Undertow

Charity Burbage Seventeen | Pureblood Gryffindor Alum If I had a feather for every time daddy said that I could fly away Old habits are so hard to break

[lizziiehoangx]

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[cherryburbage]

'Cause little do you know I, I’ll love you 'til the sun dies

[ohsokatelyn-blog]

[empend]

He sighs, and it’s a mixed kind of sound. There’s exasperation: frustrated with the current situation, tired from late nights of questioning, worrying, considering how exactly to handle the way his world was changing. But there was relief as well. Minute relief at her setting his journal down, and great relief and feeling her arms wind around him. She was just… dependable. Someone he’d learned to lean on over the years. He couldn’t stand attempting to distance from her, or to reach out only to have the connection miss. He couldn’t lose her in translation. He depended on her far too heavily.

This time, he kisses the top of her head, and his arms find their way back around her, keeping her there tightly in his arms. It seems he needed a good hug after all, and can you blame him? If not the stress of their personal future, there’s the stress of everyone’s future, both inside and outside of these castle walls. There’s so much to set his teeth on edge, but leaning into her he can just relax. For the first time in months, he can be a little more at ease.

“I have thoughts on it.” He mumbles, comforted into more coherent wording, “My first one being I don’t like missing you. I don’t like having to miss you.” He clarifies, and tacks on a wry chuckle, a frown hidden behind her back inching slowly across his lips.

[cherryburbage]

Teeth meet a quivering lip, holding it steady as he holds her, keeping her together. He didn’t always have the words to comfort her, but often this was enough, his unspoken words voiced in the way his arms snaked around her, putting a pause on the current conversation. She couldn’t see his features, but she hadn’t needed to, sure that the expression she’d find there would mimic her own: eyes clouded with the weight of the questions buzzing around their heads, concern forcing lines onto otherwise smooth skin. His thoughts were always racing, drifting, running him into the ground. If not her, then his sister, if not them then his parents, his impending goodbye to the life he’d led with quiet complaint and the repercussions of each individuals’ actions. He carried the weight of the world and its wars on his shoulders, their problems darkening circles around his eyes, tightening the grip of his hands, almost always needing a moment to breathe, to divulge the information to something without reciprocation. It was why it was easier to speak to his journal than to her. There were less questions, less discussion; he was able to exhale without filling up to the brim once again.

Her hands fell to his shoulders, smoothing out the fabric of his shirt before reaching into his hair, one at the base of his neck, the other tangled in his curls. For a moment, she stayed quiet, listening to the silence broken by their gentle breathing before his interruption. And even then, she’d paused, thinking through his admission. I don’t like having to miss you. “So don’t” she kept considering till it’d finally slipped out. Cherry pulled away far enough to study his features, reiterating the two words as her gaze glossed over his expression. “Don’t.”

There was hesitation in wanting to kiss him, another much needed pause in the unfinished conversation, of wanting to press up on her toes and minimize the distance between them. Hesitation in the form of possibilities that someone, anyone, could walk in, of receiving detention, of Grayson pulling away once again. Possibilities ignored as she raised her heels, meeting him in the middle, her mouth crashing against his.

[graysonward]

Asking Gray to pinpoint the exact source of his nerves felt a little like standing in healer’s robes with his wand over someone’s chest being expected to heal a faulty heart. He was unprepared, which added another set over the existing shakes a tremors, but further buried the cause. It was the irony of being full of such terrible feelings - his mind was clearest when he ranted silently pacing around his room, or else in the shower, or else lying awake at night. The moment he tried to recreate those words on paper, they came out wrong. They didn’t have the same impact they did in his mind. If he wanted to write it out for some kind of retribution, he needed to prove to the ink that the words meant something. 

And speaking out loud, his intention disappeared entirely. 

He was tempted to take a step back up the ladder of intelligibility. Maybe he would take his journal back from her and find a passage that best suited her question and read it to her. But finding one that wouldn’t say too much, too brazenly, one that wouldn’t feel like tearing away a particularly uncomfortable curtain, would be impossibly. The cover of that notebook was like his top layer of skin – not impossible to break, but he’d never remove it of his own accord. 

“Well, of course, it’s… well, it’s a mixture of… just the wrong sort of… and… and there’s me. And there’s you. And you’re… your family, and your options, and well…” He trails off and turns his head to the side slightly, mumbling a particularly colorful string of expletives as an aside, not quite loud enough for her to hear anything other than a frustrated hiss. The sentiment, however, was not lost to volume. 

[cherryburbage]

His lack of eloquence would have made her smile in a different instance, the joke resting against her lips, a comment about the coherency of his statement. It was to be expected; something she’d experienced on numerous occasions, of him freezing when put on the spot, struggling to find the words to voice his thoughts. Her expression turned apologetic as she took the step towards him hesitantly, putting his journal down beside him, her arms winding around his waist to keep him steady. He had pushed her away once and she worried he would again, but it was her first instinct when seeing him this way.

The placement of the journal served as an offering, an out, if he needed the time or space to jot his thoughts down, the pages serving as his confidant. She was the person he would tell the most to, but she only ever knew a fraction of the sentences strung through the book’s pages. And for his sake, she’d learn to be okay with that, with not knowing till he was able to say whatever was in his head aloud. But it was a process and while she was trying, this felt like a conversation worth having, one in which she needed his input, needed to know where he stood.

“It’s..a lot,” she agreed, though the words weren’t said explicitly. “It’s a lot to consider and I..I didn’t mean to rush you. I just figured you’d have thoughts on it. We uh..we keep missing each other, it seems.” Her tone and diction were forgiving as she said the last sentiment, moving her arms around his middle, a hand rubbing against his back.

She did want to talk about it, but not like this, and if not this, then when or how? The options considered as the movement of her hand continued, the blonde holding him close.

