Chapter 7
AN: Hey, long time no update :) Apologies. Been busy with moving and finally watching all of the Angel The Series.
So, now I finally managed to get this awful chapter out of my system.
Some references to the Faith & Angel comics in here, Daddy Issues, though I've decided to have a slightly different take on Giles' father than the canon suggests.
I also apologize for my bad habit of retrospective storytelling, I can't seem to help it, I like flashbacks :)
Glimpses of the truth
Harry was clearly beginning to worry at the sight of his former teacher. Except for that one time he was used to seeing her as a strong, if not exactly tough fighter. She had powers that went beyond those of almost any other wizard he knew. He saw her fight in the battle, he saw her destroy dozens of Death Eaters with a single spell and without as much as a blink of an eye. Seeing her now in this state was disturbing, alarming, and he knew something had to be very wrong.
"You want to go to Hogwarts?" He asked as he knelt down next to her.
She made a hardly perceptible nod, and Harry looked up at Márkos who hasn't been saying anything since he had entered the room.
"I can apparate near the grounds, but...," she spoke in a heavy whisper so that Harry could only understand every other word, "... to help... castle..."
"I'll take her," Márkos suddenly took initiative, "you should go downstairs help Martha with the supper."
Harry hesitated for a moment, seeing that Márkos wasn't actually moving.
"She needs someone downstairs now," Márkos said in a tone that would not accept any objections.
Harry nodded obediently and was leaving the room, when the older wizard turned at him: "Tell Martha where we're going. I hope we'll be back soon."
Harry turned around and looked at Helen, his expression saying that he was very much doubting it. When he was gone, Márkos just stood there for a moment, watching Helen curled next to her bed. She seemed to have calmed down. She slowly based herself onto the bed and managed to get up. Her breathing was shallow as she turned around at her tutor. All colour seemed to have drained from her face. Márkos had seen her in a pretty bad shape before, yet her present marble visage unsettled him.
She didn't seem to care about his sceptical looks.
"You know, you can...," she said, still panting a little, "... you can glare all you want, just-eh... help me get to the damn castle." She made an unexpected swift step towards him, grabbed his arm and before he could say anything they both disapparated.
Four days later was Christmas Eve. Márkos finished eating his dinner and stared absently into the room, while sipping on his glass of wine.
"When will you be back?" Martha interrupted his thoughts. Even the sound of her voice seemed to have lost some of its cheerfulness. "Do you not want me to come with you?"
He looked up, and only after a few seconds he shook his head.
Odds are, Márkos, the next Christmas – she won't be here anymore. Poppy's words from four days ago echoed in his head. After he had brought Helen into the hospital wing at Hogwarts, the nurse sent him away. That short sentence was all she said, when he asked what was going on. He now almost wished he hadn't.
Martha has rarely seen him in such mood, like he was at a complete loss. He even broke with one of his strictest rules and allowed Harry, in the middle of his apprentice year, to leave and spend Christmas with his friends. He didn't care about that now. All he could think about was what he would say to Helen when he saw her. He wasn't one for pity, and the words of sympathy, of being sorry for her would not come from his lips. Was it all for nothing? All the weeks of training, the long, exhausting hours of trying to bring her back on the right path? Was that all in vane? And had she known? He couldn't decide what was worse – the thought that she would only learn now – or the fact that she might have known all the time, had lived with it for Merlin knows how long. And what was he supposed to do now? What would be the right thing to do? What was expected of him? All these questions kept occupying him, him, who normally had the most straightforward of minds, and to whom no other question would occur until one was answered, who always had a plan, a pretty clear picture of things to come, whom almost nothing could catch off guard, who never was unprepared for anything.
He finally got up from the table and looked at the large clock above the fireplace. It was past six o'clock. He looked at Martha again and after he took a deep breath he said: "I don't know how long I'll stay. Don't wait up." And with a short nod he walked out. Outside the inn he paused and fumbled in his pockets for his pipe, but changed his mind almost instantly. He shrugged, turned on the spot and seconds later apparated near Hogsmeade.
In the hospital wing Poppy Pomfrey just returned from the Christmas dinner in the great hall. She had eaten fast and hurried to get back to her only patient. Helen was asleep, her chest kept rising and falling in a calm pace, the worst was behind them, for now.
She paused at her desk for a moment, looking over to Helen's bed. "I swear I thought this was the end of yours," she said in a half strict, half tired voice, more like a teacher reprimanding a reckless child.
