⊷ hagrid’s hut

@－ ❛ ʀ ❜：freya moon。⁰³ (i am struggling with doing replies but i really didn't wanna make you wait even longer for a starter! So sorry for the wait ;-;)

The semester had been rough and busy for the Slytherin prefect, what with every event that had taken place thus far. It was as if the whole world had started to fall apart during this semester in particular, causing his stress to run on overdrive and his haughty demeanor to become more severe. Liandro had no patience as is, but now? Even the slightest of things could make him tick. Honestly, helping Hagrid with caring for the creatures for particular lessons was his way of getting away. Liandro didn't need to talk, the professor spoke on his own, rather freely. And he was a jolly man, one that, even if one didn't particularly feel like conversing, they found themselves doing so anyway. The creatures, Hagrid, they were what Liandro had been turning towards to destress, especially with finals fast approaching.

Thus, he eagerly agreed to help the professor out when it came to helping him set up for the Care of Magical Creatures exam. Of course, he hadn't realized, much to his dismay, Hagrid had another helper that came by on days Liandro was not around. A helper that just so happened to agree to be around on this particular day as well. The male couldn't help but steal glances at her all throughout their time caring for the fire crabs, earning himself some burns here and there. It was for no other reason than to wonder just /why/ she had to be there when he took this time as a way to get away.

(i am also so sorry that this starter kinda really is crap oml)

@－ ❛ s ❜：colby rangvaldr。⁰² [] i'm so sorry for the late reply! i contemplated how i wanted to write this reply for so long ;;

perhaps once, she had thought that they were alike, that they understood each other. in a way they did—they shared scars, insecurities… disappointments. but the method with which they handled these emotions, exploited them into art, was worlds apart. it reaches her in this moment, like an epiphany searched for in the dead of the night which has finally come to light. perhaps in a way, they were indeed very much alike—they were both broken, falling white snowflakes cascading upon the scope of the cold world—but the small differences, the variances in the way they each looked at the world…

in that instance, eleanora comes to a discovery.

though the fire beside them burns with a quiet fury, stealing from the small home the hearth that would eventually burn out alongside her passion, it seems that the darkness deepens. she wanted to be understood; the artist in her lived to exert her thoughts onto the paper, in hopes that someone, anyone would be able to make sense of the chaos she had produced. perhaps once upon a time, a foolish time of which eleanora should have remained mindful that only happens in fairytales, she wanted him to understand her, and likewise. no, not anymore. it rings clear to her once again; an ominous secret whispered in the back of her mind, one which she had tried to bury beneath her intrusive thoughts. her friends did not understand her, he did not either. her mother did not even try. she was better off alone. no one would submit themselves to loitering by a wildfire, anyways.

she pulls the sleeves of her sweater up past her fingers, tugging them upward so that only the bulbous tip of her fingers protruded from the dark fabric. “you don’t need to apologize,” she says. looking down, she fingers with her nail, a perfectly manicured set of deep red. “people are different, we know that already.”

she doesn’t say much more, only throws a small glance his way, her gaze shifting from her hands to the fire to him, and back to her hands when she found herself staring for too long. she didn’t mind the silence, and it seemed neither did he. her mother had taught her that staying quiet was the best choice, anyways.

yes, perhaps she was a wilted rose, gone stale beneath the sun. but it was winter. sunlight does not touch the firmament at such times, and eleanora believed she had enough fire to melt the snow which covered the earth, or at least burn the layer on her heart and maybe even that rose as well.

“by the way, colby. ‘keep a straight face, do not show that you care,’” she mumbles, reciting his earlier words. “those are ugly words too. you do not always have to listen to them.”

[post deleted by owner]

@－ ❛ s ❜：eleanora hwang。⁰³ she withered in his eyes like a rose – he hated roses. not because they had thorns, he enjoyed that about them. but because of what they meant – those lost romantic words against sweet lips, he could have gagged. love did not exist – not the way people wanted it to, it was all lies, sweet lies, but still lies. yet deceit fed humanity hope – he lost it the moment he saw the truth. there was nothing beautiful in happy things, in those little shimmers and bright phantoms – no. the only beauty that mattered to him, was the one too ugly to look upon.

