We arrive at the manor by Floo. By the time we've returned to Diagon Alley and waited our turn to get home, I've had plenty of time to panic. Is he going to report me to someone? Tell the adults about me? How did he find me again? I dissociate a lot, feeling like I'm in some kind of fog, far from my feet which are inevitably carrying me towards the conversation that's bound to happen, unless of course, he just doesn't care any more because it was too much.
I'm the first to arrive in the living room, and he follows closely behind. I don't move, waiting for him to make the first move. What's the point. And I don't even know where he wants us to go. His face is closed off, and he sets off without saying anything. I follow him to the library. He tells me to wait five minutes, then he summons Jamy, instructing him not to take his eyes off me until he returns. He explains that he has to inform his mother that we've come back. I can't help but wonder if he's going to tell her what I did. The mere thought makes me feel nauseous. I consciously force myself not to break down and start hyperventilating in front of the house elf. Pressing the long cuts on my forearms helps a lot. The fabric under my hands is damp, and I'm glad it's black. Despite that, I realise that my palms must be red with blood and I wonder how I can clean them before Ewald notices. I discreetly wipe them on my trousers, also black, hoping it will do the job. I'm constantly switching between anger and panic. I'm angry at Ewald for forcing my hand like that. I'm angry at myself for not having killed myself and for letting him find me. How did he do it? How does he manage it every time? I'm angry at him for forcing his way into my mind. Strangely, I don't feel violated by the intrusion, but it still enrages me.
And at the same time, I keep wondering if he really would have jumped. I don't think so, but he still managed to make me doubt it back there. But why would he have done that? In truth, he probably just saw it as an effective way of applying pressure, after all, he knows enough about me to understand that my friends are an excellent way of pressuring me. I hate myself for having let him know so much. But in any case, he wouldn't have jumped. He's smart. He chose the least risky option for himself. The option that didn't require him to use magic in front of Muggles, for instance. Yes, now that I see it, everything's clear. He played me well to get what he wanted. Of course, he cares about me, he's proven that before. But not to that extent. It makes sense. I keep fiddling with my forearms, almost unconsciously.
Finally, the door to the library opens, and Ewald comes through. He looks relieved to see me. He also looks tired. He dismisses the house elf before gesturing for me to follow him. He leads me to my room. There, he carefully shuts the door before sitting on the edge of my bed, clearly waiting for me to join him. I sit down cautiously, lightly, ready to run if I need to.

For a few more moments, silence envelops us, then Ewald turns towards me, extending his hands towards my arms. I tense up immediately, but he reassures me, saying,

"I'm just going to heal your wounds."

I consider asking, "What wounds?" but I don't even feel like wasting the energy. He must correctly interpret my silence, because he adds with a sigh,

"Your hands are red, and the fabric of your shirt is wet."

I don't respond, but this time I don't pull away when he moves closer and gently takes my right hand. He carefully rolls up my sleeve, and I see him pale a little at the sight of the long slash I made, from the crook of my elbow to my wrist. Instead of healing it immediately, he reaches for my other arm to reveal the second cut. It's very similar to the first, but less straight, more diagonal. He looks a little relieved, and I realise he was worried about finding a wound even deeper than the first. Still gentle, and without a word, he heals the cuts one after the other, before casting a spell to make all the blood disappear. He even goes so far as to clean my hands and clothes. When he's done, only long, thin white scars remain on my arms, which I know will fade in a few days. He stares at me for a few moments, and I lower my eyes, feeling embarrassed. I nervously pull my sleeves back down over my arms, digging my nails into the skin of my left arm.

"Give me your blade, please."

I almost jump at Ewald's request, but I slowly comply, not bothering to protest. He takes it gently, careful not to hurt either of us, and gazes for a moment at his open palm with the blade inside.
Then, he closes his fist, squeezing until his knuckles turn white. I flinch. A thin trickle of blood runs from his clenched fist.

"Stop!" I shout at him, rushing to take the blade away. Before I reach him, he sighs and opens his hand.

"Don't worry." He places the blade gently on the bedside table, then looks absently at his palm. Two red lines now mark it.

"It hurts," he remarks in a neutral tone.

Before I can say anything, he waves his wand over his hand, sealing the cut.

"Sorry about that," he sighs.

