YEAR OF DAMNATION
IX. The Sun Will Come Up

✶

Christmas holiday yielded an abundance of work. Garlands were to be draped over fireplaces, orange slices to be dried and threaded with silky red ribbon to hang with the golden baubles, tea candles, and stars. All appointed by Dippet, who seemed rather distracted these days, a copy of the Daily Prophet perpetually clutched in his fist, plastered with Grindelwald's mugshot and bold letters that always spelled doom.

With the Head Boy and Girl out of the castle and fewer students to punish, Dippet often came to Dion for assistance in menial tasks. She speculated he did the same to Tom because one night, she spotted him grumbling to himself and smoking doxies out of their hovels. Thankfully, Dion was given the redundant, but unexciting chore of taking inventory of the potions storerooms.

Shimmery decor preparations and indexing were no distraction. She began to flip over any newspapers she saw so she could avoid Grindelwald's waxy face and his eyes that appeared to follow passerbys around.

     Childish consolations, Edora would have laughed. A band-aid over a bullet wound. Her sister's voice overlapped with her own thoughts on bad days.

     It gave her reason to avoid Slughorn's incessant requests to attend Slug Club meetings  but she worried her excuses were running thin. Sanyu, before she left for break, said to pretend Sir Garfield was missing or sick—but Dion grew uneasy speaking such things out loud, lest that allowed them to come to fruition.

     Four straight days of preparations provided ample time to fret over Thaddeus' shindig. At one point in her sorrow, she considered feigning illness, but Kostya threatened to push her down the stairs to really give her a reason to play truant and she changed her mind. The Knights would think of her as ungrateful if she shirked on them mere hours before the gathering.

     That afternoon, she sat on the prefect bathroom counter and after three tries, perfected her makeup for an effortless glamour. She almost resembled Mother.

     Dion wiped the packed rouge from her lips and settled on a light dusting, leaving a pinkish colour that matched her freckled cheeks. Mother would have wanted it that way. Likeness was a curse suffered in perpetuation.

     Dion's hair was braided, then up, then down again, before she settled on a french twist, slipped into her father's wool coat that did not match her nicest floral dress in the slightest, and set out for the bell tower, where she agreed to meet Tom. She crushed a ragwillow leaf between her molars and pulled on white evening gloves.

     Correction, preparations allowed her to avoid Tom as well. One stone, many birds.

     He stayed behind like the few other Slytherins that had no place to call home and no arms to crawl to. The worst of their house was gone, and so were his friends. She wondered if the two were mutually exclusive, then she remembered they were her friends now, too.

     Most days he rooted himself in the library, nursing a mug that billowed steam and pouring over lines of ancient runes and their Latin counterparts. If he could not beat her hypothesis, he would surpass her in conclusion. Brilliant. Obnoxious. She let him do as he pleased, his compulsions did not concern her because he was still Tom.

     He sat two seats down from her at breakfast and scratched answers into the Daily Prophet's crossword, brow creased when he struggled with a solution. He took nighttime rounds where he knew Peeves did not linger. He scowled at students laughing on the pitch, probably reliving their first Flying class when he fell from his broom and broke his wrist. Tom's eleven-year-old self's ire was pitiable, now such a grudge could only be laughable.

     Dion could have guessed the indifferent expression he wore before she laid her eyes on him. Tom breezed into the bell tower console, scarf tied tight around his throat, leather gloves the same black as his topcoat. He looked a bit ridiculous, like a poor imitation of the Knights even if he dressed the exact same. Dion ceased her hums to herself and watched as he swept his gaze along her, then let out a great, big sigh and charmed the double doors open without a word.

     She tailed him. Only Tom could find fault in the fact Dion did as she was told. He had suggested they meet at the bell tower.

     Dion met Tom's intentional broad strides, hopping on one foot to avoid a chunk of kicked up snow. He seemed to realise he would not be able to walk away from her and his jaw was already ticking.

     "Have I underestimated your determination, or overestimated your intellect?" he spat.

     There was a vacuum in her chest, and Kostya was absent. Curious, but for the better; Dion found her restraint whittled down to its last wire under the weight of Tom and his ability to gut her and lick the knife in self-congratulation. A habit he had and honed under better skilled. The likes of Malfoys and Lestranges endured Tom's presence because he forged himself from their fires and shaped himself on their anvils, but he forgot himself. Tin could never be steel no matter what shape it took.

     The Knights of Walpurgis were unlike the other Slytherin purebloods, more enigmatic the longer she knew them. Evelyn left lipstick stains on white tea cups as a signature and took her coffee with buckwheat honey, but only a teaspoon. Dorian brushed his teeth seven times a day and licked sugar cubes when he thought no one was watching, and Romulus, always within arms reach, did not do much of anything. Ever.

     They allowed her to remain in their presence, and that was enough to confirm that there was something extraordinary about them. Tom was a mockery.

     "I am as determined as I am intelligent. Whether I am neither or both is up to discretion," replied Dion, "I think you misunderstand me, Tom."

     Tom spun to face her with so much force, it stopped her in her tracks, but he still looked so disinterested in the ordeal. Wide-eyed, she stared up at him, his ruddying cheeks and nose filtered through the snowflakes and grey winter fog.

     "Deception won't conceal your stalking, Seaver. I'm not easily fooled."

       What?

     It was not a funny subject. She should not have laughed at all, but it came spewing from her lips in giggles. Her hands came to her mouth to cover the noise, but Tom already looked insulted, and that only made her laugh more.

     "Oh, dear. You have misunderstood me! I did not mean to... well, I—"

     Dion choked out another giggle; he was unchanging and devoid, the same empty cynic since he was a child. A Matryoshka doll with a bloody-faced boy in the centre. She could not recall the last time she had laughed as freely as this, perhaps he could be useful for something other than academics.

     "What?"

     "Sorry! I—well, this is unexpected," she apologised sans sincerity and kept walking, "I do not know how to respond. By the look on your face, it seems you have a conclusion to your question despite my answer." Tom's disdain was fleeting, like the split second before a wind-up toy started its mindless entertainment. He was, by all means, a wind-up toy. An automation. The same strand of Slytherin fiending for a confrontation to win. "Ah! But I am not following your logic. So, that is why you have asked me outright."

     "Have you finished your reduction of me?"

       Clap, clap, clap. Tanis had a monkey toy that banged its cymbals and marched around when she cranked the winding key. The key broke when she cranked it too far one sleepy spring day, and it would clap incessantly until Edora threw it in a closet and waited for it to wear itself out. Dion thought of taking notes from her sister, doing the same to Tom.

