Repello Muggletum: a Hogwarts Roleplay discussion

The Quidditch pitch is a large, oval-shaped green field, with a set of three 50-foot tall posts with hoops on the top at each end, for scoring. There are tiers of stands on all sides. Each match is exciting and unique, and the whole school comes out to watch them, rain or shine.

"And Harper wins it for the roaring Gryffindors with a beautiful catch!"

The Gryffindor crowd packed into the stands cheered, watching the Snitch fluttered helplessly in a Seeker's grasp. Bruce's grin was wide, his breathing heavy from the bludgers he'd deflected. The impact of the bat against the crazed things had drained him of his last reserves of energy.

Everyone was tired and soggy. Ravenclaw had played a fierce game given the rain and the match had lasted far longer than the usual ones. Bruce's arms ached and he knew tomorrow he would be lucky if he could even lift his quill.

He descended on his broomstick, a reliable Oakshaft on which he could keep his balance while sending bludgers toward the opposing team, landing neatly by the edge of the stands.

"Nice play, Ackerman," Esther called to the Gryffindor beater as he descended. Admittedly, she'd been hoping Ravenclaw would have won just so that she may hold that over him. No matter. There was always next time.

She stood from the stands, allowing everyone to pass her (uttering that she'd catch up with her friends later and that there was a bit of business she needed to attend to). Her relationship with Madam Bott was invaluable and she wasn't about to have it tainted because of a late book due to a reckless student. And, judging by the way he acted, Bruce wouldnt be returning the book any time soon unless she reminded him.

His head turned, rivulets of water sliding out of his rain-soaked dark hair and leaving clean tracks on his dirtied face. Bruce had had a struggle with one bludger who'd been smacked into the ground, making it slippery with mud and harder to hit.

"Thanks, Park," almost modest, he sounded, until - "I could hear you cheering in the stands. Come to give me my victory kiss, have we?" And Bruce Ackerman was back and cockier than ever. But it was all in good-natured play.

"Oh, you wish." Esther almost laughed, but that might have given him the wrong idea. Instead, she gave him a slightly annoyed smile.

In the stands, many students had brought umbrellas to keep themselves dry, while others had charmed their cloaks. Esther had been one of the latter, and now she was thankful for that.

"Actually, I was wondering if you know the book, The Origin of Hexes. As it happens, it seems that I've . . . misplaced the library's copy."

Bruce's Quidditch cape was charmed to act as a raincoat would in the Muggle world, the crimson and gold cloth keeping him dry enough so that he didn't get ill. He rather liked this sport - Muggle sports never interested him but his father liked to bet sometimes.

"Tut tut, Esther, won't Madame Bott be disappointed in you, thinking you were a responsible good little Ravenclaw."

"Though I do recall last seeing it while in the company of a particular sixth year Gryffindor who just so happened to need it for an essay. Have you seen it with any?"

Esther leaned on the rail of the stands, peering at him with the smallest of smite. She leaned on the fist of her hand, as if she were pondering her little issue.

"Not in recent days, no." Which was true, and his expression said as much.

Right now The Origin of Hexes was probably nestled comfortably in between an edition of How to Brew Death: 50 Killer Ingredients and a screaming encyclopedia. He had finished his report days ago; Bruce may have not been the most respectful with the staff but he didn't want to be banned from the library just yet.

"Oh. Unfortunate. It's due today."

Maybe he hadn't finished his essay--though that didn't change the fact that the book was due and she needed to return it. Esther dropped her palm from her face, letting it meet with it's companion on the wooden beam of the rail.

"Almost as unfortunate as this weather. Merlin's beard, those bludgers were bloody slippery. Do you know how hard it is to hit those things like this? It's like trying to shoot a fly with an arrow."

Bruce knew that avoiding the subject wouldn't make anything seem better. In fact, he guessed Esther had probably lost all faith in him and was imagining the book being thrown in a woodchipper or something.

"I haven't tried either, but I'm assuming both are difficult. I haven't been anywhere near a broom since first year." Which was undeniably true--though, she hadn't been good at flying, so it wasn't like she missed it.

"But in all seriousness, have you got the book or not?"

"No. If that's all you came to ask, then I should be going. A nice hot shower would do nicely right now," he added as a side-note to himself. The Gryffindor common room was one of the coziest places ever. It had a crackling fireplace that warmed you all over, cushions that were perfectly soft, and an all-around homey appeal.

"Where is it, then?" All traces of a smile faded, replaced instead with a bit of concern. Who knew how Bott would react to one of her favored students losing a book from the Restricted Section?

"Probably snuggling up on a shelf somewhere in the library," he said, breaking out into a grin at her expression. "I really can't believe you didn't trust me - I might not be the model student, but I'm reliable most of the time. Really, Esther, have a little more faith in me."

"'Most of the time,'" Esther echoed. And her mouth twitched to something in between about to laugh to about to scream. "Then what did you tell Bott?"

"Most meaning most, as in almost always. If, say, there was some totally amazing once-in-a-lifetime chance hindering me from returning The Origin of Hexes, then I'd probably go for the first." Knowing Bruce, that once-in-a-lifetime chance could be anything from free butterbeer to getting a pet dragon.

"What do you mean?"

"What did you tell Bott when you went to turn it in? It is part of the restricted section. She goes in and sorts it through. Trust me, I've been to the library enough times to know." She assumed that he'd snuck into the restricted section to put away the book or came up with some elaborate lie to the old witch.

"I told her I was doing you a favour." Which was mostly true. The best part had been seeing the old witch's reaction. No staff member, especially her, expected such a normal and seemingly-innocent response. At least not from Bruce Ackerman.

"Which, in a way, I was. So no harm done, except to me and the time I spent on that ridiculous assignment."

