olivehornbyx:
“I find that to be very unlikely.” Olive had a bounce to her step as she did a quick spin gracefully on the stairs beneath her before looking up at Alphard. “Don’t get your robe in a twist. I am simply poking fun at you. If I knew better, I would think you are growing rather soft by the second. I almost expected a harsh gaze to be thrown my way already.”
It bothered him, how right she was. Alphard knew that if anyone else had been next to them in the alcove or on the stairs, he would have distanced himself from Olive with a mechanical ease. It was like a dance they had all perfect since childhood, the teeter trot of avoidance and superiority. Whenever he snubbed people he felt almost absurd, miscast, a face with the right name in the wrong picture. He saw it happen a million times before; him, head held high, the shadow of past pleasures on his face, stepping away from a student that had no place in hierarchy. The anger of the belittled turned into endurance, and soon enough the mudbloods he walked by accepted the way of things, becoming background and decorum. That was always the worst part, seeing them receive his derision as if it was long expected. Then he would catch up with his friends and they’d let him know he had not been, in fact, harsh enough. He could never satisfy both sides of himself. You can’t be half a Black, you can’t be half a despot. “I can’t very well switch stairs, can I?”
