picking up the pieces {open}

[oliver patrick reynolds]

Oliver hurried through the library, hood drawn over his head, and sleeves of his robes yanked over his hands to protect them from the sunlight streaming in the large windows. He was headed to a hidden corner, one where he was beginning to spend more and more of his time. He simply hoped it would provide refuge longer than the last seven or so hiding places he had already gone through that term. It seemed that his tormentors took pride in tracking him down and making his life hell. Oliver, of course, was an easy target, in spite of being a half-breed, he was still a complete doormat. Bullies were beginning to take advantage of this, and their abuse was getting more and more physical.

Honestly, Oliver was scared, he had no idea what to do about it- all the professors seemed woefully indifferent to his suffering, half of them it appeared turned a blind eye as the people assaulting him grew more brazen in their efforts. But for now, Oliver was confident he was safe as he crossed over into his personal oasis for the past few weeks- a corner tucked away from the main dregs of the library, behind the quarantined restricted section (Oliver often wondered why such a section even existed, it made more sense to him that the school shouldn't be keeping any books on dark magic at all), secluded by floor-to-ceiling shelves, hence blocking any sunlight from the windows.

Quietly, he placed his bag on the table, Oliver was keen on making as little noise as possible, it would make him harder to find. He barely breathed when he was back here, taking in oxygen only when his half-human lungs began to beg for it. He lowered his hood, revealing a black eye from his latest beating, it had been that morning, and it was the most visible of his injuries, they were only shallow bruises, nothing Oliver felt he needed to draw attention to, and his vampire blood was steadily working at repairing him- even his eye was already losing the swelling that had been there, he could open and close it now, and the bruising was fading from deep purple to a lighter, more reddish shade, though it would likely still hang around a few hours.

Biting his lip, Oliver pulled out pieces of torn drawings, and a roll of spellotape. He hadn't quite mastered the subtle art that was repairing charms- they always left noticeable seams for him, worse than the tape, so repairing his creations by hand typically worked better. Blinking back tears, Oliver began putting together the pieces of the ruined drawing- it really was quite upsetting. Why did they have to torment him so? Oliver had never harmed any of them, he was much too timid to even fight back when cornered. But more importantly, why was he always left to pick up the pieces alone? Oliver flinched when he heard the sounds of footsteps and immediately held his breath, praying he would be passed by- or at the very least approached by someone who didn't plan to harm him.

[isis leyla fareed]

Isis flipped through the book in front of her. Nothing. She thumbed gently at the aged pages, as if petting a small kitten. She sighed, closing it and sliding it back on the table. Her parchment before her was dismally sparse of anything close to an essay. She disliked potions. It had the potential to be interesting...if anything interesting were covered in class. She bit her lip, her eyes darting to her rucksack thrown onto the table, all of her materials spread into a wide circumfrence to ensure that no one would dare sit near her. That was almost already a given, her vampire eyes glittering slightly in the dim library light. Couldn't be too sure. Her sketchbook tempted her. It was in there...her pencils her mother had sent her for Christmas as well.

No. She had an essay. Grimacing, she stood up, unsure where she had found this useless volume anyway. It had come from some secluded corner when she had been scrraping the bottom of the barrel on something she could write her essay on. She skimmed the spine, recalling that dusty corner she'd found it in. She turned the corner, gasping slightly as she came across a smaller student, huddled over the table. She paused, unsure if she should just retreat to her table. She could leave the book in the vicinity and leave. She didn't care for the looks she got when she passed people, and she certainly didn't have the energy for that today.

She inhaled, the faint scent that Syrena had taught her to pick up reached her nose. A Vampire, or partly Vampire. She paused once more, unsure if she should simply maneuver around him. That was awfully rude. She looked down, a drawing on the paper catching her eye, and the pieces scattered in front of the silent child, her ears catching his sparse breaths; as if he were afraid to breathe. He very well could be.

"Oh my..." She didn't intend for words to come out as her stomach plunged to the floor. She knelt beside the young boy, examining the pieces and the spellotape. It was a painful sight...her own drawings had become victim to vicious hands time and time again in her younger days. Even now a Slytherin meandering by had no problem spitting on her work if they were in a foul enough mood.

"I can help you, if you like," She whispered softly, both because she never dare speak louder than a whisper in the sanctuary of a library, and because she didn't want to startle the boy. She laid a hand gingerly on his shoulder, unsure what else she could say. She wasn't one of many words...in fact she was sure those words might have been her first all day.

[/justify][/size]

[oliver patrick reynolds]

Oliver looked at the pitiful shambles of his illustration, he hated that it was his art that his tormentors always went after first. Really, it was the only thing he felt he was any good at, the only thing he ever took pride in. That, and being good with cats. It was a pitiful array of things, but they were all he had. Aside from that, Oliver considered himself useless and alone. He'd made a single friend, however, in an older Gryffindor girl named Evelyn, when she had boldly stepped in when a group of Slytherins was tormenting him. He was sure that if she knew that the bullying had turned physical she'd do the same right back to defend him, but Oliver was afraid to ask for help.

Honestly, he didn't want her to have to do that. It might stave people off for a little while, but then things would simply get worse because he had someone else fight his battles for him- especially since that someone was a girl. Biting down on his tongue to avoid releasing a heavy sigh, Oliver slid a few more pieces together of his sketch of a dragon. It had been one of a Norwegian Ridgeback, it had started as a copy from a photograph in a book (which admittedly was difficult, as it didn't stay in the frame for long), though he'd put more of an artful spin on it.

