𝑴𝑬𝑨 𝑴𝑨𝑿𝑰𝑴𝑨 𝑪𝑼𝑳𝑷𝑨

“Well, lucky for you, you’ll always look dashing to me, Mr. Sportsman,” Freya replies earnestly, as she moves towards him, fingers curling around the base of his neck as her knuckles grazed the wetness of his hair and she pulled him into a chaste embrace. She could have stood there forever, arms wrapped around him, basking in the familiarity of the moment. She had never met someone like Kassius before, someone so kind, so hardworking, so easy to talk to. (She thinks he would have made a good Hufflepuff if not for the fact he was so terribly brilliant at his school work). 

“…Though you could stand to learn a hair drying charm or two…” she teases as she makes move to heed his offer to sit beside him, “I’m sure my mother’s written a piece or two about them for The Prophet, if you’re looking for reference,” she adds with a chuckle, though she wishes she was less serious about the content of her mother’s articles. 

She can’t help but self-consciously touch her hair as he makes notice of it’s length. She hadn’t cut it over the summer in order to appease her mother, but ended up not wanting to part with it’s length when it came time to return to school. “Um, thank you?” she replies, unsure of weather he liked the length or was merely commenting on it– either way it was lovely to be in his presence once again. “I know, I know– Professor Brown says that muggles have this device that lets people talk to one another over long distances, called a telephone. He tried to bring one to class but he says they don’t work around places of highly concentrated magic,” Freya says almost somewhat disappointingly.

But it was true, all she had to keep her tied over for the summer were the few letters that they had exchanged over the break. She would spend hours reading and rereading each letter he sent her, pouring over each and every page of perfect penmanship and eloquent words that he had sent her. She had always loved easily, her heart easily won by kind gestures and thoughtful words, but whatever was between them was so different– a much deeper longing than she could have anticipated. She knows not of what their future holds, but she can promise him that they’ll face it together.

“ -- ’s a good thing -- “

It comes out as more of a huffed jumble than a compliment, but he leaves it be, opting instead to lean upon the crutch of normal, easy conversation that came from the sheer relief of seeing her again. Talk that did not stem from a flirtatious place -- for it was unduly difficult for Kassius to muster flirtatious sentiment no matter the recipient, but especially Freya, who was the sole subject of his affections -- was far easier, for it lived in a place of fact, logic, truth. All that, and yet the thought of missing her so dearly, as it came to fruition on the tip of his tongue, felt as sore and sweet as an overdose on chocolate on a hot summer afternoon. 

And she said that he was dashing. He’d remember that. 

He wondered what she might do if he were to reach out and touch her hair, to run his weary fingers through its length. And it seemed he would be given his wish, for as she approached, his arms moved as if acting on a long-known instinct. Her hands rose to the nape of his neck, one of his own on her cheek and the other dancing with light fingertips from her arm, to her shoulder, to her back. He wished to kiss her right there in front of everyone, everyone who trickled sleepily into the Great Hall. The sheer hunger with which he had longed to do so would surely awaken them; it was rare that stoic Kassius Ollivander be lost in the throes of passion. And yet here he was -- lost. 

Indulging himself, Kassius reached up, fingers first brushing her cheek, then running the length of her hair -- ever dark, ever falling in cascading waves. He had a single photograph of her, which he had kept close all summer. He would need another. 

“A telephone?” he echoed, rolling the word over chunkily in his mouth, “How does that work? Must be an awfully long wire, if --” he paused, considering; she often spoke of such things, things that he knew so little of, but that he was interested in, simply because she was interested in them, too, “-- well, no wire too long, I suppose.” He’d yell from a long-away mountaintop if she’d hear. He could only hope she knew this. 

“I kept all your letters --” he blurted, at once thinking of the bound folder he kept stashed at the bottom of his trunk, tucked away so prying eyes might not reach them, “-- sorted them, you know. A Ravenclaw thing.” His lips twitched upward, eyes alight. “I figure I can flout them for clout when you’re all successful and famous. Only a matter of time; I can only hope you’ll not leave me in the dust when you do.” His tone was teasing, and yet the reality was there; this was their last year in the comfort of school, after which he hardly knew where his work would take him. He knew that Freya would be destined for something great. In moments of sheer romanticism, he imagined the two of them together -- a little flat in London, a house plant, a sunny window casting light upon a mussed bed. 

A wayward musing, of course. His imagination was wild, and it was his own.

But she had dreams -- and he had the abyss of his own mind. He would support her, bolster her, lift her up, and then surely and swiftly be consumed. But Kassius would hold her for as long as he could. And he would kiss her as much as he was able. 

And he so wanted to. 

