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Post by Lorcan Fido Scamander on Jan 26, 2013 19:33:08 GMT -6
 
When Rolf first met Luna, he insisted that there were only two things certain in life: you pay taxes, and then you die. Luna laughed when she heard him say it, and eventually showed him how the uncertainty in life was what made it so exciting. Years later, when Luna would lull her sons to sleep to the sound of her voice and fantastical tales, she would tell them of the cynic their papa used to be, and the believer that he’d become. It was always one of Lorcan’s favorite stories, even before he understood what taxes were or what the concept of death really was (and, truth be told, he still really didn’t understand either very thoroughly), because he loved how his papa was wrong, for once. Oh, not because he hated his papa, nothing like that, but because of exactly what Rolf had been wrong about. It was so much happier to know that taxes and death weren’t the only things, the only inevitabilities of life, that there were things greater than yourself that could happen. Lorcan, unfortunately, had failed to realize that his dear, sweet papa wasn’t completely wrong: everyone had to pay taxes, and would die, but it was the things in between that made life worth living. Had he realized that, he would have ended up a lot less happy than he was, albeit much less naïve. Lorcan didn’t even realize he’d become a product of one of inevitabilities of life already, though the taxes came in a more untraditional form. He didn’t realize that the lost socks were taxes taken for being too different, too naïve, too trusting. It would have hurt a lot more to realize that was the reason his beloved wool socks kept escaping from his grasp, leaving his feet tough and red from the cold, rough ground, instead of the happy reason that the Nargles needed them. Because he insisted the Nargles needed them, it gave meaning to the sores on his feet and the almost-amputation because of a mild cause of frostbite, instead of just being a byproduct of bullies that professors and prefects either didn’t notice or just turned a blind eye to.
At the moment, however, Lorcan wasn’t pondering the facts of life, but walking around the grounds in a most carefree manner, though the facts of life, the inevitabilities, did explain away his bare feet that, due to the early part of the school year, looked to be in much better condition than when summer break had started. He was, in fact, pondering how lively the grass looked this early in autumn; how the trees outlining the Forbidden Forest in the very edge of his vision turned from the dull slab of green into such beautiful, vibrant blobs of color, like paints on an artist’s palette, hiding the threat of the real danger that lurked underneath the balcony’s shade; how the small animals scurrying along the grounds seemed to be so chipper with the strong start of their preparation for a brutal winter. Sometimes, Lorcan wished he could scurry with them. Sometimes, he felt like he was, in a way, for they had no wool socks to speak of and they holed away for the winter like he tried to, even though they were very much outdoor creatures like he, himself, was. Sometimes, Lorcan wondered if it would be so terrible to be an animal instead of a sentient being, to have his only worry to be survival, not lost wool socks and estranged brothers and grades and sleepless nights.
Sooner than Lorcan realized, he’d reached the edge of the lake, his now-soaked feet a testament to his inattention. Gooseflesh rose on his forearms, bare from rolled up sleeves, as he realized how cold the water was, toes curled in a quiet fit of frustration before he let himself breathe and let go of his distress. He sat down on the grass, right before the bank started, hoping that nature’s carpet would help dry off his feet a bit faster. Leaning back a bit, Lorcan closed his eyes to allow himself to enjoy the cool warmth, a mix of fall weather and remnants of the heat of summer. Maybe, if he was lucky, Lorcan would be able to stay there for the rest of the day.
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Post by Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy on Jan 26, 2013 22:00:46 GMT -6
 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -[ EVERYTHING'S SUPPOSED TO HAVE A HAPPY ENDING ]but the record keeps skipping and the needle keeps bendingOn the matter of taxes, Scorpius would probably argue that it was unlikely that any of his were truly his own. No one tried to him him because he was strange, ugly, homosexual, conservative, or anything else he he (or anyone) could himself have had something to do with. They hated him for his name (And, on occasion, they hated him for his snarky attitude, but with their misuses of nominative clauses, he couldn't help buy point out their stupidity.) which could not truly be helped. Malfoy. The name fell off the tounge like sour milk. It was a name of prestige, but now it was said as a tainted thing. It was a disease of a name. So now Scorpius was paying taxes, or, more accurately put, fines. He paid his fine to the arguably good for his father's mistakes as a teenager. His father had been paying his father's fine for incompetence concerning the Dark Lord. Narcissa, however, seemed to be paying fines on either side. To the "good" she payed for Bella's transgressions, and to the "evil", she paid for Andromeda's. And while paying everyone else's debt, people always made more.
Scorpius was not sure what damage he would leave to his children, wife, or whoever else would be forced to take on his burden, and yet he knew there would be something. It was the inevitable curse of having an undiluted bloodline. Everyone was damaged and everyone must pay. It was a curse that even fell unto the innocent friends of the perfect in blood. When glass falls from a table, it breaks, but it also scratches the floor.
