Alexander William (heartofnapalm) wrote in changedrpg, @ 2011-11-11 03:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | !date: 1997 - november, alexander william, charity burbage |
Who: Charity Burbage & Alexander William
What: Doing as he's told
When: After this
Where: Charity's office
Rating: PG-13?
Alex still hadn't rescued his journal from the floor under the wardrobe where it had skidded after his terse apology to the girls and the purebloods and it was only by listening to rumours, reading the Prophet and Dumbledore's address that he'd known anything was going on. He hadn't even known Charity wanted to see him again until he'd been told in passing by Nearly-Headless Nick, having not responded to the woman's post to him.
As much as no one, apart from Jimmy, had paid any attention to Alex his entire time at Hogwarts, publishing his thoughts for all to see had certainly garnered him attention that he hadn't expected, didn't want and didn't know how to handle. As an already insecure and angry fourteen year old boy, suddenly becoming public enemy number one and being spoken to by the very people he'd gone out of his way to avoid for the past four years had pushed every button he had and he'd lashed out like a cat that had been set on fire. He wouldn't have been able to pick most of the people he'd sworn at out of a line-up, and he supposed vice-versa, but the way he'd been behaving since Jimmy's talk with him and his public apology had made it near impossible to tell who he was based solely on his entries. The fire in him hadn't gone out, it most likely never would until he died, but it had simmered down to hot coals and was smouldering in against himself instead.
He felt sick with guilt about Jimmy, who he hadn't really seen anything of since that day; it was funny in a completely unfunny way that he'd done what he had mainly to keep Jimmy with him, to try and bridge the distance the backlash from using the journals had caused between them, but it had been an empty effort - he felt like he'd lost him anyway. It wasn't that he didn't like Dennis, and he wanted to be happy fo Jimmy who Merlin knew deserved to be loved and happy, but it left a raw and aching black hole inside him that wouldn't quit. He avoided the dorms and when he couldn't he'd be in bed asleep, curled over on his side and pressed face into the wall. He'd wanted better for Jimmy than the volatile friendship that was the only kind he could offer, but it didn't make him feel any less hurt.
His presence in the dorm room had dropped until he barely spent anytime in there that wasn't asleep. He slipped out early in the morning and came back as late as possible. When he didn't have classes where he sat quietly in the back trying not to touch or talk to or look at his partner who was somehow always a girl he was out on the Quidditch field or just hanging around up on his broom, as high as he could go without the air getting too thin for him to cope. It was cold up there, the wind icy no matter the weather on the ground and it bit into his skin, making his face red and sore. He'd come in with blue lips, teeth long stopped chattering but he didn't care. He'd sit inside and thaw, feeling the way it stung him and taking it in some strange kind of indirect self-flagelation.
Because that was the thing really. He'd done something to himself that he'd always fought against. It didn't matter what they did or said to him, he'd never let himself believe what his aunt and cousins said, that he was a worthless dog, less worth than a House Elf, less use than any servant they'd ever seen in neighbouring houses. He'd stolen leftovers from the dog bowls when the starving became too much, he'd slept in the filth that ran out from the kitchens as he wasn't allowed to sleep in the house, he'd been belittled and humilated and degraded but the entire time he'd fought, internally, a battle to remember that he was better than this, to not internalise what he was subjected to.
It hadn't worked. He'd done to himself what they'd been unable to do and broken his own spirit. He'd sworn never to let himself be humiliated again, that he wouldn't be made to submit to anyone just because of their blood or their gender. He'd told himself he'd never let himself be controlled in what he did or said by anyone other than himself or out of choice and respect again but he'd failed. He'd apologised to those girls, those Purebloods who thought they were better than him as though he thought they were better than him too, and he didn't know but he was sure that had been it, that they'd seen him debased and submissive and had been satisfied at that.
He was scared at what the Headmaster had said but possibly in a way that was different to anyone else that he'd heard. He'd been there already, he'd run away and now it was coming back in a way that he wouldn't be able to escape. He was waiting, waiting to see, but he knew he wouldn't be able to cope if things turned the way they had been back in Europe - he'd kill himself rather than suffer through it again, he just didn't have the fight in him anymore.
He felt sick all the time, whenever he couldn't stop himself from thinking, but he hadn't cried. He'd thrown up fifteen minutes ago, before he stood where he was outside the Professor's door but he wasn't crying now either. He couldn't lift his head anymore, and so stared quietly at his feet while he waited to be told to come in.