collapsible;

     There was little to give him any sort of pleasure, but on this day in particular, Mars was willing to try. The sun was out and the clouds were near-gone, the day reminding him of summer but his mind more able to bear the heat of the sun. Dueling Club had not yet started up again for the new term, but he was feeling restless, that ever present itch beneath his skin desperate to be unleashed.

     ( sometimes it felt like the magic worked him, not the other way around. sometimes he wondered what it would have been like to be powerless, to be nothing more than bones and skin and his own damn intuition ) 

     His robe was stuffed haphazardly into his bag in a haste to avoid the sweat that came from wearing black school robes outside into the sun. Mars rolled his shoulders, hopping on his toes for a moment before carefully rolling up the crisp white sleeves of his shirt until they reached his elbows. The routine of it was familiar enough that it brought a rare smile to his face -- something he hadn’t thought he’d see again for a long while yet, especially not while alone.

     Mars gathered his wand in hand with the ease and familiarity of greeting a very old friend. Magic was where he found a home -- dueling, being good at something, it kept him going. People never expected quiet, solemn Avery to pack as much of a punch as he did, but he used that to his advantage. Tom Riddle wouldn’t have chosen him if he didn’t see his worth, his value. Despite his unwillingness to shed blood without provocation, he was a powerful enough duelist that it was worthwhile to keep him on your side.

     He took a stance, bereft of a partner and instead aiming at a tree, hurling a quick succession of three hexes toward the center of the trunk. They hit with quiet perfection, sizzling and burning against the wood before the magic faded it into an ashy black. He heard the sound of someone coming near and fired off a jinx this time, not turning to look at them as he addressed them nonetheless. It didn’t matter to him who they were of if he knew them -- Mars was merely eager for a chance to test his dueling arm once more, and far too impatient to wait on the club to organize itself. ❝ Dueling is only useful with someone to practice against, ❞ he said, his tone even and almost flat in its very apathy. It contradicted the invitation in his words. ❝ If you’re up for it. ❞

“Stay where you are!”

Declan shouts it in a petrified third year’s face, forced to be callous by circumstance, by roaring water and monstrosity. With hands clamped tightly down on the child’s shoulders, as if to prevent him from being flushed away, he looks wildly about the surrounding chaos to locate a familiar face, a free arm - and is met with grim results. Nearly his entire Resistance is here, but there are simply too many students to pull to safety, too many dungeon walls to keep from collapsing; too many and too much. Declan is soaked to the bone, cloak discarded somewhere beneath the water, his woolen sweater wrapped around a shaking girl he’d sent Bellavie’s way just moments ago. The water that slams into the dungeons feels endless. 

“The squid,” Declan hears the boy saying. “It was just here - I was - will it c-come back - ”

“Stay where you are,” Declan orders one more. Clumsily, he casts a drying spell upon the child’s soaked robes - it is mediocre at best, the elementary spell made significantly weaker when channeled through a wand other than his own. He’s borrowed one from an injured Gryffindor, his own trapped somewhere beneath the rubble of a ruined corridor, and has a strong suspicion it is unicorn hair - those never sit well with his magic. As Declan motions to catch the attention of an unoccupied Resistance Ravenclaw from across the dungeons - finally - he manages to offer the boy a nearly-gentle squeeze. “Somebody is going to come get you, you’re safe,” he says, all the while scanning the dungeons for more moving bodies in the water, more shuttering slivers of survival. “Are all your mates alright?”

Declan is concerned, certainly, but it is a concern that stretches across the expanse of an entire House, an entire school - and as thus, it is worn thin and perhaps too businesslike to convince a child of sincerity. His weariness is a bitter reminder of how totally awful he is at heroism without the support of others to lift him up - Bellavie’s unyielding kindness, Leo’s infectious optimism and Charles’ cool-cut intellect; without their armor, what is left of but Declan abstract ideas, dreamers’ smoke pipes? The boy shouts a response back, but abruptly, Declan has stopped listening. All of his focus is redirected to a spot of of dark amidst darker, and it sharpens into the vivid form of a head struggling above water, a face twisted in an anguished shout -

Mars Avery.

The Ravenclaw finally spots Declan. The boy tugs free from Declan’s iron grip to reunite with a rescued friend. The water screams -

And Declan dives.

He finds the solid mass of Avery’s body an eternity later, and doesn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around the slimmest part of his waist, pulling the boy with him to a dry dungeon ledge he has spotted out from the corner of his eye with a relentless, vicious sort of fury. Fucking Avery. With effort, Declan shouts into his ear, “Don’t let go.” Their earlier conversation still burns in the pit of his stomach - it had felt like the epitome of being cut off, of watching someone make the worst mistake of their lives after he’d explicitly screamed no, you fool, you madman, you thing of light. It is an entirely new class of savagery, Declan thinks, to be forced to watch a man slit his own throat. It will never not hurt him - Avery making a home out of the teeth he resides so miserably between now.

Finally, they hit dry land. With a roar, Declan drags Avery up to the ledge, some ten feet from the ever-rising water, and rolls off of him to spit out the mouthful of water that has collected at the back of his throat. For a moment, Declan is unable to do anything but lie beside Avery, panting like a dog, aching and dazed. His displaced emotions finally begin to settle after a minute or two, panic falling to the back of his mind like a sedated, distant buzz. With a groan, Declan struggles to a sitting position and pushes his soaked curls out of his hair, blinks the debris from his eyes - and regards Avery with knitted brows, a heaving scowl.

“You know, war god,” he pants, and if there is a smile to accompany his words, it is buried miles deep beneath the shock, visible only to the ghosts. “This is an awful time and place to go for a swim.”

And then, because sarcasm is ill-suited to boys like Declan -

“Are you alright?”

     Damn him. Damn Declan Prewett all to hell.

     It wasn’t the bastard’s fault he was so fucking noble, but it ate at Mars nonetheless as he struggled to breathe, water clinging to his nose and lungs. When he licked his lips he found the taste of rust -- blood coated his teeth, and his tongue felt raw in his mouth. It was too much power to give to a lion, this debt, this life that he was half-sure he didn’t even want anymore. Yet he felt the bond snap between them nonetheless, Mars’ damned devotion to being honorable in the wake of Mercury’s death leaving him with no choice.

     I owe you one, he thought, but said nothing, still trying to process it all. ❝ I’m not lucky enough that the Squid coming through the floor was just a death’s-door dream, am I. ❞ His words sounded clumsy around his swollen tongue, which only made things more uncomfortable, but he persevered. There was no way to back down anymore. ❝ Who keeps a magic, massive squid around school children and thinks, ‘this will never go wrong for anyone’? ❞

     He was chattier than normal, either from the light-headedness or the fact that he was irritated on behalf of the kids he’d consoled and protected earlier. ❝ Robes aren’t the best swimwear, either, ❞ he fired back, gesturing to them both. He chanced a look at Prewett and found him soaking wet, but there was reluctant worry in his eyes. It both infuriated Mars and made him curious. Before, when he’d spoken to Prewett in the hall, he’d figured that whole help you help yourself was a joke, or maybe even a ruse to somehow gain information about Tom. 

