soupius:

Malfoy didn’t reply to Grayson’s sarcasm. Of course helping a Gryffindor in need would look bad on his reputation. He had basically dug himself into a hole with the thing. Back when he had been eleven and a newcomer to life at Hogwarts he had been young and naive, and had wanted nothing but to please the Grandparents who had practically raised him. Now he was nothing but a one-note pureblood snob. Perhaps if he could go back and start things over, knowing what he did now, he’d have done things differently. It was a little late to change things now.

He continued holding Grayson’s weight on the way up to the hospital wing, not complaining. He did have some muscle from all that Quidditch training, mostly in the arms because as a chaser he was constantly throwing around quaffles. A small look of amusement crossed his expression when Grayson mentioned doing stupid things without thinking. “Yes, I’ve noticed that’s a very Gryffindor trait.” Lily did it too, and a few others. His expression turned unreadable once more when the boy continued talking, speaking of impressions and friends.

Malfoy didn’t have any friends, and he gave the impression that he took pride in this. He was too good for friends, apparently. Though in truth the only reason he didn’t have any real friends, unless one counted his father, was because he had backed himself into a corner where he refused to acknowledge the friendship of those who weren’t ‘good enough’ according to the outdated standards of old purebloods. Those who were ‘good enough’ weren’t the type he liked, so either way he lost. In another universe perhaps he would be friends with Molly Weasley, and maybe even Grayson Wood. He seemed likeable enough when he wasn’t flinging other people’s underwear around the Great Hall.

So I try talking to people who look lonely. ‘Is that why you talk to me?’ he almost asked, but bit his tongue before he could regret it. He didn’t quite understand how, but despite all Grayson’s rambling, the words the boy spoke held enough truth for him that they stung. That look at the end, especially. He gulped, following Grayson into the Hospital wing because he felt compelled to. “It’s not a question of whether …people are willing to change, it’s a question of whether they can.” Then he didn’t even wait for an answer before he explained to Madam Pomfrey a round-about story of what had happened “-It was someone at the Slytherin table, I don’t know who, but the Professors are dealing with it-” then let the Matron see to Grayson’s wounds. Malfoy could have taken that moment to leave, but he didn’t, so he took a seat and waited.

Had Grayson been paying attention to Scorpius, he would’ve noticed that small moment of amusement pass over his face. It wasn’t that he creepily stared at people in conversation, because that was weird, but he did like to place facial expressions with certain reactions in hopes of being able to put it to name when other people used it. Well, yeah, okay. It was a little creepy, but he wouldn’t admit to that, like he wouldn’t admit to a lot of other things. Regardless, he had an eye for detail and seeing a fleeting moment of amusement cross Malfoy’s face would’ve been interesting.

He also concluded that his comment needed a reply. “I wouldn’t say it’s limited to my house in particular, but a vast majority of the poor dears do live with me. I think what it mostly is, and don’t quote me on this, is that we would rather…. do - something more often than not. Have you ever felt like that? Like an anxiousness, a nagging, jittery… feeling…? And it might not even make sense, but to you there’s a point to it and it means something. It doesn’t have to make sense, and it’ll even make you feel better.” He was right with his earlier assumption. Talking really did distract him enough that the journey was almost a short one. Almost. Regardless, he felt he needed to clarify himself further. “What I’m trying to say is that it’s universal. Don’t stereotype.”

He had no idea whether the Slytherin was even listening to him, because he was aware that Damien tuned him out every once in a while. He was unaware how much he did it, though, and he was certain that he wasn’t the only one. It was only normal. Adriana did it, too, and for a long time, he used to find himself at her side waffling at her while she did little more than acknowledge his presence, like using him as her newest canvas or otherwise compromising his outward appearance. Mostly it was because he didn’t have anyone better to go to when he was so wound up that he felt like he had to get it out or he would explode. It sometimes helped that she didn’t pay attention, so he didn’t feel like he’d made a huge fool out of himself.

So it came to him as a surprise when he received a reply in return. While Malfoy recounted round-about events, he studied the guy. His silence could’ve been taken for his intense suffering - and some of it was, if he was being honest - so he wasn’t worried about what either of them might say or do to find him doing so. This didn’t last long, not after Pomfrey whisked him away and dumped him on a bed and got to work dabbing some foul-smelling concoction over his face, head and shoulders. He protested mightily [and Damien had right to call him a drama queen], but by the time she’d finished, he was lying silently on his stomach with his head pillowed by his arms. There was no way he was going to lay on his back while it was healing; he didn’t want to risk any chance of growing his hair back in patches.

