#c:doris

“Any good news?” Camille asked, casually, to the girl across from her couch, who was reading a newspaper she couldn’t immediately identify. It seemed like someone she hadn’t met yet, and striking up a conversation felt right.

Ludo realmente había acudido a esa fiesta con la intención de distraerse, desde lo que había ocurrido en la aquella fiesta, no había vuelto a ser el mismo, el dolor que le habían infringido lo había cambiado para siempre, pero claramente solo quería no pensar en eso. Así que ahora se encontraba en la zona de los juegos de destreza de aquella feria, tratando de ganar uno de los peluches más grandes cuando una voz llamó su atención —¿quieres que gane un peluche para ti?— preguntó con una media sonrisa adornando sus labios ( @rcdheadqueen​ )

—¿que?— preguntó el chico claramente extrañado no solo de lo mencionado por la chica si no porque esta le estuviera hablando 

“Doris,” Camille called the witch as she sat by her side, secretively and with her head obviously filled with expectations.  The tips of her feet tapped anxiously against the floor tiles. Doris seemed to be writing something, and though she couldn’t tell what it was, Camille knew what she wanted it to be. “Is there any news? On the article, I mean?”

“You’ve been getting many reactions?” Camille sipped into her hot cocoa through a plastic lid. “And, most importantly, do you already have something planned? You know, for your series?”

Red signs cluttered every branch of thought that was unravellling through Camille’s mind. Stop. Danger. You’re going to hurt yourself. This is the least intelligent thing you’ve done in your entire life. All of it blasting violently at the corners of her brain where, days ago, a decision had been made: To stand up. To do something. Even if it could be for nothing, even if it put her in danger. Do something. Be dumb. Just don’t stand still. 

Each step she mustered in Doris’ direction felt simultaneously like a win and a loss. A loss, because she was about to give up a little bit of comfort and a little bit of peace of mind, right after that which was arguably the best weekend she’d ever lived. And a win, because, even then, she pushed through it. Even if her hands shivered and every nerve in her system told her not to do it. This had to mean courage, didn’t it? Either that, or stupidity. She never would have thought it would be so hard to distinguish between the two.

When she finally sat at Doris’ table, at the most reserved corner of the inn, Camille could barely look the other witch in the eye. Not out of fear, now. The prospect of speaking out brought an altogether different feeling, and that was shame. She’d never told anyone what she was about to tell Doris, because it was a testament to her inadequacy in each world she’d ever inhabited. And inequacy meant a constant struggle— pushing against the tide just to reinstate your existency. Nothing ever coming without begging for it, apologizing for it. People often had this thing about them. They belonged to the world they inhabited, which, in return, belonged to them. Match made in heaven. Natural. Poised. Camille had always envied that. It would never be her. Even if, at Hogwarts, belonging felt like a possibility, it would never just be. The instinct was there, everpresent, to wince at people’s touch, deny connections, convince herself that she did not deserve it. Belonging was not for her, was what she’d learnt.

“I... Don’t even know where to start. This isn’t just about primary, for me. It’s always been like this. This inadequacy.” She stood in silence for long, fidgeting at her ring and keeping her eyes locked at it. It was old and intertwined, cheap silver with dark stains of wear all around. A gift from her mom. “I dunno why, but I was never liked. It’s not that I was unlikeable, I just wasn’t liked. Mum would always try to rationalize it— say the kids were jealous of my... Light, as she put it. Or say they just thought they were better than me, ‘cause we didn’t have money or a name. But that never made sense, to me. They must have had a genuine reason, you know, there really must have been something off about me." Somehow she wasn’t crying yet, but she sniffed. Was Doris unimpressed? It was hard to tell. She couldn’t focus on her face for more than half a second. This couldn’t be what she wanted to hear, could it? Fast-forward, then.

“So I guess when I learned I was a witch, it came as an answer to the question, you know? ‘What's wrong with me’. And... It was actually brilliant. There was some light, really, so it meant mum wasn’t all wrong. I was so hopeful. Then I went off to Cambridge, and...” Another sniff as a burning tingle spread all the way from her gut, to her toes and her face. Getting to the point. “The same thing all over again. I’d... Think I was beginning to make friends with some group, but just as quick, they got to shunning me. Then came little remarks, comments. This time, well...” The tears were coming. She always had to cry, didn’t she? It was a lot, but it felt like such a foolish reaction. Whining. Like a child. “This time it was all about my blood. My origin. Just the fact that I stood there, alive and among them, was ridiculous, joke-worthy. Everyday was dirty stares, names. People sitting away from me when I came into class, leaving me hateful notes. ‘Mudblood’, ‘insect’, ‘unnatural’, ‘freak’, just... So exhausting.” She sobbed. “I didn’t do anything to earn all that hatred, but it was there all the same, so real, I—” Again, she sobbed, catching her breath. This wasn’t going anywhere, it just cut through her for no reason. She had to recompose. Doris wanted specifics, right? No whining. No mumbling. Something that might make a difference. Her jaw clenched— Would any of it make a difference? She took a deep breath and wiped away the tears from her eyes and and cheeks.