     The second time Mars ended up being helped by him, he wondered if there was more to it. ❝ Just what exactly would I have to do to prove I’m not worth saving, for you? Must be conflicted, gathering up Tom’s friends from certain death. ❞ It was both a genuine question and a jab, a near-desperate plea for Prewett to stop bloody caring whether Mars lived or died, and definitely whether he was happy about it. He was beholden to Adrian to be happy sometimes, and he didn’t need to add another to that count. 

Staring at Mars is always an ordeal. It’s never something Adrian takes on lightly, the staring. If Mars catches him (sees the staring, understands why Adrian can’t tear his eyes away), who knows what he might think, what he might do.

(Can Adrian live without Mars? He could just as easily live without air, water, sunlight. Days without, he could live; but forever? No, never. He’s existed all these years because of Mars. Without him, Adrian would’ve faded away with his father, he’s sure of it. But here he stands, solid and oh so strong, because of the one facing the wall.)

“Satisfied? Not nearly.” His mouth twists into another almost-smile; it can be construed as kind, soft. “With you, maybe. Getting there.”

He listens to Mars breathe, to the air keeping his boy alive. (Should something so essential sound like music to his ears?)

“Shucks, ain’t I lucky? Getting to see the rest of it. You spoil me.”

They’d seen each other over the summer (of course they had, as if Adrian would let months go by without even a hello) but Adrian can’t tear his eyes away. His somewhat-smile grows, by inches, when Mars looks at him.

(If anyone could accuse Adrian of being a sap, it’d be now.)

A laugh escapes him. It’s a bit of a shocked noise, a surprised one; like his throat doesn’t understand what Adrian asks of it. He laughs again.

“Sod off,” he says, his eyes rolling in their sockets. “I can say pretty things whenever I want. Shall I quote Shakespeare, to really make your skin crawl?”

Mars’ eyes are so bright, so blue. Adrian looks into them, deeply, adoringly. Where Mars is light, Adrian is dark; in so many ways, they are opposites. But Adrian has never felt more tied to anyone his own age. Never felt so owned, and never cared so little of the power over him.

“If you hurry, I think you just might make it.”

His smile is wry. His face almost starts to hurt. It’s not used to this much movement. But Mars, Mars; how could he be frozen around him? Mars melts him, always has.

“Did it?” His gaze flicks to the wall, for just a moment. “Well, I can’t let this stand. This wall must be demolished, for whatever it’s done to you.”

Adrian watches Mars from behind bars, between his fingers. And he nods, shrugs; almost humble, mostly not.

“As the expert, I would be more than happy to take care of any further wall punching needs.”

He looks away, to the floor. Then he looks back. His eyes barely resting on a single one of Mars’ features.

“Always good to see you,” he says.

His gaze finally stopping on Mars’ eyes, still marred by hovering fingers.

       Mars rolls his eyes because the thought of being emotional right now is ridiculous. That’s not the game, after all. They can make fun of each other as often as they please, a ribbing far more gentle than most Adrian thinks to dole out. ❝ Yeah, alright, happy to be of service or whatever. ❞ But the tight feeling in his chest is gone, replaced with a familiar warmth.

       He thinks, in a dizzy spin, I needed you. Of course he did. Adrian has always been an escape, far more potent than Hogwarts in that regard. He allows Mars to venture out of his own head, even if they’re right in the halls of the Avery Manor. Adrian hadn’t thrown a pity party for him when Mercury died -- he’d hauled his ass out of the house and cracked at him until he hit back, sharpening his tongue in a familiar dance. He does the same now, whether he knows it or not.

       ❝ Please don’t. ❞ His fondness for Adrian knows no bounds, and part of it stems from this. Even with all his blood purity and all his Sacred Family bull, he would still quote a Muggle play-write to get a laugh from Mars’ lips. ❝ I think my theatrics are quite enough drama for one evening. ❞

       Adrian is particularly cheerful, and it bolsters Mars’ mood in return. He feels drawn like a magnet, like a mirror, determined to reflect the same smile Adrian throws back at him. They are beams of refracting light, and the corridor which once seemed dark and miserable has warmed into something friendly, something inviting. ❝ I bet some firstie fell into the lake and knocked me out of the running. ❞ He sighs, well worn and put upon, before breaking back into that grin and throwing his arm over Adrian’s shoulders.

          At first there was only huddled silence. Mars had never been afraid of the unknown -- it was the known that scared him, the fist hurtling toward his face that he didn’t know how to dodge. It scared the little ones, though, and while he was awkward at being comforting he did his best. He could remember nights where Mercury would cry out and Mars would just lay in bed, pretending not to listen, pretending he didn’t care. How often he’d pretended those things, back then. How often he still did.

          Then, the ceiling began to shake. Druella Rosier’s fragile form seemed to tremble beneath the dirt, and then the ceiling was collapsing quite violently, water bursting from above as their entire bunker began to wash away. His priority was the others first, of course -- younger than him, less adept at getting themselves out of trouble. His wand in hand, Mars used the other to haul them to safety, often to his own knights. Snakes were ruthless, but in a crisis they banded together, one united front hell-bent on protecting each other and themselves.

          The room began to clear and Mars decided it was enough, trying to find what the hell was going on, when he heard something slimy and slick dropping into the water. He ran, and the scrambling of his feet made him unlucky. Mars tumbled, his chin hitting stone as blood smeared across it. He wasn’t in too much pain, though it did hurt, but when he tried to lever himself out, his foot was entirely stuck.

          You buffoon, Avery. Get up. Yet he could not, no matter how many times Tom’s scathing voice sounded like a conscience in his mind. The awful sounds grew closer until the squid blew by him entirely, seeming not to take notice of his head barely above the water. Once he was sure it was reasonably far away, he shouted -- and hoped whoever was coming would do so quickly. The water had begun to rise.

She almost shies back when he moves, the instinctive flight of a rabbit that has walked up to wolf. Almost. Instead, she lifts her chin to meet his gaze as levelly as she can, and tries to keep the shiver from her spine from showing in her eyes. Avery is unknown, mostly, an enigma in the shadow of the rest of his pack. He has never raised his wand at her, never harmed her, and yet he stands with Riddle. Carrow, Nott, Black(s), Mulciber. Lestrange. 

Perhaps she missed a word there. Perhaps the sentence should read yet. He has not harmed her - yet.

He must, she thinks, agree with them. Surely, he could not sit with them, eat with them without their cruelty turning his stomach if he did not. And yet he does not partake himself and she has seen him, once, be kind when his friends were not nearby. She does not understand it, and the inscrutability of the situation is both reassuring and terrifying both at the same time.