Pomfrey had given him a potion to consume, and after a little fuss on her part, agreed to give him a straw to sip it from. He was hurt, he needed to be pampered to soothe his hurt feelings. Throughout all of this, he kept his eyes on the floor where he caught sight of Malfoy’s shadow. He stayed. He sounded resentful and angry and accusing earlier, but he still stayed. When the matron finally left him, he pulled aside the curtain.

“You didn’t have to stay.” He lowered his eyes to where he’d rested the cup he’d been given. Traumatic events seemed to happen quite often around Grayson, and while they didn’t necessarily have to interact with him as directly as Malfoy had, he tended to have a sort of fondness for those showed an inkling of sympathy. And Malfoy had stayed. “But thank you.” For not leaving me alone. For not making me do this by myself. For proving that you’re not as huge an asshole as the school made you out to be. For showing me that I was right.

Anonymous

Well yes, I have a fantastic face. You’ve brilliant taste, Anon~

But uh, thanks!

I wish I could return the compliment, Grey face ;D

soupius:

The mocking jibe bluntly stating that Malfoy had very little control over his group irked him. If he couldn’t control these over-eager students, then how would anyone take him seriously in his ambitions to become minister of magic? The girl who had cast the fire charm would be dealt with, possibly kicked out of the gang if she acted anything but sorry for her actions. Because burning someone was serious, and that had been exactly his point.

Once Grayson nodded to accept his half, Malfoy grabbed the boy’s arm under the shoulder; this time in a helpful fashion instead of a rough one. So they began walking. “If anyone asks, I’m only doing this so that I don’t get detention for what my gang did to you.” Because Scorpius Malfoy never got detentions - mostly because he was never the one to hex people. Any gang member of his that got caught would never rat him out as the one to give the order. That was the deal: if they got caught, they were on their own. The teachers suspected, of course, but without anything solid to pin on him, they couldn’t do anything about it.

They reached the staircase and Malfoy slowed to a pace that Grayson could manage. He knew that if it had been him, he wouldn’t have barely been able to walk with his head searing in agony. But he was a Slytherin, not a brave Gryffindor. “That was foolish of you, you know, sitting in the middle of my gang like that. Most of them already dislike you for being a blood-traitor; then you had to cause a ruckus.” Not that every member of his gang was entirely pure of blood. Decent purebloods were so rare these days that he let members in so long as they were at least third generation witch or wizard on all sides of the family.

“Yes, because helping someone who legitimately needed it would look bad on your reputation.” He didn’t even know how he had the ability to be sarcastic with the Slytherin, especially since he really was helping him. He could’ve left him there on the stairs with only the railing as his leverage, but no, he was with him and half carrying him up the stairs. And this time it wasn’t an exaggeration. When he grabbed his arm, Grayson had heavily leant against him. He hadn’t meant to, but it was so much easier to do than straining both arms, one for Malfoy and the other for the railing, to get to the top.

He was shaking, he knew, and he hoped that he wasn’t being too much of a burden for the elder Slytherin boy. But he’d taken him from the Great Hall and he’d offered, so he wouldn’t let himself feel bad, no matter how much of an invalid he felt he was at the moment. He needed help and he’d sucked up his ego and pride to agree to it. Even if it was Scorpius Malfoy.

At least, that was the face he was putting on for him. He didn’t know that he would admit it to anyone, but he didn’t want the guy to go. He didn’t have to stay, of course, and Grayson wouldn’t force him to, but the idea of staying in the Hospital Wing hurt and scared and alone frightened him more than any of the stupid stuff he’d ever done in all of his time at Hogwarts. He survived explosions, shattered windows, losing magical animals that they’d been scheduled to work with for weeks, endless stairs, locating secret passages, countless detentions, howlers, insults and pranks, but being alone was his undoing. So much for bravery.

“I have a bad habit of doing stupid things. I don’t think before I do a lot.” Any other time he would’ve been mortified that he’d told Malfoy, of all people, that, but he was in pain and he honestly thought Scorpius was a decent enough human being not to poke fun at him while he was feeling that way. “Just a lot of… stupid stuff, you know?” he huffed, the exertion starting to wear on him. But talking was a good distraction. “And I know I annoy you… but I thought it would… be nice… if you knew that not… everyone thought you were a huge douche.” Here he let out a breathy laugh.

