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| The Walking Menace Strikes Again | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 8 2010, 07:56 PM (746 Views) | |
| Anne Kerrigan | Apr 8 2010, 07:56 PM Post #1 |
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“Mr. Rowe,” Anne snapped without looking up from the parchment she was currently grading, “You are supposed to be transfiguring that beetle into a button, not dropping it in Miss Rookwood’s hair.” With a last scribbled comment, she glanced up, chocolate eyes seeking out the second year Gryffindor who had frozen in place, hand poised over a girls head. His eyes, wide with annoyance, were tinged with admiration as he reluctantly brought his beetle back to the table, much to the amusement of his desk partner. She continued to watch him until he had sullenly pointed his wand at the beetle and started muttering the spell listlessly. She swept the classroom with a stern gaze, noting with a burst of satisfaction that the rest of her students were working diligently. A few had even managed to transform their beetles into buttons already. She carefully catalogued their names in the back of her mind. Come years from now, when she had to decide who she would allow into her N.E.W.T. level class, she would remember these individuals who had shown talent at such an early stage. Lips pursed together, Anne lowered her stare to the essays she was grading, thinking of her second year at Hogwarts. Of course, she had proven herself particularly adept in the art of Transfiguration. So skilled, in fact, the Professor had chosen Anne to become her assistant. While her peers had engaged in absurd pranks and lounged around by the lake, she had worked side-by-side with one of the brightest witches of her time. How could she have regretted this rare opportunity? Look at how far she had excelled; look at the accomplishments she had achieved before the age of twenty-five! A burst of laughter caused Anne to look up. And yet… No. She would much rather have been putting her afternoons to good use, learning all that there was to know, rather than breaking rules and earning herself detentions. That rotten, good-for-nothing man no doubt had had his fair share of them. She couldn’t even begin to guess how many bugs he had dropped in poor, defenseless girls’ hair during class. A few students startled, looking over at her in curiosity as she accidentally slammed her quill down on the desk with a bit more force than was necessary. Calming herself, she began to collect the student’s papers together. It was no use worrying over what that man did or did not do. Though he had shown up quite unwelcomed to the Yule Ball, Anne was convinced he would never make an appearance in her life again. It had all just been painfully coincidental. But no matter. He certainly was not going to enter the castle again. And if he did, well, she would just have to go the Headmaster now wouldn’t she? After all, she could not allow her student’s lives to be put in danger. And that man was a walking menace if ever she had seen one. Smugly satisfied, Anne collected the essays into a neat pile before standing up, shaking out her robes slightly, and walking out amongst the students. As she handed back their papers, she paused, watching their progress with a keen gaze and correcting pronunciation or wand movements where they needed to be fixed. The sound of shattering glass was their only warning. The next moment, her peaceful little classroom had erupted into chaos. Panicked screams filled the air, students dove from their chairs, papers scattered as a small, dark object sped through the small space, wreaking havoc wherever it hit. Anne’s eyes closed briefly in exasperation even has her hand dove into her robes, fingers closing around the comforting wood of her wand. One day, just one day without a life-altering disaster, was that too much to ask? |
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| Dylan Reilly | Apr 15 2010, 11:30 PM Post #2 |
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Lethally good looking.
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Somewhere in the back of Dylan’s mind, he knew he deserved this. Really, he did. It made perfect sense. In fact, there’d been an expectation all along that it would come around at some point or another. Years and years of thieving, lying, skirting responsibility, treating his mother poorly, toying with the emotions of his fellow human beings, and being a heartless bastard in general had finally, finally caught up with him. Judgment Day was here. These were his thoughts as he stared at the large group of eleven-year-old children that currently had him surrounded. ... although, thoughts of leaping into the Black Lake and drowning himself were steadily beginning to take precedence. There was, naturally, a logical explanation for this sordid turn of events. The bulk of which involved an unfortunate visit Reynolds had paid Dylan at the Hog’s Head two nights prior, an annoyingly knowing smile, and the words, ‘I think we need to have a little talk about this business you’ve been running over here, Mr. Reilly.’ To put it bluntly, he’d been caught. Found out. Collared. Caput. Finito. Over. His days of selling contraband items to Hogwarts’ future delinquents had come to a messy and definitive end. How the Headmaster had found out about it, Dylan had no sodding idea. Perhaps the enormous success and spike in sales he’d been enjoying these past few weeks had finally come around to bite him in the arse. Criminal activities and buzzing popularity weren’t exactly an ideal mixture when you were trying to keep a low profile. An imperatively low profile. Getting caught was just about the last thing in the entire bloody world Dylan needed right now at this particularly tumultuous time in his life. Right up there with contracting an incurably fatal disease and marriage. Because Reynolds, like any reasonably sane person, was obviously going to either hand him over to the authorities, or send him right back to London, and neither of those were even remotely viable options for Dylan at the present. Especially since he was sort of fond of this whole ‘freedom’ and ‘being alive’ thing. Only, that wasn’t what happened. The Headmaster, in a shocking display of magnanimous magnanimity, decided to show a little mercy for his former pupil. If Dylan agreed to cease his illegal operations in Hogsmeade, Reynolds would refrain from alerting the Ministry and allow him to stay in the area without further comment or trouble. With one tiny, microscopic, insignificant, wee, bitsy-little catch. “What?!” Dylan had roared, goggle-eyed with anger and incredulity. It rattled the glasses behind the bar’s counter and sent more than a few rats scurrying, but Reynolds had hardly blinked. The older man merely looked back at Dylan with patient expectancy. Almost like he hadn’t just informed him that Hogwarts’ last flying instructor had had an unfortunate run-in with the Whomping Willow and it would be so helpful if Dylan could volunteer for the position until she recovered, since he would obviously have more than