A Clash of Crowns PV Jorah Closed

Dim winter sunlight filtered through the only window of the small classroom. The desk tables were old and covered with a thick layer of dust. It seemed even the house elves had abandoned this classroom to disarray. Jorah examined the room. It was too small to fit more than a dozen students and that was only if that dozen didn't mind receiving an elbow from their neighbor or feeling a breathe on the back of their neck from the person sitting behind them. What is this, a classroom for ants!, Jorah asked rhetorically. He watched as airborne dust particulates danced above the tables in the ray of sunlight. It wasn't much, but it would do. He needed to practice his Kung Fu. Normally he would practice by the lake, but the lake was frozen over and his training grounds were covered in an inch of white snow. Jorah was happy that all the mosquitoes were dead, may they burn in hell, but there was no way he was going to train out in that frigid air. So this abandoned classroom would be his personal dojo until Spring.

Jorah got to work cleaning this mess of a room. He pushed all the desks to the wall opposite the window, stacking them on top of either other. He packed the chairs into a single tall tower which we stored in the corner. Jorah left, returning with various cleaning supplies he "burrowed" from the janitor's closet. He dusted what surfaces he could and scrubbed the window pane with a wet rag until the room became visibly brighter. Jorah grabbed a broom and went on the hunt for dust bunnies. Once the rebel scum was hunted down, he mopped the stone floor clean. By the time he was done, the translucent mop water was now a dirty frothy brown soup which he flushed down a nearby toilet. Jorah returned the stolen cleaning supplies.

Time to practice. The boy changed into gym clothing and warmed up with some jumping jacks before knocking out fifty push ups with ease. Not having Gris around meant he couldn't spare, but he practiced his form nonetheless. Circling the room, he blocked and threw punches against an invisible shadow partner. The ray of light from the window panned from west to east as the time passed. A few hours later and his training came to a close. Jorah stretched his exerted muscles and sat cross-legged under the window. In through his nose, and out through his mouth, he breathed as he centered himself. The meditation was interrupted by rumbling from his stomach. The young Ravenclaw felt a ravenous hunger that needed immediate satiating.

Jorah changed back into his school uniform, throwing on his robe. The Great Hall greeted him with the pleasant aroma of roasted meats and the noisy clamor of students talking. He sat at the Ravenclaw table feasting on a hefty portion of chicken, corn chowder, and three bean chili. Lord help his roommates tonight when he plays his ass trumpet. Having had his fill, he returned to the Ravenclaw tower. During his stroll he tucked his hands in his robe pockets and was surprised to feel a piece of parchment inside. What the?, he thought. He stopped to read the note which turned out to be a clever poem challenging him to a game of wizard's chess. Jorah was intrigued, both the challenge and the mystery would drive him to accept the invitation. I'm not afraid, if you want to play, let's play. Jorah would be there.

@Jorah Moussa

Given how much she was looking forward to the first free day of the new year, Evelynn might have expected the preceding week to drag on, to force her to count the hours and the minutes and the seconds until such time that she could be free to peruse the library in freedom and pick up where she had left off with research about the Potter trial. It had very much proved her wrong. Before she knew it, classes were concluded, assignments handed out, and the weekend upon them — one that would prove rather productive in more ways than simply school-related, if the upcoming club meeting went as well as she was hoping it would.

But before that, an exercise. In motion of initiative that had taken even herself by surprise, she had declared — in the form of an elusive poem — intellectual war against a Ravenclaw boy. One whose name she didn't even know. His identity didn't matter, however. Nor did his year, or his tastes, or anything else about him that otherwise might normally have sparked an interest to interact. The only thing that mattered was that she had briefly observed him at a distance playing chess, which had sparked a curiously strong desire to re-enter that realm, herself. It was for this reason that she found herself after having broken her fast on Saturday morning, still sitting at one end of the Gryffindor long table in the Great Hall, well past the time that many of her peers had sat down for their morning meal, and some had even taken their leave.

Nibbling on the end of a piece of crisp bacon, Evelynn eyed the entrance. She'd seen the boy in question enter some time ago. Watched him meander to the opposite end of the hall, where the Ravenclaws gathered at their own table, and replenish his own energy stores. For the most part, she had kept her silence. Not that that was particularly difficult to do. Few, if any, of her own housemates (or of any of the other Houses, for that matter) ever had a word to spare to her. If she wasn't outright confrontational with them, she was generally — with a few exceptions, she supposed — indifferent at best.

Gray eyes slipped to glance down at her watch. A quarter past nine. A thoughtful hum delayed the crackle of bacon as she broke off another piece. Still time. The meeting wasn't until eleven, after all, but doubt began to settle in her gut the longer she sat there. Maybe he hadn't gotten the note? Maybe he had, and he was ignoring it? It was then that part of her could have sworn she saw a boy sitting across from her target glance up and look in her direction with a snide grin. But then she blinked, and he was looking down at his plate.

