Self Isolation PV I. Ambrose Closed

@Illowy Magnard

Before that day, death was a fairytale ending, gruesome, macabre, and saved for the villain at the end of every fable. Death had never breathed on his forehead, whispered in his ears, or touched his fingers with its cold, heavy claws. His poetic father called it 'sleep' during his good moods, and drove him away during the stormy ones. His mother had hushed the subject. Death did not touch their house, or lurk around the floorboards, scraping for prey and rotted flesh. Not even his cat had experienced the final throes and glassy eyes of oblivion, and remained peacefully alive.

He had been to a funeral. The sky was grey and overcast, heads bowed as they laid his grandfather to rest. His mother was crying, clutching her brother's arm, and the rain pelted down on their heads. Dressed in all black, he had bowed his head too, but was confused. Grandfather Shane looked asleep, his creamy eyes laid shut, milk-colored cloth carefully laid on his body, rain beaded on his whitened strands of hair. But because his mother was distraught, and tears slipped down her face, he had cried as well, out of pain for the living left behind, rather than the dead.

Now it was as if something was permanently shaken, thrown off balance. He was breathing now, but what about tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow? What if he slept and never woke up? What if the creature came back in the middle of the night to leech the warmth from his soul and the spirit from his face until he was limp, meaningless and dead? Would anyone care? Would it matter?

He hadn't slept. If he nodded off, he lightly grazed the candle flame on his nightstand over his wrist, ignoring the sickening smell of smoke lingering on his pale skin. If he almost fell asleep during class, he pinched himself hard enough to stay awake beneath his desk, or pulled his own hair out at the roots. He wouldn't sleep, because if he slept, he would die or the nightmares would come. He couldn't let the nightmares come back..no..no..

The library was not his sanctuary, but he needed to be there to research spells for Defense against the Dark Arts. Tiredly, the boy lugged his bag on his back, uncaring of the crumpled papers stuffed in it. He carelessly grabbed a book from the shelves, carrying the heavy weight with him. The prickling feeling of eyes on him made him growl under his breath in irritation. He didn't want their stares or searching looks, their brainless gossip or cutting insults. He was sick of everything.

Catching a particularly curious Ravenclaw staring at him, he snapped nastily, "What're you looking at, idiot? Books not exciting enough for you now? Go and run along to your freak friends, maybe they'll give a damn."

The poor girl flinched, but he pushed past her, feeling her stumble. Good riddance.

His feet took him to the darkest and mustiest corner of the library. Dust drifted down from the ceiling and the books smelled of mildew and decay. He slipped through the broken down shelves and found a series of chairs in the back. In a particularly overstuffed and mangled chair sat a girl with pale eyes and short hair, pencil gripped in hand.

Illowy.

He'd know her face anywhere. The burns on her arms and wrists were healing, but fear swirled in the lightness of her eyes. Nightmares, nightmares, nightmares.

He himself was a nightmare. He hadn't brushed his tangled curly hair in days, and it fell like a mane over his manic bloodshot eyes. They twitched every once and a while, from side to side, scanning for threats. His thin arms disappeared into the blackness of his uniform, and recent burn-marks and red-welts scarred over his wrists, from all the times he forced himself awake. His nails were uncut and filthy, long enough to resemble claws, his laces flopped untied, and his skin was clammy and covered with barely healing scars.

Pinching himself again, he tried to concentrate on staring at her face. It was something solid and concrete to look at. But memories flooded back, of her hand gripping his arm...she stayed there, didn't she...she could've died....but she stayed...she cared...maybe she cared....

Remember why you're here. Homework.

"Can I sit here?" he asked in a low cracking voice, gripping his shaking arm.

@Illowy Magnard

Her sketchbook.

The second that her light eyes met his, the small journal fell closed beneath her burned fingers. A slip of pencilwork caught his eye for a second, the hint of a jagged edge, outlined in black. For a moment he peered at the ends of his own robes, carelessly tattered, and his mind danced around the image of the creature - its black ghoulish form floating in his head - before he shut it down. It was gone, dead, finished. No need to remember.

