Way Above the Rooftops (Delia - TW Swearing)

Subject: Way Above the Rooftops (Delia - TW Swearing) Tue Jan 02, 2018 8:57 pm

After the Opening Feast, Elenore had felt like she was suffocating. The night in her dorms seemed to have a static in the air as everyone whispered around her bed where the four poster curtains had been drawn to denote Elenore did not wish to speak with anyone.

The next morning with Alexei had served only as a temporary distraction from the problem that was closing in around her. But the distraction had gone with Alexei, and Elenore had withdrawn from the world around her once more. The whispered comments around her seemed to grow fervently, and Elenore knew she was losing her grasp on where things were in her life.

Something that only became more apparent as she sat out on the ramparts of the Astronomy Tower, the light breeze of the evening ruffling through her dark locks as the French witch watched the grounds far below her. The arrival at the out of bounds tower was not one that Elenore had particularly planned, her feet just kept moving one after the other until she had slipped through the door of the empty classroom.

The stars were out, quite bright in this light in fact, creating some of the most beautiful of shadows. The box of petit fours from Grandmere sat in her lap, untouched. A welcoming gift, Elenore knew, to make it seem like she was not so far from the elderly woman who loved her dearly.

Tu me manques, petit pois.

Grandmere

The note was simple enough, and it had brought a small smile to Elenore's features when she'd read it, in truth. Grandmere always seemed to know when she needed a little pick me up. But, that didn't stop Elenore from wondering... what if Mimosa knows something I do not? Because I've been absent for so long...

A cold shiver ran down the witch's spine at that thought, but her eyes remained resilient from the tears that she would no longer allow to fall.

Tu me manques, petit pois -- I miss you, sweet pea

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Way Above the Rooftops (Delia - TW Swearing) Signat12

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[TW: Suicide ideation and romanticism. Swearing. Mention of sex. Alcohol abuse. Honestly Delia's a mess, just read at your own discretion.]]

Gryffindor was not was she had expected, truth be told -- but then, she hadn't really expected anything. There'd been rumours and gossip floating around about Hogwarts back in Dumstrang -- mostly how they were soft and pathetic, shying away from difficult topics and playing safe -- but Delia had not fully taken any to heart. The grapevine was useful for information, yes, but they weren't always true, and typically served as a baseline on which to place all expectations. In this case, however, she'd found it mostly to be true. Why have a forest at all if it was Forbidden? Why have places out of bounds in the first place? If it were dangerous, either have students prepared to deal with the dangers or get rid of it; that was the idealogy she had been instilled with not just by her old school, but everything else around her.

And so, while she understood the rules and knew exactly what they were, Delia had not heeded them one bit. The only rules she followed were the ones she liked, disobeying the rest simply because she wanted to -- and, more importantly, could. Of course, reputations and face were a very important thing in the world, especially so as a Pureblood, and so she only broke rules when nobody of any value was looking. Professors, prefects, and certain peers all saw an angelic version of Delia -- Miss Cordelia Schaefer, daughter of Lukas Schaefer, whom she was so used to playing -- that was far from the truth.

Night time, Delia knew, was a time for exploration. It was when things presented themselves as they truly were, under the cover of darkness, rather than the pretty fronts they put on during the daylight to cover scars and other marks that were hidden at night. It was the best time to see things for what they were, and so it was, naturally, the time that Delia did the most wandering of the halls. She knew her body, knew how much sleep she needed, and until two or three in the morning Delia would slip around the castle, unnoticed, taking in the silence and truth around her.

Today, however, she was up for a different reason. Earphones plugged in, iPhone in one hand and a bottle of White Horse (smuggled in a charmed bag in another bag in one of her suitcases) in her other, she made her way up the astronomy tower.

"She's such a teasing bitch," she said to the person on the other line, not bothering to keep her tone too low. Nobody was nearby; she'd checked the corridors before making the call. "F--k her. F--k her hard and show her who's boss."

There was a reply on the other line, and Delia let out a mocking laugh, taking a swig from her bottle before replying. "Well hun, too bad I'm all the way over here, or I'd show her a damn good f---ing time."

