stilldebating
New Member
Hello, and welcome to my search thread. I'm stilldebating (or Jenny, if you prefer), and I'll be your roleplay solicitor for the evening. I'm a 27 year old essential worker currently slogging away in an attempt to get into grad school so that the fancy but utterly useless English degree I earned has some use. Being essential (ugh), I probably can't be on as often as your average folk in quarantine right now, so if you're looking for more than a post or two a week, I'm likely not the roleplayer for you. Out of character chatter I can do, happily, but a post requires more mental energy and I'm working retail in a pandemic, which is... frankly, not great. I've been writing for roughly a decade, so while I'm definitely new to the site, writing is something I've been at for a while. I get rather passionate about whatever I'm writing, and so if we are talking ooc, I tend to make playlists and mood boards that I'll probably share with you. (If you don't want to chat ooc, that's fine too.) When not writing, I'm either gaming, watching anime, or fawning over my pets and/or girlfriend. I have no social life to speak of, ya'll. It's great. So that's me, in a nutshell. At least, on a personal level. Let's move on!
I write in third person, past tense, and you can usually easily get upwards of 1000 words a post from me unless I'm suffering some major writer's block. That said, I don't actively count the words-- I don't want to write to reach a word count, or have my posts be purple prose nonsense. If I read it out loud and it sounds stupid, I'm not sending it to you. I'll rework it. That means that I typically cannot churn out a lot of posts a day unless it's one of my days off (Monday or Tuesday). I'm a slow writer, but I'm diligent, and I'll stick around for as long as you'll have me. As long as you give me something to work with, with decent grammar and spelling, we're good.
Romance is not necessary to write with me. I do prefer romance, but it's hardly a requirement, and it cannot be the main focus of the story or I lose interest very quickly. I need a plot on top of it. In terms of romantic configurations, I tend to prefer non-hetero relationships because hey, I'm not straight and my characters tend to not be straight either. (I'll still write hetero relationships-- it's just my least favorite type of romance, if that makes sense.) I'm very lgbt+ friendly, so bring me whatever character you want to play and we'll go from there. Nb, trans, genderfluid, have at it. I'll love them, I'm sure. Also, on the note of romance, I will not double to scratch your romantic itch unless the plot requires it. It usually leads to one pairing getting more attention, and frankly, I'd rather have one well-written couple than two mediocre ones just so we each get to play the gender of our choice. I just don't enjoy it. NPCS, on the other hand, I'll play as needed, with as many as needed. It's a plot thing.
Lastly, my limits are that of the site's. The only additional one is that I'm rather skeeved out by needles. I'm phobic. Brief mentions are fine; a paragraph about an injection is not. I've been known to dip my toes into some darker themes, so if there's anything that might concern you when talking a darker plot, please, let me know. I don't want to make you uncomfortable, and I assume you want the same. No godmodding, all that jazz. Common sense stuff, I'd hope. (Watch me have to add to this later cuz I'm a dumb-dumb who didn't think of something that gives me the Big Anxiety.)
These are definitely not all inclusive, seeing as how it's primarily a word bank with a handful of plots at the bottom, so please feel free to suggest things if you don't see something that strikes your fancy. It's mostly to give you a feel for what I like so we can come up with something together. I'll add more plots as I think of them, too, so check back!
word bank
labyrinths / conspiracies / murder / curses / crime rings / not-so-friendly-fae / dragons / royalty that saves themselves / dystopian societies / life after the apocalypse / thieves and vagabonds / fairy tales and fables / magical realism / high fantasy / androids / androids as weapons of war / time travel / alternate universes / doppelgangers / strangers you once knew / lost in the woods / ghosts / oops wrong number / amnesiacs / back from the dead / unwilling heroes / not so imaginary friends / found families / yandere / obsession / mmos / faustian contracts / bounty hunters / necromancy / time loops / southern gothic / neighborhood cryptids / merfolk / enemies to lovers / reluctant soulmates
song inspiration
• alive || kid cudi
• big god || florence + the machine
• counting bodies like sheep || a perfect circle
• genghis khan || miike snow
• hope in the air || laura marling (the song's kinda quiet)
• i am stretched on your grave || kate rusby
• marked man || mieka pauley
• mr. malum || the dear hunter
This plot is based off of the Not-So-Imaginary-Friend prompt from the word bank, and it's a bit on the darker side. Not your cup of tea, carry on, please! I'll add more plots later, more than likely.
