not so hot date

[Kaleb Austin]

In Laurent’s absence of 24 hours or less, Kaleb has had a long time to think.

Their prior engagement and sudden meeting has left him in nothing less than a twist. He recalls his methodologies, his opinions on people, his connections – or, rather, disconnections – to others and likewise how this all shapes him in the big way of things. Kaleb doesn’t even know what to call Laurent, and that in itself has him backwards – that he means to call Laurent anything but an acquaintance at all.

A part of him suggests that he should simply bail, but the more curious half bids him to stay where he is, by the stove. He’s early for their engagement – or so he assumes, considering he hasn’t seen hide or hair of Lark yet. Suppose he doesn’t show up at all? It’s not like they arranged a specific time or anything, right? Embarrassing, but not really, considering Kaleb hasn’t explicitly revealed to anyone that he is in the kitchens specifically to meet someone. The house elves are starting to grate on his nerves, however, and he bites a bit harder into the bagel he’s ingesting as a few of them peep back and forth to eachother.

Something about him not meant to be in the kitchens at such an hour, perhaps? It’s a possibility, not that Kaleb particularly cares; he cares about as much for the opinions of stupid house elves as he does for muggle politics. All incredibly boring things with little to no meaning – a habit he’ll perhaps have to kick before he becomes minister.

He sucks on his teeth a bit in order to rid himself of the stupid thoughts bonking back and forth in his head and stares at the door. Where is the Gryffindor? There’s almost a sense of anxiety rising in his chest at the idea of being stood up. Oh, stood up. What an absolutely pitiful use of words to his situation, he reflects. His eyes lift to the heavens in the form of an obvious roll, and he sighs through his nostrils like the bull he often reflects before folding his arms across his chest and pressing the yeasty surface of the bagel to his lips.

What a waste of time this all is. He could very well be out in the gardens himself causing his own entertainment, but his feet for whatever reason refuse to let him wander with the inkling that Laurent may step into the kitchens the moment after Kaleb has left. And then what? Kaleb crinkles his nose; what is he even worried about, hurting the stupid Gryffindor’s feelings?

It’s unlike himself to be concerned, particularly for someone who is nearly a stranger: then again, you tended not to know a stranger’s deepest fears. His head falls back to the night prior; the boggart doppelganger of his fresh acquaintance. To Kaleb, this only read as Laurent being scared of his own self; naturally Kaleb is curious, but he can think of no way to question it without having to ask directly. With this would likely be the turn-around – the asking of Laurent’s end. Why the dead little girl crawling to you from behind a cabinet?

The thought chills Kaleb, and he sets down his bagel with a renewed lack of appetite.

Watching the elves clear it away with his clear disinterest toward it, he thinks about his younger sister. Kaleb himself is increasingly attentive to the going-ons of the wizarding world: he has to be. The stunt at the Triwizard Tournament the previous year is still fresh in his mind as it is in anyone else’s. From the claims made by one Harry Potter to the counter-accusations against him, the whole situation leaves a bad, unsettled feeling in his gut that makes him want to withdraw his insights to his future career choice entirely.

At the back of his mind, for a moment, he wonders what Laurent thinks about this. Instantly he retracts the statement even if it is just an inner thought; who cares what Laurent thinks? Looking perplexed, he finally takes a glass of water from the house elf ogling him from his left and takes a long sip from the rim. He finally glances at the clock before sighing through his nose and deciding that he will linger for only exactly fifteen minutes longer and then be on his way. He doesn’t need to see Laurent tonight, anyway; there’s a million other things he could be doing. Snagging late-night wanderers, or taking a bath in the prefect loos, or wandering the castle – alone.

Twisting his expression into almost a pout, he swishes the water in his glass around violently in thought before swigging the entire thing back and tossing it to an elf in silence.

[Laurent Griffith]

Dungbombs. Why was it always dungbombs?

First years were naturally skittish, unruly specimens of society. Laurent, having been one not too long before, knew first hand what it was like to arrive at Hogwarts. The impression he'd gotten was still a heavy image in his head. Truthfully, he could think of no other place that could stand up to the power and majesty of Hogwarts, a school with a reputation older and grander than even Beauxbatons.

Still, why were so many first years making fools of themselves right off the bat? It was only the second night and already Laurent was up to his chin in sorting out troublesome eleven year olds. As it was, he was currently making grand, firm gestures at the mess a pair of Hufflepuffs had made [seriously, Hufflepuffs?]. The two were cowering like wet kittens and Laurent was finding it harder and harder to keep up a stern face. He knew those looks he was getting: he'd used similar ones on all his sisters and mother over the years. Now he knew exactly why they had been so effective. Really, whomever had decided he'd make a good prefect was rolling in pixie dust. "OH. Quit it already, I'm not going to breath fire at you! Get back to your dorm-room and stay there. See if I don't sick Filch on you next time you're out after hours."

The pair squeaked loudly and set off at an impressive rate, high-tailing it for freedom. Laurent figured that since they were first time offenders that a warning would suffice. He questioned whether or not he should have deducted house points, but he didn't want to ruin their next six years either. Losing house points for a Hufflepuff was a tragic affair: they'd be shunned, most likely. Which was downright hilarious, considering that house was full of guppies and weak-willed cream-puffs. ...Not that he had much room to say anything, considering he'd just let off a few rule-breakers without any form of punishment. Lark sighed, losing steam. At least he had time to run by the baths before going to-

-a massive grandfather clock boomed beside his head as he walked by. Lark jumped, whirling to stare at the twelve-point face as the hour rung, each gong reverberating in his chest. Once, twice, three times, four...