He could remember the first time he asked his father the Dark Mark tattoo that sat on his arm. Draco's face looked as if it took on weight at the question. It looked sad and angry, but not as a mixture of the two emotion, but rather like there was a battle playing out on his face. "There was a war..." Draco told his three year old somberly, but Scorpius had interrupted already. "Like in my stories? Were you a hero?" Scorpius asked excitedly. Astoria had been reading him The Chronicles of Narnia. "No Scorpius," replied Draco, his voice laced with regret. He started again. "I--" but Scorpius already had his arms around his father's neck in a tight hug. "No more words. You're sorry in your face," was the young boy's reply. He hadn't realized then that he would be the one who suffered the most for his father's mistakes. Draco could hide away. Scorpius could not.
Scorpius never blamed his father of course. His mistakes were only one piece of his story after all; the story was what mattered. Often Scorpius would go out to the lake and write for hours. It was peaceful and scenic, but not secluded. There was a certain tree that cupped his back perfectly, and brought a bit too much shade so that he'd have to hold his paper and quill very close to his face when he sat there. This was his favorite tree. He would have to race there in the afternoon to beat the slew of lovers, tree climbers, and neanderthals, but it always seemed worth it for the excess of muse that seemed to come with the tree.
Orion was a boy of about sixteen with... he wrote before decisively striking it out. It was too unambiguous.
The blades of grass curled around his toes, whispering their goodbyes as he approached the reflected sky. He was, perhaps, not conscious of his decision on leaving the world behind, but it was certainly a decision that he himself was making. It would have been a more important decision if he had considered himself at all to be something of matter. He was simply one idea, and his idea, barricaded in by the body of a silly blonde boy was ready to lea-
It was not unusual for his tor to, however unintentionally, end up composed in such a matter as to reflect the goings on around him. It wasn't until the boy stepped out of the lake, therefore messing up his story, that Scorpius realized that he had been scribbling the boy's journey. At first he was slightly frustrated by the fact that the boy had broken the character of his story, but then he felt himself slightly intrigued with his shoelessness.
"I know a drying charm you could use if they're cold," Scorpius called to the boy, hoping that perhaps he could get inspiration for a new story, considering the other's beginning just wouldn't do now that it's main character had accidentally changed his mind.
this thread is tagged for lorcius
word count is up to 796
lyrics are by BUTCH WALKER
outfit: here
credit goes to BROOKE FROM CAUTION |
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Post by Lorcan Fido Scamander on Jan 28, 2013 0:05:07 GMT -6
His toes curled from the cool air chilling the wet skin, Lorcan couldn’t help but wish he had a lovely pair of socks. His lamentation was calmed when he remembered that the Nargles needed them, and suddenly the cold didn’t seem so bitter. His thoughts hummed along that path for a while: a path full of Nargles and Himdingers and Snorkacks, until, finally, it was interrupted by a rather beautiful voice. “I know a drying charm you could use if they’re cold.” Lorcan looked up in surprise, wondering who was talking to whom, as he had assumed he was alone so early in the afternoon. After a moment where he looked around with confusion marring his brow, Lorcan realized the only person was a rather symmetrical blonde with beautiful eyes who seemed to fit the golden ratio quite perfectly. That only begged the question of who the blonde was talking to. It was another rather awkward moment until Lorcan, with a rather owlish blink, realized that the other man’s attention was on him. There was, of course, the off-chance that he was talking to the wind or animals or trees, as Lorcan was wont to do, but he didn’t think such was the case in this particular situation. After all, he was looking right at the Ravenclaw, wasn’t he?
It was with a small, easy smile that Lorcan responded. “Oh, hullo, there. I don’t suppose I know your name, do I? Should I? If I should, I’m so dreadfully sorry; I can’t seem to remember it for the life of me. I’m Lorcan Fido Scamander. The Fido isn’t because my mama thought I’d be a dog; it’s from my papa’s grandpapa’s second middle name. It’s nice to meet you. Or, well, see you again, I suppose, if we’ve met before. Have we?” It took him a moment to realize this man with the in-proportion features had asked him a question, and Mama always said it was terribly rude to leave questions unanswered. “I assume you meant my feet? They’re not all too unbearably cold, really. I’m used to it, in any case. Thank you for offering though; that’s very kind.” After mulling over what he said for a moment, Lorcan gave himself a small nod of approval. He had been very polite, he thought, and that was good. Almost as good as marmite, he thought with a pleased smile as he sat up, his jeans making a soft noise as his legs crisscrossed through each other.
