The pitch is decorated on this warm, sunny afternoon with two obstacle courses, one on the ground and one in the air. The courses are different, the bottom with snares and traps for tripping, as well as obstacles to run through and dodge, while the top has gates to fly through and practice bludgers flying in unpredictable paths in and around them. Noémie is already on the pitch, and appears to have already got beads of sweat on her forehead while she finishes up one last lap and comes to a stop in the center of the pitch, wiping her brow and glancing around. Nobody yet. The prefect does not look worried as yet, though, at the lack of people who have yet shown up for the tryouts. After all, they aren’t scheduled to begin for five minutes yet.
Laney Abbott is a rather pear-shaped fifth year girl with strawberry blonde hair held back by black ribbons and a pair of spectacles that rest on the end of her nose, giving her a somewhat oddly stern appearance. Holding her own broom, a custom model but obviously some number of years old, she approaches the pitch in a throng of other Ravenclaw Quidditch hopefuls, some of whom have gone so far as to bring their own beater bats and one boy is wearing a complete set of navy robes and protective gear, talking about how this is his last chance to make the team–and catch the Captain’s eye. Laney’s lower lip juts out a bit at this, and her stride lengthens as much as it can, given her somewhat short legs.
Tremendously reluctance in each and every step, Riley Markham practically drags himself out on to the pitch, and in to general striking distance of Noémie. Noémie, who wouldn’t listen to a damn thing he said, no matter how adminantly he’d attempted to appologize for the incident at Sorting. Maybe if I show up early, I could talk to her, he reasoned. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Now, though, the prospect frightened the ever-loving cripes out of him. Lifting his scarred, left hand (beater bat dangling from his wrist, he makes a meager wave to Noémie once she is in sight. Hoping to feel out her reaction to him before he opens his damned mouth. Perhaps the only notable knowledge to have come out of his time as a pariah inside of his own micro-family.
Among the first down to the pitch is a thin, bordering on weedy, boy, perhaps only in third year or thereabouts, and rather short for his age. His robes are ill-fitting, his grip on his broomstick borders on unnecessarily tight, and he bites his lip nervously. Boyce Gardener is not a happy camper. One of his fellow Ravenclaws also trying out for the team nudges him, offering, “Boyce, kid, what /are/ you doing here?” “T-trying out for the team? Thame ath everyone elthe here.” “What position /for/? You’re too teeny to do anything but Seek, and we have a Seeker.” “I could be a Chather, alright? I’m thmall enough that I can dodge Bludgerth and thtuff, okay?” “Yeah, but you’ll also miss the Quaffle all the time.” “I will not. My big thithter thayth I can catch good.” Poor kid.
David Mildred comes last on the pitch, following the members of last year’s team as well as the few hopefuls who have decided to come to the tryouts. David is silent, and nods at Riley and Neomie as he spots them on the pitch. He walks to them, and stops, waiting for the instructions. Over his shoulder, he holds his Moontrimmer, which is not as new as it has been two years ago but which has been looked after well.
“Welcome, everybody, to this year’s tryouts!” The team captain says loudly to stop some of the chatter. No specific greeting is given to anyone, least of all her cousin, though she does nod cordially at everyone who approaches. “Good turn-out this year, I see! I’m glad! Alright, to start, I’ll have you all do two laps, around the whole pitch, /running/ just to get your bodies warmed up for this first obstacle course, which will be for agility. The second will be for your agility in the air. But, first things first, let’s have two laps out of all of you. You first years, there, you. Yes, you. If you’re going to try out, you’ll need to put the sweets away and pay attention, or else I’m going to ask you to leave.” Watching for a moment as the first years comply and discreetly tuck their bags of sweets away, Noémie turns without another word and begins to trot around the pitch in pursuit of her own two laps.
Laney Abbott needlessly brushes a few strands of loose hair out of her face and gently sets down her broom. “Lovely, running,” she mutters under her breath, adjusting her spectacles and then pointing at them with her wand and murmuring a spell, evidently to fix them in place, as they don’t slip as she begins her laps. Granted, she isn’t exactly possessed of running prowess, and quickly is passed by many if not all of the others, red in the face but not laboring too hard.