As the chimes died away, Laurent's memory surged up and swept him away. He stood absolutely still while images took his conscious mind for a magic carpet ride back through time. The lake's cold waters. A sneer on a dark face. Arguing, a feeling of subdued laughter. A spell drying his body. The press of a wand into his chest. Staring into a foggy mirror and holding a small magic device. Staring into the eyes of a bloody girl. A demanding voice, pushing hands. His own face, melting away, revealing bone. The hallway stretching on forever, glancing back once for some reason.

"BLOODY HELL!"

He hadn't forgotten. He hadn't, really. To be factually correct, Laurent had been on his way to the kitchens earlier when a series of noises had tipped him off for something being afoot. For the past fifteen minutes, he'd been tracking down the mischief makers - following the smell mostly. His thoughts had been on nothing else all day ever since waking up. The night before felt much like a dream [possibly a nightmare], of which Laurent couldn't make heads or tails of. Kaleb was the strangest Slytherin he had ever met. Not so much that he was different from what everyone perceived a Slytherin to be - cold, poised, subtle, cunning - but for reasons Lark was only just beginning to decipher. His encounter with the older boy had taken him from one end of his emotional spectrum to the other. One moment, he had reason to hate the boy. The next, they were acting like friends off on a grand adventure. But then the other teenager had witnessed something both ghastly and unspeakable. On the other hand, Laurent had spied an equally private, terrifying secret.

That girl had been in his dreams after finally drifting off. She, and Kaleb, had both been in his dreams, standing side-by-side with his boggart doppelganger. That was all Laurent remembered, since the contents of his dreams had mostly faded away when he'd woken for breakfast. Throughout the day, he'd been captivated by the unknown surrounding his and Kaleb's encounter with one another and that blasted boggart. Kaleb stirred uncertainty on all levels: had he told about what he'd seen? Would he inform the headmistress of his late-night swim? Were the two of them... friends? The whole scenario struck Lark as implausible. Then again, was it so inconceivable to start a friendship after what they'd been through. Certainly Kaleb had to be having similar thoughts, right?

Trying to reassure himself, Lark hustled downwards, heading for the kitchens. His badge was pinned to his light gray sweater, which he'd worn under his robes during the day. His jeans were faded at the knees, but his trainers were new and white. Every so often he slowed to check for possible obstacles - like Peeves, again - but he ended up arriving at the portrait of a fruit bowl without trouble. A little flushed and breathless, Laurent stared hard at the picture for several long seconds. Hesitance and trepidation rose in his chest, tightening like a vice around his throat. Pulling on the silver ring in his lower lip, he reached out and tickled the big pear. There was a giggle and then Lark was walking into the kitchen, a canny narrowness about his eyes.

Tension fled from him the moment he laid eyes on a familiar figure lounging against a kitchen counter. As he watched, Kaleb threw a glass at an unfortunate house elf, whom craftily caught it without much effort. A grin ghosted across his lips and his gait grew smoother as he crossed the room to join the older student. It took a minute for him to find something to say - the only part of the night he hadn't speculated about. "Don't take this the wrong way, but... I'm, uhm, relieved that you're here. That is, I thought maybe you might have... decided not to come." He grinned sheepishly, shrugging, "or, y'know, thought that jinxing second years might be more fun..."

A tiny shifting of his weight from one foot to the other. Pale green optics rose, meeting Kaleb's candidly, "...Sorry for making you wait, Kaleb." He finished, hoping to whitewash any aggravation his presumed tardiness might have caused. He couldn't recall a set hour for their rendezvous, but Kaleb didn't strike Lark as a particularly forgiving individual.

[Kaleb Austin]

With his eyes rising to see who’s decided to make their way through the portrait’s way, Kaleb can’t help but think that Laurent looks a bit unsettled. All at once, for all Kaleb knows, this could very well be his normal look; it’s not like Kaleb has anything to go by, and considering the level of nonchalance for his immediate appearance Laurent has taken the night before, he may carry a dishevelled look to him all the time.

Ah, the night before. It almost feels like a year’s time has passed; in all honesty he was half expecting an entirely different person to stroll through that very doorway. The grin he poses once the recognition sets in shoots Kaleb like a hex, though he doesn’t let it pass over his face. He heatedly wonders what it is about this kid who’s so surprising; he’s got some obnoxious qualities of his own brother, though Morgan is a fiery individual with a quick temper that it is clear Laurent definitely does not have.

Sucking on his teeth a bit to contain his unsettled curiosity, he straightens up from the counter and looks down on the other teenager as he begins to chirp up. What he says strikes Kaleb even more than the stupid little grin he is still sporting. The way he’s acting now reminds Kaleb instead distinctly of his sister; he can practically see Laurent with his hands clutched behind his back, smiling shyly and digging one toe into the kitchen floor as he sways innocently back and forth. The image makes him nearly nauseous from the comedy behind it and he rights himself by averting his eyes to stare at a house elf for only a moment before meeting his icy stare back with Lark’s fresh, green one.

“You sound like a young girl on a first date,” he says blatantly after a long pause. The set expression makes it hard to tell if he’s serious, but a subtle glint in his eye may or may not release the comedy he finds in the whole ordeal. If he was a bit more open, he might have half a thought to demonstrate the hilarious image festering in his head in a form of mockery – but, unfortunately, he is not quite at that level.

Even then, he finds himself staring Laurent down after his statement. Laurent is looking up at him with bigger eyes than even Lucy can muster, and, put off, he squints some to deflect the doe-eyed stare and side steps to put a bit of distance between them.

What are they even to be doing this evening? The thought to check the room they found the previous night seems to have slipped his mind even as he descended from the common room earlier. He doesn’t see how this fact will disrupt their plans, but it does leave them without an escape route if it turns out that it is, in fact, missing. What are they to do, run out onto the grounds?