A faint crease developed between her brows, and her stomach began to twist. Memories stirred in her mind, voices making themselves known. You actually thought we'd come to your stupid party? Shrill laughter accompanied the mocking tone, while another voice said, She actually believed us. Maybe it had been too much to hope for. Perhaps the little invitation had been too... weird. Bitterness welled from the pit of her gut, a hot rage rising to colour her cheeks and ears to match her hair. How could she be so stupid. Of course he wouldn't want to play. How arrogant could she have been? And to go so far as to try to incite his arrival by suggesting he might be afraid.

Feeling embarrassed, angry, and annoyed with herself all at the same time, she rose, hands already moving to collect her chess set and make a hasty retreat. She must have been wholly consumed by her previous thoughts, however, for just as she did, she realized she was no longer alone. Across from her, on the opposite side of the table, stood a boy silhouetting her previous view. Pausing mid movement, Evelynn looked up.

"Oh!" She blinked, her gaze falling onto the face and features of the very boy she had challenged.

He was a little shorter than she expected: a few inches shorter than she would have been at full height. But it wasn't his height that caught her attention. It was his eyes. They were a light brown, almost golden when the light caught them right. Like the color of leaves at the turn of harvest. Or tigerseye.

"You actually came," she said, still sounding surprised and plopping her rear right back to the seat from where it had just lifted.

A pause. Oh great. All that build-up of enigma lost in an instant.

She was just about to ask him if he actually wanted to play, realizing that he may have just come over here to toss a few condescending comments her way when the boy slotted himself to take a seat on the bench in front of her. Welp. That was that, she supposed. And just as quickly as it had waned, her confidence returned like blooms in spring.

"I mean, of course you were going to," she recovered, her tone regaining some of its typical smugness. "Hard to pass up an invitation like that, eh?" She said rhetorically, flashing a smile as she dragged the game board to sit between them and began setting up the pieces. Then she lifted her gaze back to the stranger. "Since you're the guest, I'll give you the pick. White or black?"

Jorah couldn't sleep. He had been tossing and turning in his sheets for hours to no avail. The mystery of his challenger and the excitement of tomorrow's chess game filled him with an energy that kept the Sandman at bay. The boy rolled over to the other side of his bed, fluffed up his pillow in frustration, and tried to get comfortable. It was no use. He flipped unto his back and kicked off his blanket. His mind wandered as his eyes traced the silhouette of the curtain frames above him. Ugh, why can't it be tomorrow already? Why are humans so weak that we require sleep anyway? Horses only sleep for two hours a day. Dolphins can sleep with only half of their brain while using the other half to swim and watch for predators. If humans are so smart, why do we waste a third of our lives unconscious?

Jorah sat up against his headboard and looked around. His dorm-mates were all passed out. The boy to his left snored intermittently while the boy of his right snoozed in silence. If I were home I could go to the kitchen for a cup of warm milk, but no, I'm stuck in this tower like a prisoner. He had been awake so long his stomach was starting to grumble. Jorah weighed the risk of sneaking out to the kitchens for a quick bite. I know where the kitchen's are, if I tickle the pear on the portrait door, I can hop inside the kitchen, grab something, and be back before anyone notices. Jorah remembered the house elves he met in the kitchen last year. He wondered if they would still be down there this late...well early now. He decided against the kitchen adventure. The last thing he needed was a house elf ratting him out to a professor. Getting caught would grant him an express ticket to detention, though it might be funny if it was Olphie that handed down the punishment. "Joseph Moustache! Those pointy eared fellows have been telling me that you've been sneaking out at night for snacks... and you didn't even bring me any. Selfish! Detention Mr. Mufasa!"

Jorah chuckled at his version of the flying professor. Well, if I can't leave, what can I do? The boy leaned over to his left and slowly opened the wooden drawer of his night table. The scrapping of the wood screamed in the dead air of the Redwood dorm. Jorah paused and listened for sounds of his roommates stirring. Silence, nothing but the light snoring on his left. Good. Jorah fished through the open drawer and pulled out the note that he found in his pocket. He studied the poem. What sly fox could have snuck this inside my pocket without me noticing? Jorah would have been more than willing to play if this mystery person had just asked, but the poem was a nice touch. He studied the lines in the pale moonlight filtering through his window.

...On Saturday's dawn
Where lions do yawn
Breaking their fast
I'll sit at long last...

That part caught his attention. So they want to meet at the Gryffindor table around breakfast time. Is this sneak a Gryffindor? Of all the houses at Hogwarts, Jorah liked Gryffindor the least. He thought they were loud troublemakers and Jorah preferred to give them a wide berth. This attitude had been challenged recently by his Kung Fu teacher Gris. She was a Gryffindor and Jorah took much pleasure in studying under her. Perhaps Gryffindor wasn't as bad as he thought. Gris could have been an outlier, but a second mysterious Gryffindor challenging him to a game of chess and through poetry no less, was forcing Jorah to reconsider his stance on the lions.