She sat down and picked the book she had been reading days ago, a wizarding novel, a corny romance playing during the war against Grindelwald. It was the first evening, since Helen has been here when she no longer required an incessant attention. Poppy was exhausted, not just physically. As a nurse, especially in the time of the first war, she had learned not to care all too much, not to be touchy-feely with her patients, instead she just went on with her work, forced them to drink disgusting potions, served them Skele-gro without moving a brow, performed painful spells to determine their maladies... and yet she got goosebumps the other night as Helen, fevered and seized by painful convulsions begged and cried for some relief, something to stop the pain, and she couldn't help her. It seemed to her like an eternity before the bezoar potion began to show its effects at last – there were moments where she wasn't sure it would.
When she looked at the young woman now, the previous days of the struggle almost seemed surreal. She was still somewhat pale and her hair was sticking and framing her face, but otherwise there were no reminders, no visible vestiges of her previous sufferings. And Poppy knew, she has seen it before, that in a few days all would be well again, Helen would look as healthy as new. Until the next time. And when she compared this time to the last time she had treated her, she had little doubt that Helen would not come through a next time.
Despite her eyes fixed on the pages of her novel, her mind began to travel. Was it really only five years ago? It seemed like decades, centuries even, when she thought back to those events. Her mind was jumping through memories, from one image to another:
Helen had been lying in one of the beds just like she was now, only there were curtains around her to screen her from the eyes and looks of curious students. Poppy had spent three days trying to determine with spells and potions what was wrong with her, what was causing the hideous cramps, the inner bleedings. It all seemed so obvious, so familiar and at the same time left her entirely clueless.
"I think she's been-," she began.
"Poisoned, yes," Dumbledore finished for her in a calm, quiet voice.
Poppy looked at him in surprise, but he avoided her eyes as they were walking through the hospital wing, and instead turned his head away to smile encouragingly at a student who was lying in one of the hospital beds, covered with large red boils – another incident in the Slytherin common room.
When they came to stand at Helen's bed at last, Poppy whispered in a disturbed and somehow urgent, almost impatient tone: "She's dying."
Dumbledore said nothing for a while. With his healthy hand he stroke over Helen's forearm and Poppy noticed something in his eyes, but before she could say what it was his look hardened and he turned at her, murmuring. "She's not... Not yet."
And then he told her the short story from eleven years ago, involving a killing curse, two young wizards, the arrogance of the one could be excused by her youthful curiosity, the other by his blind, desperate wish to atone for things he had not been able to prevent; and a new potion they had come up with together, containing among other ingredients a very rare plant that could be only be found on high planes in a particularly difficult to reach corner in Peru and that the natives called The Living Death.
"What should I tell her when she wakes up? Or the others? Minerva and Severus have been asking after her-"
Dumbledore looked at her sharply so that she almost winced. He seemed to notice that he had startled her for his eyes immediately softened. "Nothing. No one must know, least of all Severus." They were back at the entrance and he paused in the doorway. "When she wakes up, send her to me." He bowed slightly before turning around and leaving. "It may be high time," she heard him say to himself as he was already descending the stairs.
She never knew what exactly Dumbledore had told Helen on that evening, only two nights before he himself was killed in the Astronomy Tower. Only she felt as she watched the young witch at dinner that her face looked different, her expression seemed empty somehow as she ate mechanically, not looking at anyone, not smiling, not chatting with Rolanda, nor with Hagrid on either her side.
Afterwards, after the battle when Poppy had found some time she tried to do some of her own research on the plant called Living Death. There wasn't much known about it, and the search was all the harder as there also existed a potion of that same name that was well known among wizards, that yet had nothing to do with the Peruvian plant. The rests of the potion that this plant had been a part of, the one Helen and Severus had brewed together in 1986 to conquer and avert the killing curse, had been destroyed by Dumbledore's orders, and she could only find a few notes among Professor Snape's belongings that indicated some of the preparatory work and calculations, yet the exact path, the composite of the ingredients she couldn't retrace. After weeks of trying she succeeded in getting in touch with one of the elders of a tribe in Peru only to learn from them that there was no cure, that the potion which had saved Helen once would kill her eventually.
A faint cough and rustling of the covers brought Poppy back into the present. She looked up to see Helen heave herself up in her bed.
"You're up," Poppy stated unnecessarily.