It’s feasible, but still almost stupid. Then again, so is walking into a room that could very well trap them forever, he muses. Kaleb stares down at an elf as it approaches, and he raises an eyebrow; this one is a girl and looks uncannily like his own family’s elf servant, but he says nothing about this thought. She fortunately dodges Kaleb after he glares icily at her and passes to approach Laurent instead with the plate of goods in her hands.

“Would sir like any pastries before he goesies?”

Kaleb rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his chest and turns his head to stare Kaleb down finally now that he’s gathered his thoughts.

“Did you have any explicit idea in mind when you decided we’d be running around like headless pixies at all hours of the night again?” he asks, moving to stand beside him as opposed to across from him. Not having to breathe down on the Gryffindor is extremely relieving. “Are we going to the room, the garden? Or perhaps you’d like to take a romantic stroll by your beloved lake? Unless you’re keen to hunt more boggarts,” he says finally, and this is when he strikes Laurent at last with one of his token gazes that send ice into many souls, and even Laurent in the past.

It’s a practised look, one that seeks truth, and he doesn’t let it slide out from under him as he looks at Lark from one eye to the other. Perhaps he won’t be able to dig answers out of Laurent so soon, but he’ll be damned if he won’t try. It’s not as though he’s been strutting around telling the idiots in his house that an ickly bitsy fifth year Gryffindork is scared of his own bloody shadow. Allowing his tongue to slide over his finely cut teeth, he only then turns his predatory stare from Laurent and begins to head for the kitchen’s opening.

[Laurent Griffith]

Laurent wasn't sure whether to be proud or dismayed: he'd made Kaleb uncomfortable, somehow. Nor was he positive that was the right term to address the Slytherin's actions. Perhaps he really did find Lark annoying and exchanging eye contact was a step too far. That thought crossed Lark's mind for all of two seconds when Kaleb reversed everything and finally looked at him - as if he'd come to a conclusion sorts.

'A girl.' Stunned, but not angry by this stub, Laurent lifted both brows. Pressing his lips together to deter what might have been a laugh, the blond calmly slid his hands into his pockets. "Right. Because this is obviously such an occasion that requires dating etiquette. I'm thrilled I passed your ample scrutiny." Laurent countered, almost managing a dry tone. He couldn't keep a tremble of hilarity out of his voice - had he really come off that way in Kaleb's eyes? Or was honesty so uncommon to the older teen that he'd mistaken it for coyness? Laurent wouldn't disagree that he tended to be shy upon initially meeting someone -

- of course, he'd lost the chance for that first impression. Although he and Kaleb were on a level playing field now, Lark had unwittingly reverted back to his old habits. Curiously, Lark angled his head to watch Kaleb move away. Either his eyes were playing tricks on him or his new acquaintance disliked both closeness and having no authority over the evening. The night was a blank slate upon which anything could be writ - and therein could lay the source of the discomfort Laurent had spied in Kaleb's tensed state.

Oh, and maybe the whole "acting like a girl" bit. Whatever that meant, since Laurent was at an utter loss for what he'd done to earn such a comment. Was timidness the new means of flirtations nowadays? Kaleb didn't strike him as a playboy of any kind, but they weren't friends either. Laurent knew Kaleb as far as he could throw him. Contemplating the variables, Laurent smiled as one of the kitchen's numerous elves skittered up to him. "Would sir like any pastries before he goesies?" She asked of him, blatantly ignoring Kaleb for some reason. Reminded of what he'd seen earlier, Laurent shot his companion a short glance before smiling toothily at the female elf.

"Yeah, actually. Oh, brilliant, y'have cream dumplings. Here, Kaleb, treacle tart." Lark said whilst perusing the heaped plate of goods. Snatching the tart, he boldly grabbed one of Kaleb's hands and plopped the sweet into his palm. Grinning faintly as he collected a few for himself, Lark took a cloth napkin offered to him by another elf. "Thanks Prinny. Gruss." He said cheerfully, straightening up with his assortment of goodies. Prinny, the girl elf, flushed and bowed while backing away, Gruss trotting after her and awkwardly trying to wave while walking sideways. Pleased, Lark took a polite bite as Kaleb spoke up. His eyes shone with good humor as he chewed and mulled over Kaleb's questions.

Silence was maintained for a long minute. Despite the warmth of the kitchens, a coolness has settled over Lark's skin like a blanket of ice. His gaze, unwavering even under the severity of Kaleb's, grew distant as he dully remembered the blank horror he'd experienced barely twenty four hours past. It wasn't an accident that Kaleb had mentioned the boggart. Merlin, he wasn't stupid. If he'd been thinking about the boggart's chosen forms all day, it was a good bet Kaleb had done the same! He didn't have to rub it in, 'or does he? Why hasn't he just asked already? Unless he's scared I'll do the same. Gosh, this is idiotic. Worse, we're practically strangers and mortal enemies by house standards... never understood this bloody rivalry business.'

Awareness returned slowly, rising from Laurent as if he'd broken through to air after being underwater for too long. Gritting his teeth momentarily, Lark's stare grew stronger, poised. "I'm more keen on a drier evening myself. I'd thought you'd had enough of the dust and cobwebs, but if you're set on uncovering a few secrets, let's have at it." He replied firmly, not batting a lash as Kaleb licked his chop like a wolf before a lamb. At once, Kaleb began to leave and Laurent was quick to catch up with him outside the portrait door. His napkin of goods clutched in one hand, he let out a silent breath as the door closed behind him.

Kaleb wasn't going to leave the issue alone. He knew it right down to his bones. This Slytherin had already glimpsed something Laurent tried with all his might to keep hidden. A weight of responsibility and wariness settled onto his shoulders, but his smile was unperturbed as he followed Kaleb down the hall. "So from the sounds of it, you don't have any grand plans. Good, because I don't either. Unless you fancy something... off grounds." Twin curves of fine blond hair arched into a playful, meaningful expression. Lark hadn't forgotten the near-miss with Kaleb threatening to turn him into Chant. Frankly, it was peculiar that the Slytherin hadn't done so - he was renown for being uptight with rules.

