Post by ALBUS SEVERUS POTTER on Jul 11, 2011 16:57:39 GMT -5
Alby was sitting in a hallway, but not just any hallway. It was the hallway and he was in the spot. What was so very special about it? Nothing really, just a lonely stretch between two disused classrooms, but you could often find the Slytherin there. In fact, if you looking for Alby, it would best to look in unlikely places, since he apparently had something against sitting around in places people normally did their sitting. But for all the little niches and out-of-the-way places he had found during his time at Hogwarts, this spot in a fifth floor corridor was his favorite.
This day was like any other and there he was, Astronomy, Transfiguration, and Potions homework spread out around him in a fan. Essays, essays, and more essays. He had to bring out all three subjects at once to keep from getting bored. He liked to discuss them just fine, whether the discussion ended in learning something new or talking in circles. Plus there was the fact that while some of his professors liked that he was actually absorbing the information they taught enough so he could argue and make his own conclusions about whatever subject assigned, there seemed to be more that preferred that he spewed the exact words of old dusty books onto the page.
No, Albus Potter didn't particularly like writing essays.
Which was probably while he was singing an old Cream song, incredibly badly, while doodling circus bears on a spare bit of parchment. Or at least he claimed they were circus bears, they sort of resembled hairy blobs on strangely bendy unicycles.
There was also a folded up piece of parchment half tucked under one leg. It was supposed to be a letter home—nagged out of him by mother—but it was just a few false starts. He didn't know what to say. It felt like he had run out of things to write in the middle of second year. School was school. He did have his O.W.L.s coming up this year, but he wasn't too concerned about them.
Taking a break from his poor deformed bears, he dug through is pockets until he found his last Cherry Flare. He unwrapped the candy and as soon as he stuck it in his mouth, it started to glow. Alby had never had the need to a light source in his mouth, but they tasted amazing.
Fortunately—for the misshapen bears at least—he didn't go back to doodling. Unfortunately—for Alby and his grades—he didn't go back to his homework either. Instead, he pulled out a slim leather-bound journal. Though “journal” was never used to describe it in the boy's mind for fear of conjuring images of himself writing out his day in it like a particularly boring thirteen-year-old girl.
In it were tangents and theories about anything and everything. Alby half-thought that he'd be committed to St. Mungos if anyone read it as it was terribly disorganized, breaking off in the middle of one thought and immediately leaping into another, sentences broken and completed five pages later, angles and figures of molecules drawn here and there (much more competently than his other doodles), there seemed to be no rhyme or reason. Which was how Alby liked it, his notes were for his eyes only, after all.
He turned to the last page, the Cherry Flare emitting flashes of light as he bit and sucked on it.
This day was like any other and there he was, Astronomy, Transfiguration, and Potions homework spread out around him in a fan. Essays, essays, and more essays. He had to bring out all three subjects at once to keep from getting bored. He liked to discuss them just fine, whether the discussion ended in learning something new or talking in circles. Plus there was the fact that while some of his professors liked that he was actually absorbing the information they taught enough so he could argue and make his own conclusions about whatever subject assigned, there seemed to be more that preferred that he spewed the exact words of old dusty books onto the page.
No, Albus Potter didn't particularly like writing essays.
Which was probably while he was singing an old Cream song, incredibly badly, while doodling circus bears on a spare bit of parchment. Or at least he claimed they were circus bears, they sort of resembled hairy blobs on strangely bendy unicycles.
There was also a folded up piece of parchment half tucked under one leg. It was supposed to be a letter home—nagged out of him by mother—but it was just a few false starts. He didn't know what to say. It felt like he had run out of things to write in the middle of second year. School was school. He did have his O.W.L.s coming up this year, but he wasn't too concerned about them.
Taking a break from his poor deformed bears, he dug through is pockets until he found his last Cherry Flare. He unwrapped the candy and as soon as he stuck it in his mouth, it started to glow. Alby had never had the need to a light source in his mouth, but they tasted amazing.
Fortunately—for the misshapen bears at least—he didn't go back to doodling. Unfortunately—for Alby and his grades—he didn't go back to his homework either. Instead, he pulled out a slim leather-bound journal. Though “journal” was never used to describe it in the boy's mind for fear of conjuring images of himself writing out his day in it like a particularly boring thirteen-year-old girl.
In it were tangents and theories about anything and everything. Alby half-thought that he'd be committed to St. Mungos if anyone read it as it was terribly disorganized, breaking off in the middle of one thought and immediately leaping into another, sentences broken and completed five pages later, angles and figures of molecules drawn here and there (much more competently than his other doodles), there seemed to be no rhyme or reason. Which was how Alby liked it, his notes were for his eyes only, after all.
He turned to the last page, the Cherry Flare emitting flashes of light as he bit and sucked on it.
