Cut (Italicized) Hexed Private
The Fridays of the year are days of penance. It is Friday on which we commemorate His death for our sins. He died on the cross on Good Friday. He died on a Friday. Friday. Penance. Penance, penance, guilt, penance.
Oh, Friday.
I was surprised to get his letter, this past Friday. It was a vague letter, an enigmatic letter. Asked where I was. Wanted to know where I was. Of course I told him; I was worried for him and uncertain of what all this meant, but you can only imagine my surprise when Kit Warrington showed up on my doorstep, self-righteous and indignant. Most unlike him, I remember thinking.
Showed up on my doorstep, angry and pathetic-- no, 'pathetic' isn't the word. Or perhaps it is, in the sense of 'arousing or capable of arousing sympathetic sadness and compassion', not 'arousing or capable of arousing scornful pity'. Wait, no, not arousing, not 'arousing'--
No. Not pathetic. More... angry than pathetic. Went on and on, pacing, indignant, speaking without seeming to actually say anything. Went on about how he had to get out of the house, how stupid Anthony was, how stupid life was, etc. etc. Yes. More upset than anything. Self-righteous. Indignant.
Well. Still a bit pathetic, but... it was different.
...Anthony. Yes, as soon as the boy's name came up, I felt like I understood. Yes, Anthony, Kit's petit ami, his blue-eyed creature, his guilt.
The boy -- Anthony, the other boy, not the Kit boy -- left a comment on my journal the other day. Very concise, to the point. "Murderer," it said. I feel like I should have expected this. Expected something. Epigrammatic accusations always ought to be harbingers of ill things. Especially accurate epigrammatic accusations.
But Kit insisted, on and on, that it wasn't his fault. "Not my fault," he kept saying, "not my fault." He said there was nothing to feel guilty about. Insisted that "nothing to feel guilty about happened." We've done nothing to feel guilty about, he and I. He was indignant, so indignant, so self-righteous...! ...I wonder if he's right. And if he's right, why do I feel guilty?
Are blanketforts something to feel guilty about? Of course I was patient with him, always so understanding, and of course he's so adoring and so willing to devote himself to the adoration... That's what fuels the guilt, isn't it? It's the adoration that makes us feel guilty. It isn't the poetry, it isn't the blanketforts, it isn't the coffee and the pavlova and the crying in pubs and falling asleep on the floor of Parisian hotel rooms. It's the feeling. The foolish child adores me so, and, God, I'm such a fool -- I adore the child so! He thinks I'm poetic, that I'm mysterious. Perhaps he's attracted to the fact that my name was in papers when he was only a child-- ...foolish child, hasn't he realized what an awful Death Eater I am was? ...He thinks I make him feel worth something. I give him attention and he feels worth something.
...And what does Kit do for me? How does he inflict such feeling upon me? He acknowledges my existence when no one else does. He shows such relief, just to know that I'm alive. He makes me feel alive. ...But perhaps the same is almost true for Kit, really. Maybe that's why he keeps coming back.
...I'm destroying the kid. I haven't slept with him, having even fucking touched him, and I'm destroying him. He adores me too much. It's wrong, it's all so wrong, but I haven't even touched him...! ...But I can't seem to tell him to stop, to end this, to just forget about me and live. Perhaps I love this too much to let him go, though what exactly is it that I would be letting go? Oh, such power in being able to undo someone without undoing a single button...!
So indignant, so self-righteous. No reason to be guilty, he insists. We've done nothing to merit guilt, nothing to deserve this blue-eyed guilt. That's right, Kit, we've done nothing wrong.
Darling boy, darling Kitten, mon enfant terrible, how he pouted. He kept saying how we ought to run off to Paris together. Insisted that we run of to Paris. Dear child. Of course I tried to appease him, building castles in the clouds with him, just hoping to make him happy... but dear child. Dear, adoring, insistent child. Don't you see?