they were different, even if he appreciated her input, he felt himself distancing. maybe once he would have believed she was like him – a shadow seeking shadows. it was clear to him she was a flame, seeking for a corner to light up. he could not hate her, or judge her for it – it was her way of looking at life, he had to respect it. he did not expect her to break down, it took him a little off guard – his upbringing did not prepare him to deal with tears and comfort. he spoke things that hurt sometimes, he was aware of it.

he did not mean to hurt her.

as much of a dried flower as she was, he did not want to step on her and watch her crumble. he stood there silently, his answer was ‘yes’. like this, she was prettier – broken, no foundation, damaged, destroyed, just like him. art was chaos, and beauty bloomed in it. he wished he could have explained it better – maybe degenerate artists could do it better than he did. he never shared their poems with her, maybe because he knew deep down she would not enjoy them. would not enjoy the negative drive, the one that excited him – yes, drown in all that you deem ugly, all that you deem hopeless. until you suffocate, until you die in it – that was what he thought, it was what he did.

she was lost, and he was not a compass. not hers.

he did not know what to say to her. his head-strong opinions seemed a little too harsh, and maybe offering her silence was the best he could do to avoid hurting her more. he cared, in his dark heart, he did. and maybe he should not have cared. but that candle already burnt out. he looked at her for long, maybe waiting for those tears to fall. she was stronger than that, he knew. even if her rage enticed him, made him want to push the buttons more – he did not. he was not malicious, not really.

“I do. but you do not,” he added, still soft under his breath. “beauty is subjective,” he added, it was quite true. as much as he wanted people to share his view, he knew it was impossible. “I will not judge you for it. life teaches us to appreciate things in different ways, with different senses, and feelings. I apologise if I have offended your views,” he continued, his pride a little hurt every time he uttered ‘sorry’. yet he was not a child, he recognised his own fault – even if he would rather not.

@－ ❛ s ❜：colby rangvaldr。⁰² it fails to surprise her that he disagrees. despite their quiet, unspoken connection there was always something that discerned one from the other. he writes to make his pain known. she writes to suppress.

eleanora has never been expressive nor outspoken, despite growing into an environment which grew a festering resentment against her mother, her father, the world, herself. her mother who presented her love enclosed in the hand of authoritarian fist, forcing her into all the things the young woman detests now—dancing, debutante training, gourmet cooking. her father, forever absent from the timeline of her life. the world… must anything more be said? after all, life is simply the combination of everyday pains, commonplace discomfort. as she grew, eleanora found that there was no other way to subdue the anger and resentment she withheld within her chest for the world and its vices; except through poetry.

the universe nests within itself an unrelenting avarice for stealing beautiful moments, leaving its inhabitants with only the worst. the words are her escape, her way of capturing the dark moments into something worth remembering. it is clear they are plenty different. “i don’t know if it is beauty it creates. not everything worth keeping is beautiful. what i create is not art, it is chaos—” her voice is not gentle as his is. “it is the reflection of all the anarchy inside me. it is the most painful parts of me—the death eater’s daughter, the failed pureblood debutante. none of that is ever supposed to be beautiful.”

tearing her eyes again from the sight of his visage to instead gaze into the blazing orange embers of the fire, her sharp incisors gnaw upon her bottom lip, capturing the plump flesh within its grasp as she contemplates. “those parts of my identity will never burn. they are a part of me, they /are/ the base and my art will always originate from that.” now she looks back to him, eyes soft. “are you telling me that you find beauty in all of this?” there are things eleanora does find beautiful: the way her fingers sting after brushing the snow, the bell-like giggles of her best friend, even the slight upturned quirk of colby’s lips that teeter along the lines of a smirk and a smile. but the pain and blood she pours onto the papers—that is not beautiful. it never was.

@－ ❛ s ❜：eleanora hwang。⁰³ pain. it hurts, does it not? those cold chambers lost deep within, the cold hometown he never returned to. the pool of blood at someone’s feet, a child crying in the distance because the only thing that was left of his origin was a broken toy. one he never hugged. one he would like to burn. burn in someone else’s memory. it was the pain that fuelled him, fuelled most. their intentions, their inspiration – he had pain to thank, and despise all the same. she understood, but her relationship to it was different, he could tell. they shared a fire, one that burnt in different piles of ashes – she wants hers buried, he wants his on a platter with flowers. and it was bitter, either way. was she the wick, or the candle? was she both?