     "Reduction... it is all but a reduction of you." She disciplined her grin with a frown. "You must stop trapping yourself in assessments of your own making. It is rude, and I cannot imagine it is a satisfying way to live."

     Dion glanced quickly at him. He looked caught between a retort and a scoff, but he took too long to feign nonchalance and remained silent.

     "I am not stalking you. If I wanted to enact some scheme upon you, I would have done so already," she continued.

     "Yet, you sequester yourself in the Room of Requirement. Conveniently, when you need to avoid me."

     If they were not in the white, flurrying expanse of the Hogsmeade trail and did not have a party to attend, Tom would have found himself head-first in some forgotten fissure in the castle. Lucky him. He was exceedingly talented in circumventing dire consequences.

     "Tom." Dion sighed so deeply her entire body slumped. "Where I go to relax does not concern you. If you would like to stop by, feel free to."

     He scowled.

     "How are you still scowling? We are about to attend the loveliest shindig, Tom. Is that not something to smile about?"

     "I tend to abstain from flattery."

     "What a poor sport!"

     "Your optimism is grating."

     "I am anything but an optimist."

     "What do you call yourself?"

     Dion paused. Inept and blundering, a foul beast with an appetite larger than her. There were too many words to choose from, and none seemed suitable. It was all very enormous, and Dion felt very, very small.

     "An optimistic pessimist?" She settled on. "Oh, bother. That is a juxtaposition. I quite like those, but not for myself."

     "Has the irony of that surpassed you?"

     "No, Tom."

     His smirk was imperceptible. "We'll settle on nuisance, then."

     "You are awful."

     "At last we have common ground."

     Tom's lack of passion despite his clear annoyance tested Dion. He asked questions he had answers to, and for any triumph she found penetrating his fixed apathy, he rebuilt it tenfold. Both child and toy, simultaneously winding his own key and clapping along to the beat.

     Back to inscrutable Riddle, who strung himself so tense he looked moments away from snapping. A meaner, pettier part of Dion hoped that every one of her words strained him further. It was only fair, he took joy in toppling the tower of understanding she built of him.

     She figured she could tug the string a little more. "Why all these roundabout questions? Why not see into my mind and be done with it?"

     The gravel path turned to cobble as they approached Hogsmeade and Tom gave no response. Dion thought it a valid question; professors sang his praises and made his adept Legilimency no secret.

     Few students braved the weather that kissed cheeks red and numbed fingers, but professors took the holiday in great spirit and Dion spotted Murk laughing, butterbeer in hand, and Dumbledore with one foot out the door of The Three Broomsticks, sliding a folded map into his flask pocket. In all her years as his student, she had never seen him stop. Always going somewhere, even in stillness, he studied, observed and followed.

     As Dumbledore's gaze caught hers, the weight was near-crippling until Kostya's teeth gnashed against sternum and forced her straight. Dion would thank her, once she overcame the feeling that she had made a severe misstep somewhere.

     She swallowed down the quiver in her lips and dared to peer at Tom, who either had not seen Dumbledore or trained himself to pretend it.

     "Stunned to silence at last?" she jested. Her tone was too bland and expression too grave—she would make a horrible comedian—but if any provocation worked, it was belittling.

     "I see you've spent time with Nott." He let out a sigh to rival her own. "I find it unnecessary."

     "Yet, you are confused."

     A breathy chuckle matched the arrogant tilt of his head. Opening spotted and struck. "How are you so concerned? We're about to attend the loveliest shindig, Seaver. Smile."

     Dion stared at his profile, the self-engrossed expression, his obnoxious way of asking for argument. She wondered if he listened to a word she said, or if he waited on every sentence's end with bated breath, the next quip prepared to shoot at her no matter her remark.

     Her house had shown her enough to know the answer. She wanted him to give her something more. Something honest. An epiphany. The argument that stalled in his jaw when they were children.

     They slowed in front of a building identical to the other cottages around it. Red candles hung from the roof ridge, lit despite the battering snow and a warm glow emanated from inside, dark figures within obscured by leaded windows. Thick smoke billowed from several chimneys that poked out of it like brick skewers, melding with the hazy clouds from its neighbours. Dion realised she had never seen the shop, much less went inside—she usually had no one to Floo to over the holidays, and did not have the galleons to spare for Floo powder.

     "Is this it?" she asked.

     Tom made her gather the answer herself when he held the door open, beckoning her through with a jut of his head.

     It was almost uncomfortably warm, not like the sun beating on her skin, but a thick heat that made every movement feel like a wade through molasses, each breath came in clotted. Without the charms the shopkeep had to maintain a partially clear room, Dion would have suffocated. Fireplaces, bright and well-tended, lined the walls and a steady buzz of life flowed through the room as witches and wizards in heavy velvet garb bustled in and out in flashes of brilliant green flame.

     "I do not like it in here," commented Dion, apologising to every person she brushed shoulders with and fanning her face in vain until they shoved their way to a fireplace. "Have you been to Thaddeus' home before?"

     "Yes." Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sack of Floo powder.

     "Is it nice?"

     He tugged open the drawstrings and held it out. Evidently, he disliked the shop as much as she did. "The address is 999, Doyle's Landing."

     A simple reply would have sufficed, but her cheeks burned up and the room was far too loud to argue in. She grabbed a handful of the glittering powder and threw it into the fire, gaping childishly in awe of how it bursted an iridescent emerald. It never got old. Never lost its spark no matter how many times she did it.

     Dion took a few steps forward and stated the Nott's address, clear and firm as Sasha taught her.

     "Seaver," Tom called out.

     She caught a glimpse of him over her shoulder. A portrait of the muggleborn turned Knight. The green radiance shone harsh against the sharp contours of his face; the Slytherin divine calling upon the blemish of his house. For all his caricature of real rank, he embodied the role well.

     "Don't embarrass us."

     Dion rolled her eyes, but his words stuck to her as truth. She would be the idiot fumbling around a foreign land and it would make or break her status with the Knights. A mere peer, or true friend. She forced herself to not dwell yet and held her breath, tucking her elbows in and squeezing her eyes shut as she stepped into the fire.

     Flames licked at her legs through her stockings and she was thrusted forward through networks of fireplaces. Spinning, tumbling, stretched through a tube like taffy. She did not dare open her eyes until her bar shoes hit solid ground again, lest she wanted terrible dry-eye and soot caught in her tear ducts. Once the roar of crackling blaze quieted, and her body was no longer in movement, she inhaled and drank up the fresh air.

     The room she wound up in was... well, it was not so much a room, but a small wooden shack. She ended up in the wrong place. How stupid could she be? She had Flooed dozens of times before.

