[PV] Fruit Punch

[Devon Fondatore]

【 devon fondatore 】
—1 september, 2025—@Euphemia Clemente—x

Devon sat on a bench, trying to keep his knee from bouncing. Every thud of his boot against the floor echoed too loudly in the vaulted Entrance Hall, and he was sure someone would notice.

Probably not, though, as there was still plenty of sound in the marbled rotunda.

Straggling upper years dragged their trunks through one of the doors, cats hissed as weird-looking dogs walked by, a few kids had brought out a deck of cards while waiting for... Well, he wasn't quite sure what they were waiting for, but he knew it was taking a long time, that he was hungry, and that whenever whatever was supposed to happen happened, it would be in the Assembly Hall. And he knew where that was because the headmistress pointed out the door. So that was nice.

He was so focused on the rhythm of his own knee that at first he didn’t notice the group gathering nearby him.

“…seriously, what’s your name again? It’s like, what, Clemetine?” A boy’s voice, mocking, pitched just loud enough for those around him to hear.

There was a thin laugh from another student next to the boy, then he pressed on. “Bet your parents just went shopping at the market, grabbed the first thing they saw, and said, ‘Oh, perfect, let’s call her that.’”

Devon lifted his head. The boy was picking on Effie, the girl he had spent his ride to school with (if you classify someone talking at you and responding with a few words "spending a ride with someone"). Devi tsked. She didn't even have a fruit in her name, just went to show that the boy had hearing problems or something. Idiot.

The boy leaned closer, grinning. “You’re gonna spend the next seven years hearing people ask if your brother’s named Banana.” His friends snorted at that, mean and sharp.

Something inside Devon went very still when he heard the group laughing.

His bouncing leg stopped. His fidgeting hands stilled. It was as if all the nervous energy he’d been fighting was suddenly gone, settling into something faintly familiar.

He stood before he realized it. He walked forward, his steps quick, steady. He learned more from his normal school than just maths.

The boy turned, smirk curling wider. “What’s this? Someone else feeling fruity-”

CRACK!

Devon’s fist landed before he finished the sentence.

The sound echoed through the Entrance Hall, just like the gasps that followed. The boy stumbled back, hand flying to his face, eyes wide with shock. The laughter died instantly.

Devon’s knuckles burned, but he didn’t say a word. Uh-oh. Punching someone was almost never good, but it absolutely was not good on the first day of school. At a wizard school. Where people can curse you or something. And you don't know anyone yet. And that's going to be your first impression forever.

Awesome.

Devi shoved his hand back into his pocket. Without a word, he turned and walked back to his bench. Sat down. Stared straight at the Assembly Hall doors as if he’d never moved.

[Euphemia Clemente]

I Don't Want To Make A Header.

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For a girl who had never been in magic school before, Penwick had seemed the perfect opportunity to make a friend or two. After all, she was willing to bet that wizard boarding school students were far more receptive to chit-chat than the muggle children in the towns where Effie had grown up. That's what pa had told her, at least, in between her grumbles about not being invited to classmates' birthday parties and not knowing who to invite to their crude holiday celebrations.

Before this, her luck had been less than stellar. She'd tried to talk to a boy on the way over, but he'd seemed less than receptive to her attempts. She didn't care about it too terribly much, because a part of her was still certain that he'd come around eventually.

It had started in the Entrance Hall. The floor was marbled, swirled with cloudy colors that reflected up into Effie's face like a polished mirror. Her face was set straight down, scanning the subtle cracks through the marble and watching her shiny black shoes.

As if on a tightrope, desperate to maintain her balance, Effie counted.

One, two, three...

Don't step off the swirlies. The light space is lava.

Her head smashed into the back of someone, broad and stood like a granite statue in the middle of the Entrance Hall. She straightened out, curls bouncing against her face like the floppy ears of a rich family's most spoiled beagle, tied in two teal ribbons above her ears. "Aw, man, I'm so sorry!"

The boy didn't seem so forgiving, but maybe he just had a funny way of expressing his forgiveness. If what forgiveness to him meant a sneer and an irritated twitch of his left eye when he turned around. "... what's your name, klutz?"

