bitter iron and tempered steel

Xiomara leaned closer. “Maybe they’re covering for one of the teachers again. Wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe we’re in actual danger of one of the teachers going bonkers and eating us all. Wouldn’t even be surprised, with all the riff raff they have here, if one was a werewolf.”

"Careful now, Winters.” He has a cheek resting on his fist. “People might mistake you for a bigot if you keep that up.” Pot, kettle. “I don’t imagine that’s the case. It’s always possible, of course, but the scandal that a teacher attacked a student is less than the scandal of the school covering up that teacher.” A pause. “Still, if we had a werewolf staff member, who’d you think it’ll be? I’m gunning for the Matron. She’s an absolute fiend.” 

“So, I’ve heard this isn’t actually a test at all. It’s all an actual lockdown, full scale.”

“Right. And why exactly would the staff not tell us this? Everyone’s panicking regardless.” He says, shuffling peas from side to side on his plate. 

The spectral cacophony of emotional energy that’s flooding into Piper with each passing second is too much for her to keep up with, oscillating indecisions that shock her insides beyond a bearable equilibrium, like an amplified speaker turned to full volume that jumbles her every intuition. She desperately tries to recreate her method of blocking out energy under duress, but she hasn’t any solid base to build upon with the walls crumbling beneath and around her more and more each second and it’s way, way too late for Piper’s ill-conceived meditative tricks to do any good.

But she sees a glint of metal flash in the light and she feels a cool, sharp edge kiss her skin and everything else is drowned out by one shrill, wailing high note of pure terror. She emits an ugly, mouse-like squeak of fear and squeezes her eyes shut, waiting for the worst.

You are the absolute stupidest fucking person who ever lived, and now you’re about to actually die.

The full scope of Piper’s naiveté comes crashing down on her in this moment: she’s never truly been hurt in her entire fucking life. Heartbreak? Loneliness? Those are nothing, nothing compared to real, eminent danger. People just like her have been brutally slaughtered, and Piper has been floating around in a bubble of misguided confidence thinking that a smile and a warm-hearted joie de vivre will protect her, because no one has actually wanted to hurt her before.  

Worse even than the weight of her own stupidity is the betrayal being committed by her own body, the striking dissonance between what her mind screams is wrong and what her sensory Veela flesh, absorbing shockwaves of energy both foreign and feral from the heat of Artur’s body against her chest and between her legs, is masquerading as pleasure. Perhaps she’s just starting to discover the true weakness of her race, as Piper’s own will is drowned out by the persuasive power of these violent delights, and she finds herself unable, unprepared, unwilling to fight back.

But, as it’s been said, these violent delights have violent ends. 

Piper finds herself–in fact–not murdered, and after a string of tepid Fuck you’s are spit in her face and the weight that presses her against the wall is lifted even fractionally, the feeling of relief (and despair? Humiliation? Whose are those?) is so immediate and intense that her knees give out and Piper crumbles about halfway to the ground, only to stumble and inch with jelly-filled legs as far as possible (which actually turns out to be just a few feet) from her would-be killer. 

“W-was it you?” she croaks in a harsh, raw voice. “The…the woman…on Halloween…did you fucking do that to her?” Piper’s eyes brim with tears of confusion, and anger, and lingering fear–a remarkably delayed natural reaction. Then, her voice cracking with indignation, she says, “Who told you about me?”

Piper reaches up to wipe at sweat dripping down her throat, and when she pulls her hand back she notices her fingers are coated with something dark red and sticky and warm. The sight of it makes her stomach flip over on itself and her head spin dizzily, and everything goes dark before she hits the ground.

Artur is shaking like a leaf, and it's rather pathetic, really. He really, in his entirety, is rather pathetic. He’s the Scourge of Hogwarts, capitalized letters and all. He slings verbal abuse willy-nilly, he insults and he attacks and he aggravates, and, well, overall? He’s just an awful guy. An awful guy with a reputation. There are certain things you can expect, from Artur Kalinkalovsky. A witty comment getting to the heart of an issue? Yes. A childish little insult more meant to stroke his own ego than to hurt? Yes. Blurt and shake and twitch like some wretch that’s been robbed of all mental faculty? No.  You’re rather pathetic right now, you know? He knows. You’re pitiful and wretched and like a little squabbling wench now, you know? He knows. You’re being a girl, getting worked up over nothing. You’re pitiful and wretched and pathetic and you will pay for letting the world see what kind of melted, awful, miserable little creature you really are.  He knows. He knows he knows he knows and he knows, oh, he knows. Artur is shaking, from his short, thin fingers, up to his arms, up to his lip, his lip, with teeth pressed hard enough to make him ache, ache, ache, but not bleed, not bleed. His chest is hitching with his hard breaths, breast aching from his unrelenting heart, and, and, and wants to do nothing more than to run away and have the earth swallow him and curl and curl and curl up until his most un-Artur features go away, and he is left as a cruel, snappish, sadistic little thing that he can be proud of.  You’ve thought this before. Why are you so obsessed with your weakness? Swallow it down. Swallow it down and bear your teeth and call it a grin and be done with it. 