     Panic tingled down Dion's nerves and she pulled on her sleeve to expose her Scribe, halfway through an attempt to come up with the right words to explain her blunder when the flames of the fire rose higher and shifted green again.

     Tom came into view, fire parting in his path and Dion's brows furrowed in confusion. Dirty tools were strewn across shelving and Dion had a hard time believing Thaddeus lived here, let alone had ever laid a finger on a tool. Everything was lopsided and made of raw wood, and dried mud and soot stained the floor that creaked under every movement.

     "Erm—is this the right address?" she asked, more so wanting to demand where the crystal chandeliers and family portraits were.

     "Yes." He seemed annoyed that she thought he would make such a mistake.

     A crack echoed through the shack and Dion jolted. She did not need to search for the source for long when a cow bell rang down below.

     A thin house elf with brown eyes the size of tennis balls waved the bell around, clad in a striped pillowcase, holes torn for his head and arms. His pointy, bat-wing ears wobbled with the force of his ringing. Dion covered her own, sheltering them from the painful rattle.

     "Esteemed guests of Mr. Thaddeus, Mr. Tom Riddle and Miss Dion Seaver!" he announced.

     "Oh, hello. I am Dion," she greeted, voice raised at an awkward octave so she could be heard over his toll without shouting at him.

     Her frown betrayed her sorrow for the creature. Frustration simmered under her skin when she saw house elves, they slaved away for nothing but more labour. Generations of it convinced them they liked it, that their cause served a greater power; and wizarding families lapped it up because that was the easy thing to do. Life would be so easy to digest if she did not have to think.

     Dion was not so eager to swallow down the paltry satiation. Men with nice houses and money that could afford a house elf claimed they enjoyed it, painted the picture of a perfect vassal. They could kick the elves in the same breath as their praises. They usually did.

     Women in the munitions factories far north of East Kindale bore eerie resemblance. They sweat over sulphur and explosives seven days a week from sunrise to sunset, thanked in pennies and houses reduced to rubble. Commissioners cooed to them that no one won in war. It was like watching fat lions praise the wisdom of 'no one wins in meat eating.'

     She was unable to save the elf at the moment, but could give all she had to offer him—kindness. She bent over, hands propped on her knees to listen to him.

     "Topper is I, I am Topper." Topper ceased the bell chime to bow deeply, round nose almost touching the floor. He careened up again and heaved open the shed door, marching ahead. Sunlight trickled through the doorway. "Miss Dion and Mr. Tom must follow Topper to Nott Estate."

     "I like your bell, Topper."

     He clanged it harder than before. "Miss Dion likes Topper's bell! It is Topper's Bell For Esteemed Guests!"

     "Topper's Torture Device," uttered Tom under his breath, rubbing his temples.

     "Tom!" Dion chastised.

     "Does Mr. Tom hate Topper's Bell For Esteemed Guests?" Topper's eyes welled with big baubles of wet tears, lips trembling with so much force his body shook in tandem.

     "He hates everything," she assured quickly, shooting a glare at a pained-looking Tom for his cruelty. "Your bell is very nice."

     Topper threw his head back and wailed anyway, great shrieks that made crows caw and flee from their nearby perches. He continued through the door without them and Dion followed hotly, taking his frail hand in hers and attempting to soothe his blubbering with soft murmurs like she did with Baby Laika when she cried.

     A burst of summer whisked her cheeks and her comforting of Topper faltered into an amazed gaze of her surroundings. The Nott vineyard was as legendary as stories whispered. It sprawled across the undulating hills in rows of rich grapevines that stretched endlessly toward the horizon, a gentle breeze carried the scent of earth, ripe with fruit and the sticky August warmth Dion missed so dearly in winter.

     The estate overlooked the vineyard atop the highest point of the rolling hills, nestled behind rows of hedge and tall stone gates. It could have been a castle from size alone, and Dion shed her coat in preparation for the trek ahead.

     Topper wept and shook his bell over the rustle of leaves as they carried on up the russet cobble path, lined with dark trellises and thick, aged vines. Bustles of plump crimson, green, and violet grapes twisted from every angle and Dion fought the urge to reach out and pluck a handful for herself. All this food, such beauty in a lone estate—Thaddeus truly lived like a prince.

     By the time they ambled the final stretch of stairs and reached the gates, Tom had a bundle of his discarded layers in his arms, fists clenching every time Topper let out a particularly loud shriek. Dion would pat the house elf's back sympathetically in response. She hoped Topper's sensitivity meant cruel words were a shock to him.

     The gate towered over them, peeks of the house slotted in dense iron bars. Topper waved his hand, sniffling and blubbering, and the thesaurus-sized gate lock fell to the ground with a thunk. Surely, for show. The Notts had been too involved in anti-Grindelwald efforts to not have protection charms layered thick around the vineyard.

     Dion and a reluctant Tom helped Topper push the gates open, revealing the Nott estate in its full glory. It imposed on the green scenery in silent dignity, symmetrical and built of beige brick. The garden felt almost too perfect, groomed lawns surrounded by cypresses, manicured into privacy screens. Clear, glimmering water poured from the tiered fountain in the centre of the path, obscuring the heavy, double doors of the estate.

     "My goodness," Dion whispered and spun, committing its intricacies to memory.

     Tom scoffed, but his eyes scanned the yard. "Close your mouth, you'll catch flies."

     It seemed absurd to pass through without gawking, but she shut her mouth anyway as Topper shot a white spark at the entrance and the doors swept open.

     Inside, the entryway was vast, defined by dark, polished wood floors, a sage kilim laid across it, deviating from the typical pureblood thrills that surrounded it. Mr. Simenov and his apt for gifts pervaded every item that seemed out of place. Khokhloma on the wooden vase in the corner. A gusli collected dust on a shelf. He was a friend to them. Family. They opened their home to a half-blood and treated him as kin. All Dion could wonder was how?

     A shiny dark wood staircase flanked the right of the room, a window and backdoor stuck in the wall next to it. Empty doorways lined either side of her and lead into corridors, or maybe a dark room; the dim lamps left much to the imagination.

     "Granny!" Thaddeus hollered from the top of the stairs, "Gran! Why do I even bother—oh, there you are. Riddle, my dearest Dion. Apologies. Make yourself at home, but don't go upstairs or my granny'll burst a vessel."

     She rushed to meet him at the bottom step, taking his hands in hers. "The—the vineyard is..."

     "Amazing? Jaw-droppingly frivolous?"

     "All that and more. Do you take care of it all?"

     "Christ, no," he laughed, "My gran and distant relatives worry about it, I just relish in the spoils." Thaddeus winked and mimed an offhand drinking motion.

