Jump Then Fall
Every step felt like an eternity, each one echoing with the deafening beat of Reese’s racing heart. The realization had taken hold, gripping their mind like a vice. Hermione knew. How could she not? The furtive glances, the subtle hints dropped along the way, it all pointed to a truth that couldn't be ignored.
Nightfall had draped its inky veil across the campus, signaling the approaching curfew. Reese’s footsteps echoed through the deserted corridors, a lone figure caught in the grip of restlessness. Reese had been avoiding Hermione all afternoon—which was a simple venture, as it seemed Hermione was avoiding her as well. Reese hasn’t spotted her once following the exchange in Charms class that morning. With every passing moment, the weight of impending confrontation bore down upon her, threatening to consume her thoughts. All day she remained trapped in a whirlwind of internal panic. The dormitory loomed in her thoughts, its imposing presence a harbinger of the inevitable.The hours had slipped away as Reese wandered, aimless and desperate, seeking refuge in the hollow solitude of dimly lit hallways, secluded bathrooms, and hushed library aisles. Yet, no distraction could shake the relentless pull drawing her back to the inevitable ascent to her dorm. To Hermione. Time was running out, and she could no longer evade the confrontation that awaited her. It was nearly past curfew, as the night fell heavily upon the castle. She had been avoiding the awaiting conversation with Hermione for as long as the limits would allow her. Hermione knew. Of course she’d be the first to figure it out, and now these strolls through the castle may be Reese’s very last before she had to pack her bags and leave.
As the orchestrated movements within the paintings gradually dwindled, the intricate dance of colors and forms coming to a tranquil pause, Reese's senses remained attuned to the subtle shifts in the environment. The torchlight, once vibrant and fervent, began its gradual descent into a softened glow, casting elongated shadows that seemed to waltz with the flickering flames. Amidst this waning ambiance, Reese's acute awareness detected the approach of a second figure, their presence almost imperceptible against the textured canvas of the corridor.
Leaning with cautious poise against the cool embrace of the stone wall, Reese's lithe form exuded a poised vigilance. Her fingers, brushed with a tentative grace against the reassuring contours of her wand, poised to spring into action should the need arise. The silhouette materialized swiftly, the form sharpening into focus, and Reese's taut anticipation yielded to a sense of welcome relief as the features of Dean emerged from the shadows.
“Dean,” she sighed in relief, “what are you doing down here?”
“What are you doing down here?” He asked, tone unreadable and brows pinched in concern.
Reese's head swayed in a dance of conflicting thoughts, her inner turmoil manifesting in the physical motion. Relinquishing her position against the wall, she crouched to the ground in order to lean against it. "Weird day," Reese admitted, her voice carrying the weight of her contemplation. The words held an unspoken depth, a resonance that reverberated with the intricacies of her thoughts and the nuanced shades of her experience. Her eyes, a canvas of thoughts and emotions, held a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability as they met Dean's concerned gaze.
In seamless harmony, Dean's countenance blossomed, his lips curving into a smile that was both comforting and genuine. With an almost choreographed grace, he followed Reese's lead, his form descending to join her on the ground, their positions mirroring each other in a dance of camaraderie.
“Thirteen not treating you as well as we hoped?”
Reese summoned a strained smile in response to his, though in her heart she questioned her worthiness of his unwavering kindness. He was a paragon of goodness, surpassing any measure she believed herself capable of deserving. When the time came for her inevitable booting from the school, she acknowledged that it would be his absence she would keenly lament, recognizing the void left by the loss of his friendship as the most profound. He was kind, too kind for her to deserve being his friend. She’d miss him the most.
“Afraid not.” she replied, her voice imbued with a subtle undertone of melancholy at the looming prospect of their separation. They had this, at least. She could resolve to enjoy this fleeting moment of togetherness, cherishing the solace it provided in the face of uncertainty. “How... was your day?”
Dean cast a sidelong glance at her, his perceptive gaze hinting at his skepticism regarding her feigned engagement in the conversation. “Are you all right?”
“Nothing worth talking about,” Reese stated, a subtle plea in her words to let the matter rest. When she saw him open his mouth again, sensing Dean's persistent desire to delve deeper, she preemptively interjected, her voice tinged with a resolute tone. “I don’t want to talk about it, really.”
With a frown, Dean acquiesced to her wishes. “Fine, fine. Whatever you want.”