With her leg, she pushed the door of the tower open, taking in the cool air with a small smile that soon turned to a grimance as she took yet another swig and felt the burn travel down her throat. She wasn't drunk yet -- she'd just started on the bottle, barely five sips in -- but she would be, soon. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You miss having me in bed," she teased, putting just a little growl in her tone. "Too bad we broke up." It was then that she saw the shadow before her. "F--k. Someone else is here. I'll call you later, if you're not too busy f---ing my replacement, you gorgeous slut." She ended the call, pulled the earphones out, and stuffed it along with her phone in her pocket.

Dressed in a sleeveless crop top that exposed her midriff and shorts that only reached mid thigh, Delia had around her a simple coat in case it got chilly; she hadn't meant to bump into anyone, not that she really cared. She could've been naked for all she cared. "Didn't see you there earlier," she said, a sort of apology, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. "Don't mind me." Moving to the edge of the building, she swung one leg over the edge, perched herself on the narrow ledge, and swung the other leg over to dangle them above the grounds.

Was it safe? Probably not. Did the alcohol help? Most definitely not. Still, Delia didn't really care. Jumping seemed so easy; it was just falling, and that wasn't hard at all. For a moment, she closed her eyes, imagined the sensation of freefalling and then the nothingness that came with death, the sweet, sweet relief of knowing there was nothing to stop her creating a rush of emotions. And then she opened her eyes and took a swig of alcohol, letting out a soft 'ah' as it went down, ever strong and ever burning. Most took alcohol to gain courage; she already had that. She took it to kill herself more slowly.

Glancing over at the other person nearby, she held out the bottle. "Want a swing? Nobody comes up here at this time unless they're f---ed up in some way." She shrugged again. "Might as well be drunk and f---ed than sober and f---ed."

[[OOC: I uh. Got carried away.... whoops. I probably won't get my other posts to this length. xD]]

Another person might have heard the arrival of someone else much sooner than Elenore had. Her mind being in the muddle it was meant that the Hufflepuff witch was not aware of her surroundings, until the sound of expletives met her ears and made her... well, it brought her attention back to the moment as her eyes looked back to the person who'd just disturbed the tranquillity of her surroundings.

The image of a witch -- much older than when Elenore had last seen her -- came in to focus, making the explicit language she'd just been forced to hear come as a larger shock that the language itself. Cordelia Schaefer. Elenore had not seen the witch in the Pureblood societal meetings in a long time, but, then, the French witch had never truly known the witch.

Through the grace of some unknown deity, though, Elenore turned herself away from the witch as she rung off on the Muggle contraption in her hand, and pretended not to have been disturbed in that moment. After all, it was bad enough that she had heard all that, let alone having to come up with some kind of comment that would be enough to make the whole situation less awkward.

"It's no problem," The French witch responded when Cordelia gave her a half-apology. The honest truth, though, was that it was a problem, Elenore had come to get away from everyone, and now that was being disturbed. To get up, though, and walk off now would have been a very rude thing to do, something Elenore did not wish to be.

Something moved far below them, creating a most beautiful of silhouette across the ground. It wasn't a human form, Elenore could tell that much, but past that, she wouldn't have liked to offer a guess.

"Want a swing? Nobody comes up here at this time unless they're f---ed up in some way."

Elenore's eyes were pulled away from the beauty of the scenery below once more, and the witch took in the other girl, and the bottle -- assuming it was alcohol, a fact that was confirmed only a few moments later -- before she shook her head. "No thank you, I... don't drink." Elenore replied to the question of the drink. It was true, too, a lady such as Elenore Clement could not be seen binge drinking like other girls her age. Cordelia should have known better herself, but Elenore digressed, not everyone in the world was a Clement.

The comment about being f--ked up, however, was one that hit Elenore harder than Cordelia could have known, and she turned her attention away from the witch once more, trying to find the source of her silhouette that had long gone.

"Some people just need the peace of tower, actually." Elenore responded softly after a few moments of silence. Cordelia could take those words however she wished. Elenore would, in hindsight, simply be grateful the arrival had not been the American child who was haunting her every movement.