“I disagree,” he added, his mind caught between her lines as he pondered. his eyes were everywhere and nowhere, focused on something beyond irises – maybe, he sought for that place that made her a pile of ashes. “it is the artist’s mission to make those ashes useful. a token of pain? no. the beauty pain never knew,” he added, then breathed out. maybe it was his tendency of using gruesome images as inspiration, or maybe he had a different tolerance to all things ugly. he had a unique appreciation for them, he thought they were beacons of beauty despite their origins – like dementors. maybe, it was him repressing those exact flames that created his ashes.

the tears his father never shared, the stern look on his grandfather’s face when he brought home an injured bird. it is you, the bird is you – his mind reminded him. unable to escape from a reality far too cruel to accept. broken wings and all, you have to make them work. and if they stop working? you fashion new wings, better wings, prettier wings – that was his input. you make them yourself, always. always on your own, with your strength – and your ideal beauty. perhaps he made little sense, he said few words but thought far too many.

“if you are the residue of a fire,” he started, a little more careful now. he did not wish to hurt her with his words, even if they were drenched in poetic nonsense. “some things do not burn in a fire. those things are far too strong to be gone. the structure collapses, because it knows only appearance. the base stays, because it knows there will be a new blueprint, a better one. make that base your art.”

@－ ❛ s ❜：colby rangvaldr。⁰² “animals are fine,” she drawls lightly, eyes finding the blazing cardinal shade of the fire. “but how hagrid surrounds himself with so many exotic animals, always defeats me.” snakes are cold-blooded animals, aching for warmth through means of the sun—and perhaps for that reason, she is a slytherin through and through. eleanora has always preferred the heat. like a reptile bathing forlorn in the selfish rays of the sun, she’s searched for a warmth tepid enough to thaw the biting glacial freeze that her lonesome childhood had produced of her. for now, she will settle for the heat exerted from the modest fire of hagrid’s hut.

“fire burns.” it is one of the most widely-known commonplace platitudes of the world, yet eleanora must constantly remind herself. “it destroys. and if a fire exists in the depths of the mind, as you say, it destroys everything there—thoughts, common senses, memories. innocence. turns them to ashes.”

“but i don’t believe they make art.”

throughout the course of their quiet, reserved conversation, eleanora had kept her eyes, dark pools of bronzed ochre focused on the fire. now, she turns to look at him, finally capturing him in her vision. he’s looking at her now, though she had earlier caught him leaned back comfortably in the wooden chair, eyes closed as though in thought. in comparison to his coziness, years of pureblood debutante training has left eleanora sitting back straight and legs crossed, though now she leans forward the slightest to press her chin into her palm. “we never escape our mind, do we? they say that art comes from a tortured place, and right as they may be, art is not always beautiful. ashes, formed from the burned remains of innocence… chastity, naivety. art formed from the ashes of this, is only a reminder of the pain.” though she has forgone lipstick today, her lips still maintain a roseate stain from her previous use, and they purse into a tight line. “even more so if one doesn’t know where the fire originated.”

“a fire of suspicious origin,” she repeats, quoting sealey’s lines. “i’m not surprised that was the line that caught your interest. for me, though it was just a phrase and not even worthy enough of being a line, it was that. a fire of suspicious origin. fire destroys, obliterates everything in its path. it is unforgiving. but then it burns out, and looks around, takes in the damage amassed from its reign, and feels sorrow… it wonders ‘where did the chaos begin?’ was it a forest fire, struck by a match? was it a cigarette thrown off the balcony, or a candle left to smolder into nothing? no one knows. it has nothing to blame for its destruction. only its detestable nature.”

her voice is soft as she speaks, “i feel it quite describes me.”

@－ ❛ s ❜：eleanora hwang。⁰³ he followed her shortly, not leaving the door opened for too long. the cabin was cosy and warm enough already, but he believed the fireplace looked better on. it was the atmosphere he craved for more than the warmth – the snow covered the windows, the orange flames coloured the muddy walls, and the smell of burning twigs was comforting. it was as though they were in the middle of a forest fire in winter, with no signs of stopping – maybe the snow will turn into rain mid-falling, maybe they will be in a puddle, in a lake, drowning. and what will they find at the bottom? perhaps words in the wet sand, words that meant nothing and everything.

he looked around instinctively, trying to inspect the place in case there were any weird creatures lurking around. he had his wand in his hand, just in the eventuality he had to cast a spell. but after a somewhat thorough search, he concluded that there were no enemies. “unless they are invisible, I would say we are alright,” he said and unwrapped his scarf, placing it on one of the chairs. “I suppose we will steal the hearth’s life after we leave. but that is about it,” he pulled the chair to sit down, and took his coat off. it was already getting warmer, and too much heat would ruin his mood.