“And, at any rate, I do think the Nargles would be displeased if I used a drying charm; it would quite ruin the point of them stealing my socks so I’ll be ever the more grateful to have them while I’m at home during Christmas break. They’re wool, you know. Grandpapa and Mama make them for me.” Lorcan didn’t realize he’d over-explained, because the idea of over-explanation didn’t make sense. Sharing was caring, and he really didn’t want his new acquaintance to think he didn’t care; that would just be unspeakable, especially since this man was so kind as to inquire about his now-freezing bare feet. He tucked them under his legs, hands moving to cover the parts that the rather rough material didn’t. His hands were warmer than his bitterly cold feet, he noticed, pleased with himself. While they made his feet a lot warmer than they were before, it wasn’t warm enough to bring color to the pale white appendages, the only color on the soles: brown for caked-on mud, black for dust and dirt, and red for the irritation and sores that were sure to show up tomorrow. He had pondered that for a while, but soon realized that he, rather unusually, wasn’t alone for once. Lorcan felt momentarily awkward as he looked up at the man, his teeth quickly catching his bottom lip in a bought of uncertainty. “I’m Lorcan, by the way. Did I say that? I can’t seem to recall if I did or not. I’m terribly sorry if I already did.” Lorcan couldn’t help but hope he wasn’t being too obnoxious, trying to stifle the nervous energy that threatened to consume him before it was too late and he’d become a blubbering mess. “Lorcan Scamander, that is. I do have a last name.”
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Post by Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy on Jan 28, 2013 17:06:40 GMT -6
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -[ EVERYTHING'S SUPPOSED TO HAVE A HAPPY ENDING ]but the record keeps skipping and the needle keeps bending It was rather awkward, that time before Lorcan spoke. Scorpius didn't really know what else to do besides stare at him and wait for his answer. The boy, now that Scorpius really viewed him, seemed to be quite a character. The way he looked was not exceptionally unique (not to say that he was bland looking, or any sort of ugly. Scorpius simply thought his actual physical qualities were ordinary. Nothing about him was prominent.) but the way he carried himself was. The way he walked and stood made it almost appear like he was standing on the very tips of the grass; like he was in some sort levitated dance. And then there was his face. Most people, when they aren't thinking, either carry an expression of anger or sadness. The boy, however, seemed to be ultimately and decidedly happy. There was a hint of a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, Scorpius observed, even as he turned to look around in confusion. There was certainly a story there, an extraordinary one. Normally when Scorpius looked at people he saw stories, it was his trade after all, but there were some people, like his father or his godmother, who looked as if their stories were bursting forth from their finger tips and seeping out for everyone to see, and, sadly, judge. This skinny blonde boy seemed to look the same. Everything about the way he carried himself seemed to reflect a piece of that story, and while Scorpius could make plenty of guesses, he would have to ask to find out the boy's real narrative.
The pause lingered there a moment longer. Scorpius debated whether he should repeat himself, but just as he decided that he would, the boy spoke up. “Oh, hullo, there. I don’t suppose I know your name, do I?..." The boy, or Lorcan rather, talked quite a bit, and Scorpius couldn't help but smile at this. Talking about nothing sometimes said more about someone than discussing everything about them. It revealed their fears or their insecurities or their love of talking.
There was more than one time in Lorcan's ramble when Scorpius opened his mouth to speak, but was stopped by Lorcan, starting on with another sentence. Scorpius didn't mind though. He liked to say eloquent things only to inferior people, or people he wished to impress (one of those people being himself). When he was around someone that didn't fall into either of these categories, he rather liked listening. He thought too much before he spoke normally, and now, getting a chance to listen, gave him a chance to think about what the boy was saying, rather than focusing all his attention on how he would reply.
He gave a chuckle when the boy mentioned nargles. He didn't mean to, of course, that was probably rather rude, but once the noise escape his lips he couldn't take it back. (He did, however, do his best to mask it.) It wasn't even necessarily that he thought the idea of nargles was so outlandish. He wasn't about to deem something fictional without proper proof. The part that was funny to him was simply that someone would a) talk about them in conversation with a stranger, b) accuse them of stealing his socks, and c) not think them wrong for doing so. Again, his statement said a lot about his story. It was a world of fantasy, one even more vast than the world of wizards and dragons within which he was contained. One doesn't bring up nargles if one is not comfortable with an ever expanding reality, even if one does believe them.
It was after Lorcan discussed the nargles that Scorpius picked up his stuff and moved from his tree to sit next to the boy. He quickly regretted it as he saw a pack of first years running out in the direction of it, but it was too late now. The sun was harsher in his new spot without the shade; he would probably burn. The view of the lake was more direct and somehow less sophisticated. Even more proof that that tree was, after all, perfect.
He didn't mind sitting next to Lorcan though. He didn't listen to the last part of what he said. He was busy trying to conjure up regality for his own words.
"I'm Scorpius Hyperion... Malfoy. There's something wrong with everyone's name, isn't there? For you, it's Fido, and for me it's Malfoy, or arguably Hyperion I suppose," he said with a charming little smile, "I'm quite sorry about your socks. Nargles are treacherous little creatures, and however grand their intentions may be, I don't quite agree with their decision to steal your socks. If I were your feet I would feel quite neglected." It lacked some of his normal elevated language, but this spot which lacked his tree threw him off his usual muse.
this thread is tagged for lorcius
word count is up to 826
lyrics are by BUTCH WALKER
outfit: here
credit goes to BROOKE FROM CAUTION |
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Post by Lorcan Fido Scamander on Jan 30, 2013 21:58:30 GMT -6
Lorcan listened to Scorpius speak, enthralled by the smooth tones of his voice. When Scorpius finished speaking, the Ravenclaw just waited for a moment to let the Slytherin’s words sink in; to let the sound of this man’s voice echo in Lorcan’s head as he mulled over what had been said. “What a lovely voice.” Lorcan commented off-handedly, not really addressing his new companion, but letting the sentence just simply be. At the end of the day, the statement was honest and fine with no hidden meanings, just like Lorcan, himself was, if one really looked at it, and nothing more or less could and should be taken from it, because the statement and the boy were both perfect the way they were: simply existing for the sake of existence.