However. There was always a 'however' with these types, no matter how thick the ice ran in their veins. Lark slowly devoured one of his puffs to let Kaleb stew over what he was suggesting. After all, he hadn't broken any rules by mere suggestion. From what Laurent had witnessed in one night, Kaleb was, at heart, not the straight-laced, abide-by-rulebook individual he played himself off as. There was a tiny, TINY sliver of normal in this Slytherin: he'd seen it first hand. Green eyes watched Kaleb with heavy curiosity, lids half-flagged. "...Is that explicit enough? Or would you prefer a romp in the Forbidden Forest first?"

[Kaleb Austin]

Treacle tart. Really. The pastry is leaving a sticky square in Kaleb’s palm. He was certain that his scuttling out of the kitchens to deliberately avoid the house elves was rather clear in terms of his want for any kind of pastry, but evidently Laurent is even more daft as the days – er, day – goes by. Has it honestly only been a day? The thought is almost painful to Kaleb. Then again, it’s not as though he’s stuck here with Laurent or anything – he’s chosen to be here. Strangely enough, it’s not even that he minds the Gryffindor’s company: it’s that he is so apt to somehow get underneath Kaleb’s skin that makes him question his own sanity.

Oddly though, it’s in part this fact that keeps him entertained - that, and also a number of other curiosities that keep Lark stewing around in Kaleb’s head over the course of the last day. If he wanted to, Kaleb could come up with any odd number of reasons why he saw a benefit in spending this extensive time with Laurent, coupled with the fact that he had promised to do so if the fifth year could successfully scare off their encountered boggart. He doesn’t even allow the idea that he may genuinely enjoy the other boy’s company to surface.

Taking a final bite of his pastry after he’s spent enough time listening to Laurent’s banter alongside their own footsteps, he cautiously peeks around a corner he knows Filch and his bloody cat are infamous for lingering around at this hour. Fortunately, lady luck seems to be on their side tonight, for there is no sign of the intimidating caretaker or Mrs Norris to be had.

Laurent seems awfully sassy tonight, and it stands out to Kaleb more and more as the other teenager goes on. With their voices dropped to whispers in their newly exposed environment, Kaleb can do little more than to look back onto Laurent’s visage in growing disbelief at his suggestive statements. Surely he can’t really be thinking up an idea that is so… well, stupid. But not, apparently he can, and Kaleb is finding himself a part of it. Whether this is his fortune or misfortune, Kaleb is not sure.

“You must be joking. There are spells that hex this place to France and back. Escape is impossible after hours. Even if it wasn’t, it’s not like there’s a great sense in going out. Haven’t you been reading the papers? They say that You-Know-Who is back, you know,” he says matter-of-factly. “Imagine a dodgy encounter with a death eater, or something of the like. Then what?”

His arguments aren’t even persuading himself, so how is he supposed to think he’s convincing Laurent? Honestly he can’t even see himself concerned with death eaters. Not that they aren’t terrible and terrifying, but it seems incredibly stupid for them to be making a base camp near Hogwarts, of all places.

Sighing melodramatically as he seems to acknowledge the emptiness to his own argument, he turns around to face Laurent again and places his hands on his hips.

“Well, perhaps we could fly..."

Even more ridiculous. There have been times where Kaleb has taken these kinds of risks on his own, but never with another individual - not even his brother. Sucking on his teeth deliberately, he stands with his back straight and arms folded as he stares down at Laurent and sighs.

"Where do you even plan to go? The three broomsticks? And suppose a professor is there taking the night off, what then?"

[Laurent Griffith]

The evening was slowly ticking away and the halls were empty. With the exception of the semi-sentient portraits following their every move, Laurent hadn't seen another soul since dismissing the Hufflepuffs to their dorm. Filch and his feline companion were strangely absent, but Laurent wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Muggles had the oddest sayings, but half of them originated from eccentric wizards and witches so it was oddly acceptable.

Lark could barely believe his own audacity. He felt that Kaleb's direct stares had something to do with his enterprising bravado. That wasn't to say that he had no backbone: the abundance of females in his house called for a certain hardiness and self-possession. It was challenging to carry over that tenacity into a public environment, and Laurent hadn't the opportunity to test himself in the past four years. Quidditch wasn't so much about personal mettle as it was skill and determination. Classes weren't a matter of courage but comprehensive skills. Did that mean he was weak? At least with the one-on-one business...

"I'm completely serious." He chirped quietly, keeping his tone hushed in case Filch was hiding behind a suit of armor. They were both prefects [by Kaleb's good graces], so the risk factor didn't sit on them so heavily as regular students. Kaleb's flat, no-nonsense tone drew a quizzical expression out of Laurent and he stared back at him with a tight mouth. The Slytherin must have a low opinion of him, to think him both stupid and ignorant without reservation. "...I hear more about Death Eaters than I care to. My father..." A stiff grin, proud and grim, "he's an Auror. Mum's in the Improper Use of Magic office. So, yeah, I hear things."