enough free time on his hands now, and what did he think about starting first thing on Monday? Fucking. bollocks. Cue his downward spiral into alcoholism. He figured if he could just get drunk enough, the prospect of spending his days with hordes of children would seem less catastrophically devastating. A good idea in theory, but he’d regrettably neglected to factor in the heinously early hour his first lesson began on Monday morning and the very real consequences of drinking his weight in vodka. When Roderick was finally able to jostle him awake (with a well-meaning punch, bless his gnarled heart), Dylan greeted the day feeling as though someone was pounding an iron spike into the back of his skull like an overenthusiastic zombie in search of brain matter. Muscles he hadn’t even been aware he possessed felt like they were being soaked in hydrochloric acid. And, because this wasn’t horrendous enough, he vaguely recalled losing no less than half of his savings the night previous in a rather vigorous game of poker with a group of dodgy-looking vampires. All of which paled in comparison to what he faced now. Not far from the pitch, on the grassy expanse that constituted Hogwarts’ broad, sweeping grounds, Dylan stood before a band of clean-cut, fresh-faced first years. They shifted on their tiny feet, squinting up at him warily, probably already aware that this situation was highly out of the ordinary despite being assured that their substitute professor would conduct the business of teaching them in a perfectly professional and appropriate manner (with a very sternly implied ‘or else’ on the tail end of that, as it were.) ‘Course, it would probably help if Dylan looked the part. And he didn’t. Putting it lightly. Without even taking into account the agonized grimace that was unrelentingly contorting his features, Dylan was a hungover mess. His usually perfectly coiffed hair was sticking up all over the place, his clothes were uncharacteristically rumpled, a pair of midnight-black Wayfarer shades concealed the dark-circles under his bloodshot eyes, and an unlit, slightly bent cigarette hung crookedly out of one corner of his scowling mouth. There was a distinct possibility that he had never been up this early in his entire life. Was the sun always this obnoxiously bright? Too many fucking colors. Good God. And there was something else, too. A persistent, high-pitched, warbling sound that was so loud and grating Dylan was forced to abandon his fruitless attempts to ignore it. He turned his gaze first towards the sky, then to the lake, trying to locate the source of it. When he failed to discover anything (including a newly opened crevice to the deepest pits of hell), his grimacing frown miraculously managed to deepen, and the first words he spoke to his anxiously awaiting pupils were these: “What in the name of all that is holy is that godawful noise?" They all went still. Confusion rippled through the group as they tried to listen for whatever ‘noise’ their clearly unstable, new teacher was talking about. Finally, one girl spoke up, brow furrowed in uncertainty. “Are you talking about the birds?” she asked. This floored him. Those were fucking birds? Did they do this every morning?! Sodding hell. Where was Darcy when you needed her… “Are you okay, Professor?” the same girl ventured tentatively. She, along with several of her fellow students, was looking at him like he might spontaneously combust at any moment now. Or start to hurl. Both of which were actually pretty likely. “Smashing,” he answered tightly, cigarette bobbing up and down on his lips as he spoke. He gestured towards the wall where all the equipment sat in preparation and tried not to wince, feeling irritable and impatient. “Go get your flying whatsits.” A blonde-haired, Mummy’s-little-helper-looking boy decided he’d clarify this with a bright, peppy question. “Brooms, Professor?” Dylan decided throttling him would take too much effort and likely land him in prison. “Yes, mate,” he replied with dry, emphatic intonation, instead. “Brooms.” There was no hiding his relief when they scattered off obediently to do his bidding. But thoughts of having a joyous moment of child-free peace and quiet were obliterated when his skin crawled with the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Marginally disturbed, he turned to find a small, red-haired, pig-tailed girl rocking on her feet as she smiled up at him sweetly. “Hi,” she said. One of his brows quirked, disappearing briefly into the fringe of dark hair that hung over his forehead. “Cheers.” “Those are bad for you,” she informed him, eyes pointedly trained on the cigarette that still hung limply from his lips. His gaze flattened, tone turning flat and colorless. “You don’t say.” When she blinked up at him, he withheld a tight sigh and turned away again, hoping she’d get the not-so-subtle hint and leave him alone. Oh, but wait, he forgot it was Hell Day. Of course that wouldn’t happen. Silly him. Careless mistake. “How long are you going to be teaching us for?” Silence. And then, “Why are you wearing sunglasses?” Another pause. Followed almost immediately by, “Does your hair always look like that?” And then Dylan snapped, murdered the lot of them, and went on his merry way back to London where he was forgiven for all his misdeeds and lived out the rest of his happy, carefree life in the lap of luxury and blissful bachelorhood. The end. “How tall are you?” Or not. Ripped from his cruelly realistic daydream, Dylan blinked, clenched his jaw, and swiveled back around to the pertinacious redhead, resting his hands on his knees as he stooped to her height. “Why don’t you be a sweetheart and go get Professor Dylan a drink, eh?” he suggested with a too-bright smile. Why not. No better cure for a hangover than imbuing even more booze. Operation Alcoholic was well under way. “You mean like Pumpkin Juice?” she asked. His lips thinned, the smile turning simpering. “I was thinking something a little stronger, love.” Her forehead crinkled in confusion. “Butterbeer?” Christ, he wasn’t going to last the day. Something was tugging at the back of his jacket. Frowning, Dylan straightened and turned to find a minuscule boy staring up at him with a newly retrieved broom in his hand. “Are you going to teach us how to play Quidditch?” he asked with an eager grin. Dylan scoffed out a harsh laugh at the horrific suggestion. “God, no.” The boy’s face fell with comic immediacy. Which, for a reason entirely beyond him, prompted Dylan to feel as though he should offer up a few words of consolation. “Tell you what,” he began, lifting a comforting hand to the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll teach you how to bet on Quidditch so you can grow up and make lots and lots of money. How’s that?” This suggestion was not the least bit helpful if the boy’s scowling expression was anything to go by. Ah, well. Beggars can’t be choosers. “Is Jack Reilly really your brother?” came yet another voice from behind him. Here we go... The majority of the students had returned by now, brooms in hand. They stood around him with curious stares, clearly a bit braver