[hallways] no quarter | killian

After the End of Term Feast
June 18th, 2004

Ravenclaw had not won the house cup, but Rowen had stopped caring about such low-hanging fruit by this point in her Hogwarts career. She used her time more efficiently by having perfect grades and flawless hair, and everyone knew the house point system was as rigged as the sorting ceremony. It catered to the lowest class of students, and only the intellectually challenged could be motivated by such simple gamification. Rowen didn't need pretty sapphires in a glass jar to encourage her to study.

The young witch spent half of the end-of-term feast explaining why the house point ceremony was a waste of time and the other half expecting her friends to agree with her, and before she knew it, the dinner was almost finished. Soon enough, she'd be back in the dorm; Rowen had already packed her trunk for the train ride back to London, and soon she would be on her way to Highwood House, the idea soothed her. Rowen couldn't wait to be rid of her classmates and back among like-minded individuals.

Dabbing at the corners of her mouth even though she knew there was not a chance she'd gotten anything on her face while eating, Rowen frowned beneath her napkin as she saw Killian Buckley approaching. Placing her napkin on top of her plate to signal for the house elves to come and clean up after her, Rowen spoke loud enough that Killian might hear. "Here comes the muggle-born, Morgana save us…."

The Gryffindor had the nerve to approach the Ravenclaw table even though he had no place here, and Rowen's dark eyes slid toward Billie as he spoke to her. Some question about prefect things that had no meaning for her — the Prefect system was ludicrous as well, especially since Rowen had not been named one at the start of term — and Rowen rolled her eyes.

And then Killian turned to speak to her, and she smiled at him. "I said, here comes the muggle-born," Rowen repeated after the wizard asked and the witch stared at him wickedly. "Would you prefer I use a different noun?"

@Killian Buckley

The feast was drawing to a close and Killian couldn't remember which shift he had gotten. The other Gryffindor prefect couldn't remember either (typical, Killian thought), so he was dashing across to the Ravenclaw table. Billie would know, she had a good memory for these things. Too bad she was sitting with Rowen, but Barbie was there too. Ki gave the ballet dancer a little wave. "Hi, Billie," Killian began, slightly breathless, "I forget, was it you two or our two going to get the sleeping bags --"
 
.. the muggle-born, Morgana save us….

Killian's jaw was still open, but the sounds coming from his throat stopped mid-syllable. He blinked, once, slow, then turned his face away from Billie to his least favorite Ravenclaw. His face was frozen, still in the awkward-but-good-natured expression he had when he went to ask Billie his question. It was in stark contrast to his voice, which was suddenly icy-cold. "Sorry, Reinhardt, I didn't catch that. Did you have something to say to me?"

I said, here comes the muggle-born, said Rowen, a smirk on her lips. Would you prefer I use a different noun?

Something hard in Killian's heart snapped. He glared at her for a moment, then -- "Right. One, it's an adjective. Two, get up." He stepped back from the bench, gesturing to the space in between the tables. "Get the hell up. We're settling this. Now." A pause, and then -- "Hall on the left. Come on."

He didn't particularly care who overheard, but he was not broadcasting his voice. He watched just long enough to confirm that Rowen was indeed getting up before striding away himself, long legs carrying him quickly through and out of the Great Hall.

When he turned the corner, Killian slipped his wand into his hand. "Did you think I'd forgotten, Reinhardt?" His lips were moving without much concern for what he was saying. "Or did you forget when you were running your mouth?" He pointed his wand at her. "Draw your wand. If I win, you're going to shut the hell up. Forever."

Rowen wasn't sure what irritated her more than Killian had the nerve to correct her or that he was standing at their table in the first place, but when he told her to stand up, it didn't matter anymore. "Excuse me?" She bit back the expletive she wished she could have used and glared at him. "You do not get to tell me what to do," Prefect or not, Rowen did not make a habit of following the orders of people beneath her; hell, she barely followed the rules of her superiors. The young witch had every intention of stubborn refusal until she realized why he was making demands. And then a smirk crept onto her face.

It's your funeral, she thought wickedly as she stood from the table, smoothed the pleats of her uniform, and followed him out of the Great Hall. It had been months since History of Magic class, but Rowen hadn't forgotten the way he had rallied their classmates against her with his overly dramatic rhetoric. Rowen expected the girls to follow but not to participate as she moved to the corridor. Being everything her classmates had accused her of, Rowen was skilled in dueling and paranoid enough not to let him get the drop on her. Her ornate, petrified wood opal wand was out of her sleeve before she rounded the corner.

