of the months
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|♥ Sascha Daskalov||
Posted: Mar 17 2017, 05:28 AM
"The bloodbath of Bulgaria, the bastard of Ballycastle."
If things kept going the way they had of late, there would be no Sascha left.
Sure, it was a bit dramatic and maybe even a little bit on the crazier side, but Sascha was struggling. The Deschamps brothers had all but ruined his life since their transferring to his own magical escape, yet they were the last. Not even close, in fact, as more transfers seemed to be coming in on a daily basis. Would they all tear him down? Would each of them have secret ties to him just as damning as the Brother's Unfortunate? It was as if his life was devolving in front of his very eyes; whispers, giggles, all kinds of gossip was making its way around the school by now and it all came back to Sascha. Apparently, people wanted to see him fail, if for no other reason than he was a bit braggy at times. A show off of sorts, if not obnoxious in his quidditch abilities. People really hated that.
But what did that have to do with the transfers? At least from where Sascha was sitting... Nothing. The majority of them were from Beauxbatons, the French academy of magic, and if the first one wasn't hell bent on telling everyone how much the French palace was then Hogwarts then the next would. They were airy; not in a bad way, not necessarily, but when it came to being in touch with reality it seemed that most of them didn't know what it meant to be humble. "Our palace was beautiful," or "We had five-star dining each night" were just a few of the things Sascha had heard rumbling through the halls, and frankly, he was sick of it. Hogwarts wasn't the most spectacular by any means but it was home. When people lost their parents in the way that Sascha did it was Hogwarts that opened its (metaphorical) arms. Could the uppity French say that about their Beauxbatons? No, no they couldn't.
You see, for Sascha, it was not only a matter of pride but a matter of defending what he had left, as months of personal anguish and arguing had left him with very little. At seventeen he was hardly old enough to take over the family property, and even if he had been what would he do with it? The majority of his year was spent at Hogwarts studying and perfecting his Quidditch skills, so what good could he do with a mansion all the way in Bulgaria? He could hire a staff maybe, to keep things running nice and smooth, but even that would be something he would have to trust at a face value. He couldn't afford to leave his studies behind to deal with home any more than he could afford to leave the Nundu behind. They were his team, his responsibility... He could leave it to Blyssenor, but how much would she really appreciate that? Add in the fact that it would have him away at a mansion reminding him of nothing but his deceased parents and they would almost be even, yet he still didn't care to leave. He couldn't tackle that right now.
Why, do you ask? Well, currently Sascha was in the middle of an arranged meeting with an older Ravenclaw, a seventh year, who promised to have information that would allow Sascha to be in two places at once. A spell, if you will, that would not only allow him to do his studying and fulfill his captaincy with the Nundu but also allow him to go home and get his affairs in order. Such spells had been rumored for a while now, potions and the likes, but this had been the first time Sascha had ever seen fit to seek out the existence of what some considered to be... Less than ideal magic. It was reckless, truly, but at the heart of the problem came the realization that Sascha simply didn't care. If there was anything at all that could help him to hold onto to his families estate until he was better equipped to handle it, then he would; besides, it wasn't like he was killing people. That was just ludicrous.
Tapping the tip of his left boot against the stone of the passageway, Sascha let out an exasperated sigh, looking from end-to-end of the corridor before shifting uncomfortably in his place. "This is taking too long", he thought to himself anxiously, craning his head from side to side before stepping away from the wall and pacing anxiously. This wasn't wrong, right? He wouldn't get in trouble, even? If his fellow student was to be believed then it was just a simple spell with no negative side effects, so really, it wouldn't be doing anyone harm if he used it. Right? The more he kept telling himself it wasn't a bad thing the worse he was beginning to feel, with matters only getting worse when he finally heard footsteps. "It's now or never", he whispered anxiously to himself, stepping out from his spot in the corridor so as the greet the other boy. Only the other boy wasn't the other boy... He was a boy, but not the boy and his existence in this secluded passageway was but one more problem for Sascha. Maybe this was a sign from the gods? Who even was this sharply-dressed boy? No one Sascha knew, that was for sure.
"Who are you and why are you here? You've no business here, pretty boy."
Posted: Mar 20 2017, 09:15 PM
"water into wine"
Thirdly, the school itself had done him a terrible injustice. He’d suffered through having some dusty old hat lowered onto his golden crown only to have it call out a disgusting word: Gryffindor. Not Slytherin, with Florentin and Honoré, and not even Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, both of which would have been preferable. But Gryffindor, where he would have to sleep alongside the impure and listen to barbarians engage in belching contests. Laurent had tired to keep his disgust off of his face as he was led on a tour of the tower by some high-ranking Gryffindor, but he was sure he did a terrible job of it. He slipped away at the first opportunity to do so, getting no complaint from his impromptu tour guide, and went off in search of a quiet place. He didn’t run, because Laurent Cardiner never ran, but he did move with haste.
Finally he found a place that seemed untouched by human commotion. He hadn’t been paying attention to his route so he couldn’t have said what floor he was on—if he was even still in the god-forsaken castle. But it was quiet, and dark, so he couldn’t find it in him to care. Laurent laid himself flat against one of the cool walls and laid his hand down on his chest. He could feel his own heart slamming under his palm and tried to calm it—at first to no avail. Gryffindor. Gryffindor. I can’t do this. You have to. I can’t! You have to. For her. But Gryffindor… Slowly, Laurent felt his breathing even out. The other him was right. He had condemned himself to this not for himself, but for his grandmother. He was all that she had in the world, and it was his responsibility to care for her as she had done for him.
He was almost himself again when a voice grabbed him by the throat. “Excuez-moi?” Laurent’s navy blue eyes sought out the source, then looked behind him, sure that he’d find someone else standing there. When he realized that the other boy was addressing him, his upper lip exposed his teeth and he pushed himself from the wall. His hair was a bit more disheveled than usual, from the fingers he had run through it, but otherwise he was immaculate—black loafers, black pants, black button down, and a teal dress vest. All the finest quality, and all worthless now that he was at Hogwarts. “Dégénéré. I would’ve thought someone like you would have been taught his place before. And before you ask, no, we don’t know each other. I can just smell the impurity on you. Was it Dad? No, it was probably Mum who was the boue-sang.”