Hello everyone. I know, I know, I promised that A History of Death would be the last peice in my story, but as someone who has been helping me work through it pointed out, I created a world full of problems and did nothing to solve said problems. Besides, I want to try something new, and I'm kind of wondering what you think of it. The second part should be up soon...hopefully. Buckle down. This might turn into a long one.
Blank Pages of a Lie
The dark haired boy in the red, gold, and black of Gryffindor House moves with liquid grace that his pinched-faced, fair haired counter part lacks. It's not that the boy in the green, silver, and black of Slytherin House is graceless, but his grace is of an aristocratic, haunty sort which pales to the other boy's smooth and continuous movements.
The dark haired one's face is cool, calm, while the other's face shows only frustration. He is losing, and they both know it. Their eyes are the exact same shade of grey, but the blonde's seem to be colorless. The dark haired one's eyes glitter like the icy snow on a sharp winter day, like the stars high in the night sky, and like the ripples on the lake at midnight. They burn with the self-righteous fury of a fallen angel.
When each had stepped onto the elevated stage in the center of the mad mass of students, they had approached each other from opposite ends with confident and strong footsteps. At the center they had bowed at their waists with their wands before them as custom demanded. The formalities of the occasion had been drilled into them since birth, but the dark haired one knew them best. Though they shared common blood, it was he who was of the line of Heirs, and as such was required in his youth to learn even the customs no longer acknowledged by most. Then both turned away and took ten steps away from the other. They waited a breath, turned, and raised their wands.
It had been then their duel began.
At first it had seemed as if the fair haired one had the upper hand; after all, it was he who cast the first spell. With a sharp cry in Latin, a shockingly purple energy blasted from his and, but the other boy simply flicked his wrist, and the magic dissipated. A wick and short sweeping motion sent the blonde tumbling backward a few steps.
Humbled, the blonde had returned to his feet. It was very apparent from then on just who was the better dueler.
The very way each moves demonstrates their skill! The blonde uses many snapping movements from his wrist as he casts. The brunette directs the motions of his wand from his fingertips, giving him more precise and quicker spells. His real talent is he casts all of his spells silently. It seems so natural, as if his body is merely a conduit for the magic. He makes the whole affair seem more a dance than a duel.
Around the raised stage and all around the Great Hall the stage had taken over the professors stand, waiting and watching intently. They knew the sort of magic the boys are capable of, and the magic the brunette is capable of is truly frightening to some of them.
The spells being cast are becoming increasingly more powerful, and proportionately more dangerous. Frustrated and a little embarrassed, the blonde snarls out a curse. For the first time in the duel, the spell connects with the dark haired boy. All the air leaves the boy's lungs as they collapse. Normally, this would end a duel since most wizards aren't capable of fighting entirely silently, but not the boy. Since he isn't using verbal spells, he can continue. His wand snaps quickly in a slash-like manner, and the blonde's extremities begin turning to stone. Before he can even think of a counter-spell, it spreads up his arms, freezing him in place.
The dark haired boy, however, knows the counter-spell to the hex plaguing him, and a simple swish of his wand allows his lungs to expand again. He has won the duel.
The gathered mass of pupils brakes into applause. Mixed in the bunch are a few in the same colors as he whooping in shared victory while others in the same colors as his opponent hiss out their displeasure. All, however, are amazed.
"Is this the best they could offer?" the dark haired boy murmurs too quiet for any to hear. Another flick of his wand reverses the spell, and he returns his precious instrument back to its special place inside a special pocket in the left sleeve of his robe. As the blonde's flesh returns to its normal state, he is already making his way off the stage and into a gaggle of his compatriots in red, gold, and black. He receives signs of approval from many—a thumps up, a clap on the back, shrill whistles, and more besides. A few even beg for him to teach them the art of dueling.
He finally stops beside a boy with the wildest, most uncooperative of hair and thin, round glasses. The green eyed boy offers him a smile and a nod, to which the dark haired both returns. From the other side of the crazy-haired boy a girl with frizzy hair and a smug, "I-really-do-know-it-all," sort of face frowns. She does not trust the dark haired boy, and she has more than enough reason to.
A boy with flaming red hair and more freckles than imaginable laughs and claps the dark haired boy on the back before laughing, "Maybe you should offer lessons! Maybe we'll learn something then." He winks at the crazy haired boy as he says this, and they indulge themselves in the joke.
Many pairs of eyes are on him, but the dark haired boy feels two in particular—the amberish eyes of a werewolf and the blackish eyes of a man, both of whom once meant the world to him, but now only invoke feelings of rage and abandonment.