Choices
“You don’t have to do shit, you know that, right?” Barty gesticulates wildly with his hands, brushing Evan’s shoulder with every new jerked motion of his arms. He barely registers it.
Regulus stays silent at his other side, stoically facing the corridor leading to the infirmary. The shorter boy doesn’t have to say anything to Evan, for the blonde to know, he agrees - it’s in both of their best interest: A student can’t just have a physical fight in the middle of the great hall and walk away from that unscathed- there are always consequences, especially with the way Slytherins are treated under the supervision of Albus Dumbledore as their headmaster. And such a mess is always better faced without too many chatty witnesses.
So even if Evan wouldn’t feel that festering sensation of guilt coiling in his stomach, the flutter of anxiety in his lungs - Remus’ absence after the fight was over - he’d have to apologise on his own volition for the sole reason of keeping up appearances in front of the teachers. It’s already too late to avoid any kind of punishment they see fit to inflict on him, but he can’t leave the bigger picture out of sight - the rumours, the consequences he will have to face as soon as the winter holidays will roll around and he’ll find himself exposed to his father again. By then he will have to have a repertoire of significant counter-arguments ready - academic accomplishments, as well as won, hierarchical power-plays - to have a chance at an attempt to ensure his physical and mental wellbeing. His father will probably still crucio him, repeatedly at that - for slipping this once. Evan is not looking forward to it.
Still, damage-control is in order. It may not save his neck in the future - in the real world. But here at Hogwarts - as long as he may be allowed to stay, it could present itself as an opportunity to make a change in his reputation. At least in front of the teachers. All Evan can do now anyway, is to hope for his plan to work.
Barty starts rambling at his side again - or continues? Evan doesn’t know - contemplating different argumentative strategies in his head, while he avoids curious glances finding their target on him. He really did something there in the great hall. The initial urge to claim his family name and face the responsibilities awaiting him - standing up for the first time to defend himself and show just enough of his power to present himself as a threat best not crossed - evaporated during the potions lesson a few hours ago. The disappointment stayed with him though - kept festering in his chest and weighs down every single step he takes now. Everything happened too fast for Evan to make a solid decision- to really think about every possible outcome - his needs and the demand of the situation. He acted on an impulse, reacted to the threat that came as much from Black and Potter as it did from his own father’s shadow always looming over his shoulder.
And in doing so - where did that bring him? The bad graces of the teachers who are responsible for his education and in the power to inflict any kind of punishment on him, the bad side of the entirety of of Gryffindor house - soon their sneers would turn into thrown hexes whenever Evan dares to walk in the corridors alone- a personal issue with Black and Potter. The two golden boys - popular quidditch prodigies, top of their classes just after Remus and that Evans girl - infamous pranksters and notorious Slytherin-haters.
Yes. Evan has jinxed himself with that outburst. Never start at a pace that you can’t keep up. Pandora has always preached to him when they were younger - in french - their mother language. When Evan had started to skip his meals in order to spend more time on his research projects or stayed awake at night to study the stars even though he knew that his family planned a gathering on the next day and expected his attendance. Pandora had covered for him then, smiling and chatting with their relatives while supporting Evan’s body weight at her side when all his strength left him way too early for him to excuse himself to sleep. The scolding afterwards had been a light one - concerned instead of angry - worried and gentle as she tucked him into bed and climbed down the bunk to slip into her own sheets. How do you expect to create something great, when you take away your own opportunity to grow into the kind of person you want to become? You can’t rush these things, Evvy. You have to give yourself time and the space to grow - or else you’ll ruin yourself. You can’t be everything you want to be before your time.
The hallway ahead stretches to a twisted inspiration of a cynic’s painting - a riddle hidden under layers and layers of severely burned fabric. It is taunting him. Haunting in a way that castle halls get haunted in a matter of decades of their abandonment. A heaviness settles in Evan’s stomach - a drowning sensation that tunes out the world around him - makes him into a mere witness of his own life - captured and bound behind a milk glass window. Forced to watch as the sluggish steps of his body separate his human matter from the soul stuck drifting in the corridor among the other ghosts.
