Of Sepia and Crumpled Parchment
Monday, 12 September, 1892
Morning came with an abruptness that ricocheted against her bones and left her aching and delirious with sleep or, rather, the lack thereof. Clara drug herself, unceremoniously, from under the nest of blankets she'd all but lived in since Saturday and tried with what experience told her would be little success to restrain the mess of long white blonde waves that insisted on an air of unruliness on a good day and otherwise left her with a snarled, untamable mess.
Today was not one of the good days.
With her brusque departure from the Sallow home two days prior, Clara had stalked down to the dungeons and, exhausted, had flung her body into the sea of green blankets. She'd buried herself so deep she was swallowed in darkness and lost to the unfathomable depths-drowned in that tenuous space between sleep and waking where thoughts melt with dreams and become indistinguishable.
She'd stayed like that, curled below her bedding and only woken fully to the quick patter of Grace's annoyingly perky footsteps and the tap of porcelain on wood before the footsteps retreated, and Clara was once again left alone.
She had known what she would find when she pulled back the curtains, and still, she ground her teeth at the sight of that damned delicate tea cup with its soft pink flowers. Peonies, like the ones she had shared with her grandmother, though these were a machine-printed stencil, not intricately hand-painted as Beatrice's had been. The severe lack of brushstrokes and the monotonously uniformed edges offered enough evidence. Too sharp and repetitive to be natural. A mockery. And anger had taken the cup and hurled it against the stone wall, the tea spilling in an arc of sepia to soak into the collection of emerald patterned rugs that tried, and frequently failed to protect their feet from the chilling cold of the dungeon stone floors.
The teacup hadn't shattered on impact. Clara should have expected the unbreakable charm. Instead, it merely clattered against the stone and fell with a dull thump to the rug below, which had only angered her further. The satisfaction of seeing it shattered, ripped away. But anger was bitter and resentful, and it wove up through her chest and coiled around the fingers clenched white against her pillow. The same one that had heard her screams since the end of Fifth year, and she'd pressed it over her face and slumped back to the mattress with a furious groan.
She'd not heard another word from Sebastian or Anne all weekend, and Ominis she'd only glimpsed in passing before she'd scurried back up to her dorm, resigned to becoming a hermit who snapped at passers-by from behind her bedhangings.
Even as she'd sanctioned herself away, she'd kept the protean charmed parchment with her, her fingers too often brushing along the rough edges or tapping across the surface.
But the parchment never rippled under her fingers. No new messy scrawl. No new flecks of onyx freckled over the beige with the furious intensity at which Sebastian wrote.
She cursed the part of herself that had expected him to write.
And she cursed the part of herself that had wanted him to more.
><><><><><
Clara did not climb her way to the Great Hall and Breakfast for the first time since the start of term because she was almost certain Sebastian would be there. Nor did she look for him among the bustling throng of students-not that he was difficult to spot with the small crowd gathered around the far end of the Slytherin table.
The twin's unexpected return had not gone unnoticed.
She'd been close with most of the group at one point, but she'd not spoken to any of them in several months. Not even to Natsai or Poppy, whose shared adventures in Fifth year had brought her closer to them than most. But what she had once thought of as unshakable friendship had slowly faded to that of acquaintance and then only ever to concerned glances across classrooms and smiles that lingered between worry and cautious optimism as they passed each other in the halls. The same smiles that waited for her acceptance and those she could still only half-heartedly return.
The distance wasn't their fault. Clara knew they'd reached out-both of them, even Natty, who had dutifully ignored her mother's strict instructions to limit her interactions with Clara after the incident with Harlow.
She still had the unanswered letters saved-the ones she had read and cherished and simultaneously been unable to summon the energy to write back.
The longer time went on; the more guilt had dug its sharp corners under the flimsy attempts she'd made at her own forgiveness. Ripped it open and clawed at the sweet sincerity of the pages. Now, she kept the letters tucked away, unable to look at them or their senders without the weight of it pressing between every breath.
But there they stood within the group of students crowded around the twins.
The twins.
How strange it was to think it.
Stranger still to see them seated together.
It hadn't been so long ago that Anne had questioned if she would ever want to see her brother again. And not for the first time in the days since dissapperating away from the Sallow home, Clara wondered exactly how softened Anne had actually become to her brother's crimes.
Seeing them now, seated side by side, one could almost think they'd never fallen apart. That the string that had bound their souls from birth had never unraveled. Never frayed so far as to see Sebastian begging her to let him in and Anne refusing to say his name.
So mirrored were their mannerisms and their laughter so synchronous. Even their smiles quirked up on different sides as though pieces of a whole. Only the subtle pauses in Sebastian's exuberant charisma and the careful way he still watched his sister as though if his gaze didn't hold her delicately enough, she might vanish before his eyes offered any hint of the year they'd spent distanced from each other.