     "Oh, Topper, he is—" Dion suddenly remembered Topper's weeping upon its absence and looked around her feet, but the elf was gone. Her arms fell lamely at her sides.

     Thaddeus did not appear concerned. "Speaking of, where the hell is she?—Granny!"

     He hurried down a dim corridor on the left and disappeared further into the house. The sunset casted orange light and harsh shadows from the window and Dion peered through into the back garden, gasping at the rows of lacy black elderberry shrubs and buzzing hummingbirds sipping sugar water from a stone bath.

     Tom appeared behind her, scrutinizing the garden through narrowed eyes, but had no diagnosis to share for once. Dion stuck by him for the sole reason that she disliked lingering with no purpose in other's homes. She refused to be the interloper tripping on the edge of grandeur tonight.

     Dion searched briefly for Topper, but sighed upon the realization that she most likely would not see him again if he had other matters to attend to and followed Tom into the lounge, where Antonin and Evelyn played a game of chess. They sat across from each other on brown chesterfield chairs, a square table stationed in the center. An hors d'oeuvre tray laid discarded on the piano bench in the corner, mirror finish smudged with the remnants of food.

     The chess players looked positively devilish, elbows rested and hands clasped in front of their mouths, focused expressions lit up by the fireplace. Something like relief blossomed in Dion's chest upon the reveal of their attire, lavish as ever, but not quite formal. Evelyn donned a turtleneck and trousers and Antonin's blue tie was  yanked half-loose. A white knight swung its sword at a black pawn and it went rolling off the table.

     Dion approached them and crouched, picking up the pawn and setting it next to Antonin's other fallen black pieces. "Hello, Evelyn—"

     "Busy," she replied monotonously.

     Antonin only grunted in response.

     Evelyn would win. Her flanks had full control of the centre and Antonin played chess like he fought—no defense. Dion preferred to watch, but Edora and Sasha used to play chess during dreary summer days when it was too muggy to do anything but lounge about and do nothing productive. They both made aggressive moves with no logic to match, similar to Antonin.

     Dion held her tongue and continued her tour of the house with Tom, walking into a corridor. He shooed her once they were out of view, but she pretended not to see and inspected the white marble tile.

     Windows taller than Tom overlooked a limestone trail and sideboards with nothing interesting on them sat in between identical rooms full of tables, sofas, and fireplaces. The ambience shifted in this corridor, it lacked the occupancy of the entryway and lounge. An engulfing emptiness. It made a better picture than it ever would a home. She realised, now, that there were no Christmas decorations strung in the house at all and she wondered if there was a reason, or Thaddeus did not want to celebrate alone.

     Pans clattered and startled Dion. She poked her head into the source of the noise: the kitchen, where house elves were hard at work preparing food. They chopped fruits and skewered them into swan designs, mashed steaming potatoes, and seared meat in cast irons over flame. Nauseated by the smell it gave off, Dion covered her nose but followed Tom in confusion as he slipped in and beelined for the remote hind of the kitchen.

     Countless furnaces, counters, and sacks of produce laid around the dark room. They weaved through house elves. Dion had never seen such an amount of food in one room outside of Hogwarts, not even at the shops in East Kindale. In the furthest corner, Romulus twisted a corkscrew into a wine bottle and popped it open, then sniffed the lip and took a swig.

     Tom looked satisfied—a hypothesis confirmed. Romulus must have done this a lot. Neither were phased when Tom approached, but Dion eyed the wine dubiously. Would they offer her alcohol? She rarely drank. What if she made a fool of herself?

     Well, more of a fool than usual.

     "Hey Riddle—" Romulus started with a nod, then his eyes drifted to Dion as an afterthought, "—Seaver." He stared at the wine's label in disdain. "It's terrible, really. Dry riesling, does he think we're animals? Or this is a prank, I wouldn't put it past him."

     He took another sip and cringed. The cause for his ridicule was lost on Dion.

   "How are you, Romulus? Where is Dorian?" she asked and combed through a shadowed pantry in search of the gangly man.

     "Fine. I think he's getting harassed by Thaddeus' grandmother." Romulus shrugged and motioned vaguely elsewhere. "Riesling. Riesling? Merlin."

     "It pairs well with duck," pointed out Tom with about as much amusement he ever showed. Always suppressed. Not quite there.

     "If only he cared about that. Last time, he gave me chianti and tuna. Has he gone mad? I felt like those children who have to eat food from tin cans."

     Tom's face settled. Clenched teeth hidden behind a half-smile, Dion knew that expression from how often she wore it herself. "I couldn't imagine."

     Dion pretended it did not bother her, but it did. She did not know if her sensitivity was groundless or if Tom heard the same things so often, it became easy to mask.

     Nothing ever got easier for her. Tom could best her in that.

     She exited the conversation through an open door into another corridor, seeking Dorian. This one was narrow and lacked windows, decorated with portraits of families in brown suits and a never-ending rug. There was such an abundance of gold gilding, crystal and sophisticated items to marvel at, Dion struggled to make sense of anything at all, each room blurring into the next.

       Find something to use against them, if need be, urged Kostya. Dion ignored her.

     Dorian's voice droned nearby and she located him in a sitting room, staring down at a wrinkled woman in a wheelchair who did not crane her neck to meet his gaze. Her eyes were the same as Thaddeus, hazel and twinkling with the next joke already in mind. Liver spots dotted her face and her wiry, grey hair stuck out from beneath the polka dot head scarf tied around her chin. Shawls and blankets were layered so dense around her body, it looked like she had no arms.

     "I remember you, Dorothy," the woman said.

     "No. Dorian." He was steadily turning a shade of plum.

     "Yeah, yeah. Dorothy."

     Dion entered when Dorian gripped his head until his knuckles went white. "Hello, Dorian. I believe you found Thaddeus' grandmother."

     "Unfortunately," he grumbled under his breath and stood up straight. "Hag."

     "Oh, away an' wash the back of your bullocks, you dry shite," exclaimed the woman. Her hand poked out from the heaps of garb and her feeble, leathery fist shook at him.

     "You can hear fine! You deal with her, Seaver!" And he was out of the room with a sweep of his black robes before Dion could protest.

     The woman cackled, a nasally hoarse noise, and wheeled herself in front of the fireplace. Dion had no idea what to do. Her grandparents were either dead or estranged and the near-fossilised that littered East Kindale lived in a past she had no interest in. Even before her mother and father's disownment, her grandparents ignored her unless compelled to do otherwise for etiquitte's sake.

     "Hello, I am Dion," she greeted, creeping toward the woman.

     "I know who you are. One of Nikandr's little bastards."

     Dion's eye twitched. "Just Dion is fine."

