(no subject)
Title: Secret Chord, part 2/7: "String Tension"
Characters: Terry/Anthony (vaguely), Mrs. Deveral (OC)
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, language. Wonky, present-tense narration.
Prompts: "the effect of impact on stationary objects"
Word Count: ~3,200
Summary: “And, if you still hate me in the morning, we’ll talk.”
Disclaimer: All are JKR's. These incarnations of Terry and Anthony are being used by me and Chelsea/unrulygarden for the Occlumency RPG; Terry is her character.
A/N: written for 7spells
Previous Chapters: 1
All Terry wants is for this to go over without a hitch, to be right yet again and to see this utterly brilliant solution of his work. A month, or six weeks, or even the entire summer is to be spent in a coastal town (village, more appropriately) just outside St. Ives, “recovering” from a nervous collapse that Anthony knows damn well he didn’t have. Sure, he mostly spent his week at home lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and refusing to talk to anyone, but it doesn’t mean that anything’s wrong. It means that his family is boring.
When they finally saw each other for the first time in a week, Terry came with a box of Chocolate Frog cards Anthony had forgotten in the dorm, a hand-crafted ‘get well’ card from everyone in their year (and Luna, who likely did the designing), and childhood memories of summers at Mrs. Deveral’s cottage. It was always a tad disorganized, he says, and it got a little more cluttered after Mr. Deveral died (peacefully in his sleep, the lucky bugger), but it was always enjoyable. Perfect place for Anthony to recover, if he can look past how it’s a little messy.
In actuality, Mrs. Deveral’s cottage on a hill (Keanekeel, according to the Floo Network) is more than a little messy. Knick-knacks and sundry objects of interest overflow from every corner; every shelf is littered with figurines, and small, embroidered pillows, and waving, smiling photographs of her and her late husband on holiday in wherever-the-hell. The heart is stone hewn, crafted in a perfect arch with oddly shaped stones lodged in around it to create the illusion that the fireplace was hand-assembled by the modest, hard-working Muggles who’d originally owned the cottage. Her furniture is mismatched and clearly belonged to her mother, or even her grandmother - it’s plausible; the junk is that old (or looks like it at least). The filthy pink sofa commands the room’s attention, with a light blue love seat and a once-upon-a-time green armchair as its support system. It’s a bloody wonder that there isn’t mold coming off the walls and eating them.
Everything, as far as Anthony can see, is coated lightly in forgetful dust, which the soot from the fireplace and Floo powder certainly didn’t help. And Terry expects him to ‘get well’ here. Even if there were something to fix (which there isn’t), it’d be impossible to do anything of the sort in a squalid little death trap like this. All it needs is a yapping dog or a bunch of cats and it’ll be a perfect representation of Hell.
And she’s just like her home. She’s short, just barely over five feet high, utterly dwarfed by the two eighteen-year-old invaders, both of whom stand at exactly five foot-eleven. She’s brightly colored, like her little pillows, with absurd floral print Muggle clothes, gleaming gold glasses, and far too much make-up on her puckered, perpetually cheerful face. He’d tell her that there’s nothing to be cheerful about, but he can tell it wouldn’t do anyone any good. On the one hand, she seems like the type of person who’d take that as an open invitation to try and cheer him up - and he doesn’t want to be cheered up or to keep her from leaving as soon as possible. On the other, it’s late, and he wouldn’t get that much enjoyment out of irritating an old woman even if it weren’t. On a hypothetical third, Terry would just use it as evidence of the existence of a nonexistent problem.
This place likely wouldn’t be so bad if Anthony didn’t have to sit on the sickening sofa - it makes him feel nauseous just sitting on it - but Terry seems to think it’s best that he “stays out of the way” while Mrs. Deveral wraps up her last minute preparations. (And of course he’s right, at least as far as he’s concerned, which is apparently all the opinion that bloody well matters these days.) This is bloody unfair. It’s petulant and sophomoric to think so, but Anthony deserves that much at least, the right to be petulant and sophomoric. He has, after all, been dragged here very much against his will when he’s at the point where he should be doing what he wants instead.
And the two of them! Terry and that wretched old woman! They’re making so much noise bustling around her “house” - why can’t they just be quiet, for once?
