What Would Rhys Cadwallader Do? (cymru) wrote in disorderic, @ 2017-09-08 19:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | rhys cadwallader, victoria mulciber |
WHO: Vic Mulciber & Rhys Cadwallader.
WHAT: Two very stubborn people butt heads and come to an unspoken agreement.
WHEN: 1999 - 2002.
WHERE: Hogwarts library.
WARNINGS: Snarky teenagers.
“Um,” Vic choked out, sarcastic smile sharp and annoyed. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing but this is my study spot.” The tall Hufflepuff boy looked up at his Gryffindor classmate, his neutral expression unchanging. “You can't reserve a spot in the library,” he said matter-of-factly, not bothering to move his any of his study materials. He just stared at her for a moment before offering, “You can sit here if you like, though.” Vic’s jaw dropped. The table shook as she slammed her transfiguration textbooks onto the fine wood. “Listen, Cabwil...Codwomp…badger boy,” the Gryffindor pointed her finger threateningly. “I don’t need a librarian’s permission to reserve a spot in the library. I don’t need to, because everyone knows this is my spot.” She sniffed. A long drawn out silence followed. Rhys turned a page. “Are you kidd --” Vic exhaled sharply through her nose and slid into the seat directly across from Rhys. Her regular seat. “This is me sitting here, in my spot, because it’s my spot and not because you gave me permission. You can now leave.” Rhys rolled his eyes but didn't look up from his textbook. Two could play at the stubborn game. He (he reminded himself) was the reasonable one. “Are you going to study or what? Because I'm pretty sure talking in the library is frowned upon,” he said, refusing to budge. Biting down hard on what was absolutely an articulate response, Vic inhaled deeply, considering her opponent for a long, probably uncomfortable moment. This was the only place in the entire castle where she could work, uninterrupted. And she needed to be productive, she needed to be best. Fine. She’d wait him out. She was nothing if not tenacious. And petty. Vic slid her books in front of her, opening them with an unnecessary gusto that had Rhys’ own books shoved back to make room for hers. “Terribly sorry.” Rhys frowned into his textbook but opted to ignore it. If she was aiming to get a rise out of him, she wasn't going to get it. This was impossible. Ridiculous. Designed by a sadistic professor purely for failure. Vic watched as the snail blinked stupidly back at her, unvanished. She grit her teeth and contemplated murder. Rhys looked up from his book; by now, he was used to this. Since they’d both decided this corner of the library was theirs and stubbornly refused to concede, they’d been forced to co-exist. Generally, they made a point of mostly ignoring one another. Right now, however, seeing his classmate frustrated like this compelled him to quit being such an obstinate prick. He was a Hufflepuff, after all -- rude or not, Vic seemed a little like she could use some help, though Rhys suspected that she wouldn’t take kindly to him suggesting as much. Instead, he cleared his throat, his expression noncommittal. “You know, I always forget to do the wrist thing,” he said simply, as though he were simply thinking out loud. Vic’s glare was a powerful thing as she regarded Rhys suspiciously, wand still poised above that bloody snail. “That doesn’t surprise me,” she drawled and tossed her hair over her shoulder before returning her gaze to the snail. She bit her lip as she considered the stiff movements of her hand. It took a further two tries, but with a graceful flick of her wrist, the snail vanished from their shared table. Vic could barely hide the triumphant smile. Rhys’ poker face relented for a fleeting second or two as he gave her a small smile and a nod. “You’re good at that,” he said nonchalantly, then returned to his reading, turning the page. Vic dithered in the face of the unexpected compliment, wringing her wand in her hands as she searched Rhys’ face for sincerity. “Um,” she cleared her throat, looking down at the table top. “Thank you, for,” a vague gesture with her wand hand, “thanks.” The familiar silence filled the awkward one Vic felt suffocating her after that weird interlude. She wondered what he’d say if she told him she was taking his very excellent advice to make him disappear. She smothered the weird smile that bubbled up at the thought. Too similar to friendly teasing. Rhys looked from her uplifted wand to her face and tried to ascertain whether she was about to hex him. She did, however, seem to be sincere. He returned the sincerity in kind. “No problem,” he said, deciding to pretend nothing had happened to save them both the embarrassment. They never really spoke outside of classes, never interacted beyond when they studied, but there was