celano black could not fathom why he deigned to converse with you. out of the hundreds of pupils that roamed hogwarts, you received the most intimate recounts of his life.

you were not particularly remarkable, and therefore as a man of such esteemed tastes in company, should have been quashed under his critical eye. you were not demure, poised, nor mindful in the slightest; yet inexplicably, a rather terse friendship had bloomed to life.

although he would make it quite evident that he did not care for you in the slightest when in the company of his mates, he would be more than willing to while away the rest of the daylight hours in a diatribe, ensconced in the room of requirement. as you had found, although he was undoubtedly a prude, so pious that it made you feel as if your fingers would burst into flames if you so much as grazed his shoulder, he did enjoy a cheeky bit of gossip.

one particular topic of note happened to be fleamont potter.

to say that celano fancied fleamont was a detrimental understatement. his admiration was fervent, singular, obsessive, and—mercifully—remote. yet, you were subjected to the full weight of it.

“i cannot stress enough, the things i would do to that man. well, i cannot utter them aloud, considering that i am a gentleman.” celano drawled, lithe fingers clasping his embossed copy of the atlas of celestial anomalies by m. p. n. carneirus as he meandered down the hall, yourself in tow.

he had donned a black sweater under his robes, its low neck exposing the pendant perched on his jutting collarbones. his dark curls were artfully wispy, framing his haughty mug in a manner that practically called for acknowledgement.

though you knew he was aware of fleamont’s current infatuation with the slytherin goddess that was euphemia braithwaite.

“do not look so dull, it is the holidays.” he snipped, whacking you lightly with his tome. “i must look like good company, as orion will not be returning home for the holidays. he has gotten judgemental. like an old toad.”