Dorian's professors had slapped him with a total of three eight-inch essays and a dream analysis, all due tomorrow. So, naturally he was outside skulking around the greenhouse, fogging up the glass with his breath and rubbing swirls into the mist with his finger. Even for autumn, the weather today was unusually frosty. The grass had crunched under his combat boots when he had trudged across the grounds, empty except for a few people bundled in woolly scarves, and his skin prickled under his jeans. A normal person would have worn a coat, but Dorian had only an open button-down shirt over his t-shirt, which kept the cold in as much as out.
Inside the windows, half-blurred with ice crystals, he could see all manner of plants, snapping and writhing and doing things that plants simply should not do. He was fascinated. Every part of the wizarding world fascinated him, even herbology--though not enough to convince him to finish that essay. Though, even if he could tell his Muggle friends about his secret, he would never tell them about the botany, since they would rag on him for liking that girl stuff until he had to punch one of them in the nose. Heck, he probably wouldn't have admitted it to other wizards. But even these typically boring bits of chlorophyll and cellulose made his nerves tingle with excitement. They could move, think, even kill. And be used for all sorts of havoc-wreaking potions, which was his current aim.
Once he found the plants he had identified in his Potions book, he investigated the window. He had seen, and broken into, these types of windows many times before. Thankfully, Brighid, the nanny, had not noticed his gear when she had packed his trunk, or even she would have confiscated it. From the top of his boot, he filched out a roll of cloth, spread it open on the windowsill, and sized up his tools. With the long, thin metal stip he selected, he prized between the window and the sill, jimmying it up and down, trying to slide the lock. The strip cracked in half in the ice, and he swore.
"Stupid ice," he muttered, and fished his Muggle lighter out of his pocket. He could have used his wand, but this was a tool he was familiar with, and this task required precision. He was still running the tiny flame along the steadily melting ice when he heard a sound behind him.
by Guest Wed Feb 17, 2010 4:39 pm