HP: Terry Boot - Scene, "On the Subject of Blossoming Revolutions"
Terence Boot's journal was, even within the halls of Hogwarts, a great source of connection. In great display of his social ineptitude, Terry had decided to hold written conversation to Mandy throughout the evening as they were bundled within the very same bed, but as his bare feet shuffled down cool steps and led him to the glimmering Gothic windows, he hoped that requesting audience this time around would be a wiser decision. If Padma were not to come down, of course, it would only mean that Terry would sit within the comfortable confines of Ravenclaw's priveledged view. It sounded a nice alternative, of course, and the stars were beautiful in the late summer, but--
His hand was nervous as it flipped through the page, discarding all need of looking for moonlight and stars in favour for familiar hand. Really, he had to be quite honest with himself; if Padma were not to come down, he would go back and try to sleep with his worries and his misgivings, his knotted dread for what has happened to his friends and what will be happening in the days as result. But at least, perhaps, if someone else of like mind and level sounding would be able to listen, perhaps slumber would happen easier a few hours later.
Perhaps. Either way, he lingered and stared at his page.
Slippers soundless against the carpeted common room floor, Padma moved with a grace she was not entirely aware of. She was nearly upon Terry before she noticed his figure outlined in the window, the dull glow of a clouded moon upon his face and hardly stretching to where she stood. In one hand she bore a kettle long treasured in her possession, the bearer of hot teas at the most unlikely and necessary hours.
A slight sound escaped her, sigh or primordial word.
It was not her sound but the scent of what she brought that forced Terry to close his book and turn his head; indeed, in the inky black, there was Padma and glorious tea, the secret lifeblood of any Ravenclaw worth his or her salt. Instinctively, he deposited his books to the foot of the table and shuffled within the drawer for a great, secret stash of insulating trivets that some kind, thoughtful soul left ages before for the love and affection of his or her descendants in House.
"Thank you," he said, ambiguous in meaning, but his smile was genuine if not small. "Here, I left you the good chair. It doesn't have the cantankerous spring." As if to show his subconscious chivalry, Terry shifted his weight to the back and was rewarded with a squeak and a bit of a pinprick to his rear end. With a grimace, he shifted his weight back to the previous position. "I would offer blankets, but those are in the custody of one of your roommates."
Situating the kettle between them, Padma appeared sheepish as she put forth the sturdy mug in her opposite hand.
"I only have the one, but I descended with every intention to share." She pushed the ceramic vessel nearer Terry, and pulled her knees up on the chair. "Thank you. Also, I suspect her need is greater than mine." Padma had been, somewhat shamefully, quite incapable of consoling Mandy. That she had been called forth and Padma had not distressed and confused her, muddied what little sense she had been able to make of the turns of their world. Clever though she was, Padma could not always negotiate her own heart.
"I promise, I have no illnesses this early in the semester," Terry offered with a sip, followed with an appreciative sigh. "Oh... oh, thank you, really. A salve, Padma. A salve. But, just for insurance," Terry murmurs, placing the cup on the flannel, "know that I have a violet splotch on my side. It's probably a flower, but I am terrible at telling such things."
"But," he said at length, perhaps even more serious than he generally tended to be, "what are we to do?" Such a question was probably entirely too ambiguous; Terry realised as such, but decided to let it hang all the same, long and heavy around their heads. He trusted Padma to know what he spoke of, regardless, as insulting intelligence was something he despised doing around those he appreciated the most.
Having given great thought to the many possibilities, great and small and dire, Padma had no need for particular requests. Her hands pressed together as though in an attempt to tailor her many thoughts.
"We will take close care of each other, and disguise our allegiances because it is wise and necessary. I have no great desire to be parted from the comforts and relative secrecy provided to us by a detached attitude, however that may seem like deceit."
She spoke in a voice that was far more certain than her dark eyes and mouth betrayed, and in a moment of consideration turned outward, she glanced at Terry. "Do you think that too ambitious?" Or cowardly?
"For the moment, it sounds a necessary evil. Although some of our compatriots are made for blazing in with wands a-firing, we must test our waters before standing ground. We know not what today has in store for us, after all, and being foolhardy and blown out of the fight early, as it were, is not true bravery." Terry, in need of boldness, grasped for the mug yet again. When he finished this, his hands had more of a steady glide; fortunate, as he also saw it fit to refill the little mug and press it closer to Padma, typical sheepishness across his face. "Is this from your summer expedition? I envy your stores."
But comments of tea, of course, were of typical pleasantries that only the most socially inept were starting to discover. Terry pressed his lips together and breathed slowly, the noise hissing through his nose. "I am no Prefect, Padma, nor am I particularly... of a mind to know what paternal means, but I would be able to sleep better for what little time I would enjoy if I were to know that all of us could at least walk together to the Hall for breakfast. If we are together in the beginning, we can at least discuss a plan there. We must have one, I fear," and Terry's face turned cloudy again at the thought. "To think that we must plan to be students, Padma. To think."