now that class was marginally underway. Dylan said nothing. Not that it mattered. The comments kept coming regardless. “He’s a brilliant flier.” “My brother’s a fifth year and he says Jack is the best Chaser at Hogwarts.” “Do you play Quidditch, Professor?” “Are you as good as Jack?” Dylan could not have been less interested. He nodded absently, bored and clearly on autopilot. When he responded, it was in the flippant fashion of an older brother who is obviously superior by default, even though it couldn’t have been less true in this particular instance. “’Course I am. Better, really.” The downtrodden boy he’d spoken with just moments earlier pulled a face at this. “Then why can’t you teach us Quidditch?” “I bet he’s lying,” said one particularly brazen boy who nearly towered over his fellow classmates. He pinned Dylan with a mistrustful look and crossed his arms. “Oi,” Dylan scowled, feeling a flare of unfamiliar irritation at this blatant undermining of his authority. Thoroughly undeserved authority, yes, but authority nonetheless. “Watch it, kid.” “Do you even know how to play?” the smaller boy spoke up again. It was clear by the look on his face that he was beginning to see Dylan less as the ‘interesting new teacher’ and more as the ‘pathetic liar with the cooler younger brother.’ Mr. I’ve-been-a-first-year-for-three-years snickered quietly. And then Dylan lost it. “Alright!” he cried, so loudly and suddenly it made a few of them jump. “That’s it. Give me that bat, you little git. Bring that trunk over.” He pointed impatiently to some of the leftover supplies sitting idly by the wall, which were obviously not intended for his lesson’s use, as they were Quidditch in nature, but he had his bloody pride to salvage. There was no way he was going to let a bunch of ridiculous kids get the best of him when he was hungover and in what was probably the worst mood of his life. Sod it. The over-sized boy only hesitated a moment with slightly raised brows before he realized how deadly serious Dylan was. While he went to gather the demanded items, Dylan tossed both his shades and cigarette to the ground and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, determination etched into his angular features. The rest of the class took a slow step backwards, instinctively giving him a wide berth. When the boy returned, Dylan snatched the weathered Beater bat out of his hands, opened the case, and dislodged the jittery Bludger before thrusting it into the kid’s arms. Then, with distinct purpose, he took a few ground-covering strides before turning again and sending a sharp nod towards the ball. “Toss it.” The boy paused, gave a small shrug, and hurled the thing as hard as he bloody could. Crack! The sound was deafening. It echoed across the entirety of the school’s grounds, mixing with the awed gasps of the first years as their enthralled faces followed the Bludger’s speeding trajectory. It soared up, up, up into the air, hurtling across the cloudless blue sky on its way towards an impressively distant turret. Dylan’s smirk was imprinted on his lips before he’d even retracted his aching arm. But for the first time that morning, he didn’t give the pain a second thought. His eyes found his challenger, instead, awaiting the much-deserved apology that was surely only seconds away. Which was, of course, the exact moment he heard the glass shatter. A jubilant, celebratory cry sounded immediately from the surrounding crowd of students. They’d probably never had this much fun in a class before in their lives. “That was wicked!” the tall boy cried, amazed. Clearly eating his words. Dylan, however, was too busy staring up at the window he’d just demolished to notice. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Twenty minutes. He’d lasted twenty minutes before he’d screwed this up. Which, yes, was something he’d ordinarily be peachy bloody keen with, but this situation was anything but ordinary. Reynolds was going to slay him. He had to fix this. He couldn’t afford to give that man yet another reason to think of him as a useless, troublemaking scoundrel. This flimsy little agreement they had going could get taken away at any sodding moment, as it was, and then where would he be? Royally fucked, that’s where. “Hold this,” he said, shoving the bat at the closest student and nearly knocking him over in the process. Dylan didn’t notice. “Red.” He pointed a finger at the chatty, pigtail girl. “Take over.” And with that, he began sprinting towards the school’s entrance, yelling over his shoulder to stay put and that he’d be right back. Leaving inexperienced first years with brooms at their disposal. Oh yes, he was so qualified for this job. Confident in his general knowledge of the castle’s layout, Dylan knew that if he could just find the right room (which he prayed to God was abandoned), he could retrieve the ball, fix the window, and be out of there before anyone was the wiser, thus saving his hide from the almost certain doom that would follow if things happened to go even more awry. But, since it was Hell Day, accomplishing this task was obviously never going to be that easy. An unfortunate oversight, on his part. He rounded the corner at a dead run, sliding almost entirely past the door before gripping the edges of it and using his momentum to hurl himself back again, stumbling into the room more than a little disheveled and entirely out of breath. The very, very occupied room... “Shit. I mean—damn it. Sorry. Deepest apologies, mates, don’t mean to interrupt, but has anyone happened to see a—” He stopped. Because there, at the far end of the room, past the sea of shocked students crouched under desks and chairs, standing amidst the chaos of her recently disrupted classroom, was none other than Anne Kerrigan. Holding a tamed Bludger in her hand. He couldn’t help it. All traces of his hangover and thoughts of imminent demise vanished at the sight of her. And, after a moment, his signature, lazy, superior grin began to lift his lips with instinctive, inherent ease. He really should have known. Fate had always had a way of amusing him, even when it worked distinctly out of his favor. “Professor Kerrigan. What a pleasant surprise…” |
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| Anne Kerrigan | Apr 18 2010, 08:01 PM Post #3 |