“Waz beginnin’ to think ye’ boys migh’ not be comin’,” she comments brightly, in her fog thick accent, “wha’ with ye’ comin’ in so late an’ all…”
“Oh no, no, no,” Terry pleasantly corrects her. “I would’ve owled you if we had to cancel…”
“Well ah trrrist ye’ would’ve, Terrrrry; yer a responsible boy. Can’ quoite say ‘bout yer frrrrien’ there-”
“Oh, he’s responsible, he’s just… going through a rough patch right now.”
“Ah thaw’ ‘e looked a bit allish, ah did.”
“He doesn’t get out much?” Terry can understand all this ridiculous jargon? Vaguely, Anthony thinks he remembers back to their first year at Hogwarts, Terry saying something or other in Cornish slang, getting everyone all confused by it. That was the end of that behavior.
“’e’s ‘ipped, idn’t ‘e?” she inquires sharply, like a gossip (because she is one).
“Er… hipped?” Finally, a word Terry doesn’t know.
“’ipped, boyo, ‘ipped! Hipped! You know… depressed.”
“Oh! Oh, well… perhaps temporarily - well, no, at least temporarily. I seriously doubt it’s anything lasting…”
Do they really have nothing else to talk about? Why not the weather? It’s nice. Ridiculously nice. Why not politics, or Quidditch, or whatever was on the front of the Prophet this morning? Why not anything but Anthony? That’s all mum, dad, and gran wanted to talk about too! And they know he can hear them, right? It’d be a little better if they were ignorant, but Terry’s not an idiot, nor is his friend (at least by appearances, she isn’t). They’ve got no bloody excuses to carry on like this.
Finally, they stampede from out of her tiny little kitchen, her in winter jacket, bearing suitcases; and he, carrying something for her. She’s almost gone - thank god, she’s almost gone.
“Now, you know how ter clean ev’rythin’-” Things around here ever get cleaned? “An’ you know yer way ‘round - there’s a couple o’ old bone-shakers (that’s bicycles, you remember) - anyway, they’re out in the garage if you boys wanna go out to St. Ives.”
She pauses in front of the fireplace and hugs Terry like he’s her own son.
“Take care, boyo. An’ take care o’ yer friend; ‘e looks more’n a bit peaky-”
“I’m right here,” Anthony finally grumbles.
“An’ you shud go outside! Not now, obviously, but soon ‘nuff… skalliock.”
“What was that?!”
“Term of endearment!” Terry explains far too quickly to be comforting. “Anyway… Mrs. Deveral, thank you again for this, I can’t tell you-”
“Anytime, boyo! …An’,” she repeats in what she must mistakenly think is a hushed voice, “take good care o’ that boy o’ yers. He dun’ look well a tall.”
“Still right here,” Anthony groans.
“We can ‘ear that!” she chimes back in a too-sweet voice.
Giving Terry one last smile, she turns to the fireplace, lights it once more. Thank god, she’s finally leaving! She casually steps in and drops the Floo powder with the clear enunciation, “Todd Hill!” Must be the hovel in Australia she’s bustling off to for the summer - and she must be the only doddering old person alive to actually enjoy cold weather! Every Christmas hols with gran, it’s always been, “Boy, turn the heat back up; I’m freezing. …Boy, have your mother heat my blanket; they say on the news it’ll be cold tonight and they haven’t lied to me yet. …Boy, you’re magic; cast one of those spells for heat or whatever they’re called; you don’t want your bubbe to fall ill, do you? …Boy, don’t give me that lip; just cast the spell already and you can go back to your magic math rubbish.” Of course, she’s never understood magic, let alone something like Arithmancy, and there’s a slew of wholly logical reasons why: she’s old, she’s a Muggle, she still thinks Khrushchev’s in charge of the Muggle portion of the Soviet Union - she still thinks there’s a Soviet Union and a Cold War, for that matter - but she could at least not talk about it.
Once the old Deveral bat’s gone, Terry whips around and glares at Anthony - the latter knows this glare well; it’s the same one he gets for pulling all-nighters “with no real reason,” for spending an hour “unnecessarily re-alphabetizing the Arithmancy section of the library,” for having “yet another cup of coffee” when everyone else thinks he should’ve quit a while ago. Only now, there’s something else there, something new, something that looks an awful lot like rage. …So now he’s going to be angry. Well, fuck-a-doodle-doo. Just because he can make his eyes flash, and tint his cheeks red with frustration, and screw his lips up just so doesn’t mean that he has anything worth saying right now. In fact, he has very little worth saying right now. He’s gone and wrecked the credibility of his opinions by acting like he knows more about this “nervous breakdown” than the person who’s purported to be “going through it.” Prat.