“Okay. Let’s do it!” David says, putting his broom on the grass and beginning to jog away, for his first lap. The pitch is rather large, and running around it is not that pleasant, especially if you have never done it before. Despite the holidays, David finds it relatively easy to pick up with Noémie’s pace, and follow her nicely.
“Running?” Boyce echoes, looking around at his fellow hopefuls, most of whom are considerably bigger than him. “Why do we have to run? We won’t ever have to do that in a game, will we?” He remains clinging to his broom for a moment, as though it is a security blanket of some sort, though after a moment he carefully and reluctantly sets it down, beginning his running at a sort of odd gait, the half-skip, half-run of someone who learned to run by chasing after other people who are considerably stronger and with much longer legs. As such, it’s not a very economical run, but he’s surprisingly agile.
Riley Markham allows his broom to fall to the grass with a dull sigh. Running. And she barely looked at him. Damn it all. Chucking his bat to the turf in an off-handed way, he draws a deep breath and starts to the task of jogging. A faint sweat creeping up on his tanned, yet somewhat pasty, forehead almost immediately. Maybe after he could talk to her — he’d just have to hold out, be good. Give her no reason to be angry. Which is a great thought, until about half way down, lost in thought, he bumps in to a second year and trips up on her, sending them both to the turf with a loud yelp. The awkwardness of the landing, his elbow catches the poor girl right in jaw, leaving a very nice bruise and an immediate welling on tears.
While Noémie takes her time, she is still one of the first ones done, though it does not appear to be for the same reason as she had hoped when she noticed she was near the front. Glancing back at the slower ones, she spies a small cluster of girls who have stopped. “Get the lead out,” she calls to them, and when they do not immediately beginning running again, she trots over. Gathering what has gone on, the girl shakes her head. “RILEY!” she bellows loudly and though she doesn’t say anything more, she does glance around for her cousin nearby. “You clumsy dolt,” she utters harshly to the boy and looks at the girl for a moment. “Go see Madam Wexler. She’ll get you fixed up, and then if you feel up to it, you can come back and join us.” A larger queue has gathered near where the brooms had been to begin with and Noémie only shakes her head at Riley while she heads back over in that direction, waiting for the rest of the hopefuls to gather.
Laney Abbott comes round to a close with only a few other people still going at all (having miss the scene with the second year and Riley entirely, being half across the pitch at the time), some of them jogging while the blonde huffs and puffs her way to a halt. “I…” wheeze, “hate… running.” As she spots the Seventh Year with an Eye for Noémie watching her (or maybe the girl who had walked the entire time while loudly lamenting the fact that she might get sweaty running around), Laney’s face drains of color and she remarks, “Just perfect,” while moving in the other direction in the crowd to retrieve her broom.
“Oh, damn, damn it all, are you alri–” Riley mutters, rolling on to knees, rubbing his elbow as he glances down at the crying second year — a child he doubles in length nearly twice over. Noémie’s loud cry of his name cuts his voice off in mid-word. Cringing, Riley scrambles to his feet, looking somewhat helpless. “Damn it,” he whispers, more at himself than to anyone else. Noémie’s insult cuts him, and his almost immediate instinct is to lash back, but he bites his lip, before turning and moving on down path, finishing his laps. Restraint. Restraint. Bloody restraint.
Having stopped in his tracks to watch the goings-on with Riley and the young girl, despite being on the other side of the pitch at the time, Boyce quickly gets it together and keeps running his odd little run until he is finally finished, looking around speculatively as more and more people join him there. He clings to his broom again tightly, biting at his lower lip uncertainly. “I don’t like running very much.” He whispers, to nobody in particular. “We don’t usually have to run, much, do we? I never heard of Chathing from the ground.”
David says, “What is happening out there?” %n mutters, as he hears some noise and sees students clustered around someone –or something. He stops on his track, observing the scene from afar. It seemed to be a little accident, but apparently, it did not look that serious. He saw Riley resuming his run, and other students following suit after a while, and %n decides that he could probably just do the same, too. Resuming his jogging, he completes the second lap a little while after and comes to a stop near his broom. Most of the other students were still at the other end of the pitch, having been interrupted by the fall. %n shrugs and decides to wait for the next step of the tryouts.”