But he can’t. Artur can’t. Today was meant to be an ordinary day. Sulk in the corner, for a little bit, as he wavers between satisfied and full and melancholy and hollow and then finish up with a snack and a pat to Teo and an attempt to be productive before a few quiet hours of sleep snatches him away, and that’s it, and that’s it.  But then he heard the click of steps. Then he saw bright hair and a gentle smile and a gentler voice and heard it and felt it yank all of him out, yank him out, like a hand placed into the guts of a fish, yanked out in one clean swipe and left to bellow and heave in the sunlight it was never meant to glimpse.  Artur was meant to grin and give a quiet insult and eventually walk away, fade away, and this day was meant to be the same as all the rest and, and, and, and why? Why did her words, why did her face, why did her eyes, all earnest and sweet and baby blue and everything else about her, make him rear up, summoning the most primal parts of himself, as if he’d caught sight of everything and everyone that ever—(Hurt him) Made him weak.  Artur doesn’t know. Artur doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where to begin to know. There’s no possible way to know. And, and, and, and he can’t do it. He can’t hurt her. He can’t do anything, and his breath is quick and his hands shake and Piper Oliver opens up her pretty little mouth and she goes, ‘Was it you?’ And there is a long, stunned moment, where all Artur can do is stare at her, eyebrows knitted together, blinking quickly, but in a way that’s safe, that can be defined, that’s confused. “Wha—” He begins, and then he swallows, and he draws back by a step, unconsciously, and he goes on to say, elegantly, “What?” With his voice high with genuine bewilderment.  Where is this coming from? Oh, god, Artur hasn’t even thought about the Halloween murder, for ages upon ages. And what does she mean, ‘Who told you about me?’ What does that mean— And then, like a flood, realization comes flooding in. All the little suspicious moments that he’d ever had with her, little puzzle pieces which have been floating in his cerebrospinal fluid, without a home or without order, all come fitting together. Her reaction to the Halloween murders. Her interesting relationship with Tami Naruse. How she knew about Ares Kane. Why Loxley is so protective and infatuated with her—”You’re a veela?” He blurts, just about having had enough, voice high and cracking and just on the verge of being shrill. “Oh my god.” He says, because there’s nothing much he can say, now. And, and, and, and, and here, here, here, he considers the things he’s learned about Veelas. Avian seductresses of the continent theorized to be the sirens that Odessyus encounters in his travels. Veela blood has been in just about every muse of the aeons, from Salai to Anne Hathaway and to Dora Maar. Feared, horrible creatures who could, by some legends, spin the hearts and minds and emotions of men. And who, as a fact, could use their allure for a great many things, even the most covert type of manipulation. “Did you—Did you—” Artur can’t end the sentence. Did you manipulate Loxley Blair? Did you manipulate me? Artur can’t say it, he can’t, because before he even could say, even as his heart is pounding and his rage is screaming under his breast, he can’t believe it. Can’t believe Piper Oliver would, willingly, at least, do such a thing. She simply doesn’t have the ability, plain and simple. But that doesn’t rule out unconscious allure.  And then, before Artur can make sense of all of this, before his brain can catch up with his emotions, with the situation, the girl looks down at her hands, and, for a lack of a better word, swoons. Artur automatically lurches forward, dropping the knife, managing to grab her by the shoulder but only managing to cushion her fall just the touch as he falls with her. “What—” (Artur has been saying a lot of that, recently.) He looks over her, and notices the blood at her neck—That’s. That’s all? There’s only a drop, and the wound’s beginning to coagulate already. What made her— Maybe you shouldn’t have subjected an empath to your motley crew of teenage angst and hysteria, Artur. And Artur burns with shame and fear and guilt as he shakes her shoulders, “Wake up.” He hisses, becoming suddenly aware that they’re in a not-so-secluded part of the castle, really.  But she doesn’t wake up, instead continuing to peacefully doze, as if she didn’t just—Just—Just send Artur on one of the worst emotional rollarcoasters of his life— You did it yourself, you know? You did. You did. You got into a frenzied fuss and a mess and you threw a hissy fit and showed your weakness for her, for the whole world to see. They know. They know and it’s all your fault. Comes the venomous thought, tangled around his heart, around his ribcage, making his breath tight and heart ache, and, pressing against his shoulders and his arms, making them press against his body, arms raising to hold loosely at himself, as he scoots a bit away from Piper’s prone body.  You did this. You did this. You weren’t strong enough. You were weak and mewling and pathetic, and now, look. She knows. She knows and you know and you don’t even have the guts to silence her.  Artur presses his palms against his face, lips shaking, and presses up into a tight ball and shakes and shakes until he feels a little bit more like a human being.  He does not succeed, not really.  In time, Artur’s hands drag over his face. He’s still in, what he would describe if he was a third party, a bit of a panic—But at least he doesn’t want to lob himself out of the nearest window. At least, not as much as before.  Still. Things don’t look good. Piper’s on the ground, bleeding slightly from her neck, and his knife is lying splayed just a few meters away. His papers and his books have been, somewhere in the entire exchange, reduced to being thrown all over the floor, assignments resting out of order on the cold stone floor.  Artur’s still shaking from head to toe.  (”Hey hey hey.” Something quiet and sneering and awful goes in his head. “Do you remember, do you remember, remember remember—The last time? The last time? The last time you saw a woman lying prone and near-dead and horrid on the cold ground? Do you? Do you? You should. She was your mother.” There’s a pause. “You’re an awful son, you know? An awful person, too.”) (”Why don’t you just die?”) Artur gets to his feet, knees wobbly for a few precarious moments, wiping his face with his sleeve. It’s snot. It’s only snot. It’s cold, alright? And, and, and, anyways, no one will see. Artur presses his palms hard into his eyes for a beat, for two, until his eyes squeak and ache at the pressure, and his arms drop.  Artur’s breath is slowly, slowly, beginning to even out. And his logic is slowly crawling back into his body. Okay. Okay. Get over yourself, you fucking pussy. Nothing happened. Just a bit of yelling and a little bit of blood. Get over yourself, you’re overreacting. Get yourself together, man. Stop being such a damn wretched horrible little thing.  Artur’s nails are pressing hard enough into the meat of his palm that he can feel the little purple crescents forming in his skin.  Right. Artur supposes he ought to fix this little mess he’s started. Artur gets to his knees in front of Piper, and thinks, for a moment, before he slides his arms under her armpits, and tries to get to his feet. Instead, he ends up smashing against the ground onto his knees with a hiss, and with Piper still prone and still on the floor. Artur bites his lip, slides his tongue over the nick on the inside of his cheek until his mouth is flooded with the sweet, whole, safe burn of pain, and tries again.  And that’s when he hears the light clicks of shoes on the ground.