“If I kissed you, would you be cross with me for dripping on your robes?” his lips twitched upward once more, thumb pausing its absent circle upon her cheek. It was a challenge, a question, a wish all in one. It had been too long since he had kissed her. And if he’d be allowed, he’d never stop. 

mornings and diana were not friends. she exists best in the evening, when the stars were glinting in the sky and the moon was shining bright. she loves how darkness cloaked the sky and the ground and the world seemed to still. mornings, however, she has deemed to be some sort of curse, an attack against her and all that she stands for. she moves slow, sluggishly, pulling on her robes and shoes and socks. as she walks to the great hall, she focuses on the sound of her shoes stepping on the stone floor, tap tap tap.

the great hall is still mostly empty and she finds herself feeling envious of those students who have gotten a few moments more of sleep than her. diana walks to the ravenclaw table with a practiced ease, taking a seat across from kassius. at first, she says nothing. she grabs a mug of tea and reaches for a lemon. she squeezes the juice into her drink before spooning three lumps of sugar into it. she’s got a sweet tooth. it’s a guilty pleasure. she gives it a stir before bringing it up to her mouth and taking a long sip. the warmth of her tea floods her chest.

finally, she begins to pay mind to those around her. her focus almost immediately lands on kassius.

she’s watching. at first, her eyes land on the page of the sketchbook opened, and she looks at the lines etched in the paper, the shading and artistry. then, she moves to watch his hands. they move with practiced confidence, the sort that come with time. “ you’re talented, kass —” she remarks quietly, leaning forward on her elbows.

“ glad to know there’s more to you than just book-reading party wallflower. ” it’s a tease and her mouth has quirked upwards into a smirk. “ is that wand real, like one you’ve seen ? or is it just from your imagination ? ”

A kindred spirit appears, and all at once he is pulled to a remnant of a memory; an ill-lit corner, generously given illumination by shared wand-light. A pair of books, a quiet murmur of between-lines conversation. Somewhere in the distance, an orchestra plays, but never could he really place the tune. Uneaten plates of small sandwiches sit between them, but they are full to the brim from shared silence, from shared understanding, from shared difference. They fall into this pattern now, too, per solitas. This is what he is most thankful for, when Diana appears -- there is too often such judgement in the act of being alone. But to be alone with a friend -- this is a gift. 

A friend. She is this, without reservation.

At her words, his lips bloom into a humble smile, the tips of his ears going pink as they so often did when his work was complimented. He slides the journal forth; it is not often that he shares his work, his mechanical musings, with anyone, for to look upon his drawings is to look into his soul. Most often, he can be found hunched over the journal, hiding its contents from prying and unworthy eyes. But Diana is an exception. He reaches up to push the damp hair from his brow so as not to drip upon her as she leans forward to look, lips quirking further upward. 

Upon the page is a wand -- runes and musings scribbled in all the margins. He finds himself unable to accept the compliment aloud, but it warms him, and he tucks it away to mull over later, to be warmed by later. “It’s something I’ve been working on all summer --” he begins, making concerted effort to temper the sheer excitement in his voice, flipping through the pages prior to show drafts upon drafts of the very same wand, “-- I’ve been tinkering on a broom-holster for it as well; it’s far too difficult to hold a wand while flying on a broom, but the utility of a sleek, functional wand, paired with something that attaches to a broom handle --” he looks up, pauses, realizing at once that he had begun to ramble, then flushes, “It’s really been quite a lot of work, but it’s coming together. Take a look, if you’d like; it’s not quite there yet, but it’s something.” 

He quite likes sharing with Diana, he realizes; she, if anyone, appreciates it -- and that in itself is a rare something. 

𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘

➤ Charms: 9:00 am -10:00 am ➤ Ancient Runes: 11:00 am - 1:00 pm

𝐓𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐘

➤ History of Magic: 8:00 am - 10:00 am ➤ Care of Magical Creatures: 11:00 am - 1:00 pm ➤ Defense Against the Dark Arts: 1:00 pm - 4:00 pm

𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐘

➤ Charms: 9:00 am -10:00 am ➤ Ancient Runes: 11:00 am - 1:00 pm ➤ Transfiguration: 1:00 pm - 4:00 pm

𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐘

➤ History of Magic: 8:00 am - 10:00 am ➤ Care of Magical Creatures: 11:00 am - 1:00 pm

𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐘

The first morning back, always a good day. Odin was an early riser, he liked to watch the sun come up over the grounds. The Hufflepuff common room had the perfect window to do so, the lake shimmering in early sunlight, the only problem was that it always made him want to go out for a walk. Well, he’d indulge it, after breakfast. His stomach had overruled his head today, demanding food become top of the priority list. He’d wandered down, delighting in the old familiar trick steps to avoided, the staircases trying to lead him down another path. Sometimes, to himself, Odin felt Hogwarts was the recreation of the chaos of his own mind. His pandemonic nature reflected in the magic of the school that was, if not straightforward and practical, at least purposeful.