“Oh, Scorpius is one of my favorite constellations. It’s so pretty. I was looking at it last night in the Astronomy Tower. I couldn’t sleep.” Lorcan said without really thinking. “Not to mean that you’re not pretty, too. You’re very pretty, and I’m sure you’d be very fun to watch at night. If I can’t sleep tonight, I’ll come visit and watch you, okay? Please don’t be offended.” And Lorcan sounded worried, because he was. After a brief pause, Lorcan’s mind started to go off on a train of cognation that was soon bared as the train decided it wanted to be vocalized. “Are you a heavy sleeper? I never really get much sleep… The bed’s always so big you know.” Lorcan blinked for a moment, not quite sure what tangent he went on or whether or not it would be deemed as awkward. “I, uhm… I just like stars.” he finished rather lamely, his teeth gently worrying his bottom lip.
Lorcan stared at Scorpius for a good while, trying to remember why the name Malfoy sounded so familiar. He was so sure he’d never met a Malfoy, and he’d not been to France since they left after spending six months there when he was four. “Malfoy? Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy…” he pondered, hoping saying the word out loud would jog his mercurial memory. After quite a while, Lorcan looked up, understanding flashing in his eyes. “Like... like the Manor? Malfoy Manor? Mama was there for a while after the war. She said it was really pretty, but cold. Is it still cold? Do you have to wear lots and lots of wool socks? She also said Draco always seemed sad. Is he still? I hope not; that would be terrible. Do you know a Draco?” Lorcan stared up at Scorpius with curiosity shining in his eyes. “Is he as handsome as Mama always said?” Lorcan wondered aloud, rather frightened that the man who’d been a part of his bedtime stories wouldn’t be everything he’d imagined.
Lorcan’s eyes visibly brightened as he heard Scorpius take the Nargles at least somewhat seriously. It was a breath of fresh air for a boy who was usually ridiculed for not lying and pretending they didn’t exist, because they did. “It’s okay though. They need my socks for something and I do have a lot of them. They’re wool, you know. Ever so warm.” Lorcan looked up at Scorpius with a small smile. “My feet are fine. I’ve never gotten any serious case of frostbite or any infection that didn’t go away sooner or later.” Lorcan added almost absentmindedly, forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t just keeping his own company as per usual. “There was that one time with my pinky toe but it got better eventually. The Nargles wouldn’t take my socks without a reason, and there are only so many I can ask to be sent here from home.”
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Post by Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy on Feb 2, 2013 19:48:03 GMT -6
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -[ EVERYTHING'S SUPPOSED TO HAVE A HAPPY ENDING ]but the record keeps skipping and the needle keeps bending A lovely voice? Well Scorpius had never really considered that before. He didn't think much of his voice, and no one else did either. The compliment surprised Scorpius, and he nearly forgot to murmur his little "Thank you." Then, after he recollected himself, he found the compliment even more shocking. It was given so... comfortably, despite the fact that they were a pair of male strangers. Such obscure compliments didn't normally go throughout male kind, at least in Scorpius's experience.
When Lorcan gave his full reply, any inkling of normality disappeared from Scorpius's opinion of him. He had never anyone speak as Lorcan did, with such rambling openness. The closest conversation he had had to the one he was having currently was last year with a first year girl, who went on and on about her boyfriend and her sister and all this other nonsense that didn't seem particularly important to Scorpius. The difference between the girl and Lorcan seemed mainly that his words carried a weight to it. It was like what he said was hundreds of feathers. They feel light on their own, but together they're just as heavy as a couple of bricks.
Scorpius supposed that the content of Lorcan's speech would be much more abnormal had he not already been realizing the abnormality of the speaker himself. Lorcan's words seemed honest, if not a little bit desperate, and Scorpius replied the best he could, despite the odd nature of Lorcan's questions. "The stars out do the majority of beauty found in other places. I think it would do you better to continue gazing at them, for there are many stories written in those stars," he said elegantly, "Normally I sleep rather well, I quite like dreaming. I never seem to suffer from the problem of the largeness of the bed, although one of my roommate's cat is my usual night time companion."
He listened intently to the next part of the boy's rant. With each sentence Scorpius became more intrigued. It was quite nice for there to be someone who didn't know him for being "a horrid son of a death eater", or anything of the like. He was quite curious as to the boy's mother, but didn't want to pry. Not yet at least. "Yes, like the Manor, but I don't reside there. My father, Draco, didn't like the cold or the emptiness of the house, so he decided we should live in the house of his old professor, Severus Snape. It is much smaller and less grand, but it is much more of a home," he began, "And my father is rather happy there, I believe. He still feels guilt-ridden, but he enjoys the life of a father. I would say he is handsome, I suppose, although I'm not really an expert on the subject."