Reese frowned in the face of his generosity, her carefully constructed façade threatening to crumble under the weight of her friend's gaze. With a mix of trepidation and contemplation, she realized that perhaps she didn't have to face the impending confrontation alone.
“I know my birthday present to you was far too delicious to have lasted this long, so,” Dean rifled through the pocket of his robes to tug out a little packet of licorice, “I have some more.”
The tension that had gripped her moments ago began to loosen its hold, and a flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “You read my mind.”
Reese tugged a strip of licorice from the bag he’d just torn open with his teeth and held it out to her, and the both of them took a resolute chomp from their licorice in unison, staring at the wall in front of them.
As they talked, their conversation shifted effortlessly into discussions of the school year, inside jokes, stolen moments of joy amidst the chaos of life. Their families became a focal point of their conversation, as they regaled each other with stories of parental idiosyncrasies. Laughter filled the air, weaving a tapestry of shared experiences and deep understanding. Dean’s deliberate choice of a lighter topic gave Reese the space she needed to feel at ease, at least for a little while.
The corridor’s dim lighting seemed to glow with a newfound warmth as they chatted amongst themselves, blanketed by the surrounding silence. She awaited the moment that Filch would appear to reprimand them, but no such moment occurred. Their stomachs were so full of sweets she thought she’d turn into one, and they had gone from animated discussion to conversational fact exchanging.
“I’m weirdly good at table tennis.” Dean snorted a laugh, making a valiant effort to stifle his laughter, mindful of the echoing corridor and the displeased murmurs emanating from the paintings, stirred from their slumber. “And I hate coffee but I drink it more than anything else.”
“I’ve never been to America, but I can name the states in alphabetical order.”
“I’m extremely adverse to the feeling of rope.” Dean noted.
“I don’t know how to whistle.” Reese added.
“I used to like taking in stray animals at home.”
“I’m extremely near-sighted, I just don’t wear glasses because I always break them.”
“Really? Reese with glasses,” Dean pondered thoughtfully before adding, “I hate circus clowns.”
“Me too.” Reese's murmurs escaped her lips absentmindedly, as if carried away by a distant breeze. The weariness etched upon her face cast a veil of heaviness upon her eyes, burdening them with a weight of fatigue. Languidly, her gaze drifted upward, fixating on the expanse of the ceiling, a hallowed canvas veiled in a cloak of obscurity. In that moment, the weight of her exhaustion seemed to merge with the encompassing darkness, blending into a seamless array of tiresome stillness and introspection. She didn’t need to face this interrogation by herself. She could have somebody in her corner, even if it is only for a little while.
Amidst the tumultuous currents of her thoughts, Reese found solace in the notion that she need not confront this relentless confrontation in solitude. Even if it was but a fleeting respite, she clung to the belief that she could have someone standing steadfastly by her, offering support and understanding, if only for a brief interlude. The weight of her burdens felt momentarily lighter, as the prospect of companionship illuminated the shadows that engulfed her, reminding her that even in the depths of this inevitable conflict awaiting her, she’d get it over with, with the possibility of another on her defense.
The revelation of her secret to Hermione had shattered the illusion of escapism, rendering the path of disclosure an unavoidable reality. It was impossible to evade the inevitability of her departure now that Hermione knew of her secret, so what was stopping Reese from telling her best friend?
She’d blurt it. She’d blurt it before her mind could concoct reasons to dissuade her.
“I’m a werewolf.” Reese's words spilled forth, propelled by a mix of urgency and calculated nonchalance. With feigned ease, she revealed the truth that had weighed upon her heart, consciously averting the downward spiral of self-doubt that threatened to engulf her thoughts. Her gaze remained fixed on the wall, her apprehension mounting as she pondered the possible reactions of her best friend. Would he recoil in fear and distance himself from her, or would he immediately report her secret to the watchful eyes of Dumbledore? The uncertainty hung in the air, casting a shadow over their conversation.
Dean was halfway through telling her that he was ambidextrous before his mouth abruptly closed, his initial response stifled by an overwhelming sense of incredulity. For what felt like an eternity, he simply stared at her, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Then, as if releasing a tidal wave of suppressed emotions, laughter spilled forth from his lips, echoing through the corridor. The sound resonated with something that mingled with both relief and amusement, dissipating the tension that had enveloped them. “These are supposed to be facts. Very funny, Reese.”