He didn't take his family history any farther. It was a pointless conversation, especially with every wizard being tentatively aware of the Dark Lord's return. Laurent avoided the fact as best he could, not out of fear for himself, but for his parents whom were closer to the issue than he, tucked safely away Hogwarts. "If it's really that worrisome -"

Lark cut himself off, head canted as he considered the fact Kaleb had just relented. The lack of arguments after the initial disagreement was curious. Wiping his fingers on his napkin, Lark paused as the word "fly" hit the air. Incredulous eyes shot to Kaleb's face, searching it for traces of ridicule. He might have heard a bit of hesitation or uncertainty, but his ears were afire with disbelief. "You fly?" He blurted, failing to retract his shock in time. Clearing his throat, ears red, he shoved the napkin in his back pocket. For numerous reasons, he couldn't visualize Kaleb on a broom. Maybe it was because the bloke was so neat; getting his hair mussed by the wind? No, he couldn't see it. Now that flying had been mentioned, Lark's blood fired up. Impossible or no, Kaleb had suggested his favorite method of transportation and he wasn't going to let it go.

"...There. Or the Hog's Head. Whichever has a good seat near the back wall." He replied with a sure nod. It was hard to keep the excited feelings in his chest out of his voice. Seeing that Kaleb was looking for assurances, he smiled crookedly, "There's... methods, to this sort of subterfuge. We'll be fine - you've got a keen eye, after all." He added, referring momentarily to Kaleb discovering his "hidden" clothes the night before. "Anyways, brooms. You keep yours on the Quidditch pitch?" He inquired, seeing as that was where he usually kept his in the broomshed.

Since Quidditch season hadn't started, his was currently resting in his bedchamber. "...mine's back in the dormitory. I can get it and meet you..." Where to meet? Outside was a good idea, with less light and fewer eyes to keep on the lookout for. Maybe one of the unused towers?

[Kaleb Austin]

Kaleb rolls his eyes at the asking of his flying. Of course he flies. Who didn’t? Come to think of it, Kaleb isn’t sure he wants to know anymore. One thing that does stand out from their conversation is the tidbit on his parents’ occupations – worthy things to keep in mind. Soon, Kaleb would be their superior. He would tell them what to investigate, what to do. He would run the whole business.

Uh. That’s not what he’s focusing on right now though. Right.

“Of course I can fly. What bloody wizard can’t?” he states finally, obviously not seeking an answer. He turns his head back at the mention of their choice in locations. Already, unwillingly, he is mapping out escape routes from both locations. It’s likely that they could detour around back or through the wood to perhaps hide behind the shrieking shack in situation of an unscheduled ambush. If they’re fortunate, perhaps any teacher who notices them will be too drunk to really notice that they’re not supposed to be there.

That’s unlikely, though. His worst fear, really, is that they run into Headmistress Chant. She’s still young, isn’t she? Maybe. Kaleb curls his lip a bit in thought before glancing back at Laurent and raising an eyebrow at his squabbling over his broom. No, having him sneak around will take too much time. Kaleb sighs and pats himself down; he has all of his necessary belongings, down to his wallet – but that’s just sensible things one would carry with them. With no desire to waste any more time lingering in the corridors, he waves his hand at the other boy somewhat; if he’s excited to fly, he can’t be that terrible. Actually, if his memory permits, isn’t Laurent on the Gryffindor Quidditch team? That’s a bit more comforting.

“No, we shouldn’t waste anymore time. I have a couple. You can borrow one of mine.”

Not that he’s particularly rich enough to have a wide selection of brooms or anything; no, rather, his siblings and himself share a few among themselves. Typically only his brother and sister use them, but Kaleb can fly, just not as well as the other two children in his family. Being that his parents are the ones responsible for the new and trendy fashion in broom design and function, however, it’s not surprising that they have the top quality in broomsticks. The three toss between them two Firebolts and a Firebolt 2.0, a broom only freshly released into the market that year. The pioneering his family has done for the industry is something he doesn’t often boast about, but many would likely catch interest in the topic.

Not Kaleb, of course.

“We might as well just take the Firebolts. Unless you feel skilled enough to ride the 2.0, that is. You’re on the team, aren’t you? My brother and sister play for Slytherin and Ravenclaw, respectively,” he notes, seeming less than humble as he passes through the front doors with caution and the assumption that Lark is on his heels. Peering over the yard, he is relieved to see that no one is around that will cause them trouble, and passes through the gardens hastily down toward the Quidditch shed where the brooms are in their keep.

“My parents make them,” he states finally, almost in the form of a sigh when he realizes the question to the newest model in the hands of teenagers are probably on the tip of Lark’s tongue. “It sounds like fun and games until you end up being their test rider. So many broken bones last summer…”

Stepping into the shed and holding the door ajar enough for Lark to slip in after him, he turns to his family's stock and tugs his own broom off of its stand before gesturing to the remaining pair as he mounts it and pats himself down some to ensure that his belongings are on tights.

"Hurry up, would you?"

[Laurent Griffith]

Laurent gave Kaleb a wide-eyed look, eyes crinkling humorously. "You'd be surprised. My sis Florence is scared of heights. Won't get on a broom t'save her life." He replied with a good deal of satisfaction, shrugging impishly afterward. In truth, it was something of a small delight that he was going to get Kaleb up in the air. The older teen was satisfied with his authority down on the ground, in charge of all the little squirts running through the halls. Up in the air, though...

That was Lark's domain. The clouds and stars were pathways, dotting together pieces of a world he could look down upon from thousands of feet in the air. He's silent as Kaleb mulled over the choices given him, energy already vibrating in his body from head to toe. Lark wasn't the kind of fellow to give "what ifs" too much consideration if they didn't involve him directly - call it self-centered, but all teenagers were allotted a bit of selfishness. Thoughts jumping around wildly, Lark had to take a slow breath to collect himself. Kaleb spoke: Lark nodded, struck by both confusion and exhilaration. A couple brooms? As much as he liked his broom, Laurent wasn't about to make a needless trip all the way up to the dormitory.

