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 [R]A fingertip of graphite, Leoooo <33
Sammeh · 17 · 7th · · Pureblood · 6'1
Ravenclaw Beginner
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May 30 2018, 11:14 AM   Link Quote
He'd noticed when he was halfway through the hallway.

His satchel had felt lighter. Not a lot, but Tammuz had grown acquainted with the weight of it enough to know when it was gone. Yet the busy stream of students switching classes and making it to dinner had dragged him forward mercilessly like a rough sea. He wasn't good at navigating it; his feet were made for warm sand instead of temperamental waters. No matter how much he wanted to, Tammy didn't have the voice to call out his discontent out loud either. Copper eyes followed those few students bold enough to elbow their way against the tide, yelling 'coming through' and 'out of my way' like they were as easy and polite as an 'excuse me'. Yet all Tammuz did was stare as his feet followed the one the others before him took as well, until they were all seated at their respective house tables and eyeing dinner.

Once seated on familiar warm wood, his stained hands dung through his satchel, though already dreading his feelings had been right. When they only gripped onto quills, books and parchment, Tammy sighed in mild annoyance, head tilted backwards at the ceiling announcing an oncoming early summer storm. His sketchbook was still in the classroom, charcoal lines still fresh on its paper from doodling in class rather than paying attention. The Ravenclaw boy eyed his dinner before him for a few moments, weighing his empty stomach against the missing one in his satchel, knowing it wasn't sundown just yet.

In the end it was an easy choice to make, sundown or not.

the bangles around his wrists rung not unlike the roll of thunder outside as he ran through the now mostly empty hallway: a sad caricature of the busy one it had been just moments ago. His sandals only left the faintest of thuds against the marble floor, but none of it mattered as his heart drummed in his ears as if his life depended on it. Once arriving at the classroom door, Tammuz found it locked after several insistent tugs. The wood didn't groan like it always did upon opening and so Tammy made the noise himself instead out of desperation. He wasn't willing to wait until morning; he couldn't survive the hectic hassle of breakfast without a sketchbook to occupy himself with instead of eating. Something told him Ina wasn't up for his worried pacing in her dorm room either, no matter how important this sketchbook was to him.

Instead of going all the way to the Ravenclaw tower where his twin sister was, however, Tammuz dragged himself in the other direction. The late evening sun dragged itself along the walls, casting the boy in shades of gold every other step. The clash of his bangles had faded to a soft clink, his step becoming more determined than desperate even though his plan wasn't as fool proof as his first one had been. Then again, professor Linwood hadn't lingered in class like the boy had expected him to, so perhaps no plan was as good as it presented itself to be. Finally arriving at the office, Tammuz hesitated for just a moment, his fist a breath away from the door. It took a second before he finally knocked and he heard the dense thud against wood as if there wasn't a completely hollow space on the other end of it. Another moment, another beat, and Tammuz carefully pushed against the door with a breath of relief as this one did move.

The space behind it was, simple. Where Tammuz had grown up in a house of densely decorated carpets and silk, colourful lanterns and cushions, he felt often surprised at the choice of efficiency in Britain. His curious eyes fell on the one object that stood out in the room: the big scratch off map. Of course he immediately looked at the spot of his home country, and found it still intact and undiscovered, like the open space between his ribs. It was only then that he dragged himself back to the room, and more importantly professor Linwood, with a worried crease between his thick brows.

"my...apologies, professor, for bugging you after class."

His fingers caught in the fabric of his robes at his sides, the feeling of undecorated cloth slipping through them.

"you see, the class was already locked? I mean, of course it was. Duhh. No, I, I think I forgot...."

How was he going to explain this without admitting he hadn't been paying attention, that the contents created by his own left hand was more important than whatever Linwood had been talking about for an hour during class. Tammuz sighed, tension fading from his shoulders as he admitted defeat.

"My sketchbook, I forgot my sketchbook. Did you....happen to come across it, sir?"

---

@Richard Linwood

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Leo Benjamin · 36 · Ancient Mythology · · Pureblood · 195 cm (6'4")
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May 30 2018, 12:16 PM   Link Quote
[R]Descriptions of violence, body mutilation.