Quietly, he looked at the seat she offered, noticing the way that she tilted it slightly. The girl was never the kind to show outright sympathy, and he understood her small gesture as an offering of peace. A little bit of gratefulness stained his otherwise flat expression, and he sat down in the chair. Like most abandoned chairs, it was ragged and the stuffing was falling out, but it felt comfortable enough.

He pulled his bag onto his lap and pulled out a crumpled scroll, quill and inkwell. The words were hard to look at. As it droned on and on regarding hags, he could vividly imagine their claw-like fingers, and glee at dismembering other creatures. His mind flashed to the giants and their sacrifice of students, and he felt ill all over again, recalling their hisses of pleasure.

So Isaac stopped reading. He couldn't stand it right now.

The boy let his bag fall to the floor, scroll and ink along with it. The black substance pooled on the floor, but he barely noticed. Pulling his knees up to his chin, and burying his face in his arms, he sighed.

"I never thought it'd be like this y'know." he whispered suddenly, choking up. "I always thought that wizards were magical, and could do everything in the world. Hogwarts was s'posed to be different than school, fun, good..."

Happy. Nothing like that old miserable prison.

Illowy didn't have to answer. He didn't want to hurt her, or bring back memories she clearly couldn't keep out of her head. But he needed to speak, to say something to stop his heart from splitting in two. And she was one of the only ones who would understand, who could understand, the weight that hovered on his mind - day-in, day-out.

"'m sorry." he mumbled, giving her a remorseful look with his blue-grey eyes.

Sorry for everything.

@Illowy Magnard

Her small snippet of a smile, however minuscule, brought the hint of a smile to his face. It was barely more than a quirk at the side of his mouth, but stayed there nonetheless. It was the brightest expression he had made in days, like a ray of sunlight after a heavy storm. Although the guilt wasn't completely gone, hearing her reassurance soothed it away, so it felt less of a burdening weight than before. For a short while, the memories fled, and he could no longer hear distant yells and screams in his mind.

It felt different, to know that someone was there for you. He had grown up, expecting fury, turned backs, and sharp words. Even his old friend Katie, shy and kind as she was, wasn't willing enough to do more than covertly help him. The closest moment when he felt safety was part of the same experience that neither of them wanted to remember. It was ridiculous, but there was something special about taking Griffith's hand in that forest, a sense of protection from the world that had never before appeared in his life. And now, strangely enough, the same warm feelings resurfaced, just at her simple words. It was weird, but pleasant.

"I promised that if we went into that forest together, then we would come out together. And we're still in it together."

"I'm glad we're together," he murmured softly and sincerely, twirling the torn ends of his sleeves in his fingers. The fragile smile on his face grew a little more as he looked at her, before his tired eyes opened wide and he seemed to come to a realization. "I mean, not in that way, y'know, like the other way...ugh."

Way to make it sound awkward, you git. She wasn't even using it like that. Stupid, stupid, stupid..

Exhaling and burying his face in his burned arms again, he badly wanted to let it slide. His face colored rose, and he felt even more like a colossal dunce. His knowledge of life-or-death friendships was painfully slim, let alone what to even say replying to a declaration like hers. Being exhausted wasn't helping matters. Hopefully, Illowy wouldn't poke him over it. Although they were both deeply shaken, it wasn't as if he'd forgotten her sharp wit and even sharper tongue. Being a sappy idiot made him a prime target for a light jab or two.

It was see-through enough that he was trying to change the subject, but sometimes, there was no other choice. He forced his mind to think of other things, that were preferably not hags, the black nightmare creature, or messing up awkwardly. Naturally, he started to think about the glowing blue light that had saved them. Somehow, a large butterfly had been summoned, strong and bright enough to fight off the darkness.

It was so spectacular, that even now, he could remember it vividly.

Normally, he'd be afraid of asking such a question, and displaying his pitiful ignorance of wizardry. But this was an exception. It wasn't as if there was any use in hiding it.

"Hey," he said quietly after silence had lingered for a few moments. "Do you know how the professor called a magic butterfly to help us?"

@Illowy Magnard

long post warning

"What? Is there something you're wanting to tell me?"