     "You got a mouth on you! Spittin' image of him, I'd say," she cackled again and folded her hands away.

     "You have a lovely home."

     "It ain't mine. Good for nothing husband kicked the bucket, now I gotta look after it. Lucky fecker." Her voice lowered to a mutter that only the senile did. "Least I got those elves."

     Thaddeus breezed in, hair mussed beyond its usual sloven, glasses pushed up and holding it from his eyes. "Granny. Stop running off."

     "What?" the crone shouted. How she had a set of lungs capable of reaching such heights at her age baffled Dion.

     "Stop running off!"

     "My legs don't work."

     "Seems you've met my gran," he grimaced sympathetically at Dion.

     She opened her mouth to reply, but the woman suddenly bellowed, "Fiadh!"

     "Her name's Fiadh. Lovely, isn't she?"

     "What?" Fiadh shouted.

     "It is a pleasure to meet you," Dion lied.

     Fiadh's perioral wrinkles curled around her lips. "I'm hungry!"

     Thaddeus pushed her chair, wheels squeaking and wobbling, and motioned Dion to follow. "Yeah, yeah, I'm but a humble servant tasked to you. Follow me, Dion."

     "I can smell a Simenova a mile away. They've all got disaster in their eyes," continued Fiadh.

     They passed a photograph of a young woman shaking hands with the former Minister of Magic. Dion could imagine his grandmother in an important seat in the Ministry, barking orders at underlings and making regimes for the wizarding world in her old age. Time caught up with everyone, she understood that, but with the elderly to the tune of Fiadh, it was like they refused to attempt to keep up.

     "Has anyone ever applauded your hospitality, gran?" Thaddeus mused.

     "Don't get smart with me, boy!"

     The dining room opened up into a series of oversized paintings of willow trees surrounded by ruffled bunches of baby pink peonies and birds in flight, a lengthy dining table covered by white cloth stood in the center, encircled by equally opulent chairs. Dion could not see the other end of the table, for mounds of food were presented in elaborate displays; a model of the Hogwarts Express chugged around a track, carts yielding opaque maroon wine; hollowed gourds filled with pumpkin soup, shepherd's pie levitating in crystal dinnerware, and foods she had never seen before stacked in tiers.

     The Knights were already seated at the end, hardly filling half of the chairs. Even if they stuffed themselves to the brim, it would be impossible for the group to eat this much food in one night, and Dion wondered where it would all go once they were done. Hopefully the elves. They deserved more than their leftovers, but it was the absolute least they could do.

     It felt more monumental than anyone at the table would ever understand—a bystander with a seat at the table became something else. More. By having a place beside them, Dion shed a title acquired since her robes went green. No longer the outlier, not quite a Knight.

     She sat next to Evelyn, offering a smile, which distorted Evelyn's face into something like disgust. Thaddeus tucked Fiadh into place at the head of the table and took his spot on the other side of Evelyn, clapping his hands twice. A ghzel plate with winter greens, cranberries and pecans appeared in front of Dion, silver flatware laid next to it. She did not know what to do with her hands, so she set them in her lap and glanced sideways at Evelyn to see how she went about etiquette.

     But Evelyn's mind was elsewhere, thinning her lips, staring past the mountain of food. Dion followed her gaze to Romulus and his wobbly movements, the too-loud laughter that rivalled Antonin's cackle. Evelyn turned and made eye contact with Dion, raising a brow in the direction of the train carts. A suggestion.

     "You'll need it by the end of dinner." She thought Evelyn muttered, but she could not be sure over the tiny blare of the train and chatter among the men.

     Dion reached for a dark bottle, catching it by the neck at the last second and poured it into her crystal glass without checking the label. Riesling, chianti, elderberry—it was all tarte, bitter liquid. Sasha, as much as he hated seemingly arbitrary dinner conventions, refused to drink certain brands of beer. He deemed them too bitter or too sweet, and used words like 'unbalanced' that made him sound more well-versed in food critique than he would ever care to be.

     She held her glass by the stem like her mother did and smiled over the rim as Antonin told an animated recount of the time he caught a shark in the Mediterranean. The story itself was far from interesting, but by the look on the other's faces—terse simpers, raised eyebrows, and outright yawning from Thaddeus—they knew this one by heart and were simply waiting for their turn to talk. Funny.

     Sipping her wine, she resisted a shudder of disgust and gulped down two mouthfuls to empty her glass faster.

     Dinner was intriguing, four courses of food unlike anything Dion had ever tasted appeared on her plate in long intervals, leaving plenty of time for conversation to drift aimlessly to their father's accomplishments, or their father's father's latest investment into Comet broomsticks. Much of the talk centered around things Dion was not privy to. Tom appeared neutral to it, unlike his reaction to Romulus' previous comment in the kitchen, engaging through surface questions and pleasantries that rang empty now that she knew how scornful he could get.

     (Romulus sliced his roast and forked it into his mouth, washing it down with a swig of wine. "Your grounds are just lovely, who does the trees?"

     "The elves," replied Thaddeus.

     "What?" Fiadh shouted.

     "I've got to get some that landscape for myself. Do you think I can find them, Dorian? I think I can. I have this Gentry piece that would look nice by the upstairs window."

     "Gentry?" asked Tom, "How did you get your hands on that?"

     Leaning back in his chair, Thaddeus caught Dion's attention. He grinned at her and made a lip flapping motion with his hand, mouthing blah, blah, blah with an eye roll. She masked a chuckle with a big bite of some kind of cheesy potato dumpling with shreds of green herb on it.)

     The alcohol made her mouth dry and she wanted to dance, but stayed seated and listened to Antonin and Dorian argue about the state of the Ministry's defenses against Acolytes. She zoned out once Dorian started making strange pained noises between retorts but could only assume by the jabs of Antonin's finger into the table, they were not going to come to an agreement any time soon. Thaddeus had stolen Evelyn's roast when she said she was a vegetarian now. Dion drained her drink and wondered when the party would start.

     Her face felt fuzzy, pins and needles in her lips and cheeks every time she smiled, and Tom kept glancing at her from the rim of his glass, the same wine he had been nursing all dinner swirling. Scrutiny. Suppression. Strange, indecipherable gazes.

     She did not bite this time, instead giggling into her wine because, for how often he did it, there was no other response better suited. Then his expression flitted to frustration and he was the one on the outside looking in, opening his mouth to ask her what was so funny and getting interrupted when Thaddeus pushed his chair from the table and stood abruptly.

     "Bedtime, Granny," he announced.

     Fiadh grumbled something like, "Took you long enough."