“And you should have friends, too. Being alone sucks.” Every fullstop lasted maybe three times longer than it should have, or maybe ten times longer considering Grayson normally spoke at one hundred miles per hour. “I don’t like being alone; I don’t like other people to be alone. Mates all around, yeah? So I try talking to people who look lonely.” He was quiet for a few minutes now, just solely focusing on where to place each foot for each step upwards. “It’s how I met my best friend, and even though it’s uncomfortable and awkward in the beginning when you don’t know each other… maybe I’ll earn their respect with my persistence and genuine want to be there for them.”

Once on the landing, he tried his best to shift himself so he wasn’t putting as much of his weight on Malfoy. At least the Hospital Wing was in sight, and there were just a few more steps and then he could be drugged and painless and maybe she could give him a lovely sleeping drought. Maybe Malfoy would stay until he slept. “But.” He lowered his eyes, the silence lasting almost until they actually reached the massive double doors. “But there’s a point where I have to get over my naïvety where I think everyone is willing to change. Because not everyone is willing to.” And here he met Scorpius’ gaze, and gave him an almost regretful look before pulling away from him and shuffling through the doorway.

misterrichards:

Damien levelled Grayson a look - part amusement, part exasperation and part ‘this is exactly what I was talking about’ - before shaking his head. There wasn’t a point for him to argue - anything he said would be reflected by Grayson’s ego. No point in wasting his breath. He looked at the small pile of feathers and wondered if it would be too much to sew them to Brendon’s sheets; it would be a small matter of multiplying the numbers, but that was simple.

“No,” It was astounding the fact that wizards co-existed alongside the muggles yet everything they managed to invent never managed to breach into the minority’s world. That was how Damien viewed the mass population of wizarding kind - a minority, regardless of what any Ministry survey might say or any nutter that was raving about “purity” and the “superior race.” It was also interesting, considering the fact that the Second Wizarding War closely paralleled the muggle’s Second World War. “But in a way, yes. Telephones and television aren’t the same. Telephones work by transmitting sound waves into an electric current via a thin metallic coating separated from an electrode by a thin barrier of some sort in the mouthpiece and the acoustic vibration from a person’s speech push the metallic coating slightly closer to the electrode, which result in variations in voltage and therefore, the acoustic energy is conveyed into electrical energy. The electric pulses travel through a wire to the speaker at the other end, where they are converted back into acoustic energy. 

“Televisions operate by the program being broadcasted into space, where they are reflected from a satellite and then are bounced back to be received by the unit. The television unit then decipher the signals then converts that into light and acoustic energy.” 

Then, realising how very long-winded he had been, killed himself. But no, after finishing his vague explanation of the muggle miracles “the tellyphomes” and television, Damien shrugged in reply to Grayson’s question. His mother, the one that mostly used the tv, never watched it regularly despite leaving the television on just for the sake of it’s sound. She would turn it on and then walk away, almost like a radio, and if that show had been on, then that’s what Damien would faintly hear from the den. 

No, Grayson was perfectly fine as far as Damien could tell. No signs of bruising, cuts or whatever Scorpius Malfoy’s minions might have done. No burns, any scaring of a wayward hex. “I would rather see those,” But he took the parchment anyway. It was a little hard to follow, considering it was all tid-bits. Not very informative but at least it was enough to show Damien that Grayson at least had an idea of what he was doing. Hopefully, the promised detailed notes would be cleaner. 

He rolled his eyes and folded the parchment over before offering it back to the Gryffindor. “No, you idiot, I meant we were going to piss him off.”

Grayson met Damien’s look with a coy one, ducking his head and pairing it with a sheepish grin. He probably misinterpreted it, but now he felt ridiculous for letting his mouth waffle before allowing conscious thought to make corrections. He’d already told himself that he was going to work on that, his ego. He needed to take it down a few pegs, stop making everything about him. He felt like that was one problem why they’d had their falling out, and he really didn’t want to go through all of that again. He hadn’t been so unhappy at Hogwarts before then. Sadly, he hadn’t made much progress.

He’d kept his gaze when he’d started talking about the differences between television and a telephone. Yes, telephone. He’d caught the correction, however subtle Damien had been about it, but he’d caught it and he really did feel like the idiot he claimed him to be sometimes. Though, unlike most people, he knew Damien didn’t mean it. But yes, he was staring. And he was unsure how his staring looked from the Ravenclaw’s perspective, since he was feeling a mixture of feelings at that moment, foremost being awe at all the big words and technical terms and just the understanding the older boy had of things. However, he knew that it probably came along with growing up with the things, but still. He grew up with a lot of things other witches and wizards had no clue about and their explanation was usually one simple word: magic.