“It helps with agility to do some things on the ground. If you can’t keep hold of a quaffle on the ground, what’s to convince me you can do it in the air, hmmm?” Noémie tells the boy with a bit of a grin. “Alright, now, anyone going out for keeper, I want you down at that end there. You’re going to try to block the shots of those going out for chaser. If you’re going out for chaser, go ahead and get into a line at this end of the course here. Beaters, get your positions on either side, even up please, and take a bat. You’ll hit bludgers to each other, intent on hitting those running through the course with a well-timed and well-aimed bludger. You may run around and hit them as long as you do /not/ change partners in the middle. Alright, get to it. Keepers, rotate after every shot; everyone gets a chance! Those going out for seeker, well, I do apologize but I filled the second string spot at the pre-tryout we had. I know, I know, but he filled the spot last year. If you’d like to try for any other spot, you’re more than welcome, though!” The captain trots around to make sure everyone’s set up. “Keep the line moving. I want a constant flow of people going through this!” With that, she releases several bludgers which seem to fly around at random through a fixed area in a certain part of the course, low enough to hit any of those trying out if they run through and aren’t paying attention.
Ah, the moment of truth – Boyce joins the line of Chasers nervously, biting at his lower lip again. How is he supposed to get a position that he can’t even pronounce? That’ll be good – My name ith Boyth and I’m a Chather for the Ravenclaw team. Just a good thing he isn’t in Thlytherin. Swallowing, he whispers to anyone who cares to listen, “My family wantth me to try out for the team. I don’t know if I’m actually any good, but my big thithter reckonth that I’m at leatht pathingly good. Maybe I’ll make thecond thtring.” He licks his lips, trying to get some moisture onto them, as he moves through the line. A lisp and a compulsive talker. Poor kid.
David nods at her captain’s instructions and lines up behind a few other students, mainly second years, who hoped to become a Chaser. He smiles at one particular boy who seems to be particularly worried about his own tryout. “Don’t be that worried”, David says, trying to give him some courage. “Just don’t forget to always keep an eye on the Quaffle.” he advises, as he waits for his own turn to come.
Laney Abbott holds her broom possesively and trundles toward the end for the Keepers (as a certain redhead moves with a group of put-out would be Seekers to the stands to watch), even though she won’t exactly be needing it on the ground. She’s just not about to leave it for the rest of these jokers to muddle with. “Merlin, I’m glad I’m not trying for Chaser,” she says to the girl ahead of her in line as the Bludgers begind to zoom around. “Don’t expect you could dodge them, ey Abbott?” A blush creeps into her cheeks at the sound of a male voice behind, and she barely turns her head and offers a loathing-filled. “Gregory Spatts, I could as well, I just don’t fancy my spectacles smashed if I miss dodging one,” and turns her head resolutely foreward again with a snide, “Better keep your eye on Noémie in case you looks your way so you can exchange a long and meaningful gaze.” Her lips press together and she moves forward in line by one.
Riley Markham collects up his bat at from near where he dropped his broom, slipping the leather thong around his wrist and giving it a good whirl before pairing off with a fifth-year hopeful for the team named, appropriately, Cobby. A big, thick-bodied, somewhat dim-witted brute who, even even by the somewhat slim standards for intelligence set by Riley‘s own admission in to Ravenclaw house, must have been Sorted under either a miracle or via copious amounts of rum imbibed by the hat pre-Sorting. “I wonder if it can drink,” Riley wondered, aloud, after that thought, raising a brow before giving a loud scwak as he finds a bludger hurtling toward his head courtesy of his big-boned mate. Just barely getting his bat up in time to prevent a broken nose, he deflects the cannonbal skyward, almost directly so, far and away from the line. Groaning, sure that Noémie would see it, and trying not to pay any attention to his other housemates as they assess his embaressment and mess-up-factor for the year to come, he clobbers the bludger toward David as his friend’s turn arrives, his aim improved from last year, but still not grand.
