Days Go by ((Ruben))

[Luke Dallan H7]

Luke rolled his head around in circles tiredly as he averted his eyes away from the bookcase. The library was more packed more than usual that day. He didn’t know if there was a huge test coming up, or the cold weather was making people concentrate more on their studies. Shrugging his shoulder, Luke looked back at the bookcase in front of him. His blue eyes scanned the spines, looking for the title of a transfiguration book that will help him with his homework. Even though Luke’s father wanted him to play Quidditch after Hogwarts, Luke had to question that idea. Yes, Luke had always dream of playing on a professional team, but what would he do after his Quidditch years? What is Luke wanted to do something else? Spotting the familiar title, all Luke’s thoughts disappeared as he reached out to take the book. Well, that didn’t take to long. Heading toward the desk in the middle of the library, Luke set the book down on the hardwood counter top. Madame Pince looked up at him, her glasses falling down slightly from her nose. “Well, Luke. Going to turn this book in on time?” she asked. Luke just nodded his head, smiling at the older woman. “I’ll make sure returning this book is on the top of my priority list.” Taking the book back from her, Luke left the library to the Hufflepuff common room. He needed to get a few things before heading outside for a regular walk around the court yard.

Unclasping the front of his shoulder bag, Luke set the book inside with all his other work, closing it back up. He was already heading up the stairs to the boys dormitory, where he entered the sixth year. There wasn’t anyone else inside. Most likely all the other guys were in the Student Lounge, or just somewhere around Hogwarts enormous castle. Setting the shoulder bag down on the bed, Luke took out a reddish sweatshirt, and a brown jacket. Salem’s eyes slowly opened as the cat yawned tiredly. Luke smiled, pulling both of pieces of clothing on over his green shirt, before giving the cat a rub under the chin. Opening the trunk at the end of his bed, Luke took out a round quaffle, closing the top before leaving the dormitory. It didn’t take him long to reach to the courtyard. It wasn’t all too cold outside, but cold enough to wear some kind of layers. Luke really didn’t mind the weather to much. He just liked to be outside in a place where he could just think or be by himself. Luke was a social person yes, but he like any other person, had some moments where he just wanted to be alone.

Throwing the quaffle up in the air, he caught it in his hands. He kept this up until the quaffle dropped to the ground, rolling down toward a bench. Luke watched the quaffle as it stopped in front of a younger boy’s feet. Chasing after it, he smiled at the boy who already was holding the quaffle. “Sorry about that. Mind if I have it back?”

[rubendocherty]

The castle was to drafty. Too big. To empty and lonely and stone. It felt like prison to Ruben, in the same sense as his mother's flat in Birmingham was prison (though cozier than his fortress, by far), and Ruben could not stand to feel imprisoned. He likes the fresh air of the grounds, the expanse of nothing but grass and rock and trees full of tittering birds (annoying though they often were). He needed fresh air, without the stink of cold castle stone and whispers reverberating throughout the corridors. Ruben Docherty was not a social creature, not like his brother. He hate those whispers, hated the feeling of always being watched. Roma were nothing like that. He missed living in a trailer, picking up and leaving when he felt like it. 'Pourqoui est-ce que nous dortons partir si souvent?' He used to ask that a lot. Why have we got to leave so often? And mum always said, 'Nous sommes hereux quand nous avons des vacances, non?' And dad always said, 'Un homme peut avoir ses vacances, non? Dieu, et mon droit.' And that was always the end of that.

The castle helped little in repressing these memories, and Ruben began to feel, as he always did when thinking of such things, the heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. Like every stone that made up the grand castle piled into one at the bottom of his gut. Sighing, he stood, hands in pockets, a thin book tucked under one arm. He needed fresh air. He needed the grounds, or the courtyard. The grounds, of course, were preferable. He loathed the idea of courtyards (you can't fence in nature!). The grounds, however, were packed to the bursting with students bustling over giant tomes full of information for whatever exam they were sitting following day. He shuffled off with his book, glad, when he finally reached the solitude of the courtyard, to be free of the activity of both the castle and its vast grounds.

His book, a slender volume wrapped in an embossed green cover, was an old copy of a potions text his mother had been fond of. It was old, most likely pathetically outdated by now, having been written in the mid-seventeenth century, and it was written in French. Chapitre Quatre read:

Pendant mes expérimentations, j'ai constaté que les propriétés de la solution craintive, tandis que semblable à ceux du mélange initial, mis à jour une uniformité presque gélatineuse.

Translating quickly in his head, Ruben read:

During my experimentations, I noted that the properties of the Shrinking Solution, while similar to that of the initial mixture, took on an almost gelatinous constistency.