He was also feeling a severe sense of inadequacy, mostly because of all of those big words and technical terms and the understanding Damien was displaying, and though this was probably the most he’d ever heard the guy say at one time, he honestly had no idea how to respond. So he said the first thing that came to mind and hoped it would at least make him laugh and assume he’d done it on purpose for the pure simple reason of being funny. “I know what acoustic is.” Insert big grin here.

He nodded in response to the shrug. Somewhere in his mind, though he knew that it was silly to even think so, he felt like Damien had exhausted some unspoken rule about how many words he was allowed to say in a certain amount of time. And he found this funny, but he ducked his head again and buried his face into the kneazle, he was now soundly asleep in his lap. He’d hate to move her, but he knew he would have to in a moment. He lifted his head and nodded once more. “Okay, they’re on my desk… or in my bag… or in the room I’m making the potion in. The gingerbread room,” and here he chuckled to himself.

“What?” He snapped his eyes open wide, and glanced quickly back over to Brendon’s side of the room. Normally he would be all over pranking someone, but pranking the highly obsessive compulsive Inglebee was something even he was wary of. Brendon had an eloquent way of telling people off, and in a harsh mannerism that he really didn’t want to be the recipient of. To a point. He now cocked his head to the side as he surveyed the bed, Damien’s chosen spot to make it ‘more comfortable’, and the story of The Princess and the Pea came to mind. And here is where he found himself inside that point of ‘I can take the wrath of Inglebee’, because how funny would it be for the boy to wake up with the ends of feathers poking him from underneath his bed sheets? Loads. 

(Source: witandimpulse)

poppy-the-snake:

“Oh, no you haven’t. You’re right on schedule,” Poppy told him with a small smile.  She was glad that he wasn’t mad when Poppy touched his hair, because Poppy knew of a few boys that did, or looked like they would, at least.  “You do,” Poppy then agreed. She couldn’t deny that Grayson looked pretty sexy. The way he composed himself was something to appreciate. Especially since he wasn’t being as loud as Poppy figured he normally was.

“Well thank you,” Poppy then replied at his little quip about her appearance. That was the first time that someone had ever done that.  When being in Malfoy’s gang, you didn’t really get noticed for things such as your looks. Your reputation was what made you.   “Oh, alright, Thank you,” Poppy then told him again as he watched him unfasten his coat and hand it to her. “Are you sure you won’t be cold?” she then asked, not wanting for him to suffer because she didn’t dress right.

Poppy then attached the cloak around her neck, and inhaled as the deep blue fabric wrapped around her body. It wasn’t really Slytherin colors, but Poppy didn’t mind. She didn’t even look half bad in it, so she figured it would be fine to wear.  Then she started to head toward the Gates of Hogwarts. She knew that Grayson would be right at her side, so she decided to start up a conversation. “Well, this will be fun,” she the stated in the most random way possible.

“Oh good, good, that’s good,” Grayson nodded, relieved. He waited patiently until Poppy was finished mussing his hair, letting her run her fingers through and mess with it until she was satisfied. He was supposed to be catering to her, wasn’t he? Make your partner feel comfortable. That was the first rule in dating, and he was usually pretty good at that when he needed to be. When she finished, he stood up and stepped back, outstretching his arms. “Better?” He wriggled his brows teasingly at her.

“You’re welcome. To be perfectly honest, you should probably hear that more often than you do.” And he believed it. Poppy was gorgeous, and though her hair may lack the brilliance the colour demands because of the vast majority in the school - courtesy of the Weasley/Potter clan - he was certain Poppy would be drawing all kinds of looks outside of the castle. Which was where they were headed.

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. It isn’t very far to Hogsmeade.” Which was true, but even in normal circumstances, it was cool. He would be okay, though. He’d done this trip several times already, and if they needed to, he knew several detours that could get them out of the wind. “Blue looks nice on you,” he added with a grin. Blue looked good on him, too.

“Indeed, which is why I asked you to come in the first place. Well no, I tried to get Malfoy to go with you, but really, I’m the better option. I want to be here with you, and I want to have fun,” he told her, smiling as he offered her his arm, like he’d done for Georgina just moments before while he escorted her to her own date. “Any idea what you want to do while we’re there, or is the drink all you’re really going for?” he asked. The drink would be great, and he planned on having more than just the one, but he would like to do more than just pop into The Three Broomsticks. Perhaps he could get her involved in his next bout of mischief.