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“Professor!” “Help!” “Arrggghhh!” The scene that was playing out before her at the moment could have been quite humorous if it were not so perilous. “Everybody quiet!” she yelled over the raucous, causing a few anxious students to peer fearfully in her direction, mouths clamped tightly shut. “Now duck and cover your heads,” Anne instructed them, amber eyes darting around the room as she kept the speeding bludger in sight. There was mass scrambling as students literally threw themselves onto the ground, and in one case, on top of one another. Anne would have rolled her eyes if she could, but as it were, her attention was focused on the problem at hand. Pursing her lips together, wand held in a steady upraised hand, Anne waited patiently for the perfect moment to strike. It must have been an odd scene for anybody who came across the room at that moment. Every student cowering on the floor, under desks. The sound of whimpering and hushed whispers could be heard between the intervals of crashes the bludger made as it ricocheted off the walls. And in the middle of it all was Anne Kerrigan, motionless as a statue, dark wisps of hair escaping from her elegant bun, eyes narrowed in angry concentration. A stream of red light suddenly shot out of the light wood, momentarily throwing a red hue on the students who lay quivering underneath its path, and then the bludger was suddenly suspended in midair. Deathly silent, Anne let her wand drop to her side as she picked her way around the mess that used to be her classroom and grabbed the heavy ball out of the air. Heads started to pop up like little prairie dogs as the students sensed that their lives were no longer in peril. An uneasy relief filled the room as a few students grinned abashedly at each other. “Wicked,” a mousy haired student breathed, head poking out from under a nearby desk. Mouth pressed into a thin line, Anne schooled her features into a stern stare and was about to order her students back into their seats when an even worse hellion barged into her room. “Shit. I mean—damn it. Sorry. Deepest apologies, mates, don’t mean to interrupt, but has anyone happened to see a—” “Language, Mr.—” she had started instinctively, acutely aware of her students innocent ears, but she was forced to stop when she realized that the man standing in front of her was not a rogue student. But it wasn’t that she didn’t recognize him either. In fact, she was all too familiar with the piercing blue-green eyes that stared at her from under a heavy brow, the lips that were even now curving into an arrogant smirk. “Professor Kerrigan. What a pleasant surprise…” “You!” she gasped, unable to contain herself, though her tone held far more fury than shock in it. Already Anne could feel angry pink patches beginning to form on her fair cheeks. Her grip slackened on the bludger as her mind worked feverishly to comprehend why he was here, in the school, throwing bludger’s into her classroom. Was this man so dense that he could not take a hint? “Oh my!” a hushed feminine voice sounded from somewhere behind her as two girls giggled together, clearly fawning over the man’s devastating features. Irritation flared up within her. “What are you doing in my classroom?” she demanded, eyes hard as flint as she pinned him with an accusatory glare, noting his unkempt appearance for the first time. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, but before she could even begin to reason his disheveled appearance, the curse she had put on the bludger wore off. Ripping out of her loose grip, it proceeded to zoom around once more, accompanied with the alarmed screams of her students. “I’ll get it this time!” a spunky, red-haired boy shouted over the shrieks, leaping up onto a desk and sticking himself squarely in the bludger’s path. A few students emitted horrified gasp as a petite blonde cried, “Oliver, you twit, get down! You can’t even do a levitation spell without setting half the classroom on fire!” And that was Anne’s cue, if she had even needed one in the first place. Barely even glancing over at the offensive ball, Anne made a slashing motion with her wand, transfiguring the bludger into a soft, feathery pillow, which hit Oliver square in the face. A few giggles of relief floated up from the barricades the students had built for themselves, but petered out swiftly upon glancing at their Professor’s livid face. “Class is dismissed for the day,” she informed them through her clenched jaw, her dark eyes never leaving the man’s. “I would like to have a word with our uninvited guest.” An attempted courteous smile appeared on her face, though it held no warmth. “But…” a freckled student, one of her most promising ones, piped up, clearly distraught at losing more than half a day’s learning. “That will be all,” Anne cut in smoothly, if not a tad forcefully. She continued to hold him in her gaze as her students slowly collected their things, curiosity causing them to linger as long as possible. Snatches of conversation floated to where she stood rigid in the center of the room, arms folded over her chest, foot tapping soundlessly on the stone floor. “Who do you think—” “So dark and handsome, I wonder if—” “Merlin, Penelope, think he likes young—” “—bet he’s dead within the hour.” “I’ll take that and raise you that he releases a snitch and she spontaneously combusts…” And with that, the last student had filed out the door. There was a period of deadly silent as Anne continued to glare at him, eyes studying the sharp contrast between his scruffy appearance and the overconfident mask he wore on his face. “Sit. Here. Now.” She commanded, punctuating each word in a tight voice as she pointed to a chair that had somehow managed to remain upright through the entire ordeal. Perhaps that last student through the door was correct. Spontaneous combustion did not sound so far-fetched at the moment. |
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| Dylan Reilly | Apr 25 2010, 12:16 AM Post #4 |
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Lethally good looking.
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Despite spending the past few days in a vodka-induced, liver-damaging stupor, Dylan had not forgotten about the lovely Professor Kerrigan and her Bun of Disciplinary Justice. Not that the sight of her standing before him now would have made recalling the austere young woman a difficult task. Although sans one flowing white gown, Kerrigan looked no different than she had when he’d surprised her with his appearance the evening of the eventful Yule Ball. In fact, it was almost uncanny how similar the two meetings were shaping up to be. The same angry, mottled pink was beginning to tint her ivory cheeks. Her ribbon-slim figure went rigid with the same amount of surprise and building displeasure at the mere sight of him, mouth thinning in what would soon be an all-out scowl. Even her greeting was the same—a harsh intake of breath coupled with the fiery flash of her amber-colored glare. “You!” Astounding how often he’d heard the opposite sex refer to him this way. Dylan was beginning to think he should entertain the idea of adopting it as his official moniker. No, it’s pronounced "you," you’re not emphasizing with enough shocked disdain and thinly veiled contempt. Think daytime soap opera when the villain returns to ruin the lives of all the happy, pretty people. That’s it. Followed by the always apt inquiry of what he was doing there, with the added specification of ‘in my classroom,’ in this case. Which only served to remind him that he’d just unwittingly demolished half of said classroom with a rogue bludger. Something about Fate and her slightly skewed sense of humor. Though, if she really wanted to impress him, she’d find a way to destroy the other half, too. Guess what happened next. Alarmed gasps and shrieks filled the room the moment the bludger zipped right out of Kerrigan’s slackened grip