Honestly, the only reason he refused to sit anywhere but his own bed, was because he distrusted Artur. It wouldn’t be a stretch to believe that Artur somehow jinx every piece of furniture if only to watch Bellamy curse and shout.

One, two, three …

Bellamy didn’t even bother pushing Artur’s feet away. He wouldn’t be laying there long. “It doesn’t take a genius to understand who could have told Grant we kissed. You’re the only other person who knows about it.” He rolled his eyes. Artur was so damn dramatic.

Four, five, six …

“Hmm, I’m surprised you didn’t use your usual insult.” Although, throwing someone across a room wasn’t exactly a reason to call him a monster or a beast. Bellamy had no love lost for any of Artur’s pets but least of all Teo. Pleasant was a stretch, that was for sure. And then he gagged. “You’re disgusting.”

Seven, eight, nine … ten.

Bellamy flicks his wand over Artur and Teo once again, nonverbally yanking Artur into the air by his ankle, then waved his wand towards the far wall to make him go flying across the room and hit the wall with a thump. With his bed now cleared, he stands up and settles against the headboard.

Artur makes sure to keep is fingers clamped tight around Teo. Bellamy rarely doesn’t deliver on threats. That’s, at least, a dependable thing about him. “Ah, true.” Artur muses. “So, no rage? Disappointing. I suppose you’re simply too depressed. It’s alright, Bellamy.” Artur’s feet pat Bellamy’s back in mock-pity, in lieu of his hand. “It was never going to work out. Grant was always too good for you.” Artur says, casually, although he aimed it so it would hurt.  “Well, you know. Don’t want to bore you with the insults. Currently thinking of a few new ones. What do you feel about ‘overgrown rat’? Too gauche? I thought so, too.” Artur then gives a tragic little sigh.  Artur then sees Bellamy’s tendons flex, and all Artur could do to react to the spell was to hold Teo tight, as he was flown up into the air by his ankle. Artur blinked with disorientation, for a few moments, as all of his blood rushed to his head—And then he was promptly thrown against the wall hard enough to push all of the air out of his chest, and to make Artur’s vision go all crooked and wonky for a few moments. And, after a second, he felt himself slide down, from a precarious position on his upper back, into flopping down onto his side, with a gentle omph sound.

        He hadn’t wanted to piss off anyone or get in a bad mood this soon after break, but he had to admit that he was literally being tested. Anger had always been an emotion that Salva wore on his sleeve. That and fear, but he’d been doing a good job at hiding both of those away and being more of a happy boy. Or maybe that had just been because he’d been around his mother. Maybe he was just normal around her and Caleb. But here… he was in a mood already despite wanting to be in a good mood.

        He glared at the younger boy. In a way, Salva had always been slightly jealous or Artur. Only because his father had always disliked the boy’s house placement of Huflepuff. Would he have been such a giant disappointment if he’d been in a different house. Anything but Hufflepuff? No – probably not. Most likely not, considering that he was still well not a pureblood or good at magic or anything useful for that matter. “Right, I forgot. It’s not normal to care about what sorts of foods you eat. Remind me why I don’t eat sweets in ten years when I’m still thin and you’re the size of a whale,” he spat at the other boy. “Oh, fuck off. One doesn’t get to be like you are without being fucked up in some way or another.”