A sharp wind blew through the pitch. Esther grabbed her cloak. "Wait a moment--I need to get down from here."

She made her way down from the high stands. In all honesty, she quite liked the rain. "What was the assignment about , anyways? Doesn't seem practical to require a student to go through the Restricted Section and refuse them a pass."

"It wasn't required," said Bruce, clearly amused by the fact that Esther had thought that. His research report, an easy little thing on hexes, had needed a little more grandeur tossed in there. He needed to save his dropping grade before it hit rock bottom.

"I thought a little extra information might give me a bit of a grade boost, or at least help me get on that teacher's good side." His professor was neutral towards him at the moment, which was quite an accomplishment for Bruce.

"Victrine has a bias towards the metrosexuals. Best you can do is shut up and participate when necessary." Of course, Esther had notice this, and refrained from attempting to appeal to Victrine. Either way, she managed to be one of his high scoring students.

"Then I'm afraid that's another hopeless case. At least I have Professor Jayfox." Bruce's undeniable talent for transfiguration had earned him a teacher that didn't totally dislike him - in fact, he was one of the old man's favourites, thus he had gotten an actual student in Bruce.

"Have you ever actually made the effort to actually get a teacher to like you?" She doubted it. Bruce was one of those students who didn't see the interesting parts of every subject, and so didn't bother with trying. Needless to say Esther was the opposite.

((I just realized how they're just standing in the middle of the pitch in the rain.

((xD))

"I was making the effort with that book, wasn't I?" Bruce liked to believe that he didn't really care what anybody else thought. There was that part of him that refused to admit that sometimes he did - that little boy who would sit alone around an extravagant dinner table, two empty chairs where his parents should have been.

"It's not like I have to, anyways. I'm smart enough to get by fairly well."

((I know that's supposed to be sad, but I can't help but think of Joe Walker in a Batman costume with a bathrobe on))

"No," she answered flatly. "And I question your definition of 'fairly well.' If you want a teacher to like you, you should know what they like in a student in general."

At some point, Esther believed, every kid wanted their teachers to like them. Sometimes that drive lasted longer in others, and was more apparent. Other times, it wasn't as clear, but it was still there.

((The sad little music is playing in my head.))

He exhaled, irritated. The coolness about his eyes had gone hard, like flint. "I don't really care if they're not crazy about me," Bruce said, his mumble a low rumble.

It wasn't like he would be a wizard when he grew up. He was still a Muggle-born, and his father expected him to follow in his footsteps and become a successful businessman. And his mother, as loving as she was when she was present, wouldn't approve of him waving a stick around for a living.

"Is that all you wanted, then? Because I should be going."

Then you do care. At least a little bit. There was that bit in her head that still had to point out every loophole it could find.

Sighing, Ether nodded. It was getting colder, and she still had reading to do. Her friends were probably wondering where she was as well. Keeping them waiting would only worry them.

"Yeah. Er... I'll see you around?"

"Yeah, sure."

He mounted his broom, pushing lightly off the ground to go up into a hover a few feet above the pitch. It would be faster to fly away from the pitch, he decided, his robes flapping in the wind as he zoomed past Esther. A jerk move, he knew, but it wasn't like that was a surprise coming from Bruce Ackerman.

[Van, since the game just ended, could we do Bruce-Mauricia?]

The few Slytherin girls who had deigned to sit with Ingrid at the beginning of the match had long since moved away, leaving her thoughtfully watching the clouds flit across the sun-soaked sky. Somewhere Muggle music played in the distance; it had become much more popular in recent years to bring Wizarding radios that had been specially tuned to Muggle stations. Ingrid wasn't aware of many songs and some seemed oddly vulgar to her, with the throbbing beats and moans and crooning voices.

The pitch had been slowly emptying out for the past hour and there was only a mere trickle of students left - but she had no desire to go anywhere, and so she sat in the stands, a ladybug crawling across her robes, vibrant scarlet against the black.

The majority of students had long since filed out, the winning team's housemates carrying them out of the arena. Cecil would have joined them, had the lines allowed. Sitting in the front could be such a bother. Finally, the steps were clearing, and he stood to leave, itching to get back to the common room. The games were exhausting for both players and spectators alike.

It was a wonder why she even turned her head - the flight of a bird across the sky, perhaps, or the curiousity of an unfamiliar movement towards the east of the grounds. Nevertheless, she turned her head, and immediately Cecil pricked at her vision like a needle.

She was well familiar with the reaction the sight of him gave her, which she accounted to the fear of him - her heart beating away every last drop of blood high up in her throat, choking her, breath coming short and fast, every inch of her nerves on the surface, taking into account the wind on her skin, the scent of her own hair, the silkiness of her school robes.

She froze, staring at him like a startled hare, eyes wide, terrified.

It was hard not to notice the pale blonde hair, especially with so few people and such dark seats. He wouldn't have reacted, had her expression been, well, normal. She looked scared--more specifically, scared of him--and for once, he wasn't quite sure why.

Cecil hesitated a moment, debated whether or not to say something, and then continued up the steps. He said he wouldn't speak to her, and he was more than happy to keep that promise.

Ingrid wasn't sure what she had expected- for him to sit next to her as if they were decade-old chums? All she knew was that she couldn't bear that look of utter neutrality, the thinly veiled animosity.

She couldn't bear not to have him think of her like that.

"C-C-C-Cecil," she stuttered out, her hands clutching the edges of her seat as if she was hanging upside down and might fall off. As soon as his name had escaped her lips she wished to death she hadn't.

Cecil stopped again. More students cleared out until the last few disappeared down the steps. His hands went into his pockets as he turned back to face her. Her nervousness was new to him; never had he seen her so distraught, though it failed to garner any sympathy.

"Ingrid," he replied.