Second plot is a lot lighter-- and needs a lot of worldbuilding, probably, due to it being fantasy. If not your cup of tea, carry on. Honestly was torn posting this one because part of me wants to write it myself but... well, it'd be fun to write with someone else, too. The struggle, ya'll.The imagination of a child is a strange thing, isn't it? A thousand possibilities laid bare by the minds of babes, with adults looking on in bemused wonder at the days they've lost with age. A cardboard box, in the hands of a child, becomes a castle. A stick, a sword. The neighbor's dog, a dragon... Whole worlds, from the smallest of things. Whole imaginary people, from nothing but a scrap of inspiration found from God knows where.
Our story begins with one such child. A particularly lonely child winds up imagining their first imaginary friend, as children are apt to do. At first, no one thinks anything of it. Most kids have an imaginary friend at some point, after all, and so the kid's parents don't raise an eyebrow... at first. Sure, it's a bit odd looking in the drawings their kid makes, but that's really no cause for alarm, due to it being imaginary and all. Children do have rather detailed imaginations, and what an adult views as odd and what a child views as odd are two very different things, after all. And so it goes. Their child is happy at long last, and isn't that what matters? The child thinks that the imaginary friend is a super great, of course! They are never mean, and they always go along with whatever games the kid comes up with. The friend even changes shapes, which is really entertaining to watch! Talons and feathers and horns and back again, all in the blink of an eye. Most importantly, the friend promises the child that it's not going anywhere... ever. They'll be friends, always and always, and isn't that just great?
At least, it's great until the friend keeps that promise. For years. The child grows up, and while other kids have cast away their imaginary friend due to the juvenile nature of the thing, the kid (now grown) can't get rid of them. They're a very lonely person, after all, and it'd be just mean to cast away such a loving friend, right? But reality catches up to the best of us, and eventually, the kid's parents express great concern because their child is now in their teens, and the drawings on the fridge have become more and more detailed as the years pass, and, well.... The friend is scary. Their child is almost an adult, so they push for the kid to let the friend go. And so the kid tries, but the harder that the kid tries to push the friend away, the more angry and violent it becomes. It's having trouble keeping a form that is pleasant to the eyes, and it's begun to start lashing out at anyone who tries to get too close. A series of accidents where other children are harmed leads to the kid being taken to therapy, and through medicine, the imaginary friend goes away, nothing more than a bittersweet memory of youth and the "visions" of a delusional mind in need of medication.
Years pass, and the kid, now fully grown, almost forgets. Almost, but never entirely, because even on the medication, if they look carefully enough, in the corner of their eye, there is a familiar face. It's getting closer by the day, and my, my, does it look angry... and quite solid.
How long can one go asking for companionship before something comes to answer?
((I want to really stress that this story starts after the friend/child in the scenario reaches at least the age of 18. Older would be preferred. I don't want to write against a child character facing potential trauma. At all.))
There is a story.There is a story where there is a Woman, and this Woman lived alone for many years. Then there was Man, and while She did not know where Man came from, She was overjoyed to have company. However, this was not to last, for Man grew old while She stayed the same. He had much that he wanted to do, but he had not the time to do it in, and eventually, the man passed, leaving behind a legacy of nothing. Stricken by grief, the Woman mourned long and hard, but in the end, along came another man. His fate was like the first, but the Woman still did not age. Again and again, She witnessed the death of many that She grew to love, and in time, She made a vow: She would help all living things find their calling, so that when they passed, they would do so without regrets. She became a Goddess, seeing over every person who breathes, so that they may live happily.
Or so the story goes. There's always a story, after all.
The reality of the matter? Everyone is born with a "knack," a talent (supposedly) given to them by a mythical being in the hope that it will show them the way to their true calling, that it will make their short, mortal lives as fruitful as possible. Say someone has a gift for baking bread, perfectly, every single time. They'd make an excellent baker, so that is what they would become. Say someone can detect a lie with one hundred percent accuracy. They'd make an excellent lawyer. Not all knacks are this straightforward, of course. Someone may just as easily have the ability to talk to slugs, and another person may be able to turn into glass (which is really unfortunate, due to the whole chipping issue.) Regardless of their usefulness, a knack is still a gift from the Goddess, a sign of her love. However, people are envious creatures, and with so many different talents out there, it's natural that there are some people cursing their lots in life, wishing for the talent of another. Of course, there is nothing to be done about this, for mortal men do not have the power of the Goddess, and she makes no mistakes. It's impossible to change one's talent.