Richard was sitting in front of the only window of his office. It overlooked the lake, the school grounds, which were bathing in the evening sun's golden glow. It was serene, except for the always dark wall of trees that he'd been introduced some 25 years ago. The Forbidden Forest. Place of many memories, most of them covered in the night fog. But that was then...

Now he walked the halls he once knew without recognizing any faces. Every day met him with a moment of dejavu and a sense of longing. But he never got to linger. Both kids and adults referred to Richard as Professor Linwood. Even the ones that had taught himself when he was no more than a green and silver clad troublemaker.

Professor Linwood. Richard didn't like it at all. He resembled a professor as much as a werewolf resembles a guard dog. He wanted to be far away from here, in the mountains of Nepal, hunting a yeti. But there was just one thing not letting him leave. That thing was laying in a metal bowl covered in polish. A wooden hand.

It would have been like every other evening - a house elf would bring him dinner, he'd eat and take care of his prosthetic and go to sleep. But today was different. He'd already soaked the leather straps in for too long, practically forgotten about them. And the view outside of the window didn't calm him one bit.

On his lap was a sketchbook. He was leafing through it with his left hand, the real one, and every so often his hand would stop and tremble. Drawings of dragons. He didn't fear many beasts, but watching your hand be bitten off and spit right out like a cherry pit, well, that would make even bravest man sweat in fear.

A student had left it in his class. He could even recall which one, simply because the boy hadn't paid any attention to the lecture about ghosts in various cultures. He didn't really care if anyone listened. He was paid for it, and in the end, if they had taken the class, they needed the grade. And if the grade was bad, they only had themselves to blame.

Richard couldn't deny the fact that the boy had a lot of skill. His drawings were realistic, even too realistic for Richard's liking. He turned the next page---

He didn't notice or hear anyone come in. His hands were shaking and his stump was hurting immensely. There was a Romanian Longhorn drawn on the page. Richard's brain could swear that any moment, any second now, it would fly off the page, increase in size and swallow him up whole.

He couldn't take it. With his left hand he slammed the notebook shut, threw it on his desk and got up from his chair, both of his arms heading towards his head to pluck at his long hair.

And then he saw the 7th year standing there. His blue eyes widened, he showed his stump in his pocket, trying to hide it from sight, sighed and tried his best to compose himself. It was the one who'd been sketching during his class. After stumbling over a few sentences, the Ravenclaw admitted to not paying attention. That made Richard straighten his back and his expression turned into one of complete disinterest.

"It's there, on the table." He said, staring the boy down. He hoped that the boy had been looking down at his shoes, not noticed his professor freaking out. A man can hope, right?

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Sammeh · 17 · 7th · · Pureblood · 6'1
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May 31 2018, 08:07 AM   Link Quote
He wasn't used to big angry men in his life staring him down.

His father was more the disappointed type whenever he found his only son sitting in the shade and drawing the dragons from a distance, rather than helping out with taking care of them. He was the one to hold motivational speeches about legacy and their ancestors during dinner until Tammuz felt the next bite of food lodging itself in his throat and he couldn't eat any more. His grandfather was a man who fixed his issues with a silent prayer multiple times a day, the one who believed everything would turn out right if they deserved it. Neither of them had ever raised their voice at Tammy; their words of how their new heir could be better were enough to make the boy shrink to the shortest person in the household rather than the tallest.

And so Tammuz tried to hide how difficult it was to hide the lump in his throat, the nervous edge of his fingers trembling with guilt. A sorry wouldn't cut it anymore; it was too late for that. Instead the Ravenclaw was now left to face the consequences of not paying any attention during class earlier, and having the nerve to come back and ask for his object of distraction. His eyes darted nervously between his professor and the sketchbook in the middle of the desk, trying to decide what would leave him in a significantly less amount of trouble than he was already in, all while thinking please don't owl dad, please don't owl him about this.

The words of his father then rung clear in his head, soft as a bell chime early in the morning.

