Post by Matthew Thornton on Oct 25, 2008 22:38:57 GMT
Matthew's hands were planted firmly on the black tabletop of an ancient, oaken table. Between the expanse of space his arms encompassed sat five books, three of which were open to the same topic: the Flagrate spell, which caused a burning line to be produced from the tip of the wand. On each page, a picture moved about which depicted a witch or wizard using the spell like a whip; in one instance, a witch fought back a large, vehement serpent with the spell; in another, a young, bold wizard was using the spell to blaze through a thick copse of undergrowth. All of the volumes came from the book collection he'd received two Christmases ago from his parents. A few of the books in the collection were of questionable integrity, but Matthew hadn't ventured to bring these to Hogwarts. He'd asked for the collection so that he could expand his arsenal of spells, a quest his father, an Auror, had immediately understood. The fact that the book collection housed some sketchy tomes hadn't stopped Matthew from requesting it, and as far as Michael Thornton, his father, saw it, sheltering Matthew from the Dark magic out there was completely counterproductive for a boy who was so interested in Dark magic.
Nevertheless, few people at Hogwarts were aware of Matthew's interest, and lugging around books of questionable content would no doubt raise eyebrows around Hogwarts, particularly given the day and age. Besides, there were enough books in the collection with valuable information that he could take to school without getting pulled aside simply for possessing them; five of them sat before him on the opaque table he was now leaning over. Matthew had been working on perfecting the spells he already knew and beefing up his repertoire of magic with new spells since last year, and had been impressed by the command Farren Abercrombie had possessed over the Flagrate spell during his run-in with her inside the Room of Requirement. Since then, the fire-controlling spell had been on his list of incantations to master.
Unfortunately, things were not going as he would've liked. He'd made such careful preparations in order to perfect the spell. Matthew had found this particular dungeon years ago and often used it when in need of a little wand practice. As such, he'd come down yesterday to make appropriate adjustments to the room to allow him the space needed to create a fiery whip without destroying everything in his path: all of the tables in the dungeon, other than the one he was using, had been pushed against the curving walls of the circular room; the cabinets and storage closets had all been closed and securely fastened, as he didn't want to discover what would happen should he ignite some of the more volatile concoctions in the room; and he'd summoned up two extra torches so as to give himself extra light to read by. Nevertheless, the spell was proving more difficult to master than he'd anticipated. As of yet, the only thing he could produce was a thin, jump-rope-esque string of flame which slowly began going out no sooner than he'd produced it. So much for the "fiery whip" effect Farren had so gallantly showcased.
Due in part to the mild heat produced by the weak spell - but more so by the sheer amount of effort he'd put into the spell - Matthew was sweating profusely. A small, salty drop fell from the tip of his large nose as he leaned over his books in search of some paragraph or statement to tell him what he was doing wrong. His trusted tomes wouldn't let him down: they rarely had, and when they did, it was usually because he was searching for something forbidden. "Uugh," he groaned with dissatisfaction before laying his wand on the tabletop. Matthew's blue eyes continued to search the pages regarding Flagrate in search of an answer as he unzipped his school robe in hopes of cooling himself off. It seemed the only thing he'd managed to set fire to was himself. Tossing the removed robe over the tabletop next to his books, Matthew began working at his tie, loosening it a bit so that he could breathe more freely. The boy was trying to ignore the fact which kept resurfacing in the back of his mind:
Matthew had never been good with aggressive magic. Even in Charms, one of his best subjects, he could produce much more potent effects with spells that protected an object or altered the state of something as opposed to those that were meant to destroy. He hated what this fact represented: that his brains couldn't account for everything, his will and intelligence alone couldn't conquer every task set before him. Admitting that some spells simply required a natural affinity toward a particular type of magic was as good as conceding defeat, as admitting the magic was superior to his ability, his effort, his mind. Sighing loudly in angst and frustration, Matthew snatched up his wand and took up his position a few feet away from the table once more. He closed his eyes for a moment, envisioning the desired product: a virile, convoluted whip of fire. Resolved to make the spell work this time, Matthew squared his shoulders and held his wand up in front of him. "Flagrate!"[/b] he bellowed louder than he'd done all afternoon.
Just as before, a flame burst from his wand, but instead of an eruption of fire, he got a tendril of tamed flame. Matthew watched first with dissatisfaction as the spell only produced something of the same magnitude as the last ten tries. He was taken aback, however, as the fire shot forth with greater alacrity and stretched itself out farther above his head than before. Unaccustomed to such a long pillar of fire, Matthew shook his arm wildly, as though he could simply shake the flame into nonexistence as he might do with a match. Instead, the flame began dancing maniacally above him, lashing out at the chandelier full of candles and a bookcase against the wall which he was facing. Before he knew what was happening, the dilapidated bookcase had caught fire and was reacting very quickly to the spell: no more than five seconds after being touched by the flame, it began sagging dangerously to one side. Eyes growing wide at the destruction he was causing with only this weakened cousin of the Flagrate spell he'd envisioned, Matthew stepped back, pulling his wand in closer toward him to avoid any more incidents. In doing so, the flame belly-danced its way to the chandelier hanging from the ceiling a few feet in front of him.