She held her facade of nonchalance, masking the turbulent emotions swirling within her, yet the effort to regulate her breath became increasingly difficult. Her eyes locked on Dean, searching for any hint of comprehension in his features. Time seemed to elongate as the silence persisted, and she witnessed the subtle transformation on his face—a sudden revelation causing his jaw to slacken, his eyes widening with recognition.
“You’re serious?”
She nodded, a pensive gesture that revealed the weight of her thoughts. Her gaze drifted upward, fixating on the ceiling as if it held the answers she sought. It was as if she hoped that the empty expanse above would manifest the words she struggled to articulate, as if the ethereal script of the universe would guide her in finding the right path to keep him here.
“Bloody hell, Reese!” He emphasized in utter disbelief, “You can’t just—just drop a bomb like that!”
“I—er, I’m sorry?” she managed, rather startled by his state of distress. “Are you okay?”
He lowered his hands from atop his head, his gaze fixed on her with a mix of astonishment and incredulity. “Am I okay? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
As his eyes detached from hers and embarked on a visual exploration of her scar-laden canvas, a kaleidoscope of realization painted his face, imbuing it with a luminous tapestry of newfound insight. Reese, caught in the limelight of his observant scrutiny, shifted uneasily, disquieted by the intensity of his examination. The intrusion into her vulnerable self stirred a dissonance within her, for she had always found solace in the shadows, where the contours of her scars blended seamlessly into the tapestry of her existence. She didn’t much like being observed.
Dean's voice reverberated with a symphony of emotions, a delicate balance of astonishment and contemplation, as he repeated the words, savoring their profound implications. "A werewolf," he murmured, his tone infused with a touch of incredulity, as if trying to reconcile the extraordinary revelation with the reality before him.
Reese met his gaze again, her eyes shimmering with a vulnerable intensity, as she confirmed the truth that lay dormant within her. "A werewolf," she echoed softly, the words cascading like a whispered secret, bearing the weight of her hidden existence.
Dean’s brows knitted together in a tapestry of confusion and concern, as his voice carried a cadence of genuine curiosity. "Why didn’t you tell me before?" he inquired, his words adorned with a genuine desire to unravel the mysteries that had veiled their friendship.
A tinge of melancholy laced her response, as if she had contemplated this question a thousand times before. “Would you have wanted to know that?” Reese posed, her words dripping with a poignant ambiguity, questioning the boundaries of his acceptance and understanding. Would you have stuck around?
The sincerity in his gaze shimmered like a beacon of assurance, his voice resonating with unwavering conviction. “Of course I would.”
A trace of skepticism danced upon her lips, an echo of past disappointments. "I don't think so," Reese gently countered, her words bearing the weight of unspoken fears, unsure if he possessed the capacity to fully comprehend the complexities that shrouded her existence.
Dean's gaze bore into her with a mix of curiosity and a hint of vulnerability. It was evident that unexpressed questions lingered on the tip of his tongue, suppressed by an internal beckoning for decorum. His voice carried a tinge of both anticipation and insecurity as he finally broke the silence, seeking answers to the mysteries that enveloped this revelation.
"Who else knows?" he asked, his words infused with a blend of curiosity and a touch of wounded pride. "Did all of your friends know except me?"
“No, no! I mean, Hermione knows, I think—I reckon she’s going to confront me about it when I return to the dorms. But you’re the only one I’ve willingly told.”
Dean's smile stretched across his face, wide and genuine, as he swung his arm around Reese's shoulder, pulling her into a friendly embrace. It was a gesture of friendship, a tangible reassurance of his loyalty.
Reese couldn't help but choke out a laugh, her voice laced with affectionate disbelief as her words muffled into his shoulder. "Really? We're doing this now?"
"Shut up," he replied, his words a playful banter, nudging her shoulder with a gentle camaraderie. His boyish smile persisted, an emblem of their shared bond, a testament to their unwavering solidarity in the face of adversity. “Don’t spoil it.”
Dean, riding this high of newfound clearness and clicked puzzle pieces, firmly asserted his presence by insisting on accompanying Reese across the perilous expanse of seven floors leading to the Gryffindor common room. With an unwavering determination, they maneuvered through the labyrinthine corridors, deftly sidestepping the watchful authority of Filch, whose vigilant eyes were ever-attentive to any signs of rule-breaking.