At least just listen to your elders instead of standing about.

after the sound of a small gulp that felt too loud in the empty office, Tammuz nodded and carefully walked over with small unhurried steps, trying to not let his gaze wander over the shape of professor Linwood for too long. The man was now the shadow in the corner, the monster under the bed when the oil lamps were snuffed out and all there was left was their lingering smell. It was the urge to not look under the mattress when the room had gone quiet, knowing it was ridiculous and yet too tempting not to. The Amar-Sins had long learned danger did not equate size as each morning they woke up to the sound of godlike monsters on their terrain, knowing they held the power to control each and every one of them.

The urge to apologize still burned on his tongue, knowing it could only bring more fire to the ruin. Yet it was stronger than himself, a habit his mother was often proud of, while his sisters just smiled and petted his curls whenever it happened, laughing at his demeanour. "I-I'm sorry for not paying attention. You see-" Both his hands finally took hold of the familiar cover, the little indents of where it was hand bound slotting in between the lines of his palms like a familiar puzzle being completed. With a small sigh of relief, the boy turned around to face the big bad shadow under the bed, knowing he was too old to still believe in fairytales.

"I was just finishing it, I promise. I didn't....sketch the whole thing in one go, see?" Coal stained fingers flipped through the pages, each dark line a vivid story he still remembered telling not too long ago. He passed the new tattoo design for Ina, the flowy lines of the boy he had seen at dual practise out of the corner of his eye. Then the images become more realistic, little strokes shading each scale of a dragon's neck. "I wanted to make her move, before the image was out of my head." He mumbled, knowing how stupid it must've sounded to anyone but himself. Yet it was the closest thing he had to home when there were miles of land and ocean between him and the familiar heat of his house back in Iraq. The sketches on paper were a distraction from his homesickness, just as much as they distracted him from the fact that tending to dragons would soon be a lifelong responsibility.

He didn't expect many people to understand.

The sketchbook got shoved forward, his hand holding it like a precious flower as he showed off the moving image to his professor. Tammuz didn't expect the man to be proud, no adult really understood when the heir of an empire kept himself busy with putting lines on paper that meant nothing of importance. Yet the smallest hint of a proud yet nervous smile found its way onto the boy's features as he continued "They move only when I hold them."

---

@Richard Linwood

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Leo Benjamin · 36 · Ancient Mythology · · Pureblood · 195 cm (6'4")
Professor
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Jun 7 2018, 09:30 AM   Link Quote
Outwards, Richard was as solid as the cliffs down south in Dover, unmoved by even the strongest of storms. But as cliffs succumbed to the power of the raging waves, rain and wind, so did Richard's anxiety chip away at his defenses. His eyes trailed after the shape of the student, who timidly walked over to the desk and took his notebook. But, instead of hurrying out to get away from Professor Linwood, before he could take away points or give him a lecture or whatever else it was, that the Ravenclaw feared, he stuck around, much to Richard's dismay.

I don't give a damn about your apology, the door is right there, take it and leave, just leave, leave. Richard's mind raced, and he took a sharp breath as the sketchbook was turned to him. He didn't answer the young man's comments. Just stood there, staring him down. Richard wasn't an artist and he really didn't understand the types, but if tolerating him a few more minutes would keep his own reputation safe and sound, he could linger.

After a few flipped pages his gaze relaxed, eyes turning to the pages, tracing the fuzzy lines on the paper. They were good drawings, that he couldn't deny. But the subject matter was unsettling Richard.

And it only got worse as the dragon on the page started moving, and the sketchbook was turned to him. His eyes widened and his fight-or-flight reaction was telling him to run, jump out the bloody window. The charcoal dragon on the page stirred from its slumber, scales glistening like it was laying in the sun. Wings stretching out, it filled the whole page, and Richard's whole mind, too.

His eyes widened and his hands went up to his face, trying to cover his eyes as much as they could, burned and scarred over stump out loud and proud. He stumbled backwards, knocking over the chair and stumbling against the wall. His stomach was twisting into the Gordian knot on its own accord, sweat breaking out and limbs cramping up. He couldn't move, and yet he couldn't look away from the drawing. A roar escaped his mouth as he grasped his hair with his left hand, yet the words that came out of his mouth mere seconds later sounded like those of a meek, malnourished, wounded animal.

"Please, make it stop. Make it stop moving," he pleaded, eyes still locked with the dark smudges on the paper. They looked at him knowingly, like they could smell his fear.

@Tammuz Amar-Sin

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