and soared over the students’ ducked heads, speeding lethally through the air as it demolished everything it bloody touched. At one point, Dylan had to dodge the thing milliseconds before it nearly took his arm off. He watched, slightly wide-eyed, as it changed course to careen violently into a neat stack of papers on the large desk near the back wall. Less than five seconds had passed. Then, with one swift, gracefully effortless swipe of her wrist, Kerrigan reduced the ball to a harmless pillow before it could slam into the face of one particularly misguided, bravado-filled youth—consequently giving Fate a damned good run for her money in the process. Dylan straightened, unabashedly impressed. Suddenly, it was quite easy for him to see why Reynolds had granted such a high-ranking, prestigious position to someone as young as Kerrigan was. The realization immediately made null his previous assumption that she’d acquired the job through less than ethical means. Really, he should have known better. The woman was far too “Uppity Prude of the Year” for that. “Class is dismissed for the day,” she announced tersely, voice cutting through the silence. Her gaze was just as searing, and if he were anyone else, it probably would have stirred up a generous amount of apprehension inside him. Especially since it was paired with a thin-lipped smile that didn’t seem friendly at all considering it still made her look as though she belonged to one of those species that eat their young. “I would like to have a word with our uninvited guest.” Hesitant packing away of books, quills and parchment ensued. Murmurs drifted about the room as the students obediently filed out the door, but Dylan was (for once in his life) too preoccupied to notice the amorous, appreciative stares he was receiving from the departing female portion of the room. His attentions, darkly mirthful and vaguely curious, were focused instead on Kerrigan’s hard and unforgiving expression. Finally, the door clicked shut. His posture remained relaxed, hands shoved carelessly into his pockets. It was clear that he was faintly amused by his ‘condemned man’ status. The same definitely couldn’t be said of Kerrigan. “Sit. Here. Now,” she ordered in harsh, perfect enunciation, steel ringing beneath the authoritative tone. With a sharply precise, jab-like motion, she pointed to a nearby chair. He could almost see her bun getting tighter. He also distinctly remembered hearing that authoritative tone once before, and it did not escape his notice that its inappropriate sex-appeal had not diminished since then in the slightest. With lips tipping in the faintest of smirks, Dylan measured out a pause before bowing slightly – a gesture that would have been only marginally impertinent were it not for the words that followed it. “Yes, ma’am," he replied in a tone that was a pitch deeper than his usual, blatantly mocking the severity she was trying to cast over the situation. The glint in the bright, turquoise stare he regarded her with certainly didn’t detract from his brash insolence, either. Dylan was being Dylan, in other words. A hangover from hell and being blackmailed into torturous labor was hardly going to prevent him from taking advantage of this golden opportunity to get under her skin. So, with a calm ease that almost comically juxtaposed her stern, foreboding countenance, he strolled over to the designated chair and complacently took a seat. Once there, he leaned slowly forward on his elbows and stared up at her through one, rogue strand of mahogany hair, the glint in his eyes turning unmistakably, shamelessly suggestive. “Are you going to punish me now?” he inquired lowly. And then his lips parted in a dangerous grin. Edited by Dylan Reilly, Apr 25 2010, 12:21 AM.
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| Anne Kerrigan | Jun 30 2010, 11:49 PM Post #5 |
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Anne was no stranger to insolence. After all, she was a teacher to children ranging in age from grossly immature eleven to angst-ridden eighteen. And yet, none of those prepubescent children even came close to irking her as much as this twenty-something man-whore. There was something about the glint in his eyes, the smug look etched into his face, as if he knew exactly what buttons to press and when. It made her want to cross her arms over her chest and defiantly scream, “You don’t know me!” And perhaps that was the root of the inexplicable irritation she felt as soon as he was in the room. He knew her name, her occupation, her (unwanted) love interests… and she knew absolutely nothing. Not a name. Not where he worked. For Merlin’s sakes, she didn’t even know what he was doing back in the school again. He could have been the Charms teacher for all she knew, though she highly doubted that. Reynolds would have to be popping some major pills to ever hire this man as a teacher of all things. Maybe he was to be a future ghost. The gods only knew she was going to help ensure his early employment if he kept staring at her with that cheeky expression on his face “Yes, ma’am,” he responded, bowing slightly at the waist. Anne bit back a groan as she pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezed shot in misery. Who had she offended so severely as to warrant this punishment? To her mild surprise, however, he actually did saunter over to sit in the chair. Heaven forbid he did so without a retort, though. “Are you going to punish me now?” he asked, peering up at her through russet strands of hair. Had she not already been so incensed, Anne probably would have been momentarily taken aback by the provocative display. As it stood, she couldn’t be bothered to feel concern over irregular heartbeats and a rising blood pressure. She had much larger issues to deal with, which did not include her apparent rapidly deteriorating health. “Don’t tempt me,” she warned him darkly. “I would have flogged you ten minutes ago if I did not get the distinct impression that you would only become aroused.” Her tone was flat as she added carelessly, “You practically scream S&M.” She didn’t have to be a psychic to know he was currently fantasizing about a teacher/student scenario. He had chosen the wrong room to wreck for that, however. He would have had much more luck with Shaw… or Slant, perhaps. He did have chains hanging on his wall… But that was a place where Anne did not want to go. So instead, she placed her hands shoulder-length apart on the desk in front of him, hovering dangerously over his prone form. With drawn brows she regarded him. “Now,” she started in a low, ominous tone, “Please, provide me with whatever absurd excuse you have come up with to explain why you have the privilege to not only be on school grounds, but to also disrupt classes using lethal objects.” She faced him with a raised eyebrow and thin lips as she waited for him to concoct some wild story, no doubt filled with a rogue Quidditch player and fireballs. |
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| Dylan Reilly | Sep 20 2010, 04:06 AM Post #6 |
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Lethally good looking.