Happy to accept the comfort of the tea, for a moment it chased response from Padma's throat. She was careful to place her lips opposite where Terry had drank, a strange modesty. Her fingers folded delicately around the handle.
"If we are together in the beginning," Padma quoted him, her features warming. "It sounds as though we should have greatness soon following." A considerable pause. "I agree with you. We are protectors first, and students second, this year." She shuddered, though it was no comic shaking off of the idea of devotion to her studies. "A great many ruses shall we play out."
"With this year, perhaps the only greatness is to survive. Or, perhaps, that is melodrama that I'm speaking?" Terry's forehead wrinkled then in an attempt to seem surprised, but it only came off as furrowed thought. "Have they told you or Anthony anything about what is to come this year? You, after all, are great enforcers of the law now." Terry said this, he hoped, with sarcasm thick in his voice; after all, he knew where Padma stood, else he would not be curled in a cantankerous chair and watching her sip tea.
Suddenly, he felt it prudent to grab at his shins and pull them to his chest. Terry knew it to be a childish move, and it did not prove fruitful for comfort or practicality; his limbs had recently become long enough that he found it hard to rest his chin on his knees. Still, he did so and stared, for a moment, at the window. His next words were abrupt: "Perhaps at the next meeting, we should insist upon brushing up on Protego. A wise spell, I think, and if joke shops can capitalise upon a student's lack of knowledge, I think it means there is a void."
Shaking her head, Padma filled the mug once more and edged it across the table.
"I certainly don't share any greater privilege of knowledge than you, nor Anthony, either, I would suspect." Her eyes were bright as she, too, turned to the window. "We are lawless, now. Will Protego save us from what is to come, or shall we serve as shields for each other?" Padma was lost a moment in the world of stories, her imagination rendering them each far braver and hardier than they might otherwise seem, a horde of Ravenclaws descending armed and valiant upon the school. Did it matter that their battles were better fought with word? It did not change that they were battles.
"Perhaps both," Terry said honestly, taking mug in hand and drinking at length. "It is too early to say, and I mean this in both ways -- the morning is our confidant, it seems, and although quiet, morning always seems to sully my tongue." The steam boiled up around Terry's head as he tucked his nose into the cup and breathed a moment, perhaps in way of attempting to wake himself for clarity.
"But tools are helpful. Tools and strategy. We must think like our chess sets."
Her face brightened momentarily with a blush, hardly perceptible in such light.
"I am absolute rubbish at chess. May I think in poems of revolution instead?"
Terry always had a tendency to laugh silently, and it was the same at that moment. Instead, a smile crinkles at his eyes until they're slits and his shoulders shake, making the stream of steam turn into little, idyllic puffs.
"Cruel of me to forget, dear Padma. Yes, poems of revolution! Preferably, of course, in any and every dialect you can currently conceive. The more options to cry into battle, the better."
His hand was nervous as it flipped through the page, discarding all need of looking for moonlight and stars in favour for familiar hand. Really, he had to be quite honest with himself; if Padma were not to come down, he would go back and try to sleep with his worries and his misgivings, his knotted dread for what has happened to his friends and what will be happening in the days as result. But at least, perhaps, if someone else of like mind and level sounding would be able to listen, perhaps slumber would happen easier a few hours later.
Perhaps. Either way, he lingered and stared at his page.
Slippers soundless against the carpeted common room floor, Padma moved with a grace she was not entirely aware of. She was nearly upon Terry before she noticed his figure outlined in the window, the dull glow of a clouded moon upon his face and hardly stretching to where she stood. In one hand she bore a kettle long treasured in her possession, the bearer of hot teas at the most unlikely and necessary hours.
A slight sound escaped her, sigh or primordial word.
It was not her sound but the scent of what she brought that forced Terry to close his book and turn his head; indeed, in the inky black, there was Padma and glorious tea, the secret lifeblood of any Ravenclaw worth his or her salt. Instinctively, he deposited his books to the foot of the table and shuffled within the drawer for a great, secret stash of insulating trivets that some kind, thoughtful soul left ages before for the love and affection of his or her descendants in House.
"Thank you," he said, ambiguous in meaning, but his smile was genuine if not small. "Here, I left you the good chair. It doesn't have the cantankerous spring." As if to show his subconscious chivalry, Terry shifted his weight to the back and was rewarded with a squeak and a bit of a pinprick to his rear end. With a grimace, he shifted his weight back to the previous position. "I would offer blankets, but those are in the custody of one of your roommates."
Situating the kettle between them, Padma appeared sheepish as she put forth the sturdy mug in her opposite hand.
"I only have the one, but I descended with every intention to share." She pushed the ceramic vessel nearer Terry, and pulled her knees up on the chair. "Thank you. Also, I suspect her need is greater than mine." Padma had been, somewhat shamefully, quite incapable of consoling Mandy. That she had been called forth and Padma had not distressed and confused her, muddied what little sense she had been able to make of the turns of their world. Clever though she was, Padma could not always negotiate her own heart.