The story of the nargles seemed to reflect Lorcan's self the most, Scorpius observed. It was a subject which was odd and sad and raw, to some extent. It may seem trivial to Lorcan, but to Scorpius it felt like insider information. "I think you should probably take better care of your feet..." he mumbled quitely, losing his air of greatness. Going through the pain that Lorcan seemed to, did not seem worth the fate of nargles, or the plot of a story.
An idea, however, began creeping it's way into Scorpius's mind. It was something he had never done before, and the asking, perhaps, would be quite awkward, but the idea interested Scorpius. He would not ask now, for fear he was still seen too much as a stranger to the boy, but he would ask, eventually. The idea was too full in merit to simply be left behind, and if Scorpius did not propose his request, he feared he would regret it later.
Scorpius had always wanted to write a biography.
this thread is tagged for lorcius
word count is up to 656
lyrics are by BUTCH WALKER
outfit: here
credit goes to BROOKE FROM CAUTION |
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Post by Lorcan Fido Scamander on Feb 8, 2013 0:44:32 GMT -6
Scorpius Malfoy, Lorcan decided, was, overall, a pretty person. He spoke prettily, with words sewn together like his mother sewed his quilts, with love and care, and a voice like a smooth, rolling boil of water in a steel kettle. On that same note, however, Lorcan felt himself becoming more and more anxious at how well-spoken Scorpius was. He weaved words with a skill that took most a lifetime to learn, a skill that soft-spoken, nervous Lorcan would never be able to truly master. It intimidated him more than he’d like to admit, because for all Lorcan’s intelligence on learned, by-the-book subjects, he would never be able to be a social person who would be able to speak with a language colored with beauty. Lorcan was a Ravenclaw because he learned fast and well, but oftentimes he wished it were not the case; oftentimes he wished as he stared into the sky, on days when sadness was his muse and the roof (or, if he was at school, the Astronomy Tower) was his bed, that he could be a handsome boy with friends and who was happy to be normal. Oftentimes, as negative thoughts called to him, Lorcan wished he could be everything that he knew (oh, how he knew) his brother wanted him to be. He wished he could just be normal and find a nice girl to settle down with so Lysander would love him again, but somehow, the thought made him sick to his stomach. How could he be normal when he was one of the few who acknowledged the existence of Nargles? How could he find a girl to settle down with when they were all so soft and delicate and needy? Hell, Lorcan was needy enough on his own, starved for attention and as gentle as a butterfly; how would he be able to give a girl what she was looking for in a man? (And somewhere, in the recesses of Lorcan’s mind, he couldn’t help but think that that made him less of a man than any other, because a real man wouldn’t be terrified of the thought of even holding a girl’s hand and a real man wouldn’t be so open with his emotions. Oh, how some days, he ached to be a real man. Of course, his family didn’t know of his anxieties and woes, though his father had an inkling that Lorcan wasn’t always as happy as he usually was. Scorpius, though, Scorpius was a real man, with his beautiful words and his muscles, and Lorcan could barely fathom how beautiful he was, even though the man was sitting next to him… Next to him? When had that happened? Lorcan hadn’t consciously acknowledged how close Scorpius was; he could move his arm and touch him if he so desired, and Lorcan did (oh, how he wanted to) and that thought scared him more than missing socks and his brother hating him. And suddenly, as suddenly as Scorpius’s beautiful words had started, they stopped, and Lorcan realized he was expected to respond, as what normal people did in normal conversations. In a way, the way that thought excited Lorcan deeply embarrassed him, as well, because he felt, as Luna did, that normalcy was so mundane, but some days he couldn’t help but wish he was a mundane person who didn’t interest the Nargles and didn’t call a near-amputation due to frostbite just a ‘day in the life.’ Today was one of those days, and this sudden filling of the gaping hole where Lorcan’s social life was supposed to reside almost overwhelmed him with the joy he felt that for once, someone wanted to talk to him. That this someone was someone as beautiful and well-read and damned-near perfect as Scorpius just made the sentiment mean that much more.
“I like looking at stars, especially at home. The Rookery has the nicest roof to lie on and just look.” Lorcan said earnestly, glad that although his speech wasn’t fancy and perfect like Scorpius’s, that he at least knew what he was talking about. “I like cats. Dogs, too. Especially dogs. They’re so cute and cuddly and happy. There used to be this dog that followed me around when we were in France. She liked when I gave her bits of waffle. I’d love to have a dog. It’d be like having a friend.” A wistful smile found its way on Lorcan’s face, and, for a moment, he lost himself in the memory of big brown eyes and the short tan coat of a dog that, while bred for hunting, was the most gentle and kind thing he’d ever met. Logically, he knew the beautiful creature was long gone, but in his heart, he couldn’t bear the thought. That wonderful dog would live forever in his mind and heart, because sometimes, logic just shit on everything that made him happy. Sometimes, logic hurt too much to be used.