As they neared the entrance of the Gryffindor common room, the familiar unease —that Dean had been able to momentarily dissipate—settled upon Reese like an unwelcome burden, shrouding her once buoyant demeanor with a somber veil. The anticipation weighed upon her, intensifying with every step, as if each movement drew her closer to an unavoidable reckoning. Her previously light-hearted strides now grew measured and hesitant, mirroring the mounting gravity of the impending confrontation that lay beyond the threshold. The once vibrant spark within Reese dimmed, replaced by a growing heaviness that seemed to wrap around her, casting shadows upon her path and eroding her confidence.
As she stepped onto the seventh floor landing, she cursed reactively as her foot caught the edge of a devious trick step. Dean made sure to expel an amused amused laugh, and after shooting him a glare, she faced back forward to find the portrait's stern gaze bore into them with impatience, as if chastising their momentary delay.
Dean uttered the designated password, coaxing the door to yield with a reluctant creak. The common room, in its deserted state, exuded an eerie stillness, punctuated solely by the hushed cadence of their footsteps and the mesmerizing crackle of the roaring fire. Reese, her countenance fraught with trepidation, pivoted on her heel to squarely confront Dean once more. Her hands fidgeted nervously, entwined in an anxious dance, while her gaze fixated intently beyond his shoulder, as if transfixed by an enigmatic presence lurking within the very wall behind him.
“Thank you—for not, I don’t know—freaking out. For not being mean.”
He smiled in recognition, his nod conveying a heartfelt gratitude for Reese's disclosure. “Thank you for telling me.” His gaze shifted, his eyes tracing the path of the spiral staircase, extending towards the distant doorway leading to the second year girls' dormitory. A sliver of light seeped through the narrow crevice beneath the door, casting a faint glow in the dim corridor. “I can go with you, if you want.”
Reese shook her head definitively. “No, no. I have to do this by myself. Goodnight, Dean.”
A part of her did want him there. She recognized the potential support he could offer, like an ally in battle, an extra piece of ammunition in her camp. Yet, in the depths of her being, she knew that if this was to be her final trial, her last act in this place, she had to face it in solitude as a path meant to tread alone. And so, with a mixture of reluctance and determination, she resolved to undertake it solo.
A surge of adrenaline propelled Reese forward, her veins pulsating with a newfound energy. Every fiber of her being resonated with a sense of urgency, leaving no space for hesitation or elaborate mental preparation. In a bold and resolute act, she approached the door to her dormitory, propelled by a determination that brooked no delay. With a decisive movement, she pushed the door open, bypassing any lingering doubts or second-guessing, embracing the momentum that carried her forward.
Hermione's presence was impossible to ignore as Reese's gaze swiftly zeroed in on her. It seemed as though Hermione had anticipated Reese's arrival, for she stood rigidly near her bed, arms tightly crossed over her chest. In stark contrast to Hermione's poised demeanor, the other two girls in the room bore visible signs of disarray, their disheveled appearance mirroring the charged atmosphere that permeated the space. Lavender occupied her desk-turned-vanity, her legs crossed but her foot betraying her nerves with an incessant tapping against the floor. There was a restless energy about her, as if she was grappling with unspoken thoughts. Lacey, on the other hand, remained cocooned on her bed, drawing her legs close to her chest, her gaze seemingly penetrating through Reese rather than fixating upon her, as if she were a mere ghost passing through their midst.
Each passing moment only served to reinforce her desire for a swift exit. Her departure couldn’t come sooner.
"We know," Hermione stated with a sense of unwavering certainty, her words piercing through the tense silence. Reese could feel the weight of their collective gaze upon her, each pair of eyes a silent witness to her vulnerability. In that moment, she felt diminished, as if her very existence had shrunk under the weight of their knowledge.
Reese cleared her throat, not daring to look any of them in the eye. “Yeah, I’ve gathered that.” It wasn’t her place to be angry. But she was.
“Every month,” Hermione's voice persisted as though Reese hadn’t uttered a word, “you disappear. Sometimes to the hospital wing, sometimes to detention. And it—really—it doesn’t add up.” The weight of her words hung in the air, the unspoken questions echoing in the room. Reese could feel the intensity of Hermione's scrutiny, a relentless search for answers that threatened to unravel the delicate balance Reese had fought so hard to maintain.