Until, suddenly, it isn't. One day, someone's talent goes missing. There's an outcry, a few snorts of disbelief, and time goes on. But then it happens again and again, and suddenly, everyone's paying really close attention to their neighbors and friends... because someone, somewhere, was given a knack that lets them steal other people's talents, stripping them down into a normal human being. To some, this individual's ability is an abomination, something separate of the Goddess. Perhaps it was born of a mutation of some sort? Surely She would never bestow such a power, they cry. It's heinous, to undo Her work, and, to some, it's something unforgivable. Damnable, even. After all, the Goddess only gives you one talent. Just one. When it's gone, it's gone.
To others? The Talent Thief, as he (or she) becomes known, is a savior. There have always been some harmful knacks, after all. There are the knacks that cause harm to those who possess them, and then there have been knacks that can potentially hurt others. Pyrokinesis. Brute strength. The ability to spit poison. To inflict pain from across the room. A knack like those can only be used to harm, unless one is very, very creative. But why be creative? Why bother, when you can take what you want, as you want it? There will always be those who abuse their talents, taking advantage of those who cannot fight back. These talents, too, go missing, and suddenly that ability to steal knacks doesn't seem so bad. There are some that view the thief as a messenger of the Goddess, a tool of punishment and destruction against the unruly and the cruel, and for this thief, some men and women bow, singing their praise.
Regardless of public opinion, the fact remains: suddenly, there's a means and a way to trade talents. Out of the cracks of civilization, it grows, hungry like a weed and just as stubborn. It operates in plain sight, innocuous and unassuming, with the Thief hidden away in the shadows, far away from prying eyes. With the right connections, some luck, and a bit of coin, it's possible to change one's fate, and business is thriving. Talents are taken and given, and the discarded talents from former clients are available for sale, should a former victim or passerby decide they want them. What's more, the Thief is managing to do this all without being seen. Those who were once clients cannot recall any step of the process of losing or gaining a new knack. Victims recall even less, unaware that their gift was taken until it is far too late. Any attempt to catch him in the act has failed, and tracking the market to its source is also nigh impossible, due to its size. What's more, there are several individuals with power who support him. Mafia members, politicians... It doesn't matter. In return for his services, they offer protection.
It seems to be a perfect system, until shit hits the proverbial fan.
The thief steals a knack for a powerful mafia member, but somehow? Somehow, it gets stolen again. This is a problem, because suddenly there are some really angry, powerful men who want what they paid for... and the victim who lost the knack in the first place? Yeah, they found the Talent Thief, and they want what's theirs and they want it now... but the thief doesn't have it, and so together, the two of them have to hunt down what's been lost, and uncover the truth behind the second thief... and perhaps, even, the goddess herself.
((The characters played can change, of course! The victim made the most logical sense to play against, but a childhood friend or something similar would work as well. I'm mostly excited to mess around in this world, if that makes sense.))
First and foremost, before I list these out, I am currently not looking to play canon x oc. I've been burned too often, and I'm taking a break from it. Canon x Canon or two original characters is fine. Carry on. The bolded character, if a pairing is listed, is the one I would prefer to play. If a pairing is not listed, suggest away! The ones listed are just my current cravings-- they change. I'm down for most ships, if they make sense. (That includes crossover pairings. Try me.)
If there is a series you want to ask me about that you do not see listed, ask-- these are just current cravings.
• My Hero Academia
Midoriya Izuku x Todoroki Shouto
Shota Aizawa x Hizashi Yamada
• Fullmetal Alchemist
• Hunter x Hunter
Gon x Killua (aged up)
• Naruto (AU only because I stopped reading mid-Akatsuki; just feeling nostalgic)
Kakashi x Iruka
• Yu Yu Hakusho
Yusuke x Kurama
Hiei x Kurama• Danganronpa (all except 3)
komaeda x hinata
toko x komaru
• Detroit: Become Human
Connor (rk800) x Hank (platonic or otherwise)
• Persona 3/4/5/Q1
fem!3mc x Aigis
Souji (fight me, Atlus) x Yosuke
Souji (fight me, Atlus) x Kanji
Ann x Makoto
Akira x Yusuke
• Spirit Hunter: NG• Good Omens
Aziraphale x Crowley
• Harry Potter
Harry x Draco (preferably post-war)
Sirius Black x Remus Lupin
• Marvel MCU (have not seen End Game)
Steve x Bucky
Tony x Loki
• The Umbrella Academy
General dark content warning for this one. Nothing too graphic in this post, though, other than allusions to another character's traumatic past. All the allusions that might trigger you (violence and a brief mention of a conversion camp and a school shooting) are in the second paragraph. It's glossed over, but you can skip that one all together and you should be okay.
