Here's a new chapter for you to enjoy, bring out the tissues and leave a review!
When we arrive at the Emerald Manor, Fredy greets us in the garden where we land. The cold and the typically British drizzle make me shiver instinctively, but they strangely match my mood. I feel like I'm in mourning, though I'm not really sure why. Ewald brushes against my mind, sending me a feeling of comfort, but doesn't attempt to communicate with me, for which I am grateful. I really don't feel like talking. Arthur and Alphonse, meanwhile, are exchanging their impressions of Quentin and the day that has just passed. They glance at me regularly, probably to see what I think, but I ignore their antics.
As soon as we reach the floor with the bedrooms, I declare that I'm exhausted and want to shower and sleep.
"We'll talk tomorrow, okay? I'm wiped out and need some peace."
"That would probably be better, yes. Everyone should rest." Ewald agrees. "Tomorrow, we'll need to talk about the next steps, and what happened for Vivian to end up among us."
No one protests after that. I think Arthur and Al' are eager to know the whole story. As for me, I'm still not sure it's a good idea to let them in on the secret, but I doubt they'll leave us a choice. And anyway, for now, it's the least of my concerns. I have too much on my mind after today. My heart aches like it hasn't in a long time, and my emotions are raw. I don't know what I think, I just know that I need calm to collapse. I head towards the shower with a "Good night!" thrown to everyone, after grabbing my things from my trunk. Of course, Ewald follows me. He waits until we've distanced ourselves from the others before asking me:
"Do you want to talk?"
"No." I answer firmly, but without nastiness.
Ewald nods, and we continue our way in silence.
Once finally alone in the shower, I let down some of my internal barriers, allowing myself to see just how chaotic my mind is tonight. Randomly, I find my thoughts scattered and my feelings disordered. I feel so many things that I don't know how to name them. I sit in the bathtub, letting the warm water pour over me like a waterfall, trying to make sense of fragments of feelings. Maybe it's easier if I focus on specific points..? Occlumency is supposed to help order the mind, but I'm far from having the necessary control, especially not tonight. So, I do my best, in my own way. It doesn't help to know that I don't have much time. If I stay here too long, Ewald will worry and disturb me.
Ewald… I thought I was angry with him and the others, and I was, but I think I'm too tired to stay angry. Resigned. I can't even bring myself to resent them any more. I just feel betrayed. At the same time, I'm happy I saw Quentin again. Quentin… I can't think about him right now, it's too complicated. However, thinking of him makes me think of Alphonse. Al', who broke the law to arrange this meeting. Knowing full well he did something he'd never dared before even for his love. I'm struggling to know what I think of that. I think I feel respect somewhere, and a sense of having received a gift I definitely didn't deserve. He shouldn't have taken so many risks. A thought pierces me: how desperate were they, he and the others, to put this plan into motion? My feeling of betrayal quickly covers that thought, but it does soften its impact. They really behaved as friends. I know that. Quentin seemed truly grateful for what they did… But I'm still unable to think about him.
I take a deep breath and try to make sense of what I'm feeling. So many emotions are colliding that I can't differentiate them. The feelings blend into one another, intertwining without any clear rules. Relief and sorrow. Gratitude and a sense of betrayal. Love and pain. And always that damned sense of mourning that I don't understand... Now that I've seen Quentin again, the feeling of emptiness has only intensified, though it's coupled with a strange sense of peace. Intensified because his presence rekindled the memory of our time together. But at the same time, there's peace in knowing I've seen him again, in having been able to speak to him. That he knows I'm alive... I'd never have taken that step toward him myself. I'm still not sure it was a good decision, and one thing's for sure—I wish I'd been the one to decide. I feel like my sense of mourning is tied to Quentin, and I wonder if it's also linked to this lack of choice…
A faint brush at the edge of my mind interrupts my reflection. Ewald.
I firmly raise my Occlumency barriers. I don't want to talk to him; I don't want to talk at all. I just want some peace to sort through my thoughts. And even though I can no longer feel anger about it, he betrayed me. He and the others. I don't want to bare my soul to him after that. It doesn't matter that they thought they had good reasons (at least from their perspective), or that Quentin was grateful, or that I was happy to see him again. It doesn't even matter that, in some way, it might have been the right decision (and I push that thought away whenever it surfaces). They still betrayed a trust I hadn't even realised I placed in them, and it stains my relationship with them. They might not realise it yet. Even I don't know how serious it is for me. But the fact remains, and I can't ignore it.
"Vivian?!" Ewald's alarmed voice calls.
"I'm fine!" I snap, before adding, "I'm not cutting myself or doing whatever it is you're imagining. Can you just leave me alone?"
I'd hoped my anger wouldn't show, but it's too late. Ewald's voice comes again, closer to the door, with an irritatingly reasonable tone:
"I didn't mean to disturb you, but you understand why I'm worried. Today... It's been a lot for everyone, I think, and you've been silent for a long time. Given the circumstances, I can't just leave you alone, and I'm sorry for that."
I don't bother replying and quickly get out of the shower. I won't be able to think in peace any more. I'm frustrated and, at the same time, utterly drained. Fortunately, I still have a blade in my trunk if I need it. Maybe it'll help me think more clearly? I give an inward snort of disdain. I've been doing this for too long to lie to myself. It might calm me, perhaps. But it will only add more conflicting thoughts and the worry of hiding the marks. It doesn't matter, though—I'll do it anyway. It's not like I care about anything at this point.
At least Ewald has the decency not to try to start a conversation on the way back to the bedrooms. He simply asks, as we arrive:
"Do you want me to ask an elf to stay with you tonight, or would you prefer it to be me?"
I exhale sharply through my nose, irritated.
"I'm capable of sleeping without a babysitter. But do whatever you want, it's not like I have a choice anyway, right? It's not like I have a single bloody choice!"
Instantly, I regret shouting. I go into my room without waiting for a response, and to my surprise, Ewald doesn't follow. I take a deep breath to try to calm down. I suspect I won't get off so easily. I was startled by my anger—perhaps even more than the Slytherin was. I hadn't realised I was still feeling it.
oOo
As I suspected, there's a knock at my door a few minutes later, and Ewald enters the room. Without a word, he sits in an armchair instead of on my bed as he usually does.
