Refinement by offermyheart
Disclaimer: Everything is attributed to J.K. Rowling.
III: I Knew It Might Burn...
It isn't until you feel your heart breaking for the loss of yourself that you realize the tragedy of living: that the moment you let yourself turn hard and cold, you give in. That if you don't even let yourself hope, if you never even try, you may as well give up.
According to Amadeus Wayland, Isobel's father and mentor in all ways that she had ever thought mattered, there are two roads in life for everyone. We either die trying or never try.
She used to think she fell into the first category, back when her father truly was her mentor and she figured that passion outweighed the voices of doubt in your own head and, more importantly, having a last name that made people whisper about you on the street.
Then she realized the truth, not only about her father, but about herself. About the voices of doubt that likely plagued most people, other than the ones that probably never had to think about such things. People like Albus Severus Potter.
Still, there was a part of her, a dwindling ember of hope, one that she kept hidden in the darkest parts of her mind. A part of her that burned for more, a part of her that made it feel as if her own heart may swallow her up whole, if she let it.
Isobel and Albus were never truly friends, not in the sense that they told each other their secrets and knew each other's favorite foods. They met through a mutual friend, a girl named Cornelia Bolero. With a name like that, how could anyone not want to be friends with her?
Despite the swagger Albus was known to portray hardly any effort, even he secretly used to write his mum and dad nearly every day as a first year student at a strange boarding school, miles away from home. Isobel did too. Even Cornelia, although she'd probably never admit it. That is, if she could.
Eleven-year old Cornelia Bolero wore her hair up in a high ponytail everyday. No strays, with a miniature can of hairspray always on hand in her schoolbag. She wore bright colored shoes to contrast the neutrality of the school uniform and laughed loud enough for anyone within a hallway's distance to hear and know it was her.
One spring day that year, Albus kissed her in the shadows beneath the staircase that led from the fourth to the fifth floor (or was it rotating around to reach the stairway that connected to the sixth?) and her laughter echoed from both floors.
Three months later, Cornelia went missing during summer break and Albus knew the real reason why she never replied to any of his letters. Because she couldn't. At least, that's what he told himself.
It was late Friday night, the last of their assigned detentions, when Albus finally built up the nerve to say what he'd been meaning to ask for the last five years (not that he'd ever admit it).
"Why didn't you write to me?"
It took her a moment for Isobel to respond. "...What?" She let out, seemingly and truly lost.
She noticed that seemed to be a habit of his, at least around her, and as a change in character from when they were eleven. Both his tolerance for silence while working, as well as his intolerance for not speaking when there's something on his mind.
"After Cornelia. Why didn't you write?" He turned to face her, his brows slightly scrunching closer as he elaborated.
Isobel wondered when he had grown so tall.
He let out a breath, one she felt she had let out herself from the weight it seemed to hold over him. "We were friends," he continued, "We were. I know Scorp made you... nervous, but you and me, we could've... talked. After. Gotten through it together. So, I guess I'm really asking why you wrote me off."
She couldn't stand to look at him, not with her in his eyes.
"I didn't write you off."
She didn't dare say more.
"Did you think it was me?"
It was likely her imagination getting the best of her, but in that moment Isobel felt her own heart beating from of her chest, thumping against her ribcage so strong and so loudly that it felt like it would fall out at if she turned to face him.
The next morning, Isobel replayed what she imagined would be her last conversation she ever had with Albus Potter in her mind, almost like a scene from a film on loop, flashing in front of her eyes so she could hardly stand to think of anything else.
As she rolled and sifted from side to side, she glazed over the details, unsure sure she could bear to rethink the entirety of the conversation, much less have another one like that with anyone, much less him, ever again.
"Did you think it was me?"
She thought of Cornelia more in the last few hours than she had in the last three years.
"Do you think... I had something to do with it?"
If Albus had asked her what she thought happened to Cornelia back when they were twelve or thirteen, and if she had been honest with him, she'd likely say yes. She thought of him, of what she knew.
Now, she'd tell him to let it go.
She should've told him to let it go.
It wasn't until Adeline, her laziest dorm mate, got up and stumbled to the bathroom that she realized she'd wasted half of her morning thinking of Albus Potter and Cornelia Bolero and started rifling through her trunk for a t-shirt and some sweatpants to wear to the library.
The last words she said to him before rushing out last night ran through her head while she got dressed and waited for Adeline to brush her teeth and wash her face.
"Didn't you think it was me?"
Cornelia was a dreamer. That's what Amadeus Wayland would've told his daughter, had he ever met her.
Not many people knew Cornelia well, not like Isobel and Albus liked to think they did, although many may argue that there are only so many ways you could possibly know a person at the age of eleven.
Some days she wanted to be a pirate. The modern version of a pirate, that is, not the eyepatch-wearing, tooth-missing version. A sailor who took life day by day and slept to the sway of a ship. Other days, she'd tell her two closest friends about flying up by the goalposts in a Quidditch game (not that she'd ever been on a broom herself) or running so far away she'd never be able to find her way back, even if she wanted to.
Cornelia liked to dream, and when she told her stories, Isobel and Albus couldn't help but dream too.
The Wayward Rememberer
by Cornelia E. J. Bolero
14 October 2017
Jimmy Patten, what hope did he ever have?
Him and his brother too, Andy Patten,
they rode the wayward trails
The wayward rememberer
and his books of all that he had ever heard.
All those words
Filled him up
The nights he never wanted to forget
and the days he dreamed of one day living.
The brothers that grew and grew and grew
'Tii one day they burst and felt brand new.
They should've stuck to cherishing the nights when it felt alright
For the hearts that yearned to burn with them
For the ones who might forget them slower.
A/N: I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter, or the 180° turn I've found myself taking in planning this story (in my head, mostly) over the last few months, but I thought I'd put this up for the hell of it and cringe over any edits I need to make later. Regardless, a couple people may stumble on this story and likely not even reach this far, but in case anyone has: thank you for stopping by. :)
Next up, IV: ...But I Just Had to Inch a Little Closer.