It doesn’t last long. That sensation. In no time he is back swivelling his head from left to right, catching one of Regulus’ concerned frowns before escaping in a rush behind the heavy infirmary doors. The others don’t follow - just like they said they wouldn’t. It’s a Slytherin thing - an heir-thing. To get the chance at being someone you’ve got to have an idea about how to face your own trials without any support at your side. Regulus will be waiting though. Evan is certain of it. His best friend might mind the etiquette of regulating his space and responsibilities, but he’d refrain from leaving Evan completely without back-up if things would go sideways. They never had to talk about it. It’s an unshakable fact - established between them since the first meeting that took place in the Rosier residence at the beginning of this summer break. They might have been friends before - shared years and years of memories and trials - but nothing quite as big - as monumental.
Regulus will wait. However long it might take Evan to deliver his apologies and collect his punishments. He might even keep him company throughout those tasks - unseen and unheard - there nonetheless. That knowledge alone settles something in Evan - calms the storm raging through his mind. He can practically feel Regulus’ presence through the heavy wooden door separating them, when he turns around and faces the empty hall of the infirmary.
Nothing really matters here anyway - does it? Whatever his father’s plans are, they’re inevitable in the end anyway. Evan’s role here lays solely the representation of Rosier house and therefore presenting an impenetrable mask of academic excellence and pureblood superiority. He’d face his father’s consequences anyway - no need to fret over the opinion of professors who were walking corpses for all that he can assume will come in the near future.
The threat of their judgment is way less real than what will await him at home over the Christmas holidays. Still - for the facade alone - and a desperate wish that everything would work out differently somehow, he takes a step forward in search for Pomfrey the medi-witch to make his confession.
He does find her eventually. Stacking up potions next to an opulent staircase. Potter and Black are nowhere to be seen. Evan is secretly glad of it. He will have to face them eventually but it would probably best to get the formalities out of the way without the taunting of ill-wishing witnesses present, he decides.
Straightening up, Evan forces his features into a neutral expression and eventually breathes out audibly to announce his presence to the busy woman sorting through one of the many supply cabinets.
She doesnt react startled - on the contrary - she continues her sorting, taking out one potion after the other and eventually turns while balancing the vials in her arm, using the other one to straighten out her robes absentmindedly. When she takes a look at him though, her expression shifts. Clearly she didn’t expect him to show up here - or anywhere for that matter. A hard line begins to form where her brows meet in the middle of her forehead and that sudden heaviness starts to sink in Evan’s lungs again.
Of course he did expect her to react displeased at his sight - still - that part in him, that futile hopeful part in him - it had anticipated differently - had opted for the benefit of the doubt. The realisation that he won’t find it with her is a bitter one to swallow - a reminder of the horrible events to come. Something in Evan still wishes for another outcome - however misplaced it might be.
Poppy Pomfrey is just the beginning. And if he wants it or doesn’t - he will have to face this future reality at some point. The constant disappointment of uninvolved parties, the betrayal of his collection of painful ‘almosts’. It’s an unstoppable cascade.- A road that is destined to go down down down.
Swallowing the lumb beginning to form in his throat, Evan regards the medi-witch with his chin raised, stoic until his last breath “I came to personally apologise to mister Potter and mister Black. My behaviour was destructive and I take full accountability for it. I am aware of the possible consequences to my actions and I am willing to face them once I’ve got the chance to express my apologies to Mister Black and Mister Potter personally. Would it be possible for you to lead me to them? I haven’t seen them in the hospital wing, even though I am sure that they still reside here.”
Pomfrey’s reaction is far from what Evan anticipated - her expression shifts from unsure to pity so fast, that the last syllable stays stuck on his lips despite the hours of speech-training his father had him do over the summer. How very curious.
In his confusion, he is left to only stare at the older woman rearranging the vials in her possession while she starts angling her head at him in an open display of compassion.
“Mister Rosier - Evan. It is most noble of you to offer your apologies - certainly a display of your good character.” she starts, leaving Evan gaping at her in disbelief before he collects his wits and fixes his composure to not interrupt her further - or worse raise any suspicions that haven't been there before, “But I have been informed about this situation already and based on the shared experience you have nothing to apologise for. Mister Lupin was especially insistent on your utter innocence regarding this situation-“ She trails off, throwing him another pitying look of concern - subtlety letting her gaze wander over his frame, searching - Hopefully not noticing his anticipation once that one name fell out of her mouth.
