Sometimes I feel like I'm hollow Characters: Faelan Summary: Faelan contemplates things.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
Even without much effort behind it, the spell worked perfectly, just as it had been doing for days. Padma’s paper flower floated up on the hot breeze and fluttered overhead at the direction of Faelan’s wand until he let it down low enough for Starless to catch it in his teeth again. A quick mending spell later, and their game continued, helping to pass the hours in a timeless haze.
It had been much the same for days. He was outside alone, going nowhere except for work, after irresponsibly forgetting all about it for the first day after Sirius’ departure. Neville hadn’t been angry, but Faelan was. He was angry at himself for being consumed, for being weak. For feeling. Before Sirius, he had rarely felt at all, and he’d been just fine then. It was Sirius who had talked him into how wrong that was, and then had turned around and made it hurt.
It should have been a cruel joke, except it was real.
Faelan took a deep breath, squared his jaw, and threw a stick with all his might, watching Starless chase it out of sight. He knew he didn’t have to keep his eye on the dog at all times. He would come back. Real dogs -- loyal dogs -- always did.
Harry said Padma had stopped by a few times, asking after him, but he couldn’t bring himself to see her or speak to her. He didn’t have anything to say, and he couldn’t bear to have her sympathetic eyes on him when sympathy was the last thing he wanted. He was hardly ever hungry, either, but Harry put hot food in front of him every now and then, and he’d found a certain comfort in Padma’s chicken curry that sometimes made him feel close to her, and sometimes made him ache with extra, inexplicable loss.
Starless trotted back over with his stick and placed it at Faelan’s feet, sitting down and looking at him with eyes that begged. Faelan threw the stick again and watched Starless run back into the shadows of dusk. It was too dark to draw anymore, so Faelan closed his sketchbook on its blank page and stuffed everything away in his bag. Balling up his jacket, he laid down on his side and stuck it under his head, watching the trees and trying not to think.