Phew, he thought, a bit more at ease. No matter how much the flame accosted the candles, it would do no harm as the candles were meant to burn anyhow. Hunkering down from the heat of the spell, Matthew slowly picked through his brain for a solution. Before, simply snapping his wrist was enough to end the spell; now, though, it seemed as though he'd need to usual magical means. Coming to a conclusion after about ten seconds, Matthew smiled mischievously at the flame: it wasn't exactly thicker or more powerful, but it had been more resilient. He'd managed one improvement. Finite, he finished nonverbally, and was additionally pleased to see the spell cease with almost as much speed as it had begun with. Whether the magic finished itself off due to a good nonverbal or simply because the spell was weak to begin with, Matthew wasn't sure, but he was satisfied, as he hadn't managed to set anything else on fire. Swallowing as he stood up, Matthew realized how parched he'd become in the presence of the flame. They'd be having a copious Saturday feast in about an hour, and he'd be able to quench his thirst then.
Just as he was about to walk back to his books, a metallic snap rang out above his head. Turning abruptly to the ceiling above him, Matthew watched as the chandelier drooped, hanging from only three bolts now. The brunette Ravenclaw's mouth immediately fell open, appalled at the damage he'd clearly done, although he'd been sure nothing negative was going to come of directing his spell at the metal chandelier. Apparently, the flame had weakened the reinforcements on it or something. Pre-cautious as ever, Matthew took two large steps away from the chandelier, his mind searching for a way to undo the damage. Just as he was about to turn around and fire off a few repairing spells, the monstrous, flaming chandelier gave up on the bolts securing it to the ceiling and fell, in a blaze of yellow flame, to the stone of the dungeon floor. The strident, raucous sound alone was enough to make Matthew drop to the floor, immediately throwing his arms around his head. Most of the candle flames were snubbed with the fall, but that didn't stop wax from splattering across the floor. As he was in a dungeon, the loud sound of the crash reverberated powerfully off of the walls, no doubt flying all the way up the dungeon stairs and into the hallway outside the entrance.
Giving in to the loud sound, Matthew simply remained on the floor for a few moments, letting the echoes pan out all around him. Beyond the sensation of the waves of sound penetrating his body, Matthew realized then, pressed against the cold stone floor, how tired he was. Choosing to take this fine opportunity to rest rather than jump up and try to clean up the mess of twisted iron and hot wax that was bound to be waiting for him, Matthew simply rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling of the dungeon, his eyes floating to the spot where the chandelier had so defiantly reposted his spell only a few moments before.
[sorry I got a little carried away]
Nevertheless, few people at Hogwarts were aware of Matthew's interest, and lugging around books of questionable content would no doubt raise eyebrows around Hogwarts, particularly given the day and age. Besides, there were enough books in the collection with valuable information that he could take to school without getting pulled aside simply for possessing them; five of them sat before him on the opaque table he was now leaning over. Matthew had been working on perfecting the spells he already knew and beefing up his repertoire of magic with new spells since last year, and had been impressed by the command Farren Abercrombie had possessed over the Flagrate spell during his run-in with her inside the Room of Requirement. Since then, the fire-controlling spell had been on his list of incantations to master.
Unfortunately, things were not going as he would've liked. He'd made such careful preparations in order to perfect the spell. Matthew had found this particular dungeon years ago and often used it when in need of a little wand practice. As such, he'd come down yesterday to make appropriate adjustments to the room to allow him the space needed to create a fiery whip without destroying everything in his path: all of the tables in the dungeon, other than the one he was using, had been pushed against the curving walls of the circular room; the cabinets and storage closets had all been closed and securely fastened, as he didn't want to discover what would happen should he ignite some of the more volatile concoctions in the room; and he'd summoned up two extra torches so as to give himself extra light to read by. Nevertheless, the spell was proving more difficult to master than he'd anticipated. As of yet, the only thing he could produce was a thin, jump-rope-esque string of flame which slowly began going out no sooner than he'd produced it. So much for the "fiery whip" effect Farren had so gallantly showcased.