“Just what the hell was that all about?” Terry nags. He’s clearly trying to keep his cool, and doing a horrible job of hiding that fact. Usually it’s Anthony who lacks the tact around here.
“She was acting like I’m not here,” Anthony explains, perfectly composed, “talking about me and saying all manner of insulting rubbish.”
“She was saying that you look unwell, which, if you haven’t noticed is rather on the true side of things.”
“Well, I might look unwell, but I feel perfectly fine.”
Terry pauses and sighs draconically. Just like him, really. Once the situation even vaguely resembles a mess, everything must get magnified hundredfold - he even has to blow his reactions out of proportion. At least Anthony knows his place and limitations in the universe. He knows full well, for example, that he’s just a bespectacled little geek with no real abilities to speak of - quite a bit of intelligence, he thinks, but not that many actual skills. Aside from, apparently, being a wretched annoyance to the “well-meaning” people who see fit to, basically, lock him up (in the guise of a holiday to a nice little beach town that is, in fact, comprised of a few cottages, some actual homes, this hovel, a few community buildings and/or businesses, and too much open, green land - which is all a horrific insult to his intelligence) for no good reason.
“You know, you’re being a right foul little brat right now.”
“I think I’m entitled to that privilege! Seeing as how I’m being cooped up in a hovel, in the middle of bloody nowhere, to quote-unquote ‘recover’ from a so-called ‘nervous collapse’-”
“Oh, god…”
“Which, as no one seems to believe, I didn’t have!”
“Because screaming and dissolving into a sniveling heap after a NEWT you’re more than easily going to get an Outstanding on is perfectly normal!”
“Maybe not perfectly, but it doesn’t mean-”
“Don’t you get it? Honestly, how can you be so bloody brilliant and such a fucking idiot at the same time?”
“No one ever said I was brilliant.”
“That’s neither true nor a good argument, and you know better on both counts.”
“Do not.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous…”
“And I think I’m rather entitled to that too!”
“Oh, what’re you on about now?”
“I want to go home! This place is a dump, I’m here against my will, there is nothing bloody wrong with me, and all I fucking want is to go home and start looking for a job!”
“You know I can’t let you do that.”
“You can’t stop me! I’m going home!”
“Anthony… it’s late. Please, just… think this over for the night?”
“No! I’m going home!”
To emphasize his point, Anthony scrambles off the sofa, no doubt releasing scoriac spores into their oxygen supply (good thing for the potted plants, or else the fire - exchanging eyes and still burning in the fireplace - would use up all the communal air). Soon enough, the couch fungus will infest the whole house - nesting in the walls; taking hold of the peeling yellow paper and the pink, flaking paint; and growing, growing, growing; spreading; building citadels and the walls of New Fungustopia. And, finally, the walls will fall. And Anthony will get the smug self-satisfaction of saying that he was right.
But that’s not important now. What’s important is Terry and how he moves along with every last motion, how his fourth year Divination skills somehow predict just what Anthony will do. It doesn’t matter that his arms won’t stop shaking - that’s all Terry’s fault anyway; Anthony’s only shaking because Terry’s being such a little git, prat, bugger, arse and a half, nuisance, and otherwise annoying sort. It’s intolerable. There’s no reason for either of them to be here! And, yet, they are! Why is that? - Anthony doesn’t have to wonder - the reason’s staring him right in the face, moving a half-step behind him, reaching out for his shoulders - Anthony smacks one of the hands away. With his other hand, he whips out his wand and points it at Terry’s chin.
Oh, that gets his attention! Nothing gets awareness better than a wand-tip aimed right at your chin. Anthony scoffs and stares Terry down - he looks confused, even though he shouldn’t be; he’s no right to be confused here, seeing as he’s the one doing all the ridiculous, unnecessary ill. He knows what he’s doing, and he acts like he knows what Anthony’s doing enough - how can he look confused and still like himself.
Naturally, he tries to cover it by looking bored. Prat.
“Move,” Anthony snarls.
“You know I’m not going to do that… and put that-”
“Move, Terry.”
“No, Anthony.” Oh, so now it’s time to mock his tone. Anthony huffs and prods Terry’s chin with the wand. “Put that away.”
“No.”
“Well, you’re not using it, so why have it-”
“Well, I’m going to!”
