Albus Severus Potter (bp_albusseverus) wrote in breaking_point, @ 2010-01-10 07:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | *complete, 2025 01, character: albus potter |
RP: Albus Potter
Who: Albus Potter
Where: his bedroom at Garden Court
When: 3 a.m., January 10, 2025
Warnings: As high of a warning as one might expect from a situation arising from nightly bumping at 3 a.m. in Al's room
Summary:In the middle of the night, Al wakes up. As scheduled.
Al dreamed. Without caffeine, remembered dreams happened more often lately, vivid and colourful.
This was an old childhood dream in which Al was transfigured into a letter. He hadn't had the dream for years but, his dreaming self reasoned, the experience was probably re-triggered by recent events. And thus, having confirmed the logic of the dream, Al was quite content to be a letter. Especially since the dream followed through with the logical timeline and made the Al-letter suitably multi-paged, thick and leather-bound, like a book. In it every single one of Al's thoughts was committed to ink and paper, an ever updating version of himself.
He was held up to the sky and picked up and carried higher by the talons of the post owl that seized his spine in his stiff grip and lifted him up.
The owl smelled of books and parchment and aged ink and Al knew that if he could taste the dark tips of its wide primaries, like he sometimes tasted the tip of his quill, each would taste the same as Severus' hair.
The sun was blinding bright and warm and the air was morning-chilled and fresh and the wind carried the promise of adventure with it; the earth spun below and the sun shone above, but Al was safe in the owl's shadow, supported by his talons, and the spread of the bird's wide wings. Al flew with the owl, his pages turned by the wind, and exposed to the sun. Al was a book, a book held wide open. Fresh air and freedom and sunlight bleached and weathered his margins and he loved every bit of it as the owl spread his wide dark wings and silently lifted him higher and higher and faster until it all was too much and too brilliant and too quick and he inhaled a lungful of winter air and cried out his joy to the wind...
Al awoke. He fumbled for his wand on the nightstand, not seeing a glimmer of natural light from the window. "Lumos. Tempus."
Three in the morning. As usual. Usual and expected and planned by now, in fact, since Al had always woke up during the night and spent a few hours reading as part of his nightly routine, before falling asleep once more to fulfill his nightly quota of five hours of rest.
He set his lit wand into an empty water glass, and only then peered at the unplanned development the dream had left him with.
Oh, honestly. I'm not fifteen anymore.
He reached for his glasses on the nightstand, unfolded the ear pieces and then, instead of putting them over his eyes, set them on the tented sheet to frame the currently outstanding part of his anatomy.
He raised his eyebrow at the empty lenses. This is of no use to me at the moment, he informed himself sternly. Not to mention unscheduled.
He peered once under the sheet, then over it.
I guess I can see if I can use it to prop up a book. But that never worked well.
He glared.
Or I can always break out the quills...
There was a twitch of enthusiasm. Also, as expected.
But I'm rather busy at the moment, with planned activities.
"Hmph," Al voiced his frustrations. He shifted with a squeak of the bed frame. He tapped his fingers against the nightstand. He stared patiently at the ceiling. It's not even six yet. My circadian rhythm is off.
It was impossibly, incredibly off, in fact.
Well, we'll see about that.
He concentrated rather hard on recalling a particular argument in his mind, one that proved without a doubt that his parents had to perform the act of coitus at least three times in their lives by calculating the approximate times and dates of supposed conception of Al's siblings and Al himself and then using the given facts as well as Al's imagination to approximate and fill in the details of the rest of the encounters.
There, that ought to take care of it.
Al confirmed the effect with visual evidence. Indeed, it worked as well as a shrinking spell.
Now, where was I? He collected his glasses from the sheet and placed them on his nose.
He reached for his journal and the quill and glanced up at the ceiling for any activity, which there was plenty.
The grassy forest of cobwebs in the corner was alive with action.
January 10, 2025, Al wrote down. 3 a.m.
Archimedes - spinning webs in the allocated corner over the bookshelf. He appears to be enjoying the breeze.
Aristotle - Sleeping in Archimedes' corner with a wadded up cobweb. Looks comfortable. I have my suspicions about these two.
Euclid - patching up yesterday's net and enjoying the leftovers of a bookworm moth caught last night.
Plato - absent. Tracking and monitoring charm reports that he is in the vent to Jamie's room. I shall not prevent him from his nightly exploration of new territories as long as he is content to watch from concealed area without making himself visible and exposing himself to future attacks.
Pythagoras - striding across the ceiling and measuring the distance between the opposite corners of the room
Socrates - exploring the cracks in the wall. Wandering in spirals. Napping occasionally.
The new arrival has joined the colony permanently and is doing well. For the purposes of this log I shall now refer to him...
Al thought for just a moment, recalling something Severus said to him once.
... I shall now refer to him as Septimus.