Finder's Keeper
WHO: The Francūzis un Zēns
WHEN: Friday evening, October 22
WHERE: The Dungeons, the Potions Classroom
WHAT: The magpie perches on a precarious branch...
RATING: ???
The crash of the world falling sounded not with the voluminous din of anguished, euphoric voices but the quiet anticipation of the moment before a kiss. From on high, it came like a gull's cry amidst endlessly breaking waves, a surprised shout covered by a grin drowned out by the cacophony of an ocean of sound. Raivis's gaze never left the heap of tangled limbs separating in the grass, reaching and winding into a less chaotic shape.
If had he landed then, he would have drowned.
Sunk deep into the mire of his teammates and the students leaking onto the field the way tendrils of water would slide over a windowpane. He smiled, he waved, but he waited until a safe pocket of silence and space opened near the pitches to drift back to Earth and dismount the aged instrument that served as his wings. There was no getting close to Ivan in the open, not with so many pressed close, patting his back and crowing insults, whooping out joyous compliments, warnings, declarations of love. There was a knowing glance passed between them in the locker rooms then, Raivis was gone.
To the dungeons, to his room, to the parchment he placed a quill tip at and absently signed it 'Love' before his owl took it away. As he watched words scrawl across his journal in a larger, trembling hand- 'It's something we need to talk about'- and observed his own careful lettering in response- '...detention with Professor Bonnefoy'- he froze.
He's very, very good at what he does. I've got detention with-
The Professor. The. Professor.
It took a few tries to recollect the right sort of charm for the conjuration of flowers but tiny bouquet in hand some two hours later, he emerged from his chambers with his hair combed to a respectable mess and his robes arranged just-so for an enthusiastic sprint down to the Potions Classroom.
Revelations confirmations on the Quidditch field did not matter. The only perfect way to celebrate Slytherin's victory had to be with-
"P-professor Bonnefoy-?"
WHEN: Friday evening, October 22
WHERE: The Dungeons, the Potions Classroom
WHAT: The magpie perches on a precarious branch...
RATING: ???
The crash of the world falling sounded not with the voluminous din of anguished, euphoric voices but the quiet anticipation of the moment before a kiss. From on high, it came like a gull's cry amidst endlessly breaking waves, a surprised shout covered by a grin drowned out by the cacophony of an ocean of sound. Raivis's gaze never left the heap of tangled limbs separating in the grass, reaching and winding into a less chaotic shape.
If had he landed then, he would have drowned.
Sunk deep into the mire of his teammates and the students leaking onto the field the way tendrils of water would slide over a windowpane. He smiled, he waved, but he waited until a safe pocket of silence and space opened near the pitches to drift back to Earth and dismount the aged instrument that served as his wings. There was no getting close to Ivan in the open, not with so many pressed close, patting his back and crowing insults, whooping out joyous compliments, warnings, declarations of love. There was a knowing glance passed between them in the locker rooms then, Raivis was gone.
To the dungeons, to his room, to the parchment he placed a quill tip at and absently signed it 'Love' before his owl took it away. As he watched words scrawl across his journal in a larger, trembling hand- 'It's something we need to talk about'- and observed his own careful lettering in response- '...detention with Professor Bonnefoy'- he froze.
He's very, very good at what he does. I've got detention with-
The Professor. The. Professor.
It took a few tries to recollect the right sort of charm for the conjuration of flowers but tiny bouquet in hand some two hours later, he emerged from his chambers with his hair combed to a respectable mess and his robes arranged just-so for an enthusiastic sprint down to the Potions Classroom.
Revelations confirmations on the Quidditch field did not matter. The only perfect way to celebrate Slytherin's victory had to be with-
"P-professor Bonnefoy-?"