        “Too late,” he muttered, having been mad for the last minute of this conversation. “I’ll save part of my rage for the Quidditch pitch, but I might go punch a wall.” It was better than actually punching someone. He tried not to resort to violence if he could help it. Not always the easiest thing to do, but he was getting better at it. “Oh, please. My people are Italian.” True. Since his father had basically cut him off and out of his life. Why should he even pretend to be anything his father wanted him to be? “Go gossip about how my father told me to get out of his house because I told him what a terrible father he was. I officially don’t exist in the eyes of the Vasiliev household anymore. Guess my grandmother got what she wanted, but I’m not dead, so maybe not.”

        Salva often wondered what people thought of him, but then knew that it probably wasn’t good. He’d always been more uptight than most people, but that was because he let people get too close and they betrayed him. He didn’t think of himself more proper than the next person and he sure as hell had more anger than most people his age. 

Oh, the prickliness. It’s glorious. Salva is a little hedgehog, trying to growl and puff up at the world to make it go away, and, in the end, he’s too damn cute to do anything about it all. “Ah, ah, ah. Don’t forget about the inevitable nuclear winter that’ll unfold within the decade. My four hundred pounds of lard will insulate me while the wolves don’t even bother with your meatless bones, Vasiliev.”  Artur waggles a finger, as if he’s seriously giving a soothsayer's piece, even as his smile is wobbly with humour.  Honestly, though, Artur’s in too good of a mood to want to seriously hurt Salva. At most, currently, all he can muster is a bit of teasing, and that’s all. But, oh god, the more that Salva goes on, the tougher it is to keep that little snarling creature under his breast from having an interest in the events unfurling. Still, the most that Artur can muster, for a beat, for two, after Salva’s sudden gushing rant, was having his brows be raised high enough to skim his hairline. Oh, where to possibly begin?  “Italian, are you? Why, forgive me, I must have assumed otherwise, given the fact your last name is amongst the top five Russian names on the planet. My mistake, then.” Artur leaned back, towards the wall. Salva was dangling the choicest, tastiest bait in front of him, and Artur’s not even wholly sure that the imbecile knows. Does he even know what he said? God. Artur leans back, and his breath starts evening out, and he feels something cold and satisfied and purring coil around him. 

“I’m not sure you ought to use me as your basin to dump all of your complicated teenage angst in, Vasiliev.” Artur uses Salva’s last name purposefully, here, to remind the boy of his name. Of his people. “I’m not exactly the most empathetic, or considerate person around. So what, that daddy dearest dumped you onto the streets? From the sounds of it, you’ve been rearing for that for years. So what’s the fuss? Maybe he finally saw your true worth. And my, your grandmother, too? What could you have possibly done to earn the ire of your darling babushka?” Artur here, not so subtly, probing for more information. After all, a chance like this comes up so rarely in a lifetime.  “Truly, Vasiliev. You must be a pathetic creature indeed, if you feel like you have to turn to me.” Artur, with a flick of his wand, sends his sprawled candy, quite literally hopping into his bag, with the feet equivalent of the candy bars being their little corners. It’s a nifty little spell, he learned, a while back. Artur does not predict that the candy’s safety and wholeness if this conversation continues, hence, the safety measure. 

Artur wanted to simply be, a few moment ago. But now, his hunger is starting to rouse. Let me see your anger, Salva Vasiliev, he thinks, leaned back, legs crossed, hands neatly folded on his lap, chin tilted up. 

There’s a knot in his stomach that twists grotesquely. A slight twitch of his brow as he clears his throat. Ryder had been comfortable in his spot on this bench before Artur seemed fixated on ruining it. The other boy’s voice reminded him of rotted melon. The feigned sweet tone a vicious lie crawling with nefarious intent. Ryder grits his teeth as he shoves Artur’s legs off of him again. He is determined to not be the one to leave this bench. More determined than he probably should be. He folds his arms across his midsection and glares as Artur starts to speak again.

“I do have friends. You’re just not one of them.” He states trying to mind his temper, but the words themselves drip with aggression. His next set of words actually make Ryder turn his head and retch into the air.  His hand moves to his side as his body relaxes, and his fingers curl around the tip of his wand. It would be easy to blow Artur away. The thought lingers there as he tries desperately to get rid of the image of his terrorist self fucking himself. “You’re repulsive. I’d rather think of..” No. He shouldn’t egg this jerk off on. “Anything else. Besides you and whatever relations you have with your toad. I don’t care about your Freudian fantasies with your toad.  You disgusting bloke.”

Ryder could just cast Silencio on Artur and walk away.   But would he be any better than Artur himself if he reacted? A deep breath is taken and unleashed via an agitated huff. His hands moving to rub his face, but his lips remained curled at the corner in a disgusted sneer. The grip on his wand tightening to the point his knuckles blanched in contrast against the wood.