(Source: witandimpulse)

quiet-tessa:

“Oh,” was all that Tessa could say. She hadn’t realized that this was the bad staircase that liked to trap students. Instead of crying, she should have been thanking Grayson, but she didn’t really have the strength to do that. Tessa then looked outside and instantly found out that it was at least another hour before she could go up her chosen staircase.  “I-I’m okay,” she then told him softly as she brought one her small hands up to wipe her eyes.  It wasn’t that Tessa was hurt. She just didn’t like yelling and being scared, even though she tended to always be scared.

“O-okay,” she then agreed as she nodded.  Then she followed him until they found a place where they could sit. Tessa sat on the chair and watched as he dug into his backpack. He happened to pull out a few tissues, and that re-assured Tessa. She took one of the tissues and then used it to wipe her eyes. “T-Thank you,” she then told him in between her ragged breathing.

“I-I know.. It’s o-okay. Thank you, “she then told him softly as she continued to wipe her eyes.  Her heart was still beating two hundred times a minute, and her breathing slowly became less labored.  “Y-y-you’re Grayson, right?” she then asked softly. Tessa had decided that maybe trying to engage in a little bit of conversation would help the time pass by. 

Grayson was glad that he’d gotten his point across to Tessa, at least. He would hate it if she had continued believing he’d just screamed at her to upset her. He didn’t want to be one of those people, the ones who unnecessarily bothered someone for that very reason. He smiled at her when she admitted to being okay, that he hadn’t scarred her for life.

She did look better, he noticed, after she’d taken the tissues from him and wiped her face. Not that the tears had made her look worse or anything, but she didn’t look frightened or like she worried he was going to bite her face off and murder her on the stairs she’d just vacated. Which was good, very good. He didn’t want to be one of those people either. “You’re welcome!”

While she made herself comfortable on the bench, he backed away until he was sitting in front of her on the ground, so he wasn’t as close to her as before and, therefore, shouldn’t worry her about scaring her again. “Yup! Grayson Wood, expert-in-chief of mischief and merrymaking. I think I’m going to make a business card or something, yeah?” he joked, leaning back and supporting himself with his arms behind him. He might or might not have had some class or other to get to, but talking with Tessa seemed like the more important thing at the moment.

“And you’re Tessa Edmund.”

(Source: witandimpulse)

misterrichards:

“Because you’re annoying,” It was probably the very things that Grayson took pride in that caused him to be subjected Loring’s dislike. It wasn’t that Loring even thought him stupid - even if he did, he was the one whose job it was to enlighten people like Grayson in the first place - but it probably the Gryffindor’s habit of mischief and disruptive behaviour. Not to mention the fact that he looted the supply cupboard as much as Damien has this year, maybe Loring suspected something. “Television show,” Caprice was muggleborn and there were sometimes apparently muggles couldn’t live without - and a TV was one of them. “Quiz show, utterly pointless.” But probably something he’d like.

Damien frowned. He was already aware of his visitation to the Hospital Wing but hadn’t been on hand to witness it first hand. He had left the moment someone started sniggering to deliver the paintbrushes to Grayson’s irritating twin. He had leaned of it from the same person, the day afterwards, but hadn’t thought it worth making a deal of. At least, the way she had phrased had made it into that. He stepped back, both because if Gizzmo wanted his attention she would move back to him and to try to  observe any damage Malfoy’s minions might have inflicted him. “Are you-…No, I wouldn’t mind. Not at all.”

At least Gizzmo was one of the more even tempered vary of kneazle. “It wouldn’t have harmed her,” Had Grayson not realised the depth and space of the pocket she had been? Plenty of air available. “I hadn’t locked it,” He pointed out. “Only after I took it out again I did.” By nature, she was smart enough to figure out how to open a trunk by pushing up against it. She had managed to get inside it in the first place.

“More like two, rather,” And his refusal to answer Grayson was answer enough - he hadn’t. This was the first time Gizzmo had went inside of the cloak, but it wasn’t unusual for her to sleep on it. Along with being a “diva”, she was lazy. “We’re going to make Brendon’s bed more comfortable, of course.” Not that he was aware of it being uncomfortable in the first place. The dorm’s lack of a bin was an unfortunate happenstance, as every time (well, the majority of the time) Damien had something he needed to dispose of, it ended up in Brendon’s side of the room. 