Shooting a curious glance to Riley as she happens to trot by, Noémie manages to stifle what wants to be a bit of a giggle. She makes her way to the head of the obstacle course. “Okay, go, go!” She calls to a first year who trips several times in the first bit by the traps and snares. “Come on, you’ve got to watch what’s coming, Lawrence!” She hsakes her head and watches as the first year haphazardly manages to get through and tosses the quaffle weakly at the low hoops. No, no score. “Come on, show them how it’s done, come on!” The captain runs up and down, watching as many people as she can manage all at once with this setup. “We’re only going to do a few runs each and then it’s up in the air!”
“I like the Captain’th name,” Boyce offers quietly, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Noémie Ribouet. I can actually pronounthe it. I think that bodeth well. Doth that bode well, do you think?” He starts chewing on his lower lip again as it comes to be his turn and he certainly does appear to have a knack for dodging things and makes it through the traps and snares well, his size and agility lending him ability. “Thee?” He cries victoriously. “I’m gonna be /good/ at Chathing. I can dodge thingth – argh.” A stray bludger hits him in the arm, possibly hit by someone who heard his bragging, and he clutches the limb, blinking back the water that comes to his eyes from the initial pain. “Owie, that /hurt/.” Oh, right, quaffles. He throws it one handed towards one of the hoops, a reasonably good throw given he’s only using the one arm, but by no means spectacular.
Laney Abbott is pointedly ignoring the seventh-year’s attempts to chat at her, as he is by no means oblivious to the venom her tone contain. “Come on, Abbott, what did I do? If you won’t tell me I can’t make it right– come–oof!” he gets hit in the stomach by a Quaffle that the person in front failed to save, and which Laney had stepped to the right to avoid. With a smirk, she moves up again, as the girl in front of her fails to save the throw by Boyce, letting it through one of the low-lying hoops through. Alright, time for Laney to prove she deserves to be on the team.
As he starts running and tries to tackle the first obstacle, David neglects to keep an eye on the beaters. Little good that did to him: he barely hears the whoosh of Riley’s Bludger coming on him, and instinctively plunges on the ground to dodge it. He lets out a worried cry as he hurriedly stands up again, and resumes his course. He was more than a bit flustered about not being able to anticipate the Bludger better. He fares a bit better with the two other bludgers sent at him as he crosses the pitch and tries to make it trough the various obstacles set there by Noémie. Finally, he makes it to the other side. He lets out a sigh as he stops and turns his back to observe the other candidates.
Beaming brightly at his success, Boyce hesitates for a moment – he goes back to the end of the line, right? Or does he wait? He looks around, trying to work out what everyone else is doing, and then eventually goes back to the end of the line, stretching his injured arm out tentatively and pushing up his sleeve to inspect the damage done. Well, that certainly will bruise up, and it’ll ache for a while, but it’s not broken and probably won’t inhibit his movements too much. Pity it seems to be his dominant arm, though. “Doth that look bad to you?” He eventually asks someone nearby, wrinkling his brow concernedly. “It’th turning black and blue already, and it hurtth a fair bit… will I thtill make the team if my arm ith bruithed, or will the Captain thay it’th evidenthe of my inability?”
Riley makes a face as David dodges his bludger, but seems pleased enough as it sails directly for his partner. “Nice follow through, anyway,” he murmurs, before allowing his eyes to go wide. His partner, Cobby, draws back a full arm, before smacking the bludger so hard at the fourth year running the course that his bat actually cracks a little. “Lighten up a little, will yah?!” Riley calls, noting with some satisfaction that the fourth year had the common sense to dive at the loud thwack that left Cobby’s bat. Cringing, knowing it will hurt his hands, Riley has to drive almost the full force of his weight in his swing just to return the ball softly to his mate. What is likely an easy dodge for the next one through the line.
