It was a half-hour past lunchtime. Neely had purposely arrived late, had loitered around the Slytherin table giggling with her friends and pouring over pages of the newest runway looks, and had spent an obscenely long amount of time nibbling at each part of her meal, to make it last longer and to give Neely a reason to stay in the Great Hall while the rest of her peers floated outdoors to prolong their artful procrastination.

Neely sighed and looked wistfully toward the Entrance Hall. Just on the other side of those double doors—which she could not see, but that only made them more desirable—was hot weather and freedom. She would undoubtedly complain about the temperature, the landscape, and the danger of burning her skin, but at least out there she didn’t have to spend her study period doing the last thing on her wish list: studying.

Tearing her gaze from the tantalizing exit, Neely looked to the Ravenclaw table. Sure enough, the person she’d been lingering to approach was there. And luckily very few of his housemates were around. It seemed even the brainiacs were sick of exam preparation. Or maybe it was their monumental minds that allowed them to run around outside and lounge in the common room on a Wednesday afternoon before finals.

Pulling her bag over her shoulder, the Slytherin abandoned her post at last, and sauntered over to where her fellow fourth year was sitting. She fell onto the bench directly across from him and let her trendy schoolbag fall into place with a faint but rather satisfying thud beside her. “Hey, Sasha,” She said cheerfully, crossing her hands in her lap and leaning forward a bit, so that her hair narrowly missed an empty gold plate. Her eyes darted quickly to the side and she stiffened a bit, moving away from the empty dish. She caught herself just before she could wrinkle her nose, and instead looked back up at the boy, resuming a bright smile she liked to think could rival a starlet’s. "How're you? What are you up to? Super busy?" She tried to appear interested, but the real question on her mind wanted desperately to be let out.

“So… we both know you're really good in school. Do you happen to have a free spot open on your calendar… um… right now?” Neely raised both brows innocently, her mouth appearing to smile and frown at the same time, if it were possible. It was her best pleading in a casual way expression. "I completely understand if you're busy," she added with a dramatic sigh, looking down sadly. After a moment of this, she chanced a peak at his face, waiting for a reaction. She didn't bother to wonder whether it was possible to guilt-trip someone she rarely spoke to outside of class.

He tapped the capped end of the ballpoint pen against the edge of his half-drunk glass of pumpkin juice.  Somehow - he still didn't quite understand how - the house elves in the kitchen were aware of his continued presence and had cleared everything but the glass.   The ballpoint pen seemed quite out of place in the regal looking magical hall but for the purposes of the half-written letter he held in his hand, it was a necessary step.   Quill ink just didn't look right.  It looked like, well, it was written with the blunt end of a feather.  He'd long ago given up the challenge of trying to make quills look normal. 

Normal for home, at least.  The table had almost completely emptied by the time he'd started to write the letter.  Now, he sat staring, rereading the text - analyzing it for anything that didn't sound right or contradicted the content of past letters.  The smooth, neat handwriting on the paper was a perfect match to his own careful, tidy appearance. 

Grüßen Sie, Mutter und Gerhard,

This last semester is going well.  We start finals in a few weeks, but I'm not concerned about them at all.  Chemistry is easy - Memorizing the periodic table was a breeze and everything beyond that is simple equations.  Geometry is, likewise, quite simple.  I should be receiving perfect marks again.  World History has been, as you may guess, my favorite subject this year.  The months we spent studying the Weimar Republic were quite interesting.

It's been a nice, but warm Spring in Switzerland this year.  We had one last bout of snow about six weeks ago but already the skiing season's over.  But, football has gotten off to a good start.  I made the team again.  Goalie as usual.  Our team captain graduates this year and, while there's nothing definitive yet, my advisor thinks I might have a good chance. 

I'm looking forward to this summer.  I know you are hoping I'll be able to get to those repairs in the stable but I was thinking that, since I'm getting close to considering my future, maybe

He'd been staring at the page for quite some time, tapping his pen against the glass in muted, suppressed frustration.  How was he supposed to meld that into something he could explain?  In any hopes of getting permission?  He couldn't admit he was going to London - there was no way to explain how he'd get there.  Could he try to get a job in town near the farm?  How long would it be before the hoax was discovered.  But, another summer stuck on the farm. 

"'Allo," he said, absentmindedly, his eyes flickering up from the piece of blue-lined looseleaf across the table at Neely.  Neely?  His eyebrows arched in surprise and he glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see some other kid named Sasha walking behind him.  Surely, ... she wasn't talking to him, was she?  She'd never really acknowledged him before.  Not that he'd ever expected it.  She was ... well, a Slytherin.  They usually didn't worry with the likes of him.  What had he done wrong?

"I'm good," he answered, hesitantly.  "How ... are you?"  He looked from her to the half finished letter.  He shook his head.  "I was just ... working on ... Um ... no?"  He chewed his lip.  Super busy?  No, this didn't qualify as super busy.  "I was just finishing it." 

He folded the letter and set it down, shifting awkwardly.  "I ... um - I'm alright, I guess.  I just study a lot."  On the few occasions he glanced up, he noticed the peculiar expressions she was making.  However, his attention rarely remained there and usually, readily, moved back down to his hands.  Or his glass of pumpkin juice.  Or his paper.  Or the pen still tapping nervously against the glass.  Quickly, he set the pen down. 

She was asking him about his schedule?  Why?  What did she want with him?  A certain unease flickered behind his eyes and, again, he glanced over his shoulder.  "I - I guess so?  I mean, I was just going to go study ... for history of magic.  But.  I've got that down, really.  I can do that tonight.  I've got quidditch practice after dinner but...  What can I do for  you?"  Though quite muted, there was still an observable reluctance when he voiced the question. 

To Neely, who had not looked closely or carefully enough at what the boy was actually writing, it appeared that Sasha had been working on some assignment or another. Which was exactly why she had sought him out—aside from his Ravenclaw credentials, of course. He seemed to be a steady worker, someone who did everything he was supposed to do when he was supposed to do it. One of those ‘model students’ Neely aspired to be on paper, but loathed to play the role outside of the classroom, when she could be doing something a million times more fun. Which was, in part, why Miss Woolfolk was in her current predicament.

The Slytherin couldn’t stop herself from giggling when the boy looked around confused. For all of the intelligence crammed up there in their heads, sometimes those students from Rowena’s house were birds of a feather in their lack of common sense (except for Brodie). Neely was a highly illogical person at times, but she lacked a different kind of sense. “Yes, you,” she insisted, though he hadn’t asked. The expression on his face was enough. How weird and hilarious. Naïve people—Neely was one herself, but had no idea—were all the sort whom Neely wanted to further prod, simply out of pure nosiness. If they weren’t too weird. Some were just utterly hopeless.

“I’m dandy, thanks for asking!” She spoke much quicker than he, and without the hesitancy. She’d forgotten for the moment that she was supposed to leading into a sad act. Making casual conversation about anything not school-related was Neely’s forte. She could be a chatterbox when it suited her. “Actually, I’m not so great…” Her face fell. “Jill from Gryffindor, do you know her? She was wearing the same shoes as me today in Potions. Isn’t that terrible?" Tragic. "The shopkeeper told me they were pre-season and everyone else was on a waitlist. That’s the last time I’ll go there.” She nearly scoffed as she said it. Neely decided it would be a good excuse to talk to Vienna about her own magnificent wardrobe. She was forever attempting to be more like the older Slytherin.

“Speaking of Potions… no wait, actually, how about Muggle Studies…” It was a logical jump. But before Neely could ask whether he could help her get caught up in various classes, and explain the use of a muggle television set, her eyes fluttered to the paper she’d previously paid no mind. Probably because he’d folded it: that always seemed to catch her attention. It reminded Neely of paper notes passed under desks.

