Categories > Movies > Harry Potter > A Professor's Apprentice
Waking up to the sound of a kettle boiling, the previously dozing Pierre detached himself from a warm cocoon of a blanket.
His hair was a mess.
He knew it.
The laws of gravity never bothered his brown stresses. Looking into a full body mirror beside him, his hair follicles looked like they were having a party. ...A huge one.
Getting off the sofa was a hard task, his body felt weak from all the-
-He looked back towards the mirror, now focused on his face.
Dear God...
...He looked dead.
His sockets were underlined with bags, his face had a greasy -dare he call it- shine.He never truly remembered how he looked several years ago. His mothers house not having any mirrors, but he definitely remembered the shriek one Ravenclaw opposite their house's table made upon seeing his shallow face. She called him 'the spawn of our inner demons' in as sane a manner she could...Pierre remembered her to be one of the more "interesting" Ravenclaws... More mad than a Hatter. Yet as he stared in horror of his reflection, a part of him wasn't so naive to why mad Julia Caroll screamed like a harpy. For he really did look like (at the very least)an evil creature who did the most demonic of deeds.
"Look who's awake!" Shouted Pip from beside the kettle, obviously making a new batch of tea. The purple haired goth's smile vanished when she saw his expression. Without even talking the taller youth gestured to his greasy face, slumping down on a wooden chair beside the island.
"Well there's no reason to be so moody, french fry."
Pierre's heart turned 180 degrees. Tyr stood at the entrance of the flat, obviously having just come in a few minutes ago after a smoke. The Frenchman wanted to smile at his friend but at the same time frown. 'French fry' was one of many nicknames Tyr came upwith, they were ridiculous and the muggle knew it. With his leather jacket, ripped jeans, thick working boots and a bazillion tattoos and peircings, it was clear to many who not to mess with. Yet as Tyr, a tattooed twenty year old with piercings all over, stampeeded muck and grime into the floorboards it was obvious Pip wasn't having it. Whipping out a broom from her pantry, the purple haired goth physically forced the taller(and older) man outside, where he proceeded to have his shoes taken off him by a very pissed off Pip.(You could hear the african born man cursing from behind the yellow door)
Huffing with outrage, Pip's temper slowly subsided. Shoving the 'damned shoes' onto the shoe rack beside the entrance. She dusting away the grime before ushering an equally grimy Pierre into the bathroom with a towel and some of her brother's spare clothes.
Not wanting to waste Pip's water or enjoy the luxury of hot water too much, the Frenchman ran the shower's water as cool a temperature he could without shivering.
After finishing, he dried himself off and got changed in Andrew's room. Flicking on the light, he dared not touch anything he didn't need.
Partway dressed in Andrews extra clothing, Pierre couldn't help but feel self consious. To understand why, you should now that the Phillips family had always been a bit...Abstract...In more ways than one. They adopted individual styles from many cultures, fitting each piece together like a puzzle until an outfit was made. Andrew's real name was, Estevan, but he went by his middle name to not get the attention he hated. It was only when he started travelling in his teen years with his family that he started to dress more like the Phillips he was...So when Andrew started wearing more...Bohemian aestetic clothes, no one batted an eye. Between the two Phillips children you have one goth girl and one "hippy" fanatic.
Pierre' s damp hair trailed down his back, stopping mid way in length. The curls were suppressed and brushed out by a foldable comb he always kept in his back pocket. Pulling on a two sizes too big tie dyed jumper over an orange vest, a cleaner version of himself padded barefoot into the living room, turned right into the kitchen and seated himself beside Tyr and Pip with a cup of cha.
Being passed a newly made cup of tea, Pierre was the first one to speak amongst the trio. Drawing a long breath of tea before hand, taking in the pleasant aroma.
"So...Tyr," He started, fearing the answer.
"Yes, Fournier?"Replied the african born man as he gulped the hot tea with a blank look. Not fear, but not joy. As if his face was a blank canvas.
Tyr looked pale.
"Those death eaters,"He spat the name out as if they were hot granules, his gaze fixed on his friends face."Did them escape?"
Ignoring his friends mixed up english, he responded,"The gang-" Stated the other man. Scratching his tattooed neck with a finger and thumb.
Slamming his thin fists down on the island, Pierre made the brown liquid within the cups ripple.
"I don't get...g-give-two sh**s about "The gang"," Know standing, the brunette jabbed his finger against the leather of Tyrs jacket. The Frenchmans eyes blazed. "Where they there when Pip got attacked?..." No response came from his question as quickly as his heart decided was necessary, "Where they?" Pierre asked again, prodding the island with a skeleton like finger.
"No." Tyr stated firmly, trying to rein in his own anger at the obvious truth said by the wizard. "I should have shot those bggrs when I had the chance." Shaking his head, the tattooed man swigged his cup before letting his hair down. The beads weighing his braided locks down as they clink-clinked together quietly.