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Sweet Merlin, it was actually depressing, watching this woman smother how sexually attracted to him she was. That level of repression couldn’t possibly be good for her health. Honestly, he was concerned. People who repressed things had brain aneurysms, or spontaneous, unpredictable fits of rage that usually ended in large explosions and the deaths of several unfortunate coworkers. Hogwarts was a time bomb. No one was safe. Although, “Dylan Reilly: Devilishly Handsome Downfall of the Wizarding World’s Most Esteemed Educational Institution” did have a certain appeal in a dark, debonair sort of way… He pondered the merits of that while Professor Scowly Face lived up to her namesake. “Don’t tempt me,” she answered irritably, glaring in that narrowed, deadly way that always had him suspecting she knew exactly what he was thinking about and disapproved with every moral fiber of her being. “I would have flogged you ten minutes ago if I did not get the distinct impression that you would only become aroused.” (He would have.) Her dark gaze flattened. “You practically scream S&M.” Hmm. Must be the leather jacket. He didn’t entirely agree, though. He’d dabbled, yes, but nothing beat a simple, good old-fashioned shag. Besides, he wasn’t usually the one doing the screaming… In the middle of a rather wolfishly reminiscent grin, Dylan suddenly became aware of the subtle change steadily overtaking Kerrigan’s unamused expression. For some reason, all he could picture was an archer taking aim with her bow. Until she bent over and cornered him, that is. Many a thing was being pictured after that. If ‘many a thing’ could also be translated to mean ‘scenarios in which multiple layers of clothing are shed.’ “Now,” she began, features clouding over with a mixture of determination and scorn. “Please, provide me with whatever absurd excuse you have come up with to explain why you have the privilege to not only be on school grounds, but to also disrupt classes using lethal objects.” Uh oh. There was that dangerous Professor-Kerrigan-is-brewing sort of tone. Complete with the I-dare-you-to-defy-me arch of the brow. For a moment, she actually made him forget he was an adult, and not a misbehaved schoolboy. Which, upon further consideration, wasn’t actually all that impressive, since he seemed to forget that on a daily basis, anyway. So, hah. Who looked stupid now. Entirely too pleased with himself and completely unfazed, Dylan settled back against his chair, lounging in that casually elegant way only he could pull off so effortlessly. Then, with an undeniable air of self-satisfaction, he looked up to meet her tapered gaze and drawled out a lightly mocking response. “I know my physique is an astoundingly ideal example of the male form, darling, but lethal?” His brow arched slightly before his lips parted into something of a half-grin. “That’s too much. Really, you flatter me.” It lasted barely a second. Soon, he was swiveling his stare to the sleeve of his jacket and picking idly at an unseen thread. “As for the… privilege," Good God, a part of his soul just died, “of being allowed on school grounds… funny story, actually.” He stopped what he was doing and lifted his head to meet her stare dead-on. “Seems you now have a lethally good-looking, new professor to chat up in the Staff Lounge each glorious afternoon.” Then he grinned. Hugely. Right before crossing his arms behind his head and basking in every single, bloody second of it. Now this, he could get used to. |
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| Anne Kerrigan | Sep 23 2010, 12:05 AM Post #7 |
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The strict teacher act was not working on him. She wanted to scream in frustration. What had Anne ever done to deserve this? She minded her own business and educated the hopeless youth in an attempt to prevent them from destroying the world. What more did they want? Her sanity, apparently. The rouge was looking too content, despite his tousled, worn appearance that would have stated otherwise. Brown eyes travelled the length of his body in mere observation as he sank into his chair as though he didn’t have a care in the world. As though he hadn’t just obliterated her room with a bludger. As if he was a god. Anne’s mouth turned in distaste. “I know my physique is an astoundingly ideal example of the male form, darling, but lethal?” he questioned arrogantly, peering up at her from beneath dark lashes. As though this should stir a desire for him. Did he honestly think she was going to suddenly jump him because he shot those sensuous eyes at her? Or stretch out in such a way that the rippling of muscles could be seen moving beneath his shirt? “That’s too much. Really, you flatter me.” He was flattering himself. She would have told him so, as well, if he had given her a chance. Instead, he continued while playing with his jacket. “As for the… privilege of being allowed on school grounds… funny story, actually.” Why was it that she was not in the slightest surprised that it was a funny story. Anne felt the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose in pained annoyance. She half-wondered if she should stop him now. Merlin only knew whatever this story was it most definitely involved at least ten different ways of breaking the law, fifteen violations, and what she felt sure was a pissed off old woman. No, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to become this man’s confidant. So help him if they were thrown into a cell together after she was mistakenly labeled as his accomplice. Anne was starting to regret her persistence in figuring out his alibi. However, the thoughts of inebriation, escape from an institution, and purse-swinging grannies promptly fled when his eyes lifted to meet hers in a cheeky stare. “Seems you now have a lethally good-looking, new professor to chat up in the Staff Lounge each glorious afternoon,” he finished smoothly, smiling like the Cheshire Cat as he folded his arms behind his head, gauging her reaction with a glittering stare. Whatever Anne had expected him to say, it certainly wasn’t that. “What?” she blurted, her tone the flat and uncomprehending sound of somebody receiving a slap to the face. The Headmaster would never… but there was no other way for him to be on the grounds if the Headmaster hadn’t sanctioned… unless he were dead… With dawning comprehension, Anne swiftly maneuvered around the desk, grabbed the man harshly by the ear in an impressive display of “badass teacher, don’t fuck with me”, and wrenched him forward, causing him to sit straight up in his seat for fear of tearing his ear off. The sudden proximity of their faces could almost have been mistaken as having a romantic inclination, if Anne’s face hadn’t resembled the brewing of a storm. “What have you done to the Headmaster?” she demanded, eyes narrowed to venomous slits as she interrogated him. “Have you put him under the Imperius Curse? Drugged him?” she continued, relentless. “So help me,” her tone lowered ominously, fingertips pinching harder into the cartilage, “if you harmed one hair on Garridan’s head, I will lather you up in tartar sauce and feed you to the Giant Squid.” Her chocolate eyes shone with furious intensity as they glared down into sea-colored irises. “We’ll see how lethally good-looking you are in the stomach of a mollusk.” |
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| Dylan Reilly | Oct 6 2010, 06:13 PM Post #8 |
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Lethally good looking.
