CHAPTER SIX. . .
Life is War

"I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life."
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

It has never been a secret that August Darlington II is made of boiling veins with magma blood, flames licking at his organs and burning him from the inside out. It is no secret that each of his bones were individually carved from a long bloodline of calcium soaked marble, and doused in their commodity: Darlington's Old Whiskey, the very thing that made their fortune. It is no secret that he gained his temper from his father, the same man that makes habit a of covering his son's many discrepancies so he doesn't tarnish the Darlington name. Because nothing matters more than the reputation they have spent years cultivating savouring. Not even the happiness of their last two children.

August didn't plan to open his mother's letter in his dorm after the argument with Lily that sparked a strike of feverish, angered lightening through his system like a shockwave. When he did, a charred brochure drops from a blacken envelope and floats to the ground like a slow motion take from a Muggle film. August can only watch it fall in silence, his bone grinding against bone as his jaw sets, hardening against itself. He can't find it within himself to laugh, but the lingering feeling of exasperated amusement tickles at the back of his throat, and his stomach bottoms out, a sickening, putrid feeling curls inside of him.

She found it.

He has no one to catch him as he falls to the ground, grasping at the charred pieces of paper and trying to piece them together as if his hands could revert them back to it's original form. It takes two minute for August to realise the attempt is fruitlessly frivolous, before he resides himself to the hopeless realisation he would never be able to force it back together. The word "C M B R I G E" is barely readable, and in fact is missing two letters as a result of it's charred state. He thought he had hidden them well-that the carefully charmed box hidden by a hole in the wall with a poster over the top as a safe door was enough to keep his mother from looking. . .

But alas.

Lump in his throat, August spies the piece of Wizarding parchment stark against the ash-colour of the envelope, and he pulls it out, unravelling it to reveal the scratch of his mother's handwriting-most likely created by her trusty peacock feather quill.

My son,

There was no intention here to cause you harm. Quite simply, your father and I are doing what we deem the best for you, and your future. It is not proper of the heir of a Pureblooded family to attend a filthy, Muggle university. It is not right, and nor will I allow you to further yourself down the destructive path that you have placed yourself on. I am simply doing the job of a mother like any other would do.

And if you find yourself angry at me, think about your family, the responsibility that you hold as a Darlington. You have a reputation to uphold, my son, and I will not allow you to soil it with your irresponsibility anymore. Your father agrees with me, and I have no doubt that Theodora would too. Think of sister, and how she would act during these times.

Be aware of what you belong to.

Faithfully,
Your mother.

During the summer before Sixth Year, August spent a week with Lily while she completed her summer schooling as per her parents request. And one of the many fascinating things that she was required to study was Muggle Psychology, a concept that Wizards have barely touched on in their thousands of years of existence.

He learnt that this Psychology dictates that when a person is met with a 'stressor' for extended periods of time; a hormone is released that prolongs your ability to deal with said stressor. And that extended length of time within their system leads to a 'burnout'-your eyes falling closed without permission as the thickness at the back of your throat rises and you finally recognise your exhaustion. And there are options that you can choose from: you could either fall into bed for days on end or you could keep going. Keep going till finally you can't stand on your feet any longer, and your mind is so delirious from a lack of sleep that everything merges and spins as you move. You are left without the choice of staying awake or collapsing into the quiet abyss of sleep because sooner or later you will find yourself falling to the floor as your body crashes and burns.

August swallows the thickness in the back of his throat, darkly muttering "Incendio" as he presses the tip of his wand to the letter, and next the brochure, before pulling himself off of the floor and down the stairs to the common room.

He will not crash, but August will most certainly burn.

☾☾☾

A spectre of grey and gloom follows August overhead as a few days pass. The gloom is noticeable; the metaphorical storm cloud, a whirlwind of unreleased anger as each and every individual movement sets August down a spiral. Malia watches him walk the halls with a pinched expression, mild concern fades into worry and worry fades into her own cloud of anxiety. It hurts her to see him like this. Lily watches guiltily, knowing in her bones that some of this is the repercussions of her strong words that fateful night, those few moons ago. But her stubborn nature doesn't allow her to approach him, not even when he's a single wisecrack away from shattering somebody's jaw, and his next target could be any of the thousands of students within Hogwarts. Nobody is safe or protected from his violent wrath-a great fire roaring through the forest and stripping it of every living thing that makes it beautiful.

Friday sneaks skilfully behind August without his knowledge, sinking its inevitable claws into the flesh of his back as his brain screams and cries for the furious release of anger that it's been begging for. His knuckles may not be bruised anymore, but he still holds the remnants of yesterday's sins-taut muscles barely by thin t-shirts as he throws a Quaffle through the hoop as hard as he can, all without a care. He is close to quirking a smile as it hits their Keeper in the gut, and causes him to nearly fall off his broom. James benches him after that. Sirius flashes him a look of concern. Simply, August moves past them, snatching his water bottle from the bench, and hit the showers without a word.