"So all I'm saying is that those guys, they don't give two-" The Frenchman's thick accent was interrupted-
"Don't you think I know, Fournier? I grew up on that street. I grew up with Kendrick." Tyrs gaze went all over the kitchen, his thoughts becoming jumbled in there sudden fury. "Anyway..."He cleared his throat sharply. "...The death eaters, you...You want to know about them?"
The skinny man rubbed his temples, giving an affirmative nod as he propped his gaunt face up onto his arms. (In all of this drama, Pip was reading the script of Macbeth, seated to the right of Tyr, who sat opposite Pierre -->she had her trusty broom just in case.)
Staring into the remnants of his cup, lumps of black and brown, it was a while before Tyr talked. A few times the man prepared himself to speak but he lost the will. He grew more frustrated with every passing second. Cursing at himself, the older man replied slowly, taking his time pronouncing both syllables. "They're gone..."
Pip halted her reading, having just read act 2, scene 2, her brown brows knitting together."What do you mean, Tyr?"
"I've just explained. They're gone!" Tyr replied angrilly with both his hands around his head.
"You know what we mean,Tyr,"The goth responded gently, knowing how hot a temper Tyr could produce if enough pressure was shoved onto him."Add more context." Pip rubbed Tyr's tattooed shoulders, trying to provide comfort to the older man.
The man in question gazed sorrowfully at both of his friends, gulping in deep breaths before responding with an answer none could have guessed,"Me and Emlyn we're both working later in the factory yesterday-Making trailers, you know." Tyr's face suddenly became distorted as he tried to stop his tears, "They took Emlyn. Tortured--K-killed him..."Tears spilled from the older man's eyes, Tyr didn't even bother to wipe them away. "T-that dying curse. Whatever you call it..." He continued and the other two sat and listened in mute horror. "I couldn't do anything, I had nothing to protect myself, Emlyn had a crowbar. H-he told me to run--being the coward I am I did what I was told..."
"No, Tyr, you are no coward," Pip whispered with all her heart. Dabbing the man's tears away with a tissue as Pierre rearranged himself to the left of his friend, hugging him in between sentences.
Pierre suddenly asked a question that he was sure to regret in the future, but didn't at the moment. Brown clashed with brown, the different shades, as Pierre looked kindly into his tattooed friend's brown orbs. "Where were you attacked?" He said bluntly, inwardly shouting at himself to not sound so rude.
Know being hug attacked by a mother hen Pip, he mumbled 'The Drunken Duchess' quietly, obviously drained for keeping the grief inside him for too long.
And with 5 o'clock approaching with a glance of Pip's phone beside the counter, both Pierre and Pip knew where to find those who killed their friend.
Pierre would give them hell for this...
His hair was a mess.
He knew it.
The laws of gravity never bothered his brown stresses. Looking into a full body mirror beside him, his hair follicles looked like they were having a party. ...A huge one.
Getting off the sofa was a hard task, his body felt weak from all the-
-He looked back towards the mirror, now focused on his face.
Dear God...
...He looked dead.
His sockets were underlined with bags, his face had a greasy -dare he call it- shine.He never truly remembered how he looked several years ago. His mothers house not having any mirrors, but he definitely remembered the shriek one Ravenclaw opposite their house's table made upon seeing his shallow face. She called him 'the spawn of our inner demons' in as sane a manner she could...Pierre remembered her to be one of the more "interesting" Ravenclaws... More mad than a Hatter. Yet as he stared in horror of his reflection, a part of him wasn't so naive to why mad Julia Caroll screamed like a harpy. For he really did look like (at the very least)an evil creature who did the most demonic of deeds.
"Look who's awake!" Shouted Pip from beside the kettle, obviously making a new batch of tea. The purple haired goth's smile vanished when she saw his expression. Without even talking the taller youth gestured to his greasy face, slumping down on a wooden chair beside the island.
"Well there's no reason to be so moody, french fry."
Pierre's heart turned 180 degrees. Tyr stood at the entrance of the flat, obviously having just come in a few minutes ago after a smoke. The Frenchman wanted to smile at his friend but at the same time frown. 'French fry' was one of many nicknames Tyr came upwith, they were ridiculous and the muggle knew it. With his leather jacket, ripped jeans, thick working boots and a bazillion tattoos and peircings, it was clear to many who not to mess with. Yet as Tyr, a tattooed twenty year old with piercings all over, stampeeded muck and grime into the floorboards it was obvious Pip wasn't having it. Whipping out a broom from her pantry, the purple haired goth physically forced the taller(and older) man outside, where he proceeded to have his shoes taken off him by a very pissed off Pip.(You could hear the african born man cursing from behind the yellow door)
Huffing with outrage, Pip's temper slowly subsided. Shoving the 'damned shoes' onto the shoe rack beside the entrance. She dusting away the grime before ushering an equally grimy Pierre into the bathroom with a towel and some of her brother's spare clothes.
Not wanting to waste Pip's water or enjoy the luxury of hot water too much, the Frenchman ran the shower's water as cool a temperature he could without shivering.