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There was a slight accent to the witch's tone, and already Delia perked. This was not a typical accent, not one she was familiar with; it wasn't British. She'd have to hear more if she wanted to place it, if she cared enough to do so. She didn't, and so she shrugged it off, both mentally and physically. 'It's no problem' usually meant that there was a problem, especially when said in a polite tone. 'No worries', 'all good', 'you're fine'... These were the things that people said when they were being real, in Delia's experience -- but, whether the witch was being genuine or not, she didn't care.

There were many things that Delia didn't care about, not just lately but in general. Life was too short and too fragile to waste time thinking about mistakes or harping on what was in the past -- and perhaps even the present. If it wasn't important (and honestly, hardly anything ever truly was) she did her best not to let it affect her. And whether or not she troubling a witch she did not know nor like was most definitely not something important.

"Don't drink?" Delia repeated, amusement in her tone. "Don't tell me you're a f---ing prude?" She laughed a moment later to show she was joking -- sort of. "Hey, more for me if you don't want any." With another shrug, she took another sip as though to emphasize this, followed by yet another. "But seriously, you should try some. Nothing like drowning your midnight sorrows with a cheap bottle of whiskey. First hangover's f---ing nasty, though."

She grinned, turning her head to try and get a glimpse of the mystery witch she was talking to, but the moon was casting shadows on her face, and all Delia could make out was the outline of a nose, and lips, and eyes. "Peace of the tower?" she said, then laughed again. "F---ing bullshit. You don't need peace if you don't have turmoil." Once more, she shrugged, following it with a swig from the bottle. "Don't share if you don't want to, but don't lie. The night is sacred; masks come off at night. That's why you're here, why I'm here... To be real."

The honesty coming from her was both a mixture of the alcohol that had already begun to make its way through her bloodstream, and the belief in her words. Nights were when she could be herself; she belonged to the darkness. Once more she moved her gaze to the silent grounds below, and then up to the stars above. There were people who said they were romantic; Delia was not one of those. They were balls of fire millions of light years away, and the chances of them already being extinguished was high. Wishes on dead space rocks were not romantic. Still, they were pretty to look at, reminding her that even in death there could be beauty -- that, perhaps, death itself was beautiful.

The amusement -- and likely ridiculing tone that was trying to be hidden -- from Cordelia did little to push Elenore towards the bottle in the other girl's hand. She didn't know Cordelia enough to trust the witch, and so Elenore would not trust her in her first real experience with alcohol. Though, of course, the witch had tasted and enjoyed some of the finest wines in the world, Champagne was on offer at all Balls and Pureblood events, but Elenore had not ever gone past a second glass of the alcohol.

"Only wine," Elenore replied to the witch's question, even if she knew she was being judged by the other witch in that moment for not partaking in the drinking session Cordelia was obviously quite set on. "And not often." She added a moment later, not that she had to explain herself, but she wanted to make sure she wasn't noted in a bad light. After all, no one said you had to drink, and Elenore was clever enough to make her own decisions on that front.

"Apparently." Elenore replied dryly to the comment of a first hangover. Alexei had told her as much, but she had no experience of a hangover herself. Perhaps another time, with Alexei, because she trusted the Slytherin to keep her safe if she were to take on the full effects of the alcohol.

"Well, before you came up the Tower, the night was peaceful around me, there was no foul language sprouting from across the ramparts as I watched the scenery below. I had time to myself." Elenore explained as Cordelia tried to call her out on the peace of the tower. It wasn't said with malice, though, simply matter of fact. Cordelia's obscene language was grating, unrelaxing, and... just out of place in Elenore's life. She didn't particularly like it, but there was little she could say or do to stop that, she supposed.

This wasn't, after all, France.

Turning to the witch, her face being softly lit up by the light of the moon and the stars, Elenore gave the witch a small smile. "I hope you enjoy the view, though, Cordelia, it's quite something." She finalised, standing carefully from the ramparts to excuse herself from the situation she was not entirely comfortable with, truth be told.

