Mathys Vauclain;;
Bad luck came in threes.
Mathys Vauclain never asked to be born. He came nearly two weeks late to his own delivery date, and in a last-ditch effort to escape his fate, he constructed a noose out of his own umbilical cord. This attempt was, of course, thwarted by the doctor (damn him, damn him straight to Hell), and despite his attempts, Mathys was born a healthy baby boy of ten pounds, twenty-one inches. Perhaps it was for this reason that he'd been inconsolable for days afterwards, and perhaps it was why the nurses constantly brought him back to his mother, and why they ended up leaving the hospital a day earlier than expected. Because Mathys was born, he would be forced to live, and because he was forced to live, he would inevitably die—which, despite frequent remarks of the contrary, was not something he was keen on doing.
Maybe it was his own pessimism, but he seemed to have an affinity for determining whether or not he was in for (yet another) awful day of his existence. He almost regretted choosing Study of Ancient Runes over Divination as an elective in his third year; he was much more apt for the latter, he thought, but that hardly mattered now. Point was, he'd woken up early in the morning and immediately regretted his decision. If he had the choice, he would have rolled over on his side and gone back to sleep, but he hadn't been given a choice. Instead, Mathys had dragged himself out of bed, swallowed down a hastily prepared bowl of oatmeal, grabbed his trunk, grabbed his cat, and traveled to Platform 9 and 3/4 via floo powder to board the Hogwarts Express.
Mathys wasn't one for socializing, especially with people outside of his friends. He'd chosen the first empty compartment he came across, and he'd drawn out a book from his satchel (yes, he had a satchel) to keep the pleasantries at bay ("How are you?" "How was your holiday?" "Did you do anything interesting during break?"). With said book in his hands and Lemondrop—his cat—draped around his neck and over his shoulders like a scarf, he'd been prepared to enjoy his final moments of peace before he reached Hogwarts and his schedule became hectic once more. However, said enjoyment was short-lived.
"I can't believe the Mudbloods are here," a voice from outside his compartment said.
Now, it wasn't unusual for Mathys to pick up on the occasional prejudice concerning Muggleborns. His house was Slytherin, and Slytherin had a tendency to draw out the Purebloods from the more conservative families into its fold. Therefore, he registered the remark with the pinch of his brows and made the move to close the door, but just as his hand reached the handle, the voice continued.
"Adriane's father was right. They shouldn't be here."
His hand fell limp on the handle. The pinch of his brow furrowed into something of confusion rather than annoyance, and Mathys spent the next ten minutes back in his seat, the book he'd been reading forgotten and the door left ajar as he waited for the wheels of the treat cart to roll on by. When it came to his compartment, he grabbed an issue of the Daily Prophet (along with a handful of chocolate frogs—Mathys had a major sweet tooth) and tucked into it immediately, finding the information he sought within the front page.
He spent the rest of the journey with the door closed over and the newspaper folded neatly in his lap, his face shifting between discomfort and concern as he mulled over its contents.
Mathys was a firm believer that once something went wrong, more misfortune would subsequently follow. When he got off the train, he noticed something peculiar. The usual cluster of students had been divided into two clumps: Purebloods on one side, Muggleborns on the other, and Half-bloods torn between the two sides, with few students braving the rift in-between. He was well aware of the eyes of his fellow Slytherin trained on his back, and he found himself straining his ears in a vain attempt to hear their conversation. Were they talking about him? He wasn't a Muggleborn (and he didn't think he was Half-blood, but, well, that was too long of a digression to get into now), but some of his friends were. The Marauders were renowned for their unusual alliance. They were a group of friends from different houses and different backgrounds. It wasn't clear what tied them together—at least, not to Mathys—but it was obvious, almost painfully so, that not everyone approved of their friendship.
Especially the Purebloods.
However, Mathys shouldn't have been thinking about that. He learned that the hard way when he skidded on a patch of ice and all 5'10" of him went hurtling face-first towards the ground. Laughter erupted from around him, and he was certain he'd felt someone step on his back when they passed, but Mathys wasn't paying attention to that. In the process of falling, Lemondrop had thrown herself off of his shoulders and was now sprinting towards the field, headed directly for the Forbidden Forest. Stumbling onto his feet, he tore after her, yelling her name between curses under his breath (why hadn't he taken up jogging like he told himself he would? He was in terrible shape.) and howls of laughter from those who'd stopped to watch him.
It took roughly five minutes to find Lemondrop, and an additional fifteen minutes to coax her out of a tree she climbed (never had he been happier he'd chosen a sphynx over that white cat named Snowball at Magical Menagerie. He'd been mocked for having a 'house elf' as a pet, but who was laughing now?). By the time Mathys reached his dorm, he was cold, wet, fatigued, and quite frankly wishing he hadn't bothered to get up in the morning. Admittedly, he was half-tempted to crawl into his bed in the dorm, but he (very nearly) resisted the urge. Instead, he took a moment to dry Lemondrop and himself off before he left the room, shoes squeaking against the castle floor and fresh snowflakes still detailing his hair.
It wasn't often that Mathys traveled the halls with such vigor in his step. He was a tall boy with long legs who hardly needed to step up the pace due to his lengthy stride, but he was hurrying anyway. His friends were somewhere within Hogwarts and he had every intention on finding them. The recent rabble against Muggleborns worried him, and when he was worried—
—when he was worried, he didn't bother to look out for the trick stairs on the grand staircase. Goddamnit. He gripped his leg and tugged at it sharply, cursing in French as it refused to give. He knew freeing himself was impossible on his own, but he kept trying anyway, face burning as a giggling pair of fifth-year Hufflepuff girls stepped past him.
Blood feuds, black ice, and trick stairs; birth, death, and everything in-between. Bad luck came in threes, and Mathys was only halfway through his condemnation.
{Apologies if this is long! I got a little carried away. Subsequent replies will (usually) be shorter in the future.
And double apologies for this being late! I was having trouble finding my footing in terms of Mathys' character. I actually had a different starter in the works for him, but I ended up scrapping that because I'm picky. c': His form is still being tweaked, but I hope to have that finished within this week as well.}