(1941-06-23) Claws and Fangs
Details for Claws and Fangs
Summary: Anson and Antonin get into a fight. But Samira manages to save the house cup for Slytherin!
Date: Thursday, June 23, 1941
Location: Balcony, 4th Floor, Hogwarts

Though a steady drizzle falls from the starless sky, the night air is warm and heavy. Rather than retire to her dungeon lair, this little snake has sought to taste the night air. Samira sits upon one of the lounge chairs, facing out at the darkness. Her shoes stand neatly next to her chair as she tucks her feet beneath herself. Head tilted back and eyes closed, she simply listens to the steady rain with a soft, serene smile.

There are others who appreciate the peace and quiet of a light drizzle, it seems. Anson Abbott makes his way out onto the balcony, stepping to the rail and leaning forward. He doesn't appear to have seen Samira. At least at first. But then, slowly, he turns until he's facing the girl. "Miss Prince." He seems surprised, but rather pleased. "It's good to see you."

Samira opens her eyes and lifts her gaze to meet Anson. Her soft smile quirks a bit wider. "Hello Anson. You are well?" She asks her question with an air of detachment, but tilts her head, studying him.

Anson glances around, toward the door back into Hogwarts, before he answers. "Very well, thank you." He folds his arms loosely over his chest, inspecting Samira with the same curiousity she shows toward him. "How're you?"

Samira nods, offering simply, "I am well." Head tilted, her soft smile lingers. She watches him with quiet curiosity, wondering what the Gryffindor will do. Though notorious for his dislike of Slytherins, there are also rumors he is keen on Samira that she hasn't failed to overhear.

Anson glances idly over his shoulder, out into the wet night. He paces over and settles into a chair next to Samira, smiling. "Your mates are rather cross with me," he says, his tone a jocular warning. "Might not be the best idea to get caught hanging about." There's a tone of voice that says he's joking, but.. not really. Not entirely. "If you like, I could leave you be."

Samira arches a brow in amusement at his warning. With a light shrug, she says, "Stay or leave. Impossible to evade them forever. As for me, I speak to whom I please."

Anson grins suddenly. "I'm not trying to evade them." But it lacks the braggadocio that the young man is so known for. It's a simple statement of fact. "I meant they might not like you speaking with me. But as you say.. you speak with whom you please." He tilts his head slightly, eyeing Samira. "And you're pleased to speak with me?"

Samira laughs - an impish giggle. "For the moment." Elbow on her armrest, the petite Slytherin leans away from the Gryffindor to study him. "I had been under the impression that you didn't care for us. For slithering Slytherins."

"Not all Slytherins are the same." Anson is giving this some thought — one can almost hear the gears grinding, see the smoke emerging from his ears, at the effort. "You don't try to constantly humiliate the Half-Bloods. You don't threaten the Muggle-Born or the people who side with them. I didn't pick that argument, you know. I tried to be pleasant." The words are low, reasonable. "But honestly — I thought you wouldn't like a Blood-Traitor."

"I've never threatened or humiliated," agrees Samira with a small nod. But then with a small smile, she adds, "I've never defended them either though. I have no interest either way. At the Heka Institute of Ancient Magic, we had no houses - we were divided by blood status. It was the simple way of the world. Not an issue. I don't quite understand the fixation."

"It's fear. That's what I was saying to them. The Muggles outnumber us, and don't understand us, so of course they're frightening when you think about it." Anson sighs, laying his head back in his chair and staring outward. He looks over at Samira after a few beats. "But the answer isn't to attack them. Everyone's afraid sometimes, but that lot — it's like they're eaten up with it. Turned bad." He shrugs. "That's how I see it, anyhow."

A cold voice drifts out over the balcony from the direction of the corridor which gives way to the platform. "Fear… that is something that Abbott would know all about." A form stands in the opening, silhouetted by the backlight of the corridor behind. It moves a few steps outward onto the stone balcony, and a sudden flash of lightning causes Antonin's features to be illuminated in stark whiteness.

Samira lifts a shoulder in a slow shrug. She glances off back out into the rain and darkness. The topic doesn't seem to hold much interest for her. Perhaps she would have responded, but a familiar voice draws her attention. She blinks at the bright clash of lightening, but smiles with a hint of mirth, watching Antonin. She doesn't show even the slightest unease at being caught speaking to the black-listed blood traitor.

"I'd know that voice anywhere. Hello, Antonin." As though some sort of switch had been thrown, Anson draws himself up in his seat. His voice, from sincere reasonable calm, adopts a drawling sarcasm. "Yes, I'm quite shaking in my boots now that I know you've arrived." He sighs slowly, speaking in a more serious tone. "Listen, why not set it aside for an evening, eh? Come and sit, and we can all have a pleasant conversation. You know you aren't going to fight me here, so let's call a truce."