“I’m sure you are…” He rolls his eyes.
“I am! Move or I’ll fucking jinx you!”
“I repeat myself…” And again - smarmy little bugger. And self-important… he’s that too.
“I’m serious! We both know there’s nothing wrong with me, so let me go home!”
Terry finally hesitates, taking a pause that, in some twisted fantasy, could be called “delightful.” He sighs - exasperated, and again completely without rights to the emotion; Anthony’s the one who deserves some exasperation here! - and looks down to his well-worn trainers. Vaguely, it occurs to Anthony that he should be less angry and more depressed that he’s actually threatening a friend, but it’s all Terry’s fault that he has to resort to this in the first place! The wand wouldn’t be out and his eyes wouldn’t have become steel if that goddamn, irritating, self-important nuisance of a ‘friend’ hadn’t decided without full knowledge of the situation that Anthony’s crazy. Life’s not fair, but friends, at least, should be - and! And! And… it looks like Terry’s finally going to come around. At long last, he steps aside and slumps against the fireplace somewhere out of Anthony’s way.
Enthusiastically, Anthony bounds towards the urn of Floo Powder (or maybe Mrs. Deveral’s late husband, which is just about the same thing to Anthony at this point). Full of the childish, canine joy of digging for secrets, worms, the other side of the earth, and the burial of the dead, he burrows his fingers into what he finds. He can feel the powder root itself in the curves of his nails. Resolute, he smirks and recaps the urn, the promised prize grasped tightly in his fist.
“But…” Terry sighs like an elegy.
“But what?” Anthony snaps.
“Well… if you’d pause to listen to yourself… just for ten seconds - five, even! - if you’d listen… well, you’d know that you’re not fine…”
“I’m not sick, I’m not broken, and I definitely don’t need to be here-”
“Not necessarily broken, Anthony, but… buffeted, at least.”
“Please.”
“I’ve known you for what now? Seven, nearly eight, years…?”
“Point being?”
“Never once in that time have you threatened to jinx anyone - even Malfoy and Smith! You’re not violent, you’re not harsh, every other word out of your mouth isn’t ‘bloody’ or ‘fuck’ or anything like that…”
“Maybe I’m investigating a change,” he sneers. Just a few months ago, Terry was asking him why he doesn’t wear contact lenses, or something other than jeans and trainers, or an earring, even just a fake one. The prat’s pursed lips indicate that he recognizes this cruel turn of fate.
“Well… I don’t like it.”
Leaning his head on the mantle, Terry looks up at Anthony with a completely blank, expressionless face, as though he’s giving up on feelings as well as this lost cause. As well he should - he’s got no business making Anthony get guilty over feelings he’s more than allowed to possess. No one can tell him how to think, how to feel, how to heal imaginary wounds, and then expect him to just be mindlessly amenable to these metaphysical revisions - even a friend he’s had as long as Terry. Besides, he knows mum and dad agreed to let Terry take him on this mad little excursion, but they’ll still be worried about him if he isn’t home, which is where he should be because he hates to make his parents worry. Even though, pipes the annoying internal voice he can never seem to silence, he also knows so well that he worries them more than enough with all-nighters, compulsive coffee-drinking, and how the combination of those two makes him act.
Terry sighs and, synchronized with it, Anthony feels his limbs grow heavy. …Why do they have to do this now? And why does he feel so light-headed? This is a serious moment here - he needs to get out of this dumpy little hovel of a cottage and, of course, his body has to betray him into staying. Rocking on his feet, he falls backward. With Quidditch-trained reflexes, Terry catches him, props him up, wraps an arm around his own shoulder, which he really doesn’t have to do. The Floo Powder goes everywhere.
“Come on, then,” Terry whispers, lips just above his ear. “Bed.”
“Uh huh…” Anthony murmurs. He can’t focus enough to protest, though he still vaguely wants to.
Stairs. More stairs. …It’s a pathetically tiny place, how are there so many bloody stairs? Finally, they get through the bedroom door, and Terry says:
“And, if you still hate me in the morning, we’ll talk.”
Collapsing into bed, Anthony pulls Terry down with him. They lock eyes again.
“I don’t hate you,” Anthony huffs, as though this settles the matter.
Terry’s face says… what? Is it victory? Is it recognition? It’s comforting, at least - and he takes Anthony’s shoes off for him. Looking up from the floor, he sighs, “Go to sleep, Anthony.”
