Settled on top of the roof-- not in the tower, but actually on the roof, Skyler Douglas watches the rain pour down from the heavens. Down, down, down, the streams, whispering through the treetops and creating a pitter-patter orchestra against the top. A large, black umbrella over her, she has settled there, arms hugging her legs to her chest, and her knee pillowing her chin. Her hair is mussed, the golden strands let loose-- sans the frills and trappings of womanhood-- so that they simply blow back in the wind, like one of those ancient war banners in fairy tales. And next to her is a small, non-descript bottle of alcohol.

Mitchell Freeman appears on the rooftop, keen, for whatever reason, on sitting out in the rain. The rainy weather and the young man's penchant for enjoying it out-of-doors has brought him out of his dormitory far more often than is usual for him. He has come to the roof today for no particular reason - after all, the weather does not afford the normal view this place presents. Mitchell blinks a few times as he sights Skyler through the rain. "Miss Douglas," he says, voice loud enough to be heard over the pattering of the drops on the stone surface of the castle. "We meet, yet again, in the cold and wet. I wonder if that says something about each of us." He laughs, suddenly, coldly. Moving to the edge of the tower, he gazes over the edge, hands clasps behind his back, and then speaks again. "I would not have though to find you here. I never imagined you to be one who enjoyed being drenched."

She starts at the voice -- not through alarm, but because she'd been so lost in the mire of her thoughts that she'd forgotten where she was, and the interruption had been unexpected. Eyes lift from the storm-bruised skies to fix on his face, and the scant lighting picks out their glassy sheen. "Mr. Freeman..." Skyler Douglas murmurs, having to clear her throat first. She raises her flask, motioning him towards her with it. "I don't. At least not when I'm sober. I think I'm sort of drunk." She tips the vessel up to peer into its mouth, one eye screwing shut. There's only a little bit left, and she swishes it around before finishing it off. "Well, mostly drunk. But you can join me, if you want. I'm... just sitting here." Her words slur a little, but it could be worse. She's probably nearing the end of intoxication's tether. Stone-cold sobriety will begin settling in soon.

A smile curves his lips again, although it is invisible to Skyler - Mitchell Freeman is still facing away from her. "Ah, alcohol," he speaks, as if to himself, although his voice is loud enough to be heard. "I should think one such as yourself would have no particular love of hard drink; thus you must have turned to alcohol to wash away your troubles." He does wheel around, then, walking over to stand beside the umbrella under which Skyler sits. He resumes his former stance, looking out over the Hogwarts ground, facing the same direction of Skyler. "I don't imagine you'd want to speak of them - else you wouldn't have sought to, as I said, drown them away." He pauses, blinking water out of his eyes. "But if by chance you did, I'd be willing to listen."

Her gaze falls upon him appraisingly, a hint of wariness staining the clarity of her emerald eyes. "No." The denial comes out too quickly, and so she lowers his tone, saying more slowly, "No. I wouldn't like to talk about it, and no I'm not drowning my sorrows, as you say." Tilting her head back to laugh, a cascade of flaxen tresses fall in natural waves from her shoulders to midway down her back, highlights of darker honey and lighter sunlight splashed throughout. It is a hollow laugh, devoid of any amusement, and she says after a long moment, "What are you doing here anyway? I didn't think that the Head Boy would have any wish to stain his precious badge." Skyler Douglas watches him the whole time. Each step, each line on his cheeks, each gesture of his hands -- all are studied. But then growing suddenly dizzy, the young woman presses her lashes against her alabaster cheeks, wishing away the nausea that now fills her.

"If you say it, who am I to disagree?" Mitchell Freeman says, though it is obvious he doesn't believe her. Abruptly he crouches down on his haunches, placing one hand on the wet stones of the roof to steady himself. He is still outside the umbrella's protecting canopy, although he is now on Skyler's level. "Rain is one of the things that may draw me from my lair," he says, voice quiet. "A... passion, an idiosyncracy, if you will. I enjoy the feeling of rain on my skin." He sighs. The Head Boy apparently realizes something is wrong when Skyler squeezes her eyes shut, and speaks, voice louder than before though seemingly without concern. "Are you quite all right?"