an unspoken understanding that they studied at specific times on specific days. Vic was late. She slid into her seat heavily, bag nearly spilling off the table, face a thundercloud. There was a tittering from beyond the table, a pair of pureblood Slytherins who threw Vic a smirk and a wave as they drifted towards the exit. Vic ignored them. Rhys had been frowning in concentration as he gently transfigured a vole into a teaspoon and back again, but he glanced upward just in time to see Vic’s arrival, and the departure of the giggling girls. “Shameful,” he said finally, choosing not to bring up the fact that the tittering may or may not have been directed at his tablemate. “Some people have no idea how to behave in libraries,” Vic blinked, surprise and something embarrassingly close to gratitude flickering over her face before her typical sullen expression wiped it clean. “Purebloods have no idea how to behave anywhere,” she responded snidely. “They think they can --” she stopped, swallowed back something angry and desperate (never tears) and moved to pull out her books. Rhys bit his tongue. He debated whether or not to say anything for a second or two, then settled on a simple, “Well, you’ll be the one laughing when you’ve got top NEWTs. Did you bring your vole?” She would. Victoria Mulciber, halfblood, Gryffindor, fuck up. Purist but not pureblood. Never quite good enough. She would be laughing. There was a determined set to her jaw and a grateful tilt to her mouth as she smirked at Rhys. “Of course I did. Little bastard is going to be fine china.” The ending of his seventh year was a bittersweet time for Rhys. The war had ended, but had left a path of heartbreak and devastation in its wake, and those who were left behind were forced to pick up the pieces. Very few people hadn’t suffered of loved ones during the past several years, and Rhys was no exception. Still, he’d stuffed away his feelings, and focused instead on putting his grief toward a more lasting legacy -- his uncles had fought and died bravely, but perhaps, if he memorialised them by following in their footsteps, their lives -- and deaths -- could still bring about some good in the world. So he worked hard, studied hard, and told very few what exactly it was that he was so determined to work towards, lest his parents find out and try to put an end to it. He applied, and he waited, and now it was time to leave school -- and the safe haven that it had been for seven years that seemed at once too long and too short -- and plunge back into an outside world that was still trying to pull itself back together. It would still be some time before the results came in, and Rhys wasn’t looking forward to having to worry about it alone. He’d miss the camaraderie here. The day before they returned to the train, he wandered the school, bidding adieu to the people and places he was unlikely to see again. The library was one of those spots, though it seemed empty and quiet now that no students were there to study. “So long, I guess,” Rhys said to no-one in particular. “So you don’t talk to others much, but you have no trouble talking to yourself.” Vic’s head popped out from behind the last stack, eyebrow raised and unimpressed. “Question, Catwoofer, does the library talk back?” Rhys was startled enough to raise an eyebrow slightly. “Shut up, Mouseliver.” he deadpanned, though he cracked a slight smile after. “So, who are you going to go piss off now that you're out of here?” he asked. “My mother,” she responded like he should have already known the answer to that. She shut the book she’d been reading, an unfinished letter tucked into the pages. “Now that Rose is...gone, I’ll naturally be taking over my mother’s business. I’m sure she won't make it easy for me,” impossible, likely, “but I happen to be an extremely accomplished witch. As you know.” She pushed her blond hair back, chin tilted defiantly, and smiled. Rhys made a point of skirting the subject of her Death Eater sister -- you couldn’t help who your family was, though he hoped that Vic was better than that. She could make her own choices; she was an accomplished witch, and surely she could go on and make something of herself. “I’d wish you good luck with that, but with your skills, I’m sure you won’t need it,” he deadpanned. “I’m glad I’ll never have to be annoyed by you invading my personal space again.” Despite his teasing, he stepped forward and offered a handshake. A truce. Vic’s smug smile faded as she considered him, her strange study partner, a boy she didn’t know beyond the confines of transfiguration and their chosen study corner. A boy who had taken her rudeness and only ever been kind in return. Vic took his hand and shook it. “Ditto Cadwallader,” she gave a rare, genuine smile before dropping both it and his hand completely. |