“There will be another announcement delivered by your head of house - Professor Slughorn, I take it - but I can tell you in confidence, that there will be no punishment for your actions, Mister Rosier. In fact, from what I have heard, you will find yourself facing an apology from mister Potter and mister Black instead - Professor McGonagall was most instant on this. Once they have recovered, naturally. Until then, I take your willingness to take responsibility for the bullying inflicted on your person by other students in consideration and tell you one thing: Should there ever be another incident, resembling the one you had to endure in the library a few days ago, you are welcome to voice such to me. I personally, will make sure that your personal wellbeing will be prioritised.”
Everything about her reaction throws Evan off balance. Mister Lupin ?
Remus? Remus.
Remus said something? About him? About his innocence? About the library? Remus defended him?
It’s too good to be true - sending shivers through Evan’s entire body. He needs confirmation on this fact more than anything at the moment - his plans about soothing his father’s reaction thrown out of the window at once.
Remus didn’t just disappear? Did he now - no. He must have went straight to McGonagall.
And why? Evan doesn't know. But he needs to. Almost as much as his lungs need air to breath - almost as much as his heart needs blood to pump through his arteries - almost as much as -
“What did he say?” It breaks out of him involuntary, a hoarse whisper - nothing else would have been able to carry his message as sufficiently without exposing his vulnerability.
And while Evan is busy being ashamed for his sudden outburst and yet another display of his thoughtlessness and lack of consideration, Pomfrey regards him with a compassionate warmth that is almost too unsettling for Evan’s taste. But he isn’t thinking clearly, one need - and one need only driving his actions - and he stays completely still as he waits for the medi-witch’s answer.
“Mister Lupin came to see professor McGonagall shortly after the incident and expressed nothing but honest concerns about his housemates’ behaviour. He told her about your status as a prefect and good-natured character. He expressed his worry for your wellbeing - and considering mister Lupin’s position as prefect, housemate of mister Potter and mister Black and their longstanding friendship - Professor McGonagall saw it as her duty to inform me and the other professors about your innocence. I hope it’s in your best interest that the situation got handled this way. But I must express my own concern about you, Mister Rosier - Professor McGonagall also spoke to your sister earlier and she informed her about the changes in your family - My deepest condolences. it must have been hard to not only lose your brother this early in your life but also take up the legacy of your noble family. There is a heavy weight on your shoulders - and I am, glad that you have well-wishing parties inside these castle walls to watch over you while you undergo the changes in these trying times.” She finishes with another benevolent smile.
Evan is too stunned to speak. All of those revelations take him completely by surprise. Not only Pandora’s involvement, but also Remus - defending him - speaking up against his own best friends - against Sirius? Even Sirius?
And Pandora - when - how - and most importantly, why?
Evan’s head is pounding with the overflow of information. He is lost again - too close to drifting out of his body again. To close to bursting out in tears. And how horrific would that be? losing his composure just because two people took it in their hands to defend him. Two sides of two coins he believed to be so undeniably lost just a handful of minutes ago - that he will inevitably lose once again - for good - no way to return - an ending in sight-
Not yet, though. Not now. Not in the next few days. Not until the next current comes to take him away without return. It is borrowed time, but time no less.
“Mister Rosier? Are you feeling well? Do you need to sit down for a minute?” The words come from far away - almost too breezy to be real - so surreal in the bubble of his epiphany. They don't fit.
But soft, yet strong hands guide him at his shoulders, reaching through the sparkling mist in front of his eyes and jolt him straight into the reality of him being at the infirmary in the middle of the day. Seated on a freshly made hospital bed, a glass of clear liquid in his hands, blinking against the milky light falling through the large windows to his left.
Pomfrey is at his side in an instance, checking him over with attentive eyes and a stern expression etched into her features. She urges him to drink from the glass with a nod and casts spells around him that he cannot place. Evan is dizzy through all of it. Bone crushing relief washes over him in waves, makes his knees weak and his eyes sting. He cant remember a time, when he had been this glad about not having ruined something with finality. Not yet at least.
“Mister Rosier? Can you talk to me for a second? I am still trying to figure out, what made you collapse - would you respond to me, please? Right now I can only detect a strong upwelling of emotional complications, but-”
Evan honestly forgot about her for a second again, while lifting the glass of water to his lips, but her words shake him right out of his haze and he blinks up to her rapidly increasing frown.
