Monday September 8, 4:15PM end of classes.
There were three things about Laurent Charlavant, Professor of Divination, which left an immediate and lasting impression on any student. First and foremost was the smell. Laurent was a foppish man who, to his mind, applied a tasteful spritz of Eau de Cologne each morning. To everyone around him however, the words 'doused' and 'marinated' came to mind instead.
The second most noticeable thing about Professor Charlavant was that he could often be heard long before he could be seen. Half the time that was because he was humming or singing some tune to himself, and the other times it was because of the distinct tinkling, jangling, chiming sounds that his many bracelets and silver chains made. He wore rings too, different ones each day it seemed, often inlaid with glittering gems enchanted with powerful warding magic.
That was the third thing about Professor Charlavant: it was something of a public secret that he was deadly afraid of thunderstorms, or maybe it was just loud noises in general. That was why he wore all those rings and bracelets, so the rumour went, because they were meant to stop bad weather.
Despite all these things, Finnegan was so lost in thought staring at the fat little pouffes heaped into one corner of the divination dome that he had not noticed the cloying smell of perfume, nor the jangling of bracelets coming his way. "Ah mon petit chou," a soft, misty voice said. "You have to try." Finnegan jolted upright and began feverishly flipping through his copy of The Dream Oracle by Inigo Imago, drawing a soft and not unkind chuckle from his professor.
Professor Charlavant settled himself daintily on the edge of Finnegan's desk with a theatrical sigh. "Mon chéri," he said, his layered shawls pooling around him like waterfalls. "The inner eye, it will not open if you are asleep."
"I wasn't sleeping, Sir." Finnegan said while he tried to remember which page they were meant to be studying.
"Non?" Professor Charlavant's eyes gleamed. "Then perhaps you were dayreaming, yes?" He gestured vaguely in the direction of the pouffes before his gaze turned slightly and lingered, like Finnegan's had, on the blonde girl seated near them. Finnegan shriveled at the knowing look Professor Charlavant was giving him. No, he thought fiercely, that's not what this is, you're completely wrong. "I was just thinking, Sir," Finnegan said, though he sensed his ears growing hot.
"Thinking, allez, that's good." Professor Charlavant rose from the desk in a cascade of tinkling jewelry, then clasped his hands together. "Perhaps you think of your book now, oui Finnegan? Keep your eyes this side o' the room."
The upshot of Charlavant's soft and drifting voice was that it wasn't very loud, and Finnegan was largely spared the shame of anyone overhearing the gentle reprimand he'd just received. Unless, of course, they strained to listen in.
The Professor drifted by his desk three more times over the course of the next half hour, during which Finnegan resolved to stare at his book, trying to make heads or tails out of Inigo's dense writing. It wasn't until the end of the lesson that his day took a sharp turn for the worse.
"Quiet my children, sit back down please," said Professor Charlavant when the lesson had nearly ended. Some students were so keen to escape the divination dome that they had already packed their bags and were ready to flee when the Professor ushered them back into their seats. "Your homework, I haven't told what it is!" He said cheerfully, despite the collective groan his statement elicited. "You will be keeping dream diaries next week and interpreting each other's dreams, and I expect two feet of parchment from each of you at least."
"Two feet?" someone very near the exit exclaimed. "That's excessive!"
"I'm sure you'll all manage. Now, I've divided you up into pairs. Mr Hemsley, you're with Ms. Puffett, Everson, you're with Kapoor-" It went on for a while and Finnegan was nearly zoning out again when Professor Charlavant suddenly said the most dreadful thing he'd heard all day. "Mr Connor and Ms Selwyn, Mr Limpley with Shepley please and-"
Finnegan bit down hard on the inside of his cheeks as he turned his head, slowly, toward where he had last seen June Selwyn. It was altogether a good thing that the Professor had told everyone to sit down, because he wasn't sure he would've remained upright if he'd been standing.
"Well then, that's it, bonne chance et au revoir!" the Professor said merrily. Half the class had already filed out of the room by the time Finnegan had managed to will his legs into motion. "Professor- Professor!" he hurried after the smell of citrus like a lost puppy. "Professor Charlavant..."
The thin, dainty man turned around with the grace of a dancer and eyed Finnegan over the rim of his ridiculous designer glasses. "Oui Finnegan? You are alright, yes?"
"Sir, it's... it's about..."
The Profesor rested a ring-laden hand on his shoulder and giav what was meant to be a comforting squeeze. "You'll be fine Finnegan, you don't 'ave to share all your dreams with her." Then the Professor winked leaving a very startled Finnegan standing in the doorway.
It wasn't until he turned back around to head back into the room and collect his belongings that he noticed that she was still there too. Grimacing, he collected his books, shoved them heedlessly into his bag, and speeded toward the exit, hoping to put off the inevitable. But approximately five foot two of inevitability was in his way.