As Hermione's words filled the air, Reese's eyes became agile, swiftly scanning the room to locate her empty trunk and mentally mapping out the most efficient way in which she’d need to pack her belongings. Lacey's restless gaze flitted anxiously between Reese and Hermione, a mixture of concern and uncertainty etched on her face. Lavender, on the other hand, seemed on the verge of an emotional outpouring, her cheeks flushed a rosy hue as if tears were ready to burst forth at any given moment.
“All right.” Reese said flatly, her voice devoid of any discernible emotion that may churn beneath the surface.
Reese's deliberate lack of confirmation or denial left Hermione momentarily flustered, her usual composed demeanor wavering. She glanced to the side, as if searching for the right words to articulate her mounting questions. Her typically eloquent and structured approach seemed to crumble, replaced by a sense of uncertainty in the face of Reese's guarded silence.
Hermione continued, “And—and we—“
“Are you really a werewolf?” Lavender blurted aloud, causing both Hermione and Lacey’s heads to whip towards her in alarm. “Er—sorry. Are you?”
Reese disregarded both her and Lacey’s unblinking stares as she continued to face Hermione head-on. Somehow, the anxiety that had been swirling tumultuously within her stomach had twisted into a hollow feeling of frustration and betrayal. "Just spit it out, Hermione," Reese urged, her voice steady despite the storm brewing within her. “Are you going to McGonagall, or should I?”
"I—you—what?" Hermione stammered, her composure finally crumbling in the face of Reese's reaction. Reese, determined to put an end to this dreadful encounter and the weight it carried, shifted from her fixed position and hastened towards her trunk. With a sense of urgency, she retrieved it from the ground, her movements betraying her desperation to escape the suffocating grip of the situation and bring this wretched night to a close.
Reese stated in a flat tone, her eyes purposefully averted from the perplexed and vulnerable gazes of Lacey and Lavender. Their confusion and helplessness pierced her with a sharp pang of guilt, making it all the more challenging to maintain eye contact. "Well, if that's all—“
“I—Reese, no, that’s not all.” Hermione stammered, her rapid blinking betraying her growing apprehension and internal conflict.
Lacey's plea pierced through the tense air, her voice desperate and pleading. "Don't leave, Reese! We promise we won't tell anyone!"
“Lacey,” Hermione admonished hushedly, “What did we talk about?”
Reese's request was laced with impatience, her voice urging Hermione to cut to the chase. “Get to the point, please, Hermione.”
“We know you’re a—“ she stopped to clear her throat, “We know you have lycanthropy.” Hermione finally poured, all of it coming out in a nervous but definitive jumble.
Reese found herself grappling with an overwhelming silence, acutely aware of the lingering intensity of Lavender and Lacey's gaze as they traced the intricate web of scars adorning her body. It was a reminiscent scene, reminiscent of Dean's earlier probing, their eyes like skilled detectives piecing together a complex puzzle. No, she couldn’t stand it, but she couldn’t do anything to stop it.
She wished the solid ground beneath her would transform into treacherous quicksand, allowing her to sink into its depths and escape the suffocating weight of their scrutinizing stares.
“You—you’re not really going to leave—are you, Reese?” Lacey asked, voice teetering on despair, “Right?”
“I can’t stay if everyone knows.” Reese informed bluntly.
“So it’s true?” Lavender's incredulous words escaped her lips in a hushed murmur, her jaw visibly dropping in disbelief. As if drawn by an invisible force, Hermione interjected, her voice slicing through the bewildered mutterings of Lavender, attempting to steer the conversation towards coherence.
“No one will know,” Hermione stated conclusively. “We promise. But we—we do have to discuss this.” Not all of us. Reese couldn't help but feel that this discussion was meant for her and Hermione alone. Reese understood what Hermione yearned to delve into—the intricate nature of her symptoms, the nuances of her transformations, and the untapped possibilities for altering aspects of her lycanthropy. Hermione was a natural problem-solver, a dedicated researcher at heart. It was ingrained in her very essence.
“I think I should mention—I’m not very good at keeping secrets.” Breaking the silence with a nervous tone, Lavender tentatively interjected, “I’m a natural-born gossiper.”
Reese resisted the urge to walk out. Hermione's eyes fluttered shut as she released a frustrated sigh, attempting to compose herself with a patience she struggled to summon. "You'll have to keep it," she uttered, her words carrying a weight of necessity. “We aren’t telling anybody.”