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There were very few types of people who didn't drink. Those who genuinely didn't enjoy alcohol, those who were allergic to it, and Prim and Proper Pureblood females. There were different categories within some of those, of course, but that was the gist of it. Which category the person before her fell into was uncertain -- at least, until she said the one word that confirmed it all. 'Wine'. 'Not often'... There was only one who fit into that.

Pureblood, she thought dryly. The part of her that was trained -- mostly existing in her father's voice -- wanted to apologise, to toss the alcohol aside and straighten up, give some half-baked excuse as to why she'd been acting off, revert back to Pureblood mode. But it was night time, and she was no longer living with her dad, and she was just so damn tired of pretending.

"Wine's good," was the only thing she said. "In large quantities," she added. Then, a moment later, "And as a pre-drink."

The statement made her raise her eyebrow, and she let out a laugh. "I'm not denying it's peaceful," she said, the slush of liquid filling the silence as she took a swig before continuing. "I said you don't need peace unless there's something you need peace from. Something's f---ing with your everyday peace. Your normal peace. Whatever the hell you want to call it. It's gone. Po-f---ing-of, and you're left high and dry. F--ked up. Like me. Like anyone else who comes up here at god-forsaken times of the night for 'peace of the tower', whatever the f--k that is."

There was no argument in her tone, no accusation. She was saying it matter-of-factly, staring not at the witch but at the sky above. Stars were beautiful. Dead, but beautiful, and she'd always liked watching them twinkle. There was something distracting about them, like at any moment the sky could go dark and the world would just vanish, taking problems with it.

Her mind drifted over to the witch, the accent finally clicking in her brain. Whether intentional or not, she'd been mulling over it, especially after the discovery that she was more likely than not a Pureblood. There was only one possibility, and her lips curled into a smirk at the thought of who she'd been conversing with. No wonder she'd been so uptight about language and alcohol and shit nobody else really cared about.

"Elenore," she said, aloud, a moment later. "Clement." She brought one leg over to the floor of the tower, straddling the edge, although she kept her gaze on the sky above. "I recognise you now. French, right? Yeah, we met... too f---ing long ago for me to remember. Back when I was still with my dad. Been a while. I'd ask you how you're doing but I don't give a f---, no offence." She paused to shrug.

"What makes language foul?" She let out an amused puff of air. "I could cut you into pieces without a single cuss leaving my lips. It's not the words used; it's the intent. I've seen you Pureblood types. You hold yourself in such esteem for not allowing such words to pass your lips, but your words cut deeper than any cuss I've heard. So f---ing what if I f---ing swear?" It was the drink talking mostly, now, her ideology seeping through. She'd lived the Pureblood life for a long time with her dad. Prim and proper was not her forte. She let out a mocking laugh, although clearly not directed at Elenore; it was more in general, at life, at herself, than anything.

A moment passed, and then another, and Delia debated another swig during it. She didn't want to get too drunk; there was still school tomorrow, and she'd stink if she took too much. With a soft, inward sigh, she put the bottle down, balancing it on the ledge. Enough for tonight -- or, at least, enough for now. The buzz was there, telling her she wasn't quite yet drunk, although very nearly so. It was her favourite place to be in, when she didn't give a crap about anything and felt like the world was hers -- and, perhaps, for even just a moment, it was.

"Also," she added, turning her head, looking directly at Elenore for probably the first time. "I go by Delia now." She paused, tilted her head a little, then shook it. "Actually, I've always been Delia. Cordelia doesn't exist. She's a stuck up bitch my father tried to raise. So hey, Elenore, nice to meet you. Sorry I'm not the nice Pureblood prissy you remembered." She grinned lopsidedly, laughing a little. "You should try being real sometime. None of this shit suits you."

It was the sound of her name that stopped Elenore from walking a step further, and she half turned back towards Cordelia in that moment. However, the French witch was disappointed. Cordelia was not one of her kind. Drunken, lewd, distasteful, and not someone Elenore wished to be acquainted with. Giving a small, but not sincere smile, Elenore was done with this situation.

Especially as more and more obscenities left Cordelia's lips in that moment.

