robinet burke. (robinet) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-01-11 18:57:00 |
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Robinet had not deliberately flouted curfew (this time). It was a charge that was levied against him fairly often — ignoring school rules — but some of them, he felt, were incredibly petty. What did it matter if he was ten minutes late? What was another ten? What was another fifty? He’d only been reading. (That was, at least, the story he was preparing as he walked back towards Hufflepuff, his bag swinging over his shoulder and a book under one arm. The book was a prop, one he’d half-read already, one he could carry a conversation on if anyone stopped him. They didn’t need to know he’d spent the evening with Franklin Faber, trying to work out the perfect way to jinx McGonagall’s classroom door.) The trek back to the dorms had been mostly clear, which he was very pleased about, until he rounded a corner and spotted someone very familiar down the other end. Robin sighed and took a step back and then another. Maybe she hadn’t seen him. Francine's eyesight was perfect and anyone who knew her knew that fact (primarily because she would brag about it more often than anyone wanted to hear it) so any hope that she hadn't spotted Robinet Burke out after hours should've been extinguished on the spot. It was both of their lucks that she had spotted him — she hadn't made her discipline quota for the week and he needed to learn how to follow the rules. All in all, it was a win-win situation. The second Robin started walking backwards, Francine sped up, practically running so she could catch him before he escaped. She cut him off and took a moment to catch her breath. "Hello, TROUBLEMAKER," she finally said as she crossed her arms defiantly. Robin sighed the closer Francine got to him, aware that if he took off it would look like he was running from her. That wouldn’t do. So, he stopped and waited for her, affecting a casual pose. “Hello, narc,” he said, with a curl of his lips that almost looked like a smile. “How’s your night been?” "Wonderful," she replied sharply, "until I spotted you. I know that you know you're out after curfew." Francine uncovered her watch — that she had bought just for this purpose — from behind her sleeve and counted down. "You should've been in bed thirty five minutes ago." “I don’t think I should have been doing anything,” Robin found himself saying, “other than what I want to.” The words were sharp and surly, tripping out of him instantly at the idea he should do anything. He hated the words. He glanced at Francine and said, “I should have been enjoying myself and broadening my mind in these hallowed halls of learning. Which is what I was doing.” He slowly withdrew the book from under his arm and showed it to her. "You can enjoy yourself and broaden your mind back in your dorm," she suggested, although Francine's suggestions often came out as commands. She hadn't yet mastered the right tone. But she was curious and leaned closer to examine the title. "Fallen Women: A Long History of Victorian Prostitutes, volume 3. I'm sure you were reading that." “Why not?” Robin said, immediately offended. “I was. It’s very interesting! It explores the mores of Victorian society!” "So I'm supposed to believe," Francine questioned, her eyebrows raised in skepticism, "that you're enriching your mind with the mores of Victorian society?" The last few words were delivered in a very poor imitation of Robin's voice, but it wasn't her fault that she hadn't perfected it yet. She wasn't supposed to test it out for another week or so. “Why not?” Robin asked, frowning at her and then: “What’s wrong with your voice? Have you got a cold?” She cleared her throat. "Nothing. That was a normal voice. Stop trying to distract me from your crimes." Robin sighed and tried to move around her. He was a little bit taller than her — he took great delight in first frowning down at her and then moving, trying to look down his nose at her. It didn’t quite work. He wasn’t tall enough yet. “They’re not crimes. Reading isn’t a crime. Are you going to become one of those people who burns books now?” He let his voice climb higher with disgust. His accusation threw her off, leaving her to frown at him and scoff — far from the image of authority that she had projected earlier. "What? No! I'm not an arsonist." Francine paused for a second, quickly debating the merits of calling him one, but since she had no evidence, it was rejected. She