This is a petty blow, but Artur just can’t help but take it. “You have friends? How remarkable.” Artur says, bewildered, amazed, and shocked, all into a too-dramatic package, as if the idea that Ryder has friends has rocked Artur to his very core. And then, his lips quirk at his own joke, and he rubs the smile away with a thumb. And, yet again, Artur’s feet are pushed off. Fine. All Artur wishes is to be.. closer to his year mate. Mm, yes. Totally doesn’t want to jeer Ryder into having a new permanent facial complexion. Still, Artur gets the hint, at least, for this short while, as he leans back against the wall, easy and sprawled with his feet now firmly on the ground. 

And then, and then, and here Artur has to reevaluate Ryder here, for a small moment—Oh, the dramatics, was Ryder always capable of these?—Ryder retches into the air, and the sound and the movement and the audible visceral disgust in every fibre of Ryder’s being forces a bubble of laughter out of Artur. It’s not quite his usual, sadistic one, but it’s surprised and it’s something not that far off from genuine. But it’s gone as soon as it appears.  “Ah, ah, ah. You’re jumping the gun. Nowhere did I imply that I have relations with my toad. And, anyways, how do you possibly imagine that going down? Is that a common thought that you have? Dear lord, Ryder, you're an absolute sexual maniac. God, I dread to think what else might be in that horrible head of yours, if such things are so tame that you feel free to blurt them out whilst in the presence of the person you, perhaps, have you least fondness for in the entire world.” 

Piper emits an involuntary huff of air as her back collides with the stone wall, a quiet little gasp between o-shaped lips signaling at once surprise and fear and having the wind forcefully knocked out of her. For a supposedly perceptive person, she really should have anticipated this reaction–but stupid little Piper and her infallible blindness to anything bad in others has her blindsided. 

She tries for a rebuttal: “I’m not in a–” she barely manages to whisper out on a flutter of reclaimed breath, but as soon as Artur is pressed up against her it’s as if the emotional floodgates have burst open and Piper, buoyed on some pathetic, flimsy liferaft, is powerless to stop it. 

His emotions come pouring into her at every point of contact–searing, white-hot anger that clogs the air around her, choking out the oxygen, screaming painfully through her veins. Piper has never felt anything so intense–like a drug overdose shooting pure, molten energy into every cell in Piper’s body. She can’t even take in what Artur is saying with the blood roaring in her ears, the bile roiling violently in her belly, making her feel like she might get sick, or pass out. 

But she has to fight through this, she tells herself. She has to, she couldn’t live with herself if she just gives up…

Piper catches her name, uttered with such unmasked loathing and disdain from his mouth, and she feels a flicker of something. She focuses on it, fighting through the heat that radiates over everything inside her like lava, diving through layers and layers of Artur’s energy until she finds the tiny seed of emotion that Piper knows belongs to her–the sting of hurt, of rejection. 

It’s enough to make her just focused enough to be functional. One hand reaches up to grab the arm that pins her to the wall, nails digging into the exposed skin there, while the other reaches down to pinch her own skin on the side of her leg, hard–some tangible, external pain that Piper centers herself on until she breaches the surface of here and now; she gasps in a breath.

And then she’s staring right into Artur’s eyes and they’re changing right in front of her, growing wide and panicky and she can feel him closing off, and though every nerve-ending in her body is screaming for relief Piper knows that if she doesn’t keep him here, now, she’s going to lose him–

So Piper does the only thing she can do: she grits her teeth, digs her fingers into his arm harder, and spits out in a quiet, challenging tone, “Do it, then.”

Maybe, deep down, she wants to be hurt. Maybe she never knew before now that anger and violence are the most real things she’s ever felt–much more believable than silly, made-up things like love.

          “Yeah, and I’d say no, so you’d either dishonor the challenge and throw a spell at me and look like an asshole or you’d just stand there like an idiot. Either way, you come out looking like the bad guy. I don’t resort to violence… except on the Quidditch Pitch and even then usually that’s by accident.” He rolled his eyes as the thought of dueling another student. Especially a Slytherin that probably wouldn’t play fairly. 

          Artur looked like Salva had said something stupid, but he’d never liked sweets. Even as a young boy, he didn’t like them. He would rather eat something salty than sweet. “Uh, no one. I’m allowed to have an unpopular opinion on sweets?  I’m not a child anymore. My tastes have grown. Not that I ever had a taste for them.” The Hufflepuff shrugged shook his head. “And what I’m not human because I don’t like sweets? Not everyone likes them. I’m not weird. I’m sure there’s plenty of other people that don’t like them.” 

          Salva crossed his arms over his chest. “Well I was in a good mood. Now I’m not.” He wanted to be in a good mood though. But it seemed the world just wanted him in a horrible mood for the time being. “You’ve seen me in awful moods. I have been in terrible mood all year.”

