The afternoon had been plagued by the rotten combination of Transfiguration homework and a deluge of rain that seemed to come from nowhere, the storm clouds quickening across the otherwise openly blue sky to conceal the sunshine and begin its onslaught of terror. The rain had been lashing down on Scotland and laying siege to Hogwarts since well before lunchtime, forcing students of all ages back into the castle walls, the force of the downpour penetrating even the strongest of shields that sought to protect those below it from the damp. Much to his relief, Elliot Finnigan had been concealed within the castle when the heavens had opened and the water began to pebble against the windows of the library. He had been sat with Jasmine, he pouring over the set homework, she trying to hide her flask of coffee from the librarian who had long suspected that something was wrong.
Fifth period came and went, seeing most of the sixth years off to Herbology. Elliot lagged behind, deciding against attending the class and made instead for the Astronomy tower where he found a rowdy class of first years who were harassing the Professor about stars they could neither see nor had the experience to understand. It wasn’t until Elliot laid into them that they were finally stifled and their shouts were reduced to whispers and loud discussions were hushed so that the Professor and her most prized student could have a sensible discussion about the homework she had set his class and, also, so that he could turn his parchment in to her. Early. She was grateful but seemed to sense his weariness and Elliot could only look at her, smile wryly and admit to his inability to sleep soundly. She did not press him for a reason but instead accepted his words, cautioning him to sleep earlier and for longer lest he come down with a cold – or worse, Dragon Pox.
With this in mind, Elliot spent the last half of the period in the Gryffindor Dormitories, neither awake nor asleep but just conscious enough to not drop ash onto the bedspread. The silence of the dorm was soon disturbed by the rest of the boys and Elliot was unable to block out the clatter of shoes against the stone, books being dumped and bags being over turned in search of cigarettes or whatever else they had stashed in there. It was not long before his weariness grew into irritation and Elliot threw himself off of the bed, discarding the cigarette he had in the ashtray on his bedside table and plunging his feet into the canvas of his shoes, making quick work of lacing them up before grabbing a jumper and his scarf.
Ignoring the calls of his friends, Elliot made his way out of the Gryffindor tower. He could not sit and hear them waffle about their classes or inquire as to his location during the no doubt riveting lesson that was Herbology. No, he needed somewhere to go, somewhere to hide, and he knew exactly where that would be.
The Trophy Room was one of the few areas of Hogwarts that was left unmarked by the war. The dust that had settled there had been there for as long as the room had stood. Trophies and plaques and badges and names and faces all wore a layer of dust but beneath that an overwhelming sense of pride. There was one particular plaque that he had always been drawn to, the only one that seemed to have not been stood in the room for a millennia. There was the list of the dead, the injured and the survivors. His parents were on the latter two. His mother on the list of injured, hers being a scrape with the Werewolf Fenrir Greyback which was said to have left her heavily scarred though Elliot had seen no scars, and his father on the survivor list with a special commendation for his role in the Final Battle; the Battle of Hogwarts. It was this in particular that struck a chord with Elliot Finnigan. He doubted his sister had seen such a record and he felt a special connection with his father because of it.
Lifting his hand to the wall, the boy traced his finger along the sweep of the ‘S’ and he followed the curve of the other letters until his fingers had traced his father’s name. An involuntary sigh left the lips of the young man and he found himself acutely aware of the hole within him and the ache of mourning, of missing someone. A second sigh passed his lips and Elliot lowered himself to the stone floor, wondering whether he would have such an important role in history, whether he would one day be on one of the plaques that mattered; and whether, he’d matter at all.
OOC: Outfit!
by Peter Howard Sat Nov 03, 2012 2:48 pm