Now to work out what this meant....

Well, obviously, whatever he had done during his experiment to the original Shrinking Solution, had taken on an -

'What the?'

Something had whizzed up, falling just short of his feet, landing with a muffled thump on the ground ahead. It was round and red, brightened by the surrounding grey weather. Setting his book carefully on the bench beside him, Ruben leant forward to lift the ball - a quaffle, he vaguely recognised, having very little knowledge on Quidditch.

“Sorry about that. Mind if I have it back?”

Appraising the older boy, as if to see whether he was worth the effort, Ruben lifted the ball gingerly and tossed it back, his skinny arms clumsy and unused to the awkwardness of the quaffle.

'Why should I mind?' he asked quizzically, raising his eyebrows. 'It's not mine, is it?'

((Pourqoui est-ce que nous dortons partir si souvent? = Why have we got to leave so often?
Nous sommes hereux quand nous avons des vacances, non? = We're happy when we have holidays, no (aren't we?)?
Un homme peut avoir ses vacances, non? Dieu, et mon droit. = A man can have his holidays, no (can't he?)? God, and my right.
Chapitre Quatre = Chapter Four
Pendant mes expérimentations, j'ai constaté que les propriétés de la solution craintive, tandis que semblable à ceux du mélange initial, mis à jour une uniformité presque gélatineuse. = During my experimentations, I noted that the properties of the Shrinking Solution, while similar to that of the initial mixture, took on an almost gelatinous constistency.

Hope that's okay. I didn't want to leave them untranslated. - Ivy))

[Luke Dallan H7]

Luke smiled kindly as the boy threw the quaffle back in his direction. Catching it squarely in his hands, he listened as the boy spoke. With a raised eyebrow, Luke threw the ball back up into the air. “Well I hope that this quaffle is mine.” When he caught it in his hands again, he turned the red ball over around in his hands. His blue eyes looked for the familiar marking of his hand writing. Spotting it, Luke looked back toward the boy, “Luke Dallan….your not Luke Dallan are you?” Showing the label to the boy, Luke began to play catch again with the quaffle by himself. “My dad has a thing about me writing my name on any of the Quidditch supplies. Anything new that I get anything new, he makes me put my initials on it. Though, I’m good at not losing things….well there are some days when I might misplace an essay or book for class.” This boy didn’t look like a first year, maybe a third, but most definitely not in the Hufflepuff house. He would have recognized him from the common room, or even at the table for any meals. “I’m Luke Dallan as the quaffle says. Sixth year Hufflepuff,” spinning the quaffle on the palm of her hand, it dropped to the ground again. “You are?”

Bending down to pick up the quaffle, Luke tucked it under his right arm from continuing to play around with it. Noticing that the boy had some work out in front of him, Luke looked down at the parchment seeing an unfamiliar language written down. “I didn’t know Hogwarts offered magical languages. Well, Ancient Runes is another language, but that involves magic with runes.”

[rubendocherty]

Ruben remained silent, eyes narrowed as he appraised the older boy. It was always best to be cautious around new people, aloof. Some thought him cold, distant even, and it definitely affected the rate he made new friends at, but this boy seemed interested. Even if it was only for a short conversation. 'Ruben,' he said finally, his voice soft, almost unhearable. 'Em, Ruben Docherty. I'm Ravenclaw, t'ird year....' He trailed off, staring at the grass now. Ruben of the Docherty clan, Ruben son of Maddock, son of Maria, brother of Malcolm and Deaglan - how many ways had he introduced himself before? In how many places? He knew his accent was queer, lilting in some places to sound almost Irish, rough when he was upset, like a Yorkshire, Scottish, Birmingham, London, South of Ireland, North of Ireland, West Midlands, Surrey. He was impossible to pin for one place. His "you" was "ye", "now" "nouw". His voice could be thick at times, when he was nervous. He could switch, too, without thinking on it, from accent to accent. Currently, it was a soft Dublin-type thing, which was an odd enough accent to begin with, and certainly distinguished him from the majority of the Ravenclaws.

'Erm.' He glanced at the papers in his hands, and the books sprawled at his feet. 'Tisn't a magical language at all. French, ye know. It's how t'ey all talk in France, Oui, oui, all that.'

He probably looked like an eejit now, if anything. Pity, but it could hardly be helped, could it? Of course not. Squaring his shoulders and hoping he wouldn't bore this new boy, he explained softly about the potions texts, and his father and mother both speaking French, among many things. They knew loads of languages, from loads of places. He said nothing of travels and Travellers, because admitting to things like that usual drew a wary eye, and ended the conversation rather quickly.