That was... a good sign? You asked for someone's name when you wanted to be friends. Effie brightened and stood straight, rocking back and forth on her feet with hands clasped smartly behind her back. If her Grandma Clemente were here, she'd have a fit about Effie's lack of offering her palm. "Oh! It's Effie. Effie Clemente."

The boy nudged his buddy, snickering and crossing his arms. "Looks like you have as hard a time dressing yourself as you do watching where you're going."

Huh?

Brows knit, Effie tilted her head to the side. "Sorry? What's up with my outfit?" A frown crossed her face. "I said sorry."

“…seriously, what’s your name again? It’s like, what, Clementine?”

Effie's cheeks felt hot to the touch, like one of the muggle lava lamps pa had brought home from town one day and blown up in their kitchen. Effie could remember the feeling of the glass from it lodging in her shoulder, how ma had screamed bloody murder and pa had felt so bad he cried (both for his daughter's cut arm and his wife's burnt countertop). "... it's Clemente."

“Bet your parents just went shopping at the market, grabbed the first thing they saw, and said, ‘Oh, perfect, let’s call her that.’”

What did you say to that? How did you tell someone that they were being mean when you didn't even know how to differentiate between forgiveness and vitriol? "It's Clemente!"

“You’re gonna spend the next seven years hearing people ask if your brother’s named Banana.”

It was reaching a boiling point.

When it was rainy season down in Baton Rouge, in the house on the bayou, the swamps filled with so much water that the banks swelled up with mud and silt that ma and pa had to cast protection spells on the foundations to prevent them from going under.

Effie felt like the bayou on the rainiest day, swollen with rage and embarrassment. "I don't even have a stupid brother! And a last name isn't something they chose, that's just common sense!"

She didn't even notice the boy from earlier, on the zeppelin, stalking up to them until the boy berating her commented on it, his voice snide and knowing. "What's this? Someone else feeling fruity?"

It was a flash.

Devon's fist slammed against the boy's face with a sickening crack, and then...

Silence.

The hall was quieter, now, laughter dying on the lips of those who surrounded them.

Effie stared at the boy with his hand over his face, looking like a kicked puppy.

She stared at Devon, sitting back down like he hadn't done a thing.

She stared at her fist.

She curled it.

She spoke.

"Yeah! Take that! You deserved to get knocked in your big melon," Effie sneered, stuffing her hands down at her sides and glancing sideways again. "Have a good day! Or don't!"

She scurried towards the bench Devon had taken a place on, surveying him. He didn't seem that bothered, eyes staring blankly forward. Effie sat down at his side, looking out at the Assembly Hall doors with him. She couldn't see what, exactly, he was so focused on, but she could try. If she looked close enough, maybe she could make it out. "... didja hurt your hand?"

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@Devon Fondatore

Effie C.

[Rafael Corvesso]

A sharp whistle cut through the entrance hall, followed by the sound of hurried, angry footsteps on marbled stone. Rafael had prepared for many things before stepping into his new post as Professor of Applied Magic. He had memorized names, mapped out lessons, pored over the school rules and policies (a task he had eagerly skipped in his youth), and yet, nothing could have prepared him for this.

Madonna mia, the boy had to have set a record. Barely inside the castle walls and already in the thick of trouble, it had to be some kind of record.

Rafael's robes swished as he strode up on the scene. One boy sat on the ground, hands clamped to his face, blood seeping between his pale fingers. Another lounged on a nearby bench, rubbing his hand, making no attempt whatsoever to hide his involvement. Rafael squinted at him, the boy looked awfully pale and more than a little tense. Beside him was a girl with teal ribbons in her curls who seemed more concerned about his hand than about the bleeding boy who'd been knocked to the ground. What had happened here? Rafael hadn't seen the punch, but he'd heard it—the ugly crack of fist to bone and some sounds needed no translation.

At least he's not trying to run. And with that observation in mind, Rafael went first to the victim. The boy's whimpering made it sound worse than it was, though the smear of blood painted the scene dramatic enough for the crowd of gawkers. fael coaxed him to lower his hands, drew his wand, and muttered, "Episkey." The blood flow stopped and with a pop, the bruised nose rearranged itself upon his face.