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Dylan had always thought that anything worth doing was worth overdoing to the point that it became hazardous. Thus, the cheerfully arrogant air he’d adopted in the wake of his tactless revelation, despite the very real fact that his smirk was aimed at the none-too-pleased woman whose classroom he’d just Bludgered to all hell. One would have thought he was a worldly king lounging on a gilded throne rather than a disheveled delinquent on a rickety, wooden desk-chair. ‘Overdoing it’ might have even been an understatement. Bugger if she wasn’t so delightfully fun to tick off, though. “What?” she asked blankly, as though she hadn’t quite understood him. Or maybe she’d just been too lost in the irresistible allure of his heavenly eyes to notice he’d spoken. Probably that second one. It happened a lot. One could hardly blame her. Feeling benevolent, Dylan withheld a world-weary sigh and attempted to tactfully display some patience. “I said—” ... all of which went out the window the moment Kerrigan hurtled at him like a freight train of Professorial Terror. “—owowowowOW!” One excruciating second later, he was teetering on the edge of his ‘throne’ with the livelihood of his perfectly-formed ear resting – quite literally – in the suddenly enraged Professor's brutal grip. “What have you done to the Headmaster?” she snapped, fiery-eyed and vengeful. Her face was now only a few scant inches from his, which was a fact Dylan would have enjoyed more if he hadn’t been too busy wincing in complete and total agony. “What have I done?” he managed in a strangled and thoroughly incredulous tone. “Have you put him under the Imperius Curse? Drugged him?” she ploughed on vehemently. This elicited a sneer despite the inordinate amount of pain he was in. “Like I would waste perfectly good drugs on that old—fuck’s SAKE!” He hissed in a sharp breath when the already unbearable amount of pressure being exerted on his poor, defenseless ear increased tenfold. She didn’t even blink, the sociopath. Only went on to dole out some dark threat about feeding him to the Giant Squid or something. Honestly, her mouth kept moving, but all he heard was evil. “We’ll see how lethally good-looking you are in the stomach of a mollusk,” she finished in a menacing growl of a voice that was coupled with a scathingly venomous glare. For good measure, he supposed. The woman could make a basilisk jealous. Gritting his teeth against both the pain and the overwhelming urge to let out a string of murderous oaths that would have made Satan himself blush, Dylan began to prepare his defense. Though, how much good it would actually do was another story. She was clearly unstable. Hardly the sort of person who should be allowed anywhere near the young, moldable minds of children. Or ears. In the end, his temper won out and overrode any notions of civility. Like he had any of that anyway. “Perhaps if you untwisted your knickers from the multiple, insanely complicated knots they perpetually seem to be mired in for just a bloody moment, kitten, you’d realize that if anyone deserves to be fed to that tentacled cretin out there, it’s that sadistic ponce-masquerading-as-a-Headmaster,” he snarled irascibly, careful to keep still through his building irritation. Even the slightest shift sent a stab of pain throbbing through his skull. Escape was unlikely. He leveled a sour gaze at her and continued with a scowl. “Because believe it or not, this new occupational venture of mine was forced upon me entirely against my will. I wouldn’t weasel my into a position that requires me to teach pre-pubescent devils to take to the skies, of all bloody things – which, by the way, is not only a horrifying concept, it’s also completely against my vehemently anti-altruistic nature.” When he finished, he obstinately held her stare with his own, taking note once again of how close she was. He could count eyelashes, catch glints of gold in the dark ochre of her gaze, trace patterns in the impossibly faint, almost-invisible smattering of freckles that skimmed the ivory surface of her nose... Being the seasoned criminal he was, Dylan always had to be aware of an escape route, no matter the risk involved or how deplorable his methods might have to be in order to achieve access to such a thing. It was a critical, cemented aspect of his life that would undoubtedly be ingrained in him until the day he inevitably got himself killed. So as he sat there silently measuring the steely features of his fierce, feminine opponent, the path to freedom eventually became quite clear, and he paved the way to it with lowly spoken words that were laced with lingering annoyance and heavy with promised threat. “Now let go, or I'll kiss you.” |
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| Anne Kerrigan | Oct 14 2010, 10:25 PM Post #9 |
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Fury. Anne felt nothing but fury. If she had a moment to collect herself, to reflect on her actions, she probably would have wondered why. Yes, she was being a bit irrational, but it was the fact that she didn’t care that should have concerned her more. Anne had always prided herself on being fair, painstakingly so, sometimes. While she was often frustrated, she contained it with a clenched jaw and a stern look. And yet this man was able to blow all her composure with an arrogant stride and a cheeky grin. How many other students had waltzed into her classroom in just that manner? About two-thirds of Hogwarts population. And how many of those had she forcefully taken by the ear and yelled at until she was red in the face? None. Absolutely bloody zero. Not even Halden, and Merlin only knew that girl was trouble. But here she was with the very real cartilage of this man’s ear pinched between unforgiving fingers, her scowling, blotched face just inches from his own, and she didn’t care that she looked clinically mad. Anne didn’t have to worry herself over the lack of provocation on his part, however, once she finally allowed him enough time to open conceited mouth and spew forth a tirade of insults. “Perhaps if you untwisted your knickers from the multiple, insanely complicated knots they perpetually seem to be mire in for just a bloody moment, kitten, you’d realize that if anyone deserves to be fed to that tentacle cretin out there, it’s that sadistic ponce-masquerading-as-a-Headmaster,” he practically growled, which caused Anne to sputter with rage and pinch his ear just that much tighter. Honestly, who wouldn't want to tear his head off? He had brought her knickers into it! Which were not at all twisted, thank you. “Ponce-masquerad—don’t you dare—” He cut her off before she could ramble out a fully coherent thought, quite unusual for the normally composed Professor Kerrigan. However, the Professor had ceased to exist the moment she had launched herself at him. This side of Anne was quite different from her counterpart. Rebellious, passionate, apparently unfair… One who felt positively gleeful that the man’s mouth was twisted into a dark scowl where his smirk usually held residence. Really, the amount of satisfaction that she felt at finally breaking through his composure was almost ridiculous, even though it had come at the expense of her own. One lit fuse set off another… “Because believe it or not, this new occupational venture of mine was forced upon me entirely against my will.” Anne’s brow creased in alarm. Occupational. Had he just said occupational? It was hard to understand anything he was saying when she was trying to avoid ripping his ear completely off. “I wouldn’t weasel my way into a position that requires me to teach pre-pubescent devils to take to the skies, of all bloody things,” – had he just said teach and fly in the same sentence?— “which, by the way, is not only a horrifying concept, it’s also completely against my vehemently anti-altruistic nature.” It didn’t take a fool to know what he meant, and Anne was far more brilliant than a fool. “The Headmaster would never…” she trailed off breathlessly, the color draining rapidly from her face, “Not flying… Not you of all people…” She was too caught up in her dismaying revelation to notice his quiet scrutiny of her. No, this couldn’t be real. Surely the Headmaster wasn’t insane enough to hire this, this fiend, to teach the children their flying lessons? Had she completely missed something? Like Reynolds taking a bludger to the head? No doubt set loose in his office as well by the young man in front of her. Half the students would be dead in the next week! This could not be allowed to happen, and Anne was just the person to prevent it. Though she was taken aback, her expression still held fierce determination, and her fingers still held his precious ear in an unyielding grip. She turned her narrowed gaze on him once more, as though it was his fault she was now going to have to bring him before Reynold’s and explain why this man was wholly unsuitable to even stand three feet away from a child, let alone be allowed to teach one. Actually, it was his fault. Before she could announce that he was going to accompany her to the Headmaster’s office, however, the man decided he had other plans. Plans that left Anne momentarily speechless with shock. Plans that had her responding in a way that would not immediately lead them to their destination. “Now let go, or I’ll kiss you.” “You wouldn’t dare!” she ground out slowly through clenched teeth, ignoring the ominous look on his face. What was worse, she actually thought he wouldn’t. Edited by Anne Kerrigan, Oct 14 2010, 10:26 PM.
