El Taco Taco — Roleplayer Guild

Kearney nearly bolted when the Healer showed up, legs tensing to run, hand gripping his wand fiercely. Oliver was surprised at he tensed himself, immediately wary of the stranger. He knew a good portion of Healers, enough to know that their ranks had contained a surprising number of blood elitists.

It became quickly apparent that this Dria was not one of them. She was lively and bright eyed, but the way her eyes had darkened when Ryan said on the run was familiar. Muggleborn, then. The fury in her voice was familiar to him, a raging fire, and that, more than anything, comforted Oliver.

"Ye dinnae need ta apologise fur bein' radge," Oliver directed towards Dria in a surprisingly even voice. The last thing he wanted was people putting aside their anger. They needed that rage, that burning desire to fix their world.

Kearney was still wary, looking a little overwhelmed by the sheer force of Dria's personality. He looked to Oliver cautiously. It was such a change from the man Kearney had been before Azkaban--confident, open, and although quiet, never fearful. 

"Err...Hogwarts," Kearney managed. "I played for Ravenclaw."

"Manpreet scooted heem at hogwarts. He cam tae trials an' oot-flew th' whole damn crew, sae we strong-armed heem intae signin' wi' us," Oliver elucidated, beaming with pride. Kearney shifted a little uncomfortably, but looking a bit pleased at the praise.

Ryan apologised for Dria's forwardness and Oliver chuckled. After several moments, Kearney shook his head.

"It's alright," He said finally, before clearing his throat. "But...can I go home?"

Oliver paused, exchanging a long, quiet look with Ryan. Breathing deep he turned to Kearney, dropping a heavy hand to his shoulder.

"We got ye a new place, kearney. Th' death eaters...they burned yer auld place."

She really needed to unpack her room. Boxes were stacked haphazardly across the floor, clothes littering the hardwood as she'd hunted for particular garments. The bed was unmade and a massive suitcase lay on her window seat, innards exposed and trailing onto the floor. Carys winced. She wasn't a clean freak by any means, but she wasn't usually this sloppy.

Nose scrunched in concentration, Carys dug through one of the boxes in search of something suitably unwrinkled. After several moments she was rewarded with a loose cream top and floral patterned shorts. She took a moment to braid her still-drying hair. Satisfied that she no longer looked like a gremlin, Carys padded out of her room.

Chase wasn't difficult to find, lingering in the kitchen, no IPA in sight. His loss. Grinning widely, she jerked her thumb over her shoulders to the stairs.

"All the boxes taking over the dining room are going upstairs, I figure we should get that over with."

Flouncing to the impressive pile--boxes mostly packed with books and display pieces--she lifted one and balanced it against her hip, leading the way with her usual enthusiasm.

The upstairs was a sprawling room, walls lined with handsome, mostly empty bookcases, and massive windows that let in the light. Crisp white trim and wood with rich, navy walls, it had the makings of a studio. Three cellos had been stood near a window, one electric and paired with a large amplifier and neatly wound cables. A thin folding chair and stand were leaned against the nearby wall. It was evident that that was the only bit of unpacking Carys had bothered to do in the three days she had lived in Port Byrne.

Setting her box down in front of one of the emptier bookcases, she grinned apologetically to Chase.

"Sorry, I realised I shouldn't have packed all my books into their own boxes when I tried moving them in New York, but by then it was too late to fix it. Oops."

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