Lorcan’s eyes sparked at Scorpius’s description of Draco. It made more sense, that this beautiful boy with beautiful words was Draco’s son. Luna had always spoke of Draco in such a way that he physically ached at the part of the story where he cried from regret, that he wished Draco would know everything would be okay in the end, because he was perfect and perfect people deserved to be happy. “Mama used to send letters to him. I don’t think he got them; he never wrote back. She always thought his life was so sad. She was happy to see his marriage announcement in the paper.” Lorcan said for lack of something better to say, not wanting to deprive himself and Scorpius of a long conversation.
When Scorpius spoke next, Lorcan was shocked that the words weren’t laced with an air of a writer, but in Lorcan’s opinion, that made them all the more beautiful. Coupled with the fact that, for the first time he could remember, a person that wasn’t his father or mother seemed concerned about him, Lorcan felt his heart practically burst at the Slytherin’s words. “I do take good care of my feet. It’s like… Like a really good book. Bad things happen, but it’s all okay in the end. It just hasn’t been the end yet.” And, perhaps the most tragic thing in the growing story of Lorcan’s life, was that, deep down, he really believed that.
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Post by Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy on Feb 8, 2013 20:49:27 GMT -6
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -[ EVERYTHING'S SUPPOSED TO HAVE A HAPPY ENDING ]but the record keeps skipping and the needle keeps bending If there was any sign of Lorcan's forbidden attraction to Scorpius, he didn't notice. His mind was in other places; in the land of stories. His mind was enthralled with the simple idea of creating a biography for this strange and intriguing boy. It would have to be beautiful, and frank, and perfect. It would be subtle in how it criticized the state of modern human consciousness. It would be well-written, well-plotted, and would leave you with questions burning in your head.
That, perhaps, was Scorpius's hamartia. He saw people as stories. That's what he has always said and that's what he's proud of, but perhaps it's not always a good thing. In reality he saw people as stories, and reflections of humanity, and as specimens to be studied. He saw them as things, for the most part. He didn't see people as something to normally interact with, but rather a thing to be observed. Perhaps this peculiar boy would change that for him, but at the moment he was stuck in his ways of acting as a third person narrator rather that a a first person who participated. In his current state he would never feel the same sort of attraction that Lorcan was feeling. It would probably be difficult for him to even understand what the other boy was going through. A person cannot understand love if they simply understand people. It requires so much more than knowing how people operated. It required feeling for people on a level that Scorpius couldn't comprehend having with anyone outside his family, and people who he treated as such. The idea that a person was more than just a complicated example of the human condition was foreign to Draco, for the most part.
Not to say that he wasn't studying Lorcan's features. He was, but not out of some unfathomable draw towards the boy. It was simply educational. The way he sat was a testament to his character. The way he his blonde hair had a slight glisten to it was a proverbial metaphor to be decided on later in the writing process. The length of his neck, a symbol for his potential. He saw everything, down to the most minute detail. The only thing that he perhaps did not notice was the boy's own reaction to Scorpius's appearance. The face was an obvious. Scorpius could get his answers from expressions whenever he wanted. The rest of a person was ambiguous, and while Scorpius was caught up in his deductions of the boy's anatomy it seemed to him to be unimportant to look at the boy's face. It wasn't a puzzle, and could be saved for later.
Lorcan finally spoke again and that was when Scorpius finally glanced up at the boy's eyes. They were a deep sort of blue, like the image of the ocean that he remembered from a trip to East Bourne as a child. They were naive eyes. They were full of magic, of hope, and of tragedy was buried beneath it all. Buried deep.
"Simple observation is often much more productive and thought provoking that analysis, at least in the case of stars," he said eloquently. Stars were something to be viewed. People were something to be studied. (At least, that's how Scorpius viewed things.)
He scrunched up his nose slightly at the mention of the dog. He had never been a particular fan of the creatures. They were much too loud and rambunctious for his taste. He just nodded his acknowledgement to Lorcan's tale. To comment would surely bring a stopper to any sort of normal relations between them.
He smiled at the continued mention of his father. It was nice to hear that there were still people from the past that cared about him; people that Scorpius didn't even know about. "He rarely reads letters from people of his past. They make him anxious," he said, then added, almost reluctantly, "Many people find him to be an unforgivable creature. I remember him taking me to the train when I was younger. He only did so once on account of the nervousness it caused him. I remember his eyes. They flashed with fear and sorrow before he gained his composure. He has become well practice in the art of false contempt."
Scorpius didn't realize how much his comment effected the boy. Perhaps he will learn it's importance later on, but now he was still stuck in his logical deconstruction of Lorcan's character. He wasn't invested in the emotion of it. Not yet.
