Lorgan looked affected down at her, his eyes liquid as she questioned his intentions. It was a kind of affected that didnât straightaway look simulated, but there was some sort of detachment in the way he was pursing his lips together, skeptically, as if the conversation they were having didnât reach to him and wasnât in any way challenging. Perhaps it helped that Lorgan Nott wasnât the person to expose much truth on his face and do anything that would denote his thoughts. He stayed silent for a minute, his gaze though intense enough to capture Daisy and let her know that it wasnât the time to turn on her heels and walk away.Â
âI wonât make sure of anything for that requires concern.â Lorgan finally retorted, a blunt voice coming out of his throat, more severe than the honeyed words he spat to that point. He didnât like that she dared to imply that he would be the one responsible for becoming a proper house elf, once and for all. In his mind, he was above the Domini who raised their wands to carve holes into the Serviâs beliefs, hopes and dreams. In his mind, he was reasonable and fair, and what he was doing to Daisy wasnât psychological torture, slow and sure, but a simple form of entertainment in a moment of weakness.Â
âDonât be ridiculous. I donât hurt people. Iâm not going to.â he repeated his thoughts, no longer focused on the Servusâ every move, as he was sinking deeper and deeper inside his head, trying to analyze his prior behavior and get something - anything at all - out of it that would demonstrate to him, Daisy and everybody who ever hears about the incident that he is better than those who cast Crucio instead of sharp words. âStop looking at me with sparkly eyes and if youâre about to cry, donât.â
Was he weak for stopping it so suddenly? Would that be the sort of sign of weakness Rachel was showing as a child that he didnât? Would his father raise his wand at him, like he did to his sister, because he kept his in his pocket? To fix him? No. He was strong enough to know when to stop so he could still be able to label himself as civilized and wise, making choices that, in the long run, benefit him and his own opinion on himself. He was in control. He didnât allow himself to lose it. He was strong.Â
He sighed, coming into his senses. âTell me, Daisy, does crying help your friendâs case? Is weeping because of a first year beneficial in any way? Any way at all. Letâs be logical for a moment, you and I, alright?â
Daisy laughed. She laughed and laughed until she allowed the tears she had kept to herself finally break free. Just as she had reached her breaking point, he found himself doubting whether or not his course of action was cruel. They did not know cruelty. The likes of him would never know cruelty. Daisy knew that despite being born with silver spoons in their mouths, their lives were far from perfect. Theyâre mothers, fathers, grandparents were not warm as hers had beenâ but they would never know cruelty. And they would never know love. They no longer knew the difference between what was a bit of fun and what could destroy someone. Perhaps they saw the two as synonymous. It was all a product of their fucked upbringing.
She did not care that her crying made him uncomfortable. She needed to show him that what he thought he had wanted, was not something that he could stand to see. He wanted to break her. That was something that he had shown her. She did not doubt that it was his intention from the start despite the fact that he claimed otherwise. Daisy would let her tears flow freelyâ it was the only way she would come out of this victorious. He may have made a crack on her carefully constructed walls, but she would gladly let him see through them if it meant she would make a dent in his. If he was going to break her (she knew somewhere deep down he would succeed eventually), she wanted to change him in some way too.Â
âYou donât hurt people?â The tears continued to stream down her cheeks and she simply refused to wipe them way. Her laughter grew louder, more bitter. âI suppose you donât. We arenât people to you are we? You said so yourselfâ weâre nothing, I am nothing. My sparkly eyes should not bother you in the slightest, sir.â
Lorganâs sigh brought her back to reality. Her tears continued to flow in a slow, but steady stream but her maniacal laughter had ceased. She wanted to run, wanted to become invisible like she usually was, like she always had been until he decided to take notice of her. She looked him straight in the eyes again as if she were trying to see through him. She needed to understand why he had done this to her and why he was suddenly struck by what she could only interpret as a guilty conscience. She refused to alleviate him of his guilt. She may have accepted her place as a servus, but she would not allow him to hurt her more than necessary. She would not be able to take it.
âCrying helps no one,â âbut meâ she wanted to add, to say that it was a weapon. She wanted to explain to him that crying made others uncomfortable and sometimes it was the only way she could stop those like him from hurting her. And sometimes the reverse was true. Sometimes her tears served as a reason to hurt her more. He had made the mistake of verbalising his discomfort. But it allowed her a small victory. She wanted to show him that even though their war was fixed, even though he was destined to win in the end, she still had these small moments. But doing so would enlighten him and by doing so she would condemn herself to losing all battles in the future. âLogic has always been my friend, but we donât always listen to our friends.â