“No, I am alright - I think - I - It is all a bit much, you see. Responsibilities and all that - I feel much better - I - my friends they’re waiting outside - I will just-” He begins, swallowing after every word, perplex and all the same giddy with indecipherable emotions washing over him in waves- drowning in relief.
Pomfrey is not having it, as it appears “You will do no such thing. I will have you collected by a responsible party right after you have calmed down enough to formulate a coherent sentence, mister Rosier. And I will hear nothing of your complaints. You will stay put until I release you. Do you understand me?” There is harshness in her tone but not nearly as much as there is benevolence. She doesn’t even wait for Evan to respond and heads straight for the infirmary entrance - All calculated steps and straight posture.
He watches her, unhearing and busy with his water - too perplex and ruffled to do anything except the one thing he was told to do. Whatever occures outside the infirmary doors, slips Evan’s mind the minute his head connects with the soft pillow on the bed and the creeping numbness that began in the tips on his fingers spreads out into his entire body. Sleep lulls him in completely when he hears soft steps approaching again and a curtain is drawn around his bed.
“Get fucking lost, Black. I’m not a going to repeat myself - and if you should turn out stupid enough to tempt me with insulting him again - just know that I can make, wheat dear Evan here displayed at breakfast, look like a replica of an innocent fight between unschooled first-years. And we wouldn’t want to reassemble all of those pretty body parts of yours, now would we?”
”So, this is your great plan to get under my skin, Reggie? have your dogs all have a snap at me? How very original - and not totally backstabbing of you - doesn’t it get old? Spilling my secrets like this? Reminds you of good old times, doesn’t it? Must give you the purest of hits at nostalgia - fucking over your older brother - again and again and AGAIN -“
”Spilling your secrets? What bloody secrets? we weren’t even here, you imbecile -“
”So classic, so charmingly predictable - Had to rat me out again, now hadn’t you - its just too sweet of an opportunity, not to - Right? You’re a sorry excuse of a brother, Regulus and I want you to know that.”
”Hey! I am right here, you git! Stop harassing us and try for once to care for your own friends - Heard Potter is still unconscious - How about you bother him, at least he won’t have to hear your yapping for the time being - I almost feel sorry for him-“
”Don’t you dare say one thing about James! Your feral beast of a friend here-“
”I am going to hex you, Black - Fucking piss off already-“
”Now, gentlemen!”
Voices carry to Evan’s ears in a stormy replica of a massacre in their turbulence. He can barely open an eye, before the droning sound of the high-pitched voice of a woman comes to his ears again.
“Mister Black! Mister Crouch! I have told you several times already, that I won’t have your petty fights inside the halls of my infirmary! Both of you - Out! resolve your fight at once and return to your dormitories! Mister Rosier needs someone to take him to his prefects meeting and mister Potter a responsible student beside his bed to hand him his potions! Neither of you are qualified for either of those tasks! Out! Now! Or I’ll remove you myself.”
The silence that follows is like a soothing balm for Evan’s recovering ears. He shifts behind his curtain as it continues and sits up, when another echoing sound nearly throws him over again. But the atmosphere shifts palpably - The air heats up when unsure steps follow and the sound of a door falling to a close in the distance makes Evan almost jolt forward to pull his curtains back.
He is still too disoriented to make sense of it all at the moment, but the scenery unfolding in front of him doesnt seem to make an effort for his brain to catch up: Four people are gathered loosely around his bed - Barty with his arms crossed over his chest, completely uncaring of the newcomer - his eyes fixed in a dangerous stare on Sirius - who is positioned farthest from Evan’s bed - captured in the midst of transition: Half his body is turned towards Barty as well - offering offence and slicing anger - the other is turned to the echoing steps in the distance - his face falling and reassembling to a hopeful knowing smirk and undoubted adoration.
Regulus is closest to Evan’s bed, his eyes warily fixed on the figure approaching them, his gaze shifting to his brother in a rapid calculating movement - and Pomfrey - Pomfrey moves first, approaching the tall lanky figure with a warm gaze that sits so much as a contrast to what Evan just witnessed her throwing at Barty and Sirius.
And just before reality finally crushed in and all the movements start to speed up in Evan’s vision, hazel eyes connect with his own and the unreadable face of one Remus Lupin comes into his view.