It was a strong male, leathery wings spread in flight, eyes sparkling with the thrill of a long dive over sparkling water... Oliver tensed when the footsteps approached, and he was beginning to feel his eyes water with the effort of holding his breath so long, and his chest ached. Knowing the gig was up now, he released his breath and gulped down a few new ones to replenish the oxygen he'd been lacking. Though a unique scent came to him, it was still human, but only partly. Another half, another half like him.

Oliver felt a sudden surge of reassurance, wanting to look up at the older girl that had approached him, though still wanting to hide the steadily healing bruise encompassing his left eye. Though he had a feeling if anyone was going to understand, it would be her.

"Oh my..."

Her words were soft, barely audible, and Oliver felt a sharp pang in his chest. Yes, he was pathetic, he half-wished she hadn't come along, at least not until after he'd put the shambles of his work together. But then the stranger who was like him did the unthinkable, offered help. "Um, c-could you?" said Oliver, his tone no louder than hers, though decidedly less deliberate as his tongue tripped over the words.

[isis leyla fareed]

Isis could feel his shoulders shifting lightly yet rapidly beneath her tentative touch, as if the young boy was panting...afraid of something. She waited with her own baited breath for his response as she offered her help quietly.

"Um, c-could you?"

Letting out her own breath Isis sat softly down in the seat across from him. Her eyes flickered briefly to his face, lips parting slightly when she saw the swollen bruises. She couldn't say anything though...what could she? She'd been bruised all of once...and never again. Amun had made sure to that. She caught herself, reverting her gaze back down to the shambles of the drawing. She tilted her head slightly, piecing them back together, lightly placing her fingers on the edge of each strip to not smudge the work.

"Norwegian Ridgeback," she breathed softly, offering a small smile on her lips, although she didn't look up from what she was doing. Not with the way she felt nauseous when she looked at the poor boys face. She felt hot tears prick in her eyes, although she didn't understand why. He wasn't her. This wasn't an insult to her. She managed to widen her smile ever so slightly, she wasn't even sure it would be visibly noticeable. "He's really beautiful..." she trailed off, focusing on lining the last piece perfectly.

She'd had years of experience with reparation spells....six to be exact. Still, she knew the danger of lines, and found that if she lined it perfectly, an image could look brand new. She drew out her wand, tapping the center ever so slightly, ensuring she didn't jostle the fragile puzzle. "Repairo..." the parchment melded together, and Isis turned it around just as fragile as before.

She watched the picture, lips parting slightly again with the offer to help. Still she couldn't bring herself to look at the bruises. She looked down at the table, watching the way the wood grain swirled inside. Sometimes, if her eyes weren't so keen, she would have thought the patterns continued moving. "It gets better..." her voice was soft...practically inaudible. She herself had heard those words countless times...but still she had yet to see the end of her own torment. Still, she knew that if she closed her eyes and told herself that, it helped. Even if it didn't when she opened her eyes.

She braved another look up at the young boy. "I can help with that as well," she whispered.

[oliver patrick reynolds]

Oliver sat abnormally still, keenly aware of the weight of the girl's hand upon his shoulder, it felt almost foreign to him, he wasn't used to comforting touch, or really any touch at all that wasn't hostile. Getting knocked around was the extent of the physical contact he had, at least from people. His cat Penelope was highly affectionate with him (though she was very particular about letting anyone else touch her, or even get near her), but it seemed nobody else was. Not even his grandparents who had raised him from infancy after his mother had died because of him, and how he had taxed her body as a foetus.

Even as a child Oliver had known that his grandparents were repulsed by him. They merely kept him as he was all they had left of their late daughter, but he wasn't loved. Not abused, not neglected, but never loved. Oliver was never held, asked how his day was, played with, or read bedtime stories. He had simply always been alone. Yet here he was, in a hidden corner of a library, feeling an odd sense of comfort simply because there was someone like him, someone who would understand what this was like- being treated so terribly for something they had no control over.

Oliver watched the older girl carefully piece together his drawing, repairing it seamlessly with her wand. She even correctly identified the breed of dragon he had drawn, and commented that the specimen was beautiful. A faint smile played at the corner of his lips, it wasn't often that he got any compliments- kind words were hard to come by. Oliver nodded his thanks, having always been a child of very few words. He had always wondered, however, if he would have been more talkative if there were more people that were receptive of the things he had to say.

"It's like new," Oliver said thoughtfully, gingerly running his fingers over the paper where the pieces had used to be- there weren't even any faint lines that might suggest that it had been ruined and then repaired. "Thank you," he added, managing to catch her gaze long enough to give her a quick smile. He would have to tuck the drawing away safely in his bag for the trip back to the common room, where it could be locked away with the others that had been spared absolute destruction.

"It gets better,"

Oliver had to work at not wincing at the words. He wished it were the truth, it seemed that things had only gotten worse of late. Though regardless, he nodded. He lightly touched the bruising beneath his eye when the girl said she could also help with that, this time not being able to refrain from wincing. "You can?" Oliver asked lightly, healing seemed terribly complex to him, well beyond his means.