he leaned back in the chair to feel more comfortable, but hagrid’s chairs could hardly be called that. they were rather blocky and somewhat cold, he wondered how hagrid could even sit on them. they were far too small, even for cole. his long legs barely fit under the table, but he tried to make it work nevertheless. he closed his eyes briefly, and searched for words – he had a visual memory, and was pretty good at remembering things. “a body, I’ve read, can sustain its own sick burning, its own hell, for hours. it’s the mind. it’s the mind that cannot,” he quoted and opened his eyes afterwards, yes, it left quite an impression. especially the ending, yet he did not want his answer to be too simple.

he let it sink in the room for a while, as he watched the snow fall on the glass, melting away with the movement of the fire. he hummed, and spoke again after a while. “I have been thinking about it ever since I read it,” he answered honestly, then looked at her. “the mind often makes the body sick, the mind traps the body. and I wonder, what if the mind survives the hell that is the body? does it create another hell, or does it burn out like a fireplace? and if they communicate, what do they tell each other to make it better? maybe, they say ‘take the blow’. maybe, ‘keep a straight face, do not show that you care. be a good child, and you will see, you will thank me one day.’ where is the heart in all of this? it turned to ashes, I believe. ashes do not make fire again, but they make art.”

@－ ❛ s ❜：colby rangvaldr。⁰² there are a few things that she looks forward to in her nearly weekly meetings with the fellow slytherin—he is straightforward. with cole, there is never any fluff, never any superfluous conversation that eleanora feels she has to labor through. every moment of discussion between them is fruitful and honest, and in a world coveted with lies, sometimes she searches for the visceral albeit painful truths hidden within poems and within his words. secondly, the companionship. it is a quiet, unspoken one which goes without words, but unlike her fruitful relationship with her best friend or the quiet hours she spends with her study partner in the library, her connection with cole is one that she does not need to try for. it just is. they understand each other, and in the world, that is the all that most can ask for.

"hopefully he doesn't have any hidden creatures in there," she muses as she follows him in, breathing out a labored breath for the pair can finally escape from the frigid cold and ruthless snow. "i don't plan on stealing anything, do you?" the demoiselle jests as she pulls out her wand and gestures it toward the fireplace, muttering a quiet "incendio" to the wood already inside. finally, as the ghosts of orange light brush against the stone walls and their faces, eleanora unwraps her emerald scarf from where it had been masking the bottom half of her face in the snow. in this climate, the fire is a godsend.

heat makes itself present in the small hut that seems much too miniscule for a person of such large stature like hagrid himself, radiating off the walls and their skin. now, eleanora's cheeks as well as the bulb of her nose have become pinked once more, but by the pleasant heat rather than the asperous cold. now, they can focus on the reason for their meeting: 'a violence' by nicole sealey. "did you have time to read over the text i sent you?" she asks gingerly, taking a careful spot at one of hagrid's dining chairs.

@－ ❛ s ❜：eleanora hwang。⁰³ she was much like a winter flower – her pale complexion reacted to the cold in a way he did not think his did. perhaps, his skin would turn blue or purple, not red like hers. it worked well with her green headpiece and her scarf, he had to admit that she was much like a muse. sometimes he took pictures of her, when they spent time in silence – it was a unspoken relationship that made sense. it happened somewhere in their minds – they understood each other more than they would like to admit. even if they rarely spoke, or even hung out, they had a bond that was made unbreakable by the million pages they shared.

and if the words on the page hurt one, they likely hurt the other – sometimes cole would send her heart-breaking poems, those that truly moved him. he would still find a way to justify them, even if, his feelings might be more involved in those moments. there was something about a bitter breakup that just made him tick, those words that he could have said given the chance. but sometimes, his tongue was tied in his throat – and that was when words written by other people came in handy. he must have quoted poems one too many times.

he looked at hagrid’s door and considered it must be shut, given the owner was not home. he checked the lock, then took out his wand to whisper ‘alohomora’. the door unlocked and he held it open for her, speaking a bit louder to make himself heard over the wind. “I am sure as long as we do not steal anything, or do not move things around, he will be alright with it. come on,” he urged her, the wind was accompanied by a heavy snow. there was a possibility they will get stuck here, but he did not really mind it. not for now, anyways.