“I’m not annoying, I’m brilliant and charming and awesome as fuck,” Grayson corrected, though this was an automatic comment. He was now fixated on a spot of light violet on the fur near Gizzmo’s tail. He wondered whether it was on purpose or accident, or if he should even bring it up because the kneazle really was, well, a diva. He didn’t want to upset her now that she was heartily purring and curled up in his lap, even though he itched to get up and help pick up more of the feathers.

“They have quiz shows? How does that even work? Oh, with like… uh, tellyphomes?” He knew enough that they didn’t work with owl postage, and that would take too long for a ‘television show’. Besides, tellyphomes-television, they were connected! “If it’s pointless, then why would they even bother with it? It must be entertaining on some level, yeah?” But of course, that wasn’t the kind of thing Damien was into. He knew that, so he also knew better than to expect anything different.

And because he had a giant cat - and Gizzmo was still a cat whether she liked it or not - in his lap, and a handful of feathers, did he glance between the two and pull a pretty puzzled face. There really were more feathers floating around than there should’ve been, given that he’d only sent five, six?, owls top. Did the kneazle eat one of them? Wound it? Use whatever magic it had that labeled it a ‘magical creature’ and multiplied them with inspiration from his own prank? Well, if so, this cat was a very smart cat. Whatever the case, he still concluded that there was a lot of feathers.

“Hm?” He looked at at Damien once more when he assumed he’d been about to ask him something, but ended up as an agreement. “Okay, good. My notes are… well, I have one here,” and he carefully leaned over, slowly so he wouldn’t disturb the sleeping cat too much, and dug in his pocket for the battered piece of parchment paper he kept with him at all times to add to or scratch out when he remembered something or other. “The others are more detailed and neater, because Loring would eat me if I turned this in.” He offered it to the Ravenclaw.

He blinked at, assuming he was correct, the fact that Damien had just called him a diva. He was most certainly not a diva! Of course he wasn’t. Diva’s made everything about themselves and were loud and obnoxious. Grayson was witty, clever, and pleasing to the eyes. There was no possible way in which he could be considered a diva. At least in his own mind, mind you. Half the school knew he was the biggest diva of them all. ”More comfortable? Oh good, how are we going to do that, stuff his pillows?” He turned to look toward Brendon’s area of the room once more, this time eyeing the pillows.

(Source: witandimpulse)

…

nathanielhargrove:

There was no such thing as it, it didn’t exist, couldn’t. Or could, plausible, and after all, whatever remained after every explanation should be the answer…Or something like that. Though he had no need of Chameleon Circuts, he wasn’t in need of a memory scramble, or a complete disintegration of who he was. Nope, he was proper happy with who he was. Or not completely so, a bit confused, indeed.

Confused? No, no he wasn’t confused, except he was. He stopped in the middle of the hall. Turning around, and around, and around, a complete 360, he knew exactly where he was, fifth floor, and off to see the Charms professor. Then he remembered, he didn’t need the help, the answer came so simply to him, whatever remains however improbable must be true. It was right, always right. He smiled, an odd thing on his face, so often wrote in frowns and grimaces and gasps he took off to the library. 

Skidding to a halt…He didn’t need to go to the library at all, where did he need to go? He needed somewhere loud, yes, somewhere to practice this spell, this project. The Great Hall. Perfect.

Five floors up, a definite ways away, but easy enough. He passed the portraits of Barnabus Edgars, Ivan Zut and many others he knew by name, but never cared to speak to them. They were shades, just moments captured in time, they weren’t actual people, but then again, he was a Wizard, not a scientist.

As he passed the fourth floor corridors, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would be better suited for non-magic…It never seemed practical, and against all laws of physics and other things, but he waved his wand on occasion, made chairs float, fire come out of a wooden tip and leave the wand unscathed. No explanation could ever make that plausible. Then again, however improbable birds flying out of thin air, or water being conjured from the tip, even when there was no water about, well, that’d have to be true. It was the complex after all, and it was almost always completely right.

Grayson had been bored earlier. Past tense. Bored. But not anymore. Not as he held the bowl full of mushroom that he’d stolen from the Great Hall during lunch time. Nope, of course he wasn’t bored. He was standing on a stool in the middle of a corridor, and he was tossing mushrooms into an old looking vase that was on a stand higher than the tallest person in Hogwarts could reach.