...He said that he wanted to run off to Paris with me... And for a while, I think I would have liked to. But it's not real, you see. It's one of those things you say in ludicrous hope without any belief of it ever being realized and made truth. And Paris -- and all of France, really -- has become a place in my mind that is not really Paris or France anymore, but a place in my mind where I was happy, where things... where things were simply better. Where things... God, things were perfect. I had Antonin still with me in Paris could see Kit in Paris without guilt, but what made Paris so different? ...Pouting, adoring, clinging, pathetic child. It's not real.
He stayed over-night, and left the next day. I feel the absence of his presence so acutely, so poignantly... I miss him already. I wish he'd have stayed, though, God, I'd never have asked him to. I'm destroying the boy as it is; I'm not going to offer him more pain...! ...I'm tired of being alone, so very alone all the time. Having Kit here, even for a short while, made me see how truly lonely I was, just by the juxtaposition. I was alone, then Kit was here, stayed the night, then left, and I am alone again. How I wish he'd stayed.
I'm not sure how I feel about the attack on Gringotts. It feels odd, to suddenly be on the outside, to be watching these things from the outside without any window to the inside. If that makes any sense. ...I watched the attack without being a part of it, and that is such an odd feeling. Watched people running through the streets and felt more connected to them than the people they were running away from. I'm not sure that I don't feel like a Death Eater anymore, because I'm not sure if I ever really felt like a Death Eater, but the reality is sobering. This Death Eater attack on Gringotts happened, and I was not a part of it. I'm not a Death Eater anymore. I have no window--
The street's a mess, suffering from aftermath, the residue of the panicked crowds. There were hexes thrown through my window. Broken glass everywhere, and even though I keep mending the windowpanes, they won't stay fixed, they keep breaking again and again -- it's the nature of that hex. My hands are covered in little nicks and cuts, and it feels like everything I touch has razor edges and it was Aldous, I know it was Aldous. Maybe even Antonin, too, and, God, this is all so infantile.
I'm not a Death Eater anymore I'm not a Death Eater anymore. My hands are cut up and bloody, and the sound of breaking glass is constantly in my ears, is that enough punishment for you?
I need a good spell for handling broken glass. Nothing I've tried is working. Most painful vexing.
'Apparently derelict,' indeed. I think I'll send a complaint letter to the Prophet editors. I'd like to think I keep my humble abode a notch or two above 'derelict'.
Oh, Friday.
I was surprised to get his letter, this past Friday. It was a vague letter, an enigmatic letter. Asked where I was. Wanted to know where I was. Of course I told him; I was worried for him and uncertain of what all this meant, but you can only imagine my surprise when Kit Warrington showed up on my doorstep, self-righteous and indignant. Most unlike him, I remember thinking.
Showed up on my doorstep, angry and pathetic-- no, 'pathetic' isn't the word. Or perhaps it is, in the sense of 'arousing or capable of arousing sympathetic sadness and compassion', not 'arousing or capable of arousing scornful pity'. Wait, no, not arousing, not 'arousing'--
No. Not pathetic. More... angry than pathetic. Went on and on, pacing, indignant, speaking without seeming to actually say anything. Went on about how he had to get out of the house, how stupid Anthony was, how stupid life was, etc. etc. Yes. More upset than anything. Self-righteous. Indignant.
Well. Still a bit pathetic, but... it was different.
...Anthony. Yes, as soon as the boy's name came up, I felt like I understood. Yes, Anthony, Kit's petit ami, his blue-eyed creature, his guilt.
The boy -- Anthony, the other boy, not the Kit boy -- left a comment on my journal the other day. Very concise, to the point. "Murderer," it said. I feel like I should have expected this. Expected something. Epigrammatic accusations always ought to be harbingers of ill things. Especially accurate epigrammatic accusations.
But Kit insisted, on and on, that it wasn't his fault. "Not my fault," he kept saying, "not my fault." He said there was nothing to feel guilty about. Insisted that "nothing to feel guilty about happened." We've done nothing to feel guilty about, he and I. He was indignant, so indignant, so self-righteous...! ...I wonder if he's right. And if he's right, why do I feel guilty?