needed to build her reputation on proof, not conjectures. (But he was probably one.) "You obviously know that I meant you're using your "book," (complete with air quotes), "to hide whatever you were really doing." Robin was starting to walk down the hall as he said, “You got me. I’m running my own ring of Victorian prostitutes. I found a time turner, went back really far, and pulled them into the future with me.” He wasn't supposed to move, Francine thought indignantly, picking up her own feet to follow and block him off. "No offense," she said, in a voice that clearly meant the opposite, "but no one would agree to participate in a ring of anything with you." “Well, shows what you know,” Robin said. Francine was almost right in front of him again, so he sidestepped and then sidestepped again, swerving around a suit of armour. Hufflepuff’s entrance was just in front of him. He could almost touch it. “I’m extremely popular. I’m a ringleader. Ringleader Robin, they call me.” If he kept her distracted, he could just slip on in. Robin's footwork had done just the trick and Francine nearly hit the suit of armor in frustration when it blocked her way — if he got away because of a suit of armor, she was going to tell Dumbledore that every suit of armor needed to be removed! Although she had fallen behind, she wasn't going to let him say whatever nonsense he just said. "The only person who calls you that is yourself and maybe whoever you pay to!" Unable to resist, Robin turned round to look at her, his grin wide, as he said, “You know, money does make the world go round.” He held up his hand, rubbing his fingers together as if there was cash in between them, and then laughed. He almost walked back into the Hufflepuff entrance, he was that caught up in goading her. That would have been bad. As it was, he turned, lifting a hand. “Well, it’s been a good night. Thanks for your company, Francine.” "It wasn't for your benefit," she corrected, just before she realized what he'd done and how he'd escaped from her grasp. "Wait! Get BACK HERE!" The other Prefects didn't know this, but the best area to catch wrongdoers was the sixth floor hallway. It was the one that housed the portrait of Coltrane Colley the Curious and for the right price (a date with Greta the Gregarious), he informed Francine of anyone who came by while looking suspicious. Her network of spies had not failed her, especially that night, because just ten minutes ago, he'd scurried from his portrait to find her and that was why she was currently camped out in a dark alcove waiting for her targets to pass by. The sound of approaching footsteps pushed her into action as she jumped out and declared, "AHA! I've caught you!" Robin wished he’d trained himself not to jump, but it was hard not to when someone literally jumped out at you, shouting. Francine may have been small, but she was not quiet, and she certainly wasn’t afraid of trying to startle someone. Robin’s hand went to his wand and he had it pulled out, pointing it at her, an instinctive reaction, before he realised who it was. “For Merlin’s sake,” he grouched, scowling. “What do you think you’re doing? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” "Oh," she said, disappointed, even in the face of Robin's wand pointed at her, "it's you." Francine peered around him and waited a few seconds to listen for any more footsteps before slumping her shoulders. "You were supposed to be Griffin Curtis. He's been vandalizing the school." “Has he?” Robin asked, curiosity piqued. “Is the one drawing the dicks? The Dick Artiste?” There was a pause and then, laughter bubbling up in him, Robin said, “The Master of Dick?” Francine refrained from pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. It was so like him to make immature jokes like that, even though it was a very serious matter. Hogwarts property was supposed to be respected! "Although I wouldn't say that, he has been drawing things of… that nature." “Dicks?” Robin said, trying hard not to look over Francine’s shoulder. Instead, he looked back down the hallway behind him. “I don’t see anyone out here, being an artist. Maybe you should give it a go.” He thought, for a moment, about how much delight he’d get out of seeing Francine graffiti Hogwarts. He also thought she would probably be pretty easily convinced if he could hit on the right button to push. He peered at her, expectantly. "No one's out here being an artist yet," she revised for him. This was why she was a Prefect and he wasn't (that, and the fact that he would definitely throw his badge off the Astronomy Tower instead of accepting it, but that was neither here nor there). "And I'm a Prefect. I'm not drawing on the walls." Her offended tone said all there needed to be said about that idea. “Well, you’re definitely not drawing on the walls with that attitude,” Robin said, lightly. Behind Francine, there was a flicker of movement that he turned away from, inspecting instead the expanse of wall just slightly behind him. He walked to it, beckoning Francine closer. “What if — hear me out — you wrote something terrible about your worst enemy here?” He almost named someone, but he suspected Francine’s worst enemy had changed since she was giving off about Lorcan Hannity. "Corinne Mumps doesn't deserve her name splashed on the walls for everyone to see," Francine declared, although she had to admit that it would be satisfying to expose her misdeeds (spilling juice on Francine's shirt supposedly "accidentally" as if she hadn't seen her SMIRK as she walked away). "It's much better to confront her directly and ruin her life. Do you hear that?" Her voice rose in volume as she directed it towards the ceiling, where she hoped Griffin would hear it. "It's better to TALK about your vandalizing than vandalizing something!" Robin looked up at the ceiling quizzically, a grin turned the corners of his mouth upwards. He wondered why she was talking to it, but decided that it was better not to ask. Sometimes, Francine’s logic was best left alone. “That’s not true at all. Why would it be better to talk? To who? A vandalisation therapist?” She looked at him as if the answer was obvious — because it was. Almost slowly, she answered, "They can talk to their Prefects. If any of them want to CONFESS THEIR SINS —" again, directed at the ceiling, "then I'm here to listen." “I would definitely not confess my sins to you,” Robin said, frowning at her. “You’re a massive narc. You’d tell everyone in a whisper that was really a shout.” His expression changed then, slipping into a lopsided smile which managed to look smug at the same time. “Anyway, I’m quite proud of my sins.” "If people tell me things in confidence, I'd keep them secret," Francine lied with a roll of her eyes. "It's part of the Prefect-client confidentiality agreement. That means if you were to tell me any of yours," she grimaced at the thought of whatever he'd been up to, "I'd be bound to keep quiet." “Yeah, right,” Robin said, scoffing. He folded his arms over his chest. “You’re a terrible listener, Francine. When was the last time you did it?” "I listen all the time!" It took a few seconds for her to recall the last time she'd done it, but it was the truth. "On Tuesday, Missy Lyle came to me for advice and I listened to her WHOLE sob story." “What was it?” Robin asked, intrigued. "Her horrible boyfriend who's clearly interested in Tinsley Randalls was trying to tell her he wasn't interested in Tinsley Randalls even though Missy had just caught him walking —" Francine stopped herself abruptly. "That didn't count because she didn't approach me as a PREFECT." “You’re a big mouth, Francine,” Robin said, laughing. His laugh was loud anyway and he meant it, but it got louder when he heard a noise down the hall, the sound of someone kicking something and swearing just loudly enough to be heard. Robin didn’t really swear but he thought about yelling it suddenly from the top of his lungs. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Instead he laughed louder and then stretched. “Tinsley is all that and a bag of chips, though.” Francine's eyes narrowed in confusion slash wariness slash a general sense of what's-wrong-with-him at Robin's laughter, growing smaller the louder he got. "Why are you —" She shook her head. It wouldn't do to make fun of his laugh, although she really, really wanted to. "Can you please keep it down? Some people are already asleep, as you should be soon." Robin rubbed a hand over his face and then looked at Francine, raising one eyebrow. “Why aren’t you in bed, is the real question. You look tired. All that chasing down rulebreakers must be exhausting.” Her gasp mirrored her hand flying to her chest. “I don’t look tired! I look busy but fulfilled!” She turned her nose up and crossed her arms. “You look tired.” “I am tired,” Robin said, with a half-grin. “Tired of having to put up with the rules and regulations of this school. My spirit is being stifled.” He looked at Francine. “You’re stifling me right now. Maybe you