...Didn't realize it was that dark til I went to repost this. Welp. Anyway.
Flicker might have been out of sight and out of mind, but the man was most certainly not gone. After all, he had made a promise: he and Bruno were going to be together forever. Flicker had held out one tiny childish finger and made that vow, and had given his boy a ring, and Bruno had agreed. Forever. Flicker would be whatever Bruno needed him to be, and nothing would ever tear them apart.
Not his nannies, who tried to put the child in time out for misbehavior, and who all later quit their jobs, speaking of the devil. Not the boy's mother, who had yelled at them and who had fallen down the stairs. Not the bullies, whose arms Flicker had broken. And definitely not the conversion camp counselors, who had burned and hit the boy. That one was tricky, but Flicker had held Bruno and whispered sweet things and found the counselors later, and they had gotten burned and cut and they screamed too. And then there was the gun and the yelling, but Flicker didn't have to do anything for that one. Bruno had tried to keep them together too, by shooting the others, and Flicker loved him.
He loved him so damn much.
And so everything Flicker did was for his boy, and that was okay, because Flicker was Bruno's too. Bruno said so. Bruno said a lot of things, and Flicker listened, because he loved his boy and his boy was a god and no one else was real but his boy was, and so Flicker was too and he loved him, he loved him, he loved--
But then Bruno lied.
Bruno took the pills. Flicker tried to keep those away too. Bottles upon bottles of red and white capsules, spinning round the drain, down down down. Bottles thrown across rooms, pills smashed to dust and carpet fibers, and broken things in the therapist's office.
But Bruno had lied and broken his promise and took the pills, because Flicker had to go away. Flicker did not understand why he had to go away. Where was Away? The man, then a boy, did not know how to get there. "Are you going Away too?" he'd asked, and Bruno had smiled and that was not the right smile. Flicker had gotten scared. Bruno did not smile anymore after that. Flicker should have known then and there that his Bruno was lost and that he had to find him.) Bruno took the pills and Flicker had been helpless to stop him.
At first the results of the pills wasn't all that noticeable. Things continued as they always had. There were days where Flicker did not speak at all, and so when the change did come, it was a shock. The imaginary friend had asked a question, but Bruno did not hear. So Flicker had gotten louder. Had screamed. Got right in his boy's face, shrieking, pleading, but Bruno had stared vacantly at him and Flicker had hated him. So he tried to get rid of the medicine. His fingers went right through, and that was when he knew the end was coming, because it kept getting worse. Flicker seemed to go in and out like a television with bad reception, there one moment and gone the next. The harder he tried to cling to Bruno, the more Bruno slipped between his fingers, until eventually Flicker went Away.
Funny thing about Away, though. It isn't very far from Bruno at all. Flicker was still there, silently watching because what else could he do? The man couldn't leave. He didn't want to leave, but even if he did, he couldn't go too far without winding up right where he had started. So Flicker had been there for the sessions with Dr. Harmon. Had heard about the exercises and the medicine and the therapy, and had wanted to brain the good doctor with one of his paperweights. Had tried, but the paperweight would not move, and the balding doctor had smiled and smiled and smiled. Flicker had no choice: he could not leave, and for the first time, he was truly alone in a crowd of people.
He hated it. He hated Bruno for doing this to him, but he loved him so.
Eventually he stopped trying to speak or touch his boy, and settled in to watch. Watched the therapy. Watched Bruno's mother and father smile and dote on him for once, and had laughed and screamed. Watched Bruno get older and aged with him, irritated and skin crawling no matter how many times he removed it. But then Bruno met Aaron and began to wear his ring instead, and Flicker stopped laughing. Bruno was replacing him... and he was still there.