And yet. And yet he is so very familiar right now, all at the same time. The look in his eyes, the way the air catches harshly in his throat, too hard to swallow down for something insubstantial; she has seen it, felt it, lived it. She knows nothing of the details, nothing more than whispers of tainted blood, whispers that seemed better not to ask about. But she knows that they share this, the lost parts of themselves that died over the holidays, and it draws her closer despite everything.

Would she leave if he said yes? She turns it over for a moment before answering. “Yes,” she answers eventually, a furrow between her brows that speaks of reluctance, but it clears as she continues, “But I don’t think you will.” She cannot think that he wants to be alone with this, where it could eat him whole, and she cannot think his friends would be much good at sympathy. What does friendship mean to such as they? She doesn’t know, and perhaps she gives them too little credit, but it is hard to take the faces of her torturers and imagine them being caring of each other. 

She almost adds I know how you feel. I feel it too. but she wonders if it would be welcome, if he would feel it presumptious. (And what does it mean, what is she doing, that she almost told him before Leo and Charles?)

Her gaze follows his to his bloodied knuckles, and her hands reach to take his, instinctively, before she remembers herself and they fall at her sides instead, curling in the fabric of her robe. “You’re hurt!” It’s a soft exclamation, and her hands reach out again after a hesitation, but stop this time part way, asking. “May I?” She has a fair proficiency with healing charms, but she doubts if he will allow her to do this. His friends, she knows, would not, would never let her touch them (filthy mudblood), and yet… she wonders.

            She doesn’t answer his question, and he half wonders why he hoped that she would. Why he hoped she would know his mind better than he did. Mars is certainly unable to sort his own mind, and maybe it would be easier to give the task to someone else, but Bellavie Chambers does not let him off easy. Something he didn’t know she was capable of but should have expected all the same. All that sunlight hiding hidden steel, strength in her that allows her to be kind even when others have been cruel. She is stronger than him by tens, maybe by hundreds -- Mars sees cruelty and wishes he could do the same, wishes he was strong enough to take it in and use it to his advantage. He wants to ask her how she does it and knows he cannot all the same.

            Bellavie does answer his other question, and there is relief in the answer. He has grown from boy to man expecting his emotions to be silenced or punished, and this feeling of being... listened to is comforting. It’s enough, just that she would go, and just that he doesn’t quite want her to. Is this blasphemy? he thinks, imagining what his father would think if he could see the way Mars looks at her then. The emotion is a brief flicker, but it’s something good, something he’s not supposed to carry in his gaze when it lands on a mudblood.

            He remembers the loathing he felt for himself, watching her smile and thinking it brightened the room. He was not meant to find mudbloods pretty, wasn’t meant to wonder what it would be like if their eyes landed on him. Yet he had. In the wake of the summer, the ache is more acute, the knowledge that this once would have disgusted him both sickening and confusing him at the same time. The emotions he had before are gone, replaced with an awful blankness, with no knowledge on how he’s supposed to feel. Perhaps he should be angry, that her Muggle parents gave her what his pure blood could not give to Mercury, but instead he feels... curiosity. How can magic rise from the dirt but fall from the pure?

            Mars knows the answer. We did not deserve it. 

            He is not a good person, and neither are his parents: this he knows for fact. Perhaps it was their punishment, funneled into the one person of their blood who might have been worth a damn. He feels an awful sickness in his throat, in his chest. He is lost, he has lost, and he no longer knows the way. ❝ No, ❞ he says at last, ❝ I don’t think I will, either. ❞

            Surprise filters through Mars’ features, though maybe he should have expected this. He has known, after all, that she is more kind than will ever serve her. Still, that her face falls into worry over him, over a snake who would have left her to the slaughter not six months previous, makes him both terrified and entranced. How has she survived, this lion with her fangs cut out? How can he keep her from being bled, slowly, by everything the world has to offer? It’s not his job but that doesn’t stop him considering it, considering what it would be like if it was. Perhaps Mercury’s death has driven him truly mad.

Mars Avery. Like so many who circulate within the circle of the sacred twenty-eight, he is a figure cut from emerald green, wearing a snake on his shoulder, dwelling in the depths of the castle. It’s hard to believe that so many fragments of her life are there with him - her siblings, the ones picked to walk in the world with her, her best friend, the lightness of her life - and nearly every other acceptable counterpart, whose names will forever remain ingrained on her lips, the only reminder she has ever truly had of the world they live in. It’s the only rule she’s ever broken. The only secret she’s ever harbored. The only true mark of independence, that she, Lucretia Black, made a mark upon this world. Small and pitiful maybe, but even lambs tread upon the grass.

A figure shrouded in mystery, little more than a family name and someone she occasionally sees her brother clap on the back, his presence her is a mystery to her, as is the way in which he approaches her, stepping forward, almost as if he intends to ease her passing. It’s because of Cygnus. The words help her make sense of the situation, to bring clarity to an otherwise puzzling situation. What else could it be? The shadow behind her has a name - and it is her brother’s. There are many, too many, things she fails to notice - but he is not one of them. Once again, if not indirectly, he saves her. Later, she will beckon him over and plant a kiss upon his cheek. But, for now, temporarily at least, Mars plays the role of her knight in shining armor, his body inches from hers. If she squints, he may even come to resemble the figure from the stories she adored so much as a child (and teenager). Of course, she’s more inclined to believe in a princess saving her (she looks a little too much like Vesta) but a fantasy is a fantasy, no matter who fulfils the role.

“But I don’t want you to get in trouble.” Her words come straight from the heart, expressed with a new sense of urgency - genuine belief behind each and every one of them. Under his words, her hand begins to tremble, conflicted by what he advises - and what she perceives to be the best. “I would never be able to live with myself.”

      Lucretia Black is too soft for this world. He’s thought it a thousand times, perhaps, but he thinks it today again and wonders, how has she survived? Were the sharp teeth of all those siblings enough to keep her from harm? Do they still curl around her, protective, wolves protecting the youngest in their pack? He wonders what it would have been like if he had been that for his own shadow. If he could have defended Mercury against the thick, black night, so perfectly as the Blacks have cossetted their youngest girl.

      It’s incredible at the same time as it sickens him slightly. The thought that there are people in the world who have never known pain, never known raw anguish, sits harshly on his palette as of late. He forces himself to remember that he has always held a certain fondness for Lucretia, the way she cannot meet the eyes of so many. In a different life, he could have been like that. Maybe Mercury should have been that, if everything had gone well. Yin and yang, two boys opposed but always at each other’s backs.

