|
|
Post by narcisse on Feb 16, 2008 1:35:30 GMT -5
The light of the library was bright enough to rid, but not vibrant enough to arouse anyone who might have dosed off. In fact, it occurred to him as he sat there that it was quite magnificent how they had arranged it to be a soft reading-light at most of the times of the day, a special tint upon the windows that even in the brightest days of dalliance it would remain the same lighting within the library. Though he didn’t spend too much time thinking about it, for that is not why he had come. No, he sat there at his table, in a straight backed posture, flipping through the pages of his History of Magic book, with a piece of parchment where he was making notes lay beside it. The writing upon the page was a lovely, sharp cursive way of writing, it was pretty. He had had to practice to get it to be to the level he wanted and in the end he had decided that it was the best penmanship he had ever seen.
Narcisse had heard that they might be learning about a few of the earlier famous witches and wizards in the B.C. era. Thusly, since he wanted to appear knowledgeable had come to the library to make a few quick notes about them, so he might offer something to show the students just how brilliant the Eraclea were. And History did interest him in some regard; he loved to read about the great witches and wizards of history. Though his favorite subjects were Potions and Charms, History of Magic was an easy second. It was in his blood to be well prepared, if only to outshine the other students with his plethora of knowledge. Though he wondered if they taught about legendary witches such as his own ancestor, Eraclea the Magnificent?
His lovely eyes scanned the page as he took notes on the sorceress Circe, someone he didn’t much care for. If for the sole reason that she’d been as weak as to fall in love with a muggle. He had heard that is how his uncle, Cyrille, had died: In an affair with a muggle. Why did people of such power do such foolish things? His uncle, for instance, had been an heir to the Eraclea Estate. That within itself, should have been motivation enough to stay with a pureblood family. But alas, he had fallen out of nobility and went to consort with the non-magic trash of the world. Narcisse would never do such a thing: And what his mother would say if he did! In fact, as he took notes on a few more of the wizards he thought of his mother.
It had been a while since he had sent her a letter, and he missed hearing from her terribly. It was very odd for him to not have written her as much, but it was because he had such an aversion to the stinky Owlery. It was not as well kept as Beuaxbaton’s owlery. And because of that he had not been in it at all. Perhaps he would muster the bravery to go through all of that stinky mess later. And at the thought he looked down, noticing a piece of dust upon his ornately archaic Sltyherin Crest. With one of his delicately lithe fingers he plucked it off; he hated dust. He was caught thinking of his crest, his mother and he had searched and searched for it in the records. He would not wear the same thing as everyone else, he had to be finer, and she had agreed.
Mother will most likely be in the history books too one day, he thought to himself with pride, and she, his precious son. It was her that he thought about constantly when he was alone like this, he had not been adept at making too many friends since he arrived. They all seemed to clash with his personality, but could he help to be so beautiful and so privileged? Of course not.
|
|
|
|
Post by Dylan Cooper on Feb 16, 2008 1:57:57 GMT -5
Resigned to the task ahead, so used to it had he become over the last few weeks, he pushed the double doors apart to find a crowded library. His eyes scanning the students present, he very surprisingly found no-one to whom he was currently acquainted. Though with his increased solitude of late, perhaps it should not have been completely unexpected. He had only had the briefest period of time at the beginning of this year in which he had been withdrawn from his usual social solidarity, by a certain other Ravenclaw prefect, and had opened himself up to friendship and more. After the events surrounding the Masquerade, however, he had become almost completely reclusive from anyone unfamiliar.
Unsure as to where to take a seat, he saw few choices. Casting a sour look at a group of giggling Hufflepuff girls occupying an entire table without really working, he also passed a group of younger Gryffindor boys and girls crowded around by the section on Defence Against the Dark Arts as he progressed toward the rear of the main study area. Finally spying a practically vacant table, he warily approached it and the boy seated there.