Rafael crouched to meet the boy's gaze. "There, all better. What happened?"

The story came out quick, slurred, and slanted. He had only been talking to the girl, he claimed, pointing an accusing finger at the girl with the ribbons, when the other boy hit him out of nowhere. Frowning, Rafael listened. He had not been a teacher for long, but he knew better than to pick sides based on one account. Children lied as easily as they breathed, and rarely did fists start flying without reason.

After the snivelling tale was told, Rafael rose to his full height and turned to face the other two. The boy on the bench with floppy hair that kept falling into his eyes had remained seated, while the girl with ribbons fretted over him. Both radiated guilt.

"You two," Rafael said, voice clipped, "and you," he added to the boy whose blood was still drying on his hands. His gaze swept over them, cold with disapproval. "I cannot believe that this is how you choose to start your first day at Penwick. After the Sorting and the feast, you will come to me directly. No wandering, no excuses. If you so much as take a detour, you and your trunks will go back to the Aderyn. You will tell me what happened and then we will see what punishment fits. Consider yourselves lucky that you are not yet sorted, or you would have cost your houses dearly."

---

Rafael held the door to his office open for the three young students, giving each a stern look as they filed in. Several large trunks stood in the corner, there hadn't been much time to unpack yet, and only a few books had found their way onto the shelves yet. A reed basket in the corner gave a twitch and a faint rattle, as though something inside was quite eager to get out, but Rafael ignored it. A small brass contraption was ticking and whirring along on his desk, faster than a clock and more complicated looking besides.

The heavy oak door fell shut into its lock, the sound of condemnation. Rafael circled around the three young students, hands folded behind his back. "I'd like to hear what happened now," he said. "First from you," he said to the boy with the shaggy hair, "then from you," he added, motioning his chin toward the girl.

@Euphemia Clemente @Devon Fondatore r
From your posts I inferred that this happened before the sorting and feast so in your next round of replies, you will have been sorted but instead of going up to your dormitories, you will have met Professor Corvesso outside the dining hall from where he will have lead you to his office.

[Devon Fondatore]

【 devon fondatore 】
—1 september, 2025—@Euphemia Clemente & @Rafael Corvesso —x

Devon pulled his hand out from his pocket, looking it over. It hurt, but that was just about it. “’s fine,” he muttered, voice low. It did feel nice that Effie cared enough to check on him. That was nice of her. Effie was a nice girl.

Devon wasn't sure if he was a nice boy.

He hated that a part of him hadn’t even hesitated, that his body had moved with the same instinct it always had when he heard that kind of laughter. The sound crawled into his bones and told him to move. So he had. And now? Now he was sitting here on day one, already branded as trouble.

Effie didn’t seem to mind. She was practically bouncing, ribbons jostling as though she wanted to stand up and announce it to the whole hall: Devon hit him. For me. Devon wanted to sink into the bench and disappear.

Then the whistle cut through the entrance hall. The kind of whistle that meant grown-ups were coming and there would be no escape.

By the time Professor Corvesso had corralled the three of them into his office, Devon’s stomach had dropped somewhere near his shoes. The oak door shut with a heavy thunk that sounded too much like a lock clicking into place.

His hands dug into his pockets like anchors, trying to keep him from fidgeting, from pacing, from crying. He was aware of everything; the scuff of Effie’s shoes on the floor beside him, the other boy’s sniffling, the way his own heartbeat was trying to kick its way out of his ribcage.

Then Corvesso’s eyes cut to him. “First from you.”

The words landed like a shove. Devon swallowed. His mouth was dry. He’d been through this before, in classrooms, in principal’s offices, at home, but somehow here it felt heavier. Especially now that Devon stood in the room with red filigree and a dragon sigil on his robes. House Dranaga. The house Professor Corvesso had been given charge of. Amazing luck. It was a wonder Devon wasn't sorted into what he heard people call the "bad-luck house" with the way his day had gone.

What was he supposed to say? That he’d just reacted? That he hadn’t thought? None of that would matter to the professor, though. Devon knew that. Excuses were still excuses to adults, even if they were true.