Due in part to the mild heat produced by the weak spell - but more so by the sheer amount of effort he'd put into the spell - Matthew was sweating profusely. A small, salty drop fell from the tip of his large nose as he leaned over his books in search of some paragraph or statement to tell him what he was doing wrong. His trusted tomes wouldn't let him down: they rarely had, and when they did, it was usually because he was searching for something forbidden. "Uugh," he groaned with dissatisfaction before laying his wand on the tabletop. Matthew's blue eyes continued to search the pages regarding Flagrate in search of an answer as he unzipped his school robe in hopes of cooling himself off. It seemed the only thing he'd managed to set fire to was himself. Tossing the removed robe over the tabletop next to his books, Matthew began working at his tie, loosening it a bit so that he could breathe more freely. The boy was trying to ignore the fact which kept resurfacing in the back of his mind:
Matthew had never been good with aggressive magic. Even in Charms, one of his best subjects, he could produce much more potent effects with spells that protected an object or altered the state of something as opposed to those that were meant to destroy. He hated what this fact represented: that his brains couldn't account for everything, his will and intelligence alone couldn't conquer every task set before him. Admitting that some spells simply required a natural affinity toward a particular type of magic was as good as conceding defeat, as admitting the magic was superior to his ability, his effort, his mind. Sighing loudly in angst and frustration, Matthew snatched up his wand and took up his position a few feet away from the table once more. He closed his eyes for a moment, envisioning the desired product: a virile, convoluted whip of fire. Resolved to make the spell work this time, Matthew squared his shoulders and held his wand up in front of him. "Flagrate!"[/b] he bellowed louder than he'd done all afternoon.
Just as before, a flame burst from his wand, but instead of an eruption of fire, he got a tendril of tamed flame. Matthew watched first with dissatisfaction as the spell only produced something of the same magnitude as the last ten tries. He was taken aback, however, as the fire shot forth with greater alacrity and stretched itself out farther above his head than before. Unaccustomed to such a long pillar of fire, Matthew shook his arm wildly, as though he could simply shake the flame into nonexistence as he might do with a match. Instead, the flame began dancing maniacally above him, lashing out at the chandelier full of candles and a bookcase against the wall which he was facing. Before he knew what was happening, the dilapidated bookcase had caught fire and was reacting very quickly to the spell: no more than five seconds after being touched by the flame, it began sagging dangerously to one side. Eyes growing wide at the destruction he was causing with only this weakened cousin of the Flagrate spell he'd envisioned, Matthew stepped back, pulling his wand in closer toward him to avoid any more incidents. In doing so, the flame belly-danced its way to the chandelier hanging from the ceiling a few feet in front of him.
Phew, he thought, a bit more at ease. No matter how much the flame accosted the candles, it would do no harm as the candles were meant to burn anyhow. Hunkering down from the heat of the spell, Matthew slowly picked through his brain for a solution. Before, simply snapping his wrist was enough to end the spell; now, though, it seemed as though he'd need to usual magical means. Coming to a conclusion after about ten seconds, Matthew smiled mischievously at the flame: it wasn't exactly thicker or more powerful, but it had been more resilient. He'd managed one improvement. Finite, he finished nonverbally, and was additionally pleased to see the spell cease with almost as much speed as it had begun with. Whether the magic finished itself off due to a good nonverbal or simply because the spell was weak to begin with, Matthew wasn't sure, but he was satisfied, as he hadn't managed to set anything else on fire. Swallowing as he stood up, Matthew realized how parched he'd become in the presence of the flame. They'd be having a copious Saturday feast in about an hour, and he'd be able to quench his thirst then.
Just as he was about to walk back to his books, a metallic snap rang out above his head. Turning abruptly to the ceiling above him, Matthew watched as the chandelier drooped, hanging from only three bolts now. The brunette Ravenclaw's mouth immediately fell open, appalled at the damage he'd clearly done, although he'd been sure nothing negative was going to come of directing his spell at the metal chandelier. Apparently, the flame had weakened the reinforcements on it or something. Pre-cautious as ever, Matthew took two large steps away from the chandelier, his mind searching for a way to undo the damage. Just as he was about to turn around and fire off a few repairing spells, the monstrous, flaming chandelier gave up on the bolts securing it to the ceiling and fell, in a blaze of yellow flame, to the stone of the dungeon floor. The strident, raucous sound alone was enough to make Matthew drop to the floor, immediately throwing his arms around his head. Most of the candle flames were snubbed with the fall, but that didn't stop wax from splattering across the floor. As he was in a dungeon, the loud sound of the crash reverberated powerfully off of the walls, no doubt flying all the way up the dungeon stairs and into the hallway outside the entrance.
Giving in to the loud sound, Matthew simply remained on the floor for a few moments, letting the echoes pan out all around him. Beyond the sensation of the waves of sound penetrating his body, Matthew realized then, pressed against the cold stone floor, how tired he was. Choosing to take this fine opportunity to rest rather than jump up and try to clean up the mess of twisted iron and hot wax that was bound to be waiting for him, Matthew simply rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling of the dungeon, his eyes floating to the spot where the chandelier had so defiantly reposted his spell only a few moments before.
[sorry I got a little carried away]
