There was an old adage Francis had heard one too many times as a Slytherin: âThe ends justify the means.â And though he believed there was an importance to rules, in following them for the safety and preservation of order, sometimes, only sometimes, rules were far too primitive or restricting, and they needed to be broken. For Francis, breaking these rules came down to one simple rule of thumb: is it for his life, or Robertaâs? If so, the rule in question was of little importance. If not, there was no reason to stretch himself so thin. To that regard, Francis had been breaking Hogwarts rules for years in order to brew the potions he fostered in an attempt to find a cure for his tuberculosis. It had made sound sense to sneak out of the Slytherin dungeons the night before, when the moon had settled its argent-silver glow over the viridescent lake, that which hung its murky waters over the Slytherin common room. It was the only occasion Francis seemed to have time to check on his potions as of late, what with his constant trips to the infirmary and the ever-present eye of Hogwarts staff. He couldnât delay his trips any longer than twelve hours at most; potions work was a fickle thing. One moment, the liquid was bright and dazzling like diamonds crushed to dust, so full of life and energy that Francis was sure, absolutely and positively sure, that it was his cure. The next, it was a nauseating, roily brown, bubbling over the rim of his polished gold cauldron   a gift from his grandparents   and burning a hole on the desk in which it sat.
But of course, any time a rule was broken, there was a consequence. The night before was not the first time Francis had been caught sneaking about, but it was the first time he had been caught so close to the entrance of the room that his heart had stopped beating in its chest, so close that fear had driven out all of his reasoning and replaced it with trepidation and tension and fear. When the professor whoâd caught him asked Francis what heâd been doing, he had hastily explained that heâd needed the calm fresh air of the outdoors, that being bedridden for so long was driving him mad, that it was all so unfair that he couldnât be granted such freedom. With little surprise, the professor believed Francis, and only gave him one detention; a warning that the Inferi were roaming the grounds, that it was no longer safe to go about as he pleased. The professor had also offered to accompany him if he ever found he needed fresh air in the future. Francis had hated himself for the entire situation, for using his illness as an excuse for his misbehaviour, for using the kind nature of the professor against them, but what other choice did he have? As the saying went, the ends justify the means. If Francis didnât lie, he would have been caught   his hard work, all of the toiling and the energy spent over his potions   wasted. So he lied.
Detention wasnât too unbearable. His physical condition eliminated any possibility of gruelling labour as punishment, thus allowing him to use magic to do the usual cleaning other students hadnât the luxury of. Francis had expected much the same when heâd entered the classroom his detentions began in, settling himself into a seat without audience, producing his wand from his robes so that he could polish it to a nice luster as he waited. Francis kept his eyes down, only flitting to the window next to him every now and then when the blur of a bird caught his attention. He loved them; envied them, even. Birds had the freedom to go anywhere they chose, while he was ankled down in a cage. What he would do for a pair of wings. Francisâ thought was abruptly disturbed as the caretaker in charge of detention clambered into the room, holding a bottle of varnish and a bundle of rags. His eyes skirted over the caretaker, though, instead narrowing in on the head of glossy hair in front of him. No, it wasnâtâŠFrancis only barely listened to the instructions being given, considering himself a veteran to the particular punishment of polishing the schoolâs various candelabra. He instead focused his attention on Isla Black, and his numerous reasonings as to how she, of all people, had found herself in detention. With him.
He hadnât seen Isla since the infirmary, nor had Francis tried to find her. Their argument, if one could call it such as the fuse was relatively short-lived, had left him at a loss for words. Francis wasnât accustomed to being reprimanded, certainly not with the venom Isla possessed, and he was uncomfortable with how much he had wanted it. Francis was no masochist, but there was something real in the way Isla had spoken akin to nothing else, certainly not in a way he had ever been treated before. A way which held no pity, no condemnation. It took Francis a fine few moments to realize that the caretaker had stopped talking and placed the cleaning equipment on top of Islaâs parchment, Francis heard them speak of a change of plans, whatever that meant. The caretaker left Francis with a map outlining the rooms they were to clean for the afternoon and departed shortly after, leaving the two of them quite alone in the large room. Francis frowned as he stood up, looking over the map and its various locations with a grim resolution. He was used to being in a bad situation; this was simply the extension of one. Francis made his way to where Isla sat and held up the map. âThe farthest spot is in one of the eastern towers⊠I say we start there, and clean our way back.â He paused, uncertain. Francis could sense her displeasure at the entire situation. There was an apology he was meant to profess somewhere, but he couldnât find it. âLook, the sooner we begin, the sooner you can leave. I promise thereâll be no whining.â
