House: Horned Serpent

Class: Cultural Studies. Task #1 - Language: The most obvious difference when going somewhere is the change in language; luckily, we have translations spells to help. Unfortunately, in some situations these don't work and communication becomes difficult. Write about someone not being understood or not understanding someone else.

Prompts: [emotion] confused; [character trait] deaf; [song] "Pour un flirt" - Michel Delpech;

WC: 2341

TW: past facial injury & scarring

⁂

"This is your last chance, Graves."

Percival Graves bit back a sigh — the exhaustion settling deep in his bones eroding the tight leash he kept on the rage in his chest — and raised his head from the paperwork. The gold lettering on the pale cream shone in front of his eyes, and he wiped his ink stained fingers before taking it. Even so, he could see the faint grey smudges of his fingerprints on the edge.

'Masquerade Ball,' the text proclaimed before shifting into an address, a large house in the old Magical part of the city — heavily warded and circled by a twisted iron fence, as dangerous as it was hauntingly beautiful. There was no name on the invite, a fact that caused Percival to burn the original after testing it with every spell he could think of.

It had to have been some sort of cruel trick, he had reasoned as he watched the paper burn — flames dancing gold as the ink ignited, hands curled into fists on his lap. The second was lying on his desk at work, mocking him. Another Auror — David Hyde, golden haired and glorious, sure to burn bright and burn out just as quick — read the lines of sudden tension in Percival's spine, the white knuckles grip he had on his wand, and swooped in.

A genuine masked ball wearing a mask of its own: sycophancy hidden beneath a fundraiser. The Graves were an old family, and Percival knew the benefit of that particular dance — knew intimately the sting when past promises weren't enough, victory turning to ash in his mouth.

"I'll be joining you later," he said firmly, making a move to hand the invitation back, but Hyde waved it away with an easy smile. Jealousy flickered in Percival's chest — stealing his breath as time slowed, prolonging his torture — but he let it move through him, hand curled into a fist beneath the table.

"It's just for fun really," Hyde continued, "And it's a masquerade, so—" He trailed off with a vague gesture at Percival's face, dawning comprehension flickering in his eyes.

Hyde turned swiftly on his heel, with a quick wave, and he was gone. Percival glanced around the emptying office, and carefully raised a hand to raise over the ruined skin on the bottom of his face. It was a curious sensation: an emptiness beneath his fingertips where sensation had once been, echoing through the edges with sparks of pain as crudely healed muscles twitched and moved on the edges.

Magical healing could only stretch so far, could only do so much for ruined flesh and bone; old favours could only hold so much sway. Percival could still speak, and he counted himself lucky. His scars gave him a compelling sort of power — even as he could feel the press of eyes following him everywhere, glances that dropped as soon as he met them only to return to stare in morbid curiosity.

Percival smiled, pushing through the twinges of pain, the strange tugging sensation through his jaw, and stood to go and get ready.

⁂

His mask hung carefully from one hand as Percival stepped out of the Floo, distant roaring still echoing in his ears. He paused, knocking the soot from his boots, and carefully looked around the small side parlour to distract himself from the rising panic in his throat.

A low couch was tucked against the wall at his side, flowers bursting out of the vase tucked onto the side table — cut glass so heavy, a possible weapon, a distant part of his mind whispered — and the walls were strangely clustered, a riot of colour. Percival frowned, before his wandering gaze alighted on a possible source. He took a second step forward, aiming to see the shadowed area at the edge of one of the frames—

"Welcome to the party, sir!" The house elf squeaked, bowing low as she popped into the room. Percival forced himself to relax — heartbeat loud in his ears as he slipped his wand back into it's holster, hands resting against the small of his back to hide his actions from the small elf.

"Thank you," he replied, inclining his head. The house elf seemed well cared for — the lack of bandages was notable, however with an old family like this, the possibility of keeping disobedient house elves away from guests was large — and she beamed up at him.

"If sir would put on his mask, the party is this way!" she trilled, gesturing to the single door in the room — chokepoint, his mind pointed out — and Percival slipped his mask on, feeling the magical fabric bind seamlessly with his skin. The house elf was well trained, her expression never slipping when she took in his scars — exposed and fully displayed, thanks to the half mask he wore — hands never wavering from its gesture. Percival moved towards the party, wheels turning inside his head. He hated the feeling of confusion, the rising panic slowing his thoughts, anger quick on its heels; and this entire party was a mystery to be solved.

The paintings hid large claw marks — fresh enough that the walls couldn't be fixed before the party, hidden instead and quickly at that.

⁂

Percival fought the urge to tug his mask down as the woman's gaze dipped down towards his scars once more, snapping back up to his eyes as her companion threw back his head in laughter.

It would be worth it, Percival repeated until the words began to lose their meaning — a confusing mess of syllables that drowned out the gnawing curiosity burning in his chest. It had to be worth it.

The man clapped Percival on the shoulder, and the pair moved away, her gaze dipping once again to trail over his scars like a caress. He hid his smirk behind his glass, sour bubbles bursting on his tongue. The man was Gawen Best, Head of the Department for Confiscated Items. His mask was delicate filigree, but it couldn't hide the shock of red hair that seemed to resist turning grey or his red nose, broken blood vessels spiderwebbed across its surface.

The woman curled into his side was his wife, Eleanor, her own mask a checkerboard that blended seamlessly with the roots of her black hair. She didn't work for MACUSA, but everyone knew of her propensity for gossip.

Percival stepped back into the shadows next to a large plant — cover, Percival's mind whispered which he ignored — setting his shoulder against the column it cooled around as he considered his next move. The night had barely broken and yet he was already exhausted — eyes drooping to half lidded, the crowd dissolving into shifting glittering lights.