"Sorry," Helen replied automatically and had to smile at the fact how the sound of the voice of the Hogwarts' nurse always made her feel like she was a student again. No matter what circumstances and no matter how much she tried, Poppy never really managed to keep the slight trace of strictness and rebuke, of being indignant from her voice. Helen had suspected that it was her own peculiar way of preserving distance and keeping herself from caring too much.
Then she heard her murmur a couple of spells and she knew Poppy was checking whether she was having any inner bleedings. Then after a moment and without any comments she merely asked: "Should I send for some dinner for you?"
She had been starving, and now as she ate the opulent Hogwarts Christmas dinner, she almost wondered for a second why she had left here. Oh, Lord, I haven't eaten this well since- The image of Giles, wearing an apron and serving her dinner on a plate in his kitchen popped into her mind.
"I'd like to take a short walk," she said loudly and put her plate aside. Poppy raised her head from her book again and gazed at her skeptically over the top of her glasses. Since Helen looked well enough, and far from letting anyone talk her out of it, she assented.
"I won't be long," Helen answered the unasked question as she walked past Poppy and left the hospital wing.
When she returned about an hour later, to her surprise she found Márkos sitting at Poppy's desk, his eyes were fixed upon some of her notes, but the look in them was blank. He looked up, not in the least startled at her sudden appearance, and got up.
"Merry Christmas," he said dryly.
Helen's eyes widened, that was about the last thing she would have expected him to say. Plus she had completely forgotten it was Christmas Eve tonight. She had left the castle through one of its less frequented entrances to avoid running into anyone and was so much deepened in thought that most of the festive decorations were lost on her.
She noticed only after a few seconds that Márkos was holding out a hand with some small package. "Martha sends you some Christmas cake."
"Thank you," Helen said a little awkwardly and took it.
"Where is-ah... where is Poppy?" She asked after a moment of an uncomfortable silence.
"Uhm... they called her, there's been some little accident in one of the dormitories."
"Ah," Helen nodded.
"Should we-eh... take a walk?" Márkos asked motioning towards the door. "She may be away for a while... It's rather nice down at the lake at this time of year," he added as she seemed to hesitate.
"I've just been there," she replied curtly.
But Márkos was used to make others do what he wanted them to. "Then we'll go to the Astronomy Tower, what do you say?... The sky looks-"
"... rather nice from there this time of year?" She finished glumly.
Before he could say anything and before she could stop herself, the words slipped from her lips: "I don't know what to do."
Before all this, only a few days ago, she was determined to go back to Sunnydale, to see Giles, to ask him for forgiveness, to start over. The thought of it, of such future had made her excited, happy even, now she didn't know what to do, she didn't know whether she really could or should go back, whether there actually was much of a future for her to enjoy. It wasn't like she hadn't known about it before. She had tried hard to repress all the memories of that evening when Dumbledore told her, and she almost managed to forget what was happening to her, and it was easy too, she was fine most of the time. Last time it happened has been a year ago, right after Rodolphus' attack and she just convinced herself that it was a mere side-effect of his spells and curses. But this past few days brought it all back only too harshly.
She sensed a gentle pull on her sleeve and with his other hand Márkos was already opening the door, leading them both outside.
"Poppy told me," he said finally as they reached the top step of the Astronomy Tower. "I was here two days back, I saw...," he paused as if somewhat embarrassed and cleared his throat.
She wasn't surprised, or angry, just glad that someone knew, as if everything that would happen from now on was not only her own choice anymore, her own burden. It didn't really make much sense when she thought about it, but perhaps it had to do with Márkos' personality, his "guru" qualities of someone who points the way for others.
"Living death," he said quietly, staring at the sky, "never heard of it before."
"Well, clearly not a metaphor," she attempted a dark joke and came closer to lean onto the railing, with her back turned at the starry sky.
He turned at her abruptly. "I know what you've been thinking. You're wondering whether to go back, whether it would really be fair, or whether the right thing wouldn't rather be to never return and to stay here until..."
She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off, leaving her amazed at how he knew exactly what had been bothering her: "Helen, given his line and place of work it's not very likely he's gonna enjoy retirement either..."
She stared at him for a moment, trying to process the meaning of those words. At first she had expected – and feared – he would want to talk about the "thing", the "illness", the poisoning or whatever one might call it. As much as Poppy told him about it, the old nurse hadn't known everything, Helen was certain of it and had been bracing herself for his questions. That instead he would skip all that and encourage her to stick to her previous resolution to return to Sunnydale, that was unreckoned. Welcomed, and in way what she had been longing to hear, but she still doubted whether it would be right, wouldn't it be just her being selfish?