Antonin lifts a brow as he crosses the balcony with a slow and graceful stride. He moves toward Samira, drawing close to her chair, even as he stares daggers at Anson. "I know I am not going to fight you here?" he repeats. "Surely you do not truly believe me to be scared of you, Abbott?" He is silent for some time before he says, "Abbott, I think you are mistaken in your belief that we are scared to violence when it comes to Muggles. But surely even your thick head can see the reason in maintaining proper vigillance when it comes to the Muggles. What Malfoy said was quite true. Muggles fear what they do not understand. Any power that they cannot control themselves. And they will kill because of that. History proves this time and again."

A soft smile lingers on Samira's lips as Antonin settles standing at her chair. But the conversation returns to talk of muggles and again her interest wanes. Lowering her gaze, she tidies her skirt covering her folded legs.

"I've said, time and again, that I don't disagree with the Statute. Of course I don't. But that's not what your friends actually say most of the time, is it?" Anson watches Antonin approach Samira, his brow quirking up slightly. "But we're boring Samira fiercely. Let's talk about something else." Anson eases back into his seat with every appearance of relaxation — except that his gaze rarely leaves Antonin. "Big summer plans?"

Antonin drops a hand to rest on the back of Samira's chair as he stares back at Anson. He is silent for quite some time as he regards the Gryffindor as if trying to determine just how willing he is to enter into conversation with the Lion. Finally he shrugs and says, "I will be travelling some, and then returning to make an appearance at the Quidditch Camp with the rest of the Slytherins. I also hope to spend a good deal of time with my friends."

Samira lifts her gaze to smile at Anson. "St. Mungo's. It's official." She pauses, considering. "Possibly WADA as well. Could be an entertaining diversion to participate. Though I have not fully decided."

"Traveling? That'll be quite fun, I'm certain." Anson's really making an effort, as the older boy, to be polite. But, like Antonin, he hesitates before his words, clearly hunting for things to say to the other young man. He watches, as well, as Antonin grips the back of Samira's chair. And then he turns his attention to Samira, manner visibly warming. "Saint Mungo's internship? Well, that's quite the honor, innit?" He leans forward to extend his hand to her. "Congratulations, Miss Prince. Ten points to Slytherin."

Antonin does not extend the same friendly question toward Anson, likely not caring what the Gryffindor is intending to do over the summer. He nods curtly and says, "Yes, it will be. As well as putting on a showing during the Quidditch Camp, so that the other teams do not think themselves actually on par for having a chance for the cup." Antonin turns his eyes down toward Samira as that hand is extended toward her, his expression obviously carrying some disgust. "Yes, Samira is quite brilliant. Mungo's will be lucky to have a witch of her quality."

Samira observes Anson's offered hand with relaxed interest and glances up to meet his eyes. "Thank you. I interned last year there as well." At last, slowly she eases from one elbow to her other, leaning towards the Gryffindor. Only then does she accept his right hand with her left. "Perhaps with the muggle bombings, I shall see you there." Her smile is a bit too wide and her words too quiet. Releasing his hand, she glances up at Antonin. "Thank you, Antonin. I hope so." Her gaze lingers on the younger student, watching him.

Anson looks down at Samira's hand in his as she takes it, and he listens to the woman's words. Something flits across his features — a hint of curiousity, or even of unease. But his gaze returns to its complacency as he looks up at Antonin and winks. He answers Samira first. "I hope I won't be visiting the hospital at all. This face is the only way I have to make my fortune. I shouldn't like it marred." And then, to Antonin, "I suppose I'll witness your glory first-hand. I'll be at Quidditch Camp as well."

At that wink, Antonin's visage changes. The mostly calm Slytherin's features shift to a mask of rage at that taunting expression from Anson and suddenly his hand plunged for his wand and rips it from his robes. His wand is up and then directed toward the seated Gryffindor as he would a sword and with a growl of rage, he bellows, "Garrulus!"

Anson might seem relaxed, but it's the relaxed ease of a lion lying in tall grass. As soon as Antonin's hand moves, Anson is springing to his feet, his own wand coming up — just in time. "Deflecto!" And then he's moving forward, his free hand balling in a fist, his wand still pointed at Antonin.

A flash of lightening and a clap of thunder. The boys shout and spells fly. Samira grips the arms of her chair, and eyes squeezed shut, she slides down deep to avoid getting hit by a stray spell. Spell deflected, she peeks up at the boys.

As Anson stands and comes closer toward Antonin, the young Dolohov growls, "Filthy Blood-traitor!" He doesn't back from the older student, however, and brandishes his wand once more. "Mimble Wimble!" he cries aggressively, a bright jet of yellow light bursting from his wand and flying at Anson.

