Clive has been in the library for hours now, and the sense of time within these walls is, as always, beginning to blur.

The quill scrapes against the parchment, the ink spilling out in some spots from too much pressure. The History of Magic essay is moving slowly, almost painfully so, despite the fact that the topic is interesting - the infighting in the Wizengamot. Professor Binns mumbled about it in class with his usual grin, as if it were not about blood, revenge and the fall of entire clans, but about some useless, forgotten code of laws. But in textbooks, between the lines, the essence still breaks through - intrigue, betrayal, struggle. There is something painfully familiar about it.

It's just that he can't concentrate.

Clive has now reread the same paragraph three times. His thoughts are racing. There's a chaos of voices in his head: his mother, his father, the doctor from St. Mungo's who said something about the regressive phase but never suggested anything new. And then there were the memories of how his mother had once laughed - a real, lively laugh, like the sun on a clear day. And how she was silent now.

Lundquist exhales heavily, reaches into his bag for a draft and freezes. At first he just squints, counting the scrolls with his eyes. Then he carefully lifts the bag, looks inside, probes the bottom.

No diary.

He sits up straight, as if something in his spine is being stretched into a steel bar. His chest tightens with an invisible belt, and his breathing becomes shallow. An unpleasant, almost nauseating lump clenches in his stomach.

The fifth-year doesn't panic - not yet. He just slowly sets aside his quill, slides the stack of books aside, and starts checking everything: under the table, between the pages, on the nearest chair. Picks up parchments, looks behind the inkwell, even moves the bench awkwardly with his foot.

Nothing.

All around, almost silence. Someone is whispering at the other end of the room, leafing through pages, whispering - the sounds are muffled, distant, as if underwater.

The Gryffindor stands up. Slowly, neatly, he folds the parchments, shoves the textbooks back into his bag, as if taking his time to fool himself. It's all a mistake. He's just left it in his bedroom, of course. Or in the classroom. Or... or not.

Clive can already feel something starting to crawl under his skin - cold, clammy, piercing. The journal is everything. Not just thoughts. Not just words. It's him. The way no one else sees him. It's his mother. As no one knows her. There's fear. And hate. And despair.

He's heading for the exit. His steps are steady, almost measured. His fingers tighten on the strap of his bag. Inside, everything pulsed like a wound under a bandage.

But first, out of habit, the boy puts the books back where they belong. It's a little comforting. There is something right about putting things back in order. His fingers automatically find the right shelves, the spines of the books fit nimbly between the others, and everything seems a little more stable.

Until his gaze fixes on a familiar figure near the far shelf.

Nanette Desford.

He freezes.

The girl is leaning against the shelf, holding a dark blue notebook. It's open. She is flipping through the pages, and from the look on her face, she's clearly reading the content. Not a quick look. Not by accident. Purposefully.

He recognizes his notebook immediately. Those bent corners. The worn cover.

Clive's stomach clenches. This is it. He should have known. Who else but her would have...

He doesn't move right away. Just stares. At her. At the journal. At the way her fingers slide over his most private, most vulnerable notes. He feels a buzzing in his ears. No, roaring. Blood pounding in his temples. His chest feels like it's cracking at the seams, but his face is calm.

Lundquist takes a step forward. Then another.

He doesn't rush. He doesn't yell. He doesn't snatch the journal from her hands. Doesn't give her anything - no weakness, no power.

- Anything interesting? -  the voice sounds flat, almost mocking even.

The boy stops a few steps away from her. He pauses. Slowly, he examines her face, as if he can't believe this is happening. That a diary - his diary - is being read like this. Like a scroll thrown on the floor. Like a newspaper at breakfast.

Of course she knows whose diary it is. His name is in there. His mother's name is in there. Everything about him is in there.

The Gryffindor doesn't even try to pretend that this could be a misunderstanding.

- I hope you at least appreciated the grammar, - he adds with the same cold tone.

Отредактировано Clive Lundquist (11.07.25 02:27)

- You're wounding me,- Clive said sarcastically, his tone almost mocking, though he was clenching even tighter inside.

He says it like a joke, but it's not really funny. Not this time. Not with this one.

This kind of communication between them is the norm. Bad, toxic, stultifying, but... familiar. Almost comfortable. Like a sore tooth that you press your tongue on anyway, knowing it's going to get worse.

