#solo thread

I'm talkin' to myself in public, dodging glances on the train. And I know… I know they've all been talkin' about me. I can hear them whisper, and it makes me think There must be somethin' wrong with me. Out of all the hours thinkin', somehow I've lost my mind…

“Mr. Gates? Hi - we just need you to sign here if you’re extending your stay.” “Oh yeah sure. That - hm, this is wrong? That’s not my first name. I mean, everything else on here is right except for that.” “Oh? Are you staying in room 237?” “Yeah, I am, but-” “This was the name given at your time of check-in, but we can amend that for you. I just need a valid driver’s license.” “Oh, okay..? That’s weird. Sure, here.. I appreciate that.”

The universe thought itself clever and funny to do such a thing to someone so young and full of hope. Chris would have argued against it if his dad didn’t think it was funny, too.

“Hi, I’m here to pick up a package. Gates, Topher.” “Christopher? Or just ‘Topher’?” “Just Topher.” “Nah, sorry dude, I don’t have anything here with your name on it. You sure it’s just ‘Topher’? ‘Cause I got a ‘Christopher Gates’ here.” “... Yeah, I’m sure. That’s not me.” “Huh, weird. Guess there’s two of you! What a small world, huh?” “Yeah, small… Okay, I guess I’ll check back later.”

Heavy heart pounds after raised voices, suspicious shoulder glances with whispered words. This was trepidation at its finest and it was one of Chris’ very best friends. He knew the feeling better than he knew himself. Life became a delicate dance between the two, always together, always in sync. On bad days, it was hard to tell them apart.

“Drink for Topher!” “Yeah, tha- hey, sorry, that one’s mine.” “I’ve been waiting forever!” “Okay? This one has my name on it, I’m sure they’re making-” “That’s not your name.” “Wh-?? Yes it is.” “Nuh uh! You seriously don’t remember? You did my prom pics and that’s not the name on your business card. How do I know you’re not the one trying to get a free drink??” “I… Because I paid for it?? It’s literally on my receipt!” “Yeah whatever.” “I am so sorry about her. Lemme remake you a new one.” “.... Fine, sure.”

On bad days, he didn’t know who he was anymore. Friendly smiles became knowing and lingering gazes turned to stares. The nightmares that plagued his already troublesome sleep kept him both debilitated and overtly alert. His mind wanted to run, his body wanted to fight — it exhausted him, so much so that he called off of work. The knuckle shaped dent in the dessert fridge door was the last straw.

“Excuse me?” “What?” “Oh, I’m sorry for bothering. Are you that photography guy? Uh, Christopher is it? Sorry, my friend gave me your card and I was-” “Oh my god. That’s not my name.” “Oh. Really? It’s just.. Your picture is on here and I thought you were-” “That’s not me okay? I don’t know who fucking made these but that’s not my name! Where did your friend get this?” “Sorry! I’ll leave you alone..” “No- who gave this to your friend??”

Chris was familiar with the tumultuous waves of irritation that came every few weeks. It was the same rhythm as years prior, a rhythm he hadn’t yet figured out how to interrupt. It stole time from him, lied to him, and made him believe that everyone was out to get him. It seemed to destroy everything he touched. Paranoia was an unwelcome visitor, but at least it was consistent. It kept him inside and away from people, people who could very well set him off. 

Between the nightmares and his ever present confusion on his name, which he was told was stolen and he’d need to get it back, Chris felt like he might explode.

“Hey! Pendejo! You got a problem?” “... No, I don't have a problem.” “You were lookin’ at me funny. See, I don’t like it when people look at me funny so you do have a problem.” “Sorry if you thought that but I don’t have a problem. I’m tired and I was just trying to get home.” “Are you callin’ me a liar?” “... No, I just - I don’t want any trouble. I just want to go home.” “I think he’s callin’ you a liar, man.” “Yeah he is, the fuckin’ gringo. How’re you gonna make it up to me, huh? You got cash? Gimme your fuckin’ wallet!” “Yeah he looks like a bitch with some money. You heard him, bitch! Give ‘im your money!” “I-I don’t… don’t.. carry cash… Please..” “What’s wrong with you?? You fuckin’ stupid or something? Gimme that wallet now!” “Hey, he doesn’t look too good, man. Think we should jet..” “What about that watch, huh? It looks real nice, you owe me that at least.” “....Nn…” “Did he just fuckin’ growl at me? Did you just fuckin’-” “Let’s go! He’s got nothin’! Just leave him, it’s not worth it.” “Shut up! I’m not leaving without my watch!”

The sun was too high that day. It had yet to set and just barely kissed the horizon line when Chris started for the motel. 

“Mama, mama! Look what I got!” “Where did you just go? You know you’re supposed to stay by my side. What is that? What do you have in your hands?” “I found a wallet! But mama, I think some people are hurt.” “What? Why do you say that, honey?” “There’s some people on the floor outside where I found the wallet. I think it belongs to them.” “You know you’re not supposed to take anything off of the floor. Come, show me where you found it.” “Right over here mama! Look, look! They’re on the ground.. I think they’re hurt. Like Peanut, right? They look like Peanut did.”

A blood curdling scream erupted from alley. The wallet and blood were passed onto new, lawful eyes and the scene, corralled. There were many deaths in Wicked’s Rest, but not many of them had names.

Eventually, Xander could not ignore the letter any longer as it seemed to hum to him, drawing his attention towards it. Crossing his door, he lifted the letter and turned it over in his hands before he took a deep breath and cracked open the seal. Inside, there was a neatly folded piece of parchment with the same cursive lettering written across the page.

Perching on the edge of his bed, Alexander began to read:

Dear Mr Crabbe, We are writing to inform you of our interest in your keen potion-making. Having such an interest in such an acute subject makes you a valuable asset to us and we would be honoured if you were to consider joining us in our mission. Your father, who has informed us that you are aware of our exclusive organisation, expresses a wish for you to join us once you have proven your loyalty. Though we assume your skills are of high-standard, we would need proof of your talents and therefore request that you send us a sample of your work. Addressing your letter to your father, send through: ·         Draught of Living Death ·         Felix Felicis ·         Veritaserum We are also aware that you have created your own potions. Samples of those, if available, would be appreciated. We look forward to welcoming you soon. The Dark Lord and his Death Eaters

Folding the letter back up, Xander’s hands fell into his lap and he found himself sighing heavily. He knew that he would eventually be questioned about his loyalties thanks to his father’s association with the Dark Lord but he thought that it would come once he was away from Hogwarts. A mixture of feelings washed over him, both excitement and fear in proving himself a worthwhile investment.

He was not a forcefully aggressive individual, clattering through situations with an array of spells but Xander sat back on observed, plotting his moves. He wanted to learn people’s weaknesses before he began showing his own. Maybe that was why his potion- making was the only thing that made him appear useful. Nonetheless, there was work that needed to be done.