There is too much movement around Evan already - too many people doing too many things and then Regulus draws the curtain. It doesn’t block out the noise, barely does anything - except stop the overflowing emotions welling up in Evan’s chest as his unsure gaze meets Regulus’ determined one.
Just as the cacophony from outside the thin linen sheets gets to swallow him whole, the shorter boy with jet black hair and stormy eyes gestures him with a finger to his lips to just listen.
And something in that gesture - something unfittingly serious - sets Evan straight into survival mode. He immediately leans back, follows Regulus’ instructions without complaint and listens through the rustling of the curtain.
“Moony-“ Sirius voice sounds, interrupted on the spot.
”Mister Black! I told you and mister Crouch to leave the infirmary immediately!” Undoubtedly Pomfrey, all unrelenting anger seeping its way through the thin linen.
“But Poppy-“ The boy argues - undisturbed and audaciously sweet - probably blinking up at the medi-witch’s with those long lashes of his - expecting it to move the unmovable as always.
”Haven’t you heard her the first time, you moron? Get the fuck lost.” Barty’s interruption goes uncommented once again, despite all the hatred that his voice carries.
“Right now, mister Black. I have it on good authority, that your presence here causes a disturbance on my patient’s recovery. Now remove yourself from my infirmary.” She doesn’t give in - speaking those words with the steeled patience of a way older person than herself.
“On whose authority, exactly? My brother is a pathological liar, you see - He would do and say anything to make me look bad-“ Sirius’ voice drones and Regulus immediately shrinks back into himself, steadying his weight on the hospital bed with a full-body wince.
But Evan’s attention is shortly disrupted again before he can reach out to his friends, as another voice rises for the first time, raw and quiet and so strange to Evan’s ears, that he barely recognises it: “Just go, Sirius. You did enough, don’t you think?”
The silence that rings afterwards is a deafening one. One that makes Regulus shift next to a petrified Evan. And the curtain lifts.
Not a single pair of eyes lands on the exposed boys, as they peak around the soft linen, staring at the people gathered around Evan’s bed.
Sirius looks shaken, half-way hidden from view by a square-shouldered tall frame, positioned closely in front of the foot of the bed. A scar-covered neck, soft curls of warm brown, a worn maroon jumper stand in the most brutal contrast to the shaking boy in the short distance. The room fades away with the tension that follows and the whispered “Whatever could you mean?” That falls from the boy standing so far away, gets drowned by an uncomfortable bit of silence that rings and rings and rings.
And when the tall boy - no, man - finally speaks, and gathers all the glances around him on his tense frame, his voice is nothing but a tired dismissal: “I told you, Sirius. You know nothing.”
Stormy grey eyes fall. They fall and they land and hit Evan straight to the core - icy and angry and so full of rage. They are primal and haunting, as they meet his wide eyes and narrow to mere slits of boiling rage and a terrible realisation that Evan can’t completely grasp.
The solid wall, that the boy with indefinitely soft curly and ragged scars proposes doesn’t stop the fixing gaze that the long haired boy from so far away keeps on Evan’s shaking frame, as he gets dragged from the infirmary by an angrily scolding Pomfrey. But whatever she says to the stubbornly struggling boy gets lost on Evan, as he holds the gaze of stormy grey so similar to his best friend’s that it sends another wave of uncomfortable iciness over his aching back, that dosen’ seem to leave.
Seconds pass as decades do until Pomfrey retunes and Barty follows her willingly, fixing his gaze on Remus as much as Sirius did on Evan and the infirmary comes to a halt of sudden silence that does not ring for once.
It’s a rustling afterwards. A tired exchange of ushered words so contrary to the screaming matches that rang through the echoing halls just minutes ago.
Regulus eventually leaves Evan’s side to attend the watch on Potter in another room. Pomfrey comes and leaves. Evan just stares at the door - anxious to miss the moment Sirius would come barging in again - murder in his eyes and a horrible curse ready on his lips. Things have definitely shifted since his explosion of unfiltered impulsiveness at the breakfast table. Horribly shifted, so. Where there was a primal urge to defend his sister before, now rests a deeply rooted panic in Evan. A panic that he can’t quite place. The intention shifted now - away from his sister - on him. Someone he never thought to defend. Someone he didn’t know how to.
