Post by genimgemini on Aug 19, 2014 20:59:30 GMT -6
Gabriel Lommán had spent the past three years being very particular about where he sat. In his office he always sat at his desk. He same went along for his classroom. The heavy, dark, wooden chair in front of the fireplace in the staffroom was a verboten seat as Gabe was well aware that former History of Magic Professor Cuthbert Binns, a teacher whom Gabe had neither studied under nor met, had died in that seat some couple hundred years ago.
Why did this matter to Gabriel Lommán, one might ask? It mattered because he had recently begun his third year of teaching alchemy at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Professor Gabriel Keane Lommán had pushed his way into the staff room after a light spot of post-first-week-Saturday breakfast and, avoiding the forsaken death chair, dropped a pile of tightly wrapped parchment onto the long marble table by the door.
The man interlocked his fingers, pushing out and curving his back like a cat before righting himself and setting his sights around the empty staffroom. Most of his colleagues were likely still waking up or eating breakfast or, as he had learned, preferred to do their grading in their personal offices. Not Gabe. Gabe, though rough and strict towards his students, preferred the company of wiser and more developed minds. He never missed a meal at the staff table. He never graded in his office before nine o’clock. He never missed a quidditch match.
He swung the brown leather messenger’s sack from his hip and placed it on the table next to the mass of sixth year alchemy essay—the day’s endeavor. Pulling the chair of his soon-to-be workspace out from under the table he caught a glimpse of himself in the large space of mirror on the front wall. Pausing, he straightened himself, taking in his appearance.
Long black jeans over thin legs, strapped black boots, a simple black t-shirt, a deep violet scarf loosely draped around his neck, Gabe’s rough face was scruffy with the hair of a man who hadn’t shaved in over a two day span, his young face seemed weathered under his innumerable thoughts and fancies. Gabe focused on his face, the longer than normal hair on his chin, the stark blue-grey eye, cutting into the glass of the mirror, the other eye—his left—a brilliant shade of chestnut, his hair, close cropped on the sides yet topped with a carefully primped quaff that left Gabriel Lommán with one surprise: the color.
His gaze focused and his brow furrowed as the dingy and dull brown hair on top of his head shifted and changed to that of a subdued and sandy bronze. His facial hair receded to show off a clean shaven face.
Gabriel sighed, returning to his chair and table as he sat down and opened the first and largest set of parchment he had brought with him.
His eyes skimmed the title and author notes inquisitively as his free hand grabbed the cedar wand from his back and flicked it to set up a quill and bottle of red ink on the table.
“Ah… of course…” Gabe slithered out in a hushed tone. “Mister Morce’s essays. This should prove comical.”
And, with that delightful sentiment, Professor Gabriel Lommán began the grueling and thankless task of reading, correcting, and grading the papers of his 16 sixth year alchemy students.
Why did this matter to Gabriel Lommán, one might ask? It mattered because he had recently begun his third year of teaching alchemy at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Professor Gabriel Keane Lommán had pushed his way into the staff room after a light spot of post-first-week-Saturday breakfast and, avoiding the forsaken death chair, dropped a pile of tightly wrapped parchment onto the long marble table by the door.
The man interlocked his fingers, pushing out and curving his back like a cat before righting himself and setting his sights around the empty staffroom. Most of his colleagues were likely still waking up or eating breakfast or, as he had learned, preferred to do their grading in their personal offices. Not Gabe. Gabe, though rough and strict towards his students, preferred the company of wiser and more developed minds. He never missed a meal at the staff table. He never graded in his office before nine o’clock. He never missed a quidditch match.
He swung the brown leather messenger’s sack from his hip and placed it on the table next to the mass of sixth year alchemy essay—the day’s endeavor. Pulling the chair of his soon-to-be workspace out from under the table he caught a glimpse of himself in the large space of mirror on the front wall. Pausing, he straightened himself, taking in his appearance.
Long black jeans over thin legs, strapped black boots, a simple black t-shirt, a deep violet scarf loosely draped around his neck, Gabe’s rough face was scruffy with the hair of a man who hadn’t shaved in over a two day span, his young face seemed weathered under his innumerable thoughts and fancies. Gabe focused on his face, the longer than normal hair on his chin, the stark blue-grey eye, cutting into the glass of the mirror, the other eye—his left—a brilliant shade of chestnut, his hair, close cropped on the sides yet topped with a carefully primped quaff that left Gabriel Lommán with one surprise: the color.
His gaze focused and his brow furrowed as the dingy and dull brown hair on top of his head shifted and changed to that of a subdued and sandy bronze. His facial hair receded to show off a clean shaven face.
Gabriel sighed, returning to his chair and table as he sat down and opened the first and largest set of parchment he had brought with him.
His eyes skimmed the title and author notes inquisitively as his free hand grabbed the cedar wand from his back and flicked it to set up a quill and bottle of red ink on the table.
“Ah… of course…” Gabe slithered out in a hushed tone. “Mister Morce’s essays. This should prove comical.”
And, with that delightful sentiment, Professor Gabriel Lommán began the grueling and thankless task of reading, correcting, and grading the papers of his 16 sixth year alchemy students.