Mushrooms littered the stoned walkway of one of the many fourth floor corridors, and in between taste-testing the things and using them for target practise, he started growing bored again. He glanced down at the stool, then back at the vase, and decided he should try to take a peek inside. What if it was hiding some sort of lost treasure? Finders keepers~ But he didn’t want to get off of the stool to get over there, and he didn’t trust himself enough to try a levitating charm on himself over anything other than a soft landing surface. So he started rocking the stool in a manner in which it helped him ‘walk’ it in the direction of the vase.

explodingly:

“Alright,” Dom said, completely and utterly prepared with her pefectly straight face to take on anything he could shoot out at her. Except that. She broke, at first, looking at him with complete incredulity, and then, as it built up inside of her, shaking her chest, a complete explosion of laughter. “Oh, Merlin,” she said, through her laughs. “Tears, Grayson, there are tears in my eyes. What does that even mean?! Actually. I don’t want to know.” Composing herself, and re-straightening out her hair, she put on her solemn expression again. “Right, of course.”

“Of course, of course,” she said, “I’ve already got some good stuff planned, so that won’t be an issue,” she smiled, waving her hand flippantly. Alright, and so I guess I’ll just cast a couple of exploding spells to write it in the sky above the castle? ‘Grayson Wood’s Death Party. Bring cupcakes’.  And I’ll make sure there’s no crappy horrendous music playing, only the best for you. Can we go for Dancing Queen as your body’s lowered? I think it would be a nice touch, don’t you?” Dom nodded at Grayson, holding a hand to her heart. “I solemnly swear. Even if I have to be the minister.”

Dom grinned, looking down to admire her own legs. “Yeah, I agree,” she nodded, smiling. “Okay,” she nodded, “are you ready for this? Hanging on the edge of your seat?” she raised her finger gun to Grayson’s temple. “It’s been nice, Grayson Wood. Three, two, one-” she made a loud psschkewoo sound, mimicking and explosion. But of course, nothing happened. “Ah, fuck,” she said, tapping her fingers on her leg. “Must be broken. What an anti-climax, right? I was so pumped up for your death party. Oh, well. I guess you’ll have to go on with life, then, like the rest of us sorry fools.”

Dominique’s laughter started up a round of his own. It was already funny when he thought it, said it, but now that she was laughing at it without even knowing the context, he found himself laughing harder still. It was like he’d let slip an inside joke, but nobody got it but himself. And it was hilarious. He threw his hands over his face in an effort to stifle his laughter, and eventually did so. Wiping at his own eyes, and he would blame Dom for starting it all, he flashed her a grin.

“Yes, you do. It was during the body swap paranoia. Damien wasn’t used to having more flesh on his skeletal frame; he didn’t take it well.” There, a few short sentences of explanation didn’t give away the entirety of the situation. Nobody needed to know about all of that, but just the general bits were okay to tell.

“Oh yes, a death party! Have you ever heard of those? You can give the first one ever, you’re welcome!” And now he kind of felt sad that he wouldn’t be able to enjoy his own death party. Everyone would be having fun and eating cupcakes and dancing while he laid dead in a polished golden casket at the front of a hall. Of course, it was only golden in his head, and he wouldn’t be corrected.

At the sound of Dom’s finger guns ‘going off’, he let his head loll to the side and poked his tongue out of the side of his mouth. You know, like a proper dead person. And then she said ‘Ah, fuck!’ and claimed her gun was broken. He screwed up his face, then lifted his hands to his head where she’d shot him.

“Well, fuck,” he repeated, sitting up again and crossing his arms. “What’re we do to now, since I can’t be dead and you can’t plan my death party?” Now both of their plans were ruint.

welp　

xscorpiusmalfoyx:

Malfoy ignored Grayson’s protests. The Gryffindor had done enough to piss him off already today, and now he had to clean up the mess his gang had made and Grayson was hardly making it easy. “Very well. Go,” he replied, sounding just as venomous. Grayson could have been close to passing out for the pain for all he knew. If he hadn’t been so afraid to be seen playing nice with a Gryffindor, perhaps he would have held the boy’s arm to help him walk in a more caring manner, but no, he was a pureblood Slytherin and couldn’t be seen doing anything other than being uncaring and brutal with him.

“But before you go, I would have you know that I do not condone their actions,” he said, feeling the need to defend himself. “It’s a schoolyard gang, not a band of Deatheaters. They are not supposed to seriously injure anyone.” He would be horrified if anyone began associating the group with Deatheaters. Two members of his family still had dark marks permanently scarred into their arms and he had heard all the stories of the horrendous things they had done or been forced to do.