[graysonward]

They’d been a unit for so long, it was difficult to seem them as separate people, but the distinctions were becoming clearer as the war condemned them to pick sides, as their families posed questions to them they did not feel old enough to answer. But they were growing older with each day, and eventually they would become some semblance of the person they would be the rest of their life. It was jarring, to have it start so suddenly. 

He felt more confident, knowing at least that as he began to recognize her as someone with values that differed from his own, it didn’t make him love her any less. If anything, he was more curious to know the pieces of her he’d overlooked over the years, either by his own error, or because they hadn’t been as obvious as they were becoming now. However, in a time when values were becoming the decisive factor between what side of the war you were on, there was always that concerned voice in the back of his mind – would love be enough?

He let her hold onto the journal, some small part of his chest seizing in anxiety as she turned it over in her hands. He knew she understood what it meant to him, but to see it in someone else’s hands made him feel very vulnerable, almost exposed, without needing to say anything at all. He gave a small sigh, and shook his head to try and rid himself of the quiet feeling taking hold. 

But he’d do almost anything for her, and while being honest with her might be a small bit scarier than getting engaged to her, he could try to do that as well. Searching for words in a mind suddenly empty of vocabulary, he started, “Nervous. Worried. Angry – not at you, but… angry. Ah…” He trailed off pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, “Overwhelmed.” 

[cherryburbage]

They were so intertwined that it was difficult for Cherry to distinguish where her anxiety ended and anger began, and while Gray was quick to mention it not being channeled towards her, she wondered if hers was rooted against him, if there had been some inkling, some part, that had been angry with him. He was doing her a favor, she kept reminding herself, but the situation had grown more complicated than if he hadn’t. If he had never kissed her, if there had been no feelings there, she would be marrying Amos; the disinterest in the wedding details would remain but she wondered if her worries would change, if the number would be fewer. How would this situation have panned out differently if he had simply hugged her that first evening after walking her home?

But that was the sleep deprivation talking, the irrational, frustrated, wanting an easy way out explanation, side. And while this was more complex, she’d still choose him, knowing any ounce of anger was not actually fueled towards him, but rather the situation. She was unable to blame her parents, doing so for brief moments before overwhelmed with guilt. She had grown up knowing of the possibility of an arranged marriage, of romanticizing it in some way, though the ideals had changed upon her first relationship. She was able to choose someone and fall in love, to enjoy her time in his company and see a future to the relationship before her parents intervened.

She’d very quickly noticed and ignored the pattern.

She was angry, but she was also nervous and worried. Cold feet, another reminder, though she was unsure of how long the sensation would last before she’d warm up to the idea—adding to her list of worries. The look on Gray’s face? Another addition.

“Overwhelmed about sums it up,” she agreed, offering a sympathetic smile though she was sure he couldn’t see. “Why are you nervous?”

[graysonward]

As far as he was concerned, his loyalty to his family expired with the end of his Hogwarts career. Once he’d graduated, he could move out for good, and once he was moved out, he could renounce them. It’d be a black mark on his reputation, and a permanent one, but as time pressed on, he’d realized the importance of his decision. He’d grown up knowing the intricacies of the pureblood way of life. His parents weren’t outspoken, but they made remarks about the blood of their colleagues as conversation points, and it seemed as the world grew increasingly black and white, their prejudices were becoming more and more pronounced. Even if he still believed them to be good people worth redemption, his energy was better spent on the bigger picture. 

There was a war coming, as people said. The Daily Prophet was filled with stories that either played off fear already instilled in the public, or else they themselves sounded afraid with every letter written. The last few weeks of quiet, he’d read each edition of the paper cover to cover, soaking in as much information as he could. It’d taken his mind of his personal issues, but it also intensified a desire for change, a hope that this would not be the world he’d live in forever. 

He knew it posed an issue with Cherry, the very desire to cut ties with their community, but he hadn’t thought about that intersection with much resolve. It was his distraction after all, and he worried very quietly in the back of his mind that it would drive a wedge between them once it came up. So he didn’t think about it.

He hands over the book to her, his head still bowed, keeping quiet for a moment as his possession passes from his hands to hers. In any other context, this would be wrong. As much as he trusted her, he trusted himself less. He’d never let that journal into her possession, not if he was afraid the rawness of his unfiltered thoughts would hurt her. But now, the ink run off the pages, and he figured she wouldn’t open it anyway. 

“I was about to try tergeo,” he speaks quietly, shrugging his shoulders, “It’ll wipe the entries too, ink being a liquid, but it should get the coffee out. And some charm to dry it… I know there’s one, but I can’t think.”

Another moment passes as he watches her, and then he adds on, almost as an afterthought, softly, “I’m not going to snap at you, of all people, Cherry.” He runs his fingers through his hair and then sighs with a note of defeat, “I should be… talking to you, though. So there’s less to take out on anyone. Sorry.”

[cherryburbage]

“Tergeo should still work, if I remember correctly,” she replied, turning the journal over in her grasp. Seventeen years she’d known Grayson and she had never come this close to learning the contents of his diaries. She knew the importance behind them, the worry, the way he would lose sleep to pencil a few more pages of after thoughts, but unsure of what they actually were, neither prying nor stealing a peak. The books traveled with him wherever he went, taking space in his trunk that could be used for clothes or other necessities, but it showed the value of them and the desperate need for privacy, which she wouldn’t, nor couldn’t, breach.

She was a conversationalist, he needed things in writing. Her preferred method would be a lengthy conversation on their respective silent dwellings of the last weeks, to be able to pick his brain about what had and was happening. Were they on the same page, was this what he wanted—any of it. Was he terrified and uncertain just as much as she was? The political turmoil of the country was brewing and while her attention had been drawn away from it, it lingered at the edges of every detail involved in their wedding planning.

There were things that needed to be discussed, views that would be fought for, and they were resting on opposite sides of the fence, realizing for a moment that there was a very high, and even more real, chance that she would lose Gray, to the war or another man.