Trailing quickly after Kaleb, he nearly trips down the stairs leading out to the quidditch pitch. Thankfully, he wasn't wearing robes or he certainly would have tumbled head over elbow. 'Firebolts?!' He exclaimed inwardly, fingers twitching at his sides. Hustling to keep up - cursing the few inch difference between them - he took in the family comments without a word. He'd met Morgan Austin before, played against him several times as a matter of fact, but it was news to Lark that there was a girl "Austin" too. "Sister?" He echoed thoughtfully, oblivious to the night-blossoming flora as the two of them passed through the gardens. Did that mean, the boggart had turned into... Kaleb's sister? His brow knitted, but the possibility fled from mind as Kaleb hurried on.

His question went unanswered. Heading into the broomshed, hot on Kaleb's heels, he caught his breath while the Slytherin went over to one of the storage racks. With that moment to steady himself, his head filled with questions. He bit down on his lip, keeping them at bay to the best of his ability. In the dark, his surprised flush is only another shadow across his white features. "I had no idea. That's brill, Kaleb. No wonder Morgan's got such a good broom. Kid's pretty unstoppable on the pitch too."

His remarks ended there, much to Lark's bottled frustration. It was the biggest surprise of the night to hear that the people responsible for one of his greatest joys were Kaleb's parents. Fascinated, he looked on in awe as Kaleb mounted one of the Firebolts. Swallowing, he swiftly took one of the others [nearly choked to see the big ol' 2.0 on the handle] and expertly slid into place. A grin was fighting hard to swallow his face; nodding to Kaleb once as a warning, he took to the sky.

Took off like a rocket, more like. It was ten whole seconds before he managed to remember that Kaleb wasn't a Quidditch player like himself. His laughter was small in the enormity of the night, but his boyish exuberance was clear when he came zipping back to Kaleb. "Keen, bloody keen. I've been on a 'Bolt a few times, but this... this is amazing. Your parents are amazing." He said, two steps short of gushing outright. Chuckling at himself, he laid admiring fingertips on the broom's handle. A soft sort of sigh left him and he met Kaleb's eyes in the dark as they floated beneath a half-moon. "Let's go, yeah?"

- - - The flight was short, considering Hogsmeade could be gotten to on foot. They were black streaks, flying over the still waters of the lake, skirting the edges of the Forbidden Forest and heading down toward the train station. Laurent, glancing over his shoulder for Kaleb, used a hand signal to indicate his descent. The Firebolt 2.0 responded like a dream, heading to the ground in an effortless curve. Even someone like Florence would find flying a breeze on that broom. Laurent met the ground on light feet while the broom floated at his side. Smoothing down his sweater, he glanced around him - he'd landed by the Shrieking Shack, where they could stow the brooms without fear of them being found.

[Kaleb Austin]

The flying is not so smooth for Kaleb, considering both his dislike for the sport and the fact that he doesn't invest enough of his time in it to keep up with Laurent without risk of crashing. This in mind, he ends up circling the blond a couple of times before he finally descends beside the shrieking shack alongside him, trying not to look too exasperated as he brushes himself off and smooths his hair to a level of Kaleb-acceptable.

Sniffing indignantly, he glances around before up at the shack. It's years of misuse leave it dusty and dilapidated, two of Kaleb's least favourite things. This hasn't stopped him from treading through abandoned rooms and buildings in the past, naturally, but the idea that their brooms will be resting in there for more than two seconds tugs strings in his head in ways he doesn't want to share.

None the less, he nudges Laurent with the nose of his broom as it hovers at seating-level, guiding the Gryffindor curiously to the back. There's a break in one of the wood panels that is just wide enough for the two boys to slip through. Kaleb thanks Merlin for his weight (or lack thereof) as he pushes into the realm of Shrieking Shack interior, unimpressed to not find a ghost or ghoul staring back at him. Rather, there is just blackness all around, and the vacancy makes it feel safe enough to leave these here in hiding, even if it's just for a short while.

"We'll stick to the back alleys, then," Kaleb whispers after shining a beam of wandlight around the shack to double-check for any unwanted inhabitants; so far, so good. "Slide around the front near Wintercrown Street and then detour in order to look casual."

He pauses to turn his wand on Laurent as he gives him a domineering look, prodding him in the chest with the lit tip of his wand. "And if I tell you to run, hide, or follow me, you best listen, because I'm not going to save your bloody arse when you're seen by a professor or worse dawdling around Hogsmeade late at night! Also, take off your school robes. We don't want anyone ratting us out to the school while we're in their palms."

Feeling that his threat is enough, he slides past Laurent once their belongings are secure in the shack and begins guidance to their fresh journey.

Some comments on the awfulness of rats and the like later carries them past a couple of closed shops and to one of two bars open this late in the evening. Standing with Laurent by the front door of the Three Broomsticks, Kaleb puts on his best suave face and smooths his attire out. A Slytherin wronged is something to be accounted for, and it's perhaps with this demeanour that he guides them both into the bar without the beat of an eyelash. Not that he is particularly tough or anything, but the simple look he gives the server seems to be enough to stiffen him.

Guiding Lark to the table furthest to the back, he sits at a two-seat booth with enough of a curve to hide them and enough of an opening that they can view most of the bar and, especially, the front door. He seems to scout the bar more fully now that they are seated, and, with no familiar faces in sight, he reclines against the cushioned wall of the booth and taps a waiter down for two mugs of butterbeer. Always polite; even unnecessarily, if one will.

"So you got your walk, and a flight. And a free butterbeer," he adds airily, organizing the napkins on the table to a particular neatness. "Don't get your knickers in a bunch or anything. And if you don't like it, drink it anyway. We've got some fitting in to do."