Clara shifted her boots against the worn flagstone, determined to find a seat at the opposite end of the table. As if on cue, Sebastian looked up and over the crowd. It was almost criminal how quickly he spotted her from across the Great Hall. Before she could fully shuffle away and pretend she'd not noticed him, Anne, too, had seen her and began waving her over, and Clara couldn't bring herself to deny the other woman.
She pushed herself through the small crowd and sat across from Ominis.
It was the furthest seat from Sebastian, and Clara could still see the little disruption at the corner of his mouth where he'd pulled his bottom lip in and worried it between his teeth. He was still looking at her-his eyes just as dark and unyielding as they had been days prior as he regarded her from three seats down. Too long, and she became acutely aware of how disheveled he must think she was. The quick glance she'd thrown to the bathroom mirror that morning had seen her undereyes still bruised and bagged with stress and her perpetually messy hair only partially tied in a loose knot at the back of her skull, the hairs that had refused to be restrained falling in haphazard curls around her face.
He opened his mouth as though to say something. The unspoken tipped to the edge of his lips and lingered at the precipice between thought and speech.
Clara looked away before the words could come to fruition and decided the rough swirls of woodgrain on the surface of the table were particularly interesting.
She didn't want to talk to him.
Only the peripheral glimpse of a black and crimson blur barreling into Sebastian spared her need to continue blatantly avoiding the interaction. At the same time, the muttered " Ooof, Hi!" from the end of the table snapped her attention unwittingly back to him.
A small boy with a mess of dark curls had launched himself at the older Slytherin. His arms wound so tightly around his neck that Sebastian almost appeared in danger of death by constriction before the small Gryffindor pulled back and beamed up at him.
" You're really back! I thought they were all trying to trick me, but it's really you. Can I tell everyone you'll be back at Crossed Wands? The next match is in just a few days. Everyone'll be thrilled!"
Lucan bounced so eagerly on the balls of his feet Clara wondered briefly if muggle photographs of him would appear only as muted blur of vertical lines.
Sebastian's attempt at a smile fell flat. Small. Apologetic. More a poorly altered grimace than anything else. " Ah... look, I'm really sorry, but I can't do it this year..... You know, N.E.W.T's and all."
" What? " The younger boy's face fell. All bouncing halted. The balloon in his chest deflated, and the entirety of his small, thirteen-year-old body sagged. "But-but you weren't here last year, and everyone was so excited when they saw you'd come back. It hasn't been the same."
" I wish I could, Lucan. I really do... but I can't..... I've already missed a whole year, and there's-"
Sebastian's stumbled rush of words died midsentence. Faltered off the edge of his tongue and fell uselessly to the flagstones below as the Gryffindor's face twisted. Still too innocent or, perhaps, brave enough not to have learned how to hide the hurt that contorted his features.
Anne swiveled her head to the side and shot an incredulous look at her brother, who seemed barely to notice, his attention still focused on the younger boy.
Anne wasn't the only one, and for several long seconds, the steady hum and murmur of the small crowd gathered around the twins fell eerily quiet. Contented murmurs melted to furtive whispers until the flurry of screeches and the flap of wings overhead announced the arrival of the morning post, and the steady cacophony of noise saw the little crowd disbanded.
Lucan shuffled away without a backward glance. Sebastian didn't look over at her again. Just down at his half-eaten oatmeal, he pushed it around with his spoon, and her stubborn ignored the little sinking feeling in her stomach.
Clara didn't wait for an owl to land in front of her. The morning post had long since become primarily uneventful for her. Once upon a time, she might have received small packages of homemade pastries tied with thrifted ribbons from her grandmother or the occasional box of peppermint toads from Professor Fig, who'd been the one to introduce her to the candies and knew her affinity for them. But she'd failed to save either of them in the end, and anyone else who might have written to her had given up when she'd failed to return their last several letters.
Instead, she added a generous helping of sliced strawberries to her bowl of oatmeal in an attempt to make the bland beige mush edible. It proved futile. Maybe she would just pick the strawberries out and nibble those instead. She was never particularly hungry in the mornings anyway.
Two seats down, another student had spread open a copy of the Daily Prophet deposited by a flustered-looking tawny owl. She could just make out a few glimpses of a small article tucked at the corner of the page closest to her.
Unidentified sources claim a recent attack near Mauranweem to be the work of the Dark wizards formerly associated ...
..... Authorities have declined to comment further on the matter and...
Following the mysterious death of their confirmed leader, Victor Rookwood...
Clara forced herself to look away. Back at the pattern of woodgrain, the hardened knot at the center, the swirled contrast of dark and light. Fingernails dug crescents to scarlet against her palms. She couldn't think about that right now.
She didn't need to look up to feel Sebastian watching her again, and for once, she found herself grateful for the alarming screech of the overly large and equally stuffy black eagle owl that had settled in front of Ominis. With all its distinguished haughtiness, the bird may as well have announced itself as royalty. Clara could've sworn the pompous thing puffed out its chest as it extended a single leg and dropped a crisp envelope into the blond's lap.