Artur rolls his eyes. Truly, must everyone always consider him to be an inconsiderate villain? He means—He is, but that’s not the point. Sometimes, Artur regrets being such an asshole. Only because it means he has fewer opportunities to be an asshole. Ah, the tragedy of the hated.  But still. Salva didn’t like sweets. Jesus Christ. First Tyler, now Salva? What was going on? Artur knows that the both of them have home issues—Does parental abuse equal to a hatred of all things good in one’s life? Artur wouldn’t say that his childhood was all that good—Although it certainly could have been worse—At least he still has a capability to enjoy one of mankind’s greatest inventions. “Other people doing the same thing as you does not make that thing normal, Salva.” Artur says, in his best mock-gentle voice, as if he’s trying to calm a child on the urge of a mental breakdown. “It just means that people are more messed up then they seem.” And then, Artur shakes his head, as if resigned to a world where people like Salva were not seen as peculiar or odd or perverse. Artur blinks, pulling up a leg onto the windowsill.  “Why, don’t get pissed off on my account. Save your rage later, for something proper. Like someone not yielding to your fearsome eyebrow stare.” Artur pauses. “Yes, that one. You look like the very image of a pissed off Slav.” Artur wipes an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. “Ah, you do our people proud. Now all you need is to squat and hold a bottle of piss-quality beer, and you’d be ready to sing the National Anthem in the parliament itself.” Artur never was quite able to mentally accept the fact that Salva’s also Russian. He’s just. So prim, so precious, so sophisticated. The Russians Artur knew would not object to hunting a bear with shotguns and a sixpack of beer. Although, the mental image of Salva wearing a camo vest and knee-high boots is certainly enough to make Artur crack up, for a moment.

Ryder’s mind had momentarily been lost in thought of all the recent events. Fingers idly comb through his black locks as his eyes concentrate through reality. He didn’t think much of it at first when someone sat beside him. It didn’t disturb his thoughts until he heard the other’s voice. Artur had this way of making Ryder more aggressive than even he thought he had it in him to be. The feet crossed at the ankle in his lap warrants a twitch of his brow. He’s already one thousand percent done with this situation. This day had been hot straight into the ninth level of Hell.

His hands move up from his sides to shove Artur’s feet off his lap forcefully. The orbs once full of tranquility spin towards his nemesis. Glaring fictional daggers in his direction. “Fine. Get the bloody hell away from me.” Ryder hissed through gritted teeth. His cheeks started to color due to the underline baggage of hatred he had for this other boy. He should be the bigger of the two and just simply walk away. But there’s something that stops him from doing that, yet. “Go fuck yourself and give your toad a break.” Rydner snaps vindictively.

Ah, count on Ryder Klausen to be needlessly aggressive when you want him to be. Ryder ‘I’m only angry because I hate you’ Klausen is a fascinating specimen, all wrapped in layers of insecurities, denial, and sharp prickliness that might even make Artur pause and stare with something like admiration in his gaze.  Artur always wondered how hard he’d have to push, to make this moderately liked person, but with anger coiled low in his gut, into someone who could be on par with Artur. Would he have to push and push and push and crack every single bit of decency and morality that the boy has in half, to make him sharp and forever-angry and sadistic? Or would, or would, or would a breath be all that it takes? Artur has sometimes mused on this question, but, sadly, hasn’t really had a chance to explore the possibilities as much as he’d like. 

Bellamy sighed loudly, trying to drown out the sound of his dorm-mate’s incessant chatter. He walked further into the room and closed his trunk to sit at the end of the bed, since Artur and his pet mud-slug were taking up the majority of his own bed. “This doesn’t sound like a topic involving me and you, Artur, so why don’t you drop it.” Not that he actually wanted to discuss anything to do with him and the twerp, but it was better than discussing anything that remind him of Grant. And Grant didn’t want him anymore.

“Dammit, Artur, your slug is getting slime all over my sheets! Get off my bed.” Bellamy waved his wand sharply and cleaned the slime off his bed, making Teo squawk indignantly as the magic swept over both him and Artur.  “If you aren’t up in ten seconds I’ll throw you across the room.”

Since Bellamy was stubborn enough to not sit anywhere else but his own bed, Artur took advantage of his golden opportunity and pressed the soles of his feet against Bellamy’s back. It was sheer pettiness, but that did not mean it did not provide a measure of satisfaction. “Oh, you’re mistaken, actually. Don’t you wonder from whom dear Grant learned who your first kiss was? Certainly not the walls, they tell no tales, while I’ve got a soft spot for ‘em.” Artur’s smile was downright predatory. 

romantic orientation: homoflexible

sexual orientation: pansexual

first kiss: ludmila michavelna. she was an odd, curious girl in their kindergarten, and saw adults regularly kissing, and wanted to try it out. but the only boy who didn’t gag at the mere thought of it was artur, chiefly because he didn’t really care. they smooched messily, he furrowed his brow, and she clucked in disappointment. and they both furiously wiped their lips, and it was never spoken about again.

first date: none. 

first relationship: none.

current relationship status: single and not ready to mingle.

