Eye on the Prize (mostly open)

[ uniform. ]

Even though the library was actually quite the place Beckett loved to be, he often lost track of himself as soon as he crossed through the threshold. Muggle libraries weren't nearly as fun. Sure, they had those strange child-sized chairs and lengthy German books that he only understood a fraction of the words of, but magical libraries were... magical. Only magifolk wrote books that needed to be lassoed and tamed to be read. Things in languages even less understandable than German, sometimes even with sentences that tried to drink his plasma if his thumb was too close. Those were the things that Beckett sought out every time he entered the library, which normally meant he was in places he shouldn't be, and that was exactly Beckett's cup of tea.

His newest find within the restricted section was a book that seemed to... well, was supposed to read itself. Voice and all. But it seemed the thing got lonely in the centuries it was ignored, seeing as the contents were "outlawed beet recipes", and that didn't really entice anyone's interest. A lot of it just included stuff that sounded kinda gross, like virgin blood or konjac jelly. It was hard for Beckett to get a good read of it, because it would flip its pages if it felt like Beckett wasn't listening to it. No amount of, "Yes, baby, I'm all your's," could convince its insecurities. He decided to take it with him, if it meant that he could plunge into its depths. It didn't entice most people, no, but it certainly enticed Beckett.

Before he left, however, with the book tucked under his arm with a few novels he had been meaning to read, he had one more stop. There was a piece of literature he remembered hearing about, Devil Moon. Something like that. About a werewolf in the seventies who can't afford wolfsbane. It sounded interesting to him. Not as interesting as illegal vegetables, but something to read while ignoring his classes, as Beckett was wont to do.

Finding the bookcase, the one that held the book in question, he discovered it was a bit higher than he could reach. He placed his books on a desk beside some brunette, and placed his foot on one of the lower shelves to raise himself. A heavy, leatherbound books came down with him, a bit loudly in comparison to the quiet of the library. "Who's she?" The Outlawed Beets began to protest, and Beckett answered by sitting down on its body, pinching its mouth closed.

"Oi oi oi, Charlotte. Getting some studying done?" Beckett acknowledged her finally, now that he found himself sitting beside her work space. However, his eyes remained glued to the book he just discovered, turning its pages idly. She was a year below him, but Beckett knew most of the names of every cute Gryffindor girl he crossed paths with. "What'cha writing, huh?" He added, snapping the book shut. Beckett was always the type to pry, even if he didn't know the person. If he knew her better, he wouldn't even think twice to snatch her paper up.

Charlotte stared at her fairly blank piece of parchment, dipping her quill in the ink jar again. She nervously nibbled her lower lip, flipping through her Transfiguration book. The assignment, overall, should have been easy. Transfiguration was easily one of her better subject due to her fascination with the ability to change one thing to another. Her normal expression morphed as she furrowed her brow and read from her book. Even being interested in the subject did not guarantee her ability to focus on a day like today. She heard movement behind her and a strange voice. Ignoring it the best she could, Charlotte attempted to complete her essay.

Her quill glided across her parchment, her cursive uniform, tiny, and neat - practically handwriting perfection: .A metamorphmagi’s abilities, much like other forms of magic, can be affected by one’s emotional state. Charlotte lifted her quill to her lip and paused. Her signature unintentional facial expression, or rather lack thereof, formed into a slight smile. She chuckled a bit to herself. Charlotte thought about how horrible of a metamorphmagi she would be, with her volatile negative emotions. She would never get the skill to work. Maybe a few years ago, but now it would be a pointless talent for her posses.

"Oi oi oi, Charlotte. Getting some studying done?" Charlotte’s chocolatey gaze flicked up to a boy sitting next to her. The boy was iddly flipping through a book.. She recognized him as a fellow Gryffindor odd-ball who somehow constantly became the center of conversations. No one could truly figure him out. Charlotte returned her gaze, unfazed to the parchment she had been writing on, until she heard him speak again. "What'cha writing, huh?" The boy had now shut the book.

She raised a single groomed eyebrow at him, the rest of her face staying stone cold. Placing her quill down, she debated whether or not to get up and walk away, or kindly converse for the few moments that this boy would no doubt stick around and then leave because she had thoroughly bored him. Charlotte folded her hands on the table, her gaze now piercing into his, suddenly remembering his name, “It’s called an essay, Beckett. To what do I owe this great pleasure?”

Charlotte barely waited for an answer as she picked up her quill. He would undoubtedly leave her alone to finish her essay shortly. She wasn’t the type of person that someone with so much odd charisma wanted to spend his time with.

There was something so enticing about people who clearly wanted nothing to do with him. While it was a fact that Beckett kept well hidden, he was definitely the type to press and pry until someone liked him. It was easier with guys, since they didn't assume Beck had some sort of creepy angle, and normally they just punched him a bit before settling down with their lil' ego trips. But girls were cuter, so it was a bit more fun to be a pest with them. Charlotte did not give a shit about Beckett's presence, and that made him want to stick around. Try to gather as much feeling from her as possible. Even if he couldn't, it'd just make Quidditch practice that whole much more interesting.

“It’s called an essay, Beckett. To what do I owe this great pleasure?”

"A what?" He retorted playfully, "Ye' intellectual types always use such confusing jargon, can't wrap my heid 'round it." Tilting his head with a smirk, his eyes danced across her expression, blank and cold. He could tell she would get along with Violet, aside from the age difference. His sister had such a resting bitch face, but she was ultimately one of the kindest people he knew. And he was very quick to believe that Charlotte was like that, too. Even if she wasn't, Beckett often found himself endeared to assholes. Violet not so much.

"Oh, but the pleasure's all mine," Beckett added, leaning back on his palms, "Ne'er a time I get a break from studying, with company no less." A filthy lie, he hardly ever studied. Hell, it was arguable that he didn't study literally at all. He did well enough in school, but he had zero interest in it. If something didn't interest him, he'd pay it no mind, and he ran on absolute luck. Who knew that his Potions homework would coincidentally coincide with the butchered attempt at a stew he attempted earlier that week? He aced it, and no one was any the wiser that he was just an awful cook. "Ah, but yer busy, yeah? With yer essay," His feet tapped rhythmically on the stone floor below, and the smile on his face screeched his true intentions: he wasn't leaving.

In truth, he just liked hanging around absolutely anyone. Hopefully she wouldn't take that as an insult, if she were to put two and two together.

"What do ye' think 'bout beets?" He asked after a pause, his tone absolutely serious despite the seemingly irrelevant topic presented.