But at the Great Hall, still yet to be filled up, there was a competing desire to be found. He’d sat down at his house table, still quite empty at this hour. Last night it had been full, dependably the house that made the most noise, chattering away to seat mates, yes, but also across ends of the table. He’d caught up with most of his housemates, but his friends from the other houses? If he went for a walk, he’d miss them all until classes. And it was always difficult to know who would be continuing what come NEWT years. 

Odin was pondering the decision when movement at the Ravenclaw table caught his eye. Kassius, with a serious furrow of brow on his face. Hardly new, Odin wasn’t sure he’d recognise Kassius without it.  The piece of parchment was more interesting, Kassius’ focus indicating he probably didn’t want to be disturbed. Odin stood, carrying his plate (eggs going cold, he really should remember to eat before getting distracted) over to the spot across from his classmate. The hall was empty enough that it didn’t much matter where he sat and Odin rarely paid much attention to that rule anyway. “You know I have to ask what you’re up to, when you look that intense,” he feigned apology, but he was sure Kassius was used to his endless questions after years of Odin asking them. 

He could almost feel the boisterous energy before he saw it, though it was not entirely unwelcome. Although Kassius was, at his heart, a scholar, there was something about the thrill of friendly competition on the Quidditch pitch that he could simply not deny -- and Odin represented just that. Their paths crossed in a number of competitive fashions, from Quidditch to the clubs they both frequented, and yet Kassius, whose competitive nature was all-consuming, could not find it in himself to be anything but glad for Odin’s particular offering of friendship and competitive spirit. And, if anything, Kassius could wholeheartedly appreciate Odin’s capacity for goodness; this alone made him a worthy interruption.

“I always look this intense,” Kassius looked up, still hunched over his journal and dripping from his hair onto the table, but his pinched expression softened, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips, “By that logic, you should follow me everywhere I go.” And what a mess that would be -- but Kassius figured that a little mess was warranted now and then. This idea would not extend to the notebook which now sat uncovered between them. His gaze fell to it; it was this, his work and his studies, both within and without Hogwarts, that made him the way he was, the way he was perceived. No matter how much friendly fun and competition passed between Kassius and Odin, no such joviality could touch this.

But he was not too stingy not to share, he figured. “Sit, if you’d like,” he gestured to the empty seat opposite him, sliding the journal to the center of the table and saying a quick prayer to Merlin that Odin would not drop his breakfast upon the pages. “A wand,” he explained, tapping his finger at the edge of the paper with one hand, and shaking water from his hair with the other, “Of course, what I’m not going to show you --” a smirk, “-- is my book of Quidditch plays. Can’t have you knowing my secrets, can I?”

It had been an easy morning for Freya as she had awoken to the gentle rays of the warm September sun grazing her cheeks and pulling her out of a restful sleep. It wouldn’t be long before long summer days melted into a more chilly autumn, so she was grateful to bask in whatever remained of the pleasant glow, even if only for a few more days. As she made her way from her four-poster bed towards the common room, she paid special attention to avoid the pots of young Bouncing Bulbs that Professor Rakepick had agreed to watch over for Professor Fairbanks, who had gone travelling for the summer. 

There was a part of Freya that missed taking herbology, she always appreciated the diverse array of plants Professor Plank managed to produce every year, however, when taking into account the amount of work her N.E.W.T.-level History of Magic class required alone, certain subjects had to give. Much to her delight,  today would begin with her favorite subject, however, the grumble of her stomach that reminds her that she ought to grab a bite to eat prior to sitting through Binn’s inevitably long lecture.

She traces the easy path to the Great Hall, the steps as familiar as they’ll ever be, and there’s a certain twinge of sadness she feels knowing that this is very much her last year to walk these ancient halls as a student. Her nostalgia is short-lived, however, when she spots Kassius, a swell of glee filling her chest as she finally spots the man she’s only been able to correspond with through letters over the past summer–a man she’s come to care for more deeply and intimately than she could have ever anticipated.

Disregarding all protocol, she heads towards the Ravenclaw table (a move that’s not entirely uncommon for Hufflepuffs who often chose not to constrain their mealtime socialization to just their housemates). Pulling the sleeve of her robe over the palm of her hand, she dabs at the corner of his paper that’s remains relatively damp, “You know towels have been around for nearly 3 centuries, Kass,” she finally says, a warm fondness coating each word, a light giggle falling from her lips, “Regardless, I’ve missed you.”

Kassius valued privacy, for silence gave him ample time and space to work unfettered; he had never been the social sort, much to the chagrin of his family -- who had oft thrust him into pureblood functions in which he had little interest -- and had found more stillness and strength in the company afforded to him by his own ideas. His friends, close confidants all, were hard-picked, chosen carefully; this was not to say that Kassius was an unpleasant man, or a standoffish loner with no mind for socialization. On the contrary, he made it a concerted point to exercise purposeful kindness to all he met -- or all who deserved it. But to be let in, to be taken by the hand and allowed to step past the stone walls of his own creation and to sit in his company; this was a particular and hard-won thing. 

