#wwcprompt

He knew that one potion would cause definite pain---and he wasn’t keen to go through something like that again. That being said, it might not be as bad as the Cruciatus Curse was. And something that mimicked a Pensieve and was meant to test him? That could easily send him straight back to the Quidditch Pitch, for hours. He didn’t know how he’d survived the few minutes he’d experienced the first time around. If he had to go back there, he could very well return sans mind. 

His legs were beginning to cramp. He’d been considering for about an hour and a half, putting each option through his mind over, and over, and over. Either way, he expected to be put through a tremendous amount of pain. Summoning the courage to take one or the other wasn’t his biggest issue though; now he was debating whether he would take one of them at all.

For too long now Wallace had felt like he was heading down a path that he couldn’t steer off of. Initially, he’d been driven by a personal stake in the Muggles vs. Wizards debate. Now, he felt he was mostly driven by fear for Lux, for what the Puri would do to him to get at his visions.

But realistically, could he truly do that much, by staying within the organization? What was the actual likelihood that he’d be able to do anything at all to help Lux? He could make contingency plans, figure out ways to try and run, but any way he looked at it, getting through this with anything remotely resembling a happy life was about as likely as Charlie Ashworth’s forgiveness.

And what if the Puri made him do things for them, again? Horrible things? What he’d done to Charlie, what Victor had done to him---he wasn’t willing to inflict something like that on another person now that he knew first hand what it felt like afterwards. It ruined lives, as thoroughly as a knife to the stomach or a bomb blast in a hospital, if less visibly and quickly. He could justify to himself that he was committing any heinous act he needed to protect Lux, but Lux wouldn’t want another person to suffer because of him, and especially not at Wallace’s hand.

Failing would be easier, maybe. They’d probably just let him drift off into the crowd, Obliviated and meaningless. Powerless, pretty much normal. And when they came for Lux, yes, Wallace would be crushed by it, but at least he wouldn’t be left thinking, ‘I could have prevented this, if only...’ It would be a mystery, something unavoidable and tragic. He wouldn’t be culpable.

Wallace shifted where he sat slightly, and looked up at the stars, surprised to see the blackness was fading. Morning was on its way. What would they do if they found him like this, sitting here without having made a choice? Well, then they would make the choice for him, wouldn’t they.

He was running out of time, and he knew he was stalling.

The image of his boyfriend’s face flashed in his mind repeatedly, but Wallace didn’t know anymore what it was trying to push him towards---should he try to save Lux, at the cost of his own soul and maybe his sanity, and who knows how many innocents along the way? Or should he choose to let go of the idea of protecting him and give up, live well while he could---which is probably what Lux would want, realistically. It was also the only way Lux would stay with him, if any of this came to light---he was sure of it.

So, the selfish choice, and the not-a-chance-in-hell (and not even noble) choice.

He might lose it all, either way, and even if he decided to complete the Initiation, he could be putting himself through possibly excruciating pain, for absolutely nothing.

He was so fucking tired, of all of this.

Standing stiffly, he looked back down at the bottles.

Selfish, he thought. But who’s counting?

He walked away, to the edge of the small clearing.

But in a split-second impulse, something flipped in his mind. Maybe it was foolish to hope, but he’d never know, if he left now. He’d never have tried. Wasn’t it worth at least trying? He could still hope, hope wasn’t foolish.

Wallace turned back, and resolutely sat back down. He reached and took the grey bottle in hand, unstoppered it, and drank the swirling contents, steeling himself. It felt like swallowing icy air, and he wasn’t even entirely certain it was a liquid. He dropped the bottle to the ground. Shutting his eyes, he readied himself for the pain of Prince’s torture, again. At least he could know he’d tried. This was his choice. He’d live with the consequences, whatever they might be.

After a moment, nothing appeared to have changed, he wasn’t taken back into his past, didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary, actually. Confused, Wallace opened his eyes again slowly. He was still in the clearing. It was harder to see somehow, but he could definitely tell that much.

Maybe this hadn’t been the real test? Maybe they’d just wanted him to drink one, and it didn’t matter if he experienced the torture or not, just that he obeyed them---but that didn’t seem very in keeping with what he knew of the Puri. They weren’t lenient.

He didn’t know what was going on, but he tried to stand, to look around and piece this together. 

Then he realized he couldn’t move. At all.

His eyes readjusted to the darkness, and he saw that resting before him were both of the small bottles, stoppered and full. Untouched.

He stayed like that, frozen, trying desperately to move, to make a noise. But his legs remained crossed, his long fingers were cemented in their tented position beneath his chin.

Once he realized the likely explanation, he tried to confirm by checking the sky. But of course, he hadn’t looked up the first time around until shortly before he’d taken the potion. And if he’d guessed correctly, that wouldn’t happen for nearly another two hours.

Time split into several distinct phases, as the potion cycled through. Physically, Wallace did the same thing---sat for an hour and thirty-three minutes (he counted, several times), shifted where he sat six times in total, looked up at the sky for two intervals of two and seventeen seconds respectively, then stood and took seven steps to the south-south-east side of the clearing before returning, sitting back down, and taking the potion. Then he’d close his eyes, before opening them once again to find the unopened bottles in front of him, and the darkness of earlier in the night. 

Over the course of the cycle, he blinked two thousand six hundred and fourteen times.

He’d started paying attention to the physical motions to block out his thoughts, because yes, his mind could occupy itself for a very long time. But it was hard not to think (dully) of the potions. What they represented. The consequences he’d have to live through.

Because no matter how long he could escape into theories, old books he’d read, remembering conversations, reciting bits of information, or learning to recite the alphabet in reverse, he’d always be dragged back to that choice when that chilly glass bottle was in his palm. Every time.

How he’d chosen the hard road, and exactly how hard it would truly be. His moment of naive hope.

He tried not to dwell, but it was all he was looking at, all he was doing. And no, it wasn’t painfully torturous, physically. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to forget some of the thoughts he’d had, when this was over---whenever that was. He wouldn’t forget thinking he should fail on purpose, to make the other choice, the minute he got out. Or thinking that, fuck it all, it might be better to kill himself. Or, and far worse---thinking he should kill Lux. 

He wouldn’t forget planning how to do both those things painlessly, quickly, secretly. He’d always be stuck with all the horrifying or desperate options that now he considered, when before he’d never have let himself go that dark.

Because the reality that settled on him more and more each time was that this had always been his choice. He always chose the grey bottle, to fight and to follow that glimmering mirage of idealism, and it had always put him through more pain in the long run. For what? A half-imagined hope that somehow he’d be effective at making a difference? Wallace hadn’t changed a thing for the better, for anyone, in his entire life. He’d always been a supporting figure, not a leader but someone in the background, observing, not participating. Taking orders, attacking from the shadows. At best he’d ruined things---not a feat that took much talent, it turned out, just a will to inflict harm. 

Now he’d chosen to try, to keep moving. Like he thought he could be the hero, and actually make it, when it was far more likely that he’d actively ruin everything he’d cared about.

By the end, he stared at the bottles. He stood, walk, and drank. When he closed his eyes, he hoped fiercely that when he opened them that the bottles would be there. That he’d have another two hours to stay away from the reality of the choice he’d made. He could hope, and for now, hope cost him nothing.

Fourteen times he was met with the pair of bottles, and he felt relief.

The fifteenth time, he opened his eyes. This time, the light hadn’t changed, and he could still see everything clearly in the pre-dawn gloom. There was only the green bottle in front of him, and the glass of the empty one glinted on the grass in front of him.