#conjurestarter

The buckle on your bag is undone. 

Bright lights, the music gets faster Look, boy, don't check on your watch, not another glance I'm not leaving now, honey, not a chance Hot-shot, give me no problems Much later, baby, you'll be saying nevermind You know life is cruel, life is never kind

I got this new hat. I kind of like it.

Despite the seemingly endless list of chores Toby had to complete -- as punishment for his crimes -- the day had passed in relative peace. The Gryffindor was getting stronger, and so the trophies had not required a substantial amount of elbow grease, nor had the entire Third Floor been too strenuous to mop. In fact, he hadn't even caused an incident in potions, despite being in the same room as Holland, so Tobias' day was passing in relative harmony, until of course, fate decided it was time to bite him on the butt. The end of his quiet day came in the form of a 6'2" half-giant, whose face appeared to be carved by angels and whose dishevelled curls wouldn't look out of place in Vogue. The illustrious Emerson Rosier -- former friend, now God-knows-what. And just like that, Toby's bubble was popped. For a moment, the Gryffindor just stood, staring. But he had to move, if not, he would do something awful, like hit him, or cry to him, and right now he didn't know what was worse. Brushing past with his mop and bucket Toby continued down the hall at a fast pace, resisting the urge to say anything. Anger raged within the boy, but his mind ordered him to suppress it -- this wasn't Emerson's fault; it was his own. But Toby's fists couldn't necessarily tell the difference.