     There was a chorus of agreement and the Knights stood, too. Dion felt like a magnet to conversation, matching Evelyn's swift rise from her seat (albeit a touch more ungraceful) and locked their elbows together as not to miss a beat of dialogue. Evelyn arm jabbed weakly into Dion's ribs, but she excused the accident and got dragged into the lounge. They tailed Romulus, who had his arms looped around Tom and Dorian's waists, jostling them with each roar of laughter.

     The air was balmy and inviting and Dion felt silly for ever bothering to argue with Tom today. She laughed again at the memory. Evelyn thrusted Dion onto the sofa and plopped in the crook of the opposite arm, crossing one leg over the other and suppressing a scowl. She swirled her glass by the stem and observed the boys' vain attempt to calm Romulus, her hair glinting red in the fireplace's flame. For the first time Dion understood the source of her expression: animosity.

     Evelyn's silence around the Knights was never an out-of-character modesty, but a festering, fixed notion. The grit of her teeth. The bide of time. She was holding out for something beyond Dion's drunken comprehension. Dion wanted to crawl into her arms and tell her that she was her friend, but Thaddeus walked in and threw himself between them.

     "I put an imperturbable charm around my gran's room, you animals. Hopefully it holds, that woman is relentless," he groaned, discarding his glasses roughly onto the table.

     Everyone was far too dismal and if they slipped into the same conversation as dinner, Dion was sure she would fall asleep within the hour from her full-stomach and wine. During prefect rounds, sometimes she escorted groups of delirious students to their dorms after Quidditch parties. In the glimpses she caught of the fun, they played games and sang songs.

     With this epiphany, Dion sat up straight and said, "We should play a game, and then, we should dance."

     "A game?" questioned Evelyn.

     "Yes, a game they play at parties."

     Thaddeus snorted. "They?"

     "Who can throw Wonk the furthest?" Antonin mused and punched Dorian in the shoulder, ignorant to his sore expression. "You win if he sticks out the ground like a flagpole."

     Dorian muttered a hushed argument and rubbed his arm.

     "No!" exclaimed Dion, "A party game. We should ask each other questions. I have seen people do it."

     "I understand what she's saying. Since someone's been drinking since noon—" Thaddeus glanced at Romulus, "—truth or dare is off the table."

     "Then we must only play truth..."

     "That's not how that works," Dorian frowned.

     Romulus fished in his pockets for something. "Why don't we ask a question and go around in a circle? Whoever doesn't want to answer, drinks."

     "Ugh, you want an excuse to drink in excess." Evelyn's lips curled.

     "It's the holidays. Where's the firewhiskey?" he insisted.

     How easily Romulus agreed was impressive, and Dion clapped her gloved hands together in excitement. The party was beginning and she was in attendance, better sociable than she had ever been in the face of the Knights. Tom, from his seat on one of the chesterfields, buried clear disappointment with his signature passive indifference.

     A cynic that could not muster anything honest in the face of joy. It might break him to cherish the slim moments of light.

     Antonin barked a laugh at Romulus, who finally retrieved a flask from his trousers.

     "Found it," he claimed and sprawled next to Dorian, tipsy grin on his lips.

     Evelyn cringed. "You pulled that from your trousers."

     "I didn't. You're seeing things. Someone ask a question."

     "My lieges," stated Thaddeus, "I shall begin. Graduation approaches, what are we doing? Go."

     Dorian just looked exhausted. "This game is infantile."

     "Drink up, Wonk," Antonin jeered and shoved the flask into his lap.

     "I refuse."

     "Then brag of your success to the commonwealth," Thaddeus said. Antonin's smile fizzled away.

     Dorian sighed, then rubbed his temple and relented, "I'll begin training for my responsibilities as head of Gringotts in July."

     "No one really cares about Gringotts," Evelyn butted in and kept her face even to appear unaffected, but her tone boasted.

     "What will you do, then?"

     "I'll be an Obliviator. Then I'll be Head Obliviator. One day, I'll be Minister of Magic or Supreme Mugwump, I haven't decided yet."

     Such impressive goals astounded Dion, not that she expected anything less. With such conviction in Evelyn's voice, Dion believed she could do it. "Wow!"

     "Yeah right, Evelyn," Antonin scoffed out a laugh.

     Evelyn gripped the stem of her glass so tightly Dion thought she was trying to strangle it.

     "I'll take a simple job. Auror," he continued.

     Thaddeus snorted at him. "How noble of you, Hamlet."

     "I'm doing my part." He shrugged. "Mulciber?"

     There was a beat of silence as Romulus pondered. Crickets chirped and the gentle sway of leaves rustled outside. He merely shook his head and held his hand out. "Pass the bottle."

     "Drunkard."

     Romulus rolled his eyes and took a swig without wincing.

     "I'm a bit of a free-spirit, myself. Might travel, learn how to tie a few knots," reasoned Thaddeus, flicking lint from his jumper onto the floor. "Riddle?"

     As if he were above it all, Tom's lips pursed barely. "Merrythought is retiring the year after the next. If all goes to plan, I'll replace her."

     The Knights snickered with him, then looked to Dion for her response.

     Such arrogance for nought. Tom would make aspiring children cry with a glance alone. Well, that was an exaggeration, but in the few times he lent a hand, he never seemed to connect with the younger students he tutored, especially when they struggled to grasp the variabilities in the groundwork of magic.

     Bashful, she trained her eyes anywhere but into theirs. "You all have such lovely goals. I would like to have a nice home and get married, erm, and I would dance ballet... or make sculptures, perhaps paint a little. Oh, but I would need money for all of that. I really do dislike money."

     Tom scoffed and her own patience wore thin. There were plenty of closets she could shove him into later. Tonight, she would not give him a second glance.

     "Ugh. That sounds dreadful." Evelyn looked caught between horror and disgust. "What an indifferent life."

     "It sounds just fine," argued Romulus.

     "You already do nothing all day, anyway."

     The game continued with Tom and Dorian not quite grappling the rules as they refused to drink any more than what they had left in their glass whether they answered the questions or not, but the rest of them had such a merry time with a variety of queries that brought Dion closer to the Knights.

     For example, least favorite person:

     (Dion did not hesitate. "Kostya."

     "My gran's got to be up there," slurred Thaddeus, legs kicked onto the table.

     Evelyn drank.)

     Or, a lie that they had told each other:

     (Everyone tipped their head back and emptied their glass.)

     At one point, Dion's cheek was pressed to the arm of the sofa, eyes heavy and limbs struggling in the honey-dense tug of her muscles. The others in similar states, besides sober Dorian and Tom who, despite drinking, remained his usual self, perhaps more sluggish if she were being generous. Drinks continued to flow, game forgotten, but she thought she might become ill if she consumed any more.