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| Dylan Reilly | Dec 14 2010, 04:41 AM Post #10 |
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Lethally good looking.
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Merlin, what he wouldn’t give to erase this entire day from existence. He had a hangover the size of his ego (gargantuan, for those of you just joining us), he’d unwillingly learned what waking up at dawn felt like (which was apparently a time of day that existed), been forced into what was, essentially, slave labor, and had a part of his anatomy manhandled in a way that was distressingly lacking in pleasure. It wasn’t even noon yet. And, to top it off, this marked the first instance in his history in which he’d had to threaten a member of the opposite sex with a snog, of all things. A snog from him. Dylan Reilly, God of Sex. Did she even have any idea how many women practically begged him for such a privilege on a nearly day-to-day basis? Because it was a lot. Almost an indecent amount of women. Birds everywhere. Couldn’t fight them off with a stick. God, he missed London. Only Lady Satan herself here would find the prospect deplorable. Although… now that he thought about it, perhaps that nickname wasn’t entirely accurate. It might have even been generous. After all, if Satan were a lady, she’d probably enjoy a good snog as much as the next person. Maybe Sally Stick Up Her Arse was better. Whatever the case, much as he’d predicted, his threat hit home. Shock bloomed across the professor’s features first, widening her honey-colored eyes a fraction, as though she couldn’t quite believe he’d say something so unthinkably horrific. Then, in an absurd attempt at one final, courageous stand, the insufferably stubborn Anne ‘Stick Up Her Arse’ Kerrigan decided - quite foolishly - to call his bluff. “You wouldn’t dare,” she challenged, all steel and menace through a tightly clenched jaw. His lips were on hers before the last syllable even had time to resonate. It was that firm, and that fast, and that spectacularly effective at cutting off whatever other words of doubt the obstinate young woman might have raised against him. In fact, it was the kind of kiss that would erase any doubt whatsoever about the sort of man Dylan was. If nothing else, it proved almost incontrovertibly that of the things he wouldn’t dare do, kissing an attractive (albeit completely intolerable and mildly infuriating) woman most definitely was not among them. It lasted a scant few seconds. Maybe less. Not exactly much to work with for someone less experienced, but Dylan had something a surprisingly large amount of people did not, and that was finesse. Even with a throbbing ear, and a less-than-erotic positioning of bodies, he could make a simple kiss (without tongue, no less) seem positively salacious. It was the confidence, the softening just enough to leave a little dominance behind, the lack of hurry even though it had happened in the flash of an instant, the linger of it all… He was just starting to enjoy himself when the sound of a voice filtered in from the doorway. “Professor? I just had a question about—” They broke apart almost as quickly as they’d collided. Dylan’s gaze stilled on Anne’s face for the briefest of moments, his turquoise study unreadable even in the sunlight that seeped through the room's nearest window. Then, with little concern, visibly unmoved now, he turned his attention towards the room’s entrance and met the wide stare of a student whose cheeks were rapidly flushing scarlet. “S-sorry,” she fumbled, already backing away. Surprise and embarrassment were clearly warring for dominance on the flustered girl's features. Apparently, the last thing she’d expected to find upon seeking homework help was her professor and some mystery man locking lips. “I’ll just… I’ll come back some other time, then,” she said, voice a near squeak. Then, with an impossibly fast whirl, she vanished. In the weighted silence that ensued, Dylan had time to recognize that he’d likely just signed his own death sentence. Probably ten times over, actually. Which might have filled him with a marginal amount of regret had he not been under the distinct impression that his actions, while admittedly devious, were completely justified. He’d warned her, after all, hadn’t he? Let go, or I’ll kiss you. Nothing could be more clear. She’d refused to let go; he’d kissed her. Done. Finito. End of story. Besides, it had been worth it. “Straitlaced Professor Kerrigan, caught kissing the dashing new flying instructor already,” came the inevitable drawl of his voice, languid and coupled with a slowly building, but positively diabolical grin that didn’t reach full intensity until he’d dragged his stare away from the room’s entrance and settled it once again on the woman in question. Cocking his head almost infinitesimally, Dylan regarded her with a look that chided. Or it would have, anyway, if it hadn’t also been painfully obvious that the events that had just transpired had amused the ever loving shit out of him. “Scandalous of you…” |
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8:47 PM Jul 10