      Magic is as much a relief as it is a curse. Without it, they are nothing but canon fodder, and Mars has never been more aware of that. She’s lucky, this little lamb, for the magic that courses through her veins, even if she rarely bothers to use it once school is out. Even if the whole world takes the burden from her shoulders, she is still useful. She is still considered worthy. And in her purity, Mars finds he cannot deem her unworthy either. She is picture perfect gentleness he doesn’t have the heart to tamper with.

      Her concern for him is charming, but foolish. He has been in trouble before and he will be again -- he’s an old hat at this by now. ❝ Nothing dramatic about detention, Lucretia. My hand won’t tire writing lines. ❞ He flexes it just for show, and again offers her his sad, tired smile. Maybe he was better at that once. He can’t recall how that felt, anymore. ❝ How about we do it together then? ❞

“My summer was lovely, of course,” Abraxas had said it half-a-dozen times by now. It slipped unbidden from his lips, it hit the floor with a soft and hollow thud. He derived no pleasure from the statement, felt no connection to it at all, “I would ask you how yours went, but- ”

He let it trail off  and studied Mars’ face with narrowed eyes. The other boy’s face was still too bright, not in color- there was no flush of blood red on his cheeks and his eyes did not quite bleed the electric blue Abraxas had imagined they would- but in sentiment.  He saw a scene in flashes: shattered glass and empty vases and spilled red wine seeping into the floor. He saw teeth and fear and an unflaggable hatred and he was almost caught off-guard by it. Almost. 

I may be weak now, Mars seemed to admit, taking the proffered sword and hissing, but that does not mean I am not stronger than you. 

In Mars’ voice, there was a challenge.

One that Abraxas would not humor the thought of ever accepting. They had the whole year, after all. They played in the pond, they stood in the same circles. Perhaps Mars was weak, perhaps he was asinine, but there was no sense in kicking a cornered dog, especially not one you had to stand by later. Casual cruelty gave him no pleasure.  

“For Merlin’s sake, breathe,” Abraxas sneered, walking closer. He offered Mars a hankerchief, spelled fresh  for good measure, “And fix your collar. I don’t want anything from you.  I only asked  to see your face. Confirm what I thought I knew.”

          It was a taunting slip of the tongue, but it still hurt. There were people whose summers had been lovely in this world, and Mars wanted to hate them all. He wanted to be angry enough to hit something, hit Malfoy even, but the feeling wouldn’t come. Instead, it felt like there was a hollowness inside him, swallowing every emotion he had until he was just a pit of nothingness. Perhaps it was on purpose. Some pain was too great to be felt all at once.

          Abraxas Malfoy loved to lord over the others. It had always been obvious, the way he looked down on them, little peons in his way. As if he didn’t call the same boy master as they all did. As if he were somehow above it all, as he crawled in the dirt with them, no more lofty than any under Riddle’s gaze. Mars had never really cared about it, the way Malfoy’s eyes flashed beneath an order, but now he found himself almost eager to see it. How this boy with everything he could want still rankled at the idea of being told what to do.

          Mars had never known anything but following, and in this moment, when Malfoy thought he’d taken all Mars’ secrets and held all the power, he was pleased that someone in this world would force him to submit. 

          He looked at the handkerchief but didn’t take it. He didn’t need it. He hadn’t cried, much as he might have felt like he wanted to, and the offer was an insult -- pity on top of mistrust. Mars looked Abraxas in the eye instead. ❝ I hope you got what you came for, ❞ he said, his voice once again toneless, the mask he wore for Riddle weaving its way around him like a cloak. Vulnerability bled from his eyes, replaced with the dull apathy of someone who didn’t care what happened right in front of them. ❝ And I hope that, should you ever find yourself suffering a loss, someone will show the same generosity back unto you. ❞ It was said quite flat, but with all the purpose in the world. When your world collapses, I wish there will be someone there to add to it. Someone to make you feel weak when you are defenseless. Then you will know the sensation.

“Nobody’s going to be walking by any time soon,” Declan counters stiffly; a snap shock sort of self-defense he has learned from once living in a pit of vipers. One may and should always be kind, he’d realized, but never weak - they bit where you looked soft. “There isn’t a soul for miles.” The halls that run down this particular vein of the school are barren and cold, what few windows its stone walls offer coated in layers of dust much older than that of a single summer’s.

He supposes in a world of inexhaustible magic, certain things will inevitably be left behind - and he wonders what drew Mars here to begin with. Was it the ghostliness, the cold of unliving? Of once-had-lived?

Are you alright?

Only now does Declan realize what a foolish, foolish question that is. Of course he isn’t. Anyone with a shred of presence in the Sacred Twenty Eight circle has heard about the Averys - what has been done to them, what they have done to themselves. The whispers are all smoke, the gossip shifting narratives by the ear - but Declan knows enough. There were sons, he knows. And then there was son.

“Shut it,” Declan snaps in response to Mars’ rather weak attempts at driving him away, but there is no real venom. He looks at this boy - he’s seventeen like Declan, like all of them, he’s just a boy - and knows by the tremulous lines of his shoulders, that he is looking at neither a murderer nor a content bystander. Declan is quiet for a moment, contemplating.

“Not all of us scorn the idea of offering - and accepting - help,” he says finally, hard but not unkind, not truly. “And it’s not hilarious, actually, people having problems. Only your lot think that, trust me.” He hesitates. “I - listen.” Declan is toeing the line here. Witnessing Mars in his current state was, perhaps, unforgivable; what he wants to say next might get him killed.

Of course, death has rarely deterred him.

“I don’t know what - when they told me, it wasn’t - with Mercury - I mean.”

And what does he mean? What the fuck is he doing, what is he trying to give to Avery?

“I don’t know anything, really,” Declan says, and he takes care to look Mars right in the eye.Kindness, never weakness. “But I don’t think it was your fault.”

            Mars smiles, but it’s more of a grimace than anything else. ❝ Lucky you, then. ❞ He can see he’s hit his mark, and if he were Adrian or Tom, he would press the issue, continue to make Prewett uncomfortable until he left. But Mars doesn’t have that instinct, doesn’t know how to press the advantage for his own benefit. Instead, he waits, observant, and watches. 

            Shut it. He wants to strip him of pretense, this boy who has never met the real world and calls it his cause. It would almost be funny if it were happening to someone else. Declan Prewett trying to give kindness to a Knight, to a boy who stands at Riddle’s back because he belongs there. It catches him off guard, the genuine look in Prewett’s eyes, some emotion there he’s not familiar with. Something he’s never known, but has seen on faces he’d rather ignore. It’s not quite pity, but it’s nothing he’s meant to like. 

            He realizes, belatedly, that speaking to Prewett has eased the panic in his chest, his breathing returning to normal under the weight of what the fuck and how do I figure you out and what do you want from me. Mars is too busy worrying about him to think about anything else. Perhaps that’s a blessing, but it may yet be a curse -- for Prewett, anyway. Because the more he speaks, the more Mars understands just how little he knows of the world and what’s really in it. How easy he thinks it is, to shed years of training just because a lion tells you it’s okay. 