"It wasn't your choice, Helen," Márkos continued. "You didn't pick this, it happened to you, and it is happening, and you can't change it. I won't say I know how you feel, although I imagine it must-eh... suck," he frowned at his own use of that word. "And you can now either stay here and bury yourself alive waiting for the end, or you can ignore it. And from what Poppy said it seems that neither her nor you really know when it will come."
"Hm," Helen smiled sadly, "no, only she said she was sure this was the end of mine."
"And yet it wasn't," Márkos pointed out. "Here you are, looking... almost as chipper as before-"
"Until the next time," she interrupted him with a slightly sharper voice.
He looked at her intently again. "And when will that be? Next month? Next year? Five years from now? Ten? Do you really want to just sit here and wait, getting more and more bored with every new year, wishing and wondering whether you really couldn't have spent them in any better way?"
Though sensing that he was getting through and not much more convincing would be necessary, Márkos nevertheless spent another hour pouring out of his sleeve all the reasons why she shouldn't just give up her life now. Especially he seemed anxious that all the work he had done on her in the past few months, returning back her magic, wouldn't go to waste, he stated he would take it as a personal offence if she were not to use her newly regained powers in Sunnydale. As he was about to leave, he kissed her on her forehead, for the first time, leaving her somewhat perplexed.
"There is something you should know, in case we don't see each other again," she said loudly as he was walking towards the stairs.
He turned around and raised his brows in disbelief that she would go for such clichés.
Her expression was death-serious when she said: "About a week ago," she paused to take a deep breath as if it would cost her a great effort to admit to it, "I took a bath in one of the guest bathrooms on second floor."
Márkos didn't move a brow, his expression wasn't betraying in the least how relieved he was inside that she wasn't going to share any deathbed secrets and was instead able to part with a joke.
"I'll just draw it from your wage," he said dryly and turned around to go.
Now she looked outraged. "Hey, you've never paid me any in the first place!"
Without turning back again he walked down the stairs, saying loudly: "Clearly a very wise and foresightful decision."
Helen looked shocked for a moment, but Márkos was gone. She stayed to watch the stars for almost another hour thinking about everything he said, and about Giles, before descending the round staircase at last and returning to the hospital wing where Poppy dressed her down properly for being away so long.
Two days later she was ready to leave Hogwarts once again. She decided to take the Hogwarts Express to London. The train was operating during the holidays with only two carts, and it was giving the ride a cozier feeling, outside everything was covered in snow, the chimneys of a cottage here or there were puffing happily against the sky, Helen was imagining the families of wizards behind their walls, having breakfast, the children playing with their new toys, trying out their new broomsticks in the backyard, the more mischievous ones among them planting some of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to prepare some nasty pranks for their parents or siblings.
She wanted to stay in London for a few days before she'd go back to California, to think a few technicalities through, like how she would get back her job at the Sunnydale high and such. And there was one more thing.
"Mr. Giles," the voice of his secretary sounded from the speaker in Henry Giles' office at the British Museum, "there is a young lady that wishes to speak with you." There was a slight pause, before the secretary continued in an insecure voice: "She doesn't have an appointment."
Helen wouldn't give the woman her name and was now waiting for the voice on the other side to ask. However, the mere reply was: "Alright, show her in."
As the secretary led her to his office, Helen wondered suddenly what she was actually doing here. She couldn't explain it, since a couple of days she had this idea if not to say urge to see this man, and now she was trying rather feverishly to come up with a good reason and an excuse for her visit, because she didn't really know why she wanted to meet him. The secretary was already opening the door and Helen felt her heart beating faster. What am I doing here? Why am I here? Why- How-?
She stopped abruptly in the doorway, barely hearing the secretary saying some words to the man who was getting up from his desk, for Giles senior looked a lot like his son, or rather more appropriately – visually at least Rupert Giles was a very accurate copy of his father except perhaps for the darker eyes. Chances were that Rupert was going to look exactly like this in a decade or two... which wouldn't be too bad, she thought and turned pink at the notion. Even their walk was the same, which – as the old man was approaching her now with swift steps – was a bit disturbing.