His jaw clenched, words fighting their way out one by one. “He was making fun of her. Wouldn’t stop. So I… hit him.”

Devon’s throat worked, painful like it always is when you're fighting from showing emotion, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the floorboards just past Corvesso’s boots. “Shouldn’t have,” he added, quieter. "Sorry," even quieter, not really sure who he was apologizing to. Maybe all three of them, maybe himself. Maybe no one at all.

[Euphemia Clemente]

I Don't Want To Make A Header.

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────9.1.2025────────────

In eleven years of life, Effie could probably count on one hand the amount of times she'd gotten into serious trouble. Ma and pa's parenting style could be explained as "go with the flow", and, though their daughter had never been particularly misbehaved, her punishments had been mostly "we're disappointed in you" talks and a few extra chores around the house.

This was an entirely different ballpark. Standing in the middle of a professor's office on day one, barely ten minutes post-sorting, Effie thought she might cry.

When she was little(r), Effie could remember being at a summer camp with some family friends' children. They'd played for hours, running through a shallow pond and playing mermaids on the sandy shore. She recalled how little Jamie Terrance had been flinging around handfuls of sand, lobbing them at full force at his playmates. One of his handfuls had hit Effie square in the face, getting up her nose and in delicate little eyes.

She'd cried for hours, and Jamie Terrance had snidely commented that she was being a little crybaby.

Effie felt like that now, except the sand was in her own hand and perhaps she wasn't a very nice person at all, because for that small instance, standing in the Entrance Hall, she'd felt like a princess. She'd watched Devon throw a punch at a boy she hardly knew and all she could think to do was grin. Was say look at me, he hit someone for me.

Those doe-like brown eyes dropped from Professor Corvesso's face to her shoes, shiny and black, and Effie tried to ignore the sniffling from the injured boy to her right. She blinked back hot, stinging tears that threatened to drop down her face, lower lip bitten swollen between her teeth and wobbling as she tried to stand up straight.

Shoulders back, like when you visit Grandma Clemente. Mind your manners. Not like at home.

Devon's voice was demure, soft. Apologetic. Effie had half a mind to tell him that he shouldn't say sorry, not really, because it wasn't doing anything wrong if you were doing the right thing, but she stayed quiet, waiting her turn. Unconsciously, her hand flexed at her side, as if desperate to reach out for comfort.

"He was makin' fun a' me. Just like Devon said," Effie confessed, finally lifting her chin and trying to look brave. Grown ups listened, sometimes. She could only hope that this grown up was in a good mood.

Outlook didn't look so good on that.

"I told him to stop, because my last name isn't even Clementine, but he just kept on going and then... and then..."

And then Devon had closed his big fat mouth with a well-placed fist to the jaw.

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@Devon Fondatore, @Rafael Corvesso

Effie C.

[Rafael Corvesso]

Rafael eyed the guilty boy, unsure what to make of him. The downward look, the clenched jaw, these were plain admissions of guilt, but were they also admissions of remorse? It was too early too tell, but the dragon on the boy's uniform ensured that Rafael would be keeping a close eye on him for a little while, until he had determined if the violent outburst was a mere incident or a regular occurrence.

When each had said their piece, the situation clarified and Rafael could at least conclude that no blatant lies had been told. Omissions, certainly, but no lies. Each of the children seemed shaken in their own way, for their own reasons, all of them feeling the weight of having ended up in a Professor's office on their first day of school. Not even their first proper day, Rafael thought to himself, and already in trouble.

From his side of the desk it would be all too easy to dismiss the incident as a minor scrap, the pitiful looks on the faces of the children standing before him pushing him towards mercy. But Rafael knew the laws of the jungle, knew that far more than guilt or innocence was at stake here. Mercy in the face of such blatant misbehavior, even if small in the grand scheme of things, could lead to rumours. Rumours that he let pupils off the hook, rumours that he had a loose interpretation of the school rules. These first few weeks were vital in establishing himself and so he could not permit himself to be perceived as weak or soft.

"Is hitting people how you usually resolve your issues, Mr. Fondatore? Because let me assure you, that kind of behaviour won't be tolerated here."