Percival had spoken to everyone he could, swallowed his rage and laughed with comments that turned his stomach, allowing eyes to linger on his scars — each and every one feeling like they were opened anew, a bug pinned beneath a magnifying glass for their entertainment. It had to be worth it: the pageantry, the lost sleep, the heaviness of the curving antlers on his mask driving a dull ache into his head. They would remember him, the half mask and his scars would make sure of it.

Something cooed in his ear.

Carefully, heart lodged in his throat and magic crackling like trapped lightning beneath his skin, Percival reached up and felt small limbs — thin and gentle even as the edges of razor sharp claws rested against the pad of his finger — wrapped around his hand, revealing a Bowtruckle.

The world seemed to stop as Percival studied the small creature, head tilted to one side as the Bowtruckle mimicked his movement, balanced carefully on his palm.

A Bowtruckle. In a mansion. Just one when they normally lived in herds, if Percival was remembering his tutor for Magical Creatures correctly.

Percival's attention snapped to the large staircase at the edge of the room as the lights dimmed, save for a single spotlight.

"Presenting," a disembodied voice announced, the reverberation stabbing through Percival's ears, "your hosts, the Scamanders."

Percival didn't need to rise up to see them as so many in the crowd did, a shifting, shimmering sea of bodies pressed too close together. The Scamanders were old purebloods who moved from England in the past decade, and remained a tantalising mystery ever since.

Percival should be focused on Lord and Lady Scamander — resplendent in matching gold outfits like liquid sunlight — or their eldest son — dressed in a glowing bronze like the first dying leaves of autumn — but he couldn't look away from the younger of the two.

He was tucked into his eldest brother's side, shying away from the glowing spotlight, half caught in the light and half hidden in shadow. He seemed to almost be carved out of marble — a soft white dress robe swirling out as he walked, ink shifting through water, face expressionless despite the way he hugged his brother's arm to his chest.

Percival closed his eyes mere moments before the lights flicked back on; grumbles erupting through the room, and he smiled, feeling the tugging sensation once again, sweat drying on his forehead beneath the fabric. The true dance was about to begin, and Percival had to be careful. If he approached too early, he would be dismissed out of hand; too late, and he wouldn't make an impact, tiredness clouding even the most determined mind as the evening drew on.

"What do you think?" Percival murmured to the Bowtruckle, the tiny creature scrambling over his fingers as it quietly beeped to him. "He is pretty, isn't he?"

Percival snagged another drink — champagne wasn't his drink of choice, but he'd be a fool not to drink some — and offered the berry to the Bowtruckle, smiling slightly as the creature speared it on one of its talons, juice slightly sticky on his skin. He glanced up, and caught sight of himself in one of the mirrored walls. He looked like a forest god of old with the curved antlers on the mask shining in the candlelight; scars adding to the wild nature rather than making him stand out; the Bowtruckle gutting its prey in his hand, and a man dressed in white hovering at the edge.

Percival turned towards the man — the same man from the stairs, the youngest Scamander — and bowed, careful not to dislodge the Bowtruckle. The man stared at him intently, quickly copying him with jerky, uncertain motions. His face was covered by a simple porcelain mask, giving him the illusion of a statue, or a doll, Percival thought to himself, the man's hands twisting the edges of his sleeves between his fingers.

"Hello," Percival said, the man's eyes — the same colour as the sea, calm and still and beautifully deadly — never wavering from his mouth. He waited for the prickling feeling of disgust to wash over him, to hate this stranger in an instant — and it never came.

"Hello," the man said carefully, his voice sounding strange, slow and clipped. He drew half a step closer, and pointed at the Bowtruckle, then tapped his own chest.

"Here you go," Percival said, confusion warring with an uncomfortable realisation in his chest.

The Bowtruckle went to the man easily, patting Percival's hand as it left. It scrambled up the man's sleeve, and he picked it up, tucking it into an inside pocket.

"Thank you," the man said, the same odd note in his voice.

There was a crash, screams, and glassware flying.

The man went easily into Percival's arms as he pulled him closer, glass shattering against the wall where he was once standing. He punched Percival in the chest, a squawk falling from him, rearing back in surprise; but he didn't look behind him, didn't see the cockatrice prowling towards them, it's forked tail raised and swishing through the air like a whip. It was loud: people screaming mixing with the crackle of aborted spell fire hitting the wards that descended. And yet the man in front of Percival was rearing back to punch him again, eyes burning with rage.

Percival grabbed him by the shoulders, and spun him around.

His shoulders stiffened, but no sound escaped him, before he began running towards the cockatrice, magic gathering at his fingers in lieu of using a wand, condensing into a large pole with a hook on the end. Percival frowned, moving closer even as the crowd moved away — shoulders set to push through when the mysterious man slipped through the press of bodies like a ghost. Curiosity and confusion flooded his veins in equal measures, and yet this man had him entranced.

With an artful flick of his wrist, the man snagged one of the cockatrcie's legs, the beast staggering and falling to one side with a squawk and a crunch that rattled every glass in the room. The crowd surged back forwards — a receding tide beneath the control of this man — and Percival lost sight of him.

Percival escaped the crush, staggering back into the small parlour he arrived in, the past few minutes playing in front of his eyes again and again. People didn't understand his motivation, his drive to raise his family up again when they stared down from their pedestals. He had set the groundwork — his mask still firmly attached to his face, anonymity and yet everyone would know who he was — and he should continue to move around the party. And yet—

The man was intoxicating, a mystery in white, and Percival couldn't stop thinking about him. Leaving now would impact his standing, would curtail how high he was able to climb from this one event. But he had research to do, just to try and see that man again. It had been a while since he had learnt about Bowtruckles, after all.