     The room thrummed, feet shuffling across the wood. She only remembered there was a piano in the corner when Romulus slipped onto the bench and began playing a rushed, rich melody. Slightly out of tune, but enough to make Dion shoot up from the sofa. Her body buzzed to the beat and moved on its own.

     Thaddeus sat up and laughed, a lazy grin splayed across his face. "What are you doing, Seaver?"

     "Dancing! We must dance, Romulus is playing a lovely song for us."

     The other Knights stared, groggily bewildered, even in their own states of rumpled clothes, hiccups, and rosy cheeks. It did not matter. Dion came alive when she danced.

     "What the hell. Why not?" He pushed the table out of the way and grabbed her hands, twirling her around. She stumbled, but stayed upright. "I've got to say, I didn't expect you to be such a ruffian."

     "Neither did I!"

     They tripped over each other's shoes and spun until the fireplace blended into one streak of golden glow in her vision, dotted with Thaddeus' smile, Tom's face, then Evelyn's as they whirled over to her. Thaddeus released Dion and she stumbled into the piano bench, crashing into Romulus' back. He must not have felt it, because he continued to slam his fingers on the keys and did not bother to turn around.

     Thaddeus hooted a chuckle, it caught in his throat and made him snort. "Evelyn, sweetness, come here. We can't be the only ones dancing."

     "Absolutely not."

     "C'mon, Evie." He skulked toward her rhythmically.

     "No." Despite Evelyn's protests, he tugged her up by the wrists and pulled her onto the floor, leading her into a stiff twirl. "Thaddeus!"

     Dion giggled at the display and swept stray hairs from her face. They were all making fools of themselves, surely, but the spirit in the room made her blood run a little hotter. Even Dorian accepted that this was the way the night went and settled next to Romulus on the bench, occasionally trilling the keys in a nonsensical way. Antonin dragged his chair in front of the fire and stared into it, tie undone and sprawled out, flask in hand.

     She watched Tom stand wordlessly and peruse a bookcase in the corner, the same drink he had been nursing all night in hand. He looked immaculate, white shirt crisp, trousers pressed, buttons done to the bobbing apple—Dion thought he could benefit from some ruffling. It might wipe that snobbish look from his face.

     Dion approached him with the piano's melody in her gait. "Join us, Tom."

He surveyed her over his shoulder and she outstretched her hand, wiggling her fingers, gloves bunched in the nooks. There was war beyond the eternal spring of the Nott estate, but they had tonight. They could pretend to be ignorant to it tonight.

     Tom's dissection of her offer was palpable, and he interpreted it in all the wrong ways. A dig. A jeer. A tactic. He scoffed and retreated out of the room, footsteps fading into the corridor.

     She should have known by now. Dion rolled her eyes and was not sure if she was dissatisfied by his rejection or frustrated by his listless attitude. But, at that moment, she watched the Tom-less doorway and just felt sad for him.

     Her body lurched when Thaddeus yanked her into he and Evelyn's romp by the scruff of her dress. Evelyn's dancing consisted of rigid bounces and occasional muttering of how stupid it all was, her hair fluttering in ripples whenever she popped up. Thaddeus' movements were boyish and uncoordinated. The music flowed into itself languidly and Dion was alive and breathing, maybe laughing, maybe close to collapsing, or floating beyond the confines of the home.

     Gold dust light. White teeth. Hands in hers. The smell of ripe fruit and summer. Each song blurred into the next until fatigue wavered into Romulus' spirit and his fingers played rich, loose melodies and sang the lyrics of a sleepy Christmas carol in a voice too deep to make much sense of the words.

     Dorian decided that Romulus had enough fun and bent all crooked to drape his arms around him to drag Romulus to bed. Drunken, lethargic caroling echoed down the corridor.

     Without music, Dion's body was steady, but her eyes were bleary and her thoughts felt wrapped in wool, wading through softness and ill-defined shapes. Evelyn disappeared elsewhere and Thaddeus sunk to the floor, long limbs all over and hard to avoid as Dion stumbled around.

     "Most beautiful women in Britain..." Thaddeus yawned, talking to himself. "Well, I would drink, but in the spirit of honesty, I'd have to say your mother, Dolohov."

     Antonin snored, head tipped back. The empty flask fell from his hand with a clink.

     Dion's mouth felt dry again and she desperately needed water. Nausea sat thick in her throat and she nearly toppled into Thaddeus when she bent over him. His eyes were closed and he stopped writhing around.

     "Thaddeus?" she whispered.

     He rustled, groaning.

     "Thaddeus, where do I sleep?"

     "Up... wherever," He waved his hand around. "There's bedrooms upstairs."

     Then, Thaddeus went limp and did not stir again. There was no chance Dion could lift him onto the sofa, but she did not want to leave him there. Once the fire dimmed and only embers were left, he would get cold. She shuffled, aimlessly, and found a decorative throw blanket that had slipped off the back of one of the chesterfields. She picked it up and draped it over him, pressing her three fingers to his heart.

     "Happy Christmas, Thaddeus," she whispered and backed away.

     Head weightless and spiralling, she struggled to blink through the blue darkness of the estate, tripping on corners of carpets and retracing steps over and over again. Such a labyrinth. Unnecessary, too. Eventually, in her drunken stupor, she found the kitchens and made her way to the tap.

     The house elves were nowhere to be found, so she twisted the handle and hunched under the faucet, gulping down the water that poured into her mouth. Cold liquid soothed the way her tongue clung behind her teeth and she only stopped to come up for air. It hung in her lungs and she turned the tap off, watching it drip with little echoed plops.

     She sighed and patted herself on the cheeks, sobering up by a fraction. The party felt very distant, even though it ended mere minutes ago.

     Dion dreaded further travel and considered lying on the floor like Thaddeus, but figured that would make her a bad houseguest so she carried on. She trekked up a flight of stairs, which led into more corridors and more doors and too many identical pieces of furniture to keep track of where she began and ended up. Photos, portraits, and maps lined the walls, so she used those to work out her surroundings.

     The people in the portraits were unknown to her. Curly-haired brunettes with matching lopsided smiles, arms draped around each other and posed in front of the vineyard. These corridors had home ingrained into them. Life. She passed one with a familiar face and paused, frowning.

     Mr. Simenov's head was thrown back, he laughed next to Thaddeus' parents, palming for strands of limp, black hair out of frame. Dion, carefully, unhooked the moving photograph from the wall and brought it so close to her face, she could see her reflection in the glass. His white-blond air blew in the breeze, eyes crinkled with crow's feet despite his youth. Mr. Nott, the spitting image of Thaddeus, same slipping glasses and all, squeezed his shoulder.