The mugs thump down and once again Kaleb and the server exchange some deliberate stinkeye before Kaleb turns his eyes back to get a better look at Laurent. It's strange to see him in his civvies, but all at once, it must be odd in the reverse as well. Taking a long sip as he continues to stare Lark down, he goes over what he knows; his parents work for the ministry, Kaleb's future career choice. He is a damned good flyer. He smiles a lot. Too much, perhaps. No, an unnatural amount - or maybe Kaleb just doesn't that much? No, dammit - that's absolutely ridiculous. It's this kind of reverse logic that Lark is casting on him that he doesn't like.

What's worse is that Laurent isn't even doing anything. He's just sitting there! Seething beneath his emotionless exterior, he leans in for another long, warm sip of butterbeer before sighing through his nose and, for the first time in his life, giving up.

"Tell me more about yourself."

[Laurent Griffith]

"I know it's not ideal, but it's safe enough here..." Laurent commented as Kaleb finally joined him on the ground. Obviously the Shrieking Shack wasn't a place they could lock up. Nor was it exactly tidy or inviting to look at. Laurent spent a couple seconds to monitor their surroundings, as if expecting a mass of students to pop out of nowhere in their wake. A slight push brought his attention around. Guiding the 'Bolt along, he joined Kaleb inside the shack with a little bit of care around the splintered panels. The inside was as dreary as the outside; unperturbed by the grimy windows and bleak dimness, he carefully stood his broom alongside the other.

Peering through a window, a glow dashed into his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he spun to find the source. A wand tip poked him in the chest and he stepped back with a sharp inhale of breath. 'Why does he always do that?' Laurent wondered, brows furrowed as he stared narrowly back, blond lashes bright. The demands were met with a small grin, teeth grinding his lower lip minutely. "Got it, got it... Don't worry, Kaleb, I'm not as much trouble as I've been, 'though I don't have much to convince you with. Yet." He replied quietly, matching Kaleb's whispered tone.

He didn't dawdle tugging his arms out of his robes and winding them into a ball. Dropping them on a table missing a leg and a half, he trooped after the Slytherin into the September air.

Their walk was composed mainly of silence and Kaleb's sneering ventures into commentary. He added a few points about various homes, essentially naming half a dozen residents by first name, but said little else. His focus was on the alleys, the windows; he barely noticed the moment they reached the Three Broomsticks. Whilst Kaleb paraded through the bar with a truly cool disposition, the younger blond stayed a pace behind. Tugging on the hem of his blue sweater, he found himself seated and served within minutes of entering.

Lark failed to recognize any of the faces in the bar. Reassured, he settled in, casting a long look at the bar. He stirred from his concentrated stare as glass clinked and his nose detected a buttery, foamy aroma. Green eyes rested on the mug for a moment and then turned to regard Kaleb with a frank curiousness. "Mm... Guess I did. I think I'll hold off any thanks until we're done ignoring the rules." Lark smiled slowly, trying not to roll his eyes at Kaleb's antics. He snorted a light chuckle instead, amused. Perhaps conjuring a tablecloth would be a bit much, although he was tempted just to see the older teen's reaction.

Sighing to himself, he gathered the butterbeer close and took a long taste. Swallowing, he glanced after the server, wondering if he was imagining the eye-to-eye duel going on. Turning back to Kaleb to ask, he promptly forgot what he was going to say. Jaw muscle tensing, he tried not to fidget under the Slytherin's increasingly strong stare. He had no idea what Kaleb was looking for, nor what he was finding. So far, the pair of them hadn't had a moment to exchange words on a normal level. Now that the one on one scenario was set, Laurent was personally awash with mystification. Kaleb. Slytherin prefect, older brother to two strong individuals, a stringent and sharp-minded teen. But he was outgoing, too. There were many parts, but Lark couldn't begin to understand the whole of who Kaleb was.

His facial expression visually fell wide open as Kaleb punctured the silence with a straightforward request. Eyes closing, Lark gathered himself. Although caught off-guard by the question, he had expected a similar inquisition eventually. Kaleb liked detail, that much was clear. Lids peeling back, Laurent set a mild stare onto Kaleb. "I'm not particularly interesting... You know my main attributes already. Prefect - didn't expect it, but two of my sisters were too - I like Quidditch enough to be on the team." He took a moment to browse over what he'd said to Kaleb before, or what the Slytherin might know already.

His butterbeer was already warming his belly. Tapping the rim idly, he smiled to himself. "I haven't put much thought into my future, aside from passing O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s later. My parents have ideas, of course... I've got four older sisters." A laugh, a shake of his head. "Seriously, four. Ah, um, they kind of left their mark on me. I read more than my mates cause of them." Breathing out, he sent his gaze outward for a moment, checking the crowd. Glancing at Kaleb, he lifted gold brows. "You're ambitious. I can tell; it's plain obvious I'm not exactly your usual company... so what do you want'ta know?"

Of all the loaded questions: Lark couldn't have given Kaleb a bigger opportunity to ask whatever he wanted. Their surroundings were private enough, although one could never be sure who might be listening in or using magic to spy around. The beer helped mellow out any tension he was feeling, but his mind was keen, attentive to the risks he was taking. "Do I get to ask questions too? Or do I have to buy the next round first?"

[Kaleb Austin]

Their silent exchange of eye contact is masking the gears turning in Kaleb's head like an oxymoron, well and then entirely not at all. From a distance, Kaleb imagines that any outsider can plainly see that the two of them are silently judging eachother. He can see it in Laurent's mutual gaze, and he knows he's doing it himself.

The information he receives is all standard things and nothing he particularly seeks to keep in mind albeit the information about his family. Younger of two sister, he assumes - no, four, he is corrected. As the head child in his family he can't empathize the babying Laurent receives from his sisters, except perhaps from what attention Kaleb gets from his aggressively affectionate mother. He doesn't see how this relates to sticking to the books, but Kaleb doesn't inquire the matter further; he's not interested in Laurent's learning career, he's interested in his weaknesses.

