Plastered to his desk, Blanc was leafing through archaic assignments that had remained dormant for a week or so, ever since vacation’s dawn. He was surmising the contents, as he could barely recall anything that resembled an actual paper from any member of the alumni. The French stood still, his darting eyes scanning through the parchment from end to beginning as if he was observing the whole thoroughly. He sipped a gulp from the nearby mug, holding it by the handle as he reticently left it over the polished surface once his lips had desiccated by the ardour of the drink. It was no pumpkin juice inside the frothy cup, henceforth it could only be something burdened with a high level of liquor or the like. Blanc was aware of the prudent restrictions concerning beverages and concoctions within the school grounds, but Roux had done it again, as usual, whisking him right at the edge of his tether. ‘What now, with him?’ he pondered, almost like meditating whilst shutting his lids closed quite forcefully into a scowl. He massaged his forehead with both index and thumb, as in a soothing attempt to grant him some irenic niche between all the chaotic jetsam and flotsam he was wading through.

“Just make it through the next term… just do so…” he pled, imploring with the husky voice in the French-like accent he could so easily produce. He emptied the mug from another sip just to see the contents of the dark liquid that lingered and remained stagnant at the very depths – it was an amalgam of vodka and coffee – something close to an atomic bomb of anxiety.

“Best munch on anything before this gets to my veins…” he commented to himself, almost in a reprimanding manner of speech, widening his pupils like plates and arching both brows in a sign of disbelief. Was it the second? The third? The professor couldn’t exactly know the reason behind it all, but it was certainly a matter of pothering. He dashed through the threshold and the flight of stairs into the lobby and the lower floors, skipping across the hallways until he found the infamous carved huge wooden doors that welcomed whoever was in need of a bite on something. Broussard had a penchant for a mid-term steak with some smashed potatoes aside and a mollifying red wine to accompany with, just as the correspondent appetitive for the supper – he was hoping he wouldn’t have secondary effects on the mixture of beverages – he kept his fingers crossed.

Not a single hail intended – the man was tempered at once, and mingling with children was not his preferable idea for delight. Blanc spotted someone on the staff table and found it amusing to sit next to him. The man had the irreproachable commodity to be clad in muggle garments. Broussard wasn’t a man of reservoirs albeit he was to be kept kempt and tidy on the other hand, he was quite of a slovenly specimen that only maintained appearances because of the job. Fashioned with an elegant light grey suit and a visible red tie knotted around his neck, the man shoved the chair lightly as he settled down, gazing down and then forth to his eating-companion.

“Hope I am not interrupting anything…” he quipped, sort of sarcastic, in the obvious lack of people around him, “I thought this place could serve me just well” he was not exactly pissed though he was as daunting as if he was. Blanc hadn’t had the pleasure to ever share a word with this stranger, but it seemed fair to simper at him and to display as many niceties he could muster. “Blanc… Charms Professor” he out jutted his hand to him – he was hoping him to receive him with a quite mild attitude.

Contritely, the man opened his eyes widely in the mention of the interview, just as he gawked at him with a quite thoughtful expression upon his features. French had an enduring sense for the alcohol, though some symptoms of inebriation seemed to slip now and then. Inspecting the aspect of the man beside him, Blanc’s curiosity was piqued, as he resembled nothing from any person he actually knew of. However, the key word was ‘interview’ and such evoked the scene with such precision it was absurd that in the absence of the proper attire he had neglected his boss’s presence. This subject was no one but the Deaputy Headmaster whose grip could coil around his neck quite easily, and due Roux’s filthy slate, a simple misbehaviour was excuse enough to sack him at once. The man swallowed nervously in the most inconspicuous way possible, almost as if he hadn’t feigned it all. He was an expert to conserve appearances when needed.

“Pardon moi, monsieur …” his French salute should suffice to mend things. “It is odd that a professor of your stature would be dressed so casually… I just never associated the looks with the face” he blathered a bit, drawling almost – someone who wasn’t at his stead should be taking a good laugh out of him. Because of the abrupt startling, all the intoxication effects wore down as to vanish from his system, having him sober in the blink of an eye, and quite at the verge of a diabetic coma. “Out of the commodity of your office, I don’t think we have actually conversed about anything… forgive my tendency to imagine you on your most elegant clothing” it escaped him, with a subtle air of guilt gushing through his doe-eyed expression. Roux was sufficient issues on his plate to adhere another bump to the clutter. He glanced from the corner of his eye and sighed relieved when something close to a smile spread across his countenance – ‘phew’ he mused.