And that thought was unsettling. Having grown up with his by her side, she wasn’t sure what that would mean, how she would react or handle it. He was her best friend, partner in crime, and now the person she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, but the last option seemed muddled in every which way she looked at it. “So talk to me,” she added. “Because I—I need to know what you’re thinking.”

And there were the emotions again, brimming at the edge of her voice, lashes, and form. She took a seat at the nearest desk, holding his journal to her chest, asking politely, “tell me what you’re feeling.”

[graysonward]

Other options. If she didn’t marry him, she’d marry someone else. He knew it, but it felt more like a haunting thought when it was only him saying it. It didn’t feel real. He thought if he hoped hard enough she would be able to wait for him, but it wasn’t realistic and it wasn’t going to happen. He might be ready to denounce his family, but hers hadn’t mad the same mistakes his had, hers hadn’t let their daughters down in the worst possible way. He couldn’t blame her for depending on them, and he’d never ask her to give that up for him. 

But it still made him feel slightly winded, so he leaned against the desk behind him and stared down at the floor. He’d just be another name on a list of finances. Him and Amos could start a club. They could get matching t-shirts and his could have a gaping hole on the left side where his heart had been ripped out of his chest. He rubbed his eyes. He was starting to think in short, bitter sentences again, the kind that required a spot on the floor, his journal and fifteen minutes. But he didn’t have that leisure, owing both to the conversation and the state of his journal, so he took a breath instead.

“Other options meaning if you don’t marry me, you’ll marry someone else.” He looked up, trying his best to mask how much he disliked the idea, but it was still clear all over his struggling features. He didn’t say any more, pointing out facts rather than sharing any piece of his mind out loud, and he glanced down at his bag, lifting it now to examine the damage done.

“Oh… when I got up from the table I knocked my coffee over. My journal wouldn’t even be in my bag, but I’ve been keeping it on hand so I don’t start taking out everything on the first person to talk to me in the morning, or walk out in the middle of charms because I can’t concentrate or…. it’s fine.” He picks the journal out of the outside pocket, now slightly sticky and still soaked through, and turns it over in his hands. 

He takes his wand out of his pocket and mutters a few spells as he taps it, wracking his brain for something he knows how to do that might make it usable again, but nothing seems to be the right incantation. Still, he sits making sparks, staring distractedly away from Cherry towards the book in his hands. At least the words on the pages weren’t legible anymore. Nobody needed to read those entries. Maybe they were best destroyed after all. 

[cherryburbage]

It wasn’t a question, but it required a response, one she didn’t have a proper explanation to. It was a possibility; if they ended this relationship, her parents would immediately do damage control, look at the other members of the community and see what, and who, they would be able to work with. The announcements had yet to be sent out, but they would be soon, putting a deadline to the decision too. It was too complex of a decision, their worries hinging on reasonable doubts, but would disrupt the whole system. Backing out now could do more damage to the reputation she continued to try and save.

She was exhausted, tired of this back and forth and the details she was forced to mull over every night before drifting into an uncomfortable slumber. If she married Gray, would they be happy or miserable at the rushed relationship, would she be able to keep in contact with her family or would they be leaving like he’d originally wanted—and was that what she wanted? And if not, then what? Would they say their goodbyes and live separately, though she had difficulty envisioning that too.

What would he do once graduation had passed and he no longer needed to live under his parents’ roof; what would that mean for them outside of the impending nuptials? It was a question they’d briefly and previously touched on, but hadn’t since the engagement and now it seemed necessary to do. They were already moving in different circles, bound by their friendship and feelings for one another, but how much longer could those cycles be connected?

“Yes,” she finally answered, honestly, though her expression was visibly troubled by it. “Potentially. And not by choice,” it seemed important to add. “They have a time line for my marriage and this wasn’t their—they expected it to go differently.”

Her brows furrowed at the explanation, heart aching within the cage of her ribs as she offered, “Gray, take it out on me.” It was what should have been done originally, weeks ago; he should have felt comfortable confiding in her about all of his worries. But he hadn’t and she understood bitterly, knowing she had sheltered him from the same concerns, leaving them in their current state. She watched as he tried his best to clean the pages of the coffee, muttering one incantation after the next and slowly moved forward, resting her hand on top of his gently. “Let me try.”

[graysonward]

He closes his eyes for a moment as she plays with his hair, letting the feeling calm him down. It’s nice, soothing, the kind of intimacy through touch he’d been without for the past few weeks as he suffered alone. He knows he has to respond to her, but if he could, he’d just stay like this as they are, close as they might not be in the near future, if things go poorly.

He doesn’t want to let her go, stubborn enough to stay even if it mean she’d grow to resent him for it. He assumes that’s her worry as well – that she’d hold him back and force him into a marriage just to grow to resent her, but Gray knows he’s selfish, and he wont leave unless she tells him to. He wouldn’t make the decision for her, not when it’s not the choice he wants. 

He pulls away from her, out of her grasp so he can think clearly, rubbing his temple and pacing a few steps away from her, towards a desk a row over, before he turns back and looks at her. There’s a small, frightened look on his face, but it’s mixed with the one Gray always wears when she’s there, something still starry eyed and loyal towards her. “I don’t want to lose you either.” He puts his hand on the table, concealing the tremor with pressure, though it resonates still in his knee. “What happens if you don’t marry me?”

He knows she’s done most of the work in the conversation so far. The words he’s kept in, or scrawled onto the pages of his now soaked through journal, are still in there, right on the surface, waiting for the right moment to come out. He’ll talk when it’s safe, when she asks, or when he simply doesn’t have another moment to wait. 