“Study a lot? Study all the time,” she corrected. She might have been exaggerating, but that was the name of the game. Neely lived to be dramatic. And she was pretty sure every time she paid any mind at all to the boy, he was doing something to earn a professor’s praise in class, or else pouring over books out of class. Not that Neely left her personal bubble of Neelydom often enough to take a better stab at his personality. He wasn’t exactly on the gossip rag that unfolded in her head every morning at breakfast. “You’re even studying now,” she accused, though humorously so, and pointed to the letter he’d just folded. It didn’t look like homework. But doing homework on a study break was hardly illegal. “You must be on the Prefect short list.” She leaned forward again and whispered this last part, though in a rather carrying fashion, as if it were a great honor, but a secret one.

As she prepared herself for her alter ego, Neely the Sad Panda, the Woolfolk girl felt Sasha wasn’t paying complete attention to her show. This was problematic. She usually had no trouble at all making people look at her even when they were angry. How shy did one have to be?

But ah! He was caving. Hesitant, but Neely ignored that part. That could be overcome. If he agreed to go along with her, the reluctance wouldn’t matter in the end. Neely looked up again, somewhere between her crestfallen gaze at the table top and her episodes of peaking for reactions to said practiced grief. A tiny smile seemed to twitch at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, could you? I mean, it’s not like History is going anywhere anytime soon, is it?” It was all a bunch of dead guys from fifty or fifty million years ago. “And, actually, we could still study History, because that’s part of my problem. You see, I…” She paused, suddenly sighing again. She’d gotten excited at the prospect of his caving so easily, that she’d sounded too painless. With a prospective passing mark in Care of Magical Creatures, and now an ally in Ravenclaw, it was hard no to. She slowed down. “I’m not doing so well in… a few of my classes. You seem like you would be a brilliant tutor. I could pay you whatever you want, but…” She looked around. The Great Hall was nearly empty. “I sort of need to keep it on the down-low. I have a very prestigious internship this summer, and you know— reputations exist.” She shrugged; her mouth seemed to shrug with her, as if she were merely stating a fact of life, and one that Sasha would undoubtedly completely understand.

Color flooded the young man's face and his gaze refocused on the folded paper in his hand.  "Oh.  Okay.  Me." he said, quietly.  Despite the slim likelihood that there were others seated at the Ravenclaw table named Sasha, it had seemed an entirely reasonable thing to be confused about.  Alright, so he knew there were no other Ravenclaws named Sasha - he'd know if there were.  But, he couldn't think of any logical explanation for why, out of the blue, this Slytherin was talking to him. 

The girl seated across from him was one of those kids - one of those girls that it was hard for the likes of him not notice.  Yes, like many girls these days, she was attractive but, even more so, she always carried herself in a manner that projected that she was fully aware of how attractive she appeared.  And, she was one of those girls that seemed at ease at everything they did and who seemed to know how to talk to anyone she chose - when she chose to.  In short, she was everything that people like him wasn't.  At least, that was the impression he usually got while watching from the sidelines.

"That's good.  I'm glad to -" Sasha started to say out of obligation to etiquette.  The other's declaration of things being great only served to increase his suspicions, though.  Surely, she couldn't be here to small talk with him.  However, small talk seemed to be exactly what had drawn her here.  Still perplexed, he lifted an eyebrow but, at least, it was small talk he could respond to.  He nodded his head, glancing up briefly.  "Jill.  Weren't they those powder blue flats?  Or the off-pink whitish ones with the straps?"  He asked.  "No.  Those were Patricia's.  I ... I'm not sure.  I don't remember.  You'd do better with green, anyway."  Sasha had always had an eye for detail and, being on the sidelines, such things were easy to observe. 

Sasha scowled as he glanced over his shoulder once more.  Was someone playing with potions in the Great Hall again or did someone walk by with a text book?  Perplexed, he looked back, this time actually looking at her quizzically.  "We ... were speaking ... what about Muggle Studies?" 

"I do other things than study," Sasha said, defensively, straightening up slightly.  He did spend a good bit of time studying but he liked to think he was more constructive with his time.  His studious habits gave him more free time - at least that was how he looked at it.  No one could survive on studying alone. He also ate and slept.  "I jog and play quidditch.  And, football.  And, draw," he offered in his own defense.  "I ... I wasn't studying!  I was writing a letter.  There is nothing studious about it."  Then, she said something that caught Sasha by surprise.  Automatically, he leaned forward himself, shrinking the gap between them.  He'd forgotten that, with his fifth year coming up, someone in his dorm would be selected as prefect.  "You think so?  Prefect?" 

Between talking about shoes and becoming prefect, Sasha had looked up from his hands and across at Neely.  He stared at her in confusion.  Had she really said what he thought she said?  It wasn't about the history - it was ... it was about the studying.  And, the tests.  "Yes.  But, the finals in a few weeks.  It's just, you know, coming closer?"  Sasha set the folded letter on the table, freeing his hands so one hand could pick nervously at the nails of the other without marring the paper.  While, a few moments ago, he'd been avoiding looking at her at all costs, Sasha now couldn't help staring directly at her.  "You want me to ... tutor you?" he repeated, just to be sure.  "Are you ... what - what subjects do you need help with?" 

Sasha sighed and nodded in understanding.  "I get it," he said quietly.  He could just imagine that getting caught voluntarily in the company of nerdy Ravenclaws wasn't good for one's reputation. 

Neely tried to recover from her giggles, quickly swallowing them and resuming the friendly expression she’d worn when first approaching the boy. As she rambled on, mostly to assure him that she was interested in conversing and hearing his opinion, as a sort of preface to her request, she didn’t actually anticipate the Ravenclaw giving such detailed input. Her eyes widened and her cheeks bunched with the incredulous, slightly open-mouthed smile that forced its way onto her face.

“Oh my golly, you speak shoe.” It wasn’t a question. Neely placed a hand over her collar and whatever frostiness she reserved for slightly more formal conversation with non-regular peers, which had not quite shown itself as of yet anyway, melted away for the moment. His memory was impressive; granted, if he’d ticked off the official colors of the hippogriff spectrum rather than the footwear of her female classmates, Neely would have been slightly less impressed for whatever reason. In other situations, she might have found it almost creepy. But having started the random talk herself, Neely was excited. “They were plum Mary-Jane flats.” She’d already changed out of them, straight into a pair of heels that she would probably have to discard again for her late afternoon class. Legs swinging beneath her now, Neely sat up a little taller. “Green? You think so?” She beamed and leaned back a bit to peak under the table and envision a pair of green flats. The heels she’d traded the plum catastrophes for were towering, peep-toed, and suede, with bows pressed on the fronts. “Hmm, I would look good in green ones. Maybe I’ll send for the same kind. I wonder if I could get away with heels in Potions...” She was already envisioning the green peacock-esque pumps from her pre-fall catalog adorning her feet. They would go splendidly with… everything in her closet, of course.

Neely casually shrugged when the boy brought up Muggle Studies, which, technically, she’d mentioned first. But now that they were breeching the topic of school, she decided it was best to lump everything into one big problem. “Yeah, Muggle Studies… what a class,” she trailed off, ready to let him defend himself first. It was humorous, listening to the Ravenclaw explain that he didn’t study twenty-four seven.