“Alright, one more run through for everyone!” Noémie calls loudly and trots down to the Keepers end, keeping her eye on the Keepers more for this run-through. “And then we’re in the air!” Watching while each and everyone makes their way through, it is not very long before all of them have made their way all the way through the final time on the ground. “Alright, onto your brooms!” Running quickly over to where she has put her own broom, Noémie gets onto it and is soon up into the air. She waits until everyone has joined her before continuing. “Alright, one at a time on this one. These bludgers are meant to be dodged by chasers, and hit by beaters. I want you to be always aware of the gates and go through everyone. They light up as you go through them momenarily, see.” She flies through two in succession and they do light up momentarily as she flies through, though the light fades quickly. “I’ll be watching you all go through, so I want you to take care to get through /all/ of them if you can. Keepers, down at the end. The Chasers will try shooting from the air this time. You will not have to worry about bludgers in the shooting zone this time; we’ll save that for practice. Alright! Get to it!” Flying out of the course in the air, Noémie barely manages to dodge a bludger as it skims her back and she flies out to the side of it, swerving back and fourth while she waits for her teammates to begin.
Laney Abbott wipes her forehead and murmurs, “A bit too much energy, if you ask me,” as she climbs aboard her broom. The sluggishness she displayed in running about on the ground is virtually nonexistant in the air, however, with a good sturdy broom she easily glides to a spot in queue for playing Keeper when her turn comes up. As she waits, her broom bobbles up and down a bit, as if unable to sit very still. “Stop that,” she mutters to it. Of course, it being a broom, it doesn’t respond /or/ cease wiggling.
Riley Markham takes to his broom with some relief — he was only supposed to fly and hit bludgers, with no obvious aiming mentioned. That, he could do. A chance for him to shine. Brilliant. And, well, to be away from the dim-witted brute, Cobby. The fact that he could even mount a broom amazed Riley. It was a little like seem a small giant trying to ride a toothpick. Ah, well. Twirling his bat in his hand in a vaguely cocky way, Riley moves toward the first gate, knocking a bludger away easily enough. And miraculously not toward any teammate in particular.
Passing the three first gate is not that complicated for David and the boy is almost believing that the test is in fact too easy. But, as he steers the broom towards the fourth one, he notices that a bludger is on its way to intercept him. David starts to manoeuver to avoid it. The bludger gets closer and is soon accompanied by a second one. Cursing his bad luck, David starts to manoeuver, but it also means that he has to change his heading and not fly towards the fourth gate. He starts to zig-zag and to manoeuver until he manages to get rid of the bludgers, but he is now very far away from the next gate and has lost some precious time. He finally manages to make it through the remaining gates. All sweaty, he throws his Quaffle to the keeper but does not manage to get it through. David lands and walks away from the other chaser candidates, brooding his lame throw.
Mounting his broom and flying up to join Noémie, Boyce seems just as agile in the air as he is on foot, and his small size is quite aerodynamic. The downside, of course, is that it’s just as easy to miss a Quaffle as it is is to miss the bludgers. “Alright, let’th go.” As his turn comes up, he flies through the first gate easily – “Thith ith thimple!” – but has to take a dive to avoid a bludger and has to swerve abruptly at the last second to make it through the next one, though he does manage to just make it through. And again, with the next gate, and so on – though there are a few abrupt swerves, he does go through all the gates without getting hit by anything. He shoots for the goals inexpertly, intending to do so two-handed but finding his injured arm more of a problem than he had predicted. It is not a bad throw, but hardly a particularly good one.
Laney Abbott is up to her turn as David throws, and although it isn’t his best throw, she has to urge her broom sideways and stretch out as a far as she can to make the catch. She manages, however, and makes a triumphant sort of squealing noise, the charm on her glasses apparently worn off as they are knocked gently askew. It is with reluctance that she releases the bludger back into the air and returns to the end of the queue, cheeks flushed proudly.
This task, thankfully, comes more or less easily for Riley. A fair hand at flying, he made it through the gates more or less with ease, even the tricky ones. And deflecting the bludgers was, more or less, easily enough. A few do come close to hitting him, and one does graze his shoulder, but for the most part, actually deflecting away the bludgers was never his problem. In the last gate on his second lap, however, he has a rather sizable error, catching a bludger on the wrong part of his bat, deflecting it downward against the length of his broom, which knocks it rather hard in to his belly, up his chest, and in to his jaw, before sailing at the person behind him. He actually has to pause on his broom for several moments, and the left side of his robes cling to his chest as if they had been hooked there.