He was there when his parents decided to go away for the day. He was there when the pair of boys had been giggling going up the stairs, taking the steps after them. He did not want to go after them, but he was not going to leave the Thing alone with Bruno, either. The Thing had to go. Flicker knew this, but what could he do?? He'd tried pushing him, he'd tried choking him, he'd tried yelling and pleading and screaming... and now the pair were kissing and something in him shattered.
Flicker was more broken glass than person now. Maybe he always was.
He did not think. He did not hesitate. Flicker felt the familiar popping and snapping of his bones rearranging, shifting and sharpening, and this time, when he dragged his nails along Aaron's back, Aaron screamed. Maybe that's what it took to draw blood this time. Shards of glass. Flicker watched Aaron twist away, scrambling against an attacker who did not exist, and for the first time in a long time, his mind was blissfully quiet.
The cuts were shallow things. Nothing permanent (a shame, that), but they did the job. They weren't kissing, anymore, at least, and that gave him time to consider his options. It was not often that he considered his options, since he was so used to not having any. With a clinical eye, he watched the pair fuss over one another. Watched Bruno deny making the cuts, and quickly tuned the pair out, turning and walking down the stairs.
A lamp downstairs went flying across the room with a loud crash. Books came tumbling out of their shelves, landing in rapid thumps, pages torn out and left where they lie. Sofa cushions were flung across the room, pictures torn from the walls, and amidst it all was Flicker, moving with a single minded purpose.
If he cannot keep the Thing from coming, then he'll just have to keep the parents from leaving ever again. Easy. He tore the blinds down, vaguely aware of screaming somewhere elsewhere in the house--- but he didn't care. Eventually he grew tired, but by then, the damage was done.
The living room was a disaster, and Flicker found himself sitting amidst it all, chest heaving and exhausted but laughing all the same. He'd get stronger. He'd follow Bruno wherever he goes. All he needed is time, and that is something he has plenty of.
Out of sight and out of mind he might be, but not for long.- No content warnings for this one whatsoever. It's taken from a Harry Potter roleplay I've done. If you need more samples, I can dig some up.
The wizarding world had always had high expectations for the Boy Who Lived. After all, he had "defeated" Voldemort as an infant (just not permanently), and that came with certain implications that he would continue to do great things. Harry's life had always been plotted out, or it had seemed that way. He was meant to fight Voldemort to the death. He was meant to become an Auror. He was meant to marry Ginny Weasley and have children, who were all going to be in Gryffindor house and who were also going to do great things. He was going to be a loving godfather to Teddy, and the uncle that spoiled his nieces and nephews positively rotten. Life after the war had seemed so cookie cutter perfect, and Harry had been rather looking forward to it in those bright and shining days that came when the dust settled.
And so he had done all of those things. He had became an Auror, a shining example of one, even. Was better at shield charms than all of his coworkers combined, and had been quick on his feet and good in a bind. Very skilled at Defense Against the Dark Arts, and really, what else could you want from an Auror? He had a good work ethic. Did all his bloody paperwork on time and everything. He had a good paying position, and liked his coworkers fine. He'd married Ginny in a private ceremony with close friends and adopted family. She'd looked lovely, and Harry had been stupidly in love with her, as he was in school. He'd assumed his godfatherly role for baby Teddy, taking joy in all the bumps along the way, and life was good.
But Merlin, did Harry hate being an auror. Frankly, it was absolute shit. Good at it and loving it were two very, very different things, as Harry was quick to discover. He'd wake up dreading work, and spend the whole day dreading the call to go and save some poor git who got in over their head messing with things they did not understand, and he'd go home and repeat the whole bloody process. And after that, well. Things kept falling apart, really.
He'd divorced Ginny amicably enough, about two years after they got married. It was all over the papers, and in the heat of the rumors, Harry had walked into the head auror's office, dropped off his letter of resignation with a cheery wave, and left England all together for a while. (He almost wished he had stayed long enough to see the headlines: they would have been great for a laugh.) He'd traveled to Romania with Charlie, to see the dragons. He'd gone to visit Oliver and watched his quidditch team practice for the Cup, which they lost miserably. After that, Harry had just traveled. Anywhere and everywhere. He had the funds, so why not?
For the majority of the past eleven or twelve years, Harry Potter had been some elusive creature only seen in brief photographs of the Daily Prophet, like some wizarding version of Bigfoot. (Was there an actual wizarding Bigfoot? He'd have to ask Hagrid. He would know. Or maybe not, if it was purely a muggle invention. Anyway.)