His hair was grey, almost white, and he had more wrinkles around the eyes, also he wasn't quite as tall as his son anymore, being now past 70 years of age. But he wore the same kind, a little distant expression on his face that if one didn't know them too well, one could easily mistake for a tad of arrogance as it was conveying the impression that they wouldn't be bothered by ordinary things.
The secretary left the room and Helen stood there, feeling a little odd as Mr. Henry Giles came to stand in front her.
"Miss? What can I do for you?" He asked with a trace of a smile. At least his voice was clearly different from Rupert's, though not unpleasant, just deeper. "I don't believe I got your name."
"Helen McGregor," she replied quietly waiting for a reaction, but she hadn't really expected to awe him with that name.
He motioned her to sit in one of the armchairs and he walked back to sit down at his desk.
She took the seat and looked him in the eyes. "I believe you do know my uncle though, Edgar Thornton."
The smile disappeared from his face and he looked at her with a mixture of caution and suspicion. "Your-uh... uncle?"
"Yes," she said calmly.
"You said your name was-," suddenly his expression changed again, in fact it seemed to lighten up, and Helen could almost see the chain of his thoughts as he was realizing several things one after another. "Helen."
If she hadn't been sure whether he would know anything about her, whether her uncle would have told him something, now his face was saying plenty.
"Daughter of Emily. A witch," he spoke, still in a slight astonishment, but any trace of hostility was gone.
Helen was about to pick at how he knew her mother, when he continued saying: "Living in Sunnydale, with Rupert."
She closed her mouth again, nodded and smiled awkwardly. Then she frowned, realizing it was no longer true. But he of course had no way of knowing. "I-eh... actually I left, couple of months ago."
And then, without being able to stop herself, or knowing why she began to tell him about the events of the last summer, about Acathla, about her recurring dreams that led her to believe that she was making things worse and endangering everyone, and finally made her to leave. "... and I really don't know why I am telling you all this," she said as she finished, feeling embarrassed. But there was something about Giles senior, something inviting and also paternal in a way that made her forget that her story definitely hadn't been the reason she came. "A-and it's not why I'm here," she added quickly.
Henry Giles had been listening carefully, his eyes were despite his age betraying a very alert and quick mind. He merely laughed a little now as if they had shared an inside joke – one that however she seemed to miss.
"I merely wanted to see you before I go back to Sunnydale, I wanted to see-"
"The Monster Rupert had spoken of?" He finished lightly.
She was appalled by that suggestion, not only because it wasn't really accurate. Giles, although he clearly had some unfinished business with his father, some undealt issues, and resented him even, or some of his actions, she's never perceived a sense of hate from his words. Plus her instincts were telling her that this man was anything but a monster.
"No!" She said vehemently. "I wanted to meet you, because... it's unlikely I would otherwise, with Rupert being as stubborn and... persevering it could take years before he'd decide to bury the hatchet-," and I might not have that much time.
Henry Giles gave her an astounded look, as if he didn't quite understand. When she asked him to tell her his side of the story, about what had happened all those years ago at that cemetery with the teenage watchers-in-waiting, the test and the lorophage demon, she was surprised that there was little to none discrepancies between his words and Rupert's version. He felt guilty, he admitted to that plainly, he was still blaming himself for the death of those young people, he said they all – the council – had done "a very bad job" back then. And he spoke with such fondness in his voice as he came to the part where Giles came into his library and very loudly told him he was throwing his destiny away.
"I was almost proud of him then," he said, with a blank gaze on his eyes. "And envied him at the same time."
Helen furrowed her brows in surprise.
"That I had never had the courage do to the same when I was his age." He paused for a moment, then looked her straight in the eyes, pondering whether she would believe what he was about to say. "I never wanted for my son to become a watcher, Miss Thornton. My mother did... I did not want him to see the world the way and with the eyes me and her had to, to grow up amongst demons and evils and hells and monsters, to have to read about apocalypses, about blood-sucking und disemboweling and decapitating ... instead of princes, knights and dragons, and happy ends."
Helen was very much puzzled. She had known little about this man from what Giles had told her, but for some reason she had always thought that Henry Giles would be a watcher by conviction.
"After the initial shock of Rupert's drop-off," he continued, "I was pleased and thought it was for the best, for his best for the first time." Then his voice became more sober. "I did not take into account that he was ill-prepared to live another life, among-eh – you'll forgive the term – normal people... He was very smart, but also very naïve in certain ways. Despite his vast knowledge of the evil of the demon kind, he had little experience with the humanity. And he was so young and susceptible to all sorts of influences, especially if they were in direct opposition to what the Council had taught him, so that he could feel like getting back at them."