"Vivian... I'm sorry you have to endure these restrictions. But I think you understand why they're in place. You say you don't have a choice, but the problem is that some of the choices you've made make me fear too much for your life to leave you alone. We don't want to lose you, but we don't want to betray you either. If you have suggestions, I'm ready to hear them."
"How about you all go fuck yourselves? You say you don't want to betray me, but that's exactly what you did! I hope you're at least enjoying yourselves!"
Oops. It seems I haven't managed to calm down after all. Ewald's face becomes a neutral mask. He's using Occlumency. Maybe I hurt him, maybe not. I hate seeing that mask on his face.
"You consider involving Quentin to be a betrayal?" His voice is calm, emotionless. I hate that—it sounds reasonable, and it drives me mad. As if it isn't obvious.
"Of course it's a betrayal! Then again, it's my fault, isn't it? I don't know why I thought you'd keep my confidences to yourselves. Even after all these years, I guess I'm still just as stupid." I finish my tirade with bitterness.
The sting of betrayed trust hurts just as much as ever. I hadn't realised that was the heart of the issue. They betrayed me, just like Mélanie did before, like Jérémy, and like Quentin to a lesser extent. I feel a mixture of pain and anger. The worst part is that most of my anger is directed at myself. There's a reason I'm not supposed to trust anyone. As soon as I break my rules, I pay the price. I want to cry because it hurts, and I want to cut myself because I hate myself.
Instead, I raise my own Occlumency walls and offer Ewald the most neutral expression I can manage. He hasn't responded yet.
"You shouldn't have involved him when he'd already grieved and was living his life in peace. It's not fair to him. He still seems to care about me. What do you think it'll do to him the day you'll find my corpse, huh?"
My phrasing is a kind of lie because I'm certain he still cares about me. I believe it. Maybe I'll doubt it later, but not now—not after this afternoon.
Ewald responds after a few seconds of silence, his voice managing to sound both reasonable and sorrowful.
"We were at a loss. The situation couldn't go on like that—for you or for us. We couldn't watch over you constantly, and you were suffering from it all. Still, we didn't want to betray you by telling the adults about you. The alternative Alphonse suggested seemed like a good compromise, even if it was desperate."
When I don't reply, Ewald continues his argument in that infuriatingly reasonable tone.
"There may have been other ways, but we didn't think of them. We were pressed for time. Maybe we should have simply told him you were alive, without sharing all the details. In hindsight, I think that's what we should have done, and it's too late now. I'm sorry for that, truly. But I'm not sorry for doing everything I could to stop you from dying while trying to respect your privacy. Choosing between Quentin and Madam Pomfrey, I'm certain I know what you'd prefer. That's why we made the choice we did. I ask your forgiveness for not thinking to withhold the things you confided in us. But I won't apologise for the rest. It was necessary."
The silence that falls between us feels hostile. I don't say anything. Rationally, I understand their reasons, but they still trampled over my trust, and that sense of betrayal isn't easily silenced, no matter how good the justifications. I was wrong to trust them, that's clear. But they didn't have to betray my confidences. Ewald doesn't speak again, seemingly waiting for me to respond. Finally, I say coldly,
"I'll take the house-elf as my watch, thank you."
The Slytherin hesitates as if wanting to add something, but he gets up without another word. At the door, he turns and says,
"Goodnight, Vivian."
I mumble a goodnight in reply, and he finally leaves the room.
I keep my neutral mask firmly in place as I rummage through my trunk for my pyjamas. I discreetly grab my last razor blade as well, then change under the covers, slipping the blade under my pillow. I lie down as if to sleep and begin my long vigil. Thinking I could sleep after today would have been painfully naive.
At first, I try not to think. I cut myself as discreetly as I can—on my chest, for lack of a better option. I can't let Ewald know I still have a blade. I need it. The cuts barely soothe me. I hold out as long as I can, but my thoughts keep looping in my head, and I start to cry. The betrayal hurts so much. I knew it would, and I still let others see who I am. I knew it, and I didn't follow my own rules. Everyone ends up betraying you. Some through ignorance, some because they don't care, and apparently some because they're convinced they're doing the right thing. I'm so stupid! And it's so lonely, trusting no one! My sobs grow louder, and I try to muffle them into the pillow before the elf fetches Ewald.
oOo
I feel the slight pressure of a mental push against my shields. I block Ewald's attempt to make contact. A moment later, I hear him sit down just outside the door. He doesn't say a word, but he stays there. His presence instinctively silences my sobs, as if deep within me lies the absolute need never to show my weaknesses, more powerful even than my inner chaos. A few days ago, he would have heard me crying. Hell, a few days ago, I might have hugged him to calm myself down. But now he's joined the traitors' side, and it's visceral. He won't hear a thing. Because I remember now: never trust anyone.
I wonder if the house-elf is still watching me. Maybe not. Maybe it's just Ewald for now. Perhaps I could drive my blade into my throat and end it all. Being who I am, my mind immediately calculates a way to test whether I'm still being watched. I could pretend to use the sheets to hang myself. If no one stops me, well...
Would I actually dare? With Ewald just on the other side of the door? I couldn't really hang myself, not with him there; he'd hear it. But my blade—it's silent. If I'm no longer being monitored except by the Slytherin, then I might have a chance. All it takes is for him to realise what's happening just a second too late, and magic won't be able to save me.
In this moment, I feel something strange—perhaps a sense of guilt at the thought of acting, of betraying Ewald far more deeply than he has betrayed me. I know enough about him to understand he'll never forgive himself if I die like this, right on the other side of the door he's guarding. I know Arthur well enough to predict he'll crumble, so convinced as he is of the beauty of the world and the power of love. And Al'... he'll be angry. He'll probably hate me. Perhaps that's for the best—what will hurt him least, and what I deserve.
I think about all this with a certain detachment. I'm aware of the impact my death will have on them, but I know it's not enough to stop me from killing myself. Not after what happened today. I'm in too much pain. I never wanted to live, and I simply don't want to endure my friends' relentless efforts to make me give up on the idea of dying. Knowing them, I won't have many chances.