Smiling… or subtly smirking, really… Neely nodded, and stayed silent while he spoke. “I’ll watch out for you during the next Slytherin-Ravenclaw game, then,” she assured him. “Football?” She felt like she should know what it was, but the word was lost on her. She was about to poke more harmless fun when he mentioned the letter: the note Neely had seen him folding a moment ago. Her eyes automatically darted toward it. “Yeah, absolutely,” she said nodding fervently. Better him than someone else. If Neely had the marks, and if Jordyn weren’t the obvious choice, she’d totally love to be Prefect, if only for the resume-boost…and the ability to take points, of course. But Neely didn’t have the patience or the exact level of discipline, to be quite honest. Not to mention the perfect grades. “So, who’s the letter for?” She asked innocently, reaching out slowly, but not taking it up just yet. Her nosy side usually got the best of her, and now was no different.

‘Finals’ and ‘coming closer’ was all that he needed to say. Neely shuddered visibly; she didn’t even need to fake it. What an awful word: finals. Who thought it would be a good idea to put a final anything right before the sunny hols? What needless anxiety! They were only poor, innocent children, after all.

With the boy staring directly at her, Neely stared right back, and nodded gingerly, her face ready to break into a full-blown pout if he refused. “I just thought, Neely, who could be better?” She explained. But then he’d asked further questions, and she was pretty sure he was going to cave. “Oh… you know, Muggle Studies, Transfiguration... and there’s this really gross plant in Herbology that has pus inside of it.” She sounded outraged. “I mean, how can I learn about it when I’m too worried it’s going to give me a permanent rash? That should be illegal!” Neely was allergic to ugly rashes.

Something in the boy’s sigh made Neely feel weird; like she’d offended him. Which was impossible, because Neely never offended anyone. They were just all out to get her. Except Sasha seemed completely incapable of having a vendetta against her, so she clarified: “I mean, I don’t want people to know that all of my marks aren’t amazing. Jordyn is my bestie, right? She’s like…” Neely tapped the side of her temple with a manicured finger. “Brilliant. Plus, if my parents find out, I can’t intern with Arius this summer, and I’ll kill myself.”

As the chuckling faded from the other girl, the color of Sasha's face slowly faded back to normal.  It still felt, initially, uncomfortable - though it was probably mostly on his side, driven by a lingering suspicion of this Slytherin's sudden interest in him.  But, the tone of the conversation seemed to take a sudden shift as the topic of shoes seemed to surface.  At the least, her interest seemed to take a more earnest feeling.

Slowly, Sasha shook his head.  "Um ... shoe isn't a - language," he muttered under his breath.  He hoped, in retrospect, the comment went unnoticed.  He was observant and he had an unfortunate habit of keeping his gaze lowered to the ground.  He tended to notice shoes more than he noticed hair styles.  Of course, shoe choice was important - one's image was the first things people noticed.  Though style options were more limited with guys, he took considerable care in his own attire.  Unless he was jogging or playing sports, his usual shoe choice was an attractive, neat and always well-polished black dress shoes.  They were always kept neat and clean, just as he kept his uniform pressed and tidy.  "Oh.  Those," Sasha said, clearly not as enthused as with the ones he'd thought he'd noticed.  "You can't be that disappointed.  It's rude that the woman made you pay for shoes that didn't achieve what you wanted but those really don't fit the season.  At least I don't think.  They are far too dark.  I think you're better off with bright or forest-y colors this summer."  Chances were she wasn't wanting unfortunate honesty but he couldn't help shaking his head.  "You don't want peep toe shoes in potions.  If the potions bubble over, it'll ruin your pol-" He blushed and suddenly grew quiet, quickly taking a drink of pumpkin juice. 

Taking refuge in the topic of muggle studies, Sasha set his glass back down, though his now empty hand sought the ball-point pen once more to fill it.  "I suppose," he said, blankly.  He hardly considered it "such a class."  Compared to theChemistry books he found himself working through late at night so he'd have some real answers when his step-father asked him about his years studying, Muggle Studies was a breeze.  "Professor Frazier isn't that bad," Sasha said.  "He grades fairly.  But, I live with muggles, so it's a little easier, I suppose.  What are you having trouble with?"

"It's a muggle sport.  We kick a ball around to each other."  When overly simplified, Sasha could only imagine how dull the sport sounded like to someone accustomed to Quidditch.  But, he doubted she really wanted the details.  Besides, he was more concerned with this whole notion of him becoming prefect.  He could only hope - even if he couldn't include all the details, he would be thrilled to be able to tell his family he'd been chosen to take a student office.  He wondered what the school would call it in his summer letter.  Hogwarts had been good at pretending to be writing from a prestigious boarding school in Switzerland, though, he knew, the game could only last a limited amount of time.  At the very least, come graduation, his mother and step-father were bound to want to see his school. 

"Oh, it's just to ... home," he said quietly, tensing slightly as she reached for the letter.  Internally, he wanted to reach out reflexively and grab her hand and rip the letter away from her - he'd never been that forward about his circumstances for being at the school.  There were enough purebloods that were still subtly hostile towards muggleborns - the last thing he needed were rumors going around about his pretending to still be muggle at home.  But, he didn't want to be rude and snatching the letter away from her qualified as rude.  "It's not that ... exciting," he tried to insist. 

An amused grin fluttered at the corner of his mouth and he shrugged his shoulders.  "There are a number of plants in herbology that have pus.  It is gross, I know, but ... well, I know they aren't very fashionable ... but, the dragon hide gloves do help.  I saw some in a magazine the other day that weren't too horrendous.  They were made from a copper dragon and the color is quite ... unique.  They are stain resistant."  He gave a shrug, turning his attention back to the question she'd posed.  Tutoring didn't seem that bad of an idea; it'd probably help him study, too.  And, he could always use money that his family didn't know about - it left him more free to buy things that he didn't have to declare to them.  "Alright.  If ... if you really think you can't do ... I can help." 

"Oh, so you don't ... it's not that you're ... you don't need to keep - well, me on the down low.  Just that you need - ok.  I wouldn't - I won't talk to anyone about your grades.  It'd be rude."

Neely blinked. “Shoe is definitely a language. It’s an international language, silly.” Of course, she hadn’t really expected him to take the comment so literally. Face value made it way cuter. “Sometimes people even land great jobs if they know how to wear a good shoe, and the competition doesn’t.” It was the language of yes-no-maybe-so.

The girl could hear the disappointment in the boy’s voice. Or at least he didn’t sound as impressed as he might have. Neely pursed her lips together and straightened up, unable to stop herself from looking a bit more stern and a little standoffishness. Not that she really wanted to stop herself. He’d more or less insulted her taste, in a backhanded way. “I thought they were lovely,” she began, defending her own taste—what was new? But then Sasha gave his reasons, and she supposed he had a point. At least her good friends weren’t around to hear the analysis, which made it easier for Neely to take it in stride. “Maybe. A rich chocolate—but not too rich—might be nice. Oooh, and something like daffodils or berries! I’m definitely adding those to my list. With green, of course.” She rambled on, speaking as much to the little Neely in her head as she was to Sasha. She looked down again, admiring her cute bowed heels.

“What? Pol… ish?” She guessed leaning closer in hopes that he might repeat himself. She raised a brow, and then broke into a small grin, shaking her head and waving off the concern. “My nail polish is always potion proof,” she insisted. On second thought… “Well, okay, maybe not all potions.” That seemed a bit broad, but Neely had faith in the beauty industry. “But it’s definitely charm proof. And water proof. You could even play Quidditch in it, but I don’t know why you would want to. Unless you’re very into the house color thing. That’s kind of fun, isn’t it? I paint my nails sparkly silver for the games.” She lifted her hands and gave them a wiggle, their current color a peachy, pinky, pastel orange that seemed to change colors slightly at different angles. Thank Merlin for Madame Mirage’s Dandy Digits in Prim & Peachy. Tomorrow she would change the shade to Glitter Garden or Olive You Very Much. The school elves had really gotten the hang of the brush: it fit their ugly little hands like a feather duster.

