Michael S. Corner | Ravenclaw (hg_corner) wrote in hallowed_ground, @ 2009-03-19 19:35:00 |
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Entry tags: | 1997: november, megan jones, michael corner, place: hogwarts |
Fuming Mad
Date: 10 November, 1997.
Characters Involved: Michael Corner and Megan Jones.
Locale: Hogwarts Ground, bordering the Dark Forest.
Private/Semi-Public/Public: Semi-Public.
Status: Open.
It came from Michael's lungs like fire in the darkness, rolling low with heated rage and then bursting forth explosively. The calm was gone, the English exterior broken for a briefly time. Michael needed this moment, or else he might just expire. With friends and acquaintances acting foolishly and getting themselves put in harm's way, Michael could only stand by and watch.
But now, bolts of icy force cut through thick branches, exploded solid granite and sent dewy grass spewing. Michael threw every hate-filled, atrocious curse he could think of- short of an Unforgivable- at the Earth, releasing his rage. He did it until his shoulders were heaving, his arms and will strained, his lungs gulping for air desperately. The problem is he could have done something. It would have been small effort to level his wand right between that fat grease ball's shoulder blades or at the back of Nott's pointed head and put them down.
But then what would have it accomplished? More suffering, more pain, more delight for that balding troglodyte running what was once a legitimate class. Michael was fairly certain- about three percent- that he'd done the right thing by staying his wand. He yo-yoed between the opinion that Jones, Longbottom, Macmillan and Finnigan had mostly brought it upon themselves, and the burning desire that completely understood what they had done.
Except it was all so pointless and stupid. It meant nothing. You don't win wars by challenging someone in open terrain of the enemy's choosing. All you do is look brave... or stupid. And sure, the Gryffindors were probably thumping their chests and declaring how brave a stand it was. The Slytherins were crowing their victory over their hated enemies and probably feeling emboldened to cause further suffering. But it was still pointless.
So, heaving breath, his knees muddied and cold as he knelt in the peat of the Dark Forest, Michael contemplated this. He let his facade of calm collection return as he drew slower, more methodical breaths and wiped the barest hint of frustrated tears from his eyelashes.
Persevere... won't be long now. he thought, standing himself up. He would be back to the calm onlooker, the dispassionate observer in just a minute, assuming no one managed to derail him.