He sat down then, easing off the pressure slightly by moving his gaze to the frilly girl instead. Out of the three of them she wasn't to blame for any of what had transpired, a victim of not one but two boys's unacceptable behaviour. "Thank you for that, Ms. Clemente. You are not in any sort of trouble, in fact I believe you're owed an apology." At that, he turned sharply to the snivelling, slightly pudgy boy, the one who'd started it all with his crude remarks. "I'd like you to apologise to Ms. Clemente for what you said."

The pitiful child mumbled something under his breath. "Please speak up," said Rafael. The boy started again, but was interrupted once more. "Ms. Clemente is to your left, not on the floor." Only on the third try did some sort of blubbering apology make it across the room to its rightful receipient. Just like with Mr. Fondatore, the sincerity of it all was questionable at best, but it was a start at least.

"Very well. I expect you to understand that saying mean or hurtful things won't be tolerated, just like punching people in the face won't be tolerated." He eyed the two boys once more before a soft knock sounded on the door. "Come in," Rafael answered curtly. In the doorway stood a teenage girl wearing the same Floranti robes as Effie, except hers were adorned with a gleaming prefect badge. "If you could escort Ms. Clemente to her dorms please, thank you." He managed a small smile toward the girls and added for good measure: "you're not in any sort of trouble." The Floranti girl would wait for Effie to join her before the pair of them would depart and the door would close once more behind them.

"I heard what happened," the girl said to Effie once they had made their way into the corridors. "Boys..." She rolled her eyes at Effie before halting suddenly and fishing something out of her pocket. "Here, I saved you something from desert." She handed over a crumpled looking brownie wrapped in greasepaper before giving her a friendly pat on the back.

Back in Corvesso's office the mood was a little less amicable. Another prefect had appeared shortly after the girl to chaperone the culprit to his dorms, yet no one had appeared in the doorway to fetch Devon and it would only be a matter of time before he would realize that no one would be coming.

"Fondatore..." Rafael considered the name out loud now that it was just the two of them occupying his office. "Any Italian connections?" But before Devon could answer, Rafael waved his hand dismissively and motioned his chin toward one of his heavy trunks instead. "I was hoping to spend this evening unpacking, but considering I've had to waste my time on your antics..." He glanced briefly at the whirring brass instrument on his desk, as though the time could be deduced from it somehow. "I believe it is only right that you should help me get the job done before curfew is in effect. That trunk contains my books, which I'd like to have arranged on that shelf over there, alphabetically, by author." A casual flick of his wand unlocked the trunk, but he did not reveal to Devon that he could have the whole job done with another flick of his wrist. "Who knows, maybe if you do a good job of it, the strongly worded letter I'll be writing to your parents might just get lost in the mail." The message was clear, but so was the threat as Rafael wasted no time fetching ink and quill to, presumably, begin on said letter.

@Euphemia Clemente @Devon Fondatore

[Devon Fondatore]

【 devon fondatore 】
—1 september, 2025—@Euphemia Clemente & @Rafael Corvesso —x

Devon didn’t say anything when Effie left. He watched her go out of the corner of his eye, teal ribbons bobbing as she followed the prefect into the hallway. What was the point? He didn’t know how to say goodbye, anyway, without sounding weird.

The pudgy boy was taken next. The prefect coming for him barely looked at Devon, and Devon didn't look back. The office door clicked shut, and just like that, the room felt twice as large and twice as quiet.

Professor Corvesso spoke his name like he wasn't sure yet whether it was going to be a problem or a solution. Devon kept his face blank, jaw tight. Whatever the professor thought he saw, fine. Let him guess. When he asked if the name was Italian, Devon opened his mouth to respond, but the man waved the question off dismissively. Devon closed it again. Typical. Adults asked things they didn't actually care about all the time. He didn't bother offering anything more.

A punishment, then. One of the quiet kinds. Busy hands, quiet room, lots of time to sit and stew in your own choices. He understood the type. Then the trunk was unlocked by the flick of the professor's wand, and Devon walked over, grabbing a couple of books to shelf. He had to hold back an eye roll at the Professor's weak attempt to, what, smooth over what happened? Bribe him into doing a good job? Adults too often thought they knew everything but missed so many important pieces.