“No, he’s cool,” she agreed. He’d gone straight to the top of her list, along with Professor Gunnar, after his participation in the fashion show. Although Neely was still sort of bummed she hadn’t been able to set him up with one of her mother’s friends. They were completely young and beautiful, and not cougars. Then again, a teacher’s salary would hardly have sufficed. “But I don’t understand this t.v. thing. Why don’t they just use paintings and newspapers?” This new fad of ‘reality television’ in particular had gone right over Neely’s head; ironically, had she been born a muggle, she likely would have been glued to such programming. “You live with muggles?” She quizzed curiously. “What about your parents? Are they muggles?” Most of Neely’s close friends were Purebloods, just like she, but she didn’t particularly feel for muggles one way or another; part of her interest in fashion extended to Arius’ editorials with many a muggle models. She sometimes glued her head over theirs. But their culture was still very foreign to the girl.

Kicking a ball. Uh-huh. “Riveting,” she promised, sounding less than convincing this time. They’d touched on muggle sports in class, too, but that had captured her attention far less than other things, and for obvious reasons. Neely was a girly girl. If they weren’t going to get into the specifics of the individual players themselves… pictures being the method of preference… Neely’s attention wasn’t going to devote itself. “I think you might be better off with flying, though.”

A letter home? She wondered whether it could be very interesting, then. No offense to Sasha, but he seemed rather tame. She liked people who were presentable, like he, but she tended to gravitate to presentable people who were also exceedingly sly under the surface: revered, whispered about, makers and breakers of social reputations. Quite a great number of Slytherins, not shockingly. Neely couldn’t get enough of that sort of thing. She set it down again, not bothering to open it, but her hand lingered over the thing and she smiled at the boy, narrowing her eyes and hoping to rile him up just a little. He seemed a bit more uncomfortable than before. “Is it full of secrets to your mum?” She teased. “Like who you fancy and whether you peaked at so-and-so’s paper last Charms class? I won’t tell anyone.” Her face seemed to take on quite the sincere, You-Can-Trust-Me expression. Neely rather hoped it did include those things. Then she’d devour it.

A smile, there! It had taken the word pus to bring it out, apparently. Maybe he was into those crazy scientist things boys liked. Or maybe Neely was just entertaining. As always. “Oooh, do you have the article, still? I’ve been looking for a new pair for ages. I told Daddy I’d be way more into the subject if I could find decent gloves. Everything just feels repulsive, even through the pair I have now.” She shuddered a bit.

The Slytherin was pleased he’d agreed to help. “Awesome. You can just owl me the bill,” she explained. It was easier that way. Neely couldn’t be seen paying people in corridors. That was shady. And the library was just painfully obvious.

“Well, I mean, it’s not like you’re a first year Hufflepuff. At least you’re in Brody’s house. Even if you do study too much.” She smiled again. Of course, she’d be none too pleased if people suddenly believe she’d become nothing but a shell of her former fabulous self, and had decided to devote her life to the contents of the school greenhouses. “Just do anything super mad, like those rumors you hear about students cracking and going off their heads… talking to books, you know.” Neely’s dear friend Moaning Myrtle had plenty of stories. But she could be a total drag sometimes, too. The Slytherin had a love-hate relationship with the lavatory spirit.

“Where do we begin, teacher?” She asked, folding her hands on the table in front of her. She quickly withdrew them however, being struck with sudden inspiration. “Want to make flashcards?” Neely reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of pre-cut, card-sized multicolored parchment.

Scowling, Sasha shook his head.  Really, she couldn't be serious.  He opened his mouth, fully prepared to launch into a full-winded explanation of how shoe couldn't be a language.  The term, language, indicated the ability to communicate on a variety of different topics and the topics could be defined by the speaker in question.  A language could speak about shoes, but, surely, one couldn't discuss ... say the tide tables for the Ivory Coast during a lunar eclipse with "shoe."  But, thankfully, before any of those phrases could escape him, Sasha was able to stop himself and close his mouth.  Despite her deadpan demeanor on the topic, it was impossible that she was being serious.  Surely. 

"Yes, some people do," Sasha said, quietly, the only bit of that whole thought process that seemed appropriate for interpersonal sharing.  Future career choices was, simply, not a topic he relished lingering on.  To do so meant to contemplate explaining to his step-father that he had no interest in following him into muggle banking.  That wasn't a day Sasha was looking forward to.

"I-!  No!  Wait, I didn't mean..." Sasha started, color rising in his cheeks as he realized she'd taken his comment about the shoes personally.  Criticizing her shoe choices had been the last thing in his mind - in fact, he thought he was offering words of comfort by pointing out there was really no sense of loss in not getting to pioneer wearing those shoes.  Quickly, he shook his head, apologetically.  "I never said ... they were quite lovely.  Just ... not now.  They would have been lovely three months - I mean, no.  Nice style, wrong..."  With a heavy sigh, he shut himself up, fully aware he probably wasn't making it any better.  "No ... they - it's just the - see, if I were you, I'd try to lighten them about ... three shades?  Like the color of ... you know, Prissy Pritchet's dress in that portrait of the girl sitting in the mountain meadow."  Sasha nodded in time to her additional choices; at least his recommendation seemed to have salvaged some degree of that line of conversation. 

He shrugged his shoulders awkwardly but nodded.  "Yeah, polish," he confirmed, quietly.  Not that he regularly discussed the topic of nail polish.  He could only imagine what his step-father would think of his current conversation - on so many levels.  "No.  Not all potions.  And, that's assuming the potion's made properly.  Nothing can be failed-potion proof," Sasha pointed out, a little more carefully this time, not wanting her to take that comment personally as well.  Where the realm of personal and doesn't-care lay, he wasn't quite sure, yet.  "After all, toes aren't always potion-proof.  You want close-toed shoes." 

Unless you’re very into the house color thing. That’s kind of fun, isn’t it?

Sasha arched an eyebrow before shaking his head pointedly.  Was the question out of habit or did she really, truly suspect he'd have an answer.  "Maybe?  I'd assume so?  I ... I don't really know.  I don't really - you know, wear polish much." 

"There are a lot of muggles that would rather go to art galleries and look at paintings or photographs.  And, a lot like to read the newspaper - but both are getting less popular.  Especially with younger kids.  Televisions are just more ... I mean, muggle pictures don't move.  Our paintings don't live and talk.  They just sit there."  Sasha, shrugged his shoulders, not entirely sure he was explaining it that well.  Of course, it required explaining a lot of other things, too, it seemed.  "I mean, I don't watch that much TV when I'm home.  I usually have too much work, but if you don't want to think and want someone to tell you a story - the TVs just what does that." 

Sasha nodded slightly, though the gesture was fairly subtle - even for him, who was generally prone to collected movements.  "My mother and step-father are muggles.  My two sisters - well, half-sisters are too."  He shrugged dismissively.  "I don't know much about my father.  I assume he's a muggle only because I don't see my mother - you know ..." His cheeks flushed and he quickly changed tactics.  "I doubt she'd be that interested in a wizard.  I take it your pureblood?"  he asked.  He'd found that, among those who were clueless about muggle society, it was safe to assume they were pureblood.  Or strong halfbloods.  Really, it didn't surprise Sasha at all to find Neely humoring him about his description of football.  When he'd gotten his football for Christmas, he remembered many similar comments from his dormmates.  They'd found the whole thing quite amusing, in fact.  "Yeah, I do like quidditch, too.  And, there are other muggle sports but ... yeah," he finished simply. 

