Invoke the Wicked's Journal

Hufflepuff Commons Room
1:12 A.M.

There were few things Bastien hated more than waking up in the middle of the night to take a leak. Not only did he tend to sleep in little more than his shorts (and weren't his peers lucky he even considered them that much) his vision was terrible to the point where he literally couldn't see without some kind of corrective lens. Which, in turn, made navigating the darkened, sharp-cornered room that he presently shared with two other boys more of a life and death matter than it should've been. Still, once he was awake, there was no way he could simply roll over and pretend that nothing had happened; his body was quite insistent, and he would be up for hours tossing and turning if he didn't just find the damn loo and get it over with.

Swearing under his breath in his native tongue, Bastien threw his blankets aside and swung his legs over the edge of his bed, cursing again when the bare flesh met the cold cobblestone. Whose bright idea had it been to put stone in the bedrooms? Some sick-minded graduate, no doubt. The founders of this blasted school had clearly been deluded.

Rising, he stretched and attempted to rub sleep from his eyes, though he didn't know why he bothered. Ever since his infamous Quidditch accident at Beauxbatons, the one where he'd nearly been killed by a zealous member of the opposing team, any hope for his vision was long gone. There were surgeries, probably, that he could undergo, but the thought of opening his eyes up to any manner of laser technology and allowing them to prod around really didn't appeal to him.

He might've been raised a Muggle his first eleven years, but damned if he was going to resort to that kind of thing unless there were no other options.

Idly scratching his posterior through the fabric of his shorts, he stumbled across the room, biting back choice words that might wake his dormitory mates as he rapped his hip harsly against a wardrobe. Consiering they were seventh years, you'd think there would be a little more space to organize all their things and keep a body from battering itself black and blue when it tried to find the stairs. But apparently not.

Oh, there were days he ached to be back at Beauxbatons.

Teetering carefully on the edge of the stairs, one hand bracing himself against the wall, he attempted to ignore the pressing needs of his bladder and carefully inched his way down the stairs. Not only was the entirety of the staircase pitch black, which would've hindered anyone, the snatches of light he could see dancing up from the commons room did little more than confuse him because of his poor vision.

The next time he caught his Head of House, he was going to have a serious conversation with her about the situation, and the possibility of getting some candles enchanted to illuminate the stairs for students who actually needed to use them.

When he finally reachd the bottom it was a small victory in and of itself, and he dragged a hand through his hair, pulling it out of his eyes so that he could peer across the room. More light was available now, which turned the empty sea of blackness into a murky swamp of red and orange hues, no one shape any more distinguised than the next.

Because he expected no one to be there, he simply shifted his hand to run along the wall leading toward the fireplace, groping his way along like a blind man without his cane. A small, ironic smile lit his features at the thought, considering if he didn't do something about his eyes, he would very likely end up blind. Wasn't that a cheerful thought?

His steps became more confident, and he knew that if he kept along this wall and then followed the one that neatly curved to the left, he would be at the portrait hole. He'd almost made it halfway there when he got to the fireplace and lifted his hand from the wall, not at all intending to be burned by the hot bricks in his attempt to make it safely out of the commons room.

When his feet hit something soft and warm, he wasn't prepared at all. As such, he flailed wildy, pinwheeling his arms in an attempt to find something solid to grip, but there were no such objects available. Even as he began to fall, he realized with dawning trepidation that he was going to land face-first onto the ground, and directly on top of whatever the hell had gotten in his way.

Letting loose a vicious stream of French curses, he crossed his arms in front of his head seconds before he hit the floor. Every part of his body sang with sudden, fleeting pain, especially his elbow, as he'd rapped it hard on the hearth of the fireplace.

For a moment, all was still. Then, dragging himself to his feet, unsure if what he'd tripped over had even been alive, he groped wildly for it. Grabbing a fistful of something -- probably clothes -- he hauled it over and demanded, in a voice thick with sleep, "Débile, what are you thinking, laying here? De tous les endroits pour dormir!"

*Débile = stupid
*De tous les endroits pour dormir! = Of all the places to sleep!