should go to your dorm.” "Your spirit should be stifled if it goes against the rules and I can't until I've caught Griffin." Francine looked expectantly at Robin, as if he would produce him from thin air. It was, perhaps, the greatest fluke of timing. Robin looked over Francine’s shoulder at the wall behind her and it was covered in an array of painted penises, luridly bright, some of them slightly different, some with fluorescent sperm drawn across the wall. Robin laughed, checking to make sure that Griffin was free and then he saw the flash of his shoes. “Go, man!” he shouted, laughing, and then he was nearly doubled up with it as he watched Francine turn. Sometimes, when faced with two opposite choices — such as chasing after Griffin Curtis the Penis Drawer in one direction and wizards arresting Robin Burke in the other direction — one had to decide very quickly. Francine decided very quickly that she would find Griffin Curtis once and for all. Once she made that choice, she turned on her heel and sprinted after him, tossing a "We're NOT done here!" back over her shoulder. If all went well, she'd bring both Curtis and Burke to their rightful place: detention. Robin’s knuckles were red and bloody, bruises already blooming up on them. He was still panting, his heart hammering against this ribs, and Robin blinked at Francine, who was standing looking at the fight with an expression he couldn’t pin down exactly. He wasn’t focusing. He was looking beyond everyone else, at Ivan the Terrible (not the Russian tsar, but a Slytherin who needed his face broken more). He scowled at Ivan, then Francine. “Look, just let me hit him again,” Robin said, sounding way more reasonable than he felt. “His face won’t be even if I don’t.” "Ivan," Francine said imperiously, gesturing at the Prefect who had alerted her to the altercation. "You're getting detention for the whole week." Before Ivan could interject, she turned to the Prefect. "Take him to the Hospital Wing. Now." After that was all done, she placed her hands on her hips and smiled down at Robin. "You know, I've waited for this day my WHOLE life." Robin’s knuckles stung from the punches and from the urge to hit Ivan again, watching his retreating back as he was led towards the hospital wing. He wanted to run after him, but he had a crowd and Robin knew they expected him to. So, he didn’t. Still, he was so focused on it that he almost didn’t hear exactly what Francine had said. Indeed, it took him a moment. “Wait, what?” he said, blinking at her. “Repeat that.” Instead of repeating herself (she hated being made to do that; if they didn't listen the first time, they weren't allowed to hear it the second time), Francine rolled her eyes. "Get up off the floor," she commanded, bending down to pull him up by his arms. For someone younger than her, he was remarkably hard to move. It didn't help that he was taller. That had to add some weight to him. "Your blood is getting all over the place. “Hey,” Robin said, pulling one arm out of her grip. The other stayed. He briefly considered making himself a dead weight and staying sprawled on the floor before discarding the idea as ridiculous. He didn’t feel like throwing himself around like a toddler. He took a deep breath and grabbed hold of Francine’s arm, leveraging himself up. His ribs screamed: he remembered the sharp kick of Ivan’s foot against them and scowled. “I’m gonna really kill him later.” Now that he was off the floor, Robin lifted his arm to his face, wiping it across his mouth. There was some blood on his sleeve when he looked down at it. “So, how much detention are you dishing out today?” “This definitely isn’t a negotiation and you can’t kill him later,” Francine said very seriously, though the effect was diminished somewhat with her grimace at the sight of blood. That was just gross. “Who started the fight? Never mind. You’re just going to say HE did.” “He did,” Robin said, squinting at her. “Have you ever known me to start a fight?” "I don't keep track of fights," she said, squinting at him and ignoring the fact that Ivan had a record of starting fights against him. “Ivan the Terrible,” Robin said dramatically, “is very terrible at starting and finishing fights.” He squinted at Francine, feeling his lip starting to throb where Ivan had caught it, and reached up to touch it. “Put in a word for him. Detention for three weeks with Filch. He hates cats.” Francine crossed her arms at the suggestion. "I have to discuss it over with my ASSOCIATES first." Ever since