The grimace that wrinkled his face was entirely involuntary as he watched her pick up and then set down the letter.  He was fully aware of the slight amusement in her features - it almost felt like a challenge.  Or perhaps a threat - he wasn't sure.  He could only imagine the rumors that would spread if the nature of the letter were to start spreading around Slytherin house.  Hopefully, it would be the same - they wouldn't care any more than before.  He knew she wanted something - he knew there was, really, just one right way to go about this, as far as she was concerned, but she wasn't making it clear what that one right way was.  "No.  Not really," he answered slowly, carefully choosing his words.  "I - it's just the usual - all the stuff parents want to hear.  Most if it isn't true, anyway."  He reached his own hand out and, careful not to actually touch her, set his own hand, protectively, on the parts of the letter that were exposed.  "I don't fancy anyone and ... and, I don't need to cheat.  And, I don't talk to books."

"It's up in my trunk," Sasha admitted.  "I can bring it the - the next time?" he said, hesitantly at first.  It really had only just dawned on him that, if he was actually tutoring her, that meant this was probably not just a one time meeting.  "Well, where do you need to begin?" he asked, entirely unsure where one would begin in such a situation.  He closed his eyes a moment, considering the task at hand.  So, he was supposed to help this girl, who he knew very little about - other than her shoe and nail-polish preferences - and help her with her classes.  How did one teach other students?  He rarely talked with other students beyond his circle of friends, let alone try to teach them.  "Well - ok, you brought up muggle studies, right?  What do you need help with there?  And, yeah, you can make flash cards.  The final's pretty soon, but most of it's pretty straightforward." 

Hearing him stumble over his own words, Neely felt a little pacified. Of course, Sasha's general interest in shoes made it hard to not carry on the discussion in a bubbly manner, anyway, because how often did one bump into another (apparent) expert? Neely could count the castle's connoisseurs on one hand. "Oh, I see, you think I'm living in last season," she lamented, knitting her characteristic brows together. Even if she wasn't all that angry, Sasha made it very inviting to test his limits. Perking up a little, Neely did consider the advice. Three shades lighter would put her in a nice range of purple, summery but still regal. She supposed he was right... but there was something about Hogwarts that always invited that preppy fall look. Maybe it was the bloody uniforms, which had taken even Neely ages to perfect. She still got called out once in a blue moon for having one too many accessories or skirts that didn't meet the guidelines. "Hmm... I'll have to look at that portrait... again." Which one was he talking about. "What floor is it on?"

The Slytherin shrugged and nodded, seeming rather cheerfully unbothered about potions spilling over her toes. There was no way it would happen. Neely was usually the note-taker when they did group work in Potions class. She had nice handwriting, and other people were better at executing the instructions. But, she thought to herself, she might be a bit sad if she couldn't wear strappy sandals next September, before it became too cold. Boots were always cute, though.

Laughing now, the girl envisioned Sasha with a bottle of sky blue polish. Blue for Ravenclaw. Obviously! "Oh come on, you know you'd love to have a flashy Rowena manicure. That depressing ghost of yours would be thrilled! Isn't your mascot her mum?" Neely did pay attention in history sometimes. Fewer things were more exciting than Hogwarts gossip. When she could really live the history, she was all ears. It was part of why she'd had so much fun during the Reenactment. The other reason being because she got to boss around Fauna Blake, whose name Neely was definitely beginning to remember.

Photos that didn't move sounded almost as depressing as the Grey Lady. And not half as elegant. One of Neely's favorite parts of her own diary were the pictures who waved, winked, and smiled up at her while she scribed her thoughts. Her friends looked fabulous in motion. She wrinkled her nose. "How boring. Don't you get sick of staring at the same photos all of the time? What if you need to ask them to remind you what happened when the picture was taken?" She quizzed. She'd been quizzing him a lot in the past few minutes. "Muggles are so funny..." She trailed off and sighed. They were kind of cute sometimes, too, especially when they were clueless. Like the ones in the magazines who didn't know that Arius was a wizard. Then again, having something tell her a story while Neely sat on her bum with a box of truffles and listened... and watched... didn't sound like such a bad plan. "I suppose it's a good way to make strangers recognize your face. Do you think..." She began, pausing to collect her own thoughts. "Do you think they'd let a witch on telly-vision? I bet I could do it!" She was rather good at talking, she felt.

"I have two half-siblings, too!" She announced, as if it were a one-in-a-million coincidence. What she didn't add is that she didn't know them very well at all; that was irrelevant, of course. No one needed to hear about Woolfolk family drama. It was in the past. "Brothers. They're ages older than me. Their mum was really old or something. Mine is young," she explained quickly, almost defensively. She was unfazed by the boy's blush. "That's so weird that your mum wouldn't like a wizard. I thought muggles were always trying to make their own magic..." And failing miserably. Neely grinned. Again, she felt muggles were so naive. But if Sasha was as smart as he seemed, his mum couldn't be all that dense. Marrying another muggle was probably just easier. Besides, she didn't want to insult the woman, least of all because Neely wanted the boy to help her with her homework. "But she has to like you, obviously. You're her son."

"Of course I am. Haven't you heard of the Woolfolks?" Her eyes went wide and she sounded a little disappointed. "My dad owns a quidditch enterprise... stadiums... a few teams. He does a lot team trading," she said importantly. Neely would own it all someday. Merlin help society. She put very little thought into managing a sports empire, but now that Sasha had brought up strange muggle sports, she wondered vaguely whether it was the same in the non-magic world. "I hope the other sports involve more than kicking balls," she giggled. She couldn't help it.

Neely had been on the verge of letting the topic of the letter escape, dropping the teasing act to spare the boy who was going to help her. But then she wouldn't have been Neely, and Sasha had gone and brought up the magic words: 'most if it isn't true.' Lies were the most enthralling form of scandal, and scandal itself bred them, twisted them into truths. She supposed if he admitted he was lying to his mother, that he was also telling the truth about not breaching the topics of girls and homework cheating. But that only meant, in Neely's estimation, that he was hiding something even bigger from his parents. "Good to hear you don't get chatty with books," she replied quickly, getting that out of the way. "But you're lying to your parents about something," she persisted, inviting him to divulge the information. "Like I said, I won't tell. Salazar's honor." Rather than holding up a hand in oath, Neely flashed a peace sign-- a recent favorite of the famous young women who graced the pages of her magazines.

With the promise of a feature on new gloves, the prospects of studying became brighter. "Next time... you better not forget," she threatened, though playfully so. Chances were, Neely would forget much sooner. "Yes, let's start with muggle studies. I definitely don't want to disappoint Professor Fraiser when I take the exam." He was way too nice and lovely. Dealing out blank index cards as if they were playing cards, Neely set down the majority of them in one big stack and then delved into her bag again for quills and multi-colored ink. "Erm... let's start with sports, since you're such an expert. What was the one where they batter each other with sticks on ice-skates?"

Sasha had been expecting his statement to be taken in the manner it had been and had already started shaking his head defensively when she accused him of saying her sense of style had been late.  While that had been the obvious interpretation of what he'd been saying, it hadn't been what he'd intended on saying.  "No, not at all," he said, quickly, hoping that the damage control would be successful this time.  He hesitated a moment, chewing on the cap of his pen as he tried to put his words and thoughts in order before speaking again. 

"Unless, you know, the woman flat out lied to you..."  Normally, turning the blame on someone else wasn't a tactic he relished but, given the circumstances (they were only shoes after all), he pursued it.  "And they weren't the newest thing than, clearly, they weren't last season.  In fact, ... they are probably, you know, next season.  Better suited for ... this coming winter?"  That had been closer to what he'd been intending to say, though he wouldn't be surprised if it could be misconstrued somehow, too. But, her seeming to take his recommendation did seem to indicate he'd gotten something right.  Thank goodness.  "It's on the way to the Astronomy tower.  Across from the suit of armor with the dented helm." 

