring. The almost lethargy-producing sound of this slumbering choir was offset only by the whir of unmarked and ill-defined silvery and coppery devices that stood on spindle-legged tables scattered about the room. The room had not changed since Headmaster Winslow and Blackburn had left, the only mark Solomon had made was the tiny, furry critters that scampered underfoot. There was not one but a dozen or so, with their little glassy eyes that peered with a curiosity at the snooper. The Headmaster had a soft-spot for Pygmy Puffs -- both purple and pink, and like an infestation confined to this singular space little eyes would peer around massive tomes and various mystical and mundane baubles.
Solomon was there, quill in hand. He was writing something.It appeared to be a proclamation of sorts. His head lifted when the girl's knock pushed the door inward. "Hello?" Solomon called out before he blew on the still moist ink from his pen. "Come on in." It was almost casual, considering the formal setting less the Pygmy Puffs that would swarm about her feet once she entered the office space. "They are harmless," Solomon advised.
Stone walls on every side of this circular room bore the faces of the former Headmasters, most sleeping despite the hour. Their esteemed faces were warmly lit under a candlelit chandelier and a crackling fire in the hearth. The sorting hat sat on a high shelf, one too high for a child to reach after a recent incident. The sorting hat was also sleeping, softly snoring. The almost lethargy-producing sound of this slumbering choir was offset only by the whir of unmarked and ill-defined silvery and coppery devices that stood on spindle-legged tables scattered about the room. The room had not changed since Headmaster Winslow and Blackburn had left, the only mark Solomon had made was the tiny, furry critters that scampered underfoot. There was not one but a dozen or so, with their little glassy eyes that peered with a curiosity at the snooper. The Headmaster had a soft-spot for Pygmy Puffs -- both purple and pink, and like an infestation confined to this singular space little eyes would peer around massive tomes and various mystical and mundane baubles.
Solomon was there, quill in hand. He was writing something.It appeared to be a proclamation of sorts. His head lifted when the girl's knock pushed the door inward. "Hello?" Solomon called out before he blew on the still moist ink from his pen. "Come on in." It was almost casual, considering the formal setting less the Pygmy Puffs that would swarm about her feet once she entered the office space. "They are harmless," Solomon advised.
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.