Characters: Terry/Anthony (vaguely), Mrs. Deveral (OC)
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, language. Wonky, present-tense narration.
Prompts: "the effect of impact on stationary objects"
Word Count: ~3,200
Summary: “And, if you still hate me in the morning, we’ll talk.”
Disclaimer: All are JKR's. These incarnations of Terry and Anthony are being used by me and Chelsea/unrulygarden for the Occlumency RPG; Terry is her character.
A/N: written for 7spells
Previous Chapters: 1
All Terry wants is for this to go over without a hitch, to be right yet again and to see this utterly brilliant solution of his work. A month, or six weeks, or even the entire summer is to be spent in a coastal town (village, more appropriately) just outside St. Ives, “recovering” from a nervous collapse that Anthony knows damn well he didn’t have. Sure, he mostly spent his week at home lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and refusing to talk to anyone, but it doesn’t mean that anything’s wrong. It means that his family is boring.
When they finally saw each other for the first time in a week, Terry came with a box of Chocolate Frog cards Anthony had forgotten in the dorm, a hand-crafted ‘get well’ card from everyone in their year (and Luna, who likely did the designing), and childhood memories of summers at Mrs. Deveral’s cottage. It was always a tad disorganized, he says, and it got a little more cluttered after Mr. Deveral died (peacefully in his sleep, the lucky bugger), but it was always enjoyable. Perfect place for Anthony to recover, if he can look past how it’s a little messy.
In actuality, Mrs. Deveral’s cottage on a hill (Keanekeel, according to the Floo Network) is more than a little messy. Knick-knacks and sundry objects of interest overflow from every corner; every shelf is littered with figurines, and small, embroidered pillows, and waving, smiling photographs of her and her late husband on holiday in wherever-the-hell. The heart is stone hewn, crafted in a perfect arch with oddly shaped stones lodged in around it to create the illusion that the fireplace was hand-assembled by the modest, hard-working Muggles who’d originally owned the cottage. Her furniture is mismatched and clearly belonged to her mother, or even her grandmother - it’s plausible; the junk is that old (or looks like it at least). The filthy pink sofa commands the room’s attention, with a light blue love seat and a once-upon-a-time green armchair as its support system. It’s a bloody wonder that there isn’t mold coming off the walls and eating them.
Everything, as far as Anthony can see, is coated lightly in forgetful dust, which the soot from the fireplace and Floo powder certainly didn’t help. And Terry expects him to ‘get well’ here. Even if there were something to fix (which there isn’t), it’d be impossible to do anything of the sort in a squalid little death trap like this. All it needs is a yapping dog or a bunch of cats and it’ll be a perfect representation of Hell.
And she’s just like her home. She’s short, just barely over five feet high, utterly dwarfed by the two eighteen-year-old invaders, both of whom stand at exactly five foot-eleven. She’s brightly colored, like her little pillows, with absurd floral print Muggle clothes, gleaming gold glasses, and far too much make-up on her puckered, perpetually cheerful face. He’d tell her that there’s nothing to be cheerful about, but he can tell it wouldn’t do anyone any good. On the one hand, she seems like the type of person who’d take that as an open invitation to try and cheer him up - and he doesn’t want to be cheered up or to keep her from leaving as soon as possible. On the other, it’s late, and he wouldn’t get that much enjoyment out of irritating an old woman even if it weren’t. On a hypothetical third, Terry would just use it as evidence of the existence of a nonexistent problem.
This place likely wouldn’t be so bad if Anthony didn’t have to sit on the sickening sofa - it makes him feel nauseous just sitting on it - but Terry seems to think it’s best that he “stays out of the way” while Mrs. Deveral wraps up her last minute preparations. (And of course he’s right, at least as far as he’s concerned, which is apparently all the opinion that bloody well matters these days.) This is bloody unfair. It’s petulant and sophomoric to think so, but Anthony deserves that much at least, the right to be petulant and sophomoric. He has, after all, been dragged here very much against his will when he’s at the point where he should be doing what he wants instead.
And the two of them! Terry and that wretched old woman! They’re making so much noise bustling around her “house” - why can’t they just be quiet, for once?