“Alright now, speed it up!” Noémie calls to a chaser who seems to be taking his sweet time in running through the course. “This is meant to be a fast course, don’t make it easy because you’re lazy!” The chaser shoots the captain a look and she raises her eyebrows at him and follows him down the course. “If you can’t be bothered, you can always leave,” she tells him, and this seems to hit home as he speeds up and nearly skids out around one of the gates, only barely slipping through. “Two more runs!” Noémie calls to everyone, flying back down to the end where everyone is lined up to watch another group fly down. “Please do /not/ hurt anyone intentionally, especially yourselves! No deaths today!”
Next in line after the slow Chaser-to-be, Boyce is looking increasingly edgy as he hovers, waiting for the previous Chaser to finish up. When he does get to go, his impatience shows – he zooms off as fast as his broom will allow, compromising direction for speed and, as a result, he has to slow down considerably as he swerves through the gates, and ends up missing one of the gates due to his turn of speed. Another two bludgers nearly hit him, and he has to swerve abruptly downwards, missing yet another gate and cursing under his breath, before finally making his way over to the hoops and hurling the quaffle at the hoop – a much better throw than before, considering. To himself as he flies back, he mutters, “Thee? I /can/ do it.”
“No deaths today, she says,” Riley mutters, gasping for breath for several moments. His face twisting in to a mask of annoyance, before he lifts a hand to wipe a small trickle of blood from his lip. Nothing that a simple Episky wouldn’t heal. Still, it damned well hurt. Passing a somewhat annoyed look over his shoulder, having hoped to earn a little more sympathy, Riley takes to the course again. This time, not allowing his cockiness to get away with him. The left side of his robes still clinging to him, as if they were damp. Something he didn’t relish having to deal with.
Laney Abbott gets another go and is luckily against an optimistic first year who lets lose a mild shriek of terror at the fifth year, who is looking rather menacing as she gets tired. As such, the ball almost doesn’t make it to the hoops at all, and she catches it quite easily. The third time she comes up in the queue it isn’t so easy, and the ball goes a little too fast for her, so that her fingertips barely graze it as it sails past her and through the hoops. A soft curse is expelled under her breath, of the sailor variety, not the magical, and she makes way for the next person’s last turn, her cheeks a brilliant red.
“Alright, bring it in, everyone!” Noémie calls as folks finish going through again. She has not missed the fact that Riley’s previous collision has not seemed to sit well with him, and begins to fly down to the ground. She waits until everyone has joined her on the ground and grins rather wide. “Alright, that was a terrific tryout, everyone! I’m leaving these obstacle courses up until I can check with the other captains, so you’re free to go at your leisure. Get your injuries checked into quickly, please. Don’t want to hear the grousing tonight in the commons of me being a tyrant or any such nonsense.” Noémie chuckles at herself as she says this and apparently thinks it quite amusing. “I’ll post the list by Monday, so don’t be pestering me about it before then. See you all at dinner!” She pauses. “Shoo!” she tells some first years who seem to be looking at her anxiously and turns, making her way toward the broom shed to store her own worn-looking broom away.
Quite relieved to hear the end, one hand rising again to rub at his bruised arm, it seems that despite all of that, Boyce has managed to come out of it quite uninjured. “Thank you for the tryout, Captain!” He pipes up, as he reaches the ground, though it is a weak little remark and possibly inaudible as she enters the broomshed. Broom in hand, he falls into step with one of his fellow third years, waving his free hand vaguely. “Did you thee the way I dodged that bludger?” He asks his friend excitedly. “Thimon, are you lithening? I thped patht, had to dive thtraight down…”
Riley Markham lands quietly, climbing off his broom and dropping down to the earth several feet from the ground. Sighing softly, he waits for the rest to go, moving toward one of the stands. Chucking both his broom and his bat in to the turf carelessly, as he begins to unbutton his robes. A very small trickle of blood still running down the corner of his lip.
