doing well/something
Location: Potter Estate Time: 14th of January, early evening Status: Closed, for @trustingpotter
“You don’t smoke, I assume?”
From the moment Edgar had met James Potter, he had known that there was great potential to be found in him. There was creativity, there was wit, and there was hope. But more importantly, that thing that had drawn Edgar’s attention to the young man, there was fire.
Untamed, sometimes out of control, occasionally even dangerous. But fire. And while Edgar himself had always taken the backseat in all this, watched and listened and only whispered ideas and suggestions into the ears of those with a voice, he was not someone who didn’t care. Not someone who thought ‘taking it easy’ was an option. All those who knew him a little better were aware of the unspeakable tension within him, always about to burst out and tear him apart. So while he himself exerted a great amount of control over every word, every action, yes, even every thought of his, he didn’t look down at those who didn’t. The only people he disdained were those who gave up before trying. Those who refused to find answers and solutions. Not those -- never those -- with fire.
Even if it was misplaced at times. And Potter’s fire had been misplaced. Some people had been fairly fed up with him, saying he was starting to believe Potter was too immature to be in the Inner Circle. But Edgar had raised the argument that there was nothing mature about being able to lean back and let bad things happen. On the contrary. Pure obedience and mellow indifference had no place in a war. So when the news about Ryland had broken, and Potter had so easily crafted a plan, calling all those into action who could help while other might’ve wanted to see how things evolve first, make sure the news weren’t a trap, Edgar had given it a quiet nod, reassured to see that Potter could indeed be trusted.
It was five days later now, six almost, and Edgar had just learnt that Ryland was going to move out of the Estate. He felt terribly cold, then. “Mister Potter,” he therefore called, when Potter walked past the room he was in. Rising to his feet, his mouth opened to speak, closed again. A clear sign of the strangling tension inside of him, at least for those who knew him somewhat better; in his pockets, his hands were knotted into tight fists. “It’s been a while since we talked, hasn’t it been?”