His satchel hitched over one shoulder and weighing heavily upon him, he spoke in that quiet voice of his, his eyes directed toward the textbook before the boy. Not immediately recognising him from anywhere, he looked about Dylan’s age, if not younger, and extremely haughty. Not altogether looking forward to the forthcoming experience, he knew that he needed to study and the common room and most of the classrooms he had visited had been to raucous and cluttered to fit a solitary Ravenclaw fifth year. “Do you mind?” he questioned in his usual quiet voice, gesturing his intentions to have a seat.
|
|
|
|
Post by narcisse on Feb 16, 2008 2:27:46 GMT -5
The sound of the footsteps did not permit him to rise; he was not as interested in such things like other people. Some would have called it a lack of perception, but it was not, it simply was not important enough to bid him rise. That and he was in the middle of jotting down some more notes. In a moment he would put away his History book and get out the potions book and begin working on his essay. Though he too heard the giggling of the girls with great annoyance, the dalliance of such fools annoyed him to no end. It was not often that he laughed, because nothing was ever really funny. Most of the things that others found amusing were just trash anyway.
He could not however, ignore the voice, for Narcisse was not one to ignore people when they spoke to him. If he was addressed he replied, in whatever manner he thought necessary. He was not some rude giant, after all. He raised his head slowly however; his beautiful platinum blonde hair staying perfectly in place, for Narcisse had put it up with some of the gel his mother had bought him that morning. Its luminosity was also somewhat enhanced, something that Narcisse took great delight in. And when he looked at the boy who came, he would do so through those vibrant grey eyes. And his beautifully lined face would be in full view, those clever little lips, that small seemly nose. As the light struck it at an odd angle, his nearly invisible, yet enhancing layer of cosmetics became visible. He only wore such things to make sure that his face could be seen at its maximum beauty. He also wore some lip balm that gave his lips more color, for most lips seemed to be so drab and dry.
With those gray eyes he looked around, and then sighed haughtily before speaking. He was not so cruel as to refuse the boy, and he had been polite enough to ask, and that gained him points in Narcisse’s book. The boy, even though he did not know that Narcisse was an Eraclea, had shown him respect. With that his eyes slightly brightened slightly, and when he spoke he did it without the resigning tone he had been expecting, as if he would rather him not sit there. No, now his tone was only a bit lighter, even if it was still very haughty and noble, as if Narcisse knew that he was better than this boy who was speaking to him.
“I suppose you may.”
|
|
|
|
Post by Dylan Cooper on Feb 16, 2008 15:54:16 GMT -5
Noticing, as the boy drew his face into the light, that he was adorned in what appeared to be make-up, Dylan’s previous decision to sit here was suddenly regretted. The haughty sigh issued, the tone with which he was replied to, by no means helped to correct this opinion, either. Being raised to express his manners no matter whom to, he murmured a quick “thank you” before sliding into the seat opposite.
Noticing Narcisse’s gray eyes, he was reminded fleetingly of D’rorah. Her piercing gray eyes which seemed to have a weakness only for him; that he could lose himself in without a moment of warning, seemed suddenly so different from those of this boy. While Dee simply exuded love around him, this young man, obviously believing himself superior to almost anyone, gave off the impression of a somewhat cold indifference; absorbed only with himself and no-one else. Perhaps he was wrong… Then again, perhaps he wasn’t.
Slipping his satchel onto the seat beside him, he unzipped it and withdrew his Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook. Flipping to the page about Giants and marking it with a small corner of parchment. Proceeding through to both the page on Acromantula and that on the Conjunctivitis Curse, he marked them both in quick succession, and, just for extra reference, the page on which the Revulsion Jinx was depicted. Pulling out his parchment, inkwell and quill, he soon dipped the pointed shaft into the jet black ink and began to neatly jot down some notes for the forthcoming essay.