He was referring to Giles' Ripper days, and to the Eyghon incident. Helen sat there in silence, not sure whether she'd agree with all he said, but then, he was his father, he should have known him better than her.
"What about your wife? Didn't she have a say in all that?" She asked, coming back to the question of sending little Rupert to a Watchers Academy.
Henry laughed sadly. "Hannah had learned very early not to interfere with my mother's schemes."
Helen frowned again, thinking that the cliché of an evil mother-in-law had probably got a whole other dimension in the Giles family.
They talked for over an hour, also touching the topic of the hundred and six books from the Council's Library, which the aurors had found in the houses of Death Eaters and which were now lying in an office at the Ministry of Magic.
"I promised your uncle I wouldn't say anything to Quentin yet, until he'd tell me to. But-eh... I haven't been updated on the matter in a while now."
Helen felt anger and rage rising up inside her at the mention of her uncle and that he should claim any power and decision for himself in the affair, but she swallowed it down. Over the months she hadn't thought of those books once, and admitted to the old man that she neither had heard anything new.
"So, you and my uncle... are you-eh... do you see him often?" She asked a little clumsily.
"Not anymore. He comes to visit me from time to time. We used to lunch together once a month, but since his third grandchild had been born, he's naturally been making himself scarce."
Helen smiled a forced smile.
He noticed and casually changed the topic and asked her about her plans for returning to Sunnydale. After they drank a cup of tea that his secretary had brought in, he suggested they take a stroll through the museum. "I've sat quite enough today, I must stretch these old bones a little," he said brightly.
It would be too much to say that they took to each other – after only two hours. For Henry it meant a lot: He hadn't talked to his son in years, apart from the few occasions when they were both working at the Museum and where Rupert was forced every now and then to discuss some formalities with his father. Speaking now to someone who had been close to him, very close in fact, was... new in a way. From the few things she had said and from the way she spoke of Rupert it almost felt as if he had seen him and talked to him recently himself. His son had been content, he had after all embraced his calling as a watcher, and seemed to be living a busy, but not unhappy life in Sunnydale.
Helen for her part felt strangely comfortable in his company. His manners were different from his son's, she could tell their natures, unlike their appearances, weren't the same. Henry Giles, though politely distant, wasn't shy, he was emanating an amount of self-confidence that Rupert would never display on the outside, except perhaps in those few moments when the Ripper would resurface.
She confessed to him that she was worrying and fearing how and whether Rupert would have her back at all, whether he would accept her back after what she'd done and the way she'd left.
He understood her anxiety only too well and far from being insincerely reassuring that all would turn out well, he said instead as they were about to part: "I wish you good luck, Miss Thornton. My son's not forgiving. He tries to understand. What he understands, he can excuse, it doesn't need forgiveness... For your sake as well as for my own though I wish that he'd forgive you. That might leave me with some hope that perhaps one day I myself would come into his good graces again..."
"Thank you," she smiled and offered him her hand. "But it's Miss McGregor."
Henry Giles gave her an apologetic look and smiled back, shaking her hand firmly. "Goodbye. I hope we may meet again one day, maybe-eh..."
She nodded slightly, thinking the same thing he was. One day – with Rupert... He bowed, turned around and walked away.
About a week after the New Year's Eve Giles was sitting at his desk at home, cataloguing his new book acquisitions – he had treated himself to a dozen of new – or rather old and frightfully expensive – volumes over Christmas, which were promising not only to broaden his horizon in certain areas of his demon-knowledge, but also to help him move on.
Buffy had rebuked him earlier, saying he would have come off way cheaper with a pot of Ben & Jerry's, but the joke was lost on him.
He just got up from his desk to fetch one of his older books to check a reference, when there was a gentle, hesitant knock on his door. He frowned and without putting the book he had been holding aside he walked to his door. His thoughts were still focused on the text he had been reading a minute ago, so that he didn't really ponder over who it could be.
He opened the door and froze inwardly. The familiar brown eyes were gleaming in the dark, barely lit space surrounding her, and piercing him.
"Hello," she greeted him in a soft voice.
AN: Thank you for reading. As always – leave a comment, review, on anything, I'd appreciate a lot. Also my English has been annoying me a lot, so if anyone feels like beta-ing, please do.