"N-nothing," he hastily insisted, even more chagrined at the brief stutter in his voice. He felt exasperated that despite the fact he was expecting her laughter, he still wasn't prepared for it. Perhaps he'd never get used to the fluttering embarrassment that she could cause with a single sentence. The best he could do was wait until he was no longer red as a tomato, and his feelings felt less tangled inside.

Quieting down, he listened to her words with interest and rapture, leaning against the ragged seat all the while.

There was something very fond in the way that Illowy described her memory of her mother's patronus. He tried to imagine how it would feel to have a spirit guardian, or how she must have felt all those years ago, a light dove wheeling overhead whenever she felt scared or sad. How different it would've been to have a real wizard parent like hers, who understood magic and emotion. Perhaps a part of the warmth and comfort of that terrifying night was seeing the charm itself, brimming full of happiness and old memories to drive away the dark. It was odd to think that a butterfly represented the stern professor's soul, but perhaps it only confirmed that Morfran was a softy at heart.

"Love and light," he whispered beneath his breath thoughtfully, gears turning in his mind.

He tried to search for strong memories of his own that would be good enough to summon a Patronus, although he understood that it was advanced magic for sixth years. There was the time that he had went out hiking with his mother and Beth while his father was away on a business trip. Isaac remembered clearly how the two of them frolicked in the stream, running around in the woods, climbing trees and making trouble. As the sun set on that day, he recalled a strong memory of sitting together with her by a lake shimmering with red and gold, skipping smooth stones and laughing over a joke he had long since forgotten. It was hard to search for memories. The second he seemed to draw close, they would slip away from his grasp, leaving him full of a feeling he could not name, bittersweet and fleeting.

If he had no strong and happy memories right now, he knew that there was always the chance to make new ones. Someday, they'd be important if a dementor ever returned again. Now that he knew what it was and its weakness, there was something less terrifying about the hooded nightmare creature. With experience and practice, it could be fought.

Or with fuzzy feelings, and love..hmm.

He wasn't too eager on the love part to be truthful, but it was preferable to the horrible experience from before. Hopefully it wasn't the touchy feely kind. He was horrible at that, and didn't even want to try it. Not with anyone!

Isaac realized that there was a question left unanswered. Why had the wizards had allowed dementors to lurk in a forest so close to a school...?

Pondering it made bile rise in his throat. Disrespect for the Headmaster rankled inside of him, causing his face to flush for an entirely different reason. Like almost any other figure of authority he had known, Lear only appeared when it suited him, making careless choices and leaving professors and students to clean up his mess. Where on earth had the round headmaster been while the four of them were stranded in the forest, with no one else but Griffith to protect them? Or when Rosie Turner had been snatched away by giants?

"What a twat," he found himself muttering at the thought, picking the bandages on his hands. "Does the headmaster even try to help anyone? I saw that Kaegen bloke at a big picnic a while ago, same half-vampire boy who set a bomb in the bathrooms, just sitting around and eating an apple. Blimey, there was even a masked killer last year, named Ben Eckenrode. This year doesn't seem any different. He just sits around, not caring if we die."

Isaac twisted a curl around his finger. A hard glint leaped into his eye, reminiscent of the determination that often set on his face.

"Where do dementors come from?" he questioned, hesitating as he said the word. It seemed off-note from the rest of his thought, but it was relevant. If they came from sinister souls, then he had a sad idea on why Hogwarts still had them lingering around.

@Illowy Magnard

warning: 1000 word post..he's overthinking things

A creature that wasn't alive? It was the most peculiar concept to think about. But it made sense. Something that emanated death and decay like a second scent couldn't belong to anything truly living.

As Illowy continued however, he felt daunted by all of the words she was using. Azkaban, a prison for wizards, and a war. It was as if she were speaking a language unknown to him.

It was impossible by now to not have heard of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. He had spent one rainy night reading an old wizard manuscript about daring and adventure that he had nicked right from under the Librarian's nose. For a while at least, he was lost in the story, twisting and turning from a Chamber of Secrets to a stone that could grant eternal life. Harry was courageous, brave, doubting but daring, and exactly the kind of boy he wished existed in real life.