The grumbling of his stomach intensified, erupting into a loud PHHHHRTTTT!! The beans from his dinner had come back with a vengeance. If the noise was bad, the smell that came after was worse. Imagine the scent of cooked broccoli inside the rotting carcass of a Tauntaun, that was the stench that so boisterously escaped the black hole of Jorah's anus. The snoring had stopped and was replaced by startled confusion. "Huh, what was that?" Then another voice from across the dorm. "Did an owl fly into the window?" The odor swam through the air, infecting the nostrils of its first victims. By then the origin of the noise was unmistakable. "God damnit Moussa!" "What?...Oh gheez, WHY?!? I CAN TASTE IT! "2319! We've got a 2319!" Now everybody was up and closing their bed curtains, trying to hide from the spirit of the bean. Jorah's stomach rumbleed and he let loose a second, but less impressive fart which felt spicy at the end. "You monster!," a roommate screamed. "Sorry guys, I'm gonna go release the kraken," Jorah said as he made his way to the bathroom.

When Saturday morning had finally come, Jorah jumped out of his bed to an empty dorm. Judging from how bright the room was, he had overslept. He rubbed the sand out of his eyes and changed into his weekend clothes; blue jeans and a black polo. The boy scampered down to a half filled Great Hall. He was eager to start the game and solve the mystery of the sneak, but the aroma of freshly cooked bacon was calling him. Jorah plopped down at the Ravenclaw table and began his feast. "Bacon pancakes, makin bacon pancakes. Take some bacon and i'll put it in a pancake. Bacon pancakes, that's what's it gonna make! Bacon pancaaakes!," Jorah sung as he sandwiched a layer of crispy bacon between two pancakes then drizzled the pile with a generous amount of maple syrup. He washed down his creation with several gulps of pulpy orange juice. When the pancakes were done, he piled some fluffy golden scrambled eggs next to a helping of corned-beef hash. He ate quickly, attacking this second breakfast with ravenous voracity. A Ravenclaw boy sitting across from Jorah inquired what the rush was about, to which Jorah responded by showing him the letter. "Hi have ha hame hoo hlay," Jorah struggled to say through a mouthful of hash. The boy examined the letter and began looking around the Great Hall for someone with a chess set. He found a girl sitting at the Gryffindor table. "I think I found her," he said. Jorah looked up, and sure enough it was a Gryffindor. "Hi hnew hit," he said. It looked like the girl was getting ready to leave though. Jorah took one final swig of OJ and hurried over to the mystery girl.

"You actually came," she said surprised. Jorah himself was surprised, not that he came, but of how pretty this girl was. She didn't fit the chess player stereotype which was a more homely look usually with pocket-protectors or thick glasses which made your eye look twice their size. Her eyes were a striking blue-grey, but what really caught Jorah's attention was her hair, stunning locks of fire. "I mean, of course you were going to. Hard to pass up an invitation like that, eh?" "Ha, well no ones written me a poem before, let alone ninjaed it into my pocket without me noticing, you've got some skills," Jorah replied. "Since you're the guest, I'll give you the pick. White or black?" "Uh sure, I can start if you'd like." Jorah sat down to the table. "Pawn to D4!" At his command a white pawn slid forward two spaces. He turned his attention to his opponent. "I'm Jorah by the way," he said, extending his right hand for her to shake.

Interacting with @Jorah Moussa

"Decipio," the Gryffindor replied, a touch of hesitation in her tone as she eyed the boy across from her with a mildly querying look. "Evelynn Decipio."

As simple as that, the game was on. In a way, it was somewhat odd. Sure, he'd voiced that no one had before written him a poem before, or ninja'd it into his pocket, but he hadn't seemed all that surprised. Or even questioning. He'd taken the gesture in complete stride, accepting the fate of a match as easily as if the two had been long-time chess match partners, meeting once again for a typical weekend afternoon play-date like the old folks she often saw shored up around the little round tables at the park. It was…peculiar, to say the least. Or perhaps the fact that she thought it was so odd was what was strange. Should it be, really? Was she just overthinking it?

"Pawn to E6," she ordered, brows furrowing as she peeled her gaze away from this Jorah and set them instead upon the form of the black figure sliding dutifully forward a pace.

She still wasn't quite used to the verbal commands, having grown up manually manipulating the pieces, not that she wanted that little tidbit to be freely aired, however. To do so would give indication of her heritage, which still wasn't something she felt particularly comfortable sharing. Thus, she kept her hands firmly folded together, fingers tucked between her knees below the table.