He shifted awkwardly as the girl laughed, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure none of the other Ravenclaws were around.  Satisfied no one had over heard, he shook his head and quickly swallowed a mouthful of drink.  She had to be joking - surely she had to be.  Like the secret language of shoe, this whole concept of him wearing polish was simply an amusing, mortifying joke.  Sure, it sounded like a pretty color but it was better suited to things like pillows. Or flowers in paintings.  "I'll stick to scarfs," he finally concluded.

Sasha shrugged his shoulders, not sure he really knew the answer.  Nowadays, when Sasha went home and looked at his still photos they did seem boring.  But, he didn't remember them being boring before he'd come to school.  "Well, that's all most muggles have," he pointed out, logically.  "I mean, if they are all you know, it's harder to get boring, isn't it?  I suppose, that's why we invented video cameras and ... well, televisions," he concluded, offering a slight grin, hoping that explained everything.  "If people want a picture that moves, they use a digital camera and record it.  Then they can watch it again on their television.  But, you can't talk to them.  They don't talk back.  It's like ... um ...," he fished around in his head for an analogy that would make sense.  "...watching someone else's memory.  You can just watch it.  You can't interact with it.  Time's very linear to muggles."  Sasha slowly shrugged his shoulders, pursing his lips as he considered the question.  "I ... I don't see why not.  I mean, you are pretty enough to be on television.  And ... I mean, ... they have TV shows about witches."  Absent-mindedly, he rubbed the tip of his nose with a finger; how amusing it was, some of the muggle's interpretations of the wizarding world. 

"As far as I know, I just have two half-sisters.  One older, one younger," he elaborated.  He knew full well it was entirely possible that he had more half-siblings.  If they existed and where they were, he could only guess.  "So, your father remarried," he stated rather than asked.  The answer was obvious.  And, it sounded like, he'd married a younger woman.  "You are the youngest.  You were raised as an only child?" he asked, curiously, unaware of any discomfort on her end on the topic.  But, the conversation had taken a distinct turn towards the uncomfortable on his end and the color deepened on Sasha's face.  His gaze shifted down to his hands and he shifted uncomfortably again as he shook his head. 

Not all muggles liked magic; some were quite critical of the concept, in fact.  There were plenty of muggles that regarded the idea of magic with as much disdain as many purebloods regarded muggles.  Except, the muggles had the luxury of pretending their foes didn't exist and ... as he'd heard so many times growing up ... the topic was uncouth.  But, the conversation was turning from bad to worse.  There were times, when the disappointments didn't outweigh the accomplishments that Sasha glimpsed maternal affection.  Those times were, often, interrupted by his step-father.  "I suppose," he answered, simply.  Avoiding details.

He couldn't look at her.  He couldn't look at the letter still held captive under her hands.  He stared at his glass, watching the small amount of orange liquid sitting motionless in the bottom of the glass.  His head of house had told him, countless times before, that he was making this whole scenario into a bigger deal than it was, that hiding only make it worse, but he still felt the compulsion to keep it hidden.  His chest clenched slightly and he chewed on his lip.  He was lying about quite a bit to his parents - about everything, in fact.  And, he was lying to everyone here as well.  He shivered and, finally, looked up at Neely, his eyes widening with uncertainty.  "You wouldn't understand," he said, shaking his head, slightly.  She was pureblood, after all.  The letter was, in fact, quite a dose of muggle studies, if one looked at it that way. 

Neely only continued to repress a smile, watching him suppress his nervousness by chewing on the writing instrument. She hoped he wouldn’t get ink all over his face. She’d seen it happen once, to a first year in the library (yes, the library). She listened to his careful reasoning, and her smile only became more obvious and genuine. “Next season, you think?” She looked down at the shoes again and back up to Sasha. “I did hear tones of purple and plum will be huge next winter.” She nodded, indicating that she would remember the painting’s location, though she did not write it down. “You’d better stock up on dark purple scarves over the holiday, then,” she warned. Neely, of course, would be vacationing where shops could be accessed at her fancy. The Floo Network, and the slightly less desirable side-along Apparition, made anything possible. “But you have similar coloring, so green might suit you, too,” she added wisely, appraising him for a moment.

“I suppose…” Neely trailed off. “But it’s still a drag. They must have to take tons of photos and rotate them often.” That seemed like almost as much work as cleaning out Neely’s wardrobe. A job she most often did herself, but also sometimes relegated to the help while ‘overlooking’ the project. “Video cameras?” She added. It sounded familiar. But just how they were different from regular old cameras, she couldn’t recall. If she could have, she probably wouldn’t have needed Sasha’s help with Muggle Studies.

As the Ravenclaw explained the television more or less like a Pensieve, Neely became exceedingly interested. It was one of the few things she didn’t have that she longed to own, but which her parents for some reason or another always avoided gifting her. “That’s amazing,” she confessed. “All these muggles have memory projectors in their living rooms like they’re just armchairs or something.” Wouldn’t that be the life? Neely wouldn’t even care that pictures didn’t move. (Well, almost). If she could trade compliment her frilly little diary with a bowl of memories… Wishful thinking.

“I’m pretty…” Well of course she was pretty. Mummy and Daddy reminded her every letter, and Neely was rather positive her friends were as partial to her looks as she was to theirs. But Sasha thought she was pretty, apparently. She grinned, very pleased to hear it from someone new. Who didn’t like being told that? It struck Neely with an extra dose of confidence, not that she needed it in present company. Poor Sasha was the one who needed it. “Are the shows about real witches, or the kind from that story about the girl and the lion and the suit of armor? I thought most muggles didn’t know that we actually existed.” It was suddenly fascinating to learn about, now that Neely felt there was a huge chance muggles would worship her like they did Arius.

“As far as you know,” Neely repeated, giggling because she didn’t quite understand what he was playing at. “Yes, my dad married my mum after the other one died. It all worked out well because he said he finally married his true love,” she gushed. “My mum is lovely. My brothers moved out when I was really young, so it was like being an only child, but not quite.” It got a little complicated and shady there. Neely had been kept away from most of the family drama, though she still got the gist of things. “They’re sort of… mean,” she admitted. “Well, to Daddy. And definitely Mummy. They hate her. I don’t really know them, but I’ve heard they don’t…” She paused and squinted her eyes. “Well, it doesn’t matter, because I don’t want to know them either, if they’re going to be sourpusses.” All of this was said very fast and casually, and Neely ended with a smile and shrug, turning the tables back to Sasha. She loved talking about herself, but she didn’t want anyone to think bad of the Woolfolks, or be under the delusion that her brothers solely deserved the girl’s title.

Neely looked back and forth from Sasha to the letter. He seemed genuinely upset about something, and the Slytherin couldn’t easily ignore that. “Well of course I wouldn’t understand if you’re not going to tell me,” she pointed out. In truth, he had probably gotten it right the first time. Almost painfully, she held the back out to him, forging the chance to peak at prime gossip. Neely couldn’t risk not being tutored. And, to be quite honest, there was something about the boy’s face that made her feel uneasy, and… sort of bad for him.

Still frowning, she decided Sasha needed to loosen up if he was going to be her new teacher. She definitely wanted to pass, and had approached him because of his attitude in the classroom, but there was always room for things of the non-boring persuasion, weren’t there? At the bottom of the stack of flashcards, Neely could see the corner of an invitation she’d received only recently. She quickly nicked it from its spot and stuffed it into her bag. “I haven’t told my parents about my cat yet,” she admitted with a sigh, looking down at her own hands and seeming suddenly on the verge of tears. “Poor Cashmere. He died last night.”

