#adelor

Wer bist du jetzt?

Adelor took the agate bead, and left.

He had hardly listened to the bullshit of a speech that Mangin had given for him, not at all to the ones for the people before him - people, who had once been his friends and who had so cold-heartedly turned their back on him, teaching him involuntarily all those lessons in honesty he treasured so much now - and not at all to the people who were going to follow after him either.

All those who were apparently so much worse than him, all those who were apparently so much better to him, sorted and graded by the results acquired in tests, which Adelor had always find ridiculously stupid, but which now disgusted him in ways he could not name. Had he once mocked the system but basked in its security, he was now ready to fight it, to give everything up to challenge it. Not for his own sake, no, for just as Hiltwin Schaefer had once said it, no matter how much he’d fuck up, he’d always stay one of the 10% of privileged people in this society, but for all those he loved, and all those who hated him anyway.

He’d fight. He’d return and fight. But now he had to leave. And so he did.

Adelor walked down the side-aisle, without meaning to draw attention to himself, without meaning to be dramatic, just wanting to leave, walked past Mangin, walked past Merle Gaunt and Maya Rosalind, walked past his own brother. He did not walk past his mother but past his father in the audience and the few friends who had bothered to come, walked all the way to the back of the Main Hall, leaving everything behind. 

His bags were packed. Two bags. Not an empty one like the last time he had left here, not six, over-charged bags like the last time he had come here. Just two. One to carry over his shoulders, another one, a little larger, to carry in his hands. Did it matter what was in there? No shoes, no robes, no books or magical utensils. Just a few clothes, just a bit of money, and a pouch with all his treasures. No, it did not matter what in those bags was, not to anyone but him at least because no one but him knew he was leaving. 

Only Tyl Herrlich and Irimin Von Sachs knew where he was going, and only Geba Frankenthal and Onna Fuchs knew when he was going. Tonight. Right after holding his diploma in his hands, not even waiting before the falling of the night, not waiting for his father to congratulate him, not waiting for his brother to step off that stage. 

Or that was the plan. Adelor stalled by the door.

A plan of learning how to live, of learning how to be. Far away from where people knew his name, far away from people who knew his name. Lore Von Fern, he had decided to call himself, and while it appeared a silly name for German tongues, the French Muggles who he had chosen to live with would not know how to read the secret woven into it. It was a good plan. Even if everything would eventually catch up with him, this small life built on lies would give him enough time and space to learn how to be honest. To fully be honest, himself, and alive, with nothing keeping him from it.

“Adelger Graf.” 

Adelor turned. The stage was far away and brightly illuminated. He could hardly see his brother’s eyes, but knew that his own were perfectly invisible in the darkness he stood in. How strange. So many years had been spent chasing the same light Adelger stood in, and now? “Goodbye, Brudertier.” he whispered, “I see you soon.” 

Personality Test

Your Result: SLYTHERIN! (70%)

Congratulations! You have been sorted into Slytherin, the house of ambition, determination, and cunning.

Having worn nothing but his school uniform for a whole semester after having thrown his entire wardrobe into the Rhine, Adelor is now back wearing his habitual outfits. Every piece is recently bought and thus very fashionable. Or rather, the very, very top of German fashion, which is to say nothing most people would even consider wearing. 

While long pants and waist coats are what is usually to be seen on the streets these days, Adelor has given himself to the 18th century style of Versailles which is believed to be worn in Paris at the moment, wearing exclusively shiny, shimmery, extravagant pieces, often mixed together in a borderline overdone manner. 

winged eyeliner: write a hundred word letter to your twelve year old self.

Hey Lor,

first off, don’t worry, you won’t forever stay 1.40m, you’ll grow, don’t worry. You’ll even end up 3 entire centimeters taller than the person you’ll get to kiss a lot, and although neither of you will care, you’ll still get to tease him a lot.Oh. Yes. Him. I should probably tell you about that right now, maybe it’ll safe you a lot of trouble. Maybe if you’re a bit more sly and learn how to shut up about just how adorable Ju is, Papa won’t fire him and you get to keep him. Then again, I think that no matter what I tell you, it will neither be enough, nor the right choice. You’re going to hurt anyway, and there’s no way around it, and maybe it’s for the best. You don’t want to forever stay the annoying brat you are now, trust me. Eventually you’ll notice that there are more important things than keeping your shoes clean and shiny, trust me. And if that means that first you have to get over a lot of pain, then be it.