[cherryburbage]

“I don’t know” was an honest answer. Not completely, at least. She had her assumptions, but her parents had managed to switch sides numerous times since Gray’s proposal. One evening they were praising his proposition, another and they were condemning his influence around the dinner table. He had been both a blessing and curse in disguise, one they hadn’t thought to consider through the pair’s childhood. Had they only approached the Wards sooner, settled the engagement before speaking to members of the Diggory household, things would have been different.

She stood in place, arms wound around her middle, holding where Gray had been as she considered their options, thinking aloud. “Multiple conversations, at least—convincing too. There’d be enough lectures from my mother and then she’d call Mar to fill in for her. After that, I—I don’t know. They’d want to speak to you, see if that was the problem, if something had changed,” she said this quietly, the words not feeling right in her mouth. “And then consider their other options.”

Which was where the issue lied; other options would mean other men, and while Cherry had barely begun to stomach the idea of marrying her best friend, she was more uncomfortable at the thought of a stranger, of going on dates and having them getting to know her. It would be too much pressure, each conversation weighted with the idea of marriage, if she could see herself with the person and whether or not she was being too critical in her judgments.

“I don’t know,” she repeated, meeting his eyes. “But you still don’t have to do this, not for me, I—I couldn’t, I—not for me.”

Her gaze shifted from his expression to his arm, tracing over the coffee stain in an effort to stay calm before recalling something she’d noticed earlier. “Your bag. It was leaking before,” she said, turning away from him to seek it out. “Isn’t your journal in there?”

[graysonward]

There was enough said in that pause. As short as it might have been in the span of their lives, it was a moment of impact, the kind of unforgettable moments that dig up long buried feelings from the last time something just like this happened – if something like this has ever happened – and paint them fresh, making wounds out of scars. This time it was different, though; a strange sense of sadness and loss mixed with an interfering sense of relief. It wasn’t relief at the idea of losing her, but relief perhaps that he wasn’t the only one afraid, the only one who could see that maybe this had the potential to do more harm to them than it did good. 

Though his shoulders dropped slightly, as if in defeat, his words seemed to echo hers before he could help them, “Not right now.” It wasn’t the exact same phrasing, but he had a feeling it was the same sentiment. Though now there were new questions. What next? If not now, would they ever? If not Grayson, then who? The last question hung around, a biting reminder that she was not the first one who walked these halls she’d been engaged to, maybe out of obligation rather than the same chivalrous impulse of a boy in love, but for a moment, that had been reality. It was that reality he felt now, threatening to push forward from it’s resting place in the past and haunt their bodies in this empty classroom, but he said a quiet prayer to himself, and let the worries die.

Cherry loved him. She wouldn’t go back to Amos after all that had happened since.

He sighed at her hand in his hair, letting it calm him a little and in turn, he broke a kind of bare, apologetic smile. He couldn’t ask the necessary questions. His teeth moulded shut, waiting for her to break down the next wall if it had to be done. He clenched his hand into a tight, thereputic fist and then released it behind her back to keep it from shaking. 

[cherryburbage]

“Not right now,” she agreed, the ticking of a distant clock seemingly slowing in her head. It helped knowing they were on the same page, that he was just as worried as she’d been, just as overwhelmed, cornered by the two decisions. If they postponed, her parents wouldn’t wait; the ring resting on her fourth finger would be exchanged for another, her hand offered to a different man, though she was unsure of who that would be. After the compromising position his mother had found her in, the chances seemed unlikely that it would be Amos or anyone else, if the information had circulated their community. They were a chatty bunch, Purebloods, breeding gossip like the plague. Her father’s reputation with the ministry had surely been tainted if Mrs. Diggory had spoken, but no such accusations had reached her ears as of yet.

It was one of her mother’s worries, of how it would be perceived, if she had ruined her chances of settling down and Grayson was her last resort, reaffirming her belief that he was doing her a favor, though their reasons differed. Gray was giving her an out, a chance to be with someone who knew and cared for her, but her parents saw it as reassurance; surely Charity couldn’t further ruin their name if she had been caught with her future husband.

It was an additional burden to her shoulders, a reminder whenever she seemed disinterested in the wedding planning, a weight held above loose golden curls, but for a moment, it was forgotten and she was able to breathe easily. She continued playing with her fiance’s—nee best friend’s hair, sighing softly as she did so, the same smile reaching her lips. “What now?” she asked curiously, unsure of the answer herself. Was it over, would they persevere, work through their fears or grow more distant the closer they were to the wedding? “I don’t want to lose you.”

The words were added selfishly; he deserved more, but certainly better than the current circumstances. A proper relationship, engagement, wedding and white picket fences, somewhere far from his family and where they lived, a fresh start. And every word uttered through apologetic lips were further keeping him here. “But I know that’s not fair.”

[graysonward]

He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Charity like this before. It was more than just emotion or stress, it was a particular mix of responsibility and expectation that neither of them had to face before in such a staggering magnitude such as this. They were adults by the law, but only just. It wasn’t fair that everything fell on their shoulders so quickly, and it wasn’t fair that if he couldn’t marry her right now he might lose her forever, and it wasn’t fair that Caroline wouldn’t be there smiling at the both of them at the wedding when his parents would be. It wasn’t fair how proud they would be. 

And Gray, how would he be, standing alone, waiting for Cherry at the alter? Would he be as blissfully happy as he wanted to be, in the midst of a perfect day? Would the idea of loving her for the rest of his life be tainted by the small voice in the back of his head that wanted to reject something about this scenario for selfish, emotional reasons. Reasons that could be written down but not smothered out like oxygen from a flame. 

She was right, of course. He didn’t have to marry her. But making that a decision was not supposed to be something he had to make yet. And that was the heart of the issue. If he could only marry her in three years, if it was only about him and her, he would sleep well. With a heavy sigh of some kind of a relief at her touch, he dipped slightly to kiss her cheek before pulling her into a hug he had a feeling they both needed at the moment. 