“The first few years were the worst. On my first month, this girl Lilith... I don’t remember her last name, but she was a year above me. Slytherin, now.” Her eyes found Doris’ now, uneasy. Is this useful? They might have asked. They trailed to Doris’ notebook, for a second. Yes, she was taking notes. That was good. “She invited me to a party, once. Friendly, and just... Picture perfect, you know? ‘Of course I wanted to be friends with her’, was what I thought, so I said ‘yes’. We made plans to apparate out of school but...” The memory came back to her with clarity. She didn’t even need to shut her eyes to feel the shiver through her spine. Tears came back to her face. “When we got there it wasn’t a party, just a dark, cold, big abandoned warehouse. She took my wand,” a sniff, “and apparated away, just leaving me there, and... There were screams,” a sob, catching her breath. “And whispers. She’d set it all up, a bloody nightmare. I didn’t even understand what ‘mudblood’ meant back then, but it echoed in my head and all around me, swallowing me up. I just ran. And ran, and ran.” Bumped into walls, fell, got up, and ran. All right there in front of her. Could have been yesterday. How dazzled she’d felt to see the lights out on the street when she found her way out of that place. “When I got back into school my wand was waiting for me in my bed. Carved with a big ‘mudblood’ along it. It was weeks before I could go to Ollivanders to get it fixed.” Would this suffice? Camille wanted to end this. It didn’t make any sense to relive it now that things were better. Things are better, she told herself, calming her breath. I can do this. Doris seemed to say it too, just by being there. 

“And, um... In second year, too,” she recalled. Not that she’d ever forgotten. “I had this little bag where I kept my cassette tapes and player. Mum had made me mixtapes. A bunch of them, over the years. She used to tell me they were like... A portable hug. ‘Like one of your spell things’, she’d say... I lost it, one day, didn’t know where I left it. And Amycus Carrow found it, of all people. He said he’d give them back to me, just like that, over a note. With a time and a place. Instead, he...” The tears continued to come violently, a consistent warm stream sticking to her cheeks. “He called a bunch of friends over to watch. He said that, if I repeated this and that — that I was a disgusting, filthy mudblood, that I shouldn’t ever have been born, that... —” She sobbed. Almost over, now, she told herself. She had to keep going. “If I said it, he’d give them to me. So... I said it. But he shredded them all, right in front of me... Everyone laughed. I felt like the most stupid person alive. Maybe I deserved it, maybe I really was as rotten and despicable as he’d made me say I was. How could I have fallen for that?” You’re not, a voice told her, somewhere. Things are better now. It was her own voice. Most days now, these memories barely came to mind. She had to believe she was finding her way. 

“It did get better. I actually got used to it. That’s maybe the worst thing, innit? I... Learned the best ways to stay out of everyone’s attention span. Who to steer clear from. And life went on, kinda. New muggleborn students came in, soon after, and the focus shifted away from me. I never... I didn’t offer them help. I stood away from them, far away, because it was safer.” Like a coward. She shushed the voice. Her own voice. There was no point in flailing herself. She was doing something now. No more missed opportunities. 

Only then she realized there was tea by her side. Black tea. She hated black tea, but she drank it all the same. Let the bitterness rest in her throat for a long pause, before meeting Doris’ stare again. “I... I don’t know if I could’ve made a difference. I don’t know if this will. Maybe it’s just whining.” The accusations were vague. There were no crimes, no proofs. But there had been far too much pain for things to stay buried forever. If this made difference to nobody else, it would make for her. “Even whining is something, I figure,” she muttered. 

—No— expresó un tanto serio, había acudido con Minerva a aquella feria de las flores, pero ahora como podía esperarse de su mala suerte había perdido a su amiga y termino topándose con Doris 

—No, y a todo esto ¿te importa a caso lo que haga?— pregunta mientras se encoge de hombros y le da un trago a su bebida