Are blanketforts something to feel guilty about? Of course I was patient with him, always so understanding, and of course he's so adoring and so willing to devote himself to the adoration... That's what fuels the guilt, isn't it? It's the adoration that makes us feel guilty. It isn't the poetry, it isn't the blanketforts, it isn't the coffee and the pavlova and the crying in pubs and falling asleep on the floor of Parisian hotel rooms. It's the feeling. The foolish child adores me so, and, God, I'm such a fool -- I adore the child so! He thinks I'm poetic, that I'm mysterious. Perhaps he's attracted to the fact that my name was in papers when he was only a child-- ...foolish child, hasn't he realized what an awful Death Eater I am was? ...He thinks I make him feel worth something. I give him attention and he feels worth something.
...And what does Kit do for me? How does he inflict such feeling upon me? He acknowledges my existence when no one else does. He shows such relief, just to know that I'm alive. He makes me feel alive. ...But perhaps the same is almost true for Kit, really. Maybe that's why he keeps coming back.
...I'm destroying the kid. I haven't slept with him, having even fucking touched him, and I'm destroying him. He adores me too much. It's wrong, it's all so wrong, but I haven't even touched him...! ...But I can't seem to tell him to stop, to end this, to just forget about me and live. Perhaps I love this too much to let him go, though what exactly is it that I would be letting go? Oh, such power in being able to undo someone without undoing a single button...!
So indignant, so self-righteous. No reason to be guilty, he insists. We've done nothing to merit guilt, nothing to deserve this blue-eyed guilt. That's right, Kit, we've done nothing wrong.
Darling boy, darling Kitten, mon enfant terrible, how he pouted. He kept saying how we ought to run off to Paris together. Insisted that we run of to Paris. Dear child. Of course I tried to appease him, building castles in the clouds with him, just hoping to make him happy... but dear child. Dear, adoring, insistent child. Don't you see?
...He said that he wanted to run off to Paris with me... And for a while, I think I would have liked to. But it's not real, you see. It's one of those things you say in ludicrous hope without any belief of it ever being realized and made truth. And Paris -- and all of France, really -- has become a place in my mind that is not really Paris or France anymore, but a place in my mind where I was happy, where things... where things were simply better. Where things... God, things were perfect. I had Antonin still with me in Paris could see Kit in Paris without guilt, but what made Paris so different? ...Pouting, adoring, clinging, pathetic child. It's not real.
He stayed over-night, and left the next day. I feel the absence of his presence so acutely, so poignantly... I miss him already. I wish he'd have stayed, though, God, I'd never have asked him to. I'm destroying the boy as it is; I'm not going to offer him more pain...! ...I'm tired of being alone, so very alone all the time. Having Kit here, even for a short while, made me see how truly lonely I was, just by the juxtaposition. I was alone, then Kit was here, stayed the night, then left, and I am alone again. How I wish he'd stayed.
I'm not sure how I feel about the attack on Gringotts. It feels odd, to suddenly be on the outside, to be watching these things from the outside without any window to the inside. If that makes any sense. ...I watched the attack without being a part of it, and that is such an odd feeling. Watched people running through the streets and felt more connected to them than the people they were running away from. I'm not sure that I don't feel like a Death Eater anymore, because I'm not sure if I ever really felt like a Death Eater, but the reality is sobering. This Death Eater attack on Gringotts happened, and I was not a part of it. I'm not a Death Eater anymore. I have no window--
The street's a mess, suffering from aftermath, the residue of the panicked crowds. There were hexes thrown through my window. Broken glass everywhere, and even though I keep mending the windowpanes, they won't stay fixed, they keep breaking again and again -- it's the nature of that hex. My hands are covered in little nicks and cuts, and it feels like everything I touch has razor edges and it was Aldous, I know it was Aldous. Maybe even Antonin, too, and, God, this is all so infantile.
I'm not a Death Eater anymore I'm not a Death Eater anymore. My hands are cut up and bloody, and the sound of breaking glass is constantly in my ears, is that enough punishment for you?
I need a good spell for handling broken glass. Nothing I've tried is working. Most painful vexing.
'Apparently derelict,' indeed. I think I'll send a complaint letter to the Prophet editors. I'd like to think I keep my humble abode a notch or two above 'derelict'.