            Mars has half a mind to tell him that when he says his name. Mercury. He flinches, noticeably, and steps back, though there’s nowhere to go but the wall and unfortunately he can’t melt through it. He wants to, quite desperately, because the thought that it’s Prewett who is the first one to say his name to Mars in two months makes him feel sick and sort of like crying at the same time. He can’t do either, of course, but it’s a shaky feeling, one that brings desperate defense to his voice, pouring from his throat like it’s needed an escape.

            ❝ Help? You think you can help me? ❞ He feels near hysterical, fighting down laughter to get the words out, because the idea of being helped is ludicrous. ❝ What do you call your father, Prewett? Daddy, Papa, Pops? I call mine sir. I don’t talk back. I follow orders, and that cannot be helped. I said yes, sir when he told me to jump in the river. If I learned how to swim, I was worth keeping. If I drowned, he’d have another one and do it right next time. I said yes, sir when he told me blood traitors deserved to die, and I believed that. I said yes, sir when he took me to watch my brother die, and I said yes, sir when he told me to leave his body behind -- no grave, no funeral, no helping. All I say is yes, sir, and I live with that. What do you live with, Prewett? What do you survive? ❞

            He steps closer to Prewett, feeling punched and a bit like he’s going to be sick if he doesn’t keep talking. ❝ Of course it’s my fucking fault. It’s so easy for you, standing up to people all the time, with all your friends and your happy little family. It’s a bloody luxury. ❞ His hands are shaking, but he can’t step away, can’t release Prewett from whatever hell he’s trapped them both in. He doesn’t know how to stop talking -- he hasn’t let anyone see this, and he can’t help but feel like it’s a release. ❝ Don’t pity me, Aviator. Punish me. I’m as much a blood traitor as you are. ❞

Words were something that rarely fell from her lips since the revelation — since her life was destroyed. There was nothing that would hold her in this new reality, but the façade that she was still the same girl that she was first year up until this very moment. Loneliness was deafening when no one realized you were in the pit of in while standing in the middle of a crowd. Oh, her heart hung heavy on her sleeve as she sought of refuge in the form of solitude. Of course, people would miss her and search her out, but she had a way of snaking through unseen as of late with the ability to be present then with a single blink be gone.

Tonight, of all nights — The crowd seemed to grip at her throat and prevent any air from passing through, causing panic to rise just beneath the surface of her eyes. She could hold herself together nicely, if required. Her smile still had sway of anyone that could sink into her attraction, losing themselves in her presence. The very thought of such power making her stomach tie knots within itself as enough was enough.

As everyone dove deep within conversation, Walburga excused herself with a nod towards her brother with no excuse needed. She simply did as she pleased in that moment and found herself the seclusion she needed. It was several minutes of walking before she was absolute that no one had gotten brave over summer to follow her. She pulled the gifted wand from her mother that was nestled in her waistline, giving it a playful twirl when she heard a sound that resembled that of cracking knuckles, rolling her eyes before stepping around the corner to see Mars Avery of all people.

His question went ignored with a shrug of her shoulders that would easily be missed by him as neither of them desired the company of the other. ‘Why did he have to say a word to her?’ She cursed herself for not choosing a different path, but here she was — stuck. “Mars,” Walburga said as she pushed the wand back behind her back with a quick tuck into her pocket, “I wish there was something interesting to speak of in this moment. Loneliness suits us both.”

        Walburga Black. Mars was not someone who particularly pitied anyone, considering the way his life had gone, but he sometimes pitied the look in her eyes when he and Riddle passed by. There was still that vain sort of longing, the confusion that came with no experience in being denied. She was beautiful and she knew it as well as anyone, but he could have out-dueled her ten times running. Mostly, he traded pity for disgust -- vapidity was the most useless thing he’d ever witnessed, and she reveled in it.

        Mars was quite used to being alone, but he hadn’t thought Walburga made of the same stock. It was easier not to talk to anyone, not to have to think about how to act or what to say. It was easier to pretend he hated others than admit he didn’t know how to be around them without making a fool of himself. Walburga’s beauty made her a far more social creature, yet here she was, in the dark and alone with someone she wouldn’t have given a second glance before, unless he was at Riddle’s side.

        ❝ I hadn’t realized you were content to be alone, ❞ he said, turning to study her. She seemed almost as changed as he was -- or maybe it was the light. Her usual smirking lips were down-turned against the gaunt stretch of her cheekbones, Walburga’s beauty was pale in the wash of the fire, her gaze avoiding his. What a strange turn. Had the shunning of Alphard Black pushed her into the dark? Or perhaps something else haunted her steps, something he could not relate to at all. Whatever it was, he strove not to sympathize with her, whether she had fangs or not.

        Soft-hearted. Weak. Yes, he could hear it in her voice as easily as his father’s. 

There’s something Bella’s always loved about the castle at night; it seems more magical, somehow, the fairytale coming out stronger when its corridors weren’t swarmed with bodies and school yard gossip. This balcony was one of her favourite spots; not a hiding spot so much as a spot that happened to be hidden. Getting on to it was a matter of a rather heart-stopping step onto an invisible step between it and the balcony of the room that appeared to be right next door but which opened onto a room two floors above and three to the left as far as she could work out. She’d shared it with the other Aviators, of course, but none of them seemed as entranced with it as she was. Charles joined her most often, knew to check here if she disappeared, but mostly it was her sanctuary, her little corner of peace and serenity where she could watch the moon over the lake.

Still, she should probably get back before her boys decided something had happened and they needed to launch some sort of campaign to find her. It’s a thought tinged with both fondness and a smidgen of exasperation, for as much as she loves them fiercely for their free-given care, she sometimes wants to tell them that she is not as fragile as they think.

Getting off the balcony is a much simpler affair; she simply climbed through the window into the classroom behind it and walked out the door that only seemed to exist from the inside. She’s wondered what the point of that is, a classroom only accessible to those inside it. The walls have never provided an answer, though, and the door vanishes into non-existence again as soon as she’s in the corridor.

She’s not expecting to run into anyone as she makes her way down the rarely used corridor, and she stops uncertainly as she rounds the corner and spots the Slytherin boy. It’s a sharp, clashing mix of emotions the sight engenders; a fierce urge to turn on her heel and flee before he sees her, can advance on her or hurl the word mudblood at her, mixed with a dichotomous ache for his obvious upset that urges her to move towards him instead, to try and ease what pain she can.

