Finn Dubois
Surrounded by potential chaos
Sun Nov 24, 2013 01:43
70.72.185.154

It was just past noon on September thirteenth and Serafina Dubois was in a rather grumpy mood. Just like last year, and the year before that, and every year since she had been a firstie at Beauxbatons, a certain unwelcome birthday card had arrived to greet her with her lunch, borne in the claws of a barn owl with a defined curve to its facial feathers that marked it immediately as belonging to a certain undesireable acquaintance. 'Curse that Pureblooded snob and her little posse with their stupid little games.'

The logical side of her recognized that the prank birthday cards Daphne Rousseau persisted in sending her were totally childish, their effects aimed to humiliate and never lasting more than a few hours, and the never-ending tide of malignantly enchanted letters was nothing but immature for witches of their age to be partaking in. Still, she felt minimal shame in admitting that it felt good to return the letters with traps of her own, although her replies were intentionally never immediate; a letter she received in Québec over the summer would be burned, disposed of, and ignored for months before she snapped open her inkwells and textbooks to put together a letter whose creative contents were appropriately increased by an incremental degree of severity. Sometimes these letters were addressed directly to Daphne in Paris, sometimes she sent them to the other members of her little posse, and sometimes a new location appealed to her as offering equal potential, but regardless of whose hands they ended up in, no attack on Finn's name ever went unanswered. It was her name that was important to her - her first name, mind. She couldn't care less about the Dubois family honour.

Today, in the aftermath of her latest birthday card, the newly-turned seventeen-year-old was making her way at a rapid pace towards the rec centre, hands hanging at her sides a bit more stiffly than how she usually walked. Both of her hands were coated in a gauzey, sticky substance, midway between cobwebs and webbed fingers, and being pranked again honestly didn't bother her (having webbed hands wasn't too bad compared to last term, though Inigo had been sweet about helping her out with resolving that particular jinx) but the fact that she couldn't even try using her wand to reverse it was irritating. The extra width that the unknown substance had stretched between her fingers made it virtually impossible to get her wand out of her pocket. Granted, the stickiness made her hesitant to touch anything in the first place, let alone something as valuable as a wand.

Trying out a Finite Incantatem was obviously not an option, and she doubted it would have worked anyways; Daphne's gino of a fiancée was a stickler for charms and was generally pulled in on these pranks to prevent such an easy escape. Washing her hands in the sink was also not an option, as the redheaded witch wasn't exactly co-ordinated enough to know how to turn on a faucet with nothing but her elbows. Hence, the rec centre pool became her destination, and she had her fingers crossed (metaphorically) that the full submersion wouldn't make the situation any more irritating than it already was, because Gorlot kept prowling behind her begging for his ears to be scratched and she couldn't even pet her own cat and ugh. No. Just no. Her name came first; Gorlot came second; messing with both of them was a recipe for revenge served freezing cold.

Sneakers scuffing across the floor, Finn stalked across the hall, aiming straight towards the rec centre doorway. Her timing was apparently atrocious, as she passed through the door just as someone else seemed to be coming out of it, and before she knew it she was sprawled on the floor. "Ack, darnit!" she exclaimed, wiggling sideways so that Gorlot could free himself from where he'd gotten pinned under her knee. Preoccupied with making sure her cat was okay, it took her a moment to recall the actual person she'd managed to crash into, at which point the redhead managed to awkwardly prop herself up on her elbows, ignoring the mildly disconcerting feeling of her webby fingers being stuck to the ground in favour of observing the unfortunate passerby. "Excusez-moi, I'm sorry, je suis tres désolé, are you okay, luv?" she fired off rapidly, blue eyes trying to gauge their condition for herself from behind glasses knocked askew.



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