He's really strange in this moment, and I'm not sure even he understands his own behaviour. I, myself, am on edge, a bundle of electrified nerves, barely holding it together. With the panic of having failed once again to kill myself and not knowing what he's going to do about it, and the scene that just unfolded… It's a lot. I'm still on the bed, halfway between my spot and him, frozen in my attempt to help him. I wish I could hold him right now. I wish I were capable of it. And at the same time, I want to run away. But I can't. Once again, he looks at me, and I know it's coming. He's going to tell me he's informed the adults, the Mind-healers, or maybe he'll just yell at me for what I've done. He looks up at me, and once again, I look away, out of shame or fear that he'll see the whirlwind of emotions churning inside me.

Once again, Ewald surprises me.

"You asked me a question earlier. You asked why my mother had never met Arthur. Are you still interested in the answer?"

Caught off guard, I shift in place. Are we really not going to talk about the elephant—no, the blue whale in the room? We're going to talk about his mother as if he hadn't just blackmailed me into not killing myself? Nevertheless, he's waiting for a response, so I nod.

"I'd still like to know," I reply softly, and when he doesn't relax, I understand that what he's about to say is important.

My suspicions are confirmed when he waves his wand, turning off the light with a single gesture.

"I hope you don't mind. It'll just be easier... for me."

"Don't worry," I reply, my tone gentle and meant to reassure him.

"Good," he responds, and I imagine his lips forming a faint, sad smile. "Feel free to get comfortable."

"I'm fine," I answer.
"My oldest memory is from when I was three or four years old. It's of my grandmother introducing me to the house-elves and explaining that I'd need to give them orders."
I stay silent, letting him tell his story even though I don't quite understand where he's going with it.
"When I was a child, my mother spent a lot of time locked away in her room. She did her best to spend time with me, but it was always unpredictable. I cherished the moments I had with her—she would watch me play, or hold my hand while we walked in the park... She'd read me stories too, tales that always had happy endings, and I often woke up with her hand in my hair. Sometimes, she'd sing lullabies. She has a very beautiful voice. But I don't remember her maintaining the manor, and she never left the estate. Fairly quickly, I had to start managing the house myself. I gave the orders to the house-elves, listened to their reports. I didn't know what was wrong with my mother, but I sensed she was fragile, that I had to be careful. My grandmother always said she was ill, the few times I asked. So, I looked after her, because I loved her very much. My grandmother was the one who oversaw my education. She taught me to read and write, about my mother's family genealogy, and it wasn't until later that I realised why she spoke so little about my father, apart from saying that his bloodline was as pure as ours. My mother didn't talk much about my father either. She said he was bad and deserved to be in prison."

Ewald pauses to take a breath, and I still don't interrupt.

"My grandmother also taught me what to say to the house-elves, how to manage the house, how to behave in society... She took me to galas and official dinners once I knew how to act the way she wanted. She introduced me to duelling as well, once I had enough magical knowledge. She taught me the basics of mind magic. However, she wasn't around all the time—she had many obligations. So, when I was alone, I also read a lot. I learned a great deal about etiquette, magic, and other subjects to make both my grandmother and mother proud of me. I didn't see many people back then."

I mentally note to ask him one day to tell me when he first did accidental magic, as my curiosity grows. I still don't quite know where he wants to go with this, but I am captivated by his story, even if it leaves me with a bitter taste of sadness thinking about his lonely childhood. Many things remain unsaid, but I am beginning to understand the maturity, rigour, and restraint that so often characterise him.
"Most of the people I saw were other pure-bloods or influential government members during the rare dinners my grandmother took me to. I always had to behave well, without always understanding what was happening around me. Well... That's not exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, but I wanted to give you some context, I suppose... and maybe delay the moment when I tell you about the day everything changed."
He sighs, and I hang on his words, my curiosity taking over the emotional whirlwind inside me.

"Do you remember the memory I showed you, the one where I'm talking to my grandmother, where she tells me that my father raped my mother?"

"Yes," I reply neutrally. Of course, I remember it. How could I forget?

"It happened the day before I left for Hogwarts. And if that happened, it's because that day was special. That day, my mother tried to kill herself, and I was the one who found her. It's since that day that I see Thestrals."
He pauses, visibly searching for his words. I want to reach out to give him a bit of comfort, but I remain frozen. As if moving would break the spell of this moment. Instead, even though I am burning to know what happens next, I softly say to him:

"You don't have to tell me all this if it's too difficult, Ewald."