she'd given Virgil Clements two weeks of detention in the dungeons for throwing up on her shoes (ON PURPOSE!), her detention giving powers had been restricted. Now, she had to run over every decision by McGonagall first. It was so inconvenient. "And besides, if you know he likes to start fights," (a fact that everyone knew, honestly), "then you should've just walked away. Unless he insulted your honor. But I didn't think you'd care about THAT." Robin gave Francine a distinctly funny look, his mouth turning into an almost invisible pout before disappearing into a frown. “I’m extremely honourable,” Robin said, “some might say I’m the most honourable person the Burkes have ever birthed. Did you know I was a Hufflepuff? Are you besmirching them?” "As Head Girl," her hand came up to rest over her heart, as if she was pledging an oath, "I treat all houses equally and would never think about besmirching any of them." “Is it because you don’t like yellow?” Robin leaned closer to her, dropping his voice. “Leave you looking a bit sick and washed out?” She wasn't going to take that bait. She wasn't. She was smart and mature and Head Girl now and she wasn't going to stoop to Robin Burke's level. "That's funny," she said, in a voice that indicated she thought it was the worst joke in the world. "Follow me." “Ach, c’mon,” Robin said, suddenly jumping back. “You’re not getting me into trouble. We’re almost friends now. Brothers in almost arms against Ivan.” "I'm taking you to the Hospital Wing," Francine clarified, "and I can't give Ivan detention without giving you detention either! Hurry along." “Ugh,” Robin said, starting to walk. He thought, maybe, he did need the hospital wing but he wasn’t going to say it out loud. It would sound too much like admitting a weakness of any kind. “Fine, but I’m telling everyone you told me to dig him some more.” News of an apparent gambling ring had reached Francine before the clarifications had been issued (it was just someone starting a betting pool on when Horatio Polley would notice that someone had cursed the hair off his head) and as the foremost authority figure among the student population, she had sprung into action immediately. If she hurried, she could find them before they all dispersed. Her steps thundered down the hall until they came to a stop. It didn't look like a gambling ring. But as soon as she spotted a familiar face, she knew it was. "Robinet Burke," she said. "I knew you'd be behind this." Robinet Burke was decidedly not behind anything. In fact, he thought he was rather right beside something: he’d been standing talking to a few friends, one arm flung out to rest around a suit of armour. He’d not long finished a very funny bit, if he did say so himself, which involved him opening and closing its mouth piece, when Francine burst onto the scene. Eyebrows climbing, Robin looked at her for a moment and then made the suit of armour say, “I’ve never let him behind me once, ma’am.” “Keep your bedroom antics to yourself,” Francine said, directed first to the suit of armor and then redirected to Robin once she realized how stupid it looked to be talking to a suit of armor. “I’m talking about the gambling.” “I don’t gamble, ma’am,” the Robin-voiced suit of armour said. “I don’t even have any money and my hands aren’t much use these days.” Jordan, one of the boys in the circle around them, laughed loudly and then tried to cover it. The glare she sent Jordan was demoralizing enough for him to shrink back, looking anywhere but in her direction. Good. She already had to deal with enough idiots. "Stop making it talk," she ordered. "You're going to…" Francine scrambled for a good reason, "ruin it." “Ruin it?” Robin looked from the suit of armour to Francine, then back again. “It’s hundreds of years old. I don’t think me touching it up a bit will ruin it.” “That’s exactly why you’ll ruin it. Who knows what could happen if you cross such old magic like that? What if you cause a suit of armor stampede?” She, for one, did not relish the thought of having to wrangle them back into place. Robin’s eyes lit up and he looked down at Francine with almost reverent delight. “Do you think I could? That’d be amazing. I actually bet I could, to be honest.” “That wasn’t a suggestion!” Francine was quick to clarify, her pitch increasing as she realized her mistake. Of course he’d take it the wrong way. “Stop thinking about it! Stop considering it!” Robin scoffed and then looked at Francine, his eyes still bright. He winked at her as he