He runs the tip of his tongue along the roof of his mouth as his eyes narrow a little bit. More things he's not interested - himself, primarily. He knows himself in and out, doesn't he? He dismisses Laurent's observations in order to maintain some level of cool, sipping the rest of his butterbeer down and summoning a server for another.

He's only asked one question, though already a loop seems to have been formed - a flowchart, if anything. Ask for information, receive something vage, continue to another tangent. It could go endlessly, but, at the same time, Kaleb supposes this is just how people keep general conversation. Oh, the possibilities if people were capable of following all of those tangents without any stalling...

"You had three questions to ask. You used them all up in the last ten seconds, making my previous statement your first answer."

His eyes don't leave Lark's face, even as the server sets down his second butterbeer, though his nonchalant expression has been twisted upward in a subtle, knowing smirk. He folds his arms at the wrist on the table and gives the wood a few rhythmic taps with his fingertips.

Let the games begin.

"I don't care what you buy or don't buy." He guards himself, peering at his nails levelly. They're unsurprisingly well kept like the rest of his person, and he runs his fingers back through his hair once he bores of their sameness and lifts his eyes back to Lark.

The third question is a bit more difficult. What does Kaleb want? A victory? Not really. There's no winning these games; it's continuous until someone loses, and even then, it does not stop. He takes a moment to reach for his butterbeer, lifting it to his lips and taking a long, deserving sip before setting it down and watching the foam fizz away at the surface of the beverage.

"You're strange."

The statement hangs in the air before he moves his gaze up again and reclines slightly in his chair. He crosses his arms against his chest as he does so and licks his lips clear of butterbeer flavour.

"A better question would be: what exactly are you willing to tell me? I could ask you a thousand things and never get the answer I'm looking for." Such as now, he thinks. "Or perhaps you're simply boring - but that would be rather disappointing."

He feels as though he ought to be shuffling cards as he speaks, but the need to occupy his hands is sated with his butterbeer once again. Finishing the rest of the glass, his expression falls back to its typical indifferent demeanour and he sighs through his nose indignantly.

"We have all night, whenever you're ready."

[Laurent Griffith]

"Oh bother..." Laruent grinned, landing his chin into his palm with his elbow propped on the tabletop. Already Kaleb was trying to Sheppard him into a pen. He could appreciate the other teen's quick wit, capable of domineering any unobservant conversationalist. There were very few occasions when Lark paid over-much attention to the words spoken between himself and others. Gryffindors weren't known for intelligent bantering.

His butterbeer was almost half gone when Kaleb's second arrived. Maybe Lark was too young to care yet, but he didn't feel pressured to keep up. He did like the taste, though, and promptly took a series of sips from his frothy mug. Green orbs maintained a calm, almost humorous stare with Kaleb's. A flicker of interest flew to the Slytherin's mouth; ah, there. Laurent's eyelids grew heavy, almost lazy. Unconcerned, he summoned a thin, toothless smile.

'You're strange.' Well, he hadn't expected that level of honesty.

He crossed his ankles, idly adjusting his grip on the handle of his mug. Old news: he couldn't count the number of people whom had used that term. His mother. His father. Sisters. Friends. Roommate. Quidditch captain. A handful of teachers. Ollivander, even. Had the Sorting Hat said it too? He couldn't remember that first evening with full clarity, so the likelihood was there. "I know."

A simple admittance. His expression didn't change, didn't waver. His curiosity, on the other hand, piqued. Why did Kaleb think that, he wondered. What made him 'strange' in the eyes of this Slytherin, aside from the obvious. Keeping silent, he waited for the rest of what Kaleb had to say. Leaning forward on his elbow, he lifted the butterbeer up and finished it off.

"True. You could. I'd imagine that'd bore you senseless, too." Lark commented softly, shifting his gaze the windows. Shapes and shadows passed by, but none stopped or moved to enter that bar. He glanced at Kaleb for a moment, held his stare, and then resumed people watching. "...you don't think so, though. For some reason, you have a reason to believe that I'm not... Boring, as you say." He remarked without any indication of arrogance or confidence. A statement, only, based on what Lark had found reading into Kaleb's responses.

Exhaling slowly, his chin shifted until he could look directly at Kaleb again. An alertness brightened his features, as well as a subtle eagerness from a yearning soul. Lark wasn't accustomed to this type of attention. "Tell you? I could also tell you a thousand, meaningless things about myself, if that's what you want. Such as, I hate pumpkin juice. Can't stand the stuff, so I usually drink excessive amounts of water." Laurent began, indicating for another beer from the server. It arrived moments later, as if Accio summoned. Nodding his thanks, he took a breath.

"I could tell you about my parents. My father was a relatively famous Quidditch player, which would probably interest your siblings. You, though... How's this: I'm left handed. Does that have anything to do with why I'm better at Transfiguration instead of Potions? Merlin knows stirring gave me trouble for the first three years." Was this utter nonsense? In a way it was, in other ways it wasn't. Like the "Lake" incident, these sort of details were easily overlooked by his friends. "My cat owns me, I think. She's part kneazle and only does what she's told when I ask nicely. Can you imagine? Blasted feline's more ornery than my aunt."

"...You never mentioned what you're looking for. Does that mean you don't know, exactly, what you want to know?" His chin shifted, canted cat-like. "I won't ask if I only get three questions each time, either. By the way, only the last part was a question, so I'll claim two more. Later. I need specifics to tell you anything useful. That's what you want, after all. Useful things. Why, I don't know, don't particularly care so much as long as I don't hear about it in Rita's column. Ugh, revolting woman."

The first sip was splendidly warm. Thank goodness he'd eaten all those treats. Blond brows hefted swiftly upward, indicating he was ready for Kaleb to speak. He licked foam from his lips, paused, and then let his eyes trail across the room once more.