@－ ❛ s ❜：colby rangvaldr。⁰² she had found the poem hidden away in the pages of a muggle poetry book she found—in the past few years, eleanora has found that she harbors a quiet affinity for muggle literature. different they may be, there is something about muggle writing that has always resonated within the young woman. though she has not pondered it much thus far, perhaps it is the way that regardless of their locations, their magical status, or any other dividing factor, it is the emotions hidden inside the words. words are visceral, real, as are emotions. and because eleanora has never been the most loquacious nor expressive person, she is perfectly content with relaying her innermost emotions through writing.

that is precisely the friendship she shares with colby rangvaldr, if it can be a 'friendship' at that. the pair do not interact too often in classes or on campus, but their unspoken shared appreciation of literature and underlying familial issues have always... connected them in a way. it is for that reason that eleanora slips the note to him, the phonetics of this week's shared poem written carefully upon the pallor of the paper in her elegant handwriting. as much as she knows about cole, elle does not doubt for a moment that the male will arrive before her; though eleanora had a thing for punctuality, cole has a tendency to outrace her.

she's not proven wrong as she approaches hagrid's hut, green beanie atop her head and her slytherin scarf wrapped securely around the column of her neck to protect her sensitive skin from the cold. on the descension toward the hut, she manages to make out the younger male's figure and can't help the slight smile that makes itself present upon her features. as she approaches him with her hands tucked securely in her pockets, she speaks out, "did you wait long? i always try to beat you out here, but i guess i lost again..." a hand reaches out to brush the hair, awry from the strength of the winter winds, out of her face then she offers a small wave. "it's freezing," she complains lowly whilst blowing on her non-gloved hands. "do you think hagrid will mind us taking space in his hut?"

@－ ❛ s ❜：eleanora hwang。⁰³ words on an old piece of paper might hurt more than a splinter under one’s fingernail – and with every wrinkle, every stain, they become clearer, louder. loud – somewhere deep inside, where the cold has drained every ounce of forgiveness, where the warmth of summer could no longer bloom. he unwrinkled it, and warmed it up between his fingers – the ink was still fresh, it fought to stay on the paper as he moved his fingers to read those lines. those lines that were now written all over his skin – words that were on his flesh. how much he wanted to say ‘me too’ how much he wanted to say ‘I understand’. it was the perfect recipe for a chaotic piece – he saved the paper in one of his drawers to use it later for a project.

he put his coat on, and reluctantly wrapped a scarf around his neck – he did not really need it, but maybe he could use it for something else if given the chance. the note read ‘hagrid’s hut’, one of their regular meeting spots. not that he needed instructions, but during winter it was a little harder to make plans – everyone was busy with exams, the yule ball, and the winter holiday. he was not planning on going home, in fact, he has not been ‘home’ in years. ever since he was twelve, he has never felt like he belonged in that cold house. the castle was big, and mostly empty during this time of the year – he preferred it over the nags, and scolding he got at home. he was no longer a source of pride – frankly speaking, he never was. but him refusing to follow some old, unsatisfied man and woman’s plan, made him even less likely to be. he could be the best wizard of his generation – it will never matter to his father.

the words of the poem lingered around, making such thoughts surface – and he moved, yet was not aware of his surroundings. he followed some invisible map, until he reached the hut. the blizzard was just starting, and he could feel the cold wind creeping under his coat, threatening to claim him at any given moment. he covered half of his face with his scarf, and found a place to hide from the aggressive snow that was thrown at his face from all directions. then, he waited. it should not be long – he told himself. he was uncertain if this was the place to meet, given the weather situation. luckily, hagrid was not home. so, if they so wished, they could break in and hide from the weather. he was sure that as long as they did not touch anything, it should be alright.

______
; the poem / 'a violence' by nicole sealey

@－ ❛ ʀ ❜：matthias corvin。⁰⁴ Had he been doing quite literally anything else, Alistair might have enjoyed this weather. It would have been an ideal day to study outside, on a ledge in the courtyard so that he could still remain dry with the stone roof shielding him and his papers from the stray sprinkling of rain. Perhaps he could do just that once he finished up here, but he'd have to be quick. Daylight faded quickly these days. He couldn't spend too much of his free time out here seeing his punishment through. He found himself caught up within his thoughts as his hand mindlessly doodled with the condensation on the window, wiping it away with his index finger to write out his name in cursive. However, his daze was interrupted by the cheery voice that greeted Hagrid, followed by a greeting to himself that lacked that same enthusiasm. "Good afternoon, Matthias." Alistair welcomed the other Ravenclaw student into the hut with a merry demeanor and a smile that could almost have seemed fake if one wasn't looking close enough.