“If you're planning on sending a letter home,” he said, not looking over his shoulder, voice unbothered but precise, “you should know it's my grandma who'll get it. Not my parents.” He dropped the line cleanly, like flicking ash off a cigarette.

Devon grabbed another book, sounding out the author's name under his breath. The books in the trunk were thick, heavy and old, and were stacked with the sort of care that told him they were worth more than everything in his house put together. The letters of the authors' names swam together a little, many were long and foreign-looking, or had accents Devi had never seen before.

“And I don’t-” He swallowed. His voice came gentler the second time. “I don’t go around punching people.” He put another book onto the shelf, pushing it straight with his thumb. His finger tingled when he touched it, and suddenly, he was more aware of the fact that some of these books were probably enchanted. Right, he wasn't just in a normal teacher's office. “I just wasn’t gonna let him say stuff like that to her." The brass thing on the desk kept ticking, loud in the silence. Devon kept shelving. Slow. Careful. The trunk seemed to refill every time he turned back to it.

It was a weird start to the school year no matter how you looked at it.

[Rafael Corvesso]

Something fell over Rafael's face at that last admission, like a wispy cloud momentarily blocking out the sunlight. A blink later his face was normal again, his dark eyes focused on the letter again.

"Thank you for the correction, Mr. Fondatore."

He left it at that. Devon had not offered more of an explanation and Rafael wasn't about to ask for one. He wondered how clever the boy was and if he had already worked out that his Head of House had no real intention of sending any letter. Musing thusly, he pressed his lips together and began to write. The tip of the quill scratched over parchment, writing down an address. Contrary to what Devon might assume, the letter being written was to order some cornish pixies for a third-year lesson and had nothing to do with Mr. Fondatore whatsoever.

The sound of the quill on paper and that of books being pushed on shelves was interrupted by another comment from the boy. An admission of guilt masquerading as defiance. "Good to know you won't be making a habit out of it," the dry answer came. The boy's statement deserved acknowledgement but not praise. Not punching people was expected behaviour after all and not some grand achievement to be celebrated.

What followed finally caused Rafael to stop writing and set the quill down with a soft clink in the ink pot. Stapling his fingers together, he listened to what Devon had to say for himself. "I can understand that, Devon," The boy's name had slipped off his tongue before he quickly moved on, "you saw something unjust and you acted, that's good, you're not being punished for that. You are here because you should have reacted differently and fetched a prefect or a Professor instead of taking matters into your own hands."

Rafael allowed a brief pause of silence to settle between them before he placed his hands flat on the desk and got up. "Enough of this," He gestured vaguely toward the books, but he meant all of it. A soft sigh escaped his lips; he took no pleasure in lecturing the boy, least of all on his first day at school. As if on cue the whirring, ticking brass instrument on the desk chimed once and then stopped completely. Through one of the windows the September sky had darkened to deep shades of blue and purple. Curfew was fast approaching.

With a flick of his wand, the remaining books in the trunk (about a third) flew up and arranged themselves neatly on the shelves, achieving in mere second what had taken Devon the better part of ten minutes to achieve. One book however remained. Another wand movement saw it levitate upward until it hoevered in the air between them.

The green cover was scuffed, the book clearly having been read and re-read many times over. It had to be old and woefully out of date, quite possibly a first edition. On the front cover was written in curly letters: Quidditch through the ages. "Why don't you take this with you, I have no use for it anymore, and I think you could do with a more productive outlet. Try-outs are held in October, though I should warn you, first-years hardly ever make it on the team."

Devon wasn't given much time or choice to contemplate any of this. The book had already moved itself toward him and would politely but incessantly bump against his chest until he would take it into his hands.

"House Dranaga is on the fourth floor," Rafael said as he opened the door to his office, letting a wave of cool air rush in. "Difficult to miss. Six suits of armour in a row, tapestries, a carved door with a dragon on it and sword-shaped knocker. Knock with conviction." Rafael stepped aside from the door, holding it open. "I trust you find it yourself. You have about five minutes before curfew so I wouldn't take any detours if I were you. Just down the hall there, and up the stairs. Goodnight Mr. Fondatore."

@Devon Fondatore