And for minutes nothing happens, while the medi-witch utters words close to the man still guarding Evan’s bed.
He gets handed another glass that he doesn’t drink - too transfixed on the door than anything - barely registering the movements all around him - though they are few in numbers. He still watches the door.
Eventually a hand settles on his tired shoulder - an electric touch that jolts him wide awake - makes him blink against the dryness of his eyes and the stiffness in his body as he finally averts his eyes from the infirmary door to meet warm hazel eyes.
There is a softness in Remus’ gaze - a sight Evan did not dare to dream of after what he did in the morning - an offence so clear - so undeniably betraying - he is still too numb, he registers. Too numb for it all - too feeling - too much. Remus interrupts him in the spiral that threatens to go down down down again.
“You know, that I will not let him touch you again, right?” It seems like a dream.
“Evan? Rosie? Are you with me? You don’t have to watch that door. I am right here - and as long as I am, there is nothing that you will have to fear from Sirius, alright?” his voice is a whisper and his eyes are just the right shade of hazel. Evan never managed to get his eyes right in any painting he attempted. There was always something amiss. This is not a painting. This is not a dream. The evidence lies in its accuracy.
“You don’t hate me?” It comes out as a question and the scars move. Lips are pulled into an almost ironic grin that barely grazes the other man’s mouth. The intent is there. Lingers. Evan can deduce it from the tension of the muscles in the rest of his face. It is right there under the surface.
“There you are.”
The silence settles. It is quiet around them. Evan hasn’t noticed before. It has been too loud before. Too turbulent. Too droning. It is quiet now, though. And hazel is fixed on green again and the world moves in its rightful path. On borrowed time. But time no less.
“The prefects meeting is in an hour. Would you like me to write you something?” Remus is crouching in front of Evan’s bed, barely resting his elbow on the white sheets - maroon in a bloody contrast with the off white - scattered droplets of blood on the stark white.
“You don’t hate me.” Evan only mutters, expecting someone to enter the wide hall at any moment, burrying his gaze in Remus’ with the intensity of a drowning man hanging on to a piece of drift wood in the middle of a storm.
“I have a quill and a piece of parchment right here, Rosie. Just give me a word, and I’ll get right to it.” Is Remus’ only response, as he meets Evan’s gaze with patient encouragement.
“How do you not hate me?” Evan insists. Widening his eyes urgently at the man crouching before him. Open honesty swaying between them - so raw - so palpable. The other does not react at first. Only holds Evan’s open stare - his fear - his constant need to check the door.
Then he continues to pull a piece of parchment from his robes and a quill to match it - his intent clear. With a smirk he rises to his feet, holding onto Evan’s stare as he lowers himself onto the hospital bed and pulls one of his knees closer, resting the sheet of paper on top of it.
“Last chance, Rosie. One word. Or I’ll just write about whatever comes to my mind. Consider yourself warned.”
Evan can only stare. Stare at those scarred hands. The curve of slim wrists, the wide arch of his bony shoulders, The incredibly long legs that are partly stretched out carelessly on top of Evan’s bed and partly pulled together - the unwavering smile on the man’s face. The mischievous glint in his eyes - the way his entire torso is turned towards Evan. His entire attention turned towards Evan.
“Choices.” Is what falls from his lips then. As the quiet settles comfortable around them and not a single other breath clouds the air between their sat up bodies.
Evan doesn’t choose the world consciously. It falls from his lips. A trip, a fall. a word nonetheless. One he can’t take back - however bewildered he feels. And so he is doomed to watch how the glint in the other man’s eyes transforms and that warming gaze drops to the paper in front of him. He can’t do anything other than watch him scribble away.
As the hour dwindles away - the minutes slip - his glances towards the door grow less frequent - he watches the unreasonable figure perched on his bed write sentence after sentence in a soothing rhythm.
With every scratch on the parchment he feels the urge to look at the door drowning away little by little. Warmth returns when Remus is on his second page, looking up from time to time to time, meeting Evan’s clearer gaze with that patient encouragement.
When they reach the half hour mark, the older man hands Evan a clear page and a muggle pen. a black one. And he starts tentatively to write on his own - with that pen - in the still dreamscape of theirs - a quiet haven of pooling-in clarity.