"I'll be fine. I want, I need you to understand." His voice trembles slightly, tinged with pain, even though he whispers. I'm not sure it's a good idea for him to tell me this, but I stay silent.

"Understand what?"

"What I feel. That you understand me, I think. I'm sure I want to tell you all this."

"Okay," I reply gently, resigned to listen to his story until the end.

"Of course, if it's triggering for you, let me know. I don't want to hurt you," he corrects quickly.

"Don't worry about that, I'll be fine," I reply with a faint smile, even though he can't see it in the dark.
Silence envelops us again for a few moments, then Ewald resumes the thread of his story.

"Until that day, I simply thought my mother had fragile health. I knew she was delicate, but I didn't know how much. That afternoon, I had gone shopping in Diagon Alley with my grandmother. We could have had everything delivered, of course, but it was a sort of tradition, an occasion to be seen in society. When we got back, I wanted to show my mother the quill Grandmother had bought me. I went up to her room, but she wasn't there. I called Fredy, our house-elf, to see if he had seen her, but he didn't know. So, he cast a spell to locate her. He told me she was in the bathroom of her room. I went to check, finding it strange that she hadn't answered when I had called for her. I knocked on the door, and it opened slightly because it wasn't locked."
Ewald takes a deep breath, and I feel his turmoil through his words. Before I can encourage him to take his time, he continues in a surprisingly neutral, almost mechanical voice, a sign that he has called upon his Occlumency to maintain his composure.
"When the door opened, I saw my mother, lying in the bathtub... her wrists cut open. There was so much blood, I didn't understand how it was possible. My heart skipped a beat. I didn't move right away. I didn't know what to do… I… I froze. All I could do was stand there, watching her."
He falls silent again, letting the silence settle, heavy with the pain of his memories. I remain still, my throat tight, trying to comprehend the depth of what he has experienced and why he needs me to know.

"She was in the bathtub. She was wearing a very simple dress, which was probably white originally, and she was lying in her blood. I rushed to her, her skin was cold, I pulled her out of the water and thought she was dead. There was blood everywhere. She had cut deeply from her wrists to her elbows."

I shudder at the description of the wounds, so similar to those I inflicted on myself earlier. I feel guilty.

"In that moment, I didn't feel her breathing, and I screamed, for a few moments I was unable to do anything, I didn't know what to do, because my mother was dead and obviously by her own hand."

Ewald's words tumble out, Occlumency not enough to hide all the emotions that took hold of him that day, or perhaps he doesn't want to hide everything.

"Fortunately, I regained my senses quickly and called Fredy, who immediately took charge, taking the time to call Jamy to inform my grandmother before treating what he could. He only knew how to close the wounds, but that alone was vital. My grandmother arrived quickly, and she took my mother straight to the family Healer."

A new pause in the narrative, my friend takes the time to breathe again before continuing, and my hand awkwardly inches closer to his, but I am too far away to touch him, and I feel as though I am struck by a freezing spell. I let him continue to unfold his story.

"I was alone for two hours. I was truly convinced that my mother was dead, I didn't know why, I didn't know what to do, and the house-elves were busy cleaning everything up, at my grandmother's orders. So, I stayed in front of the fireplace, with my clothes still stained, waiting for my grandmother to return. When she came back, she seemed surprised to see me there, but she told me that my mother was out of danger, that I had found her in time. Only then did she tell me that I could have changed my clothes, at least."

"Seriously?" I interrupt him, somewhat against my will.

"Yes." Ewald replies, and I can sense the sad smile in his voice.

"She was raised that way, to preserve appearances at all costs, and I don't blame her for her instinct, even if it was hurtful. Anyway, she then took me to see my mother. After I changed, of course. She was unconscious, but I stayed with her for several hours before my grandmother took me back to the manor. It was then that the conversation I showed you took place, from my memory. It wasn't my mother's first attempt, but I found that out later. Well, that's why she never met my friends. It took her a long time to get better. In recent years, I knew her condition was improving, generally speaking, but it remains complicated. She started seeing a Mind-healer, and I think that helped her. Nevertheless, I didn't think she would… be doing so well. I've never seen her so smiling and relaxed as this week. Perhaps me and Grandmother wanted to protect her too much… I still worry about her, and I would have preferred not to impose all these upheavals on her, honestly, but it was the only solution I saw.