They were so vile, those words. Unimaginative when you could use so many more fruitful words in their place. Cordelia was not wrong, Elenore could -- and had -- torn people to shreds with words that did not include the foul ones spewing from her lips every other word.

However, it was as Cordelia -- or, Delia, as the witch pointed out a moment later -- had the audacity to question Elenore's being that the Hufflepuff turned back to the Gryffindor witch.

"Cordelia," Elenore spoke to the witch, making sure to use the name the witch before her obviously disliked to put her in a position that she would not like. "Whilst I'd like to thank you for your observation, I would like to kindly remind you that I never asked for your opinion on my life, or my realism. And, to be frank with you, Cordelia, I would never ask someone like you as to whether something suits me, you obviously never learned how to judge such things."

The comment was in respect of the witch's obscenities of words, to her attire, to the manner she drank so publicly without a care for the world.

"And, perhaps nobody told you when you arrived here, so I'll let you in to a secret, you don't get anywhere in this school by being like you are. If you want to get anywhere, you'll need friends, and the way you're going around talking to people, I don't see that you'll make many." And, Elenore added in her head, she would make sure Cordelia didn't. "And, next time you think it wise to speak to someone like that, consider, perhaps, with whom you're talking."

With that, Elenore moved across the top of the tower, not waiting for Cordelia's response because she honestly didn't care. The soft clicks of her heels faded as she moved down the stairs. Careful, measured, and unrushed.

Elenore Clement was not, and never had been, a force to be reckoned with.

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"... you obviously never learned how to judge such things."

She laughed.

Not dryly, nor humourlessly. It was a loud, long, and very, very real laugh. Her features lit up in that moment, eyes sparkling with the humour and dimples flashing. She shook her head, still laughing, and swung fully around, so her back was to the grounds, feet planted firmly on the tower floor. Holding gently to the edge she was seated on, Delia shrugged, swallowing the last remains of laughter.

"My god," she said, her grin widening, traces of her previous laughter still in her tone. "You're uptight. Who stuck a stick up your ass?" There was no harshness in her voice, not like the harshness that was so evident in Elenore's. She shook her head once more, straightening a little in posture, moving her hands to her lap. If the witch wanted to deal with Cordelia, Delia was more than happy to oblige. "You're amusing to me, Elenore. You talk like you have it all together, like your spotless little Pureblood world is a spotless little world. You act like everything's perfect -- like you're perfect."

Tilting her head a little, a corner of her lip twitched up into a smirk. "So what? Are you truly enjoying yourself? Are you truly happy? I don't think you are. You wouldn't be up here at this time of night if you were, in an area forbidden to students... No. If you were happy, you'd be asleep, dreaming of your next ball or your suitor. The night is for mess-ups. For those with nowhere else to go. Good or bad, I think you're one of us. You're my kind. My blood."

She let out a soft sigh, turning to glance momentarily at the grounds, and then back at Elenore. "Cordelia. Delia. Miss Schaefer. Miss Foster. What's in a name? A rose by another name would smell as sweet. I know my classics; I took the same classes as you, mostly. I'm me. Fully, truly, genuinely me, for better or for worse. And you know what? F--k the world. I'm happy. Wouldn't change it for the world. Up to you what you want to believe, up to you to believe me, up to you who you want to be. But ask yourself -- are you happy being what you are? Cos if not, man, that's f--ked up. More so than anything I am. At least I know what I want and who I am."

Without waiting, Delia swung her legs back the other side, dangling them once more, and took in the night, barely listening to Elenore's parting words, a dry smile on her lips. She heard her leaving, not bothering to turn. "Oh, but I did, Elenore. I did," she murmured, almost to herself. A few more moments passed as she soaked in the silence and the night, before she pulled out her phone, plugged in the earphones, and dialled.

"Hey, bitch, you'd never guess what just f---ing happened..."

» A Ball to Remember (Delia)
» Revelations (Delia)
» The Secrets of the Night [Delia]
» A Different Way of Living [Tess] [TW: Swearing]
» Wrong Number (Delia)