Michael Corner (folkdevil) wrote in caged, @ 2013-10-01 22:10:00 |
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Sitting in the Ravenclaw common room, Michael had been diligently working on some Potions revision for what he felt was a fairly respectable amount of time, all things considered. He still had N.E.W.T.s at the end of the year, after all, no matter what else was going on, and it was something he could have control over even if the rest of his education was going to shit. There was a small part of him that delighted in the idea of learning something despite the Carrows’ influence. Even if it wasn’t a subject they had much to do with. At any rate, he was reaching the point in revision where his mind started to wander and his eyes scanned the common room in response, looking for something to distract himself. Or someone, more like. Abandoning his texts, Michael walked across the room before dropping down into a chair next to Morag, knowing that she’d roll her eyes and scowl but be worthy of a conversation regardless. “So, I’ve been contemplating telling Anthony how I really feel, but I just don’t know how to broach the topic. Think you can help?” he asked with an easy smile that looked far easier than it felt. Morag glanced up from her book when Michael fell into the chair beside her, closing it over a finger with a bemused look. “What, Terry won’t loan you his magazine?” “He’s already torn the thing apart and made a massive Weird Sisters collage. It’s hanging up on the ceiling and it’s really very disturbing. I tried to schedule an intervention for him, but nobody seemed to want to help, so I guess I’m stuck with it. Alas.” Craning his head, Michael tried to get a look at the cover of her book, always wanting to know what it was that people were reading around him. Noting Michael’s interest, Morag flashed him the cover: Lady Chatterley’s Lover. “It’s no Teen Witch Weekly,” she grumbled, reflecting on her reasons for selecting the book that evening. Morag hadn’t meant to be particularly unfriendly towards Stella, but then Ursula had misunderstood her and any opportunity to insult the Flints was one she couldn’t pass up. She might have apologized or clarified, but it was preferable to be disliked than it was for Morag to admit when she was wrong. Not that Michael needed to know, or would care, about any of it. “And here I thought you four talked about your feelings before sleeping together in a big pile in the middle of the room.” “Lady Chatterley’s Lover,” Michael said, raising an eyebrow. “Really?” Not something he felt the need to grab and flip through, at least, so instead he leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “We’ve actually pushed all the beds together in the middle of the room so we can have a cuddle puddle every night. It’s really very charming.” Grimacing at the imagery generated by Michael’s obvious joke, Morag shook her head as though to clear it. As to his dismissal of her choice of reading material, she was a little defensive. “The only thing that makes this novel scandalous is the fact that it’s written by a Muggle,” Morag insisted, though she tilted her head slightly, considering. “And all of the sex. But it’s literature.” “It’s rather brave of you to be reading such muggle-tainted filth in our esteemed magical common room,” Michael replied, tone a touch darker than he’d meant and not entirely sure how such a comment would be received. He wasn’t actually meaning to start a debate though, it was just hard to keep the recognition of absurdity in check sometimes. So he shook his head and smiled slightly, and asked, in an effort to backtrack, “But, in your opinion, is it literature worth reading? Thus far.” Morag smirked. “I’ve read it before,” she answered. Her eyes had narrowed at Michael’s jest, though she wasn’t interested in exploring the shallows of this year’s curriculum any more than he was. “You’re welcome to borrow it, if you like. Perhaps you could read a few passages out loud to Anthony.” “I’ll pass, thanks.” Michael was sure Anthony would be oh so sad to miss out on that lovely reading. “But you didn’t actually answer the question, you know. Or am I supposed to take reading it before as indication of being worth reading. Since you’re reading it again?” “D.H. Lawrence is one of my favorite writers, Muggle or otherwise,” she answered, glancing away from Michael. Her tone had softened, only just, before taking on her usual harsh edge of disinterest when she spoke again. “Though I suppose I’ll have to ask Professor Carrow for recommendations on who to read in a world without Muggles.” “She’ll probably give you extra credit for showing such wonderful initiative. And give you a whole slew of titles just as charming as our class text.” Or, well, Michael assumed. He still hadn’t bought the book, so he was doing that terrible thing of judging a book by its cover. He didn’t really think he was wrong, though. “Well, I do hope you enjoy your book, then.” Morag narrowed her eyes at Michael. “So did you only come over here to interrupt my reading, or did you actually need something?” For all her tone, Morag suspected Michael knew her well enough to realize that she would do what she could, if he in fact needed something. Unless it really was to do with his secret love for Anthony. There wasn’t really anything that he needed. Or, at least, nothing in the realm of possibility and certainly nothing that Morag could particularly do for him in the moment. In fact, small distractions were doing quite the job for his mental health, really. “Believe it or not, but I really was just coming over here to interrupt. I was revising and my brain was already fried so I thought, ‘oh hey, there’s Morag, perhaps she can save me from eternal boredom.’” He paused then, sinking further into his chair in what would have been a dramatic flop except for the part where he was already sitting. “So entertain me, Morag!” Admittedly, he wasn’t expecting much. At his last, Morag snorted, cracking open her book again and pretending to read. Without looking at him, she tilted her chin as though to get a better angle on the page. “Who do you think I am, Loony? Bones? Weasley?” “You wound me with your attempts at insult,” Michael replied, rolling his eyes and grinning nonetheless. The response was about right, really, pretty much the sort of thing he expected from Morag. “Though I do think I spy a little red in your hair. Perhaps it’s some latent Weasley coming out, after all.” Slowly pushing himself off the chair, Michael stood up, straightening his clothes before shrugging. “But I guess I’ll let you get back to your literature.” Shaking her head, Morag really did turn her attention back to her book. “Whatever,” she said, though she cut her eyes to Michael’s face with a sharp grin. “Good luck with Anthony.” |