"You didn't need to do that." A lump forms in my throat, guilt and resentment mixed together. "You shouldn't have brought me here.

"I couldn't let you die. And would you have preferred me to report you to Madame Pomfrey?"

"No, of course not! You know very well what I would have preferred."

"And that was out of the question." Ewald's voice is firm.

I don't want to be carried away by anger, not after everything he has just revealed to me. This isn't my moment, not for my reproaches or my dramas. This is his moment, one of the confidences he has just shared with me. So, I ask him another question.

"Have you ever talked about all this to anyone?"

"If you're asking the question, it's probably because you've already guessed the answer."

I flinch.

"Arthur knows that my mother is depressed and fragile. He knows what my father did. But that's it. This is the first time I'm recounting what happened that day."

I have nothing to respond to that. Once again, the words escape me. I brush against his mind to let him glimpse my feelings, gratitude and guilt (for stirring this up for him, for reminding him of these memories with my scars, for being who I am), love too, in a way. Love in the sense of tenderness, of caring for someone. Because I care for him. I believe he is my dearest friend in this moment, and this thought is like an electric shock. My dearest friend has always been Quentin. And if it had to be someone else, it should have been Arthur, my first magical friend, so similar to my lost love! And yet it is this Slytherin who has come closest to me, who is always closed off and cautious, and who nonetheless offers me parts of himself just as I share bits of myself that I never thought I would show. Trust. That's what I feel, despite everything, despite my anger that remains dormant, in the background, waiting to erupt. My hand brushes against his shoulder, all I can offer to let him know that I am here. His mind touches mine.

"Thank you. I'll be okay." And he conveys to me his feeling of trust, the one that tells me he doesn't regret what he has shared, and that he knows I will cherish his words.
For a few more moments, silence envelops us, a calmer silence. I think we are both pensive. And then, I finally ask the burning question in my mind.

"Would you have jumped?"

He turns to me, surprised. He takes a moment to think, then admits:

"I have no idea."

"Really?"

My question is superfluous, as I know he is sincere, and his answer impacts me violently. What I really want to know is how he can not know, rather than if it's true. He turns to me, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

"Really. I was panicked at that moment, and I couldn't think straight any more. I thought I wouldn't make it in time, and when I saw you, that was the only thing I thought about. To be honest, now, in hindsight, I know I probably wouldn't if I had time to think. Because even though I care about you, it doesn't do any good for us both to die, and I care about my life, and I don't want to hurt the people I care about. I don't want my mother to commit suicide when she is just starting to smile every day. But if you had died, it would have been my fault. Yours too, of course. But it was only right that I threw all my resources into the battle."

"You're not responsible for me."

"By saving you and making the decisions I made, I became responsible. I chose to be. And I don't regret my choice."

"How did you find me?" I whisper, as much to change the subject as because I desperately want to know the answer.

"I'm not sure you should know. It could still be useful."

My anger must not be far off, as it suddenly swells within me, like a tsunami.

"By what right do you keep this from me? How do you think I feel knowing that at any moment you or others could know my location?!

"Vivian. I said I didn't think it was a good idea, not that I wouldn't tell you."

"I'm sorry..." I apologise, despite my anger. He is tired. He has already been quite shaken today, and his usual mask is but a distant memory.

"It's nothing… Your anger is legitimate. I use a variation of a tracking spell, the Point Me. It allows me to use my wand as a compass that shows me which direction you're in. It's very handy."

"And I suppose you won't tell me how to protect myself from it?"

"Exactly." Ewald replies with a hint of humour in his voice.

I don't try to argue. What's the point?

oOo

At that moment, my stomach growls, reminding me that we haven't really eaten since the tea room and that it's getting late. The sound breaks the tension that had been weighing on us, and I'm not sure which one of us laughs first.

"You're right, we haven't eaten anything since the tea room, and I think it's too late to have dinner with my mother."

"Honestly, I wouldn't have wanted to anyway. It's fine, I prefer to stay here."

"We're still going to eat, right? What would you like? I'm going to call Fredy."

"I'm not sure... An iced tea and flammekueche, is that possible? Oh! And some crystal cake?" I ask, making a pleading face.

"Uh, it should be doable." Ewald responds, looking a bit surprised.

