devilish; lorenzo berkshire

𝐼

You step off the carriages, slightly disoriented by all the hustle and bustle of the station here at Hogsmeade. Students are milling all around you, already talking in small friend groups as you simply walk along the edge, your wand twiddled between your fingers under your robes.

Eleven-year-olds are winding around beneath your feet, and you take a moment to take in this air of... welcoming. Unlike Durmstrang, there are no fights breaking out, and no teachers making sure nobody gets maimed before opening day.

It's like a breath of fresh air after a long six years of being surrounded by hostility, but at the same time, this is so very starkly different that you struggle to comprehend it a little bit.

These witches and wizards bump and bicker with each other, and yet no curses are sent and no spells are cast to make someone hurt.

It's really strange.

You walk on slowly between the pairs, and in your sensitivity to kindness, you notice the very first sign of hostility; a group of boys, looking to be your age, travelling in a pack towards the black carriages lining the woods, all while swearing and shoving their underclassmen around them.

At the head of the group is a boy with black curls and dead brown eyes, his scarred face telling a story of violence as he glares at everyone and everything around him. There's another boy, looking awfully similar to him yet more put together, that gives the surroundings a cold, cold look, like all the chattering kids make school torture.

There are three boys following close behind, and the most talkative— a blond who's clearly got a reputation, with the way the juniors scramble away from him— is giving a lively retelling of a story to his tall, brooding friend. The friend has a headful of dark locs, and the look he throws at a girl who dares bump into him is blood curdling. The last isn't as tall as the dark-loced menace, but the look in his eyes is that of a deity; he believes he's above them, and this kind of rude confidence you're not entirely sure you can get behind.

The last of the bunch is... ah... how can you say this....

Weak. Honestly, he looks weak.

Now, you're not a downright awful person, but Durmstrang sees someone who can't defend themselves and picks them off immediately. This boy is no different than what the runts of the class would look like in Durmstrang.

He's got thick, brown hair, swept back over his head in a classy yet messy manner, a smile always ghosting on his lips. His brown eyes are big and kind, with that tiny note of sympathy in them whenever he looks around.

The only way you can describe it is that he looks the type to cry over a tree being cut down.

Case in point; the curly haired, rugged boy decks a first year at the front of the group, letting her sprawl on the ground beneath his feet as he gives her a cruel smile and continues like nothing happened. Mr. Kicked-Puppy immediately helps her up, and even does as much as argue with the leader of the group, yelling something at him as he sends the first year away with a pat on her shoulder.

You roll your eyes, scoffing as you look away. People who are kind tend to be weaknesses. You wish it were different, but that's how the world works; how you were taught to live in it.