And when the clock strikes and Remus gets up, holding out his arm, Evan grabs it, allowing the taller man to guide him to the feared door. Allowing him to lead him through it. Allowing him to place a steadying arm around his slumped-in shoulders. Allowing him to guide him down the corridor towards the third floor where the meeting will take place.
Without a word of agreement they exchange their notes in front of the closed door of the conference room. Without a word, Evan enters the room first and settles down on a free place next to the other Slytherin prefects. Without a word, Remus follows a minute sharp later and takes a seat within the group of Gryffindors, muttering apologies that he doesn’t mean.
Without a word hazel meets green throughout the meeting, lighting up on every mention of their names placed together on patrols or chores.
Without a word, on borrowed time. But time no less.
Choices.
How, where, when - don’t we all want to know?
The questions burning beneath your surface - so easily deciphered.
Because.
my answer. insufficient. I know. An answer nonetheless.
Don’t fear the door. It doesn’t hold anything for you to fear - fear ever again -
Choices that define us are often made in an instant. Impulsive. Out of touch with reality. Only feeling.
The stairs I took - the short-cuts. they could write you songs about the standards of impulsivity. They could write lamrets, symphonies and noises. Noises mostly.
The stairs took me - like they took others. words collapsing over each other. a syllable lost - yet spoken so clearly. Whatever do you want to hear?
i did what I did. I dont hate you. I am proud to know you.
choices.
Neither made by me nor you.
You were just there, weren’t you?
No evil ploy - no scheme set in scene.
Just there-
like the current that took me away.
In choices we settle - in choices we live.
responsibility we carry - regret that looms as a threat -
yet I dont.
And I believe neither do you.
Choices that define friend from foe.
a decision we make like the one we make for breakfast -
i dont. Take four instead of one.
How that might change - how it has already.
there is always one we like most of the four. The one we look forward to. The one we search out - despite all repercussions.
Butter it is. Plain and overlooked.
’Nothing’ called by many. But they know nothing at all, now do they?
Their flavour pallet is sophisticated, so poised and rich.
I am neither.
Choices I make in the sea of others.
a creature of habit I’ll stay.
Butter, i decide.
the one I looked forward to - the one I’ll defend.
Take your marmalade, your hazelnut cream, your jam and your toast - I’ll eat it raw.
Choices I make.
Choices at the core of things.
I said what I said.
said what I had to say about choices. They come simple to me.
I do what I feel.
Butter it is.
They know nothing as they criticise.
Where no one looks, they’ll find nothing.
Where they look they discover half the truth.
Another choice made.
Butter it is.
RJL. Pour toi.
Where the lights end and the silence begins.
The world turns. Tunes. Drowns out. milky white. Hazel and green.
White hospital sheets - an apology gone wrong -
screaming-matches. too many bodies. All white - surrounded and angry and that door.
That door and its promise of violence.
So many glances lost - so many meanings undiscovered.
oh how the voices drown.
Steady the figure stays through it all - radiating light - seeing and unseeing all the same - yet it stays.
uncaring inimitable.
quiet, yet not silent. Too radiant. A soft glow. So lost between its pages.
Why do you note hate me ???????
Unrelentingly bright.
Incorrigible.
I don’t know what to write anymore, yet you do - so undisturbed on my bedsheets. You just sit there, as if you didn’t just choose me. Me!? me out of all the others -. Out of them. You did that. Did you even realise? Have you registered the shift? The murder in his eyes. I have a target on my back now. You do too. Where do we goi from here? Where are we even supposed to? What are you doing here? Why don’t you hate me? You have every reason to.- I wouldn’t blame you - could never dream of it. Where do we go. Where do you? Why did you defend me? Why and how and how and how. Where do we go? W h e r e do w e g o f r o m h e r e? W h y d o n t y o u h a t e m e?????
Tu es impossible. Et stupide. Tellement incompréhensible que ça fait mal. J'espère que ça en valait la peine. J'espère que tu connais les conséquences de tes actes. J'espère que tu t'es Je ne sais pas ce que je veux. Peut-être - peut-être que je veux que ce soit vrai. Peut-être que je veux que tu te sois montré au bon moment, le bon jour. Peut-être. Peut-être que je veux que tu aies fait ce choix exprès. Peut-être que je veux que tu saches ce que cela signifie. Peut-être que je veux que ce soit intentionnel et non une erreur stupide.
ER.