He then summons the elf and asks him to bring two portions of what I've requested, and the elf disappears, promising to be quick. A few minutes later, he returns, holding two steaming plates in his arms, levitating our glasses. He offers to bring us a table and chairs, but the Slytherin tells him it won't be necessary. The magical being looks surprised but complies with his master's whims. We sit on the floor, eating with our fingers, and it's pleasant, even if seeing Ewald in such a position feels surreal. I have the impression that something has broken tonight. I don't know how much the events of the afternoon have hurt him, and I also wonder if the spectre of the memories he evoked earlier is not more burdensome.
Once we've finished our dessert, I tell Ewald that I need to shower. Of course, he doesn't leave my side, and I don't dare take the risk of pulling out my last blade from my trunk. The idea of trying to cut myself tonight feels like a betrayal. I don't lack the urge, though. I still feel so guilty, and I still want to die so much. Yet, I force myself to "behave," obediently following my guardian, even restricting myself to a single, furtive punch in the wall to blow off some steam. A record for me, I think.

After my shower, we head back to my room, and I lie down to read. Ewald settles into the armchair to mimic me, and I wonder how long he plans to stay. Gradually, I start to feel really tired. The Slytherin is still there.

"I'm going to try to sleep," I say.

"Very well. That's probably for the best. Tomorrow is going to be quite eventful," Ewald replies.

He carefully slips a bookmark into the book he was reading before placing it on my trunk (since it belongs to me). He sits on the edge of my bed, on the side opposite to me, and remains silent for a few moments. I set my book aside, then excuse myself to go to the loo. When I return, I'm surprised to find him still there. I settle back into my bed without commenting, a bit embarrassed. He switches off the light with his wand, and silence envelops us briefly. I wonder why he doesn't move, when he asks,

"Do you mind if I stay a little longer?"

His voice is a bit fragile, and I freeze for a moment. Then I sit up and reach out my mind to him, at the same time as my hand. It fits into his just as our bond forms. I sense that he's still on the edge (no pun intended) after the afternoon we've had. His memories float to the surface of my mind alongside the moment he saved me from dying and the one where he saw my forearms. I say nothing, merely squeezing his hand.

"You should make yourself a bit more comfortable," I suggest timidly. "You'll hurt yourself staying bent like that."

I hope he doesn't sense the fear my invitation causes me. I think he understands that I'm implicitly allowing him to share my bed for the night. A part of me is terrified. Another feels guilty for having hurt him, for always worrying him. The rest is a confusing mix of anger at still being alive, affection for him, and a need to be reassured. I need comfort too. Even if I won't admit it. Even if this simple thought takes me back to the night my brother raped me, especially combined with the fleeting thought I had outside when I thought people must take us for siblings. With my free hand, I scratch at the wounds on my chest, as discreetly as possible. Thankfully, Ewald hasn't seen them. It calms me just a tiny bit, enough that I don't start to panic and suffocate.

My companion eventually follows my advice, stretching his legs parallel to mine, although he leans against the wall rather than lying down. His hand leaves mine momentarily as he settles in, before searching for it again, giving me the choice to accept the contact or not. I entwine my fingers with his, and this connection both calms and stirs me. I feel sad. I wish things were different; I wish I had never met him, never lived, and yet I care for him, and I am grateful that he is by my side this evening. His thumb brushes against the back of my hand, almost reflexively, and while I'm surprised, I say nothing. It's not unpleasant.

"Try to sleep, Vivian."

I don't want to talk, so I send him a wave of agreement, followed by a nudge to not take too long to do the same. As I brush against his mind, I sense he's trying to sort through his thoughts, and he conveys that it's his priority for now. I slowly but gently drift off to sleep, my hand still in Ewald's.

oOo

"The words of my pas keep on haunting me; I miss them, those fragments of my former life that belong to me and that I will never read again. My words for my pains, my dreams and my stars, buried beneath a layer of dust shaped like a new body. A body that is mine? It's no coincidence that it's as close a copy of the original as possible. How does one feel oneself? I believe that if I could reread my past words, my writings, I might for a moment find myself in my memories. My words are my memory, my feelings expelled by ink rather than blood, and sometimes I miss them, from the other side of my barrier of death, crossed only by fragments of memories."

-Written in the blue notebook of Vivian Éris -