His gaze turned to the stairs that would lead up to the Hospital wing. It wouldn’t have surprised anyone if Scorpius Malfoy abandoned the half-burned Grayson Wood and forced him to drag himself to the hospital wing. But the thing was, he really wasn’t as heartless as he made out to be, and Grayson was Lily’s friend after all despite how annoying he was. Malfoy made a point to give an exasperated sigh before stepping up to Grayson. “Do you want me to walk you to the Hospital Wing or not?” He held out a hand, showing that he wasn’t going to simply grab him by the collar this time.

Grayson glared at Scorpius with contempt. Well, as much contempt as he could muster with his scalp, neck and shoulders protesting. Though Malfoy had already taken care of the flames, the residual after-effect still burned as if the flames still lived. His breathing was quite ragged, and now that the full effect of the first hex, the one that felt like he’d been iced over, had completely worn off he could feel each bit of scorched skin with every move he made. He hissed.

“Big whoop. You certainly have a nice grasp of control on them.” He had already turned away from the elder blond boy when he continued. “And this isn’t serious?!” he demanded. His hands balled into fists at his sides, and he had to physically ground himself and bite his tongue so he didn’t yell. He mustn’t draw attention to himself. He was seething, and he was hurting, and he was unfocused and clearly not himself, but he knew that drawing attention would be bad. The sooner he made it to the hospital wing, the better.

When Scorpius glanced toward the staircase leading to the wing, so did he. He tried his best not to show it, but just looking at it made it look like an impossible trek, and it disheartened him. Since he’d already stopped, he wasn’t sure he could make it there without asking for help. And then he heard Malfoy’s question. He bristled. He didn’t want his help, he wanted to get away from him. He wanted to tell him that if he really did want to help, to go find his sister or his best friend, or any one of those other students he associated himself with. But no, none of them were close. Scorpius was his only help, though reluctantly given.

He took a deep breath, flickered his eyes toward the offered hand, and nodded. “Yes. Please.”

(Source: soupius)

explodingly:

Dom was concentrating on the portrait hole, and psyching herself up in her head about how exactly she’d tackled that feat in such a tight skirt and heels in the past, and if and how she would do it again. And then she’d heard a voice, a lovely voice calling her name. She stopped, mid-stride, and craned her head around. “Grayson!” she said, her face lighting up in a grin.

She walked over the the couch he was laying on, and picked up his legs so she could sit where they were previously. She put an exaggerated frown on her face, and made an awwing sound, before putting her fingers in the shape of a gun and raising them to his head. “My dear friend, Grasyon, before I shoot you, do you have any last words?”

She inclined her head to the side, crossing one leg over the other. “Also, do you want me to speak at your funeral? I think I’d give a pretty good eulogy, to be completely honest with you, Wood. Also, who do you want on your guest list? And… one last question before I blow your brains out, do these shoes make my legs look nice, or are they a little too, you know. Crazy and death defying for a school uniform?”

Grayson continued to lay there, unmoving in his ‘death bed’ even as Dom came around to sit beside him. He curled his legs up and leaned them against the back of the couch so he wouldn’t be squishing the poor girl against the arm.

He didn’t even flinch when he felt her fingers press against the side of his head, which was saying something as he’d had his eyes closed and hadn’t been expecting it. He’d asked for a quick death, and if she knew some brilliant way to do it with finger guns, then so be it.

Last words? They had to be good ones, something that would leave a good memory of him behind, his legacy, something for younger years to hear and say ‘oh yes, that was Grayson Wood’. Something that would inspire pranksters to shine and attempt to break his record for ‘the most detentions due to chaotic situations’ and the like. But no. Unfortunately for those younger years he should’ve been inspiring, the only thing that came to mind was a quote from Damien, and probably from the lowest point in his life. “My last words, and make certain this goes on my tombstone, is ‘My hips, Grayosn, my hips.’” And although he was being completely serious, he started sniggering.

“Who else would I want speaking at my funeral, than the Duchess of Pranking herself? I know you’d talk me up in my eulogy, so yes. Make me look good, yeah? My guest list would comprise of everyone and anything that shows up, including the elves. It’d make their day to cater, and don’t make it a sad event. I want dancing and a disco ball and make sure Damien and Jules get married, because I won’t have it any other way.”

At her question, he opened his eyes and sat up so he could get a good look at her. “I think your legs are just right, to be quite honest. I can only think of two people in the school who could rock them, and you’re one of them. However, I’m sure there’s going to be at least one professor who’ll complain, so give them a fuck off for me and continue on your way.” He then leaned back and closed his eyes. “Okay, I’m ready.” And he fell silent again.