Anson jerks his chin to the side as yellow light flies by his head, barely missing him. His peaches-and-cream cheeks are flushed almost purple, pupils wide and dilated with adrenaline. "Silencio!" A blue ball flashes from the tip of his wand toward Antonin. He's within striking range now, and from the looks of things, he's dying to bring his fists into play.

Caught in the middle of the sparks, Samira clings to the arms of her chair. This sort of thing she much more prefers to watch from afar. But when Anson silences Antonin and looks very much like he's about to beat the little snake into a pulp, Samira darts forward to him. She places her outstretched palm against his chest. Stop. She doesn't speak, but her eyes and hand do say it loud and clear. Then she looks up at Antonin, her dark gaze cautious but steady.

As Samira steps between them and places a hand to Anson's chest, that gesture only seems to enrage the Dolohov more and with a silent roar of rage, the younger body hurls a punch with his off hand toward Anson's face overtop Samira's head. His face is red with the force of his yell, the anger tearing forth from the so young throat as he loses himself to his rage.

Anson's chest is heaving beneath Samira's hand, and for a moment, he pushes forward as though to brush her out of the way. But he hesitates, looking down at her, the Gryffindor's sense of honor causing him to delay, perhaps fatally. And then there's a fist flying toward him and Anson's own hand comes up in a boxer's defense, absorbing Antonin's hand on his forearm. That's it. He tries to sidestep Samira and close with Antonin, unwilling to stand about eating jabs to the face.

Samira darts back, letting Anson side-step her with ease. Wide-eyed, she watches the two boys - both so much bigger than her. Stepping back, she draws her wand, but hesitates.

Antonin growls as Samira is successfully pulled out of the line of fire and he wades in with punishment in his eyes, his face a mask of rage as he throws a punting kick right for the V of Anson's legs.

Anson is in the midst of winding up a backhanded slap toward Antonin's face as the kick comes in toward his groin. He twists awkwardly, catching it on the outside of his thigh. Though he avoids the painful strike, his own blow is thrown off-kilter. He still swings, but it's clumsy and off-balance.

The fighting will soon draw attention. Samira glances off towards the Silent Corridor. No one yet. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Anson's backhand that just barely misses Antonin. But it's Antonin she needs to stop. Gripping her want tight, again she darts forward. Stepping up at Antonin's side, not actually getting in his way, she tries to reach around and press her hand, closed tight around her wand, against his chest. Her other hand goes around to his other side, almost embracing him. She speaks urgently into his ear, peeking over at Anson as she does.

Antonin's body is quaking in rage, a tremble coursing through the young boy that Samira will no doubt fear as she draws close to him. For a tense few moments, Antonin seems as if he will still force himself to continue onward, his face angry and red, an ugly dark mask of murderous rage. As her mouth draws near to his ear he still seems as if he is crazy with rage for a few breathless moments, his eyes bulging. Finally, his thin chest heaving against Samira's hand, a sound escapes his lips, as the silencing charm finally fades. It is laughter, harsh and cruel. Mirthless as it flows from his lips to echo across the balcony. His eyes never leave Anson, though if Samira were to apply pressure, she would find that she could pull the Slytherin boy away from the confrontation. "This isn't over, blood-traitor," he promises from a voice hoarse from the soundless scream of rage he had been emitting when silenced.

He missed? He missed! Damnit! For the first time, Anson makes a misstep in this nasty little brawl. And the surprise of it spurs him on to new anger. He surges forward to take another swing — but Samira is between them again, practically hugging Antonin. Even then, he's still moving forward, his teeth bared in a snarl not unlike his House's namesake. But when Samira turns to look at him, Anson hesitates. He's still panting with honest anger, but something in her expression compels him to stop.

He begins backing away, wand pointed right at Antonin's forehead. "Another bloody twitch from you, Dolohov, and I'll stupefy you." It's hard to believe that the whole fight had lasted just moments. He keeps backing, into the door-frame, his features set and focused. "And if it isn't over, bucko, you'll wish it was. You started this."

He looks past Antonin to Samira, locking eyes with her for a moment. And then, startlingly, he grins. It's bright and, although a bit strained, an attempt at good cheer. "It's always a pleasure, Miss Prince. I look forward to our next meeting." Git. He absolutely has to have a dramatic exit. And it is an exit — Anson steps through the doorway, into Hogwarts, and can be heard hurrying away.

Were it not for Anson's silencing charm, a prefect would have surely discovered them. Samira doesn't try to ease Antonin away. Instead, she simply wraps her arms around him a bit tighter and watches as Anson departs. Like Antonin, her eyes remain fixed on the Gryffindor boy. But hers shine with caution and then relief as Anson withdraws at last.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License