Cinnamon painted lips curl upwards in a smile, calm and collected as those of her society are trained to present. Opening her eyes, pale, auric lashes flutter to an open and one eyebrow hooks upward in question. His inquiry is ignored as Skyler Douglas choose to comment on his first words, her sweet dulcet tones of the finest wine undulled by the liquor in her system. "From your lair?" She echoes, another smile coming through her alabaster visage. A smirk then, "I don't suppose once Ameta finds that both of us are up here on the roof is going to do much for our reputations. The last rumour of us in the quidditch fields certainly gained a lot of attention..." As she trails off, and her eyes drift to the empty flask, which she discards next to her on the floor. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, dulled from wine, and lacking their usual alert focus. "But come. The rain couldn't be the only thing that drew you away from the infamous Ravenclaw Commons. If you're going to lie to me, you might as well make it interesting." A pause, "What are you really up to, Mr. Freeman?"

"My reputation," he speaks with a laugh, "is the last thing I'm worried about. Drunken, womanizing, points-obsessed, hides-in-his-dormitory Mitchell Freeman. Ask around the school and I'm sure that will be the general opinion of me - those that speak the truth, that is. Many are afraid to speak out against the Head Boy, as if I were some higher being..." He trails off for a few moments, thinking over his answer to her second question. "It may be that some force, unknown or unadmitted, has brought me here, but I do not think that so." He blinks suddenly, snapping out of his whimsy. "Why? You think me ensnared by your feminine wiles?"

"Don't be stupid," Skyler Douglas retorts, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "I'd rather prostitute myself out to the Headmaster before I'd ever lay my hands on you, Mr. Freeman." The liquor has loosened her tongue, allowing her to express her opinions with almost frightening freedom. And then the cool, collected mask that Mitchell seems to wear so easily and so habitually is now taken up by Skyler Douglas. "Our society is not one to forgive soiled reputations," the young woman continues as if she had not just sent a biting remark in his direction a mere second ago, canting her head faintly to one side as she watches him. Whatever she's thinking beneath that cool, courteous facade--she's not showing it. "You should take more care to cultivate it." Pausing then to collect her thoughts, Skyler Douglas says, "But tell me, what -are- you worried about-- if not your about reputation?" Again, another quick curve of a smile; no more genuine than the others.

"You cut me deep, Skyler," Mitchell Freeman murmurs. His voice is emotionless; it is impossible to tell if sarcasm was present in the comment. He has begun to lose feeling in his legs, so the young man unfurls himself, standing up once more. "My concern lies chiefly with the future," he says gravely, after a brief pause. "My future, specifically. It is... uncertain, at best. I have no outstanding skill in one particular area, nor do I have a passion toward any subject. To what will I devote my life? My family is wealthy, but not wealthy enough to support me if I do not take a job." He sighs. "There are other matters, of course, but they are just that - another matter." A pause, as he removes his glasses to massage the area around his eyes. "And what worries you, Miss Douglas?"

The rain has begun to fall harder now, splattering fat droplets of water on the rooftop with both increasing speed and force. Ka*THUMP, pitter-patter, *BAM*-- are the noises that is makes as it hits the stones, before a *whoooooosh* carries it down the slanted roof, preparing it for its final fall. Pulling her shawl around her, Skyler curls further into the small nest of dryness that she has built in this liquid world. And peering up at Mitchell who must surely be soaking wet by now, Skyler motions for him to join her beneath the umbrella. "Come join me. There isn't any use of you catching your death out here, or ruining more of your looks." A pause, and in this interim, Skyler considers his words. "That I will die without having ever really accomplished anything. I-- I never will have to take a job, and I certainly can always marry someone rich enough to support me. But I'm dreadfully fearful that I shall never find the important things of life such as love." A smirk then as she ridicules her own liquor-intoxicated words. "But do not think much of me. I'm sure it's the vodka talking just about now..."

"A fitting end, perhaps, if I were to become ill and die from this," he says with a sly smirk, although he does indeed climb under the umbrella and seat himself next to Skyler. "Looks are quite a nice thing to have - and, might I add, it was quite a nice, not to mention unexpected, thing of you to do, implying that I had any looks to speak of - but there are more important things. Ruining my looks is certainly one of the things that does _not_ worry me." Running a hand through his hair, Mitchell does not look at Skyler when he speaks; indeed, he has barely spared her a glance all this time. "Alcohol is known to remove one's inhibitions," he says quietly. "Therefore I will assume that what you have just said is utterly truthful, and something you would not normally have revealed." He pauses briefly, smiling a bit. "I fear the same thing, as well. Many, if not all, people do, I believe."