“Waz beginnin’ to think ye’ boys migh’ not be comin’,” she comments brightly, in her fog thick accent, “wha’ with ye’ comin’ in so late an’ all…”
“Oh no, no, no,” Terry pleasantly corrects her. “I would’ve owled you if we had to cancel…”
“Well ah trrrist ye’ would’ve, Terrrrry; yer a responsible boy. Can’ quoite say ‘bout yer frrrrien’ there-”
“Oh, he’s responsible, he’s just… going through a rough patch right now.”
“Ah thaw’ ‘e looked a bit allish, ah did.”
“He doesn’t get out much?” Terry can understand all this ridiculous jargon? Vaguely, Anthony thinks he remembers back to their first year at Hogwarts, Terry saying something or other in Cornish slang, getting everyone all confused by it. That was the end of that behavior.
“’e’s ‘ipped, idn’t ‘e?” she inquires sharply, like a gossip (because she is one).
“Er… hipped?” Finally, a word Terry doesn’t know.
“’ipped, boyo, ‘ipped! Hipped! You know… depressed.”
“Oh! Oh, well… perhaps temporarily - well, no, at least temporarily. I seriously doubt it’s anything lasting…”
Do they really have nothing else to talk about? Why not the weather? It’s nice. Ridiculously nice. Why not politics, or Quidditch, or whatever was on the front of the Prophet this morning? Why not anything but Anthony? That’s all mum, dad, and gran wanted to talk about too! And they know he can hear them, right? It’d be a little better if they were ignorant, but Terry’s not an idiot, nor is his friend (at least by appearances, she isn’t). They’ve got no bloody excuses to carry on like this.
Finally, they stampede from out of her tiny little kitchen, her in winter jacket, bearing suitcases; and he, carrying something for her. She’s almost gone - thank god, she’s almost gone.
“Now, you know how ter clean ev’rythin’-” Things around here ever get cleaned? “An’ you know yer way ‘round - there’s a couple o’ old bone-shakers (that’s bicycles, you remember) - anyway, they’re out in the garage if you boys wanna go out to St. Ives.”
She pauses in front of the fireplace and hugs Terry like he’s her own son.
“Take care, boyo. An’ take care o’ yer friend; ‘e looks more’n a bit peaky-”
“I’m right here,” Anthony finally grumbles.
“An’ you shud go outside! Not now, obviously, but soon ‘nuff… skalliock.”
“What was that?!”
“Term of endearment!” Terry explains far too quickly to be comforting. “Anyway… Mrs. Deveral, thank you again for this, I can’t tell you-”
“Anytime, boyo! …An’,” she repeats in what she must mistakenly think is a hushed voice, “take good care o’ that boy o’ yers. He dun’ look well a tall.”
“Still right here,” Anthony groans.
“We can ‘ear that!” she chimes back in a too-sweet voice.
Giving Terry one last smile, she turns to the fireplace, lights it once more. Thank god, she’s finally leaving! She casually steps in and drops the Floo powder with the clear enunciation, “Todd Hill!” Must be the hovel in Australia she’s bustling off to for the summer - and she must be the only doddering old person alive to actually enjoy cold weather! Every Christmas hols with gran, it’s always been, “Boy, turn the heat back up; I’m freezing. …Boy, have your mother heat my blanket; they say on the news it’ll be cold tonight and they haven’t lied to me yet. …Boy, you’re magic; cast one of those spells for heat or whatever they’re called; you don’t want your bubbe to fall ill, do you? …Boy, don’t give me that lip; just cast the spell already and you can go back to your magic math rubbish.” Of course, she’s never understood magic, let alone something like Arithmancy, and there’s a slew of wholly logical reasons why: she’s old, she’s a Muggle, she still thinks Khrushchev’s in charge of the Muggle portion of the Soviet Union - she still thinks there’s a Soviet Union and a Cold War, for that matter - but she could at least not talk about it.
Once the old Deveral bat’s gone, Terry whips around and glares at Anthony - the latter knows this glare well; it’s the same one he gets for pulling all-nighters “with no real reason,” for spending an hour “unnecessarily re-alphabetizing the Arithmancy section of the library,” for having “yet another cup of coffee” when everyone else thinks he should’ve quit a while ago. Only now, there’s something else there, something new, something that looks an awful lot like rage. …So now he’s going to be angry. Well, fuck-a-doodle-doo. Just because he can make his eyes flash, and tint his cheeks red with frustration, and screw his lips up just so doesn’t mean that he has anything worth saying right now. In fact, he has very little worth saying right now. He’s gone and wrecked the credibility of his opinions by acting like he knows more about this “nervous breakdown” than the person who’s purported to be “going through it.” Prat.