Flipping to the inside flap, he was shocked to see that it was a biography of a wizard's life and doings - a story of the hero, Harry Potter. But he hadn't gotten far in reading before he had put it down and went to sleep. Now, he wished fiercely that he had continued the true tale.

Maybe then he'd know more about this mysterious and terrible prison, which she spoke of as if it were a forbidden curse. Maybe then he'd know about the Great War, and what it meant for the wizarding world.

But now, Isaac still felt as if he were stumbling about in the dark, blind. A part of him was reluctant to ask Illowy any more questions. She didn't like the subject; he could tell from the distaste slowly changing her smile into a frown. He promised himself that he'd read up about it later.

"Did you tell your parents about what happened?"

His heart began to pound again, and he briefly picked at a patch of burned skin on his arm, almost peeling it away. He could hardly feel it.

"My parents, my parents, right." he repeated like a broken record, eyes glazing over briefly. "I didn't send them anything."

Thinking of them brought a wall of confusing emotions crashing down over him, and a terrifying blankness came over his normally expressive face. Isaac's vision swam blurrily, like he was looking through a telescope the wrong way.

To explain his parents would be to explain away years of being torn from side to side, split on either end of a battlefield. It would be to explain some of his nightmares, willingly. She had stood beside him, but she had not seen into his mind. Giving someone that insight, he reflexively thought of, as fatal.

He had made that mistake once. A simple little tiny mistake. A slip of a word or two: 'parents,' 'yelling.' They used it to justify his detentions. A problem child. That red-faced teacher who screeched at him in his year six class, pumping her fists as he shouted back in her face. A slap that later rung on his ear. Kicks on the playground. Troubled parents, troubled son. The school promised they'd fix his behavior.

Fixing meant scrubbing clean every last bit of free will, harsh as nails against a chalkboard. He didn't want that to happen again. If he told her, would it be the greatest mistake of his life?

It was then Isaac realized that he wasn't answering, quiet as an automaton shut down. He dug his jagged fingernails into his arm and pinched himself hard, right next another army of red welts. A searing ache flared up for a few moments, before he returned to reality, sharply breathing in mold and dust. What was it she said again? His parents.

He knew that it'd seem weird, but he started to smile. Smiling helped with these things. He'd pretend it away instead of crying like a ridiculous fool.

"They're muggles, so they wouldn't understand anyway. Not very happy I came to Hogwarts in the first place," he laughed uncomfortably, cutting it off before it grew strangled. Even the electric light flickering in his grey eyes was strange. "I don't think they'd like hearing about a fire anyway. Probably would just send me back home and trap me in my room. You know how they are, always worrying. Last time I sent them an owl, I told them that everything was going okay, and asked them to say hi to my sister. You wouldn't know her. Her name's Beth, and she's studying to be a star. She wants her own movie. She's a muggle too, but a nice one. I think she'd like you. She loves art a lot, and bought tons of paintings to hang in her house.

There's another girl named Katie. She's the best artist in the neighborhood, the best at making sketches, and a really good friend. Yours might be better than hers," he admitted, lost on a pleasant tangent, "but she's stellar at drawing cats. Sometimes I wonder what she's doing now. Hard to catch up, now that wizard-stuff takes up a bunch of time."

Rambling a flood of irrelevant details calmed him down. It was as if he were telling the story of a fictional boy who lived with fictional parents, and nice friends and family. Some of it was real, some of it was false. She'd never figure out the truth unless it came willingly from his mouth.

How much can you trust someone before they stab you in the back? Is Illowy even like that?

What if there was a time where they weren't so friendly...? She could use his past in a fight, cutting him with the words he had seen her use like knives, gashing into other students. Then he'd be bleeding inside, incapable of a single word. Promises and pinky-swears were easy to break. It'd take a good amount of trust to even let her in.

"I started to tell m'mum in my last letter home, but I just made up stuff about the ball instead. I just don't want her to know..."

"I get it," he sighed. He was guessing that Illowy's mother would probably be concerned about her, so it seemed reasonable that she'd hold back from telling about it. She sounded like a nice woman. "You should tell her someday though."

He figured that any normal parent would be upset at that large of a secret after a while. Wizarding parents were no different.