"I promise, I have no illnesses this early in the semester," Terry offered with a sip, followed with an appreciative sigh. "Oh... oh, thank you, really. A salve, Padma. A salve. But, just for insurance," Terry murmurs, placing the cup on the flannel, "know that I have a violet splotch on my side. It's probably a flower, but I am terrible at telling such things."
"But," he said at length, perhaps even more serious than he generally tended to be, "what are we to do?" Such a question was probably entirely too ambiguous; Terry realised as such, but decided to let it hang all the same, long and heavy around their heads. He trusted Padma to know what he spoke of, regardless, as insulting intelligence was something he despised doing around those he appreciated the most.
Having given great thought to the many possibilities, great and small and dire, Padma had no need for particular requests. Her hands pressed together as though in an attempt to tailor her many thoughts.
"We will take close care of each other, and disguise our allegiances because it is wise and necessary. I have no great desire to be parted from the comforts and relative secrecy provided to us by a detached attitude, however that may seem like deceit."
She spoke in a voice that was far more certain than her dark eyes and mouth betrayed, and in a moment of consideration turned outward, she glanced at Terry. "Do you think that too ambitious?" Or cowardly?
"For the moment, it sounds a necessary evil. Although some of our compatriots are made for blazing in with wands a-firing, we must test our waters before standing ground. We know not what today has in store for us, after all, and being foolhardy and blown out of the fight early, as it were, is not true bravery." Terry, in need of boldness, grasped for the mug yet again. When he finished this, his hands had more of a steady glide; fortunate, as he also saw it fit to refill the little mug and press it closer to Padma, typical sheepishness across his face. "Is this from your summer expedition? I envy your stores."
But comments of tea, of course, were of typical pleasantries that only the most socially inept were starting to discover. Terry pressed his lips together and breathed slowly, the noise hissing through his nose. "I am no Prefect, Padma, nor am I particularly... of a mind to know what paternal means, but I would be able to sleep better for what little time I would enjoy if I were to know that all of us could at least walk together to the Hall for breakfast. If we are together in the beginning, we can at least discuss a plan there. We must have one, I fear," and Terry's face turned cloudy again at the thought. "To think that we must plan to be students, Padma. To think."
Happy to accept the comfort of the tea, for a moment it chased response from Padma's throat. She was careful to place her lips opposite where Terry had drank, a strange modesty. Her fingers folded delicately around the handle.
"If we are together in the beginning," Padma quoted him, her features warming. "It sounds as though we should have greatness soon following." A considerable pause. "I agree with you. We are protectors first, and students second, this year." She shuddered, though it was no comic shaking off of the idea of devotion to her studies. "A great many ruses shall we play out."
"With this year, perhaps the only greatness is to survive. Or, perhaps, that is melodrama that I'm speaking?" Terry's forehead wrinkled then in an attempt to seem surprised, but it only came off as furrowed thought. "Have they told you or Anthony anything about what is to come this year? You, after all, are great enforcers of the law now." Terry said this, he hoped, with sarcasm thick in his voice; after all, he knew where Padma stood, else he would not be curled in a cantankerous chair and watching her sip tea.
Suddenly, he felt it prudent to grab at his shins and pull them to his chest. Terry knew it to be a childish move, and it did not prove fruitful for comfort or practicality; his limbs had recently become long enough that he found it hard to rest his chin on his knees. Still, he did so and stared, for a moment, at the window. His next words were abrupt: "Perhaps at the next meeting, we should insist upon brushing up on Protego. A wise spell, I think, and if joke shops can capitalise upon a student's lack of knowledge, I think it means there is a void."
Shaking her head, Padma filled the mug once more and edged it across the table.
"I certainly don't share any greater privilege of knowledge than you, nor Anthony, either, I would suspect." Her eyes were bright as she, too, turned to the window. "We are lawless, now. Will Protego save us from what is to come, or shall we serve as shields for each other?" Padma was lost a moment in the world of stories, her imagination rendering them each far braver and hardier than they might otherwise seem, a horde of Ravenclaws descending armed and valiant upon the school. Did it matter that their battles were better fought with word? It did not change that they were battles.
"Perhaps both," Terry said honestly, taking mug in hand and drinking at length. "It is too early to say, and I mean this in both ways -- the morning is our confidant, it seems, and although quiet, morning always seems to sully my tongue." The steam boiled up around Terry's head as he tucked his nose into the cup and breathed a moment, perhaps in way of attempting to wake himself for clarity.
"But tools are helpful. Tools and strategy. We must think like our chess sets."
Her face brightened momentarily with a blush, hardly perceptible in such light.
"I am absolute rubbish at chess. May I think in poems of revolution instead?"
Terry always had a tendency to laugh silently, and it was the same at that moment. Instead, a smile crinkles at his eyes until they're slits and his shoulders shake, making the stream of steam turn into little, idyllic puffs.
"Cruel of me to forget, dear Padma. Yes, poems of revolution! Preferably, of course, in any and every dialect you can currently conceive. The more options to cry into battle, the better."