Alcohol always produces a tendency towards the depressing within Skyler Douglas. Sometimes, she'd simply spend hours contemplating 'how much her life sucks,' to put it mundanely. Hours, and hours-- a good slice of eternity-- is wasted in her intoxicated ramblings (this was how she'd spent her New Year's even), and so, wanting to break the old, terrible habit, Skyler Douglas attempts to make a joke. "Am I truly so abhorrent in -my- looks that you don't care to even look at me when you speak?" A pause, "I your savior, who has offered you shelter in the rain?" There is a laugh that issues forth, struggling into the heavy air. But even that is hollow, and embittered, failing to lift the down-trodden atmosphere that hovers like vultures above the two.

The young man sighs. "Even in the most... standard of situations, I find it difficult to maintain eye contact with people." Mitchell Freeman rolls his bony shoulders in an idle shrug. "Another one of my idiosyncracies, I suppose." He laughs abruptly, although it holds no humor - indeed, humor seems impossible in this place. "I have more than my fair share of them, do I not? But then, I suppose everyone must believe that of themselves..." He blinks a few times, then finally turns his head to face Skyler. "If anything, Miss Douglas, the rain is my salvation, and you Lucifer the trickster, leading me astray."

Skyler Douglas regards him for a moment through half-lidded eyes, which appear more blue than green in the dim lighting. "Didn't you know that failure to make eye contact is a sure sign of dishonesty?" she asks, and as she does so, she leans forward, folding her legs and then shifting onto her knees. "I would hardly think that then, a chronic liar, could ever travel through heaven's gate and attain salvation." One eyebrow hooks as he turns to look upon her, and she watches him, emerald optics meeting jade ones, and the two brilliant colors of verdant whirling and melding together in the chilly night's air. "Besides," a quirk of her lips, "I hardly think you need /me/ to be led into fire and brimstone. You seem to be practicing for hell on your own well enough."

A noise issues from Mitchell Freeman; a chuckle, a sigh, a sob - it is difficult to tell which. "These Muggle religions... I have studied them, and abandoned them long ago. The reference to the Devil, Lucifer, was merely allusion, a metaphor to our situation. I have no hope of winning through to paradise, should it indeed exist. I have lied, it is true; but my habit of not looking at those to whom I am speaking has nothing to do with that. I have lied to myself." A pause. "But why should you believe I am a sinner? I am fairly certain that the majority of students believe me to be... saintly, to use another allusion. Why then should you think I am on my way to Satan's grasp?"

"Perhaps, it is indeed a simple allusion, a metaphor, or even a crutch for our existence." Skyler Douglas pauses then, pale auric brows crumpling together as she attempts to organize her thoughts. For, though her tongue may have been loosened by the touch of liquor, the same force has made her thoughts clouded and fuzzy. Shapes, images, and ideas that had come so easily to her before the intoxication now swirls about her mind, tainted and confused. She swallows deeply, and there is a long, long pause before she speaks again. "But such a crutch has proven to be useful. It has given people something to -believe- in, a sense of purpose and even more importantly, a sense that something out there-- greater than them-- cares and loves them. Ah. To live in a world of delusions!" She does not answer Mitchell's last question and instead, focuses on the one sandwiched between the two. "Curious how you can justify lying to yourself and despise those who cling to religion oh-so-desperately and delude themselves into believing in a Higher Existence."

"I would rather have an equal, here and now, who cares for and loves me, then the knowledge that when I die, I will be transported to a better place where there is a supreme being who cares for and loves me." Mitchell Freeman tears his gaze from Skyler's, looking off into the distance once more. "I never denied the potency, the usefulness of religion at times. But it is not for me. Nor did I ever express disdain, much less hatred toward those who fervently believe. I pity them, on occasion, and sometimes I envy them. But I certainly do not hate them." He sighs, pulling his legs into himself and wrapping his arms about his knees.

Skyler Douglas reaches out to clasp his arm, and her fingers are chilled from the rain and cold. Whenever the effects of the alcohol wear off, she'll likely be shivering. "Mitchell," is her softly uttered words, addressing the boy by his first name for the first time and most probably, the last time if Ameta were ever to get wind of this. Her touch is lighter still, the brush of her fingers-- hands unused to the hardwork of any kind-- gracing his cheek before they draw back towards Skyler who then clasps them neatly behind her back. "Do you ever get the feeling when you think you should be happy? But you aren't?" A pause, and then Skyler gives a shake of her head, disturbing those honey-dipped ringlets so that they fall forward and into her line of sight. Her eyes roam the darkened world before them, lost in the watching of the rain and reveling at the cool, shivering touch of the wind as it whips through the area. "No. I shan't drag you further into my alcoholic slump. Let's talk of happier things, shall we? I think one of my chiefest faults is that I tend to waste my time on liquor and useless teenage angst-- a terrible habit really, and I do apologize." Her words are laced with false-cheer, and though the corners of her mouth may be quirked upwards in the impression of a smile, her eyes are sad, so sad.

