| Slowburn | Angst | Eventual Romance | Dark Romance | Alternative Universe | Magic Systems | Dark Magic | Machiavellian Tom Riddle | Secret Societies |
AU where magic has largely died out.
Previously unaware of his magical capabilities, and withou...
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The water in Mistral house had ceased to run.
In other circumstances, that might have been a problem easily rectified by fetching a bottle of the lime and cucumber vases in the communal hall. Unfortunately, Naoise stood naked under a shower head on the fourth floor with remnants of conditioner still in her hair.
She looked up at the trickle pushing its way through the slats. The pressure had been lacking before the tap shut off. For all of Mistral Houses' efforts to make the boarding dorms feel comfortable and regal, they had cheapened out on a few critical elements; the boards in the hallway creaked at any amount of pressure. No more than twenty apartments could have space heaters running at any given time without an imminent power outage. That was the problem with antiquated buildings; they pushed the inhabitants out to make more room for all of the dust. Moreover, she was not convinced that there wasn't a layer of asbestos hiding beneath the emerald granite.
Annoyed huffs echoed over the dank walls as Naoise wrapped a towel around her waist. A girl spat toothpaste into the basin at the sink while flicking the tap on and off, despite the obvious. It was not a matter of the bathrooms being too crowded to accommodate half of the inhabitants. Every woman on the fourth floor fought tooth and nail for a vacant shower stall come eleven pm, yet there hadn't been any prior trouble. The old building must have blown a water line.
Naoise murmured a sincerity lacking prayer that it wouldn't result in a flood. Then again, if it did, first classes might be pushed back another week.
The halls were flush with coeds bumbling out of the shared kitchen and washrooms, towels on their heads, and half-rinsed tea mugs in their grasp. They flowed like a phalanx of disgruntled soldiers stepping out of their barracks to find the enemy had snuck in while they were having dinner.
One day, she would live in a place so secluded from other people that the nearest neighbor would have an entirely different postcode. There, she would know a deafening silence that colluded every thought, slowed the energy dispersal lines, and blurred life into a hazy dream of coffee by a windowsill and wine in the parlor. Only the occasional guest, and only if they were the brand of person that spoke in low, slow sentences and disdained the topic of the weather. An ivory tower where spirits were comfortable enough to pull up a seat, light a cigar, and orate their existence down to the secrets that hid after death. Only then would the 'gift' appear as less of a waste. Though that might have been asking for more luck than the universe was willing to supply, even King James had to heed the village folk to write Demonology.
"I like your shower shoes," The voice came from the doorway across from hers. Sleepy and almost slurred with all of the vowels enunciated. Naoise turned to find one of the boys from the Serpentine road leaning his head on the frame; Mihran, the one that liked wine and always looked on the brink of a narcoleptic fit. His eyes were half-closed as he lit a cigarette with an engraved zippo.
She examined her shoes; they were just white rubber sandals. "Thanks," she said, "I don't think you're allowed to smoke in here."
He gave a bored shrug. "What are they going to do? Kick me out? I don't live here."
