I'll Never Never Land
WHO: He Who Never Wants to Grow Up and The Boy That Could
WHEN: Friday (October 22) Night; near curfew
WHERE: The Library
WHAT: A story cannot write itself. Is that so hard to believe? Clap your hands and hold on tight...
Raivis ran.
He ran fast, he ran hard and the few who witnessed his sprinting out of the dungeons turned their heads in curiosity to spy for an interesting growth or a telltale bruise that must have been propelling the youth so rapidly toward what they assumed was the Infirmary. They saw only the whip of a cloak, however, and the petite Slytherin's figure vanishing into the lighter recesses of the castle because he did not stop or slow to accommodate their interest. He's flighty, that one.
Like a bird that fluttered about restlessly and repelled itself from the creatures rattling the bars of its cage. Some called out to him as he passed, the students lingering in the halls waiting for their Quidditch adrenaline to come down, offering more words- praises, jeers, the aftermath of an epic match on repeat- that echoed unheard and unanswered. Raivis appeared unaware of them. If a Prefect had told him to cease running, he did not listen and if they gave up trying to reprimand him in favor of a more rowdy bunch, he did not know it. All that stumbled through his mind as he darted through the halls was 'Library, Peter, meet before curfew' and all else was extraneous information to be digested another time.
Selective memory. He didn't dare think back to the lesson he had just exited and when he reached the Library, he merely flung the thought away as he yanked the doors open a bit too roughly. It earned him a stony glare from Madam Pince and that too, for the moment, fell short of Raivis's attention.
Back row, second shelf from the right. Back row, second shelf from the-
"L-labvakar, Peter...."
WHEN: Friday (October 22) Night; near curfew
WHERE: The Library
WHAT: A story cannot write itself. Is that so hard to believe? Clap your hands and hold on tight...
Raivis ran.
He ran fast, he ran hard and the few who witnessed his sprinting out of the dungeons turned their heads in curiosity to spy for an interesting growth or a telltale bruise that must have been propelling the youth so rapidly toward what they assumed was the Infirmary. They saw only the whip of a cloak, however, and the petite Slytherin's figure vanishing into the lighter recesses of the castle because he did not stop or slow to accommodate their interest. He's flighty, that one.
Like a bird that fluttered about restlessly and repelled itself from the creatures rattling the bars of its cage. Some called out to him as he passed, the students lingering in the halls waiting for their Quidditch adrenaline to come down, offering more words- praises, jeers, the aftermath of an epic match on repeat- that echoed unheard and unanswered. Raivis appeared unaware of them. If a Prefect had told him to cease running, he did not listen and if they gave up trying to reprimand him in favor of a more rowdy bunch, he did not know it. All that stumbled through his mind as he darted through the halls was 'Library, Peter, meet before curfew' and all else was extraneous information to be digested another time.
Selective memory. He didn't dare think back to the lesson he had just exited and when he reached the Library, he merely flung the thought away as he yanked the doors open a bit too roughly. It earned him a stony glare from Madam Pince and that too, for the moment, fell short of Raivis's attention.
Back row, second shelf from the right. Back row, second shelf from the-
"L-labvakar, Peter...."