After finishing, he dried himself off and got changed in Andrew's room. Flicking on the light, he dared not touch anything he didn't need.
Partway dressed in Andrews extra clothing, Pierre couldn't help but feel self consious. To understand why, you should now that the Phillips family had always been a bit...Abstract...In more ways than one. They adopted individual styles from many cultures, fitting each piece together like a puzzle until an outfit was made. Andrew's real name was, Estevan, but he went by his middle name to not get the attention he hated. It was only when he started travelling in his teen years with his family that he started to dress more like the Phillips he was...So when Andrew started wearing more...Bohemian aestetic clothes, no one batted an eye. Between the two Phillips children you have one goth girl and one "hippy" fanatic.
Pierre' s damp hair trailed down his back, stopping mid way in length. The curls were suppressed and brushed out by a foldable comb he always kept in his back pocket. Pulling on a two sizes too big tie dyed jumper over an orange vest, a cleaner version of himself padded barefoot into the living room, turned right into the kitchen and seated himself beside Tyr and Pip with a cup of cha.
Being passed a newly made cup of tea, Pierre was the first one to speak amongst the trio. Drawing a long breath of tea before hand, taking in the pleasant aroma.
"So...Tyr," He started, fearing the answer.
"Yes, Fournier?"Replied the african born man as he gulped the hot tea with a blank look. Not fear, but not joy. As if his face was a blank canvas.
Tyr looked pale.
"Those death eaters,"He spat the name out as if they were hot granules, his gaze fixed on his friends face."Did them escape?"
Ignoring his friends mixed up english, he responded,"The gang-" Stated the other man. Scratching his tattooed neck with a finger and thumb.
Slamming his thin fists down on the island, Pierre made the brown liquid within the cups ripple.
"I don't get...g-give-two sh**s about "The gang"," Know standing, the brunette jabbed his finger against the leather of Tyrs jacket. The Frenchmans eyes blazed. "Where they there when Pip got attacked?..." No response came from his question as quickly as his heart decided was necessary, "Where they?" Pierre asked again, prodding the island with a skeleton like finger.
"No." Tyr stated firmly, trying to rein in his own anger at the obvious truth said by the wizard. "I should have shot those bggrs when I had the chance." Shaking his head, the tattooed man swigged his cup before letting his hair down. The beads weighing his braided locks down as they clink-clinked together quietly.
"So all I'm saying is that those guys, they don't give two-" The Frenchman's thick accent was interrupted-
"Don't you think I know, Fournier? I grew up on that street. I grew up with Kendrick." Tyrs gaze went all over the kitchen, his thoughts becoming jumbled in there sudden fury. "Anyway..."He cleared his throat sharply. "...The death eaters, you...You want to know about them?"
The skinny man rubbed his temples, giving an affirmative nod as he propped his gaunt face up onto his arms. (In all of this drama, Pip was reading the script of Macbeth, seated to the right of Tyr, who sat opposite Pierre -->she had her trusty broom just in case.)
Staring into the remnants of his cup, lumps of black and brown, it was a while before Tyr talked. A few times the man prepared himself to speak but he lost the will. He grew more frustrated with every passing second. Cursing at himself, the older man replied slowly, taking his time pronouncing both syllables. "They're gone..."
Pip halted her reading, having just read act 2, scene 2, her brown brows knitting together."What do you mean, Tyr?"
"I've just explained. They're gone!" Tyr replied angrilly with both his hands around his head.
"You know what we mean,Tyr,"The goth responded gently, knowing how hot a temper Tyr could produce if enough pressure was shoved onto him."Add more context." Pip rubbed Tyr's tattooed shoulders, trying to provide comfort to the older man.
The man in question gazed sorrowfully at both of his friends, gulping in deep breaths before responding with an answer none could have guessed,"Me and Emlyn we're both working later in the factory yesterday-Making trailers, you know." Tyr's face suddenly became distorted as he tried to stop his tears, "They took Emlyn. Tortured--K-killed him..."Tears spilled from the older man's eyes, Tyr didn't even bother to wipe them away. "T-that dying curse. Whatever you call it..." He continued and the other two sat and listened in mute horror. "I couldn't do anything, I had nothing to protect myself, Emlyn had a crowbar. H-he told me to run--being the coward I am I did what I was told..."
"No, Tyr, you are no coward," Pip whispered with all her heart. Dabbing the man's tears away with a tissue as Pierre rearranged himself to the left of his friend, hugging him in between sentences.
Pierre suddenly asked a question that he was sure to regret in the future, but didn't at the moment. Brown clashed with brown, the different shades, as Pierre looked kindly into his tattooed friend's brown orbs. "Where were you attacked?" He said bluntly, inwardly shouting at himself to not sound so rude.
Know being hug attacked by a mother hen Pip, he mumbled 'The Drunken Duchess' quietly, obviously drained for keeping the grief inside him for too long.
And with 5 o'clock approaching with a glance of Pip's phone beside the counter, both Pierre and Pip knew where to find those who killed their friend.
Pierre would give them hell for this...
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