He led out a little one note laugh at Lorcan's remark. He couldn't help it. To him it seemed utterly preposterous. "I believe you and I have a very different definition of what a good book is. Gatsby and The Fault In Our Stars end tragically, Catch-22 and The Hobbit leave you trying to forget the death of those you loved, Puddn'head Wilson and The Perks of Being a Wallflower leave you wanting there to be more joy then you found in the end. Even Pride and Prejudice leaves you with a feeling of loss for the dear little Bennet sister. If all is good then it isn't time for the end, but rather predicts the climaxes coming," he answered, "So you should wear shoes."
this thread is tagged for lorcius
word count is up to 882
lyrics are by BUTCH WALKER
outfit: here
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Post by Lorcan Fido Scamander on Feb 11, 2013 21:40:08 GMT -6
Some people who have been scorned over and over again learn to build a barrier around their heart to protect themselves from a repeat occurrence, but Lorcan couldn’t do that; not when there were so many people he had yet to meet who could turn out to be of the most lovely he’d ever known. That waiting out for the hope things will get better was a mentality that Lorcan lived by, even if the wait took him the rest of his life. Perhaps wearing his emotions on his sleeves wasn’t wise, but Lorcan hated to play with people’s emotions like the other Ravenclaws played with his (because while the Nargles were obviously the thieves of his beloved wool socks, that didn’t change how most of them made fun of him when they thought he couldn’t hear. But oh, how he could hear, and if only someone cared to really look at him whilst such comments were being made… That someone would find a heartbroken little boy staring back, because for all his stories and insistences that everything would be alright in the end, sometimes the present sucked and saddened him and not even the winds that accompanied the dear clouds and stars could soothe such a resounding, throbbing pain deep within his soul. If Rolf had a true inkling of what went on at Hogwarts, his concerns wouldn’t just reach to hoping Lorcan wouldn’t hop off the roof for the sake of an experiment). Lorcan felt that the face, not just the eyes, was the window to the soul, so why would he mask emotions to lie to not just other people, but also himself? The notion didn’t make any type of logical sense, and, as a result, he didn’t entertain it for more than a passing thought, to be ended with a snort of amusement, no matter how much pain hiding such emotions would spare him in the long run. Because while Scorpius could be accused with not caring enough, Lorcan had a much different, much more sinister problem: he cared too much.
As Lorcan looked at Scorpius, he got the distinct feeling that he was being studied. It wasn’t a bad feeling, but it made him feel like less than a person, less than an equal to the man he didn’t quite want to admit seemed like a real life saint. Oh, Lorcan had no illusions that any normal person would think Scorpius and Lorcan to be on the same level (no, Lorcan was much too logical for that), Lorcan had, for a moment, tricked himself into hoping that Scorpius might be different than those silly normal people, that Scorpius might see a real person behind those naïve blue eyes and overly-expressive face. Lorcan’s longing for human contact stopped him from inquiring why Scorpius was staring at him such a way, because while he wished Scorpius would like him, maybe want to be his friend, Lorcan wanted Scorpius to stay far more than he wanted an equal. It mattered little that Scorpius staying would likely lead Lorcan to high hopes and a broken heart yet again. (That was the crux of the matter: Lorcan kept hoping for a change that would never come because he did not demand his inherent right as a free man be acknowledged, because that would rock the boat or offend somebody or hurt feelings. Lorcan, only fifteen, hadn’t realized that the vase of his heart could only be super glued back together a few more times before rendered permanently shattered; because a pubescent boy refused to see matters of the heart in such a way.)
“But stargazing isn’t simple at all,” was Lorcan’s response to Scorpius’ perfumed speech, because in Lorcan’s mind, stars were perhaps the most complex thing in the world (or out of it, as the situation may be). The positioning of stars themselves was something scholars had argued for hundreds of years and were still arguing… How could anyone find such a subject to be something mundane?
Lorcan mistook Scorpius’ expression of dismissal for one of uncertainty for what to say next, which left him in a bit of a pickle because he had no idea what to add that would entice Scorpius to keep speaking with him. “She- she really loved when you scratched just behind her ears,” he started nervously, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, though he gained confidence as he spoke about the dog he loved so. “Her tail would wag and her leg would thump and she’d make the bed shake. She was always so quiet and sweet.” A soft smile crept onto the blonde’s face, eyes bright as he relived the memory of the gentle beast he’d wanted to call his.
“Mama always said that what happened wasn’t Draco’s fault. He was a victim of circumstance.” Lorcan said quietly, for lack of something better to say. “She said he was always really nice when he brought food down to the dungeons. Draco would bring extra and he brought pudding for her once. He said it was extra from dinner. Mama said he was really bad at lying.” Lorcan didn’t know how to reply to how nervous Draco had become; the man from Luna’s stories seemed to be so strong. That such an admirable man cracked scared Lorcan much more than he would like to admit. “Maybe… maybe he’d like to know she doesn’t blame him, at least? I- It would make me feel better, I think.”
Lorcan felt himself wince at Scorpius’ laugh. He waited for ridicule, and, admittedly, that was what he got, but Scorpius was so damned nice about it that there was no sharp pain of rejection flaring in his chest. It was a nice feeling, he couldn’t help but think that, although Scorpius disagreed with him, the other man didn’t deem it necessary to rub it in his face like most Ravenclaws did. “But even in the ones where the protagonist dies in the end, it’s so much more than just a dead person; it’s like… they’re not suffering anymore, and what could be happier than that?” And the serious with which he said such a statement was why Rolf worried about his youngest son, for he treated death with such a callous, often romanticized view that even Shakespeare would envy. “Shoes have nothing to do with it, Scorpius, because shoes pinch anyway.”