His words startle her, cause her hands to flutter nervously for a moment before she stills them with tight handfuls of fabric. “I -” She starts, and then stops. “No, it’s not interesting, not the way you meant.” She hesitates, heartbeat skittering faster as she tries to decide between directions. He is part of Tom’s pack, she knows, and while he has never directly hurt her… she should run, she knows. Her housemates will tell her so, she is sure, if this goes badly. And yet. And yet he is so very hurting right now, and his wound matches her. How would she manage, she thinks, if her friends weren’t supporting her? She wonders if his friends are even capable of it, under the cruelty, and she hopes so, for all their sake.

She swallows around the sudden knot in her throat where her heart seems to have lodged, still hammering out in overtime, and steps towards him. Her hand raises, as though to reach out and rest on his shoulder, then falls again as she hovers uncertainly, still half on the balls of her feet (and she can’t help but watch his hands, make sure they don’t dart for his wand or her). “Are you - Are you alright?” She doesn’t know why she asks, when the answer is so very obvious. Perhaps to give him an out if he needs it, or to let him know that he doesn’t have to be.

            The softness of her voice is a familiar wound, one he’s been digging into for more years than he would have admitted before. A snapshot of his life, of the blood supremacy he’d always held dear, would show a stranger to him now, unfamiliar and warped. Bellavie Chambers is the vision at the window, the fantasy of sun on a murky, miserable day. She is not real, she cannot be there, because if she is, then she is looking at him with all the softness her voice holds. This would be a bad thing, he’s sure. He can’t explain why.

            Not interesting, she says, yet her footfalls don’t continue past. She remains behind him, remains watching him, and it feels a little bit like death. If they are to speak, let it not be when he’s broken. Let it be when he’s pretending to be whole, and let her see him for the monster in the dark he’s become. ❝ What am I thinking? ❞ It’s meant to be sarcastic, meant to be rude, but instead it leaves his mouth almost desperately. What do you know about me? Who do you think I am from across a room, across houses, across school? 

            The next time her voice reaches him, she seems very close, half a head down from where he stands and still filling the space with the smell of her hair and the gentle tone of her voice. He’s unfamiliar with the way his throat clogs, some sort of emotion there too thick to speak past for a moment. Are you alright? The answer is unbearably obvious, and the worst part is, from all he’s heard spit from Electra’s mouth, she would take yes and let it go. A lion-heart with the courage to approach a snake and the kindness to let him pretend his hands don’t shake. 

            Mars pushes himself from the wall, palms flat against stone until he’s positive he won’t sway standing unaided. He looks at her and feels himself sinking into the unknown -- it is treachery to stand here in plain sight and speak to a mudblood like she’s worth that the effort it takes. ❝ Would you leave if I said yes? ❞ he asks, a question he already knows the answer to. By asking he’s committed a betrayal, to Riddle, to the Knights, to his family. He is as traitorous as he was the day he watched his brother die, and it feels good. It soothes the ghost in his chest for the moment, the clawing hunger of the boy who died alone. 

            He notes the pain in his knuckles for the first time, drawing it up to check on the bruising scrapes. Nothing too serious, but he knows Adrian would make a fool of him if he’d seen. Mars decides to ignore it after a beat, knowing that looking at it isn’t going to change anything, and studies the girl instead. Bellavie. A name meant for grace on a girl who seems average, on the surface. Yet it’s what’s beneath that has always fascinated him. The way she patches up first years and helps them with their homework, the way she laughs so unabashedly with her mates, the halos on their heads making his stomach turn. It is she alone that makes him think maybe kindness would be worth it, rather than a naive waste of time. He wonders what it will take to drain that spirit from her gaze, and finds himself sad that it will happen. But he knows it will.

London was a bloody mess. But at least in London, he wasn’t bored.

Hogwarts is pristine, untouched by the muggle atrocities at their doorstep. Its ancient walls are clean, sparkling; its students smiling, laughing.

Adrian, though; he misses London. Watching the bombs fall, the people run from danger like rats to the sewer, it was invigorating. It gave him ideas. Muggles, they knew how to wage war. There was pain there, agony. With wizards, they fight clean. They don’t know what a man looks like in three parts, nor do they understand the fear of constant, imminent death.

(He hopes to change that, one day. To show them something worthy of fear.)

Paris, too, was in shambles. He was there just last week, marveling at how the—what were they called?—Nazis embellished the city to their liking. Both cities were in ruins, everything blown apart by those funny muggle bombs. He’d come home covered in dust from their ancient bricks, plaster sprinkled in hair.

He looked in the mirror and smiled at his dishevelment.

But now, he’s away from it all, back in the one place the muggles have no hope of touching, protected as it is. (Little do they know that wars can rise from within.)

The halls are empty. The noises from the great hall betray where most of the students lie. Adrian hasn’t gone yet, though. Instead, he takes his time changing into his school uniform, loathe to be separated from the clothes he’d become so accustomed to the last few months.

In the familiar Slytherin green, he makes his descent. (He’s always thought he looks best in green. It brings out the venom in his eyes.)

The path down to the great hall is ingrained in his memory; he barely pays attention as he walks, his mind elsewhere entirely. He’s gone this path a thousand times and he’s still a few hundred away before he’s done with it entirely.

But, he stops, his attention brought back by Mars. He hits a wall. His face is hidden, but Adrian would know him anywhere.

“Yeah,” he replies. “The back of your head is truly fascinating. Mind if I keep staring?”

A sort-of-almost-could-have-been-a-smile-on-another-face pulls at his lips. Mars, Mars; his lovely, lovely Mars.

“You’ll break your hand if you do it like that,” he adds. “Punching walls is a very delicate procedure. One thing wrong and it’s off to the hospital wing with you.”

Between them, the distance disappears; Adrian walks over, stands behind him.

“Lucky for you, I’m a wall punching connoisseur. Could show you a thing or two, if you wanted. You know, should any further walls need a good beating.”

            There’s a rushing feeling all over his body, the quiet brought on by a storm. Adrian is not peaceful, not calming -- but then, if he is none of those things, why does Mars feel stilled at the sound of his voice? His breathing, once so labored and short, comes out on a sigh as he comes back to himself, shaking his head and almost willing to smile. ❝ So easily satisfied, ❞ he teases, out of breath like he’s run a marathon but getting back to normal. ❝ You should see the front. ❞

            He turns, then, his back against the wall, taking in Adrian’s face. It’s not like they didn’t see each other over the summer, but he was so distant, almost faded at the time, unable to see anything clearly. Hogwarts feels like death, but it also feels like a dream, one he’s able to at last live through instead of seeing through everything like a ghost. He sees the smile on Adrian’s face and his lips quirk up at the corners; it’s good to see him. It’s always good to see him.