"Do you play very often?" Small talk had never been a particularly strong talent of hers, but neither did she want to play entirely in silence. Somehow, that seemed even more awkward than to refrain from an attempt at conversation. "I just got this set over the holidays, and haven't really had much of a chance to break it in yet."

"Knight to C3," Jorah says in response to Evelynn's advancing pawn. At his command a white horse somersaults over the forward line of pawns and lands on its new square. A small jump for this game piece, but one giant leap for a life-sized version. Rumor has it that during Harry Potter's first year at Hogwarts, he and his friends played a life or death game of Wizard's Chess with pieces as tall as a person. One could only imagine Ron Weasley soaring through the air as his knight hopped around the board.

"Do you play very often?", Ev asked. "I just got this set over the holidays, and haven't really had much of a chance to break it in yet." "Um, not really," Jorah answered her. "I played a few games with my dad here and there and one here at school. I've always wanted to play more, but its hard to find someone who wants to join. So I was happy to see your note when I got it. How about yourself, do you play often?"

Jorah looked down admiring Evelynn's new game. He'd like to have a set to call his own, but what's the point when you have no friends to play with. He looked back at Evelynn. "Hey, were you making a pun when you said you hadn't had a chance to break it in because these pieces are about to be broken, haha."

Maybe its wasn't a pun, but then again, was it? Who was this girl, this...gryffindor sneaking notes and making chess puns. Shouldn't she be out in the courtyard gossiping about shoes or whatever those gryffindor girls do. Jorah recalled an American film, Mean Girls. That's how he pictured the young lionesses, but not Evelynn. She was subverting all of his expectations. Clearly she wasn't a Mean Girl, Jorah was sitting at her table after all and he didn't even go here. No, Evelynn was different, but different or not Jorah had a reputation to uphold, or rather one to change. The boy was placed into Ravenclaw, the "House of the Wise," but he was beginning to feel like the sorting hat had made a mistake. Sure, he made decent marks in class, but when it came to the practical aspect of casting spells, he was subpar, if subpar could be used as a euphemism for hot garbage. Being surrounded by such clever house mates like Pericles Dralt only further deflated his confidence.

Jorah was good at one think though and that was Quidditch. He was a better beater than most boys his age and even made it onto his house's Quidditch team. Flying made him feel free and he reveled in the audience's cheers. Unfortunately, his safe haven was starting to feel like a prison. Jorah was building a reputation as a dumb jock and he was starting to believe it. He loved Quidditch, but flying was now feeling like an obligation while the cheers sounded hollow and superficial. He was a dumb jock playing for a team that keeps losing while living in a house that values intelligence above all things. It's no wonder I don't have any friends, he thought to himself. Jorah now had a small opportunity to prove at least to himself that he belonged. Wizard's chess was a game of wit after all, and wit beyond measure was Ravenclaw's greatest treasure. Jorah needed a win.

Interacting with @Jorah Moussa

An idle nod accompanied the Ravenclaw's response, if for no other reason than simply to acknowledge what he was saying and show she was listening. The corners of her mouth even curled up in the hint of a smile at the expressed sentiment that he had been happy to receive her note. If she was being honest with herself, she had been more than a little nervous about that little stunt. The initial part hadn't been such a great endeavour. It was an anonymous note with a clever poem, after all. But it had required that she step beyond her comfort zone and place herself in a compromising position where rejection was a possibility. That had not been a taste that had sat particularly well with her during the anticipation of that wait.

"I'm glad you decided to take me up on the offer," she replied genuinely, keeping her gaze downcast at the board, flicking it about the various pieces as she attempted to predict various moves and prepared counter strategies to combat them.

"Mn…" she hummed, considering the follow-up question he had posed. Deciding how much she cared to share about her personal life. "A bit, I suppose," came the reply. "Mother taught me how to play when I first started becoming interested in logic puzzles and strategy games. We would play every now and then. And still do. But I—" She paused, pulling her lips in over her teeth to rub them together in brief thought. "—I would like to play more, I think," she continued, changing her mind about what she was originally going to say. "I want to get better at the game."

"A pun..?" She blinked, lifting her gaze momentarily from the board to read Jorah's face as he continued that last thought and explained himself. "Oh," she smiled, shaking her head slightly with amusement at the implication. "No, I didn't mean to, anyway. But I suppose that's true. Well, not quite just yet, though."

Another moment of silence as she returned her gaze to the board and then, a second later, commanded, "Knight to F6," before straightening and leaning forward to rest her chin on the knuckles of interlaced fingers lofted above the table on propped elbows.

"So do you have a surname, Jorah of Ravenclaw?" she wondered, tilting her head, attention back upon her opponent now that her turn had been made. "Or is that your surname? I'm fairly sure I've seen you among my classes, but I don't recall the professors ever calling that out during lectures. And I'll admit, I don't usually make a habit of calling people by their given name if I'm not very familiar with them."