"Did you think I'd forgotten, Reinhardt?" Killian began, and Rowen was quiet as he continued, her eyes flickering from his arrogant mouth down to where he held his wand pointed at her. "Well, you muggle-borns do have such short memories." She incited him further, frowning as she spoke and raising her wand. In November, Killian had challenged her to a duel, but it had been months since. And Rowen had started to believe he'd realized the error in his ways -- or that he was scared. Seeing him now, a Gryffindor Prefect about to boil over and hex her in the middle of the hallways, Rowen had never been happier to be wrong.

"On with it, then," She accepted the challenge; Rowen's movements were fluid as she pointed her wand back at him, her palm up and her grip tight. The dark witch remembered her training as she slid one foot a little forward for balance, and her opposite hand raised above and behind her head.

ooc reference: because this is a spontaneous duel we are using different dice rolls -- end of each post drivers will roll 2d6 for their characters action. 1-6 is a failure, 7-9 is a partial success, 10-12 is a critical success. actual outcomes will be decided by the next person in the posting order. if u want ur character to bear witness or interrupt, contact me or samm!


Rowen's mouth was moving and making noise, high and shrill, in the periphery of his hearing. You do not get to tell me what to do! Whatever. Killian's ears were full of ocean, waves crashing over each other and drowning out the white girl he was waiting one. She finally stood up. Killian marched out of the Great Hall, the rush of the tide louder and louder in his ears. Were people looking at them? Killian didn't know, nor did he care. Let them think he was what they feared. Let them retreat into their unexamined racist fantasies -- today, he was wild and violent. But he was no coward.

(A small scroll of text, like the banner of a newscaster on the telly, rolled across his mind; and you did prepare, right? You wrote to Henry Murphy and you wrote to other prefects and your term is nearly over. There are no group consequences now, only group retribution.)

Well, you muggle-borns do have such short memories. Ocean waves, crashing into the surf. Killian's face twisted. He pulled his wand from its place in his robes, pear wood warming in his hands. "I'd rather have a short memory than a stunted mind," Killian shot back, pressing his thumb into the grain of the wand. He raised it up with a jolt -- it whistled as it cut through the air. "Come on, Rowen, it's just us. You can say the M-word. I know you're dying to say it."

On with it, she snapped -- Killian whipped his wand through the air with alarming speed. He would give her something to talk about. "Garrio," he cast, spinning the Babbling Curse through the air towards Rowen.

roll 2d6: 7 (6+1)

"Come on, Rowen, it's just us. You can say the M-word. I know you're dying to say it."

Killian was wrong about many things, Rowen thought possibly almost everything, but he wasn't wrong about this. Since the moment he'd dared to yell at her during a school lesson, Rowen had considered him with only the worst words she could think of – nouns and adjectives alike – but she knew better than to say the real bad ones now. Few things could garner as much immediate attention as two students dueling in the hallways, and it might have only been them currently, but Rowen expected their classmates would arrive shortly.

It was the end of term, and by this time tomorrow, they'd be out of the castle, and the incoming freedom felt powerful. Rowen would have never actually dueled Killian in such an unprofessional way during the regular term. There were house points and detentions to think about, and even if she was not a Prefect (a dramatic oversight, in her opinion), Rowen still didn't want to get into trouble. Now, though, with the term behind them, Rowen felt fearless. And after the rigor of studying for OWLs all year, Rowen was desperate to vent the pressure she'd been holding in all term.

As Killian sent the babbling curse toward her, the witch raised her wand to deflect it. The repello charm was right there on the tip of her tongue, but she missed it. Rowen felt Killian's toxic magic surround her like a thick film and frowned, her open hand rushing to her mouth as she felt the words creeping up her throat. Rowen's palm slammed against her face, but it wasn't enough to stop the words from overflowing.

Off on a tangent, Rowen's thoughts came out as fragments, but the nasty pieces mainly were all intact. "Stupid Gryffindor… Second-year spells.... should have been able…. why wasn't I able.… is he good at this.… mudblood hitting me with a hex… last thing he does…." It took everything she had to take a deep breath, swallowing roughly between babbles, to send a curse back his way. Though, it probably would have been more reasonable to choose something with a simpler incantation.

"Protidor.. dirty… useless… can't let him win… Protidor Armatu!" Her words chased by more incoherent rambling, Rowen tried again and prayed the spell would find its mark. Perhaps if he were busy fighting his uniform and unearned Prefect badge, she'd have a chance to rid herself of the babbling curse.

roll 2d6: 5 (3+2)