                                     ( he doesn’t think of how disappointed adrian would be,                                        if he could see the thoughts running through his mind.                                        how he would laugh at the idea of playing nice with a                                        blood traitor, how mars’ confusion would feel to him                                                                                                                      like betrayal. )

            Mars knows he’s not the punching expert of the two, but he nonetheless raises a brow. ❝ I can’t believe you just said the word delicate. Sounds wrong from that snarl of yours. ❞ It’s an insult but his eyes are filled with laughter -- Mars feels human for the first time in months, playing with Adrian like the children they were meant to be. There is death with the Knights, yes, but with Adrian there is also life, so vibrant and shocking red it throws the world into disarray. ❝ Would I make the record books for earliest admission in one year? Then it might be worth it. ❞ An old joke, that Mars would ever want attention. He would rather die than be center stage.

“Something always is.”

Abraxas’s voice sounded like a grand tragedy, disappointment imbued into the very sense of it. He expected more from Mars, The hallway rung out in its silence. Abraxas made no motion to approach.

The boy was flush against the wall, his fists loosening, his voice gruff and sharp. Abraxas could not see his eyes, but he, at once, knew what they must look like: two open wounds, didymous by nature, bleeding a sharp piercing blue. 

“Shall I call a spade a spade and say you are not yourself?” his voice was low, playful almost, “Or should I pretend to be blind and walk the other way?”

It was a test, as all things were. The Knights went to war, every day. This was no different. 

The latter was a generous offer, but an irredeemable sin. As a Knight, one did not reveal weakness, but Abraxas hated most of all those that pretended to be what they were not.  Abraxas held no contempt for the weak or the broken, only the disillusioned. No matter the choice, Mars would not win. 

If the trap seemed cruel, Abraxas refused to acknowledge it After all, he was being kind enough.

Mars was born for war. The provocation of it was a chance for him to assume proper position. Abraxas offered him a suit of armor to hide those weak and wallowing eyes. He gave him a sword and told him to fight. On the battlefield, there was no room for pity; Abraxas figured that Mars would appreciate the reprieve.

“Face me, Avery,” his face was flat, emotionless, “After all, I have not seen you all summer.”

         For a moment terror gripped him -- the snide ambition in that voice sounded so reminiscent of Riddle. Yet the accent was all wrong, too cultured, not vicious enough. It was Malfoy who waited behind him, and for a moment, he was too relieved to realize the danger. He would take anyone over Tom at that moment, though he had no love for the Malfoy heir. He walked as if dirt was too lowly to touch him, yet Mars knew he would crawl for Tom Riddle -- as would they all. Malfoy thought himself above the pack when in reality, he was nowhere near their second. Still, they were Knights, and the Knights were home. Mars slowly relaxed.

         ❝ You wouldn’t sugar coat it for me? Fuck, mate, I feel real special. ❞ The sarcasm was thick enough to cut, but for all Malfoy’s cold demeanor, Mars was acquainted enough with him that there was no pretense about Mars’ inability to use it. He was most comfortable with vipers, after all, even if they had faces begging to be hit. ❝ Whatever you want to call it, then. A spade, a stranger, a fucking ruin. ❞ He couldn’t lie, not with another Knight. Malfoy might choose not to tell, but a lie might certainly make its way to Riddle, and that would make the sin unforgivable. 

         Mars turned only after he was sure he hadn’t cried. That would truly be irredeemable, in the eyes of the world. Instead, he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms while he attempted to regulate his heartbeat. He was breathing a bit fast, but nothing that running couldn’t explain. Really, he was doing an excellent job at pretending he was fine, all things considered. ❝ Do you want me to ask how it was? How was your summer, Malfoy? Do anything fun? ❞ His voice remained strained, but he didn’t back down, knowing he had to cut this off now lest the vulnerability become permanent. It was maybe the most he’d ever said to Malfoy consecutively. He halfway loathed it.

In Declan’s absence, Hogwarts has transformed - the trees have grown ruddy with the cool weather, his shoes echo louder in the stone corridors than how he remembers - still sleepy and a little disoriented with all the little ones, perhaps, he thinks fondly - and the air smells pleasantly of sap and baked goods. The Dining Hall is quite a ways from this particular wing of the school, he notes, so he supposes the scent of treacle tart is permeating from the kitchens…

Maybe. Declan isn’t terribly sure where he is, actually.

With Bella and Leo nowhere to be seen (something mewls inside of him, discontent and down) and Charles showing the first years around, Declan had taken it upon himself to undertake a solitary reunion of sorts with his second home - and now he’s ended up rather lost. It’s a slightly embarrassing situation to find oneself in, considering he’s a seventh year student; he blames it on the fact that this particular corridor is downright miserable (poorly lit and bloody freezing) - and he doesn’t fancy seeking out misery.

Strange, then, how it finds him.

“Something interesting?”

It takes a moment to register that rough clawing of a voice with the son of Avery. His face, turned away and hunched into the shadows, had offered no clues to his identity. Even without a turned back, Declan suspects, he would have hesitated all the same. There is something strange and unknowable about Mars Avery, a reluctance to his existence. Everything of and about him is a little smudged around the eyes and worn at the edges.

“No,” Declan says evenly from where he stands. After a moment of deliberation, he takes a step forward. “Are you alright?” He is concerned, but to a limited extent - Avery’s allegiance to Riddle is known, and Declan is sure whatever dilemma wracks this boy’s body is but a sliver of dark swimming in a sea of it - to live as a Knight is to live in and amongst destruction, certainly.

Nevertheless, he betrays no outward prejudice, and makes an effort to be courteous.

            When Mars had imagined the worst case scenario, he had gone with one of the Knights. Surely they would tattle to their master, their leader, little Avery boy with his head pressed into the dirt. Tom’s wrath at finding them lacking is... unpleasant, and he doesn’t want to be caught in that trap again. He had not found it possible to consider that a lion would roar at a snake, nor that the lion would be one who so despises everything Mars has chosen to uphold. He isn’t alone in that, not today, and Mars hates that. 

            He hates that tone, too, the little note of pity in Prewett’s voice, as if he deserves it needs it. As if all that Gryffindor chivalry could be directed at Slytherin house, too. The red and gold are an insular house when it comes to the snakes, practically spitting on the ground they walk, yet here he is, golden boy with the silver spoon still stuck between his teeth, using all that bravery to pity him. He feels sick, and Mars can’t be sure if it’s from the grief still stuck in his throat or the fact that Declan Prewett is the first person in two months to ask him that question.

                                    Are you alright? 

            It rings in his ears like the aftermath of those damn German bombs, like his body has become Britain in the wake of a blitz. He wants to say that he is -- he wants to say it so badly that the sinking panic he felt before he held his breath rises once again to the surface, his breathing so loud and sharp in his ears that he’s sure everyone in the fucking castle hears it, let alone in this cursed hallway. It’s strange to be stuck with Prewett, blood as pure as his but family smeared in the dirt thanks to their opinions. Blood traitors. A phrase that makes his own blood curdle. One he knows intimately, though he’s never said anything in defense of a Mudblood. There are ways to betray your own blood that shouldn’t be named, and Mars is guilty of them all.

