melinda bobbin. (petalsinsnow) wrote in afic, @ 2011-08-18 22:07:00 |
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Theodore was instinctively pre-disposed to reflection. It was natural for him. He enjoyed it. It helped to solidify things into his unusually acute memory. Today he wasn't entirely sure he knew how to reflect on what had happened over the past twenty-four hours, much less harboured a desire to do so. He'd been shuffled between a holding cell and interrogation room, with the latter being heavily favoured by the nameless officers who took him from once place to the other. Yesterday, he'd seen Melinda and, though he didn't feel optimistic, he'd managed to scrape up a bit of hope that something might go right. Yesterday, he'd been asked many questions, over and over. Yesterday, he'd been afraid but honest. This morning, they'd given him breakfast, at which he'd dutifully picked, and then they hit him. Theodore, as unaccustomed to physical violence as he was to being noticed at all, hadn't known how to respond. This placed him in a particular sort of dilemma -- the sort he'd only encountered once or twice before in his relatively short life. He had no idea what to do. This was made worse by his grogginess, which had been unpleasant after his first half-meal and grew increasingly worse after his second. This, too, he didn't understand. As the hours had passed and that first blow became a bruise that ringed the hollow of his eye, he became intimately acquainted with the not-uncommon overlap between police frustration and prisoner intimidation. Questions became statements, punctuated by the occasional bit of force to encourage agreement. Eventually, a statement was produced, perhaps from evidence, perhaps from convenience, Theodore wasn't sure he knew any more. They offered him a quill and he took it, unsure and confused and dizzy, and it was only a fleeting, desperate exercise of will that made him decline. "I need to discuss this with my solicitor," he remembered saying, a vague, sleepy insistence that they hadn't liked. He didn't remember much of today very well. And now there was a knock on the door, and Theodore had trouble recalling when he'd been taken back out of his cell and put in this room. He wasn't sure he'd ever left. "Come in?" It seemed far too civilised an exchange for this place, but he reacted instinctively. The hours that passed between Melinda leaving Theodore and returning back to his cell seemed like a lifetime. Somewhere in between she had sent what seemed like a hundred owls, ask friends to risk their careers, and been in Theodore’s bedroom. She felt almost as criminal as the ministry seemed intent on making Theodore look. Especially considering that for a moment she looked at his bed and thought about laying on it, just to see if he’d noticed when he got home. Standing outside of his cell next to Gorilla man, the thought of home was miles away. The invitation to enter was all but ignored by the brutish man as he pushed open the door for Melinda. It had been the same story as the day before -- knock on the door when she was done. Though she got the feeling that he was far more likely to leave her in here than let her out. She couldn’t really remember him being a nice individual before she showed up on behalf of a criminal. “Theo...” Melinda breathed as the door shut behind her. She had assumed that he wouldn’t look all that well considering his circumstances, but this was something far and beyond what she prepared himself for. “Merlin, what did they do to you?” Melinda crossed the room quickly to take up a spot at Theo’s side, the sharp sound of her heels almost deafening in the room. She could feel tears start to sting her eyes as she inspected the bruises left on his pale skin. "Melinda." This felt more like a question than a greeting, as Theodore struggled to sit up straight. He had the distinct impression that his body belonged to someone else, and he was simply borrowing it for a little while, as he had to exert far more effort to make it do what he wanted. He envisioned reaching up to take her hand, but realised after a moment, a moment that sprawled out eternally into the span of a heavy blink, that he'd merely moved it further up on the table. He felt heavy. Another blink seemed to take her quickly from the door to his side, and he felt her fingers grazing over his cheek, impossibly cold. Or maybe it was he who was cold, and she was warm. This took too much work to figure out, and he was meant to be answering a question. Understanding the question, however, and the implications that marched on in its wake, took him another several seconds, and it was quiet for some time before he answered, with uncertainty. "I think I fell down. In my cell. I was confused." The shape of these words in his mouth felt right, somehow. Like they were supposed to be there. He felt proud for remembering, and yet somewhere, in the pit of his stomach, they also made him sick. Theodore’s words caused Melinda’s