Coming back out from the shed, Noémie spots her distant cousin and shakes her head. She makes her way across the pitch slowly, carefully, and rather quietly, given her usually light step and poise. “I wasn’t kidding when I said to go see Madam Wexler, you know,” she comments quietly to the boy at whom much of her recent stress and frustration has been vented. Of course, this was not undue, given that he has caused some of it. “Did it get you too badly?” she asks, coming around to face him now and crossing her arms across her chest. Despite her discomfort in the trousers of her quidditch uniform, Noémie does not seem to be bothered or nagged by them at all, rather, focussed entirely on the younger boy in front of her.
Jumping slightly, having thought in his first glance that maybe she had left as well, Riley turns to face Noémie with a measured look. As if he weren’t entirely sure what to expect out of her — roses, or vipers. Younger, by barely over two years, but taller, and more broad. He already stood nearly six foot tall, and his shoulders were squared out in a rugged way. He had developed a nice build for a beater. Solid, with a long reach. “Not to bad,” he says, somewhat off-handedly. And untruthfully, as he glances around the pitch to make certain their alone. That no one else planned on emerging from sheds. He hated to show anyone this — it was a testiment to how much, despite the recent strain in their friendship, he trusted Noémie that he was even considering going through with it. That, and how much it hurt having half one’s robe pinned to one’s chest. Nodding vaguely, once he’s sure they’re quite alone, he finishes unbuttoning his robe and slips it off his right shoulder. His smooth arm. Leaving him mostly naked from the waist up. It’s somewhat awkward, considering how the robe is hooked to him, but he manages to shoulder his way out of the other sleeve. Revealing his scarred arm — not just his arm, but his shoulder, almost up to the neck. The entire left flank of his back, and his front. Jagged, snarling, leathery scars, as if he had been dunked in acid. on the left side. Scars that vanish in to the waist of his trousers, inspiring questions of just how far down they go. “I was in a hurry, I forgot to Impervious it,” he mutters, somewhat embaressed, glancing briefly at Noémie with an expression almost as if he expected her to laugh, before trying to uncatch the cloth of the robe from the jagged, almost velcro-like hooks created by his scars, holding it in place. Each removed thread causing him to wince.
Resisting the urge to cringe, Noémie watches as he works on detangling his robes from his scar. “I’m sure Madam Wexler can find something to ease that,” she comments, looking at him carefully. The once compact boy is now taller than even she is, a concept which does surprise her, even though she has seen him often since the start of the term. “Really, you should go see her.” Her concern is one that is natural and real, and the fearful quiver in her voice hinting that she perhaps doesn’t entirely understand what it is that she’s seeing. Of course she has heard about the scars and the illness, but it is a first for her seeing it, and it is clear that Noémie isn’t entirely sure how to handle this. Licking her lips gently, she quirks her head and does not move, just continuing to watch him.
“Trying to spell it makes the scars worse,” Riley says, his tone soft. Serious. Perhaps for the first time in Noémie’s knowing Riley, unmarred with sarcasm or humour. Laced only with a quiet angst, a pain that reaches down deeper in to him than he has let anyone else see before, even his Gran. The intimacy of the moment is almost palpable, yet very simple. He’s openned the door, to let her peek inside. And in there, is regret. For what he said. But more over, ache. That goes a long, long way back. “Oils and salves might work, but don’t usually, and burn something terrible.” The softness, the quietness of his voice is so unnatural, yet so true, as he speaks. His tone conversation, despite the feelings lacing it. The fear. The fear of letting someone else see how weak he really is. “Gran tells me that there are still Healers at St. Mungo’s trying to work a cure, but they still haven’t come up with anything that won’t kill me first.” He tries to make the last line sound like a joke, and fails. Though his smile isn’t ingenuine as he tries to lift his gaze to meet her own. About half the robe untangled — the bludger went against the grain of the scars, catching more than it would have had the bludger struck the other way. “Noémie.. I..”
“Yeah?” Noémie asks in response to his trailed off thought, merely having shrugged at his comment about those at St Mungos. The girl merely watches the boy, diverting her gaze for a rather long moment before looking back and letting her eyes rest on his face instead of on his scarring. “You were… er, saying?” Noémie chews her bottem lip a bit, feeling slightly unsettled somehow, in a way she’s never been before.