The sound of water pulsing, echoing within his head eats away at the ache of his muscles, and the burning temperature fuels the fire that he feels grinding within him. That same storm cloud. August sighs after he pulls his head from the steaming water; regretting taking the echoing sound of water rushing over his ears away. He dries himself with a flick of his wand, and pulls on his Quidditch hoodie along with a stray pair of jeans that were accidentally ripped at the knees in an incident last year involving Malia's wish to paint the Whomping Willow.

August finds Hamish McLaggen poised out the front of the Gryffindor change rooms, arms crossed and grin wide as he drinks in a storming, thundering August Darlington II. He is here for the fight; the thrill of revenge against the boy who struck him down in front of his friends. Those who stood behind him, the kleos and hubris practically oozing from their pampered pores before they ran in fear, terrified of the monster August is capable of becoming.

"Darlington," McLaggen nods as he greets August. "I have a bone to pick with you."

August grunts, not deeming him with a real response, and walks past him towards the exit of the Quidditch Pitch. McLaggen fights to keep up with his long strides, placing a not-so-careful hand on August's shoulder to halt him.

They don't realise they have an audience: Sirius and James watching carefully from the sidelines.

James holds out a hand as Sirius moves to approach the two. "Wait."

McLaggen shoves August's shoulder. But like a brick wall he barely moves.

"Fuck off, McLaggen." August seethes. "I don't care for your grudge, just get out of my face."

"I care." McLaggen says, the left side of his lip quirking. "And I'm going to let it be known."

A single phrase flits through August's mind as the first fist sails towards his jaw: what will your verse be. . ? The bane of his existence. August Darlington already has an idea of what his verse entails: a teenager with an anti-establishment, if the world fucks me I'll fuck it right back, streak. A burning temper, fuelled by the flames of his dying family connections.

Somewhere, faintly, he can hear his name being called but its only an echo within his ears.

What will your verse be. . ? His verse has always been explosive bursts of deadly anger like August catching McLaggen's fist before it cracks against his jawline. He could twist; it wouldn't take much for the bones to splinter and crack underneath his iron grip. It wouldn't take much to feel the satisfaction of McLaggen cry out as his arm breaks, and he can't play Quidditch for at least a few weeks. He could rotate it further, but ensure McLaggen's arm doesn't crack and August can hear the cry he bites down.

"August!" Sirius' voice finally breaks through the sound of his blood pumping, thrumming in his ears.

Throwing away McLaggen's arm, August lets go and his head snaps towards his friend. Sirius approaches him, careful of his burning temper. He's giving him the chance to change his narrative, before it gets out of hand. August has never been given a chance like this before; his mother and father perpetuating the teenage rebellion narrative that had been built around him from a young age.

"I told you, I don't care." August mutters darkly, breath hot against McLaggen's ear. His veins roar, and his knuckles ache as he stretches them out. "I'm not interested in whatever bullshit 'rivalry' you have created in your little brain. Don't come near me again."

James takes charge of escorting McLaggen off the field. Sirius tugs on August's hand, wrapping his fingers around his wrist and pulls him away from the seething Slytherin as McLaggen spits curses in their direction. In the change rooms, Sirius lets August breathe for a moment; anger rolling off him in waves of pulsing energy.

"What was that?" Sirius asks quietly, leaning back against the sink.

A pause holds pregnant in the air as August is silent for a moment of deliberation.

"He came looking for me." He finally says. "Not the other way around, I swear it."

Sirius hums, waiting for him to continue.

August rubs his face tiredly, exhaustion beginning to seep through his cracks. "He's got some twisted fucking rivalry thing in his head, and I don't want anything to do with it."

He can't find anymore words and another silence passes.

"Are you okay?" Sirius presses his lips into a thin line. His hand twitches, almost as if he wants to reach out to August but thinks twice.

"I'm fine." August grunts shortly, turning his intense expression towards him.

Sirius levels his challenging gaze with one of his own. "Somehow, I don't believe you."

"Doesn't matter." August sighs. "We have detention, and I need to eat before we go. I'll see you later."

Before Sirius can get in another word, August has already disappeared out the door with something stirring within him. And he's terrified.

☾☾☾

Greeted with familiar, matching grins; pearl-white teeth, and wide lips, quirked at the sides, August walks into through the Library doorway and into the seperate study room for detention. But he pays no mind to them and their antics. August's eyes do not dare to flicker in their direction as James and Sirius look to each other, their faces shifting from matching grins to eyebrows pinched and creased with confusion. Somebody clears their throat in the doorway behind them just as August slams his books against the table. Sirius flinches slightly in surprise, fist clenching the fabric of his pants as he braces himself on pure instinct.