Blanc downed his gaze to the table just to let it land on the empty plate. No food on it – shame. The man mulled over it for a second or so before the meal materialized before him like a juicy steak with potatoes. It was then when he could discern the illumination of the room from a candlelit one. It was the sun’s shaft which entered the windows and bathed the venue with it, not the sconces’. Blanc arched a brow with intrigue. People used to tell him he spent a lot of time inside his vault, though he never took them seriously. ‘Was I up all night?’ the thought beset him and made him wince, ‘No wonder why I am this starved’ that last phrase, even when inwardly, was enough to make him crack with laughter, sniggering at himself – from an outer view, he should be mental to be acting like this.

“Sun’s finally met me…” he raised the mug on the table which had been abundantly filled with strong coffee instead of the expected wine. The penchant he had should be a subject of demur, as he would have to wait until supper for it, “So… it’s not supper we’re having… uh?” he muttered, quite disappointed, “I’ve never had a steak for a breakfast… let’s see where this leads us, then” he grinned at his boss before he stabbed the meat to have a slice with the knife before ushering it straight to his mouth. “Still as tantalizing as I believed it would be…” he laughed lightly and moaned just a smidge, “There’s nothing as satisfying as eating that thing you had long craved for…”

“It is become a rare habit of mine to fetch a tie and knot it around my neck for every morning routine… I supposed I was not unique in this oddly recurrent action…” the man let a light grin lit his factions for a whit or so, followed by the trace of it, which seemed reluctant to abandon him just yet. It was true that Blanc was tied up to a routine that seemed to find him every single moment before dawn, or so, depending on the day. Charms was a pretty springy lesson but it mostly occurred in the early hours of the day. Blanc wouldn’t change robes until the clock struck nine or ten o’clock for the exact instance in which he believed it was congruent to ditch his attire and switch it to something more appropriate to take to him to his abode. He was so accustomed to the fact that regardless of time, he adjusted to the protocol – sometimes he forgot it needn’t to be done out of the scholar schedule. “You sort of get used to it… and when you become quite flexible to the circumstances… things seem to work on your favour, as you even feel comfortable in these garments” he pinned his blazer by the lapel to shake it a little before him.

“I can’t remember myself in something else that isn’t a suit, to be perfectly honest” the French pondered in a quite audible voice, almost like muttering to himself, but his soliloquy was loud and clear enough for Grey to listen to, as well. Blanc let his eyes widened with a sort of amazed expression, since he had forgone the matter long ago. Perhaps induced by his wife’s demise, Blanc had found some shelter in the suits and the polished aspect that anything else provided him – psychologically he was not prepared to let it go off his grip. “You do things out of the habit… just because you feel weird if you don’t do so” he jested, letting out a laugh, as he submerged himself once more into the toil of eating. The man had never actually vented to anyone about the incident and how she had vanished in the blink of an eye, and how he hadn’t been able to anything to stop it. The man smiled openly, although it was all feigned, and he was aware of the falseness on it.

Blanc downed his eyes to the plate and began chopping the meat into small pieces that he delicately, smearing them with mashed potatoes, ushered to his open mouth. “Breakfast of champions, indeed” he replied, chuckling lightly before he moved past the dour moment, holding the mug of coffee close to him as he sipped and swallowed slowly and gradually. The coffee was soothing him down, and so did the flavour of food in his tongue, yet, he was in sort of a necessity of ranting to God or whoever was ruling the universe, for conceding him such fate. He ignored the rest of his gloomy mood and focused on the present, the day, now. “Poor guys… left alone for the holidays… wonder if there’s no family they can resort to…” he pondered, “Or maybe they just decided it this way…” he shrugged, throwing a quick glance to Grey’s reaction.

“The only thing I’m certainly glad of, is not having to worry on Roux’s whereabouts, as he was sent with my mother back to France… I couldn’t think of a better place to be at…” he stated, then he let a mouthful through his lips and masticated strongly, “Relief is something overrated nowadays”

For the profoundest his deems were, Grey seemed to be a man of monosyllable sentences, as a matter of speech. French seemed to gloat on conversations when some others didn’t, yet, in the short banter he had somehow found out that he was someone worth speaking to.

“… The suit makes the man, never otherwise… ” he chuckled lightly as he downed his attention to the plate, still holding the smile, rubbing off the mourning thoughts that came with it. As a French professor, trends and couture were practical in the daily basis and they couldn’t just be overlooked at – preposterous to mind the fact Roux was an anathema to fashion, as he seemed to just don with whatever was close to his grip, as long as it wasn’t brands mired. “ … We all exude our origins at some ways, don’t we? … I surmise it’s my French side peeking through me… ” from Armani, to Dolce&Gabbana Gucci and Chanel, his wardrobe was furnished with all sorts of ostentatious garments, which were worn with pride and even certain elegance to it, as not everyone could dress them properly. Although the only reason he possessed them was the fact that fashion happened to be affordable in France, and especially in Paris.