CHOICES/PREFERENCES (bold which apply)

group dates or single dates

flowers or chocolates

restaurant or home cooking

handmade gifts or bought presents

full day or evening

casual setting or formal setting

monogamous or polyamorous

love at first sight, lust at first sight, neither

celebrate Valentine’s, celebrate anniversaries, celebrate both

kissing on a first date? yes, no, maybe

sex on a first date? yes, no, maybe

cuddles? yes, no, maybe

pet names? yes, no, maybe

QUESTIONS

What/Who are your romantic influences? The answer for who’s the main influence for his romantic and sexual behaviour is too dark for a nice and lighthearted Valentine’s day prompt, and applies to a lot of his behaviour outside such things. However, since he’s also a fan of literature, he’s also familiar with all of the cliches there are, and if a miracle comes and he goes on an honest, non-violent date with someone? Would pull on those as much as he can because he simply has no other idea. Flowers, chocolates, candles, social-awkwardness and all. The only other frame of reference is his older brother so. A genuine date might also end up with the partner being pushed into a river because. Didn’t it work for his bro?? Wait what do you mean you never want to talk to him again.

What would your dream date be? Artur is a nasty boy, and romance and personal relationships with other people is a very complicated topic for him, for there is a narrative, and something approaching a truth. The narrative is this: The dream date he typically would be able to imagine and likely would happen, is simply not one at all. Simply getting down the business of two bodies rubbing together, complete with bruises and blood and dominance, and which is something he’s alright about thinking of. He doesn’t allow himself to think about the tender parts of love and sex, because those don’t exist, and don’t exist for him (two ideas which clash but Artur will insist make sense). Sex and personal relationships are all about violence and dominance, a fight that will end with a winner, and a loser, with the winner getting all the spoils. He typically imagines himself as the winner, but if he was a loser then he would... Accept it. As that’s the way of things. The strong dominate and live and prosper, and the weak must take what’s coming to them.  And then there’s a truth, or something approaching it. There’s a part of him that likes to think about how things would be in a perfect world. Where he doesn’t have to worry about such things, where he doesn’t have to be prickly and angry and defensive, and can... Merely be. Those thoughts are fleeting, but conjure up images of the most cliche date imaginable, with some faceless stranger. A Hogsmeade date, holding hands, flowers and feeding each other chocolate with messy fingers, and simply being able to feel.. comfortable in another person’s presence. It’s not really the date itself that matters, in these dangerous late-night fantasies. But simply the ability to be someone like this, the idea that he can be someone who can be loved.

Do you believe in soulmates? Nope. 

Have you ever been in love? Yes. Most of those where quick, fleeting feelings. And the one time he really loved someone, was ready to give all of himself to another person... He ended up feeling betrayed and unwanted and unneeded and like the filthy and dark thing which he had always known he was.

Question One: Does your character believe in equality for all magical beings? That’s a difficult question. Artur is misanthropic, and so it’s natural that he habours a dislike for magical beings. It’s more like he has an equal dislike for all things sentient. However, he does have a tendency to stereotype members of a group according to their common traits, such as assuming werewolves are always on the verge of being murderous, or veelas always looking for a fuck. It’s not anything against the people, but it’s something that he simply thinks is in their nature, like it’s in people’s nature to be cruel and be sadistic at any opportune moment. However, if he could, he would not allow certain magical beings certain rights, such as having all Werewolves be on Wolfsbane, on a register, and not be allowed in certain jobs, like caring for children.

Question Two: Does your character have any reservations about a particular magical being (be it werewolves, vampires, veela)? Why? As outlined before, it’s not a reservation based on a particular magical group, but on everyone. However, his thoughts on people and magical beings are all the result of his bad experiences with people, which, because he sees most magical beings as people, has been applied to them, even if no particular member of a group has harmed him. It makes sense to him that creatures with more basic power in them than humans be to some level monitored and controlled, for the safety of society at large. There’s just this mix of logical thinking and deeply ingrained ideas of the world which makes him view magical beings this way. 

Question Two B (optional) : If the answer above was yes, what do they think of the other being/s? There is a limit to how much I can reword the same information my dude. 

Question Three: Does anyone in your character’s family have strong opinions about magical beings? None of them really know that they exist, so there are no thoughts on them. However, if they did, his parents would likely be staunchly against anything remotely like granting them any rights or any sliver of personhood. Andrei will likely be in a similar way, but would be more willing to associate with them and possibly change his mind. Sveta simply doesn’t give any shits. And Anya and Maxim just would love to pet a werewolf, tbh. 

Question Four: Is there anyone in your character’s family/any close associates who work within the Ministry? If so, what department do they work in? Sveta knows someone who knows someone who works in the Russian Ministry. And that someone likely knows someone who works in the British Ministry. 

Question Five: In a situation where your character was faced with a magical being, out of control, would they know how to defend themselves magically? If not, would they attempt to defend themselves or flee the situation? Artur would theoretically know how to defend himself, possibly not of the specific characteristics and powers of the loose species, but in a general way that could bide time if nothing else. Likely something with runes or the element and traits of certain materials. However, Artur isn’t willing to put himself in that kind of trouble, and only cares about one person enough to step in if they were in the same room, and so, would likely just nope out of there.

