Salva looked up when he heard the snap of someone breaking a quill. He spotted Michael at a table near him and decided to go back to work rather than comment on the incident. At least until Michael began to talk. Salva didn’t have a lot of people he could stand, but he didn’t have anything against Ravenclaw. In fact, Michael was one of the few people that Salva paid attention to – even if it was just because Michael was good at Charms and that happened to be the only subject Salva liked. “Maybe they want you to build character, and decent handwriting skills,” Salva looked at Michael’s handwriting and then stared blankly at the Ravenclaw. He wasn’t trying to be funny or be rude; his statement seemed rather kind for what he could have said. Salva wasn’t aware of muggle technologies. Some of the muggleborns and halfbloods would talk about different kinds of technology that muggles had, but he always looked at them blankly when they tried to explain it to him. Growing up with a father who was a pureblood and a family that took blood supremacy to a whole other level, Salva hadn’t been introduced to muggle items. “You can charm a quill to write for you,” he stated with a neutral expression on his face. “Then it might write faster and maybe you can fix your chicken-scratch.” Again, he wasn’t trying to be rude. Just blunt and honest.
Michael hadn’t expected anyone to really answer his quiet belligerence towards the Wizarding World and its backwards ways, so when he heard the bland comment, it jarred him. He glanced up, confusion scratched into his features, his eyes suddenly guarded. “I’m sorry?” He asked quietly, his mouth going dry. He wasn’t sure what to make of the comments, nor was he used to being called out so blatantly. His eyes darted down to the scribbles on his essay, something Caldwell was always onto him about. He liked to think it was the handwriting of a writer, someone who could put ideas down as quickly as he could make them up in his head, someone with particular attention to higher things than handwriting. He took personal offense to that. “Sorry, I... I wasn’t....” He blushed hard. “Wasn’t talking to anyone,” he mumbled softly, looking back up at the boy. “I’m well aware of writing charms. I’m also aware of how easily they backfire. I’d rather be accurate than comfortable.”