            Pretending has quickly become useless, considering he can’t even keep a straight face in front of a lion. Instead, he turns and leans against the wall, eyes shut, one hand pressed to his rapid heart. ❝ Don’t ask questions you know the answer to, Prewett. ❞ Maybe, with all the apathy he has left to give, he can deflect. This day feels like the precipice for him, July 1st the last day he didn’t feel as though he were falling through the ground in an endless darkness. He remembers the hope he felt then, and contrasts it with the pitiless pessimism that remains. Two months and he no longer knows who he is. Who am I without you, Hermes? What am I still running from?

            He’s regained his breath, but his hands shake with the aftershocks of it, the ghost in his lungs that won’t let go. ❝ Must be hilarious for you. A snake having problems. ❞ Mars finally opens his eyes, and they land right on Prewett’s. ❝ I know you and your mates try and believe you’re all burdened with generosity and that, but you should probably run along. I’m fucking your eager beaver reputation the moment anyone walks by. ❞

DATE AND TIME: September 1st, 17.40PM LOCATION: Outside the Great Hall STATUS: Open

No matter how many years she spends here, Hogwarts will never feel like home, not really. It will never be as familiar, as warm, as inherently hers. There are too many people, both looming figures with icy jaws who stare at her and those who are softer, but see her as a Black first and foremost, no matter the colour tie she wears, or her temperament.  Neither party might say much to her, but she will always whimper in return. She is, it appears, impossibly contained in a trap of her own making. And no matter how she might plea to be freed, her voice is just a whisper - and it never makes a difference, not really. 

She’s long learnt her lesson about wishing herself into someone else. And now, she doesn’t ever bother trying.

As silent as the dead of night, but as light as a dove’s feather, her footsteps hesitate at the entrance to the Great Hall, its doors pressed shut. Someone bolder might storm through, break the conventions that keep them pressed in place and jostle for the best seat. But she, with eyes as wide as a bush baby and a temperament as skittish as a gazelle, will never push through, will never dare to take a risk. It keeps her in place. It keeps her safe. Over and over she tells herself that there are worse things to be, that she could be selfish, greedy or dark. In comparison, placid serenity seems almost saintly. But it exhausts her. It silences her. Ariel might have swapped her voice for the chance to love, but Lucretia Black never had one to begin with.

Hands curled around the door knocker, but hesitant to push, she spins on her heels, eyes bearing into those of another. She is not alone. Mouth forming into a wispy smile, her voice is soft and tender, almost as if you could cut through it. “Do you think we’re allowed to go in? I don’t - I don’t want to do anything forbidden.”

          Mars was never allowed to nurture soft things. The closest he ever got was Kael, and the dog was a huge, slobbering mess even as a puppy, likely to bowl his small body over if he wasn’t careful. He was a hunting dog, meant to have use, not meant to stay soft and babyish for good. The Blacks have a reputation for cruelty, but it nonetheless fascinates him, how they let their smallest child remain just that. Perhaps it’s that his mother had never graced the Avery halls with a girl, but he knows her, knows the sharpness of her claws against his cheek, and thinks that it would not have helped.

         He watches her now, all that foolhardy hesitation, and thinks that while her eyes are wide and soft and his face is all sharpness, they may have something in common. Cowardice, it hisses, and it sounds like Weasley’s voice in the back of his skull. He moves forward just to ignore it, not so much parting the crowd as sliding through it, a snake under their feet saving its venom for just the right person. There is a general babble of confusion to it all, and he thinks the caretaker might get in trouble. The caretaker at home would certainly get an earful, or perhaps an ear off, if mother was feeling particularly incensed. 

          Eventually, he has shouldered through the rabble enough to get to the door, watching as she curls and uncurls her hand on the knob before turning away, her shoulders a curve that reminds him of his own beneath his father’s gaze. The difference is her softness, her demeanor, is innate, and his was trained through repeated learned behavior. Lucretia may not be a Slytherin, but she is not afraid of snakes, not as much as he knows anyway. He holds out a hand for her, caught halfway between the way you reach out to a pet and the way you might to a friend. Mars doesn’t really know how to deal with her. He just knows that he can’t turn away, not when he’s seen himself in her for a moment.

          ❝ It’s easier to get in trouble when someone is there to take the fall, ❞ he says, voice low and trying to remain that way. ❝ You should open it. Who would believe that you did something wrong over me? ❞

           The echoing of his footfalls reminds Mars of the echo-chamber in his head, where all his desperate thoughts go to die. He thought, as he gathered the floo powder in his hand and avoided the gaze of everyone but Aoife, that he could play the game just as well as he had before. He could hold his head high at the mention of filthy mudblood muck and not recall the way Mercury’s nose would bleed in the cold ( and the blood was red like his, even when his father said he must have been filled with dust and dirt instead ) or just before it rained. Hogwarts was the place he went to forget his sickly reflection, and being back made his stomach swell with shame and terrible longing. It was a cycle; wishing the guilt would go away, then feeling guilty for wanting to go back to the way things were.

           Perhaps that’s what death did to a twin. Left them bereft and unfinished, somehow. It would be two months tomorrow, and not a single person mentioned it. No one remembered to care. After all, the gossip about that Avery squib was old news. There was no obituary for someone everyone he knew had already considered worse off than dead. Memorials popped up everywhere, soaking in war-time sentimentality, but Mercury had been fighting his whole life and no one was left to remember him.

           No one but Mars.

           He picked up his pace, trying to get to the common room without really paying attention. First he was at a brisk jog, which quickly escalated to a run, but his feet couldn’t catch his harried breaths. He had to stop halfway there, lungs shallow and eyes squeezed tightly shut. Hogwarts had always meant running away, filling himself with magic so he could forget that he didn’t understand love. There was nowhere to run from this. Nowhere to run from the animal inside him, this ravaging, savage beast that wanted his own heart’s blood.

           Mars finally leaned his head against the wall, caught between failure to breathe and near-hysterical laughter. If only his father could see him now. A frightened rabbit, his heart beating just as fast, eyes low, head bowed in defeat. His hand curled into a fist, thinking not for the first time about what Adrian would do. Confrontational and utterly unashamed. His hand curled into a fist, and he slammed the side against the wall. It felt good. Maybe Adrian had been right all along.

           Footsteps around the corner caused him to hold his breath, waiting for them to turn the other way or pass him by entirely. People were self-absorbed – they generally saw what they wanted to see, or what would least affect them. He held his breath and held onto his vulnerability, too, tugging at its leash until it curled around his feet. After a while, he let out a low, shaky breath. The footsteps stopped. ❝ Something interesting? ❞ His voice was rough with strain and dangerous enough to scare off any lost kid, though he doubted it would work on one of his fellow knights, if he were unfortunate enough to be beneath their gaze. Mars didn’t turn. That would give them the idea that they’d affected him.