The end of the pen came to a rest, pinched between his teeth and a slow, soft sigh whistled almost inaudibly between the plastic cap and his teeth.  He had said the right thing.  Whatever offense she'd taken before seemed to have eased off to somewhere else.  He gave the cap one last chew (actually, the chew was the result of an uneasy swallow) before plucking it from his mouth and setting it on the table.  "I heard that, too," Sasha said, hoping it sounded convincingly like he was agreeing with an idea she'd come up with.  But, there she was again, pretending that the same rules of fashion applied to both of them.  It should seem obvious, they didn't.  "Well, ... I don't really wear a lot of ... I mean, purple's alright for witches, but ... I really ..."  Blacks, charcoal greys - oh, and those deep dark blues that had just enough color to not qualify from black which, for all intents and purposes, they were - those were his colors.  "I ... might be able to do a dark green," he conceded.  Green didn't seem as likely to get him ridiculed in the corridors.

Sasha nodded.  "Video cameras.  Well, I mean, most cameras now do both video and still photos.  So, they aren't that different then magic, I guess.  Except, you can't interact with them.  And, they are still just one or the other.  Still photos are always and will always be still."  In other words, not like magic at all.  He ignored that.  "Unless, you know.  I mean, you can take still photos and make them go really fast and become video.  Which, actually, is what television is.  It's just a lot of still images shown so quickly you think they're moving but dogs can't see them - they..."  He cut himself off in the midst of his rambling monologue already imagining the look of utter confusion on her face.  Chances were, she didn't need to know dog's saw motion better and, therefore, only saw the blur of still photos.  That was probably NEWT level muggle studies.

All in all, his original explanation with the pensieve was proving to be a more effective one.  It would probably make more sense then non-moving pictures that flashed so fast they looked like they were moving.  "Well, yeah - I mean, most do.  There are some that don't have televisions.  There's some muggles that think televisions bad for you.  So, they don't have them.  Some people have more than one.  I knew a kid at my last school who had one in every room.  Even a little one in the shower.  That's not common, though."  He wasn't sure he liked the idea.  He was well aware televisions were a one way media screen but he still doubted he'd be comfortable with a screen in his shower.

The red in Sasha's face began to deepen and the edges slid steadily up his face, threatening to venture onto his ears.  Sure, she was pretty, but did she have to repeat that he'd said it?  And, it had been stated in a very specific context: she was pretty.  Pretty people were on television.  She could be on television.  It was hardly a topic they needed to linger on.  "Oh no.  Not about real witches.  I mean, I don't think so.  I don't think Sam was a real witch.  I've never seen a witch in this make lights turn on and off by wiggling her nose."  Sasha's eyes narrowed, but he kept his gaze on his almost empty glass.  A lion and a suit of armor and a girl.  He didn't think she was talking about C.S. Lewis - Sasha didn't recall any prominent suits of armor in those books.  But, then recognition dawned on him and his eyes widened.  "Tinman!  Not armor.  He wasn't a knight or anything - he was ... well, a man made out of tin.  Tin would make lousy armor.  Well, yeah, some in the shows are like the Wicked Witch and Glenda.  But, some are really different.  They are all different, really."  Sasha shook his head.  "No, muggles don't know you ... we ... exist.  They know of magic, but they think it's all make-believe.  Some think it's good, some think it's bad."

Sasha arched an eyebrow curiously.  Statements like as far as you know always led someone to believe there was more to a story.  But, he certainly wasn't one to start prying.  He listened to the story she offered and, to some degree, found himself wondering if she'd understand more than he gave her credit for.  The similarities were vague and on a more contextual level, but they were there.  "Mean?" he asked, curious.  He wanted to ask how so, but when her voice trailed off, he knew he'd reached the limit of etiquette.  "I'm sorry.  I know it isn't my business," he offered, understanding that sentiment fully.

And, indeed, he usually proved far more secretive of his home life than she.  "I'm ... I'm sorry," he said, quietly and sincerely.  Like when Megan spoke of her childhood, Sasha couldn't help wondering if he was being unfair, but he couldn't deny the intense relief that washed over him when she relinquished the letter.  As quickly as it was polite to do so, Sasha took the letter back and slipped it the pocket of his robes, giving the pocket an extra, protective pat, all the while avoiding looking at the girl across from him.  "I can't really, you know, talk about it." 

The change of topic came suddenly and Sasha's expression changed quickly from surprise to horror at his own callous surprised response to concern.  "I'm sorry," he said, again, trying to force the concern to remain the only emotion on his face.  But, fear was quickly building as well.  She looked about ready to cry.  What on earth was he supposed to do?  Comfort her?  Pretend he didn't notice?  "That's quite sad," he said, awkwardly.  "I ... how'd he ... I mean, I hope it wasn't ..."  What?  Bad?  Traumatic?  Was he hoping she'd say, "oh, no.  It was fine.  It was quite a lovely death, in fact."  Wasn't this when people launched into some story of their own that showed they understood?   "I remember when my first pony died," he said lamely.  "It was very sad."

Still laughing, Neely wondered when boys as a whole were going to accept the fact that they could wear touches of ‘girly’ colors—purple, lilac, pink, buttercup yellow—and get away with it, so long as the rest of their ensemble was impeccable. She was fairly certain Arius wouldn’t shy away from donning a beautiful purple scarf… paired with his beautiful hair, and beautiful eyes, and beautiful… Neely snapped out of it and stared straight at Sasha, seeming to sober up, if only just a little.

“So you can see them moving and… waving and talking,” she began slowly. “But they can’t see you? Or do they see you, too, but they’re just tricking you?” It was all too shady, these muggles and their video cameras. Neely was almost convinced they had created such ridiculous contraptions just to put them on her Muggle Studies final. They would. And dogs? What did dogs have to do with it? “What about cats?” She blurted, though she had hardly followed what he was saying. “And unicorns?”

Neely suddenly appeared horrified, disgusted, and fascinated all at once. “In the shower? Does he like little people peeping on him? Or—oh, oh, or they can’t see out, maybe--” Had they established that? “But it must feel like they can. What a creep!” Neely concluded. “I bet he and Trench Coat Travis would be besties.”

Ha, he was turning colors. It was quite the feat; Neely was sure Jordyn would be pleased to hear she could make people change colors without lifting her wand. Granted, Sasha seemed more easily embarrassed than… oh, just about everyone in the castle. “Wiggling her nose…” Neely shook her head. “That’s ridiculous.” Even so, she sat there for a moment and tried it, giving up after only three attempts. “Can you wiggle yours?” She added suspiciously, wondering whether it was a rare talent if she couldn’t achieve it. She could think of a handful of people whom she was sure could wiggle their noses… and probably speak with snakes, live forever, and do all of those things the Dark Lord had done or tried to do, and which Neely secretly thought were very interesting when they weren’t being committed by a mass murderer. A tin man, on the other hand, sounded more useless than Sir Cadagon. “Isn’t it funny how we’re tricking them all, even if we walk by them everyday over the hols?”

Sasha was right, it was none of his business. But if his own family matters were none of Neely’s, that was a slightly different story. Still, the girl joyed in talking about herself, as long as she could control what was revealed and what wasn’t. Who didn’t like a little spotlight and sympathy? Exactly.

“Mmm, well, they think they deserve all of Daddy’s money and property and titles, and that I should be tossed out with the rubbish because I’m… just a girl and my mum isn’t their mum,” she lamented. Only part of it was true, and that part had been vaguely exaggerated. The Woolfolk boys, whatever they were, were probably least concerned with whether Neely had been born a girl or not. “But it’s not true! I’m his heir, too! Just as much as they are. I’m sort of his…” She leaned forward, eyes smiling mischievously. “Favorite.” Daddy couldn’t help it if he had good taste. “So they won’t even talk to him anymore. And definitely not me. I bet if I died, they’d show up to my funeral laughing,” she sniffled.

