Dawn, in Charles's experience, was the best time for a Divination reverie. He rolled out of bed, paused only to rinse his mouth and throw on his slippers, then opened the window wide to the chilly October sunrise and assumed lotus position on the floor in front of it.
He tried to keep his mind from fully waking, without actually going to back to sleep. The idea was to listen to his subconscious, to let it 'connect the dots' of information he'd acquired both consciously and not, and form it into a picture he might never have otherwise seen. He focused on slow, even breathing, kept his spine straight, and let the words, worries, and sensory impressions of the last few days tumble unimpeded through his mind.
Read the letter, his mind urged him, you should read Erik's letter right now, but he pushed past that. He wasn't deep enough in, yet, to trust what his mind told him.
At the end of ten minutes, he realized one of his Ravenclaws (poking at her plate -- face thinner since start of term -- grades dropping -- faint smell of vomit when she spoke, not enough to notice at the time) was developing an eating disorder. He would take her to Madam Pomfrey. She would know what to do.
At fifteen minutes, he realized two of his seventh-years were romantically involved and trying to hide it (longing looks -- excuses to touch -- how very familiar, but why -- she's Muggleborn, oh dear, his grandmother was a Black). Perhaps he should stay out of it but he probably wouldn't.
At twenty-five minutes, something began to build, delicately, tiny 'dots' that faded if he looked directly at them -- like faint stars -- star chart -- piled papers -- drowning, men drowning in a bottle -- star chart -- wand, important -- ink on parchment -- lines, swirls, notations -- star chart -- October -- WAND --
A knock at the door shattered his concentration, and Charles suddenly re-inhabited his gasping, shivering body. What idiot had opened the window?
"I'm coming, I'm coming," he snarled, when the knock sounded again before he could get to the door. He didn't have the presence of mind, yet, to wonder who it was and if he should be alarmed.
It was Erik. And he was grinning.
"Get dressed, Charles, come outside with me," he said. "Good heavens, what idiot opened your window? It's freezing out there."
"What? What do you want?" His voice sounded slurred, his brain felt slurred, he was sure it wasn't good for him to be knocked out of trance like that.
Erik chuckled and mussed his hair. "Get some coffee and put on something warm. I need you to help me with something."
Charles turned away and began fumbling with his teapot, muttering about help you, help you right out the window, laugh at your splattered corpse. Erik laughed again, shut the window and tucked a blanket around Charles's shoulders.
"Did you read the letter?"
"What?" Charles whirled, feeling the blood drain from his face.
Erik jerked back, frowned. "The letter, Charles. To Potter?"
"Right." Charles sagged a bit, tried not to pant. "Of course. Yes, it was fine, I sent it off already. Corrected your spelling a bit."
Erik looked at him strangely, but ventured a smile. "I would expect nothing less."
The sun was only just up when Charles found himself out on the grounds, on a hillside out of any clear view from the castle, with Erik handing him a gun.
He blinked down at it. It felt cold, and heavy, and quite solid. Probably not a hallucination. .22 caliber, some part of his mind catalogued automatically. Kimber Rimfire. Good hunting pistol.
"Erik," he said flatly. "What. The. Devil."
"I borrowed it from Summers. I have some ideas, Charles, on how to use magic to deflect bullets. Of course there's only one way to test them. I know you know how to shoot -- you used to complain about your dad taking you hunting -- so if you could just aim a little to the side of me, so I don't actually die if this doesn't work--"
"Erik. What the devil -- this is a school, Erik, there are children--" Charles could barely breathe. "You brought a loaded gun into a school?"
FILL: The Better Men (18g/30ish)
He tried to keep his mind from fully waking, without actually going to back to sleep. The idea was to listen to his subconscious, to let it 'connect the dots' of information he'd acquired both consciously and not, and form it into a picture he might never have otherwise seen. He focused on slow, even breathing, kept his spine straight, and let the words, worries, and sensory impressions of the last few days tumble unimpeded through his mind.
Read the letter, his mind urged him, you should read Erik's letter right now, but he pushed past that. He wasn't deep enough in, yet, to trust what his mind told him.
At the end of ten minutes, he realized one of his Ravenclaws (poking at her plate -- face thinner since start of term -- grades dropping -- faint smell of vomit when she spoke, not enough to notice at the time) was developing an eating disorder. He would take her to Madam Pomfrey. She would know what to do.
At fifteen minutes, he realized two of his seventh-years were romantically involved and trying to hide it (longing looks -- excuses to touch -- how very familiar, but why -- she's Muggleborn, oh dear, his grandmother was a Black). Perhaps he should stay out of it but he probably wouldn't.
At twenty-five minutes, something began to build, delicately, tiny 'dots' that faded if he looked directly at them -- like faint stars -- star chart -- piled papers -- drowning, men drowning in a bottle -- star chart -- wand, important -- ink on parchment -- lines, swirls, notations -- star chart -- October -- WAND --
A knock at the door shattered his concentration, and Charles suddenly re-inhabited his gasping, shivering body. What idiot had opened the window?
"I'm coming, I'm coming," he snarled, when the knock sounded again before he could get to the door. He didn't have the presence of mind, yet, to wonder who it was and if he should be alarmed.
It was Erik. And he was grinning.
"Get dressed, Charles, come outside with me," he said. "Good heavens, what idiot opened your window? It's freezing out there."
"What? What do you want?" His voice sounded slurred, his brain felt slurred, he was sure it wasn't good for him to be knocked out of trance like that.
Erik chuckled and mussed his hair. "Get some coffee and put on something warm. I need you to help me with something."
Charles turned away and began fumbling with his teapot, muttering about help you, help you right out the window, laugh at your splattered corpse. Erik laughed again, shut the window and tucked a blanket around Charles's shoulders.
"Did you read the letter?"
"What?" Charles whirled, feeling the blood drain from his face.
Erik jerked back, frowned. "The letter, Charles. To Potter?"
"Right." Charles sagged a bit, tried not to pant. "Of course. Yes, it was fine, I sent it off already. Corrected your spelling a bit."
Erik looked at him strangely, but ventured a smile. "I would expect nothing less."
The sun was only just up when Charles found himself out on the grounds, on a hillside out of any clear view from the castle, with Erik handing him a gun.
He blinked down at it. It felt cold, and heavy, and quite solid. Probably not a hallucination. .22 caliber, some part of his mind catalogued automatically. Kimber Rimfire. Good hunting pistol.
"Erik," he said flatly. "What. The. Devil."
"I borrowed it from Summers. I have some ideas, Charles, on how to use magic to deflect bullets. Of course there's only one way to test them. I know you know how to shoot -- you used to complain about your dad taking you hunting -- so if you could just aim a little to the side of me, so I don't actually die if this doesn't work--"
"Erik. What the devil -- this is a school, Erik, there are children--" Charles could barely breathe. "You brought a loaded gun into a school?"