Following Matt's lead, Alistair headed out of the hut, making sure to spare a quick wave to Hagrid as he exited. Alistair managed to keep pace with Matthias, keeping two strides behind him. "I'm glad we're on the same page then." He muttered, slowly approaching the Hippogriff, ensuring that it would allow him to get closer before giving it an affectionate head scratch. "Not to pry, but aside from me being a bit loud during class, is there anything else you're upset with me over--I mean aside from you having to be out here as well, but that's not necessarily my fault." The younger inquired, sparing a quick glance over to Matt. Perhaps he should have just kept silent, but the cold treatment he was getting from the elder bothered him more than it should have. The Hippogriff below him let out a long huff and shifted slightly, stretching out its wings. Alistair grabbed a brush from the pail of grooming tools and began to comb it through the creature's feathers slowly, ensuring that he didn't snag any.

@－ ❛ ʀ ❜：alistair di angelo。⁰⁴ Crowded and noisy places always awakened a type of annoyance in the depths of his chest cage, always made him want to shove his fingers up his ears to block the unwanted sounds that came along with the useful information. Perhaps he wouldn't have been so annoyed if he didn't memorize every single tone, a wave of the voices coming from the back of the classroom. Matthias could imprint everything in his memory even if he wanted it or not. At one point he supposed that the main reason for his intelligence was nothing else but eidetic and echoic memory. Besides, that laughing in the middle of the class was straight up disrespectful towards Slughorn, who surprisingly said nothing to tame the students.

Feet were eaten by the mud that overlay the way that leads towards Hagrid's place, and it only increased the frustration. The young man distinguished fire smoldering from the open windows, and two shadows painted upon the stony gray walls. Then as he kept closing the distance between the humble domicile, he only noticed a familiar frame occupying the entire entrance. "Good afternoon Hardid!" as he found it appropriate to greet one of his friends and professor, then redirected his sight towards the noisy young man. "Alistair," as if it was enough to understand that he was greeted him as well.

Placing his heavy bag onto the wooden floor, he calculated the words he should pronounce before actually opening his mouth. "Let's go take care of that Hippogriff. The faster we finish the faster we go back to our rooms. I really have better things to do than being stuck in here." He turned around and made his way down the stairs, then went down to the garden. The fantastic creature was sleeping on the ground among the huge pumpkins that Hagrid rose. There was no monster Hagrid wouldn't love, he thought then shook his head from the side to side and exhaled, looking at the number of things they have to do.

@－ ❛ ʀ ❜：matthias corvin。⁰⁴ To say that Alistair was frustrated would have been an understatement. He had courses to be studying for, and he could feel the top student spot in many of those classes beginning to slip away from him for each moment that he wasted out here acting in accordance to his punishment. To be fair with himself, he should have minded his volume, but the joke really was too funny, and he couldn't help himself for once. Albeit, this did seem extreme in terms of a penalty for causing a disruption in class. He had seen others get away with multiple disruptions with just a slap on the wrist.

Ebony boots scuff against the ground as he walked, and he wrapped his cardigan tighter around his waist in an attempt to protect his core from the less-than-ideal temperature. Small clouds of mist condensation formed each time he exhaled, and his head was held low--almost in shame--as he made the trek down to the hut.

The clouds were overcast this afternoon, and the condensation in the air gathered around Alistair's strands of newly-dyed brass locks. The stray precipitation and overall humidity deepened the brass hue to become muted and appeared to have a more sanguine appearance. The leaves and mud under his boots audibly squelched as he made his way down to the hut of the groundskeeper. As he arrived, Alistair leaned the large doorframe and extended his hand outwards to knock upon the wooden door. Considering how early he had arrived, he assumed that he would be the first of the punished to arrive. As the massive door swung open, he was greeted with the cheery smile of the groundskeeper himself. "Hagrid! It's so nice to see you!" Alistair exclaimed, holding his arms out to wrap them around the taller man and give him a tight embrace before stepping inside to await the arrival of the rather vocal ravenclaw who felt compelled to make his wish for silence known.