He didn’t talk for a few long moments, wanting to get the most out of the kind of gentle intimacy he’d been so without sitting straight upright at the dining room table at home, or else hunched over his notebook at his desk or his bed in the dead of night. 

“You don’t have to marry me either. If I’m… if it’s not what you want.”

[cherryburbage]

Cherry stayed silent in the same fashion, letting his words sink in for a moment as he held her, her eyes falling closed. She shouldn’t have hesitated, should have been able to respond back quickly at the inquiry, that this was what she wanted—that he was what she wanted, to love and to cherish, till death did them part. But they were seventeen and weddings had quickly gone from festive event planning to prison sentences. She was marrying the man she wanted, but too quickly. They needed time to themselves, to see if the relationship could weather both happiness and difficulties without the added stress of an ultimatum lingering above their heads.

Wasn’t that what it was? If not Grayson, it’d be Amos, if his parents were still willing to accept Cherry into their family, though the chances of them doing so seemed rather slim. And if not him, she was sure her parents would find some other gentleman willing to wait at the end of the altar. And she hadn’t wanted that, the notion that her future and marriage were disposable, capable of being pushed onto the first person deemed fit by her family’s standards. It was why Gray had offered his hand, ready to rescue her from the circumstances, unaware of the consequences that would befall them.

She wanted this, but not right now, not when their relationship had been more engagement than dating, when they had hit fast forward on everything. The wedding wouldn’t be till after they’d graduated, but the months would pass quickly. A few years, some time to solidify their relationship, was what was needed, but not warranted, and she would give everything to pause this moment just as it was: silent, with his arms secured around her waist, before the beginning of a difficult discussion.

“I love you,” she reiterated, finding it necessary to say, opening her eyes and meeting his. “I want this, just…” A promise, a pause, loose fingers reaching into his hair as she tried to piece together an explanation. “Not like this.”

[graysonward]

There weren’t good signs, she was right. It was in his nature, however, to want to deny that fact, to push it far back and smile, make a goofy joke, and move on with his life. But they were too far past that point. He couldn’t avoid the reality of their situation anymore. He couldn’t avoid looking her in the eye, though for a moment he tried, head bowed in some kind of guilt or discomfort or sadness. It was more difficult hearing the truth spoken out loud than simply keeping them in his head, even writing them down on the pages of his journal.

At her words, he glanced at his hand, noticing the ink smeared there for the first time. He hadn’t realized how messy it’d gotten in his haste. Taking a second look down at himself, he noticed fully how much of a mess he looked right now. Shirt half untucked from his run up the stairs, coffee splotches scattered across his right side, not to mention his bag, which was a mess in of itself. He brought a hand up to his hair to pat down his curls just in case they were acting up too. He didn’t need a hair crisis on top of everything else. 

“I miss you too,” His eyes wavered from the floor he was tempted to keep his gaze tied to, and her eyes. He made a real effort towards the latter, to have her know he was speaking honestly, speaking from the heart, speaking just for her in a way he just hadn’t in so long. “I don’t like it. I mean, you know, I don’t like not knowing if you want me near you, or not having the time to be with you when I want to be. I don’t like not knowing you, Cherry, I’m supposed to know you. I mean you’re my best friend, you’re my… ” He stuttered slightly at the end, tripping over his own mouthful of words. 

[cherryburbage]

With his eyes trained on the floor, she found the courage to face him, to take in his appearance, her gaze falling over seemingly insignificant details. His shirt untucked, curls a mess, the small remnants of his morning coffee staining his clothes. The ink along his skin matched the rings around his eyes, both endearing and worrisome. Grayson had a habit of not sleeping, of staying up at all hours of the night penciling his thoughts to paper, continuing till he was able to reach some probable fix or fall asleep. And she wondered what he was writing about, what concerns had met the edges of his journal pages, but he was unable to speak aloud. Was it her or their engagement, his parents or the loss of his sister, a culmination of everything that had occurred and the pace they continued to move, too quickly, too soon? In different circumstances, his disheveled appearance could have earned a smile, the clumsy attire and his sleepy state, the way he murmured her words back in agreement, but here, they were signs of concern.

Her lips pressed together as she attempted to maintain her composure. She was tired, shoulders heavy with weeks’ worth of stress, but she couldn’t cry; she’d already stormed out of the great hall, tears were an additional element she didn’t need. It’d add to his emotions and she didn’t want him to feel guilty; they were both at fault here, too young for proper reactions at the impending marriage. Marietta’s words looped through her head as she looked at him, reminding her that she’d been so lucky, but she’d started to wonder if her luck had run out.

She took a step forward as he stammered in his speech, reaching towards him as she cupped his cheeks in her hands, resting her nose to his. “You’re mine too,” she barely breathed out. “And you still would be.”

A pause, a stutter in her speech, another vain attempt to keep her emotions in check as she held him dearly. “We—we don’t have to do this,” she offered quietly. “You’re my best friend and I love you, but…you don’t have to marry me.”

[graysonward]

There was a short winded moment, a crackle in the radio silence that had stretched between them recently, where all he could do was draw his lips together in a thin, sad line. Bad between them. Things were bad, weren’t they? They were certainly worse than he’d ever anticipated they’d be this soon. She wouldn’t have run from him if things were good, and if things weren’t good, well, in a very binary world of strict opposites, they would have to be bad. 

And it brought an unsettling feeling to his stomach, one he knew would hit him eventually. He could avoid it as much as he wished with distraction and scrawling angry words at the drop of a hat, but these were only diversions from the anxiety that settled in at the signs he saw – she didn’t want to marry him, did she? At least not right now. The invasive thoughts were like hailstones, small, painful, and melting as soon as they reached the warmth of his skin. He could think rationally about this, that she’d been the one to ask to define the relationship, that she’d been engaged to someone else not so long ago, that she could have made other decisions if thats what she wanted. But there would be no way of settling the storm in his gut unless they had a real conversation. His skin crawling with the desire for a way out of a difficult conversation, he fault his own instincts and grabbed her hand instead, pulling her with him as he headed across the hall and up the stairs.