He starts at the touch on his face, head jerking back around to stare at Skyler. He simply looks at her for a few moments, then finally he speaks, ignoring her later words and responding to her first question. "I do," Mitchell Freeman says softly. "That, in truth, is one of the foremost reasons I lock myself away in my dormitory - after pondering this. I am the Head Boy, a Chaser, one of the top students at the school... what reason do I have _not_ to be happy? What _right_? And yet there are times when I am overtaken by a sense of dread, or a feeling of sorrow, or..." He trails off, voice faltering, then clears his throat and begins again. "These are the times when I retreat into my dormitory - well, one of the reasons I do so, at least." Now he chooses to address the rest of what Skyler had said. "Liquor is never a waste of time, when consumed in moderation," the Head Boy speaks, dead seriously. "As for teenage angst - it is necessary. These things are, if one is lucky, driven out during adolescence, allowing for a more... productive... adulthood."

She exhales shakily, lashes fluttering down over her cheeks for a moment. A shiver echoes through her frame-- perhaps the effects of alcohol are finally beginning to wear off--, and the line of her jaw firming as teeth are set together. With excruciating slowness, she turns her head back to him, lifting her chin a notch so that stormy-green eyes, suspiciously bright, regard him fully. "How can you bear it?" Are the words that lift from her lips, woven with tones of curiousity. "To bear the curse of unhappiness and burdened with the guilt of it." She gives a shake of her head, rustling more golden curls out of place. Now, the young woman stands, and she falters-- though whether that is from the harsh wind that courses through the rooftop or simply because she's still inebriated-- is left for you to decide. Letting the rain pour down and soak her so that her clothes cling jealously to her curvy form, Skyler Douglas shouts out, "Oh! It'd be so much easier to simply jump!"

"I cannot bear it," Mitchell Freeman admits, for once not looking away from the girl as he speaks. "And yet, somehow, I do. I'm not quite certain how that works, but it seems to. This, I think, is what you must learn to do. To bear it, even though you cannot." He blinks, startled, as Skyler rises. He remains, legs pulled into himself, shivering slightly, for a few moments, until Skyler utters her exclamation. At this point he quickly unfurls his lanky form and closes the space between himself and the other with long strides, laying a hand on her shoulder - hesitantly, as if unsure whether she will whirl about and slap him if he touches her. "Skyler," he speaks softly. He remains quiet for a time, then speaks, louder than before. "Of course it would be easier. But no matter how bad things seem to be, they may always improve. If you end your life, there is no chance that your situation may take a turn for the better."

Mitchell startles her, the foreign touch of his skin causing her to recoil instinctively. A shiver is sent through her rain-soaked body, her serpentine motions made more visible in the jealous cling of her clothes against her skin. Surprise rounds her eyes and she gazes upon Mitchell for a long moment before jerking her head in the other direction, her gaze searching downward to trek the plummeting paths of the rain. And then those emerald optics close, auric lashes pressing against her alabaster skin even as rivers of salty sadness seep forth, mingling with the smooth texture of the rain and that of her skin. Where the tears begin and where the rain ends is blurred in this liquid world, and what comes out next is something between a sob and a laugh-- an awkward sound ringing with pain. She crumples onto the floor, silence capturing her as the hands of tension bind her tightly to her misery. Face buried in her lap, it would not be evident that Skyler Douglas was crying save for the shaking of her shoulders.

Seemingly hurt by Skyler's reaction to him, Mitchell Freeman merely stands quiet, letting the rain soak his robes until they hang limp on him, letting himself become saturated. He stands still even as Skyler begins to sob - for a short while, at least. At length, he crouches down and - awkwardly - touches his hand to Skyler's arm. Then, he quickly stands again, takes one last glance over the storm-shadowed grounds of the school, and turns suddenly, heading back into the castle proper without another word.

The storm does not abate with Mitchell's departure, nor does it with Skyler Douglas's collapse. It plows on, the winds lashing out at the world in adolescent fury and the sky cluttered with bruises of storm clouds. You, the head boy, chaser, a top member of your class had spared your attentions for her, had begun the stirrings of a curiously inverted friendship, and had provided company in her darkest and most violet of hours. Indeed, you were like a dream and when you leave, she wonders if this had been another product of her alcohol tainted mind. Dreams and flesh merged into a single entity. But in the end, you have left her with only dreams.