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Post by Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy on Feb 19, 2013 21:40:46 GMT -6
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -[ EVERYTHING'S SUPPOSED TO HAVE A HAPPY ENDING ]but the record keeps skipping and the needle keeps bending Scorpius, when finished with his examination of the blonde boy, looked back out over the lake. The lake was something beautiful, in a way that was more inherent than any person or their story. It was beautiful simply because it was, and that perplexed Scorpius throughout his life. He stared at it with the same scruitinous eyes with which he had stared at Lorcan, trying to analyze why it was so lovely. The colouring, while not hideous, was not necessarily something to be admired. It was a dismal sort of blueish brown that was not the sort of shade that he would find charming if used to describe a pair of eyes. However, it was rather reflective, and there is always something serene in mirrors, although Scorpius couldn't quite place what that was. The waves of the lake seemed synchronized, but in a way that seemed like a finished painting that lacked perfection. It was sufficient. And yet, the lake was beautiful still, and that was something Scorpius didn't quite grasp. He knew in his brain that somehow there was a beauty in the mixture between perfections and flaws, but in his heart he could not understand it. That is perhaps why he sought to find a reason for the imperfections he found in people. It was because he couldn't cope with the idea of a story that could be beautiful when it was not flawless.
Scorpius was in no way humble, and he often used his arrogance to cause inferiority in those who he felt needed to be humbled themselves, but it was in cases like Lorcan that he simply did not realize he was doing anything that would affect his company. When he belittled someone for their misuse of the word "ignorant", it was with intentional snarkiness and sass, but when he simply observed someone like he did Lorcan, it was pure accident. He was quite used to his own actions of examining his fellow humans, and he hardly realized that strangers would think anything of this action. He had been studying the human conscious since he could read, and was perhaps never taught that staring wasn't polite. His manners were impeccable in nearly every other area of etiquette, but in that they fell short.
"Well, perhaps if your intent is not merely appreciation. Obviously Copernicus, or my favorite scientific revolutionist, Brahe, did not simply gaze at the stars to glorify their beauty. However, when I look upon the stars I prefer to attempt to think of nothing at all, and to simply look, although admittedly that is not always a simple task, for my mind often races with thoughts, despite my desire to hinder them," he said dreamily. He wasn't paying much attention to his words, for his concentration still rested in the ripples of the lake and the reflection of the sun onto it's murky colour.
The thought of the dog brought him out of his haze. "I'm not a big fan of canines," he admitted swiftly, hoping to get off of the subject. He had never liked dogs; he wouldn't even read books about dogs when he was little. There was something restless about them, and for some reason he had always associated them with writer's block. He could tolerate them, or the idea of them, only for a short time, and then he was always very hasty in getting away from them, or the idea of them in cases like this.
A small frown sat on Scorpius's face as he heard Lorcan's reply. He knew his father would never see it that way. Draco had always made it clear to Scorpius that small acts of kindness did not make up for large acts of savagery. "I'm afraid knowing wouldn't help him very much. He is... stubborn in his ideas, and I believe that the idea that someone that he had hurt so horrendously could now forgive him on such small accounts would not make him feel less ashamed, but rather make him feel like the person, for lack of a better word, an idiot," he said, but once he realized that could be taken as slightly offensive, he added, "Not that I agree with him. My father is wrong about many things, and I more than anyone would wish him to be forgiven, and would wish people would try more adequately to sympathize with the pureblood slytherins of that time. However, my father and I rarely see eye to eye in such matters. He will always feel guilty."
Scorpius would be lying if he were to say that Lorcan's statement about not suffering anymore did not make him slightly nervous for the boy, but he would also be lying if he were to say that the quote did not make him slightly happy. It was like peeling back another layer of the onion that was his character. While slightly sad in how it came across, it was something inherently emotional. In that one sentence, that one question, there was contained a whole paragraph, or a chapter, or a story in it of itself. The beauty of a sentence sometimes could far surpass the beauty of a novel or a lake. And it is always much easier for sad to be beautiful than for happy to be beautiful, or perhaps that was only how Scorpius saw it.
"Your point, I believe, is valid, although I still don't believe I agree," he answered. "I, personally, don't think suffering is merely something to be thrown six feet under the ground and buried. It's not something to merely get rid of. It's something to overcome. Death cannot be an answer to suffering, for through death the suffering of the dead simply seems to be moved onto other people. When they die they leave behind a whole slew of character that take on the burden of their sufferings. If not loved ones, than owl-eye men, and if not them, than the poor fools who must dig graves. The suffering is never simply buried. It always seems to land on someone else."
this thread is tagged for lorcius
word count is up to 1012
lyrics are by BUTCH WALKER
outfit: here
credit goes to BROOKE FROM CAUTION |
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