It was a very long, steep climb up the marble steps to the first landing, but he took them two at a time, his grip on her hand loosening in fear of making her trip as he hurried up the stairs, but he hoped she’d keep up. Once there, he spotted an open door to a deserted classroom and headed straight for it, waiting for her on the other side of the door. They needed privacy. They needed to be able to cause scene without fear of being overheard and starting gossip. As he stood, coffee dripped feebly from his bag every so often. 

[cherryburbage]

There was coffee spotting the stairs, she noticed, dripping from his bag as she followed him up the case. His movements were quick and urgent as he pulled the blonde along, potentially misleading to the other students. A couple rushing towards the dormitories seemed to hold its own connotations, though it was furthest from the truth. She wasn’t sure where they were going or what he’d wanted to say, but understood the need for privacy, of holding this conversation away from the public.

She couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken her hand, finding reassurance in his grip as they continued to climb the steps, something to hold onto and fall back on, keep her steady if she was losing balance. It was metaphoric, a small inkling of what she’d needed over the course of their engagement, but the moment she’d considered the comparison, his hold loosened, and she was unsure of what the change meant.

Overthinking was not uncommon; with the silence between them, she’d had to make up for his end of the conversations, trying to rationalize every problem to a T and then reconsider them again, reassessing the situations and various factors before growing tired of the internal dialogue. Interpersonal interaction was needed to a point where she—or they—had both been losing sleep over it. She’d mentioned that she couldn’t do this, that she couldn’t sit across from him and continue acting as if things were well between them when he was hesitant to hold her and she felt intrusive in agreeing to his suggestion. She couldn’t smile and make small talk the way she would with her parents or continued their old patterns if there was something else bugging him beneath the surface.

Having reached the classroom, she was the one to step away from him, putting distance between the two as she stepped further into the room, letting him close the door behind them. She was the one who’d started the conversation originally and would need to do so again, but was unsure of where to start, quietly reiterating the words she’d mentioned earlier. “I miss you,” she admitted. “I see you and we speak, but we’re not really talking about anything. You’re not sleeping and you’ve got ink smeared half way across your arm, and neither of those are good signs, but together? I—what’s happened to us, Gray?”

[graysonward]

He wasn’t awake enough to fully comprehend her when she spoke. He blinked to show recognition, but there was a delay between her words and understanding what she meant. Even then, what it that was too hard? What made her run from him now, before he’d finished even half of his cup of coffee? He only knew what he felt – the fears, the doubts, the uncertainties, but there was a particular wrenching in his stomach as she began to walk away, her words offsetting her actions just enough to make him wish he’d reacted fast enough to grab her hand across the table before she was too far to reach.

The wish was not for nothing; he half began to reach, but all he managed to do was knock his coffee cup aside, running down the table towards the bench. It missed where he sat by inches, but ran down the side of his bag, seeping into the inside pocket. Cursing, he clumsily got up from the table and shook his bag. There wasn’t time to figure out just how much damage he’d done – feeling worried and embarrassed he left the cup sideways, coffee dripping meagerly onto the bench still, and hurried after the quick step of the blonde. 

“Cherry –” He spoke with urgency. He was too far for her to hear unless she was listening for his voice, but he hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to them than he already had with his blunder. He didn’t need prying eyes in this moment as he tread towards some uncertain fault. She was a few steps ahead of him, but he kept her in his sight as he caught up with her just outside the Great Hall, finally placing a hand on her shoulder. He wanted to pull her towards him, secure and untroubled, but he hesitated. What was wrong with him?

“Love, stop, where are you going?” 

[cherryburbage]

She didn’t flinch at his touch.

It was one of her concerns as she walked out of the hall, sure that he would follow quickly after, though she hadn’t hoped that he would. She felt dramatic, embarrassed, wondering if they’d made a scene, but her head was going a mile a minute. Should she have stayed, tried harder, let him enjoy the caffeinated beverage he so desperately needed? Was she really that selfish?

She’d stopped just outside the hall, moving away from the doors in the direction of the tower, but unable to go further. Could you go back after having left, would that add or lessen to the burden of the emotions she was feeling? Did she wait for him to catch up to her or should she assume that he wouldn’t follow after?

His fingers curled around her shoulder was reassuring, silencing the many questions she’d seemed to be pondering and forcing her take another breath. He didn’t pull her close, she noticed, but she’d ran at his suggestion, leaving them even. “I-I don’t know, the tower maybe,” she answered, finally facing him, her hand running through her hair, generally aware of the other students in the vicinity, exiting or leaving the hall. She lowered her voice to compensate. “I didn’t think things would ever get this bad between us.”

[graysonward]

To say everything had happened in a whirlwind would be a grand understatement. It was hard to know where to begin cataloguing it all, and more than likely impossible to face with a fully level head. So much had changed already in the past weeks, and with his rising agitation, he found a particular change in his relationship beyond their surface level conversations. The honeymoon phase, it appeared, had ended shortly after the engagement. 

It was normal, healthy, even, to taper off this perception of perfection, the constant endorphins, the rush of new love. But the timing was just off, so when they slipped from their fantasy back into reality, they were pulled deeper into the real world than they’d wanted. And the result was a kind of experience so vastly different than before. Of course, he’d always be himself, carrying her up the stairs on a whim, but they were tired in their own right. They’d begun to address themselves as separate entities again, and it was ironic as their situations were so closely tied to become as distant as they had. 