As Sasha continued to play coy and sound rather guilty about his letters home, and his home in general, Neely became increasingly interested. It took all of her will power not to burst and bombard him with a new barrage of questions.  The sound of it, she’d heard more than anyone else so far, at least. She quickly tucked her hands under the table, sitting on them while he apologized and politely refused to discuss his family. Neely would not forget to bring it up again later.

Again, Neely found herself peeking for a reaction while she played Poor Innocent and Traumatized Cornelia. Sasha brought up a pony and the Slytherin nearly lost it, but quickly turned her giggle into a hiccupping cough of stress and strife. She rubbed her apparently swollen throat. “Did you… did you have a funeral for her?” She guessed, of course, that it was a girl pony, mostly because Once Upon Time Not That Long Ago, Neely had wanted a girl pony, even if Care of Magical Creatures was (obviously) not her best class. The half unicorn was making up for it. She had to stop herself from adding ‘Wait! You had a pony?! “Would you like to come to Cashmere’s funeral?”

The laughing seemed relentless, but it was a vast improvement over the offended Neely that had been sitting across from him a few moments later.  What was amusing her, Sasha didn't have a clue but understanding seemed, in some strange way, less important in the long run.  For a few moments, she seemed to daze off but, almost immediately, she appeared aware of Sasha's presence.   He blinked confusedly at her a few moments but turned his attention to the topic at hand.

"Exactly," Sasha confirmed, nodding his head.  "It's like looking at the pictures in a book.  They move some but they don't actually react to you.  They just do their thing."  It really seemed a miracle that Neely was following his convoluted explanation.  But, despite the oddity of the topic, she did seem to be following him.  "Naw, they aren't tricking you.  There isn't anyone really there to trick you.  In fact, you could be in another room doing another thing and the show would keep playing."  Scowling, Sasha shook his head.  "I ... I don't think cats can see the pictures on the TV.  And ... well ... muggles don't think unicorns exist.  They are in myth or people think they are other creatures."  The idea was, admittedly, amusing and a small grin twitched on his lips. 

"I don't know - I mean, yeah, they can't see through the TV in the shower.  But, it'd creep me out.  I ... I couldn't - it'd be too strange." 

"That's how she did it," he insisted, shrugging his shoulders.  Whoever thought that wiggling one's nose was a way to use magic must have been really confused.  It seemed such an impractical way to go about it.  What if someone's nose was broken?  Could they not do magic then?  Again, he felt compelled to grin again when Neely seemed to focus on wriggling her nose.  "I ... um, yeah.  I can," he said, reaching up and giving his nose a wiggle between his thumb and pointer finger.  It was a stupid joke and, while he knew it was inappropriate to do so, he couldn't help but laugh at his own bad humor.  But, he did offer a quiet, "sorry," as consolation.  But, the grin and laughter faltered quickly and Sasha looked down at his hands.  "Yeah, it's funny," he said, in quick agreement, eager to let that particular topic fall to the wayside. 

He entirely expected Neely to agree with him and tell him to bugger off and that he should mind his own business.  She seemed ready to move beyond the topic but, rather than doing so, she seemed to elaborate.  And, again, Sasha found himself wondering if she would understand more than he'd given her credit for.  "Oh, yeah, that," he said, nodding his head, accepting the excuse that it was because she was a girl at face value.  "So, they're jealous?" he asked, quietly.  "But, at least it sounds like your father and mother are close.  Your father will decide your inheritance, after all.  And, it sounds like he's letting you choose ... you don't have any stipulations on your inheritance.  That makes it easier."  It was strangely easier to talk about someone else's family and history - and even relate to it than talk about his own. 

 "He was a boy," Sasha corrected with a shake of his head.  Not that the pony's sex mattered.  He'd been a good pony - Sasha's first mount.  "He was a little Halflinger Pony.  I'd already gotten my horse by then and I'd been away at the time.  He was gone by the time I got home.  But, it was sad; I know loosing a pet can be hard."  His expression of understanding seemed to have felt more sincere that time.  Though he couldn't, truthfully, say he wanted to go to the funeral, he was willing to go.  "But, ... I mean, i know you don't really ... I mean, if my being there would help, I'd be happy to go."

"Unicorns as myths..." Ha. "Oh, muggles." Neely placed a hand over her heart as she said it. Next they would try to tell her that kneazles were just regular old cats, even though Neely knew for a fact that many of them sauntered around muggle London and were even owned by muggles... though perhaps not to their own knowledge.

As Sasha proceeded to wiggle his nose... with his finger... Neely at first blinked, then knitted her brows at his apology, and finally burst into laughter that was considerably more genuine than her early attempts to flatter. "Do you apologize for everything?" she asked, as if it were a naive trait belonging to a puppy. "It's not like you're... Fauna Blake. You should embrace being you. I never apologize for being Neely." As if it required an apology. The funny bit was that Neely could certainly dish out the criticism to anyone ballsy enough to heed such advice and be themselves... or at least give various suggestions on how to be more Neely-like, without actually putting it in those words. She still had much to learn.

"But..." She added, looking at him pointedly, "You really shouldn't consider that for your big act if Hogwarts hosts a talent show." Yes, a talent show. Neely could see it now. In fact, she was going to suggest it to the Headmaster as soon she she got a chance-- if it went half as well as her fashion show (minus the bumps in the runway), it could bring some much-needed glamour to Hogwarts.

"Very jealous," Neely confirmed, trying to sound impressive and slightly spooky-- and burdened at the same time. It was, in some ways, a terrifying thought, to have brothers who hated her... hurtful, even... but Neely had always been kept so far out of the line of fire, that currently she viewed it more as a small, isolated, and pesky problem. And, as embarassing at it could potentially be, it also made her interesting. It was a tiny ego boost to know that someone put so much effort into disliking her for no reason at all) "I..." What Sasha said next made sense to her ears. A look of peace and clarity came over her. "I guess it sort of does, yes. Daddy wouldn't let me go homeless. So... are there 'stipulations' on yours?"

A boy pony. Neely supposed it made sense, since Sasha was a boy. But female ponies (perhaps pink-coated, and with the ability to fly) had always sounded wonderfully appealing, for whatever reason. It was just part of the standard pre-Hogwarts dream, wasn't it? Upon hearing he had had a horse, too, Neely couldn't stop herself. "You had a pony and a horse? We only had house-elves and a cat," she admitted, sounding a bit crestfallen. (You know, amidst juggling the airs of being impressed, interested, and heartbroken over her cat's untimely death). "That would be awful for it to die when you're not around. I hope you didn't fight before you went away!" It was one of Neely's fears-- or it she thought about consequences with more consistency-- to be mean to someone and have it come back to hex her in the bum when they turned up dead. Or filthy rich and famous.

There was almost a moment when Neely felt bad now. Almost. But it was gone before it could sink in, and was sure Sasha would appreciate her trickery later... or that it would at least be humorous to watch him react. Besides, she was really getting into the role of victim; she'd almost convinced herself that Cashmere had kicked the bucket litter box. Even while he stumbled over his words, Neely could tell that he believed her, and that was trying to be comforting. Her sad face crinkled into a weak smile. "Thanks, Sasha," she said in a slow, quiet voice (one a widowed aunt might have used). She leaned over and gave his hand a squeeze. "You're a sweetheart. The service is in the Forbidden Forest... next week, on the sixth, after dark." This bit she breezed through, as if reciting an appointment with the school nurse. She leaned back again and picked up the abandoned stack of note cards. "So can we go over sports now?"