“Just what the hell was that all about?” Terry nags. He’s clearly trying to keep his cool, and doing a horrible job of hiding that fact. Usually it’s Anthony who lacks the tact around here.
“She was acting like I’m not here,” Anthony explains, perfectly composed, “talking about me and saying all manner of insulting rubbish.”
“She was saying that you look unwell, which, if you haven’t noticed is rather on the true side of things.”
“Well, I might look unwell, but I feel perfectly fine.”
Terry pauses and sighs draconically. Just like him, really. Once the situation even vaguely resembles a mess, everything must get magnified hundredfold - he even has to blow his reactions out of proportion. At least Anthony knows his place and limitations in the universe. He knows full well, for example, that he’s just a bespectacled little geek with no real abilities to speak of - quite a bit of intelligence, he thinks, but not that many actual skills. Aside from, apparently, being a wretched annoyance to the “well-meaning” people who see fit to, basically, lock him up (in the guise of a holiday to a nice little beach town that is, in fact, comprised of a few cottages, some actual homes, this hovel, a few community buildings and/or businesses, and too much open, green land - which is all a horrific insult to his intelligence) for no good reason.
“You know, you’re being a right foul little brat right now.”
“I think I’m entitled to that privilege! Seeing as how I’m being cooped up in a hovel, in the middle of bloody nowhere, to quote-unquote ‘recover’ from a so-called ‘nervous collapse’-”
“Oh, god…”
“Which, as no one seems to believe, I didn’t have!”
“Because screaming and dissolving into a sniveling heap after a NEWT you’re more than easily going to get an Outstanding on is perfectly normal!”
“Maybe not perfectly, but it doesn’t mean-”
“Don’t you get it? Honestly, how can you be so bloody brilliant and such a fucking idiot at the same time?”
“No one ever said I was brilliant.”
“That’s neither true nor a good argument, and you know better on both counts.”
“Do not.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous…”
“And I think I’m rather entitled to that too!”
“Oh, what’re you on about now?”
“I want to go home! This place is a dump, I’m here against my will, there is nothing bloody wrong with me, and all I fucking want is to go home and start looking for a job!”
“You know I can’t let you do that.”
“You can’t stop me! I’m going home!”
“Anthony… it’s late. Please, just… think this over for the night?”
“No! I’m going home!”
To emphasize his point, Anthony scrambles off the sofa, no doubt releasing scoriac spores into their oxygen supply (good thing for the potted plants, or else the fire - exchanging eyes and still burning in the fireplace - would use up all the communal air). Soon enough, the couch fungus will infest the whole house - nesting in the walls; taking hold of the peeling yellow paper and the pink, flaking paint; and growing, growing, growing; spreading; building citadels and the walls of New Fungustopia. And, finally, the walls will fall. And Anthony will get the smug self-satisfaction of saying that he was right.
But that’s not important now. What’s important is Terry and how he moves along with every last motion, how his fourth year Divination skills somehow predict just what Anthony will do. It doesn’t matter that his arms won’t stop shaking - that’s all Terry’s fault anyway; Anthony’s only shaking because Terry’s being such a little git, prat, bugger, arse and a half, nuisance, and otherwise annoying sort. It’s intolerable. There’s no reason for either of them to be here! And, yet, they are! Why is that? - Anthony doesn’t have to wonder - the reason’s staring him right in the face, moving a half-step behind him, reaching out for his shoulders - Anthony smacks one of the hands away. With his other hand, he whips out his wand and points it at Terry’s chin.
Oh, that gets his attention! Nothing gets awareness better than a wand-tip aimed right at your chin. Anthony scoffs and stares Terry down - he looks confused, even though he shouldn’t be; he’s no right to be confused here, seeing as he’s the one doing all the ridiculous, unnecessary ill. He knows what he’s doing, and he acts like he knows what Anthony’s doing enough - how can he look confused and still like himself.
Naturally, he tries to cover it by looking bored. Prat.
“Move,” Anthony snarls.
“You know I’m not going to do that… and put that-”
“Move, Terry.”
“No, Anthony.” Oh, so now it’s time to mock his tone. Anthony huffs and prods Terry’s chin with the wand. “Put that away.”
“No.”
“Well, you’re not using it, so why have it-”
“Well, I’m going to!”