"Boys," Professor Keating surveys the room. "If you'll come through here, I can welcome you to detention."

August crackles with charged energy as he wordlessly moves out the room, and into the cluttered office of Madam Pince with a scowl. James and Sirius follow close behind, heads ducked as they whisper between themselves before coming to a stop in front of the piles of books. James looks at them with distinct disgust, and Sirius withholds his groan.

"I thought Filch was taking detention." James says, eyes flicking over Mr Keating.

"Tonight, you will be sorting books and returning them to their rightful places for the hour before being dismissed back to your dormitories." Keating looks to his watch. "It is 8:02pm now, and you will be finished at 9:02pm." He walks towards the exit, pausing in the doorway, looking back to his three students. "I will see you boys in an hour."

The hour passes by in a torturous silence, and there are many times where Sirius looks to August-mouth open and words choked in this throat. Are you okay? But August continues to work in silence, not sparing them a glance, a single ounce of his reined in anger.

August's hands begun to cramp around thirty minutes in and was soon rendered almost useless when he dropped a particularly large volume of the Great Wizarding Atlas on his foot. This action earned him a trip to Pomfrey, and he returned to the Gryffindor common room just as the clock ticked over to 9:05pm. After changing into a spare pair of Muggle joggers and a The Hobgoblins t-shirt. He pads down the wooden stairs, back into the common room and slots himself into the loveseat closest to the fire. August's foot still rings with phantom pain, but he ignores it and looks down to his hands; in one palm he holds a small vial, one of Poppy's dreamless, easy sleep concoctions colouring the glass a light blue, and in the other he grasps To Kill a Mockingbird.

As he learnt previously, Muggle Psychology dictates that when a person is met with a 'stressor' for extended periods of time; a hormone is released that prolongs your ability to deal with said stressor. And that extended length of time within your system leads to a 'burnout'. August can feel the onset: his eyes falling closed without permission as the thickness at the back of his throat rises and he is forced recognise his exhaustion. And there are options that he could choose from: he could either fall into bed for days on end, or at least a few hours or he could keep going. Keep going till finally he can't stand on his feet any longer, and his mind is so delirious from the lack of sleep that everything merges and spins as he moves, and he can leave the lingering irrational anger behind-a tempest made of emotions that sweeps everything out its path. This is his chance to correct the burnout before it happens; a chance to allow himself at least nine hours of peaceful, restful sleep that could perhaps cure some of his lingering storm clouds.

Malia has always said that sleep is the answer, but August has never allowed himself the luxury.

August can't help the way his frustration builds, churning within his body and yearning to be set free-a person graving their ability to scream as their voice is taken away; fire seeking it's kindling like it's an addiction; a bird craving the wind beneath it's wings to will itself forward: faster, nimbler, better, and just as it's claws close, its pray twists just out of it's reach. Left to cling onto the air of disappointment. Like the bird, August wills himself forward: pushing his body to it's maximum as he chases the thing he craves-the crackle of charged energy, and the words that dull his overwhelmed senses.

August makes his decision. He knows the phantom he clings to.

Carefully, August tucks the vial into the pocket of his pyjamas, not warranting sleep a necessity for the moment, and cracks To Kill a Mockingbird open to it's last chapter, having already made it quite far through in the days between Saturday and Friday. Only the quiet creak of the Fat Lady's portrait gives away Sirius and James entrance into the common room, and for a moment August's gaze flickers to catch Sirius' eyes. But like a coward he ducks away, returning his nose back to it's place in between the pages of his book.

August would not sick a ticking time bomb on those innocent before him such as Sirius, so why would he give himself over to him? To him, there is no difference.

Somehow, August misses the sound of Sirius padding down the stairs and back into the common room. He clutches his own volume within his hand, August notices as he comes to stand in front of him with a raised eyebrow, gaze flicking to August's outstretched legs that take up the majority of the room on the loveseat.

August raises his own eyebrows.

No words are exchanged. He doesn't ask if he is okay this time. Instead, Sirius challenges his stare. August tiredly relents, raising his legs so that Sirius can slip comfortably underneath them and onto the loveseat before letting them back down, pinning him to the seat. But Sirius doesn't seem to mind. August's memory of when Sirius starts to rub slow circles into his ankle, soon blends with the creasing of his own forehead, and the fluttering of his eyelashes as sleep takes over without permission.

Maybe, the choice wasn't his to make, and fate had decided to give him a nudge in the correct direction; in more ways than he currently realises. His narrative: reborn.