Question Six: Does your character have any professors/members of staff they particularly trust? Why? Professor McGonagall. She’s the woman who allowed him to attend Hogwarts, the woman who cared enough to have him work through a series of foster parents, who’s taught him to be an Animagus, and privately tutored him on some aspects of Transfiguration, among other things. It’s beyond the relationship of a mentor/student, but Artur does not want to call it or accept anything more. 

Tyler’s wasn’t easily impressed with people, most of the time at least, he’d spent most of his life trying to impress other people so his expectations were high. He thought that was perhaps why people didn’t like him so much but, if he were being honest, he thought following the important rules and carrying one’s self with some sort of dignity was the least a person could do- especially because every rule people broke meant someone else had to clear it up, which was selfish if you asked him.

But he supposed he was mildly impressed that Artur was seemingly keeping out of trouble, for now, he had no doubt that would change and every time some rumour floated around about the younger boy he lost more of his patience. It did surprise him that all it took were some sweets to put Artur in such a pleasant mood, if he knew the boy could be distracted so easily he might’ve just sent him sweets every week to keep him in check.

Oh, he was allowed some? Tyler hesitated for a heartbeat, both because he didn’t really indulge in sweet things and because Artur seemed to be offering under the assumption his blood status was something it wasn’t, but either way this sort of act on Artur’s part seemed rare so he took the cup between two fingers when it was offered. Before he tried the offered liquid he observed it, not even sparing Artur a glance but biting back another laugh at his question, his tone made it rather obvious he was offended. “A little. You’re so excited by sweet things, it’s cute,” He admitted with a shrug of a shoulder before biting the bullet and downing the liquid. It was sweet, unsurprisingly. Jeremy would probably like it, Loxley too, but for Tyler the taste held memories of extravagant desserts and awkward conversations at dinner tables where he wasn’t welcome. It was hard to swallow, he found, much like the memories it stirred, and when he passed the cup back he was frowning.

“I don’t like sweet things much,” He gave as a halfhearted explanation. He had once, a long time ago, he vaguely remembered his delight the first time his grandmother had actually requested his presence for afternoon tea and the delicious range of treats she’d laid out. He remembered being scolded too; for not eating properly, for not liking the right ones, for failing to sit up straight, to hold his cup correctly etc. etc. Like many things in his life, Tyler learnt rather quickly that if he didn’t like something enough or appreciate it to the correct standard that was because he didn’t deserve it. After a moment he put on a practised smile, managing to hold back any sigh of discomfort when he added, “Perhaps there are some things only pure bloods can appreciate.”

It wasn’t just the sweets, of course, which had gotten Artur into such a.. tolerable mood. But the sweets were a big part. Who didn’t like sweets? Soulless people, that’s who. But it was also being able to find the prize. One Honeydukes voucher, for all of Hogwarts’ thousand something students. And Artur had the wits to find it. It was a moment of legitimate, incorruptible pride, and not even the kind that he might lord over other people—But simply a pride in himself. It’s getting access to loads and loads of sweets without having to spend a half hour bending over a piece of paper with his yearly budget scribbled on it. It was an honest to god moment where he could simply indulge—Not deny himself because he wants new rune equipment, or an exotic book, or food for Teo—Just. Just some sweets.

Clearly, Artur himself is more than a little confused about his good mood. And knows it will not last too long. Which isn’t that bad for him, but is an outright tragedy for the school.  But, fortunately, even the prospect of being laughed at by Tyler Magnus Envest, Headboy of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is not enough to break through his good mood. But it is enough to dust his face with just the barest hints of heat, and make him make this displeased little expression. Not pouty, no, lord forbid that—But. Well. Close. “Well, so what?” He defends. “I’ve got the right to. It’s in the United Nations’ Universal Declaration of Human Rights, under clause 38. ‘Artur has a damn right to enjoy sweets if he wants.’” A nail loosely scratched his arm until little white raised lines appeared, and he blinked at Tyler’s expression, head tilting inquisitively. And then Tyler answers the question before it’s even posed. “Ah.” He says. “Suppose I can understand. I’ve even got a limit—And it’s not all that high.” Which is true. Another reason why this stash will likely live long: Artur can get sick quick from sweet things. Or too much of anything, really. At most, he can perhaps take down a bar and a half of chocolate a day.  And then Artur blinked once, twice, thrice—Expression freezing over. Was. Was Tyler implying what Artur thought he was implying?  Artur thinks about the facts that he knows about Tyler, about the Envests. Envests: Rich, pureblood family, just shy of being Sacred 28. And proud of it. Tyler Envest: The very definition of prim, regal pureblood perfection. Someone who would go into politics, sweep people away with his charisma at first, before being swallowed by the bureaucracy of the Ministry, just like every other bright pureblood Headboy before him. 

But precious Tyler Envest... Not being a pureblood? That’s.. “Aren’t you...?” Artur can’t find the ability to finish his sentence, confusion written all over his face.