Beneath the bright morning sunlight of the enchanted ceiling, the embossed Gaunt crest was impossible to miss.
The letter was opened, and the thin, slanted writing was converted to braille with a practiced flick of his wand before Clara could try to make out a single sentence from across the table. Ominis's fingers hadn't even made it past the third line of raised dots when he crumpled the parchment into an uncharacteristically messy ball. It was stuffed into his satchel so quickly that Clara almost missed the near-white-knuckled grip he'd held over the document.
Anne tipped her head to him and muttered something. What? Clara couldn't distinguish between the quietude of her voice and the discordant clamor of conversation that ricocheted between the stone walls. An ever-present testament to the incredible acoustics of the space. Had she been a director of music, she might have been thrilled, but as it was thwarting her attempts at eavesdropping, she only found it irksome.
If Ominis had anything more to say, he didn't voice it. Just tipped his nose toward Anne and shook his head. The movement was almost minuscule. Just the slightest twitch of his head, and Clara wasn't certain which of their mouths had pressed into a thinner line.
><><><><><
Clara was still picking the strawberries out of the lump of beige mush in her bowl when Professor Sharp approached them from the staff table.
With his shoulder-length black hair, lined face, and perpetual scowl, he held the air of a man who'd seen far too much at too young an age. Even the severity of his limp and rumors of how he'd received it only served to add to the gruff persona of the battered war hero. Aside from his lectures, Clara had never known him to be a man of many words, and he handed each of the twins a square of parchment with little more than a nod before turning away.
Class schedules, given the way Anne glanced over it and slid it into her bag.
But where Anne had already tucked her schedule away, Sebastian was staring so intently at the document clenched in his fingers Clara wouldn't have been surprised if it burst into flames. Brows crushed together, and his eyes darted in a harried pattern from top to bottom. Lingering and scrunching at the same spot each time as though struggling to grasp the meaning of a word, and if he were only to read the entire document enough times he might glean some further understanding. The pattern repeated with an almost frenzied fervor until his gaze finally snapped up to the already retreating limp of the older man.
" Professor, there's been a mistake with my schedule."
The man only turned halfway, more a glance over his shoulder. " I assure you, there's been no mistake."
" I don't...I can't-" Sebastian didn't resist when Anne tugged the list from his fingers and flattened it over the table to read. "- I've not completed an O. W. L. Surely that means-"
"An exception has been made in this case."
"But-"
"There will be no changes made to that schedule-" The potions master turned fully. "- and I expect an Outstanding on that particular N.E.W.T. You and I both know you can achieve that. "
"But, Sir! I-"
"The decision is final, Mr. Sallow."
Sebastian held the man's gaze. His stubborn defiance etched through the fare of his nostrils and the subtle clench of his jaw. Clara watched the exchange. A series of micro-expressions she had no hope of fully comprehending. The twitch of the professor's mouth, the slight furrow of his brow, the infinitesimal tilt of Sebastian's head. Finally, Professor Sharp raised his eyebrows, and whatever silent argument had passed between them, it seemed Sebastian had lost because his shoulders slumped, and he turned his head back to the table to glare at the offending document, still flattened over the worn wood.
She couldn't see the parchment properly with the way his arms were positioned, and curiosity begged the question. Coiled it to the tip of her tongue and pressed its feet to the starting blocks until the stubborn that had made its home in avoiding Sebastian latched firm hands around curiosity's eager form, and the question crumpled against her teeth.
The hand he drug down his face pulled at his features. " I don't believe this....I'm not going. I don't care-"
Anne's fingers settled against his forearm. " It's in a different classroom now, Sebbie. You won't have to go in there."
"I know that." The words were flattened and strained. So quiet Clara barely heard him above the din of chatter surrounding them.
Anne didn't say anything else, just squeezed his arm and leaned back against Ominis.
Clara didn't immediately look away when he glanced at her again. The enchanted sunlight had ignited threads of auburn in his curls and the flickers of honeyed gold across his eyes.
For a second, it seemed he might say something to her. Part of her almost hoped he would.
And just for a moment, she could almost imagine him as that same freckled boy she'd known before. The one who had captured petals between his fingers and pressed their pigment to her soul. The boy who had wished on fallen eyelashes and shooting stars.
The shift was subtle. Just a tilt of his head and the flickers of gold vanished as quickly as they'd come.
Or maybe they'd never been there. Just a reflection of the candlelight.
Only an imitation of what she'd once known.
A mockery.
And anger's hot coils ignited around the place she kept her stubborn and pulled her gaze back to the pattern of the wood grain.
There was only a sharp exhale and the unmistakable sound of crumpling parchment before a half-muttered "I'll see you in Charms."
Clara looked up only in time to watch Sebastian's retreating form as he strode from the great hall without a backward glance.