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 when hearts and hard times collide, who will be left standing?, stells//grisha
Teej · 18 · 7th · Viridian Guild · Half-Veela · 5'11"
Slytherin Novice
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May 8 2018, 01:57 AM   Link Quote
As far as life went, Sascha liked to think that he was doing well. His distance from his classmates was shrinking (although slowly), and the offers continued to flow in from one Quidditch team or another. Of course, there was the fact that the team he wanted hadn't offered-- Vratsa was apparently going to be fickle like that-- and then there was also the fact that, hell or high water, he still wasn't succeeding all that well in his classes despite being tutored. So maybe things weren't actually going great; sure, they were better, but better was a word whose meaning was just as fickle as the Vultures. He could spend an entirety (or at the very least, the last of his years here) telling himself that he was doing better, but was he really? Would he ever truly be "better"? Days like today left him to wonder, mostly in his own silence, and he didn't really like that.

But if all else failed, at least the common room was quiet. He needed that, again if he was to be honest with himself because there had been far too much noise in his life for far too long. "If I respond to Puddlemere, and tell them I'll attend a tryout... Does that then mean that the Pride won't want me? How does this even work..." He mused aloud, despite the fact that no one was around to openly answer, before burying his head back in the pile of letters he'd arranged on one of the couches. "But Tutshill-- Tutshill is turning things around, and while I don't necessarily want to invest in a club accused of cheating-- it's not the worst thing I've ever heard? Not about them, and not about the pros."

There was the slightest crack, one that was normally followed by the chatter of his housemates, and yet as he pulled his gaze upward he didn't seem anyone. Was he hallucinating now? How long had he been staring at these letters? "Oh boy..." Craning his neck from side to side, he stretched, limbs dangling awkwardly as letters crinkled beneath his weight. There had to be somewhere better that he could do this-- like his bed, perhaps, but then if he did that it was likely he'd fall asleep. His pheromones had been particularly heightened of late and with that, so was his need for sleep. No one had ever told him that he'd have to "learn" to be a veela, just the same as no one had ever told him that he would have to adjust to the way people looked at him when they found out the rumors, weren't just rumors. "Sascha Daskalov isn't just a Quidditch prodigy, but he's a veela too!" This was the rumor he heard most often, which was... Flattering, but more times than not it was followed by suggestions that he used his pheromones to cheat. Didn't they know he was young? That it wasn't that easy? No, probably not.

But then there was a crack again, this time against the marble floors nearest him, and snapping his head to the left he let out the slightest hiss. "Creeping, however well-intended, is generally frowned upon. Even here..." His eyes closed and his nose turned to the air, the veela boy tried to catch a whiff of the cologne (or perfume) of the person closing in on him, favoring his sense of smell over his sense of sight. Then again, maybe he just didn't want to look, on the odd chance that it was someone he wasn't thrilled to see. "You smell... Strong, which is odd. Do you think you wore enough cologne or would you like to go get the whole bottle and put it on?" Feisty, but with a purpose, he opened his eyes, hues of curiosity mingling within the green.

"Oh, it's... You?"

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@Grigoriy Drozdov

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Rollie Pollie Stellie · 17 · 7th · 🕊️ · Pureblood,obviously! · 6'2
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Jun 9 2018, 05:05 AM   Link Quote
Grigoriy didn’t need to worry about the future.

Why would he? He was, after all, a Drozdov, and of course... that meant that everything had been set in stone for him from the very moment he was born. Grigoriy, he had been named by that voice he could not even recall, that of a mother whose presence in his life was limited to having granted him that Veela blood he was so terribly proud of. ’You’re special’, his father had always said; always reminding him of what his role in their family was – of how much he was needed by those few whom he truly loved. And those were the truths he had always known and been sure of: he was Grigoriy Yakovlevich Drozdov, he was a half-Veela, and one day he would marry and continue the Drozdov line; working by his father’s side while also studying and developing Dark Arts. The girls would go off and join other families, allowed to do whatever they wished with their lives as long as they stayed within pureblood lines. But him, on the other hand? His future had been decided since the day he arrived at his father’s mansion in Stavropol Krai.

Perhaps he should have disliked it, fought against it more, or even rebelled against his father’s choice. But truthfully, Grigoriy had no reason to do things like those. The simple fact was that he had always enjoyed being a Drozdov, the pride in his family all too obvious in just about everything from his demeanor to his clothes – each dark attire always accompanied by ornaments and accessories of feathers, birds, and moonstones. That day, it was that way as well: hands adorned with more than a couple of claw-like rings digging into the pockets of his jacket as he walked through the poorly lit dungeons of the school, wondering why in the world it was that he had ended up in the only dormitory that didn’t seem to have a window out of which he could smoke. That was unless, of course, he wanted to end up covered in lake water and possibly turned into squid food, which truth be told, was not an idea of which the Russian was fond. So instead, he found himself forced to leave the dormitory and make his way for the lawns each and every time he wanted to smoke a cigarette – which, if one was Grisha Drozdov, had a tendency to happen rather often during the day.

It showed. It showed in the way he grew annoyed even quicker than usual when he had not smoked for long. It showed in how he sometimes repetitively opened and closed his zippo lighter during class, waiting patiently for it to be done so he could leave and go to the lawns. And most importantly, it showed in his very clothes, the scents of nicotine and clove surrounding him wherever he went as if a thick winter coat, a pack of kreteks never lacking in the inner pocket of his jacket or cloak. And it also showed in his demeanor after he had smoked, in the way he looked much calmer and relaxed despite that general ‘I’m going to kill you if you talk to me’ intimidating aura that some people claimed almost emanated from the boy. So, the fact was that, as he returned to the Slytherin common room after going out for a smoke, Grigoriy Drozdov was in as much of a good mood as he could possibly be, barely even making a sound as he stepped into the room. Sadly, as the snake would soon come to realize, his good mood wouldn’t last for long.

Honestly speaking, Grisha wasn’t sure why he chose to stay at the common room instead of walking straight towards his dorm. Quirking a brow the moment he noticed one of his housemates and roommates sitting with a pile of letters on a couch, and… talking to himself? Because apparently that was what people did these days? So odd. But it wasn’t just any housemate, was it? Oh no, this was one of the few people in Slytherin who’s name the Russian actually bothered to know, if only because of the one thing they seemed to have in common: that which most didn’t know about Grisha, but that was all too obvious about Aleksander Daskalov. It was almost as if everything about him screamed Veela, and truly, it made Grisha feel awfully annoyed. To make things worse: this roommate of his who went around flaunting his half-being status dared to talk to him, in what he very much considered to be an insulting tone, and at the common room of all places! Which, really, was one of the places at Hogwarts he dreaded the most. The audacity. The disrespect. Oh boy.

“Not all of us go around announcing our presence by talking to ourselves like lunatics. I guess that’s why someone like you might think of it as creeping.” He gave back then, moonlit pale blue gaze never leaving the other boy as he spoke. “As for the cologne, I’d rather smell like I do than exude pheromones. You really have no self-control, huh?” Was he teasing him too much when considering Sascha didn’t even know he was a half-Veela as well? Perhaps, yet despite knowing all that, Grisha smirked as if he didn’t have a single concern in the world.


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@Aleksander Daskalov
|Grisha’s Clothes|


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1PLOTTER
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in the dead of night
Blackbird singing

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