“I’m sure you are…” He rolls his eyes.
“I am! Move or I’ll fucking jinx you!”
“I repeat myself…” And again - smarmy little bugger. And self-important… he’s that too.
“I’m serious! We both know there’s nothing wrong with me, so let me go home!”
Terry finally hesitates, taking a pause that, in some twisted fantasy, could be called “delightful.” He sighs - exasperated, and again completely without rights to the emotion; Anthony’s the one who deserves some exasperation here! - and looks down to his well-worn trainers. Vaguely, it occurs to Anthony that he should be less angry and more depressed that he’s actually threatening a friend, but it’s all Terry’s fault that he has to resort to this in the first place! The wand wouldn’t be out and his eyes wouldn’t have become steel if that goddamn, irritating, self-important nuisance of a ‘friend’ hadn’t decided without full knowledge of the situation that Anthony’s crazy. Life’s not fair, but friends, at least, should be - and! And! And… it looks like Terry’s finally going to come around. At long last, he steps aside and slumps against the fireplace somewhere out of Anthony’s way.
Enthusiastically, Anthony bounds towards the urn of Floo Powder (or maybe Mrs. Deveral’s late husband, which is just about the same thing to Anthony at this point). Full of the childish, canine joy of digging for secrets, worms, the other side of the earth, and the burial of the dead, he burrows his fingers into what he finds. He can feel the powder root itself in the curves of his nails. Resolute, he smirks and recaps the urn, the promised prize grasped tightly in his fist.
“But…” Terry sighs like an elegy.
“But what?” Anthony snaps.
“Well… if you’d pause to listen to yourself… just for ten seconds - five, even! - if you’d listen… well, you’d know that you’re not fine…”
“I’m not sick, I’m not broken, and I definitely don’t need to be here-”
“Not necessarily broken, Anthony, but… buffeted, at least.”
“Please.”
“I’ve known you for what now? Seven, nearly eight, years…?”
“Point being?”
“Never once in that time have you threatened to jinx anyone - even Malfoy and Smith! You’re not violent, you’re not harsh, every other word out of your mouth isn’t ‘bloody’ or ‘fuck’ or anything like that…”
“Maybe I’m investigating a change,” he sneers. Just a few months ago, Terry was asking him why he doesn’t wear contact lenses, or something other than jeans and trainers, or an earring, even just a fake one. The prat’s pursed lips indicate that he recognizes this cruel turn of fate.
“Well… I don’t like it.”
Leaning his head on the mantle, Terry looks up at Anthony with a completely blank, expressionless face, as though he’s giving up on feelings as well as this lost cause. As well he should - he’s got no business making Anthony get guilty over feelings he’s more than allowed to possess. No one can tell him how to think, how to feel, how to heal imaginary wounds, and then expect him to just be mindlessly amenable to these metaphysical revisions - even a friend he’s had as long as Terry. Besides, he knows mum and dad agreed to let Terry take him on this mad little excursion, but they’ll still be worried about him if he isn’t home, which is where he should be because he hates to make his parents worry. Even though, pipes the annoying internal voice he can never seem to silence, he also knows so well that he worries them more than enough with all-nighters, compulsive coffee-drinking, and how the combination of those two makes him act.
Terry sighs and, synchronized with it, Anthony feels his limbs grow heavy. …Why do they have to do this now? And why does he feel so light-headed? This is a serious moment here - he needs to get out of this dumpy little hovel of a cottage and, of course, his body has to betray him into staying. Rocking on his feet, he falls backward. With Quidditch-trained reflexes, Terry catches him, props him up, wraps an arm around his own shoulder, which he really doesn’t have to do. The Floo Powder goes everywhere.
“Come on, then,” Terry whispers, lips just above his ear. “Bed.”
“Uh huh…” Anthony murmurs. He can’t focus enough to protest, though he still vaguely wants to.
Stairs. More stairs. …It’s a pathetically tiny place, how are there so many bloody stairs? Finally, they get through the bedroom door, and Terry says:
“And, if you still hate me in the morning, we’ll talk.”
Collapsing into bed, Anthony pulls Terry down with him. They lock eyes again.
“I don’t hate you,” Anthony huffs, as though this settles the matter.
Terry’s face says… what? Is it victory? Is it recognition? It’s comforting, at least - and he takes Anthony’s shoes off for him. Looking up from the floor, he sighs, “Go to sleep, Anthony.”