“Taffeta? Oh god, say it isn’t so! Truly not!” He mustered all the dramatics he could with the sun hours away from zenith and managed a kind of shocked drawl. Another sip of coffee, which had cooled, and he did acknowledge a kind of placebo effect taking place, his mind slowly feigning alertness. “I wonder what kind of dream omen that would be. We could go to the library and look it up. Get your mind off dresses.” It was a sort of volley, more honest than they’d been, but he had a feeling she wouldn’t miss that he hadn’t elaborated on his rough night. 

[cherryburbage]

His dramatic nature was something she usually enjoyed, but felt misplaced in the current conversation, less genuine and more for her benefit, a reaction that should have smoothed over the weeks’ worth of distance, but made her miss him more. This wasn’t them, this awkward conversation and inability to find the words to fix whatever each person was dealing with. They could and would keep trying, but somewhere a wall had been built between the two, and removing the bricks would take some time.

“We could,” she agreed, the words immediately followed with “but I don’t want to take up too much of your time if you’re busy.” Her expression turned rigid in response, unsure of the sentiment she’d relayed as a sigh escaped her lips. This wasn’t them, she repeated; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d find him difficult to spend time with, but she found herself saying, “I-I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” and lifting herself from her chair.

Her cup abandoned on the table top, she gathered her things, preparing to leave. She was running and guilty, tired and lonesome, wanting nothing more than to have a decent conversation with her friend if they could manage one. It was uncharacteristic of her, their house, and their relationship, with Cherry usually the one too stubborn to walk out, fighting to continue whichever conversation she’d pulled Gray into, but now needing an out.

It was both too early and too late for cold feet; the ceremony was months away, but she needed some semblance of normalcy between them and instead, she worried. Would he resent her for his decision, was she clear in her assurance that he didn’t need to do this, did she tell him she loved him enough?

She paused in her movements, her bag slung over her shoulder as she paused to look at him, an apologetic expression set in her features as she mumbled, “I miss you” before turning on her heel.

[graysonward]

He loved her. It was obvious. It was in his eyes when they had life in them, his smile when it lay proudly along his lips, the way he moved around her when he wasn’t so lethargic, when his shoulders weren’t slouched and knotty. His smile, as of recent, was a hard curve, and his eyes were closed whenever he had the chance. He still loved her just as much when it wasn’t emanating from him, but he wouldn’t deny it if he found himself accused – he hadn’t been the best boyfriend lately. 

It wasn’t just the fact that they spoke less often, it was that they spoke less honestly. Their banter had always ceased when necessarily to make room for conversation that mattered, but now it seemed to carry on until conversation stopped all together. If deeper talk surfaced, they gave half answers. He found himself finding ways to change the subject, force a smile, and move on. But he wanted to badly to just talk to her, to sit down and not feel forced to be happy. 

It’s not that the idea of marrying her didn’t make him happy, because it did – but it wasn’t how he’d seen it happening. Certainly not while they were in school, certainly not when they had been together for such a short amount of time. But if the alternative was letting her go, he’d find a way to be happy with the way things were. 

And this he repeated to himself twice a day. 

“Like a rock. No, sorry, like I’m being pelted by rocks. That’s what I meant.” The smile from before still remained, but it was dry now, stuck there too long to mean anything.

[cherryburbage]

The realities of marriage seemed to contradict the muggle stories she’d read, not accounting for war and unfaltering parental opinion, nor the nature of an arranged relationship. This could have been better handled, starting with the original proposal, the folder handed to her over tea. She could have taken the time to consider it, to ignore the shaking of her hands and flipped through the information, stayed present in the conversation and met him, at the very least. Maybe then, her and Gray would have been in a better place—though the possibility seemed unlikely.

She’d considered far too many times, of saying hello in passing and asking about his interests, a friendly conversation in comparison to what their parents had wanted, but the possible first steps towards it. She could have given Grayson an out more quickly, letting him decide this was what he’d wanted in a timely fashion and by his standards instead of what had transpired, all while making her parents happy. But instead, she’d been impulsive, acted too quickly, and has asked that they labeled their relationships, only to reconsider it now.

If she lifted her head, her gaze would fall passed the dark curls on her fiance’s head to the table behind him, and the boy she’d find seated there, but she kept her eyes on Gray’s hands and the ink spotted against his skin. She wasn’t cheating, but worried, that she had pushed too far and was ultimately going to lose her best friend.

“Painfully then,” she mused, knowing the feeling all too well, unable to recall the last night she’d spent sleeping all the way through. It seemed like this was the first piece of honesty she’d received from him in a while, the realization bringing a soft, but ill placed smile to her lips. “I think every time I’ve tried, I’ve wound up with nightmares about taffeta,” she added honestly, feeling brave enough to move away from the previous banter. “You would hate all of the dresses I’ve seen so far.”

[graysonward]

His mug was full, and he was grateful for that much. He needed small comforts like that to stay together at the seams. A full coffee mug could go a long way these days on a boy so very tense and sleepy. That is what he was after all – just a boy. He had years, but not quite enough to make him the man he was supposed to be when engaged. Not that he’d spent that much time imagining the kind of person he’d be when engaged, but in passing, he imagined he’d be able to at least grow a decent beard if the situation demanded. 

The smile remained around his lips at her quip, hanging there like clothes on a line, easily disturbed by a passing breeze. He reached for a glass pitcher of milk and tipped it towards his drink. 

“Ah, yeah, but turns out I need it to survive. Did you know that? Seems like someone should have let me in on the big secret.” He reached for the sugar in it’s ornate little bowl, charmingly archaic in a way that cast the teenagers in stark comparison to their surroundings. He’d always found the contrast a bit funny. 

Settling into his chair, he removed the bag from around his body and sat it next to him on the bench. From the outer pocket, his journal stuck out where he’d shoved it quickly, and he pushed it back inside to make sure it didn’t fall out, before looking up at her. Journaling meant something to him, but would she know that? It was easy, with their recent radio silence, to forget how well she knew him. A good foundation for a marriage, he thought to himself, and then decided not to think anymore.

