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He was blowing gently on the phoenix feather quill that he held tightly in his hand (it was a Christmas present he received in his fifth year when he’d announced that he was writing articles for a newspaper, albeit one that didn’t exist officially at the time) and he always carried it around with him. It had a shiny golden nib and a plume of brilliant red and yellow feathers. Even the scratching of the other quill didn’t distract Barnabas from his own task; it was a wonderfully warm day – something that was becoming very few and far between now they’d reached the month of October – and many of the students had taken advantage of the weather to spend the day outside. Barnabas, too, was taking advantage; the Great Hall was nearly deathly quiet this afternoon, which meant he could concentrate on taking notes from the latest edition of the Daily Prophet about the events happening in both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds. Next to his elbow was a thick pad of lined notepaper, a Muggle invention he was rather fond of; it was small enough to place in his pocket, and unlike parchment, was well kept together. Barnabas was a Pureblood, and grew up in an overwhelmingly magical household, but his family held no prejudices against Muggles, Muggleborns, or their lifestyle – in fact, Barnabas found certain things (such as the notepad) extremely useful to his studies. He scribbled a hastily executed note on the paper, scarlet ink pouring from the nib; he’d charmed his quill to change the colour of his ink depending on what he was taking notes about. He ran a large palmed hand over the newspaper, in an effort to rid it of creases so that he didn’t reiterate a quote incorrectly. He had rather short, plump fingers and a large square head with dirty blonde hair atop it, but Barnabas was by no means oversized; in fact, he had quite a decent build for a boy of his age, if slightly tough and broad shoulders. Glancing at the front page of the newspaper, and satisfied he’d searched in every recess of the print for notes that he could later turn into a source for his own analysis and opinion, Barnabas settled his quill upon the pad of paper and looked up. His elbows now resting steadily within the ditches of the table, his palms caressing the sides of his herbal tea (a special recipe his mother had affectionately created just for him), Barnabas surveyed the room around him. It was, though there was no surprise in it, nearly empty. There were a few fellow Hufflepuffs further up the table that were engaged in a rather tense game of ‘Exploding Snap’, a handful of Gryffindor first years excitedly exchanging their latest stories of how Peeves had gotten them even more lost than they’d already been to begin with whilst trading a selection of Wizarding Cards and eating greedily from a display of flavoured sweets. Some of them looked like they’d been bought at Honeydukes Sweet Shoppe, so evidently they had friends in higher years. Barnabas also had a rather considerable collection of wizard trading cards too; his first card had been of Mungo Bonham. At the edge of the Ravenclaw table, Barnabas spotted two sixth year girls concentrating, to the point of it inducing great pain, on a game of Wizards Chess. He could see the black figurine of the Knight desperately trying to control his frantically bored horse, whilst simultaneously fighting to stay on the creature as it bucked. Barnabas was far from the smartest seventh year going, but he had various talents, rather than academic prowess, and Wizards Chess was certainly one of those talents. An abrupt spluttering cough brought Barnabas’ attention back from the game of quick thinking and wit, and his gaze fell back upon his copy of the Daily Prophet. The Minister of Magic was looking back at him curiously, a glint of suspicion flickering across his eyes. Barnabas watched intently, though his stare was so fixated upon the man in the black and white photograph that he could almost fall into the image as well, if he kept looking long enough. “Hey, Barn,” the other student hissed across the table, making sure his voice was low, despite the lack of people around to overhear – sometimes Barnabas’ friends used this as a shortened nickname, but Barnabas’ disliked it being used within earshot of anyone who was likely to use it as an insult (it’d once been used by a gaggle of Slytherin students to imply he lived on a farm, and spent his time rolling around in the mud with his ‘piggy friends’). None of this, of course, was true; moreover, they’d shouted this to him outside their Transfiguration class, and he’d promptly set fire to their successfully transfigured object. He’d gained detention, obviously, but it was fair; Barnabas would never be violent to an individual, no matter what house they were in (which might account for his incredibly deep-seated dislike of Defense Against the Dark Arts, which still involved spell work, like Duelling Club) but he would often get this sudden, uncontrollable urge to get even with someone, in his own non-violent way. He was fair to everyone, and perhaps a little bit too idealistic in his perception of people – which his fellow newspaper journalists had picked him up on many a time before now. “Cuffe!” the other student tried again, and Barnabas looked up from his staring contest with the photograph on the front page of the newspaper. He raised an eyebrow into the ruffles of his forehead, and the beat of his temples, waiting patiently. This was the first time Barnabas had truly acknowledged the scene in front him – an array of different textbooks, stacked twelve high, with their spines all facing the same direction, neat and orderly. He recognised Moste Potente Potions, Asiatic Anti-Venoms and Magical Drafts and Potions were amongst them. “What colour should the Draught of Living Death turn half way through? Mine always goes a strange deep green or brown, and it never looks like anyone else’s potion.” Barnabas was strangely successful when it came to anything that didn’t directly involve wand work, such as Potions. It simply involved ticking off a list of ingredients, and plopping them in the cauldron, and hoping that the procedure wasn’t too complex. With wand work, however, it involved specific pronunciation and sometimes soft and fluid gestures; something Barnabas, being a rather decently built sixteen year old (his birthday wasn’t until the twenty first of January), wasn’t always capable of. He was built for more physical activities, such as Flying. “Deep purple,” he stated, as though simply ticking it off a mental list. He didn’t have to think it over; it was simply instantaneous. The student nodded, and returned with a grateful smile, to his work. Barnabas glanced down at the newspaper; the Minister had gone. He’d tap the parchment, but he didn’t want to spurt ink all over it. He’d use his wand instead. Barnabas looked along the length of the table – often, whilst feasting here in the Great Hall, Barnabas would absently misplace his wand. It wasn’t necessarily always out of idle carelessness, though sometimes it was whilst he was joking around with some fellow students, but often it was simply because they blended in with each other. His wand, like the Hufflepuff table, was made of a deep mahogany wood. “Can I borrow your wand? I’ve lost mine again.” The other student nodded, though rather than nodding at Barnabas, he nodded into his textbook. Regardless, he reached across the table and picked up the other wand, twirling it between his fingers as he often caught himself doing with his own wand. It didn’t feel quite the same, though. His wand was longer, for a start, at eleven and a quarter inches and it was much more supple than this one was. “Accio, wand.” He tried to keep his voice as clear as possible when he pronounced the spell – however way he said it though it had been successful. His wand came flying towards him and fell effortlessly into his free hand. He handed back the other wand, took a quick glance down to see if the Minister was back (he wasn’t) and then performed ‘Incarcerous’ on his belongings to bind them neatly together, (his wand is particularly useful at Charms work) and then picked them up to carry them from the Great Hall. He had a lot of notes to share with his fellow journalists, and he was greatly anticipating equally interesting notes from them – he just hoped that they wouldn’t argue again. He just wished that everyone could work equally, and that no one would go out of his or her way to degrade the others ideas. This was Barnabas’ only way of fighting back, and he cherished it. |