     All her life she despised Mr. Simenov. But he looked like he had never so much as disliked anyone. That might have made him better than her.

     A gust of wind startled Dion and the frame fell from her hands. It clattered to the floor, glass shattering into pieces. She gasped and cursed under her breath, wincing at her own audacity. At least everyone was asleep, but her wand was in her jacket, and she was not sure she could retrieve it and make her way back up the stairs without waking the house, or stumbling and cracking her head open.

     She set the broken frame on a side table and hurried to the first door she saw, twisting the handle and leering in.

     A single candle outlined the silhouettes of dark figures in yellow. One too tall to be anyone but Dorian, and Dion froze. Romulus' hands held his jaw and smattered kisses along the bone while Dorian urged him to go to bed with an unusual, broad smile on his face. Once she registered what she had walked in on, she inhaled sharply and shut the door, scampering further down the corridor.

     That was not hers to see. She may have ruined everything, if either of them noticed her.

     Dion rubbed her hot face and was saved by a balcony. It faced the vineyard and its rolling hills and she took a deep breath of the clear, summer air and stepped out. Tom sat in a chair to the right, head rested back, book covering his face. He was so still, he might have been asleep. She did not know whether the fact Tom had fallen asleep outside, or his disregard of the book's condition surprised her more. Head swirling, she ignored him and tucked her arms around her middle, leaning against the stone railing.

     Cicadas sang and the cloudless, black sky twinkled with stars. It truly was a pastoral of everything Dion had dreamed of and she wished she could stay in this night forever. Food in abundance, dancing and drinks, games she never thought she would have anyone to play with. She wondered if they ever heard the bomber planes zip overhead, or if magic obscured that, too.

     "Marriage is affectatious," Tom drawled. An unfortunate turn of events.

     "You are affectatious." Dion resisted the fire he was attempting to start, too caught in exhaustion encircling her with a warm hug. It was hard to believe it was December anywhere. "Christmas is soon."

     "I don't care for holidays."

     "Your birthday, then."

     "I don't care for my birthday, either."

     A twinge of sympathy spoiled her annoyance. Tom's act worked well enough to make her forget his orphancy. Before Hogwarts, he probably spent holidays crammed into shelters stuffed with people, otherwise in an orphanage who had no extras to spare, not even for a birthday.

     She frowned, but could feel him squinting at her through the darkness.

   "Are you keeping tabs on me?" he asked.

     They had gone over this already. Persistent.

     "No, Tom. You mentioned it ages ago." Dion sighed and rested her head against the railing, it relieved her fevered skin a twinge. It almost could have been a dry laugh that escaped her, repeating the same cyclical argument from earlier. "Astrology charts, third year Divination, maybe. Before I dropped it."

     Tom's face flickered with disgust. "Why are you like this?"

     "Like what?"

     "Grossly sentimental."

     For all the times Dion deconstructed him in her mind, reconstructed him, irked him, and placated him, she never tired when she drew a reaction from him. It was more earnest than his trained restraint. "Oh, go on."

     "Running into the arms of hopeless desires."

     "I am quite terrible, aren't I?" she agreed, "It does not feel so hopeless in the moment."

     "You debase yourself." Tom almost sounded frustrated. Strangled and kept down in the terribly embarrassing ordeal of being seen as he was. In vain, too. He was the type of person when she saw him once, it was hard to unsee. "You waste your talent on meaningless vulnerabilities, and worst of all, you know better."

     An indescribable undertone lingered in his voice. You know better. It was hard to believe he was capable of such sentiments when, a mere few weeks ago, he hardly gave her a second glance if not for academics. Dion wanted to pull more out of him. More resentment. Maybe something else. Just something besides his dull cynicism she was benumbed by.

     "Care for a story?"

     "By the look on your face, you'll subject me to it despite my response."

     "Presumptuous." But correct. She might have smiled, her face was doing whatever it wanted. She hoped she did not. "I stopped speaking when I was ten years old. It, erm, it is almost ridiculous to think about now. It was not for a lack of things to say, I had plenty of ideas. Dreams. But everything—everyone was dull. Blundering idiots torturing each other. Hurting themselves, for what? Money? Power? I thought words were wasted on them.

     "And... I had love, I knew I did, but I only understood when there was a huge, gaping hole in its place. It fractured me when it was taken and forced me to cherish the time I have left." Dion swallowed down the itch in the back of her mouth, the preface before tears. She only wanted to give him the words, nothing more. "The world is so burdened by death and horror. I cannot... my whole life cannot bend to the sordid actions of others. Life is uninteresting and predictable, unforgiving and cruel and unrelenting, but life—love endures despite it all. I need it to."

     "Love endures? That is your verdict?" Brows cinched as if it were too tender-hearted for him to consider. "The subject of your affection could expire at any moment. This very minute. This second—and you, left with nothing but false consolations."

   "The fleetingness of it. Can you not see? That is beauty."

     "Where is your self-preservation?" She thought he might have wanted to ask where did it go? But she was not in the mood to guess or assume like he always made her do. Blankets pooling around her body and her ear pressed to a pillow called to her, and Tom was being a bore again.

     "Do you want me to say that life is meaningless? It is. I do believe that. " Dion pushed herself from the rail and stood straight—as straight as she could with her slumped shoulders and drooping eyelids. "But I am able to tell people I love them, so perhaps it is not a complete waste."

     "People are awful."

     She headed for the door. "Anything but. People are all that is left after you, Tom. They are all we have."

     Tom stood, but made no move for her. The squeal of the chair's legs against the stone floor caused Dion to pause. There was fervor in the movement. Meaning.

     "There will be no after me," he said.

     The lack of after—forever. Such a funny thing. Dion would have to tell him about Nav, the home of afters.

     She glanced at him over her shoulder, a tired laugh escaped her lips at the sight of him. For once, he was imperfect. A curl tickled his lashes like a disturbance in still water, eyes blown into wide, scarcely lit up ink drops. His plea was misplaced, meant to comfort someone else—perhaps himself, perhaps the alcohol affected him more than he let on.

     Whatever the reason, Dion let it wash away like a receding wave and she walked to the nearest bedroom for some much needed rest.

     Tomorrow, the night will have been a clouded haze. She could say she let nothing ruin it, not even dreary, perplexing Tom.

{ ༺✶ }   hello 10k word BEHEMOTH of a chapter. i wanted to post it around christmas but Whatever #time is relative or something. did this need to be 10k words? no. did i have fun? yes. ao thats what matters. the tomdionisms (if you could even call it that... its more like debate simulator from the worst people you know) become more and more frequent from this point on so strap in

wc: 10.2k
girlpools  /  2025