said, “Of course. I’ll stop considering it.” Then he caught Jordan’s eye and raised his eyebrows halfway up his forehead, an expression which clearly told the world he was going to do more than consider it. The suit of armour he still had his arm slung around would surely want to do it. It had been so long since they’d had a good outing. “Francine, you’re a good lass.” "Why?" Francine asked immediately, suspicion heavy in every second she drew out the word. "I mean, thanks, but why?" “For making me get rid of such a bad idea, of course.” Robin was still grinning at her, like he was overcome with her wonderful idea. Nothing good could come out of that grin. "Well, it's my job to make sure you behave yourself," she said slowly, almost waiting for his punchline. “That,” Robin said, with delight, “sounds a bit kinky.” He winked at her again, but this time far less innocently. “You can try and teach me how to behave if you want.” His friends were snickering and Francine, flushing, spared them one dark look before turning back to Robin and saying, “That is completely inappropriate and I’ll see you in detention, thank you." Robin scowled for a moment and then tried to wipe it off his face. It was much harder than he expected. “Oh, only because I love inappropriate detentions. You’re welcome, Francine. I hope you’ll be there.” "Sorry to disappoint," (she absolutely WASN'T, for the record), "but I'm SUPER busy that night." “I’ll come find you after, perhaps,” Robin made the suit of armour say. “We can raise an army.” Francine’s face scrunched in half confusion, half distaste. Was that supposed to be a euphemism? “Are you hitting on me through the suit of armor?” She asked, backing away a little. “No, I think he’s doing it all on his own,” Robin said, shaking his head, as if he were truly aggrieved. “You can’t keep him housed. We call him Randy Rodney. You should let him down gently though.” Robin shuffled slightly closer to Francine, dipping his voice as if he was about to reveal a great truth and then said, “You should know that even though he’s got a hard exterior he’s soft inside. Let him down gently, won’t you?” The only truly aggrieved person here was Francine. "Please don't ever say hard or soft in my presence again," she said, warned, really, as she pushed the knight of armor away from her with one hand. Robin had chosen that moment to let go of the suit of armour, grinning at his friends who were laughing back at them, all of them trying not to laugh too hard. Fracine didn’t like that. The suit of armour did not like being shoved without the support of Robin’s arm (who had also, admittedly, dislodged it from its usual stance). The force of her shove and the absence of Robin meant the suit wobbled for a moment and then collapsed onto the floor with a sound loud enough that it rang in Robin’s ears, a metallic clang which set his teeth on age as pieces scattered. He met his friends eyes and they also scattered, quicker than he would have expected. “Francine!” Robin exclaimed. “I can’t believe what you’ve just done!” "You provoked me!" Francine said defensively. “Oh Francine,” Robin said, his voice climbing higher as people burst around corners to see what the commotion was. He thought he speed a teacher. “What did you do? The armour wasn’t doing anything to you!” "I overestimated my strength," she tried to explain, although that didn't make much sense to her own ears. "Or, and actually this is much more likely, you did something to it so that it'd fall easily!" Francine was glaring at Robin now, alternating between suspicion and investigation, but her attention was broken by the growing crowd, who were whispering and pointing. Rolling her eyes, she turned around and snapped at them, "Go away! There's nothing to see here! Don't you have CLASSES?" “Yes, actually,” Robin burst out, laughter on his face and in his voice. “I do. I guess I’ll leave you with the clean up act.” He hitched his bag up his shoulder and stepped over the head of the suit of armour which had rolled far away from its body. “Cheerio, MF.” "It's Head Girl to you," Francine retorted instinctively, reaching for him and the rolling head at the same time, but unable to reach either at the same time. "And come back here!" A rush of people swarmed in the same direction then, pushed into action by her reminder of classes, and before she could pull Robin back, he was already gone. She kicked the detached leg away from her and vowed that whenever she saw him next, she'd issue him a detention. |