And, let's be realistic: I'm fairly certain that if they don't see improvement after today, if they're not convinced I'm no longer a risk, they'll eventually tell the adults. At that point, I can kiss my freedom goodbye for good. I'm just the ghost of another era, of another world, one that never should have ended up here. Seeing Quentin again only reinforced that feeling. To him, I truly am a ghost. His best friend who died and never grew up. I could tell, talking to him, that he's become an adult. I never really did. A ghost in a child's body. A body that should have walked, laughed, cried, and been happy with its family, but instead of bringing joy to my parents, became me. They love me, probably, but the bond isn't what it should have been. I don't know.
In any case, those people don't really matter to me. The ones who do don't understand me and won't let me go.
I think about all this before moving to act. I think, because if I'm going to act, I have to do so decisively—know exactly what I want, not hesitate. I won't have much time. But I think about it, knowing full well that I can't let an opportunity like this pass.
Is it a trap? I don't know. Rationally, I think it's unlikely. I'll find out soon enough. And anyway, what's the worst that could happen if I get caught? The worst would be them telling the adults, but they haven't done that so far. And besides, I could always claim I didn't really want to die—pretend it's a revelation for me—because I chose a method that's too slow and noisy to kill myself, knowing Ewald was right there. It's a bit far-fetched, maybe, but I coldly calculate that it could work, especially with Ewald. Even if it has to cost me my razor blade, to prove I could have done it more efficiently.
It is with a vague feeling of sadness and guilt, but with a calm determination, that I hide my blade in my pillow, just in case I am being watched, so I don't lose it if it isn't absolutely necessary. I gather my sheet and tie a noose as quietly as I can. For now, nothing moves. I then stand as discreetly as possible on the bed, picking up the sheet, rising onto my tiptoes to reach the canopy beam. I fasten the end of the sheet there, positioning the noose at the right height. If I am to be interrupted, it will be very soon. Yet I slip the noose around my neck without being stopped. I feel almost euphoric.
"Vivian?"
I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. Ewald spoke softly, but I hear him perfectly, as alert as I am.
"Yes?"
He hasn't opened the door yet. All is not lost.
"Is everything alright?"
"I'm trying to sleep," I reply, trying to inject some irritation into my voice to make my response more credible.
At the same time, silently, I take my head out of the noose, attempting to put everything back in place in case he comes in.
"Do you want me to come keep you company?"
"I want you to leave me alone."
"Very well," he replies, in a neutral tone.
I hear Ewald getting up on the other side of the wall, and I panic. If he leaves, the house-elf will likely return.
"Ewald!" I call out, quickly masking the panic in my voice as best as I can. "Please stay where you were."
For a moment, I think he will find me suspicious and come in, or leave because I might have hurt him. Instead, he sits back down softly, and I manage to untie the noose now that my hands are less tense.
"Thank you. Goodnight!" I say to him gently.
I hate myself for deceiving him like this.
"Goodnight," he replies, just as softly.
He suspects nothing.
I remove the sheet from the canopy beam so that everything looks normal in case he opens the door. I lie back down in the bed. I retrieve the blade. As it rests against my neck, I feel a little sorry to die here, thinking about the moment Ewald will find my body, but he left me no choice. If I could, I would have chosen another place. But I must die here; so be it. I prepare my arm and press the blade against my neck, starting to draw it across.
"What do you think it'll do to him the day you'll find my corpse, huh?"
I freeze. The blade has barely broken the skin, but I am unable to go any further. Because there's Quentin. Quentin, to whom I said we'd see each other again. Quentin, who knows I am alive, who clearly told me he didn't want me dead. I cannot treat his feelings with such contempt. I cannot die.
But I want to die, I want to disappear, I don't want to exist! I can no longer bear these monotonous days that follow one another and these nights that pile up without bringing me the slightest comfort. I am tired of the pain, of being trapped in my mind where my demons run riot! And now, suddenly, when I finally have the opportunity I've been waiting for all week, I can no longer kill myself? There is no one to stop my arm, no one but me.
It is in the moment I lose all hope that I realise I still had some left in me.
Until now, I had energy, I had a purpose. Admittedly, all my hopes, all that energy, were directed towards death. But that purpose gave me life. Suddenly, even that freedom is out of reach because my damn mind assigns too much importance to an old friend. An old friend who has lived in my dreams and reflections for eleven years, admittedly. An old friend who might seem insignificant compared to my friends at Hogwarts but who represents too much to me to be dismissed. An old friend who has already lost me once. An old friend who might still care about me and would suffer too much from having seen me again only for me to be taken from him once more. If it's my past that makes me dream of death, it's also my past that stops my arm. I hate myself. I hate myself so much in this moment. I hate Alphonse, Arthur, and Ewald too for making me see Quentin again. Without them, I would finally be dead.
But soon enough, just like my hopes, my hatred fades away. A mad laugh threatens to escape my lips. This time, I am truly broken. The others can rejoice—they've found the perfect leash. I am now incapable of consciously ending my life. I hold back my laughter, just barely, so as not to alert Ewald. I want to walk out, laughing, and tell him to stop his now-pointless watch. To wake Arthur so he can cry with joy, to see them all rejoice while the last fragments of me crumble away in the wind. I don't do anything. I don't even know what purpose remains in keeping my secrets and appearances intact, but my instinct for such things is strong.
I simply lie in my bed, slashing at my thighs over and over again in a gesture as empty as I am. By reflex, I cut in less visible places. By habit, I make sure the blood doesn't stain anything. What an absurd comedy! I cut my arms too, stopping only when my entire body burns, because none of this means anything. Here at last is the explanation for my strange sense of mourning! Without knowing it, I had been grieving my ultimate freedom…
oOo
The next morning, knocks at the door wake me up. I didn't really sleep, just dozed off here and there. Arthur's voice reaches me through the wood:
"Up you get, Vivian, it's breakfast time!"
"I'm coming," I reply, because that's what he expects of me.