Riley Markham holds Noémie’s gaze for several moments, his lips parted as if to speak, but no words fall from him. He wasn’t a terribly great peice of work at the appologies. “I..” he begins, before choking, and turning his gaze upward. “About..” he mutters, before looking down to the last bit of robe he was pulling away from his scars, cringing a little. Finally, sort of driven to force himself to speak, he yanks away the small patch that is left with one, good, clean pull. The result causing him to squelch his eyes shut in to near tears, to pull at his flesh as if it were cloth, to fill the air with a ripping sound we might commonly associate with velco coming undone, and to push his voice up an octave or two, as he says in a quick voice, “AboutwhathappenedatSortingI’msorryIhatenottalkingtoyounormallypleaseforgiveme!” Followed by a brilliant gasp of air, as if he were a balloon deflating. The quidditch robe falls to the dirt. His chest, with ever so hinted definition, finally exposed.. “Sunofa–that hurt..”
“Riley, you really should see the nurse if it hurts so,” Noémie comments quietly, with genuine concern on her face. Stepping back ever so slightly, the captain tilts her head to the side. Forgive him? For wh– oh, right. She was supposed to be mad at him. A shrug is all she answers in response, being ever the prideful creature, though it serves as some semblance of acceptance and perhaps even an apology of her own, as she is not entirely innocent in the altercation. But, of course, apologizing would be admitting that perhaps she is somehow at fault, and Noémie doesn’t think that. At the moment, however, she is more concerned with how she can possibly ease the pain of the boyman in front of her.
Riley Markham shifts his gaze toward Noémie, slowly. Her shrug — almost comforting to him. It was a response he understood, actually, all things considered. He was rather prideful himself, and it had taken several weeks for him to work past the annoyance to swallow that pride. Though loneliness helped. She wasn’t lonely, naturally. She had Joseph. He.. didn’t really have anyone, anymore. Saphia, when she wasn’t studying. Maybe that was why.. Lifting his right hand, rubbing his chest gingerly, he turns his gaze down toward his robes and pulls his wand from his pants pocket. An incredibly long wand, that once seemed quite out of place to the previously small boy, now seeming quite appropriate to the young man. Still, he holds the wand curiously, overhanded, with a finger trailing down the length. “Impervious,” he murmurs, flicking the wand at the robe, before lifting his wand to wipe away the mostly stifled trickle of blood slipping from his lip where he bit it when he got hit by the bludger. “I’m okay. Really. There’s not much Madam Wexler can do. I’ll get over it.” Kneeling down slowly, he collects up the robe as he tucks his wand in the waist of his trousers. “Sorry, to make you — see all this. I just.. didn’t want to go inside, with it caught.. and.. I don’t normally let.. others.. but, if it’s you, I thought..” Turning to face her, as he pulls an arm back in to his sleeve, he murmurs. “I’m.. sorry. I am. I was mad, and I took it out on you. And I’m sorry. Good tryouts.”
“You should see the nurse about that lip, Riley,” Noémie tells him, uncrossing her arms and letting them rest at her sides. For another long, rather labored moment, she looks at him, until he is covered “So, ah…” Noémie is awkward and looks away, glancing at the ground first, then up at the slowly darkening sky. “I’d better get in to change before dinner, or I’ll have to go in these trousers.” She pauses. “I’ll see you at studies tonight, alright?” Without saying anything more, she pauses, turning, looking at him seriously, and then slowly makes her way back into the school, her thin form slowly picking up its pace as she nears the school, soon disappearing inside.
Riley Markham watches Noémie go, quietly, his long hair moving quietly behind him in a dull breeze. He wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, even if it had been his doing. He wasn’t sure if things were better or not, or how he felt about how things had unfolded. But she had seen, and she didn’t seem to hate him. Nor did she seem to pity him. Whatever else he might have begun to feel for her, he had never been more intrigued by her than he was at this moment. And for the first time in several weeks, he wasn’t dreading his lessons. In fact, he almost looked foreward to it. Buttoning up his robe, he collects up his broom and bat, before moving toward the castle himself. What a strange ordeal.