He focused his eyes downwards, following the steam with his eyes as it rose and disappeared, and then took a sip. It was hot – not enough to burn, just enough to sit uncomfortably on his tongue, and he grimaced as he set it down. “Hot,” he managed, shaking his head. “Turns out I’m too stunning for any more beauty sleep. It just doesn’t…” As if on cue, he stifled a yawn. “It doesn’t fit.”

[cherryburbage]

“I think I was meant to, but didn’t out of spite. I’m still bitter about that tree house.” It was easy in some ways to fall back into their usual habits, to joke and jest around the other person and feel at ease, able to ignore their impending marriage for a few brief moments or do the opposite, acknowledge it, reassure themselves that it wouldn’t be so bad. Marrying your best friend, wasn’t that the dream? There were others in worse scenarios, who weren’t given a choice in their betrothed, and here Cherry was worrying over marrying her best friend. She could hear the sentiments relayed in Marietta’s disapproving tone, reminding her younger sister of her good fortune, of how things had worked out.

And there were moments where it’d felt like that, like she couldn’t have gotten luckier or been any happier, that Gray was the only person she’d want to start that journey with. He was the one person who would understand her family and do what he did and then continue to stick by it, no matter the consequences. He was selfless—a trait she’d often admired, but seemed to question as of late. If he was a lesserman, he wouldn’t have proposed, but if he was, she wouldn’t have loved him the same.

The proposal was meant to give them more time, but everything seemed to be moving in fast forward, their parents eagerly awaiting their trek down the aisle and it’d gotten to be too much. She’d see him often, but still missed him, missed their past conversations and relationship before everything had become so complicated, but there was no rewind button, nor pause. All they could do was continue to move forward and hope that things would slow down.

“I don’t know, it seems like you could use it,” she teased, her humor fading for a moment as she asked seriously, “Have you been sleeping properly?”  She was his fiancé and best friend; the concern easily finding its way into her tone as she studied him, wanting to reach across the table and take hold of his hands. There was a need there to hold him, to lift the weeks’ worth of burdens and be honest about her concerns, to have him as someone other than her equally frightened boyfriend so she was able to discuss her issues without delving into his if he wasn’t comfortable.

[graysonward]

If I haven’t listened to his advice anytime in the last seventeen years – Grayson left ink stains across the parchment as he dragged his quill, hand moving too quickly to lift the point off the page of his journal – than what makes him think I’d listen over a glass of mulled mead at the dinner table? 

Moods like this didn’t happen often for the young Ward, the sort of moods that empty bottles of ink, moods that force him to take a seat against the cold hallway floor, pull his knees up to his chest, and get the first entry of the day in before noon. But a certain calamity had taken over his train of thought recently, and it was impossible to endure silence without unsolicited aggravations and it seemed the pages of his journals were the only place he could get siphon the thoughts away and shut them in tightly until he was willing to handle them. 

It was worse at home than at school. At home, he had to sit across from his parents at the dinner table and listen to them lecture and embark every bit of advice they’d forgotten to share with him his entire life over three courses. It was suffocating. The words spoke of him as an adult but the tone was always the same. Condescension. A sort of “you’ll understand when you’re older” smile shared between his guardians, though he was only on speaking terms with them out of necessity these days. 

At school, there was schoolwork to distract him, but the constant bombardment of letters and arrangements to be made made it difficult to stay distracted once he managed to get there. The tappings of owls’ beaks on his door often woke him in the middle of the night, ruffling their feathers once he groggily let them inside to perch on his nightstand. He’d taken to bringing back a plate of assorted food that would keep well until nightfall up to his dorm to give them a snack for their journey back. It wasn’t the birds fault they were employed by the spawn of dementors. 

He got his thoughts out on the page and then closed the book, shoving it back into his messenger bag before gathering his bearings again. Breakfast. He needed coffee desperately – a huge mug of steaming coffee with enough sugar to kill him slowly. Coffee, sugar, peace, and quiet. As he walked through the doors, however, he caught a pair of eyes. Cherry. A smile came to his lips, but it was weak with the sleep still dragging at his muscles. He turned his stride towards her, taking an open seat across from where she sat at the Gryffindor table. 

“Morning.”

[cherryburbage]

It wasn’t a good morning, but she said it all the same, a smile easily fitting her lips at the sight of his expression, though stinted with a bit of concern, noticing the familiar signs of insomnia that were reflected in her own appearance. She’d done her best to mask it, cosmetically altering her appearance to hide the wear of the last few weeks, but the emotional weight of what was happening was harder to hide; he knew her too well, knew the situation as well as she did, and was handling it just as poorly it seemed, though neither of them spoke of it.

She didn’t want to push, knowing she’d done enough of that just by having him admit his feelings and finding himself proposing not too long after; asking how he was handling his newfound relationship with his parents seemed like too much to ask. She was his fiancée but it was too personal, too soon, and she would much rather serve as an escape than speak on matters he wished to avoid.

Parents were a touchy topic; while she usually didn’t mind her own, she’d started to skip conversations that mentioned them, wanting some space from her mother’s consistent reminders and her father’s watchful stare. She was old enough to be married, but not pick anything for the wedding, to be someone’s wife and have them weary of her choice in husband. They had agreed, but had done so reluctantly and Cherry was starting to wonder if she should have gone with their original choice, but that was another topic she’d really not discuss.

She sipped from her coffee hesitantly, noticing the ink along his arm, the smile now slipping off her features. What would have been amusing to someone else was an item of concern; Gray was writing again and doing so hurriedly, and that was never comforting. But she didn’t ask about that either, offering instead, “I’m a little surprised to see you here. In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never once liked food.” Her tone was teasing, expression shifting once more to match the humor in her voice as the corners of her mouth curved upward. “Though, to be fair, if someone’s dragging you here, it’s usually because of the early hour.”