"Hey June," he said flatly. One of his hands shot up to comb back his hair in a rather pathetic attempt to play it cool.
The second most noticeable thing about Professor Charlavant was that he could often be heard long before he could be seen. Half the time that was because he was humming or singing some tune to himself, and the other times it was because of the distinct tinkling, jangling, chiming sounds that his many bracelets and silver chains made. He wore rings too, different ones each day it seemed, often inlaid with glittering gems enchanted with powerful warding magic.
That was the third thing about Professor Charlavant: it was something of a public secret that he was deadly afraid of thunderstorms, or maybe it was just loud noises in general. That was why he wore all those rings and bracelets, so the rumour went, because they were meant to stop bad weather.
Despite all these things, Finnegan was so lost in thought staring at the fat little pouffes heaped into one corner of the divination dome that he had not noticed the cloying smell of perfume, nor the jangling of bracelets coming his way. "Ah mon petit chou," a soft, misty voice said. "You have to try." Finnegan jolted upright and began feverishly flipping through his copy of The Dream Oracle by Inigo Imago, drawing a soft and not unkind chuckle from his professor.
Professor Charlavant settled himself daintily on the edge of Finnegan's desk with a theatrical sigh. "Mon chéri," he said, his layered shawls pooling around him like waterfalls. "The inner eye, it will not open if you are asleep."
"I wasn't sleeping, Sir." Finnegan said while he tried to remember which page they were meant to be studying.
"Non?" Professor Charlavant's eyes gleamed. "Then perhaps you were dayreaming, yes?" He gestured vaguely in the direction of the pouffes before his gaze turned slightly and lingered, like Finnegan's had, on the blonde girl seated near them. Finnegan shriveled at the knowing look Professor Charlavant was giving him. No, he thought fiercely, that's not what this is, you're completely wrong. "I was just thinking, Sir," Finnegan said, though he sensed his ears growing hot.
"Thinking, allez, that's good." Professor Charlavant rose from the desk in a cascade of tinkling jewelry, then clasped his hands together. "Perhaps you think of your book now, oui Finnegan? Keep your eyes this side o' the room."
The upshot of Charlavant's soft and drifting voice was that it wasn't very loud, and Finnegan was largely spared the shame of anyone overhearing the gentle reprimand he'd just received. Unless, of course, they strained to listen in.
The Professor drifted by his desk three more times over the course of the next half hour, during which Finnegan resolved to stare at his book, trying to make heads or tails out of Inigo's dense writing. It wasn't until the end of the lesson that his day took a sharp turn for the worse.
"Quiet my children, sit back down please," said Professor Charlavant when the lesson had nearly ended. Some students were so keen to escape the divination dome that they had already packed their bags and were ready to flee when the Professor ushered them back into their seats. "Your homework, I haven't told what it is!" He said cheerfully, despite the collective groan his statement elicited. "You will be keeping dream diaries next week and interpreting each other's dreams, and I expect two feet of parchment from each of you at least."
"Two feet?" someone very near the exit exclaimed. "That's excessive!"
"I'm sure you'll all manage. Now, I've divided you up into pairs. Mr Hemsley, you're with Ms. Puffett, Everson, you're with Kapoor-" It went on for a while and Finnegan was nearly zoning out again when Professor Charlavant suddenly said the most dreadful thing he'd heard all day. "Mr Connor and Ms Selwyn, Mr Limpley with Shepley please and-"
Finnegan bit down hard on the inside of his cheeks as he turned his head, slowly, toward where he had last seen June Selwyn. It was altogether a good thing that the Professor had told everyone to sit down, because he wasn't sure he would've remained upright if he'd been standing.
"Well then, that's it, bonne chance et au revoir!" the Professor said merrily. Half the class had already filed out of the room by the time Finnegan had managed to will his legs into motion. "Professor- Professor!" he hurried after the smell of citrus like a lost puppy. "Professor Charlavant..."
The thin, dainty man turned around with the grace of a dancer and eyed Finnegan over the rim of his ridiculous designer glasses. "Oui Finnegan? You are alright, yes?"
"Sir, it's... it's about..."
The Profesor rested a ring-laden hand on his shoulder and giav what was meant to be a comforting squeeze. "You'll be fine Finnegan, you don't 'ave to share all your dreams with her." Then the Professor winked leaving a very startled Finnegan standing in the doorway.
It wasn't until he turned back around to head back into the room and collect his belongings that he noticed that she was still there too. Grimacing, he collected his books, shoved them heedlessly into his bag, and speeded toward the exit, hoping to put off the inevitable. But approximately five foot two of inevitability was in his way.
"Hey June," he said flatly. One of his hands shot up to comb back his hair in a rather pathetic attempt to play it cool.
@June Selwyn