stomach to turn. What he said, the way he spoke, didn’t sound like Theodore. Nausea overcame her for a long moment. It only served to make the tears in her eyes gather that much quicker. She pressed her lips together, making herself take a few long, slow breaths through her nose. Not that the smell helped but it curbed the urge to yell. “Look at me,” she requested softly. Her hands cupped gently at his jaw and guided his gaze to her. She didn’t care that it would make it undeniable that she was seconds from crying. The way he looked back at her was haunting. She could see Theodore in their brown depths, but he was distant. He was lost somehow. The tears that had gathered in her eyes spilled down her cheeks without so much as a moment’s pause. With a deep, shaky breath she stepped away for a moment. A string of less-than-flattering words left her mouth as she paced around the small room. “Of all things, they couldn’t have just used Veritas, could they?” She asked, more to herself than Theodore. After that moment of frustration, after she had the opportunity to wipe the tears from her cheeks, she returned to Theodore. Her hand sought his, the earlier gesture not lost to Melinda. “Do you remember what they’ve been telling you to say?” Theodore's eyesight was poor under the best of circumstances, and beneath the bright lights and in a body that was barely his, he almost couldn't make out her face. The tears, though. They glistened, catching his attention like nothing else had. He knew that they were wrong, that they were, for lack of a better term, unseemly. He shook his head, a shuddering, ugly, puppet like movement, and his hand slipped from the table, reaching in a heavy, dull movement. He wanted to smear them from her face. To make them go away. Don't do that. He thought he'd said it, but there was no sounds but the rasp of her breath, and she had pulled away as his fingers curled through the air, seeking out vulnerability and losing it to the slow blur of motion. They were gone when she took his hand from where it hung and wrapped it into her own. That was easier. He didn't have to bear the weight of bone and skin and muscle, each of which he could feel acutely and not at all, at the same time. He appreciated the relief. "Telling me to say." He blinked, but the momentary darkness didn't fit his memories together in a tight, coherent way. He found the words that made sense again. The ones he was supposed to say. "The truth. That I helped with. With the escape. From Azkaban." He nodded. Yes, that. “No, Theodore.” Melinda said, shaking her head. She could feel her heart sink. It was a sickening feeling. She felt helpless and furious all at once. The helplessness, no doubt, was something she was feeling for Theo more than for herself. No doubt he didn’t know he should be feeling it at the moment. “You didn’t have anything to do with that. Not one thing.” She said sternly. Though her voice was softer, and much more riddled with emotion than that of his interrogator, she hoped that what sternness she could muster would have the same effect in making him doubt his involvement. Melinda’s eyes fell to his hand for a moment. Her free hand rose to wrap fully around his. She squeezed gently, trying to coax any warmth back in them. She could feel the callouses on his fingers from his violin. It felt almost like a distant, hazy memory from another life. She took a deep, slow breath only to let it out in a quiet sigh. His head shook more fervently, and a thread of anger curled up through him before breaking across his insides. Why was she confusing him even more? He just wanted to be left alone. Trying to pull his hand from her, a punishment of some sort, he let out a complaining, childish "no!" Warmth reddened his cheeks, and he pressed his free hand into the table harder, trying to force his body into complying. Trying to do the same with his mind. He couldn't remember. It was all piecemeal and ugly and disparate. "There's. There's a confession." The tendril of doubt sat heavily over him. He couldn't quite remember dictating a confession, but he remembered clearly the terms. "I won't have to go away very long. If I sign it." Now he remembered. "I wanted to ask you first. If you think I should sign it." No question was actually made, but he looked up at her again, irritation replaced with expectation. It felt wrong, somewhere inside him, to trust his future to the advice of someone else. Wasn't he always staunchly independent? Wasn't he dedicated to making his own future for himself? But he'd been waiting for her all day to tell him what to do, and now she was here, and it felt too complicated and fuzzy to decide on his own. Melinda blinked in surprise at his reaction. Her hands loosened around his, letting him pull free of hers if that’s what he desired. “Theo,” she began softly. Nothing followed, however. She was at a loss completely. How did you argue with someone who couldn’t even think for himself? She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable and frustrated all at once. Signing a confession. Yesterday he would have been furious at the thought, she knew it. Now he’s asking if he should sign it. Her instinct was to say absolutely not. But she couldn’t help but remember what his file looked like. It wasn’t even the real one, and it looked hopeless. She was afraid of what his real file looked like. Could she even prove foul play? Would she be able to prove that he was even drugged right now? “How long did they say?” She asked after a long moment, and immediately hated herself for even indulging the idea. He sighed, as if remembering details was a chore. He'd been trying to remember things all day. Trying to answer questions, trying to keep hold of himself from one moment to the next. At the end of the day, he just wanted to lay down and go to sleep. He wanted it all to go away. Azkaban was a frightening place, and he would have given nearly anything not to go there, but more frightening than the prison itself was time. Time was the one thing not in his control. They could send him there for a week or a lifetime, though it would be a lifetime passing into oblivion if they took his soul. All he knew, in the pit of his heart, was that he didn't want to be there forever. Whatever he lost by a prison system, whatever hardships he had to face, those were nothing compared to what a lost life would mean. He had so many things he'd wanted to accomplish, so many things he'd put on hold for a 'better time'. That time couldn't come if he got the kiss. And right now, with details fragmented and statements being put together and evidence gathered (or fabricated), he believed them when they said he could get the kiss. He believed that his life as he knew it could end. Anything seemed better than that. "Um." The thoughts rolled around inside him with a daunting slowness. "Months maybe." His lips pressed together, and for a moment his mouth felt too big to be behind those lips. Huge. Full of words he didn't know how to say. "I don't want to lose my soul, Melinda." He felt very small when he said it. Very small and very insignificant. “I want to protect you,” Melinda murmured. A hand rose to brush his dark hair from his face. If they hadn’t confiscated her wand, she’d have likely found a way to sneak him out in her pocket. If only she’d thought about that before she stepped into the DMLE today. That hand rested against his back gently, trying to at least be comforting. Protective. “Wait.” Melinda said softly. “I want you to make this decision when you can think clearly.” The tears were back in her eyes nearly instantly, threatening to spill over. “I don’t want you to sign it, because I know you’re innocent. I don’t want you to lose your soul, either.” His eyes closed, and for a moment he could have been asleep -- he felt asleep, all hollow and comfortable and tired -- but her touch brought him back to attention. It was comfortable too, but in a way that was less familiar. If he signed it he could go to sleep. That seemed like the most important thing in the world. Nodding with her, he tried to wrap himself around that word -- innocent -- and remember it. It seemed a vital thing to remember, but he didn't know how long it would stay with him. Don't sign the confession. He supposed. She usually knew what she was talking about, even if it meant he'd have to wait longer for sleep. She'd think of something. How long it seemed since he'd hoped she'd come in here to take him away. He could scarcely remember anything but these four walls. It was only yesterday, but everything that had come before blurred into one moment of time, and this, here, seemed forever. "Can you tell Astoria that. That um." His mouth felt full, again, of words he couldn't separate out. "That I um." Warmth across his throat, suffocating. "I miss her." “I’ll tell her.” Melinda agreed. Her tears too easily fell down her cheeks as her head fell. Already she felt defeated. How would she be able to adequately be able to defend him at trial if she felt so hopeless at this moment. That was their purpose, she tried to remind herself. People in this room were supposed to feel hopeless. "Thank you." He meant it to sound earnest, but it was just quiet and dull sounding. Someone else speaking. With someone else's mouth and throat and lungs. "And you're coming back again soon, aren't you?" This too, might have had some emotion behind it -- desperation, if Theodore in his right mind would have ever allowed himself to feel that particular bend of psychological whimsy -- but he couldn't. There wasn't enough of him to do it. “Of course.” Melinda nodded, looking up at him again. She didn’t even bother wiping the moisture from her cheeks. “I’ll be back before you even know it. Rest now, okay? I’ll yell at them if they don’t let you.” It was a bit of a hollow promise. Yet still, she was sure to yell on her way out until she was promised they wouldn’t touch him until tomorrow or she was escorted out of the department. |