“… Maybe I’m nostalgia struck… I just couldn’t have coped throughout my magical formation without my mother… ” he grinned with his eyes focused on the food as he puttered a bit with his fork, “… But school was pretty close to home, thus… passage wasn’t a problem… Which I suppose is not the same with most of them…” he darted his eyes towards the man seated beside him, and for a single moment he could feel as though he was being empathic as he should. “ This will be my first season away from home…” he sighed and then he slurped from the coffee, attempting to regain some sense to his still fussed mind. The enervating effect of caffeine should replace the queasy notion promptly and he could rouse properly. If he spent the holidays away from the exact location where everything reminded him of Marjorie, perhaps he could finally move on and start from scratch.

“Is there a party planned for the Holidays? … I’m quite bigoted but I can still join a celebration if I am to be invited” he said, in the brightest tone he could yield, smiling amply at him as he did so. Tykes should have their mirth moment, even if only for a night.

Blanc forked a huge morsel of food and aimed it towards his open fangs. Probably the consumption of aliments could suffice to appease the muddling notion augmenting in his head, just as it did so. The French was never fond of speaking about his mother, and not because he resented anything that was her mired, though it evoked memories he was somehow obliterating from his past, as it could wane the ails and woes. A few bundle knew of the misfortune the couple had endured and how love always seemed to keep everything at place, until that baleful day when the incident left him and his poor son alone, for him to become a widower and Roux to become half-orphan. His mother was the only one who could tame the tyke without discipline, but mostly, some sort of fondness Blanc could never dare to blather on. Whilst he loved his son deeply, he strangely embraced him or displayed affection to him, and perhaps it was the main reason behind his antics and his misbehaviour. “It gives us a whit for mulling over certain aspects, indeed… but I know solitude… and even when some claim it’s bliss…” his voice trailed off, and he couldn’t help but to take a swill of his mug, lifting it aloft and meeting the rim with his lips, gobbling at it, quite uneasy. Incapable of finishing the sentence, he remitted to remain reticent as he slowly and gradually retrieved bit of sense and poise into himself. Blanc downed his head and felt his simper being washed away from his features.

“A festive feast…” the man arched a brow quite contritely, “…I could cast some spells to it… you know, to induce into the magical atmosphere” he chortled a bit, perhaps instilled by the remnants of liquor still circulating his blood vessels, “… and of course, there is nothing wrong in playing the chaperone for deterring me from spending the night cooped up with stacks of parchments on my desk” when it came to the dusk of the term, it seemed to be bombarded with hefty heaps of parchments that needed revision and correction, for what he referred to as theory-grappling with 5 simple questions that were as unnerving as if they were a hundred. Throughout the term, he dedicated solely into practical teaching, but always prodded students with hints about the theory behind it, for which they never considered it relevant – not until the end of term when they needed to shovel down and profoundly into their short-term memories to extract those bits of information. Was him strict? Not really, merely acute in a piercing learning method.

“I have always been inquisitive about the english pastries for Christmas… ” the man rubbed his hands in front of himself quite eagerly, with a conspicuous grin lighting up his countenance, “I’m still adjusting to the pumpkin juice…” he grunted a smidge, not quite convinced about its flavour, though maybe he could have a little more luck with the sweets baked during such festivities.

Blanc ignored what to deem of such indulgent and permissive behaviour on his boss about the lot of cavorting students drowning the hallways with their presence and their frolics. Surely there should be a light hint of a silver lining to it, as corridors seemed less of gloomy with the occasional cackling and cooing from the tumultuous bundles scattered about the edifice and its structure. Reminding of an inhabited home, the French could merely mull over the fact that he was not an expert on rearing – doubts kept, you only needed glomming at Roux. “Casual or formal… we all need some bits of merriment to our lives, every often” the man jested, sipping from the cup as he grinned, quite phoney, since he couldn’t smile sincerely since a couple of years ago. Tainted with the horrors of his past, he couldn’t exactly adjust to mirth and the displays of such – not yet. “Nothing fancy, though… a couple of dazzling glowing snowflakes of the size of a wrecking ball, at every central room, and some, a lot smaller, spread through the hallways, hovering” he construed, some flashing grin lighting his features as he spoke, utilising his hands to help his arguments as with mimics.

The Charms professor couldn’t hold the chortling that escaped him by the moment the other man lifted his goblet to show its contents, “It’s good to know that I’m not the only one” he plumed on the evidence and raised his own cup to make it click against his (symbolically) as they never actually touched, and then just tipped it down his throat, swilling from it. “On the other hand… if you’ve ever been to France, you shalt never grunt over champagne or croissants” as the conversation moved forth, he felt a little more at ease and that he could elaborate a little more on his mingling, “They would literally slit your throat” he stared at him before grinning amply, granting an amiable expression that came out of pure honesty – regardless of still seeming fake, but not so entirely.