I quickly get dressed, choosing a turtle-neck to hide the wound on my neck. The blade hadn't had time to dig too deeply into my skin, but it still left a noticeable cut on the side of my throat.
Moving is painful after all the cuts I made last night. It doesn't even draw a grimace from me. I'm far too dissociated.
Arthur greets me with a big smile and asks how I'm doing. I tell him I'm tired, and he carries on the conversation by talking about Quentin, asking if I'm happy to have seen him again, if we've made plans to meet up, and so on. My answers must be rather lacklustre, because he eventually asks me again if I'm okay. I deflect by saying I just had trouble sleeping, and he seems to accept the explanation. I do the same at breakfast. I eat enough to avoid scrutiny, respond when spoken to, and don't make waves. I'm even loud, cracking jokes to divert attention. Rosemary eats with us and asks how our trip to France was. I'm still dissociated. I was exactly like this back in secondary school, before meeting Quentin.
After breakfast, my friends and me gather in the library. I'm only marginally engaged with what's happening. Yet, this is the big moment for revelations about the man who forced me to relive everything. Ewald asks if I want to tell the story, but I gesture for him to summarise, claiming he has better summarising skills than I do. I feel like he's treading on eggshells around me. Maybe he's worried I'm still angry? As if I could be angry any more. You don't get angry when you're an empty shell.
Arthur and Alphonse react surprisingly similarly to Ewald's account. Both want to track down the man responsible and bring him to justice. The problem is, we still don't know who he is.
"His face was so familiar, but I still haven't managed to figure out who he is," Ewald says. "That said, Grandmother's agreed to let me use her Pensieve. Maybe by reviewing the memory in more detail, I'll be able to identify him. And I think it would be good for all of us to have a clear idea of what he looks like."
He briefly explains what a Pensieve does and what to expect when using one. The other two lean forward, intrigued. I'm not surprised to hear that Ewald's grandmother owns such a rare magical artefact. The Slytherin turns to me.
"Of course, we'll only do this if you're okay with it, Vivian. I know I'm asking a lot of you, and I'll understand if you don't want to share your memories. We can always use my memories of your memories if need be, although they'll be less accurate..."
I shrug.
"No problem, let's go."
The Slytherin gives me a sharp look, perhaps surprised that I don't even have conditions to set. Nevertheless, we all head to the annex where Ewald's grandmother lives. On the way, I can feel Alphonse buzzing with nervous energy. I think he really wants to confront someone. As for me, I just try to fill my mind with snow, attempting to enjoy the silence even as the others keep breaking it.
oOo
Ewald's grandmother's appearance on the porch immediately quells Alphonse's excitement. Arthur greets her graciously, while the Gryffindor is unusually respectful. He must really be grateful for the Pensieve. I also offer a polite and neutral greeting, and the old lady takes a moment to scrutinise us before granting us entry into her home.
"Make sure to wipe your feet thoroughly as you come in. Ewald, I've set you up in my private study. It goes without saying that I'll hold you responsible for any mishaps. I'll be in the winter lounge. Let me know when you're done."
"Yes, Grandmother."
We follow the Slytherin in silence, carefully wiping the melted snow off our shoes before stepping inside. The annex—which looks more like a small manor—is quite dark, lit only by candles. Ewald leads us to a room on the first floor that resembles a library with a desk. Behind it, tall windows offer a slightly gloomy view of the grounds, perfectly in tune with my mood. Snow-covered skeletal trees stretch their bare branches toward the grey sky. On the desk, the Pensieve awaits us. I probably don't pay it as much attention as I should, finding the view outside almost more captivating.
Once we're all crammed into the room, we form a circle around the desk. Ewald looks at me again, as if searching for any hesitation.
"You're still willing to go through with this, Vivian?"
"Just tell me what to do," I sigh.
Arthur fidgets, slightly uneasy. I think he's noticed something. Ewald, however, pulls his wand from his pocket and explains that he'll use it to extract my memory, and all I need to do is focus on it. He asks if I'm ready, then brings the tip of his wand close to my temple. I feel a faint, strange emotion at being threatened—even symbolically—by a weapon. Though my friend has no hostile intent, I take a twisted kind of pleasure in imagining him casting a spell to kill me. I wish he would.
The memory extraction is quick and peculiar. I feel the memory play out rapidly, a ghostly double peeling away from me as though drawn by an invisible force, leaving my skull. I watch the fine silver filament follow Ewald's wand with a faint flicker of interest. By now, Arthur's expression has turned solemn, Ewald looks focused, and Alphonse seems barely able to contain his impatience. The filament of memory touches the surface of the Pensieve, dissolving into it, setting ephemeral images swirling in the supernatural current within the basin.
After Ewald's final instructions, we each take turns entering the memory. Dunking one's head into the Pensieve feels strange. The liquid inside has no physical substance; if I had to describe it, it's like passing through a sunbeam, a warmer zone, rather than touching actual liquid. I feel momentarily disoriented as I take in the surroundings. My memory, once corrupted, begins as the others gather around my solitary figure in a Hogwarts corridor.
I join the group, observing as my double walks a few paces, reaches a junction, and is addressed by a man who calls me "Aurore."
As soon as Arthur sees him, he exclaims:
"I know that man! That's Dr. Kayns!"
Ewald whirls around, exclaiming:
"Of course! That's why he seemed familiar!"
"Who is he?" Alphonse asks.
"We'll explain later. They're about to enter the room—let's keep watching the memory."
Alphonse looks displeased but doesn't protest as we follow my double and the doctor into the classroom.
From that point onward, I start dissociating more and more as the man violently restores my memories, and I begin to grasp the full extent of what happened. I realise, with a chilling clarity, that I can die. The Vivian in my memory still has her freedom, still has a chance to end it all. Arthur seems to struggle to watch as the memory-Vivian cuts herself to ensure she retains a record of what is happening. Alphonse vibrates with barely contained tension, his effort to remain silent and stay put almost tangible. Ewald, meanwhile, observes everything. When his gaze lands on me, he pales slightly.
"Vivian? Are you alright?"
I shrug.
"Yeah, why?"
The others turn to look at me, and they all jump.
"You're nearly transparent!" Alphonse exclaims.
"We're stopping this," Ewald says firmly. "I don't know what's going on."
He immediately acts, doing… something, and we find ourselves back in his grandmother's study, slightly out of breath.
Instantly, they all turn toward me, searching for something strange but seemingly finding nothing.
"Are you feeling okay, Vivian?"
"Uh… yeah? I don't really see what the problem was."
"You could see us in the memory, right? We all looked just as we do now."
I nod compliantly.
"You, though—you were almost invisible, like a ghost."
To myself, I think that's perfectly fitting. Ewald's gaze becomes more scrutinising.
"You didn't drink anything strange or dangerous, did you?"
"Not that I'm aware of," I reply, shrugging with a nonchalance that seems to irritate the Slytherin. I don't know what's happening, but I'm almost starting to find the situation funny. The others, however, don't share my amusement. Ewald turns to Arthur.
"You've learned to cast a diagnostic spell, haven't you?"
"Yes, I'll do it now," the Hufflepuff responds eagerly.
Of course, no one bothers to ask for my opinion. I don't say anything, though—I doubt protesting would accomplish anything except to make me look more suspicious. Arthur focuses and casts the spell. Luminous data floats in the air at his eye level. He squints, reading the information. An interesting concept, this diagnostic spell that gives the caster a headache. Finally, Arthur speaks, voicing his conclusions aloud.
"There's nothing abnormal, except… Vivian, have you been cutting yourself?" Arthur asks in a pained voice.
Surprisingly, I don't feel much; my heart barely skips a beat at being found out.
"Maybe!" I reply with a small laugh that seems to aggravate my companions. Alphonse swears under his breath. I'm far too dissociated to care.
"I'm going to heal you," Arthur says, clearly trying to keep his composure.
"No thanks," I reply almost cheerfully, turning to Ewald as a sudden revelation strikes me.
"I think I have a theory about why I looked transparent."
Apparently, this announcement is intriguing enough to make the others pause, leaving me alone about my cuts for the moment.
"We're listening," the Slytherin says calmly.
"I want to know who this Dr. Kayns is first."
"Understanding what's happening to you is more important."
A hint of irritation flares within me. I don't particularly want to discuss this in front of everyone.
Oddly enough, I'd have no problem mentioning it to each person individually, but the idea of addressing "the group" holds me back. Still, the annoyance quickly fades, like everything else, because it takes too much energy. So I simply answer, just to get them off my back.
"My mind wasn't fully there because I was dissociating."
"What does that mean?" Alphonse asks.
Ewald says nothing, but I get the sense he doesn't know either. Of course. With his vaguely medical background, Arthur is the only one who seems to understand, or perhaps because of his encounter with the paedophile. I don't particularly want to explain, but as always, I don't really have a choice.
"Basically, it means my mind kind of distances itself from reality. Reality feels less vivid, less… real."
"Is it serious?" Alphonse asks, sounding worried.
"It's a natural defence mechanism," Arthur explains. "It allows someone to distance themselves from certain emotions or traumas. It's not magical, just how the brain works. Muggles are far more advanced in studying these things than we are."
"And do you think that explains what happened in the Pensieve?" Ewald asks, turning to me.
"I was pretty dissociated, whereas you were all, I think, very focused on what was happening."
"Hmm," Ewald murmurs, seeming to mull over my theory. "I'll have to look into it, but I suppose it's possible. As long as you're not about to die, that's what matters."
Arthur doesn't seem to appreciate the phrasing, and Alphonse asks, with a hint of impatience:
"So, who is this man, this Dr. Kayns?"
To my great relief, the matter of my cuts is temporarily brushed aside, though I'm not naive enough to think that Ewald has forgotten. Once again, it's Arthur who speaks:
"He's a scientist! A former Healer who now focuses exclusively on research. He's invented loads of incredibly useful things! He's a genius!"
"We met him in November during professional orientation sessions to help us choose a career path," Ewald explains. "If I remember correctly, it was the first time he attended such an event."
"That's right! He's known for keeping to himself and focusing on his research," Arthur adds.
"But he must have needed an excuse to enter Hogwarts so he could examine Vivian," Ewald muses.
"That would make sense," Arthur admits, the admiration in his voice fading slightly as he remembers why we're talking about this man.
"So, what do we do, then?" Alphonse asks. "Turn him in to the authorities?"
I freeze at the thought. If they expose Kayns, they expose me too. How would the Wizarding world react to learning what I am? I don't want to end up locked in a lab. I don't want to be known and studied like some sort of freak. Besides, if this Kayns is as respected as I suspect, based on Arthur's earlier admiration, then he'll have allies and plenty of resources to defend himself. And really, what has he done? Saved my life? Maybe at the cost of the soul of the body I'm in, maybe not. We don't know anything for certain, and with so little information, we're just as likely to paint him as a saint while destroying what little privacy I have left. Luckily, I don't have time to panic further because Ewald intervenes.
"For now? We investigate. We'll gather as much information on him as we can. We'll lay the groundwork. We don't know exactly what he's done. We know very little about him. He's well-known and respected. We can't accuse him with so little evidence, and we need to know precisely what we want to accuse him of as well."
Shut down, Alphonse falls silent. Arthur speaks softly:
"We'll also need to think about how to talk about this once we know more. I don't particularly want to throw Vivian to the wolves in the press."
"And I've no desire to end up dissected by curious scientists, in case anyone cares about my opinion," I add, with a hint of venom that goes over the Hufflepuff's head but makes Ewald raise an eyebrow.
"Of course we care about your opinion!" Alphonse exclaims.
A small laugh escapes me despite myself, which I manage to hide by turning my head.
"I'm sure you do," I reply neutrally. I don't have the energy to argue with the Gryffindor right now.
At least now I can be certain that Ewald will have a little chat with me as soon as he gets me alone. I'm surprised he hasn't already tried to communicate telepathically with me, to be honest.
"We probably won't make much progress in our research while we're here," the Slytherin continues. "But I'll speak with my grandmother. She might have some information."
"Do you think they have tea together regularly?" Alphonse asks, still clearly not a fan of the old woman.
"Grandmother sits on the Wizengamot and interacts with a lot of influential people. I'd imagine she might have information that isn't public knowledge."
"Fair point," Alphonse concedes.
"I'll ask questions during my volunteer work at the hospital wing when we're back at Hogwarts!" Arthur adds.
"And we'll see what the library has to offer in terms of information. That'll be a good start. Then we'll go from there."
After this, Ewald turns to me.
"I'll look for a way to involve the authorities without compromising you. What Arthur said is right."
I stop myself from shrugging. The decisions seem to be made without me for now, and there's no immediate danger, so I don't really have the energy to fight it. I thank him, because I feel like that's what he wants to hear.
Then, we leave the room, Ewald unwilling to risk a second trip into the Pensieve without being certain it's safe for me. In any case, we now have the crucial piece of information: the name of Doctor Kayns.
When we reach the manor, Arthur asks,
"Vivian, would you like to take a walk with me? I'd like to talk."
I'm surprised for two reasons. First, that Arthur is the one trying to corner me first, and second, that he actually asks my opinion. I'm not exactly eager to have a conversation with Ewald, so I agree without much resistance. I doubt I can avoid him forever—we're only returning to Hogwarts in three days—but still… Alphonse and Ewald leave us to it, heading back into the manor to do who knows what.
oOo
At first, we walk in silence. I simply follow Arthur, who seems focused on the path ahead. It feels like he knows where he's going. The world around us is quiet, cold, and peaceful. Our steps lead us to the edge of the pond, where my companion uses a spell to clear the snow covering a bench. He casts a warming charm on both of us before sitting down. Obediently, I take a seat beside him, waiting for what's next. I'm vaguely tense, I think, behind the fog of dissociation. I try to focus more, so that my companion doesn't realize I'm not really present. He lets a bit more time pass, his eyes fixed on the frozen pond, before asking:
"How are you, Vivian? I noticed you weren't saying much today."
I shrug.
"I didn't have much to say."
"I find that surprising, given the subject we've been discussing. Do you think it's because of your dissociative episode?"
My dissociative "episode". That's almost funny. I dissociate nearly all the time! But he doesn't need to know that. I don't see how it would help him.
"Maybe," I reply, just to avoid upsetting him.
He falls silent for a moment, seeming to reflect, before meeting my gaze with a determined expression.
"I'd like to heal your cuts, please."
"I don't think you really want to see them."
It's neither a yes nor a no. What difference would it make, anyway? I don't even care about losing the grounding sensation my injuries give me. I honestly think he won't like what he'll see, and I don't see the point in hurting him. Usually, it's Ewald who handles this, and he's... tougher than Arthur. I think he's better equipped to handle it, in a way.
"I'll feel better if I heal you, Vivian."
I shrug again.
"Do as you like, then."
I roll up my left sleeve. To his credit, Arthur barely reacts, his sadness only showing in a slight grimace. He quickly casts a healing spell, running his wand gently over the crisscrossed marks on my arm to close them. Where the spell takes effect, I feel warmth and an intense itching sensation that, thankfully, doesn't last long. He works delicately, with a gentleness Ewald lacks, as if he's afraid of hurting me. He doesn't scold me.
"I don't really understand why you do this. I haven't had the chance to ask before, but I'd like you to explain…"
I sigh, baring my other arm so he can continue healing.
"It brings me relief."
He looks up, seeming to wait for more of an explanation. When I stay silent, he asks:
"How does hurting yourself bring you relief?"
"I can't really explain. It's something to focus on, a way to let things out, too."
"I'd heard a bit about this during my sessions with my Mind-Healer back then. Mostly because she once worried I might do something like that."
A faint wave of sadness washes over me at his words.
"I've never talked to you about it since then. How did you cope afterwards, after the summer camp?"
Arthur gives a soft smile, tinged with infinite sadness.
"It was... strange. I felt like everything was normal, but at the same time, nothing made sense. Tidying my room, doing homework, all while knowing someone had tried to rape me and then died right in front of me. I dissociated a lot back then, too, when the brutality of my memories didn't align with reality. I spent a month seeing the psychotherapist several times a week. My parents were walking on eggshells around me. My brother even threw a tantrum. They hadn't told him exactly what happened, and he didn't understand why our parents were being so attentive to me."
Arthur takes his time choosing his words, and I remain silent.
"We eventually told him the truth later. But at the time, I felt a little guilty, and I wasn't even sure I needed all that attention. I can tell you now that it was necessary. Still, I think going back to Hogwarts also helped. Once I got past the initial shock, it was good to be somewhere where no one knew anything, to have loads of classes to attend and homework to do. I continued seeing the Healer once a week for a year and a half, though. But now, it doesn't affect my life anymore."
"You didn't say anything to Ewald back then?"
Arthur lets out a small laugh.
"I lasted three days after term started before he cornered me by the lake to make me talk. You know how he is."
I let out a snort of disdain.
"Yes, I can imagine it clearly."
"And you, then? You can't have handled what happened very well."
I flinch slightly inside. This is why I had never talked to him about it before. Because when you ask a question, you should expect one in return. But now he already knows far too much, so I might as well answer.
"Well… No, I didn't handle it well. But it wasn't my first trauma, so I had ways of coping. I know, ways you wouldn't approve of. Never mind. But that event did bring me something positive."
"How do you mean?"
I fidget with my hands a little before replying.
"Thanks to that, I learned magic existed. I'd been going in circles about why I was alive, and it gave me a new hope of understanding what had happened."
A thought crosses my mind, one I hesitate to voice, but it's far too late to change what's already been, so I confess:
"I think if I'd discovered magic in a different context, without that traumatic reminder, I could have truly loved it. I might even have given up on dying, at least temporarily. But the way it all happened only solidified my determination."
Arthur doesn't rush to respond. When he does, he speaks carefully, gently.
"It's not too late to love magic, Vivian. You don't have to die. Maybe by taking your time, you'll be able to leave all of this behind. Magic can do incredible things, you know?"
I let out a bitter laugh, but not because, as he likely assumes, I feel bound to die. No, it's because I know now that my hand is forced. I can't take my own life any more.
"You remind me of Quentin sometimes."
"How so?"
"Actually, you've reminded me of him since the day I met you. You're a little alike, physically, and in terms of personality too…"
"Is that a bad thing?" Arthur asks softly.
"I don't know. And what does it matter, anyway?"
I stare up at the grey sky. What does it matter…
After a few minutes of shared silence, Arthur asks,
"Were there other cuts?"
His question catches me off guard; maybe that's why I answer honestly.
"My thighs."
"I'd like to heal them too, but is that okay with you?"
Since he's asked, I reply honestly.
"I don't know."
"You need to be healed, though. Would you rather I ask Ewald?"
I shrug.
"You can if you want."
"Are you sure?"
"I'd rather no one touched them, but it's not as if I have much of a choice, is it?"
"That depends. I'd like you to show me, and I'll decide if it's necessary to heal them."
I don't argue. I lower my trousers slightly, letting Arthur see what I've done. In the back of my mind, I reflect that I wouldn't act like this if I were in my normal state. But today, I can't bring myself to care. I'm too detached. The Hufflepuff wasn't expecting this, I think—me lowering my trousers while we're outside in the snow. But he doesn't let himself falter, examining my thighs with a sad expression.
"I'll have to heal you, Vivian."
Once again, I shrug.
He moves his wand over my wounds, careful not to touch me.
"What made you cut yourself this badly? Was it seeing Quentin again?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
Arthur finishes healing me in silence, shifting slightly before speaking again.
"You don't have to talk now, but I think given the situation, you'll need to eventually. In your own time, all right, but you can't shut yourself off again."
I shrug.
"I'll be here when you're ready."
We remain silent as he finishes healing me.
"Are there more somewhere else?"
If I say no, would he cast a diagnostic spell to check? I say nothing, simply lifting my shirt to reveal my torso. Thank goodness I don't have breasts yet. The very thought disgusts me, to be honest. I like having a flat chest, really. At least for now, no one looks at that part of my body in a sexual way.
Once again, Arthur does his best to keep a neutral expression, but I can sense his discomfort. His wand trembles slightly as he heals the wounds I've inflicted on myself. At one point, he makes a strange face, as though a thought has occurred to him. He continues to heal me, but I can tell a question is burning on his lips.
Once I put my t-shirt back in place, he asks,
"Are there any more?"
I shake my head. I don't want him to see the cut on my neck. He might draw conclusions, and I don't want to talk about that right now. He stares at me for several seconds, as if trying to figure out if I'm lying. He must decide I'm telling the truth because he simply comments:
"I don't know what's driven you to hurt yourself this much, but I hope you'll feel ready to talk about it soon. I'm really worried about you, Vivian."
He seems to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying more. Maybe he's finally realized I don't work that way, that he won't get anything by pushing. In a way, I'm slightly touched by his effort. But it doesn't make me want to explain anything right now. That would take far too much energy.
Arthur's gaze drifts back to the frozen pond. I get the sense he's deliberately avoiding my eyes when he asks, hesitantly:
"Vivian, I was wondering… Why didn't you try to kill yourself earlier? I-I mean, I'm glad you didn't! I don't want you to die! But I imagine you've had plenty of chances to do it before these past months, so why didn't you do it before?"
Bitterness rises in me. I've been so stupid. Still, I answer honestly:
"I didn't know why I was alive, but I was afraid it would all start over if I killed myself—of being reincarnated again, losing years without being able to move freely before I could continue my research. But without the discovery of magic, I probably would have tried sooner."
"…I see."
Arthur sounds almost disappointed, and I wonder what he had imagined. That I wanted to live? That I had some sort of motivation?
After that, silence reclaims its place, stretching on until it's almost too much. Eventually, the Hufflepuff shifts uncomfortably on the bench and asks me:
"Is there something you'd like to talk to me about?"
"No," I reply, without hostility.
"Do you want to go back to the manor?"
I shrug.
"Whatever you want."
Arthur frowns slightly but gets up from the bench, and I follow him. It feels strange to move without the pull of the cuts, and I miss it a little. The only one I can still feel, on my neck, reminds me that I'm trapped. I walk toward the manor with the overwhelming sense of being a prisoner in my own life, wrapped in cotton wool.
oOo
The rest of the day, I'm never alone. We all eat together in the lounge, then spend the afternoon playing board games in the library. At one point, Alphonse suggests going outside for a snowball fight, but I'm not really motivated, and Ewald refuses anyway. I do my best to avoid being alone with him. Still, I can't dodge him forever, and in the evening, just as I'm getting ready to shower, he stops me. We're alone in my room, and I knew this would happen sooner or later. He stands in front of me and asks:
"How are you?"
I shrug.
"I'm tired."
He sighs.
"I'm going to take your blade."
I don't bother pretending not to understand. I retrieve it from my pyjamas and hand it to him.
"You have others."
It's not really a question, so I don't bother answering. When I don't react, he casts an Accio, but it doesn't work. Then he asks me to open my trunk, and I do. What's the point of resisting? He takes my knife and meticulously makes sure he hasn't missed anything. He looks sad when he turns to me. He doesn't say anything, perhaps fearing that I'll get angry, and silently escorts me to the bathroom without trying to make conversation.
After the shower, I realise my pyjamas leave my neck exposed, and I curse myself for not thinking of that earlier. If I go out in my day clothes, he'll know something's up. If I leave in my pyjamas, he'll probably see the cut. I decide to keep my day clothes on. When I leave the bathroom, I tell him I want to look at the stars before he can get suspicious. I'm not sure it'll work, but he doesn't ask any questions. He just follows me to the front porch. Once we're outside, he casts a warming charm on me when he sees me shivering, as I take a few steps into the cold. My excuse for going outside was a lie, but the stars really are beautiful tonight—just as solitary and cold as my heart.
"Are you still angry with us?"
Ewald's voice suggests it's only half a question, and I shrug, my gaze still fixed on the sky.
"But you understand why we acted as we did."
"I never said I didn't."
Silence falls again for a few moments, then he asks:
"It's not just that, is it?"
This time, I turn to him.
"You thought seeing Quentin again wouldn't affect me?"
My reproach is a kind of camouflage. I'm steering his thoughts away so he doesn't figure out what's really going on.
"I thought it might help you, at least in the long run. But I imagine there's a lot on your mind right now."
"We hadn't seen each other in eleven years. Of course there's a lot to process."
"Do you want to share your thoughts with me?"
"There's nothing to say. Everything's too blurry."
Ewald doesn't push. I don't know if he's completely fallen for my misdirection, but it seems to be working for now. We stay on the porch for a few more minutes, then go back inside without another word.
When we reach my room, he asks:
"Do you want a house-elf to watch over you tonight, like last night?"
I shrug.
"Whatever you want."
He looks at me silently for a moment before saying:
"I'll stay with you."
"Okay."
He leaves while I change into my pyjamas, and I make sure to hide my wound under the covers before letting him back in. It forces me to pull the blanket up high, right under my chin, which feels a bit strange. He moves the armchair closer to the bed before sitting down. I'm not sure if it's because he still fears I'm angry or because he's giving me the choice to invite him to sit closer.
"Arthur told me you'd cut yourself a lot."
I'd hoped he wouldn't bring it up. His observation sounds neutral, but I know him well enough to hear the hidden question: "Why?" I don't want to answer, so I simply say:
"It's possible. Then again, you know how easily he's impressed."
I don't even know exactly why I don't want him, or the others, to know I can't kill myself any more. After all, they'd be happy about it. And perhaps that's precisely the reason why. Because they'd celebrate something that's destroying me even further, I can't bring myself to tell them.
Ewald shakes his head at my response, then decides to play along with my game of avoiding the heart of the matter.
"To have injuries like that show up on a diagnostic spell, it has to be pretty significant. And he gave me a description of your body's condition."
I feel a wave of vulnerability at his words, mixed with shame. Luckily, both dissipate quickly, swallowed by the fog of dissociation. I don't belong to myself these days, not in any way, and that only deepens the distance my mind keeps from reality.
"Vivian?" Ewald's tone is genuinely worried, but I can't think of anything I could possibly say in response.
"Tell me what's going on, please."
I shrug.
"You took my blades, so what does it matter why I was cutting myself, right? I can't do it any more anyway."
Even to my own ears, my tone sounds indifferent. That's probably a mistake because Ewald has mostly known me angry or in tears, but not apathetic. He's already suspicious, and I'm likely just adding to it.
"I need to know what's going on so I can help you, Vivian. You've been withdrawn all day, barely present, and I haven't seen you like this since we first met. Yesterday, you said you were angry with us about Quentin—is it connected?"
"Do you like guessing games?"
The Slytherin straightens in his chair, surprised.
"What do you mean?"
I wave my hand vaguely, as if to say, "Never mind."
"Just the way you ask questions to try to figure out what I'm thinking. Isn't it a waste of time?"
"You could save time by just telling me directly. I can make deductions, but… What I'm seeing right now is really worrying me."
I let out a small, derisive sniff and look him in the eye for the first time since the conversation began. He's tense. He meets my gaze. There's so much expectation in his eyes… I look away. I'm not entirely sure why I didn't tell him earlier. After all, it doesn't matter if they take joy in my suffering, him and the others, does it?
"Last night, when you were outside the door, there wasn't a house-elf keeping watch over me any more."
He stiffens so suddenly I almost feel afraid, and his neutral expression slips, revealing a brief flash of panic. He quickly regains his composure but remains visibly tense.
"What do you mean? How do you know?"
Why didn't I tell him before, again? A little out of shame, I think—shame at nearly killing myself right next to him. Shame at having to admit I would have done it, that he hadn't mattered enough to stop me. Shame at knowing I was ready to betray him. And a bit out of modesty, too, because that wound feels intimate. Because I know that even if the conclusion will make him glad, the story itself will hurt.
"I think you already know."
"Is that when you cut yourself?"
His question sounds more like a realisation. I shrug. I could leave it at that, but he might wonder why I didn't kill myself. He might think I feared a monitoring spell or that I didn't want to do that to him… It's that last thought that tips the scales in my mind, a debate I didn't even realise I was having. Because he deserves to know the truth, to know who I am. To know that I would have betrayed him, and that the reason I didn't has nothing to do with him.
I make sure he's looking at me before I avert my eyes and lower the blanket. He stands and sits on the edge of the bed. He's pale. I look him in the eye. His neutral mask has completely slipped.
"You can be pleased; you've achieved your goal."
I would have liked to lace my comment with venom, but what's the point?
"Explain it to me."
His tone is meant to sound neutral, but his voice wavers. He reaches out a hand towards me, and I move mine closer just in case. He takes it. His fingers are cold against mine.
"I could have killed myself. I could finally die. I would have done it, knowing what it would do to you, knowing what it would do to the others."
"Why did you stop?"
Ewald's voice has a sharp edge to it that cuts into my heart. I know that, in his place, Arthur would have been overwhelmingly relieved, only seeing the fact that I didn't go through with it. But Ewald feels the betrayal, because even though I stopped, I would have done it. He believes me. And now, he also knows I've disregarded his help, scorned his feelings. I accept his coldness as my due, and even through the fog of indifference, it hurts me. There's a strange comfort in knowing I deserve it. Still, the Slytherin asked me a question, so I answer:
"I couldn't do that to Quentin."
oOo
«Regardez moi vaciller au bord de la folie
Sans jamais comprendre ce que vous voyez
Là où vous n'entrevoyez que de la fantaisie
Mon esprit est depuis longtemps égaré
Laissez moi danser sur le fil du rasoir
Toujours tranchant, mon équilibre
Il se peut bien qu'un de ces soirs
Je finisse de me perdre en me pensant libre»*
*"Watch me teeter on the edge of madness
Without ever understanding what you see
Where you glimpse only fantasy
My mind has long since gone astray
Let me dance on the razor's edge
Always sharp, my balance
It may well be that one of these nights
I lose myself, thinking I am free"
How do you think Ewald will react?
Reviews? Please