Not having been raised as a complete dolt, he decided to make a small attempt at conversation. Given the entire manner and demeanor of the young boy, he decided to make a small guess at his house. “Slytherin?” he questioned lightly, only barely curious as to what the boy was studying. He was still curious, however, but chose to pertinently refrain from questioning him. Sometimes students could be doing very private things in the library.
|
|
|
|
Post by narcisse on Feb 16, 2008 17:05:49 GMT -5
Narcisse’s grey eyes slowly fell back down to his book as the boy muttered his thank you, and sat down. His ears pricked at the sound of the other getting his books out, and out of a bland curiosity he looked up to see him extracting a few books, one being Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was not an absolutely horrid class, and Narcisse was mildly good at it, of course he was not horrid, but it simply was not his best, nor his favorite subject. His prowess lay in Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration. The latter two he felt showed his true intellect as they were the more difficult arts of magic to perform. Potions took a great bit of intelligence and perception where as Transfiguration took a great deal of focus and will. Charms simply came to him naturally, he had even been a member of the dueling club; he had been reluctant at first, but his mother said he should, just in case. He knew that his mother was a spectacular witch, and thought she wasn’t seen using her wand often she was quite powerful.
Turning the page he went away from the disgraceful Circe, and took a few notes on a few of the ancient Greek and Egyptian, Babylonian witches and wizards. There were few on record, because it had been so long ago. But there was still some information on them. He enjoyed history, and he wondered why Eraclea wasn’t in this particular book? She was not main stream knowledge he guessed, unlike the family itself. But there were stores of books on the family in the Grand Archives, at his grandfather’s home at Eraclea Estate; near Paris.
It was then that the boy spoke again, guessing his house. Of course, if he would have looked at his robes that would’ve been obvious. But perhaps he was just being cordial again? Narcisse wasn’t one to converse in the library if he could help it, for he was here for but one reason and it was not socialization. Of course, he would if the occasion arose, like now. But such small talk tended to annoy him on some level, but he made sure that when he spoke his tone would be even.
“Yes,” he said briefly, and then with a seeming automatic response he asked, “And yourself?”
|
|
|
|
Post by Dylan Cooper on Feb 21, 2008 21:03:22 GMT -5
The clarification of the obvious stated, Dylan felt a mild urge to nod. These flashing urges often cropped up in his day-to-day scenarios; acknowledging acquaintances in the hallways or assuring someone of something were situations in which someone would nod without even realising it. A large part of him missed the ability to safely do that, without thought or second-guessing. The action, by now, caused slight or severe headaches to erupt within him thanks to the extensive damage done to his head over the past months.
His mind straying back to the present, Dylan’s previously downcast eyes raised themselves once more to the page before him. “Ravenclaw,” he replied simply, his eyes automatically seeking out the shiny prefects badge adorning his navy blue turtleneck. The collar pulled right up and the sleeves reaching down to his wrists, he was also wearing ankle-length black pants and another small badge, labeling him as the Quidditch captain for his house.
Not entirely wishing for much small talk considering their current location, his eyes discreetly surveyed the boy before him even as they appeared to flick through the page before him. Setting his quill to the parchment once more, he began to compose an introduction to the essay ahead in neat, curly writing. Recalling the foot or so required of him, he expanded every thought to the fullest and, far too often, went off on unrelated tangents. Usually, he was a very good writer. He would never admit it to such an extent, of course, but his work and therefore marks had noticeably deteriorated ever since the events before the Masquerade.
|
|
|
|
Post by narcisse on Feb 24, 2008 17:53:27 GMT -5
Narcisse looked away after he was answered and kept up with his notes for History. Then he allowed himself to lift his head ever-so slightly to survey the boy, and get a feel for what he looked like. You could tell a lot by how a person kept up with him or herself. He didn’t seem too bad, and being in Ravenclaw was generally a mark of intellect. The library was generally a quiet place, but that didn’t mean anything, in fact, Narcisse had yet to even see a Librarian strolling around. And if he had heard correctly there had been plenty of giggling, so why should he, Narcisse, not talk as well? It’s not as if it could be so bad, especially after the way he had been spoken to by some of the students he’d already met.
He sat back in his chair slightly, taking down some notes on Andros the Invincible. It was a mildly interesting story, he had supposedly conjured a patronus charm that was the size of a giant. Of course, that could have been obscured in history, but then again, Narcisse had been told that the ancient wizards had a power level far beyond the modern type. He had never really pondered why that was; he simply accepted it as fact and moved on with his life. With a flight flourish of his quill he finished up the notes for Andros and more forwardly looked up.