But not for her; he’d take her hand and never let go, if he could.

It was a thin line to walk -- living so fervently within himself, within his introverted solitude, and trying so hard, so desperately, to be good to all. But nothing seemed difficult with her; even the knot of stress that ever lived at the axis of his shoulder blades loosened at the sound of her, for her approach startled him from his work. He straightened as his gaze darted upward, suddenly chagrined that he sat here dripping upon the stone floor; this was the first time he had seen her since their lengthy goodbye on the train platform before the summer, and he now kicked himself for lacking the foresight to appear a bit more presentable. Without thinking, he shot to his feet, face blooming into a grin as he stood across from her. Entirely uncaring of the ridiculous grin upon his face, caring little for the unfettered happiness at her appearance -- a passerby might not think him stoic Kassius Ollivander, but a lovesick fool with water on his shoulders and ink on his fingertips. 

A laugh escaped him; she had the uncanny ability to make him laugh at the slightest prompt. Running his fingers through the wet tangle of his hair, he said, “What? I think it makes me look sporting. Athleticism is in these days.” His eyes darted from her face, to the notebook, to the empty bench across. Were he a different man, he might have vaulted the table, taken her face in his hands, and kissed the teasing from her voice -- but he was, at his core, a nervous young man who had sustained on nothing but letters and imagination for months. 

“I’ve missed you too,” he echoed, smile blooming even further, “Your letters kept me sane. But you --” he cleared his throat, neck flushing, “-- the real thing is much better. Your hair got longer.” Your hair got longer? Kassius wondered what it might be like to slam his head down upon the table; surely it would knock some cool back into him. He cleared his throat again. “Sit, sit,” he insisted, gesturing to the empty bench opposite him, “Have breakfast with me, will you? Been too long since I’ve heard your voice.”

He’d been up with the dawn, out and down to the pitch to greet the sun. There were few places he could truly think clearly -- the sky afforded this. Although there was little time to indulge in a lengthy fly, he had shot skyward, letting out a huffing breath to loose the tension that always lived between his shoulder blades. It escaped into the sky -- and then thudded back down to the earth with him, as it always did. The sun peered, un-judging, over the horizon as he had trudged off to take a cold shower in the locker rooms, for it was still too early for the water to be hot, and gritted his teeth against the heart-stopping cold that assaulted his shoulders, his back, dripped from his hair and chattered at his lips. He took it -- he needed to be awake. A painful shock was often better than coffee.

And he still dripped as he settled at the Ravenclaw table, gripping a mug so hot by comparison that it nearly burned his palms. The silence of early morning was steeling, and though his hair dripped in an unsteady, distracting rhythm upon his shoulders, he found peace in it. Peace that would, undoubtedly, be broken by the sleepy throngs at any moment. And so he took advantage, producing his journal from within the bag slung on the table beside him, and flipping to the latest drawing: a wand, already dappled at the edges with the last time he had dripped post-Quidditch shower water upon its pages. 

And as he began to sketch, tendril of steam rising from the mug in his other hand, the last moment of early morning silence was broken. He shivered once more -- though not at all from the water upon his shoulders -- and pressed on, fingers and shoulders alike already beginning to ache. 

There were decidedly too many people about; Kassius wondered at once if he could simply slip out of a side door, for there was a mug of cider and a heavy stack of books and sketches awaiting him upstairs. But more importantly, silence awaited him in the solitude of Ravenclaw tower -- he could hardly think here, amongst the throngs of people as they undulated in the sea that the Great Hall had become. And think was all he wished to do. Though he’d had no way of knowing, he couldn’t help but feel a moment behind, for the knowledge that Grindlewald had been cowed by none other than their Professor Dumbledore was something he felt should have shaken the axis of the world a bit more than -- well, this. The death of a professor, her immediate replacement, a horror incarcerated; all he wished to do was think. 

Kassius’s fingers itched for the empty journal and fresh quill that lay at the top of his belongings, in the trunk beneath his bed. A list of questions would suffice. Then, perhaps, he could speak to the new professor. Questions -- not for himself but for those who could benefit from his expertise. 

But he would be no use in the way of investigation and thoughtful solitude here, for he found himself sandwiched, shoulder-to-shoulder, and front-to-back. Over the crowd, he craned his neck, peering longingly at the door. The crowd carried him toward; he wished to ghost away. But wishing was useless, it seemed. He was stuck.

“Enough of the fanfare,” he muttered, though he would surely kick himself later for such a display of cynicism, “No one will benefit from this man’s anything if we all trample each other to death in order to reach him.”

𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝟎𝟎𝟏: 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐄