CHAPTER TWO. . .
What Will Your Verse Be?

"In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun."
Madeline Miller, Song of Achilles

Before August can even realise, a week has passed and his hand has cramped from the amount of notes he'd taken each class. He's on his bed, already partially dressed, clutching a letter tightly in his whitening hands when Lily slams open the door. The wood bangs against the stone wall but he barely gives Lily a second look, rubbing his hair with his towel, water dripping onto the floor. August leaves the letter on his bed when he rises, pushing down the sickening anger that churns within his gut. A gust of cold air sweeps through the room, and Lily closes the door firmly behind her. With crossed arms, she pins August with a glower, one that he matches.

"Ever tried knocking?" The Darlington teen flicks his towel at Lily who steps backwards. "I could've been completely naked."

"Ever tried being on time?" Lily shoots in reply. She scowls as he pulls on his school shirt, looking to her watch. "We were supposed to meet Lia for breakfast five minutes ago. And you know that I've got a Prefects meeting first lesson."

"I know, I know. . ." August says while buttoning his shirt, shoulders tense. "I stayed up reading The Odyssey last night and overslept."

Lily rolls her eyes, pulling her wand from her robe pocket and waving it in the direction of August. A strong gust of wind emits from it's tip, pulling through his hair, and drying it instantly but leaving the strands messy and spiked towards the ceiling. She flicks August a smile as his mouth shifts into an angered scowl.

"All nice and dry, ready to go." Lily laughs, muffling her mouth with a hand.

August grunts. "I hate you."

"Love you too, Gus Gus." Lily croons. Pinching his cheeks with her forefinger and thumb, she laughs again.

Running his hand through his hair, August attempts to curl the chocolate strands in his desired direction but with little success. Wrinkling his nose, he rings out his towel and flicks the remaining water towards Lily, relishing her squeal of surprise.

Lily picks up his tattered copy of The Odyssey which rests on August's bedside table. She flips it in her palms, wrinkling her nose. "I will never understand your obsession with these fables."

"Those fables taught me every lesson I've ever learnt, don't mock them." August replies, shooting her a look. He loops his tie around his neck, not bothered to knot it together. "You have to admire their bravery, and their courage in the face of evil. It's not like I can say the same for anyone we know."

August pauses for a moment, eyes focused on the floor. From his pocket, he pulls out a letter, holding the crinkled envelope in between two poised fingers.

"They waste no time." Lily says. She purses her lips, holding out a hand for the letter.

August shakes his head, flexing his fingers into a fist after handing over the letter. "They do not."

He watches her read it with a pinched expression, slipping on a smile when her gaze flicks to him. She gives him a blank look, raising an eyebrow. I see through your bullshit, it reads. August sighs, taking back the letter and tucking it in The Odyssey.

"Come on, let's go before Lia wonders if we've been murdered." He snags his things from his trunk, catching Lily's wrist as he throws open the dorm door to reveal Sirius Black mid-knock.

"Fuck, sorry! What can I do for you, Black?" August steps back from the door. Frustration melts into embarrassment as he lay his eyes on Sirius. His cheeks burn red, and he lets go of Lily's wrist when she shakes his arm.

"James has sent me with a message about Quidditch." Sirius rubs the back of his neck, laughing slightly. "You know how he is."

"I think everyone knows." August replies. He lets out a huff of amusement, thinking of James somewhat obsessive approach to Quidditch. "I'm surprised it took the sod this long to bang down my door."

"The team is going to be having a Quidditch meeting tomorrow at 5pm on the pitch." Sirius continues. "We're going to go over everything in preparation for tryouts later this month since we need a new Chaser, Keeper and Seeker."

August lip curls to a half-smile. "Thanks, mate. Tell James I'll be there."

Sirius steps away from the door, tipping August a soft smile and a nod. "I'll see you later."

☾☾☾

Due to his lateness, August misses breakfast and barely scrambles into Charms on time. The class passes by quickly, and soon he finds himself in step with Malia on their way to Muggle Studies. August moves through the corridors with heavy footsteps, clutching the strap of his satchel. Around them, First Years scramble for their maps, while other year levels walk confidently.

August catches the back of his sister's head, she walks far from him, another world away as she talks to her Slytherin friend with a bright smile. He nearly calls out, mouthing opening and her name on the tip of his tongue: Theodora. His chest constricts, smile wiping from his face, and her name falls from his lips without sound as she rounds the corner, adding to the distance between them. August tips his chin to the sky and sucks in a deep breath, levelling his gaze to the stone corridor in front of him.

Malia's eyes catch August's hardened expression and she shoots him a smile. The smile he flicks in her direction holds no warmth-sharp teeth and poison, the ghost of the boy Malia knows him to be. She purses her lips, taking in August's appearance: bags rest comfortably under his brown eyes, and his tie is only loosely tied in a knot around his neck.

They don't exchange words, instead Malia rifles through her school bag before pulling out two wrapped chocolate bars and passing them to August who takes the chocolate from her outstretched hand, and unwraps them without a word.

"Thanks." August says quietly, through a bite of chocolate.

Malia wrinkles her nose in disgust at his actions, but is unable to muffle the laugh that slips from her lips. Around them, conversation ripples throughout the hall-students throwing charms in each others directions and music floating from the the Transfiguration classroom across the hall.

"Any idea what we're doing today?" August asks. He tucks the first wrapper into his satchel.

"Introduction to Poetry." Malia answers.

"Finally something interesting." August comments, tone lined with edge.

August ignores the way that Malia's lips purse, and rounds the corner.

First: it begins with the impact-shoulder colliding shoulder, bone colliding with bone as Hamish McLaggen turns the corner and slams into an already cracking August. Pain explodes in his shoulder, but the blow isn't strong enough to send him to the floor.

Second: he hears the laughter-the cackling of immaculate boys and their dastardly arrogance. August grits his sharp teeth, his hand catching McLaggen's wrist in an iron grip that pushes into his skin. His nail indent themselves into McLaggen's skin, August's knuckles turning white.

"Watch where you're going." August snaps. A pause holds pregnant in the air, and a sickening smile stretches across his chapped lips. "Wouldn't want any trouble, would we?"

"Rich boy thinks he's dangerous, but he doesn't look like trouble to me. . ." McLaggen takes the time to look August up and down with an antagonising quirk of his lip, and then Malia before turning his gaze to his friends who stand behind him, hubris oozing from their pores. "What do you think, lads?"

The group shake their heads, exchanging laughs. It is no secret that August Darlington II is made of old money-his bones carved by the burning of Darlington's Old Firewhiskey and bad decisions. And that August Darlington I makes habit of covering his son's many discrepancies so he doesn't tarnish the Darlington name.

"August," Malia steps towards him tentatively, "he isn't worth it."

August ignores her protest-the flood of fiery anger coursing through his veins like molten lava, overthrowing his better conscience. Fight, has clicked into place, and flight is an option covered by seething rage. He bares his teeth, grip tightening further, relishing the wince that slips past McLaggen's lips, and the gasp that emits from his posse. August's smile only deepens in it's wickedness.

Hamish pulls him closer by his firm grip. "You haven't got Daddy to take care of your problems now, I'd be careful."

Third: August is blinded with reckless rage when he throws the first punch, his knuckles connecting with the cheekbone of Hamish McLaggen in a bout of strength. The impact sends his heart racing with adrenaline, it echoes in his ears as the blood rushes to his heart and once again a sickening smile spreads across his lips.

"What the fuck?"

August issues the challenge, the bait. "Say that again, fucking say it, I dare you."

McLaggen laughs. "Fuck you."

Hook, line and fucking sinker.

August shoves his chest, knotting his hand in McLaggen's uniform to hold him against the stone wall. McLaggen groans on impact, eyes flashing with anger, returning the blow in quick succession. August laughs when the fist clips his jawline, spitting the blood from the ragged flesh of his mouth which his iron teeth had bitten into. August pulls down McLaggen's head and slamming it into his knee.

"August, stop!" Malia's efforts are futile.

McLaggen wipes the blood from his nose, staggering backwards. He shifts his unsteady stance, throwing his body towards August. The Darlington teen moves to the side, McLaggen missing him entirely. His own unbreakable stance means the next blow Hamish attempts to throw isn't strong enough to send him reeling. Blood drips from August's nose, he's lets it flow and drip down onto his crisp white shirt.

Blow after blow is exchanged, and somewhere in the background, Malia lets out another yell but August can hear nothing over the roar of blood. Another voice joins the chorus, one less familiar. Hands grasp his shirt, pulling backwards and away from McLaggen. August thrashes in their grip, baring his teeth that shine red.

"August, calm down." James Potter's voice rings in his ear. "It's time to stop, mate, he's had enough."

Another set of hands take his uniform, holding him firmly. They're warm against his shoulders other than a cold Black family ring that rests against his skin. August sags against them, still thrumming with unbridled rage. He wipes his face, smearing a line of blood against the back of his hand.

McLaggen laughs, the sound almost feral. "Maybe, you don't need Daddy."

August growls with another explosion of anger, launching himself forward. Sirius and James catch him once again.

"You're done for, McLaggen." He sneers. "Fucking done."

"No, he's not." Sirius says firmly, his hot breath blowing against August's ears. "Because McLaggen is going to step back, and leave before any more trouble starts."

McLaggen scoffs. "This isn't over. . ."

"Just move on." It's Malia who speaks this time, stepping up to McLaggen.

It takes a few beats before McLaggen picks up the remnants of his pride, and steps back from August. He moves past the group, clipping Sirius on the shoulder as he goes. August's knuckles turn white in his fist and Sirius turns August to face him.

"What were you thinking, mate?" He asks, surveying the damage: his nose is bleeding, the steady stream joining with the cut on his lip as it rolls down his face.

August flexes his bruising knuckles without a word.

"He wasn't." Malia snaps angrily with crossed arms.

Sirius presses his lips into a thin line, and watches August keenly. "August?"

August smiles, running his teeth over his cut lip. "I need a fucking cigarette."

☾☾☾

With bruised knuckles, and his shirt fixed by Malia, August finds himself on the floor of the Muggle Studies classroom towards the corner, waiting for Professor Keating to begin. And still yearning for a cigarette. He'd refused healing-wearing his cuts and bruises like a badge. He leans against the wall, legs up and eyes narrowed on the ring that he twists around his finger. The silver D glints in the sunlight that streams through the window, stars decorating the space around the letter. August's attention slowly begins to slip and he finds the classroom fading into background noise. He continues to twist, diving deeper and deeper into his subconscious.

A hand clamps over his own. August's gaze rises to meet Malia's who slants him an annoyed look before it flits to an especially pissed off Lily.

"Are you insane?" Lily kicks August's shoe when he remains silent. "I asked you a question, Darlington, answer it."

August continues his silence. He removes Malia's hand from his own and continues to twist his ring around his finger. His skin reddens with each twist.

He's quiet, Malia notes, too quiet.

August finally pulls himself from the ground when the door to the classroom slams open and Professor Keating finally makes his way inside. He walks to his desk, pulling out his textbook from his satchel and lets it drop onto the wood. August takes his seat, crossing his arms and waiting patiently for Keating to begin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, open your text to page twenty-one of the introduction. Mr Darlington, will you read the opening paragraph of the preface, entitled "Understanding Poetry"?" Professor Keating asks.

August clears his hoarse throat. "Understanding Poetry, by Dr. J. Evans Pritchard. To fully understand poetry, we must first be fluent with its meter, rhyme, and figures of speech. Then ask two questions: One, how artfully has the objective of the poem has been rendered, and two, how important is that objective. Question one rates the poem's perfection, question two rates its importance. And once these questions have been answered, determining a poem's greatest becomes a relatively simple matter."

August scoffs quietly as he finishes. Professor Keating motions for him to continue as he rises from his seat, and points his wand at the blackboard.

"If the poem's score for perfection is plotted along the horizontal of a graph, and it's importance is plotted on the vertical, then calculating the total area of the poem yields the measure of its greatness."

Nobody moves to copy the graph that Professor Keating draws on the blackboard.

August continues. "A sonnet by Byron may score high on the vertical, but only average on the horizontal. A Shakespearean sonnet, on the other hand, would score high both horizontally and vertically, yielding a massive total era, thereby revealing the poem to be truely great.As you proceed through the poetry in this book, practice this rating method. As your ability to evaluate poems in this matter grows, so will-" He's unable to withhold his scoff. "So will your enjoyment and understanding of poetry."

August lets the book drop to his desk once again with a roll of his eyes. He leans back against his chair, hooking his feet on the table lets. Beside him, Malia lets out a knowing sigh.

"Excrement." Professor Keating says. He turns to the class with a smile. "That's what I think of Mr. J. Evans Pritchard. We're not laying pipe, we're talking about poetry."

August's lip quirks, inclined to agree.

"I mean, how can you describe poetry like American Bandstand? I like Byron, I give him a 42, but I can't dance to it." Keating mocks, doing a small dance that causes a ripple of laughter through the class.

August lets out a huff of amusement.

"Now I want you to rip out that page."

Silence follows the instruction. August leans forward, raising his eyebrow.

"Seriously?" He can't help but ask.

"Seriously, Mr Darlington." Another ripple of laughter moves through the classroom. "Go on, rip out the entire page. You heard me, rip it out. Rip it out!"

August is the first to rip the introduction page right out of the book-he pours his frustration into the tearing and looks up eagerly. Malia follows in suit, Sirius and James not far behind. Peter, Lily and Remus are slower in their actions, still unsure.

Sirius holds his page to the sky in celebration.

"Thank you, Mr Black." Professor Keating says in amusement. "Ladies and Gentleman, tell you what, don't just tear out that page, tear out the entire introduction! I want it gone, history! Leave nothing of it. Rip it out!" He paces the length of the classroom. "Rip! Begone J. Evans Pritchard. Rip, shred, tear. Good job, Mr Lupin! I want to hear nothing but the ripping of Mr. Pritchard."

Pages and pages of Introduction to Poetry are thrown to the ceiling as Keating continues.

"We'll perforate it, put it on a roll. It's not the bible, you're not going to go to hell for this. Go on, make a clean tear, I want nothing left of it!"

Professor Keating moves into his office in search of the bin as the class continues tearing. Curiously, Minerva McGonagall peers into the classroom, astounded to see students ripping at their textbooks. She opens the door, and the class halts.

"Don't stop on my account." McGonagall raises her eyebrows in faint amusement.

August grins, ripping out the last page of his introduction.

"I don't hear enough rips!" Professor Keating says, exiting his office. "Ah, Professor McGonagall, would you like to join us? We're ripping J. Evans Pritchard to shreds. . ."

McGonagall shakes her head. "No, thank you, but do continue."

Professor Keating turns back to the class as Professor McGonagall exits. He begins pacing the rows, holding out the basket for paper.

"Keep ripping ladies and gentlemen. This is a battle, a war. And the casualties could be your hearts and souls." He holds out the bin to Peter Pettigrew who chews for a few moments, before spitting paper into the bin. "Thank you Mr. Pettigrew."

Keating forehead furrows, but he continues on. "Armies of academics going forward, measuring poetry. No, we will not have that here. No more of Mr. J. Evans Pritchard. Now in my class you will learn to think for yourselves again. You will learn to savour words and language."

August lets out a whoop. Malia giggles beside him, and Sirius turns in his seat, flashing him a grin.

"No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world. I see that look in Miss Evan's eye, like nineteenth century Muggle literature has nothing to do with becoming the Minister of Magic or becoming a Healer. Right? Maybe. Mr Lupin, you may agree with her, thinking "Yes, we should simply study our Mr Pritchard and learn our rhyme and meter and go quietly about the business of achieving other ambitions.""

Remus' face burns, along with Lily's. She ducks her head, red hair brushing against her cheeks.

"I have a little secret for you. Huddle up." Keating gestures to the class. "Huddle up!"

Wood screeches against wood as August pushes himself out of his seat. He finds himself beside Sirius, James on his other side. August huddles close to them, slanting Sirius a smile. The action causes his lip to ache and crack. He grips Sirius's shoulder with a supportive squeeze to hold himself steady.

"We don't read and write poetry because its cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering, Wizarding and Muggle professions alike, these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for."

August looks down to his shoes, thinking back to the piles of books that rest in his trunk, and the countless more that live within his room at Darlington Manor-thinking of his reason for living, the words, sentences, paragraphs that build his world, and make it worth living in.

"To quote from Whitman: "O me, o life of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish. What good amid these, o me, o life? Answer: that you are here. That life exists, and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse"." Keating pauses dramatically, looking to August. "What will your verse be?"

August rises to a standing position, pressing his lips into a thin line, and his eyebrows furrow. He stands there for a moment, focused on the bin of papers that rest near his feet. The world begins to face around him, thoughts and words churning in his mind. The words hangs heavy in the tense air, and Malia places a hand on his shoulder, bringing him closer to reality but still the question causes August's chest to tighten, what will his verse be. . ?

Keating rises with him, turning to survey the class. "This is the question that I want you to ask yourselves for your first, and only assignment of the semester. You ask me why in Muggle Studies I have chosen to focus our classes on Muggle Literature. And the reason is because our verse-our words, sentences and paragraphs, they are the building blocks of all cultures and societies. Consume what they consume, and you will be closer to them than you ever could've just simply studying their appliances and technology. You will understand them, as people. I want you to ask yourselves: what verse do you think represents the Muggle race?"

Malia squeezes August's shoulder, trailing her hand down his arm and taking his hand in her own. He's still too quiet.

"You can work in groups, or alone, however you please." Professor Keating says. "As long as you find, what you believe is the right answer."

The bell rings and August snaps out of his trance.