The only real constant in those years was Ron, Hermione, and the Weasley family. And, of course, Teddy and Adromeda. He adored Teddy, really he did, and he wasn't about to let a very early midlife crisis keep him from being a good godfather or uncle to the rapidly growing number of Weasley children.
In the end, though, he should have known. Hogwarts was his home. It had always been. McGonagall somehow found him in Egypt four years ago, and had made him an offer to come back a teacher. He had accepted, and the Prophet was soon running stories about the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher...
...but that was not the position Harry accepted. He'd taken Charms. Was offered Defense Against the Dark Arts, but no. Harry wanted Charms. So McGonagall gave him Charms. He'd gotten good marks in it, and in the seventh year that he was on the run, he'd improved greatly. He even had teaching experience with Dumbledore's Army. So why not? She saw no problem. Neither did Harry.
Harry loved it. Instantly. It wasn't always easy, but it was rewarding, and it was the one decision he'd ever made that no one expected of him. The transition to teaching came easily.Hogwarts once again welcomed him with open arms, as if he had never left. The only difference being that he was no longer restricted to his room at night, and that he had an office and colleagues who he got along swimmingly with. Was on a first name basis with most of them, actually, although the habit to use "professor" had died hard. In any event, it was as if a weight on Harry's shoulders he wasn't aware of had lifted, and he was content again. Sure, he was not a father, or an auror, or a husband, but that was fine. He was happy.
The only downside, if there was any, was having to move all his stuff back in every late-August before the students arrived in September, and moving it all out again when the school year ended. It was a minor inconvenience, but McGonagall had asked him to come earlier this year, to show the new Potions teacher around. Harry didn't mind. It was just an excuse to leave Grimmwauld Place a little earlier to return to Hogwarts. Just a chance to get to learn who the new professor was and get off to good terms for the rest of their career at Hogwarts.
Really, it was hardly a hardship. He'd still have more than enough time to see the Weasley kids get onto the train. So, really, it was no problem at all.
Or at least, it shouldn't have been. If the new professor were anyone else, it wouldn't have been.
As it was, Harry readjusted his shirt cuffs, gave himself a quick once over for any lingering floo powder, and pushed open the door to McGonagall's office with a, "Sorry I'm late, Headmistress---" only to feel the words slowly wither on his tongue because sitting in front of her on the sofa as if he belonged there was one Draco Malfoy. Harry recognized him instantly with the sort of clarity that only came from years of animosity. His hair was longer, and Merlin, was he growing a beard? but it was still undeniably Malfoy. Harry would know his annoyingly attractive face anywhere.
How long had it been? Eight? Nine years? Since Harry was an auror, at least, if one could count the brief snatches of Malfoy he'd catch out of the corner of his eye at the Ministry. If those hadn't counted, then the trial and the bit afterwards where he'd given Draco back his wand with some muttered dribble about not wanting to leave any score unsettled. He'd kept the Malfoy's from Azkaban, returned the wand, and resolutely vowed never to have anything more to do with them than he had to, and that had been a rather good system so far. He'd spoken up a few times in the Ministry when he heard some bigoted comment about Malfoy volunteering information, because at least the man was trying, but...
Other than that, they'd been blissfully ignoring each other for 11 years. It had been a good stretch of time. Harry was already mourning it. And, of course, like every time Harry had ever been around Draco Malfoy, he felt distinctly under-dressed. Great, great, great.
It took some effort to stop from gaping at him, but Harry managed well enough, recovering with a quick nod at Malfoy and flicking his eyes to McGonagall instead, who was surveying them both with a regal stare. "Is there going to be a problem, boys?"
"No, ma'am." Not on Harry's side, anyway. (He could never account for anything Malfoy did besides being a massive git in school. What he was like now, Harry had no idea. Probably still a git.) Still, if he had known, maybe he would have worn better shoes. Definitely not trainers. Or at least he would not have been late.
McGonagall seemed satisfied with this answer, though, and gestured Harry forward to stand by her armchair, which he did. "Mr. Malfoy, your advisor for the coming week is going to be Mr. Potter, the Charms Professor. Should you have any questions or concerns in the coming days, you will direct them to him. He'll be giving you the tour shortly, and I do hope you can make this castle your home for the duration of the school year. Good afternoon, gentlemen."
And with that, McGonagall stood and swept out of the room, leaving a wary Gryffindor behind her. Merlin, he had not signed up for this.
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