“So,” he said quietly, “What are you studying?”
It was a simple, honest question. Not that Narcisse actually cared what he was studying, though it was just his way of starting up a conversation.
|
|
|
|
Post by Dylan Cooper on Feb 26, 2008 17:07:33 GMT -5
Tracing simplistic words onto the parchment before him, ones often copied from the book because he simply couldn’t grasp what it was his hand was trying to form, Dylan sighed quietly, almost inaudibly at the drivel emitted before him. He wasn’t used to such a poor quality of work, and he didn’t like it by any stretch of the imagination. If he failed to turn in one more assignment, however, for the sake of keeping his new-found, terribly bad writing skills hidden, he feared a detention would be on the cards. With all the trouble he was having not only writing his reports up, but keeping up with every assignment, the last thing he needed was time spent away from his studies. It was a cruel sort of cycle.
As if his mind wished to focus on anything other than the abysmal performance of his mind before him, he noticed the adjustment of position by the other boy and wondered if perhaps he should shift about. He hadn’t been sitting down for very long, though, so it seemed premature. Setting himself, ready to shake his head, it was in that instant of a second in which he now automatically second-guessed that he realised how close he had come to a renewed headache. A flicker of a scowl passing across his features, it was gone in the very next instant.
His eyes flicking back to the page before him, he had only jotted a few more hesitantly scrawled lines of incoherent thought before the Slytherin opposite him spoke. Without purposefully intending it to be so, his eyes avoided Narcisse’s as he replied. Denying the urge to be slightly melodramatic, he held the remark of “trying to study, anyway” and instead produced a more simplistic answer. “Defence Against the Dark Arts,” he said quietly, his eyes flicking, in a disgusted fashion, back toward the parchment on the table. “Just writing up an assignment. What about you?” As long as this seemingly aloof boy could make an effort toward conversation, there was really no reason he should not reciprocate it.
|
|
|
|
Post by narcisse on Feb 28, 2008 23:08:29 GMT -5
Narcisse was not watching too terribly closely, so the scowl was missed. Though he was writing while waiting for his answer, he knew how to be attentive enough to where he could not be called rude. He nodded in an acknowledging fashion as he answered, and this time looking at him, could not help but see that disgusted look within his eyes. Why did he make such a face? Was it directed toward him? He decided not to dwell on it for the moment, but if it happened again, he decided he would be resigned enough to just ask what it was all about. Had Narcisse already come off as “cheeky” or “rude” as his mother said he sometimes could.
No matter.
He looked up from his book fully when he was spoken to however, “I’m studying History of Magic; just jotting down a few notes so I can be properly prepared for the lesson.”
|
|
|
|
Post by Dylan Cooper on Mar 1, 2008 2:09:48 GMT -5
Noting the advance work of the Slytherin before him, he ruefully recalled a time when he had been able to do such a thing. It hadn’t been that long ago, in fact, that he’d happily done pre-lesson research on every single one of his subjects, but as of right now he was having enough trouble just trying to keep up with assignments set. Being his first year of exams, the Ordinary Wizarding Level’s, he’d had difficulty keeping up with even the beginning workload since sustaining the damage to his head. Now that professors were all-of-a-sudden drastically increasing the quantity and time needed to be put into assignments, he was falling behind even with spending every spare moment of his time working on them.
It didn’t really help that he was trying to organise the Ravenclaw Quidditch team as well as keep up with his prefect duties, but he neither wished to relinquish his prefect badge nor his title as Quidditch Captain; until, of course, he decided whether or not he was going to leave the team. He’s been entertaining, or rather debating the idea for the past few weeks. His overwhelming passion for the sport managed to tug at him despite the need he felt to focus even more on his studies. Of course, there was always the problem of overworking himself; he knew that he used to have the extraordinary ability to study for hours on end but it hadn’t quite transferred to his new-found lifestyle.
Finding himself at a loss as to what to say next, he simply focused on continuing his essay. Struggling through the second paragraph, he turned from the dead-end thoughts of his current topic and reverted, once more, to writing about several more effects and uses of the Conjunctivits Curse.
|
|