And now this habit helps him to keep his back straight, not to lower his gaze, not to snap. It helps him, at least outwardly, to keep his dignity. Because, unfortunately, there is no time-turner at hand, which means that there is no going back. You can't erase the pages. You can't tear them out. You can't burn them. Everything has already happened. It's all been read.

All that's left is to accept it.

And choose his words wisely, so Nanette wouldn't even suspect how much it hurt him.

And it did, in fact, hurt him a lot. It was as if someone had torn off all his skin at once, leaving only his exposed nerves.

The Gryffindor looks at her, and a feeling of awkward, poisonous closeness grows inside. Because now she knows more about him than anyone. Maybe even more than he knows himself. He often wrote there out of emotion - out of anger, out of desperation, when things were particularly hard. Sometimes too harshly. Sometimes too honest. Sometimes in such a way that he was afraid to read it again.

But it was easier to write than to speak. Safer.

The diary was a way to get his head straight.

To get himself back.

To reassemble the scattered fragments of Clive Lundquist's personality, an ordinary sixteen-year-old Gryffindor, not the son of a woman dying in St. Mungo's bed.

Now, however, it's as if that Clive has cracked. Nanette is holding the shards in her hands. And clearly doesn't know what to do with them.

The fifth-year notices how she avoids her gaze. How she doesn't speak with her usual harshness. How her voice has lost all the sarcastic liveliness with which she usually hurts him. And that... doesn't make it any easier. Not one bit. It's just unsettling.

If even she feels uncomfortable now, then things are really bad.

- Of course, - Lundquist agrees, raising his eyebrows, - But it was you who found the diary. Funny coincidence, isn't it?

The boy takes a step sideways, as if casually changing his view but not his distance.

With Desford, he can't afford weakness. Ever since first year, Clive has developed a tactic: armor, sarcasm, and a proactive attack. He'd learned to answer her with the same tone, the same words. Not because he wanted to - because he had to. Because otherwise she would have already broken him when he was just eleven years old.

She can do that. She can hit him with the right words and make him angry. And make him so mad that you can't tell where the truth is and where it's just a desire to inject him deeper.

He's under no illusions.

- I wasn't going to explain anything,- Clive said without changing his tone. Calmly, evenly, almost sluggishly.

So far she hasn't said anything bad, which is alarming.

Clive knows her. The girl's just collecting her thoughts. Processing the information she's received. Digesting it, so that she can say something sharp, unpleasant, with her trademark half-slanted squint and icy smile. It's just a breather before the storm.

And yet he can feel something... shifting in her. It's as if she doesn't realize how she got herself into this situation. Like she's not holding onto his vulnerability - but her own.

It doesn't matter. He should not believe it.

- I didn't want to tell everyone,- the boy says briefly. Dry. Almost rude. - That's why I keep a diary.

The fifth-year says it like it's about something mundane, boring. No pain. No drama. Just a fact.

But he's lying, of course. Not in words, in tone. He just didn't want to share.

And now she knows.

The Gryffindor sees her handing the journal to him. Clive lowers his gaze and notices a slight trembling - maybe his fingers, maybe his breath. He doesn't move immediately. A moment, and he's ready to recoil. Not to take. Not to touch.

But no.

He picks up the notebook. His fingers hardly tremble anymore, but his chest tightens again. Lundquist feels the leather of the binding - warm, familiar. It's as if he's holding his own voice in his hands, scared and raw. But his face is still indifferent, even lazy, as if nothing much is happening.

- I guess I shouldn't count on you to keep this a secret? -  the boy asks.

Clive hesitates to the very last moment before he asks the question. He realizes how it will sound - like he's panicking, like he cares. But no. He can't just walk away. He needs to know. Needs to know what to prepare for.

A fifth-year isn't used to leaving things like this to chance. Will everyone find out tomorrow? Or the day after that? Would he walk out of his bedroom and immediately catch someone's eyes - sympathetic or, worse, pitying? Will he hear behind him “poor Lundquist” or “did you know what happened to his mom?”

Uncertainty pulls harder than the cold beneath his ribs.

And no matter how much Nanette pretends - as if she's all restraint and tact now - Clive knows what she's capable of. He remembers how skillfully she can present information. How one word of hers can hit the sorest spot. He's heard her pick apart other people's secrets precisely, dispassionately, as if she were cutting cloth with sharp scissors. Not loud. Not angry. Just right on target.

If she wanted to, his pain could be turned into a sharpness. A weapon. An excuse for subtle, condescending mockery.

And he can't ignore that.