Proditione PV Cel Finished

"Quid?"

That was only the first, partly shocked, very confused word that came out of Cel's mouth as someone had the indecency to slam her hands on the wooden table beside where she worked. Her pen raised in surprise, ink drying rapidly underneath the metal tip that hovered in the air. The tables were delicate things; nobody should want to risk fracturing their thin wooden tabletops, not to mention disturb them so that the letters scribbled hastily in her essay shook any more than they already did.

When she did look up to see who it was, already moving to set her pen--a novel idea that very few Purebloods liked to entertain, especially seemingly magical ones like her friction pens--to the side, she exhaled a sigh of relief. Tension, however, was reeled back in by the meter as she saw the expression on her friend's face. Ami looked... angry. A little voice in her head told her that that was a stupidly obvious thing to think. Another voice snapped back at it to shut up and go away. The prior was miffed, but obliged.

Cel frowned. "Ami, are you okay?" she began, but no sooner had the words made it out of her mouth that the Hufflepuff snapped at her a single word--proditor. The most basic word that translated directly, or at least mostly directly, to traitor. Ah, so Ami was mad at her. And... why, exactly? Clearly Ami felt betrayed, comparing her to the likes of Benedict Arnold and such. But what exactly had Cel done to bring this upon herself? A strange feeling, that was what this was. It was like guilt, but she herself didn't know what she was guilty about, just that she didn't like seeing her friend upset, especially if she had caused it. How, exactly, she wasn't sure.

"I'm still American," the young Ravenclaw grumbled under Ami's barrage. "Literally. My passport says so, anyway." Perhaps not the best time to bring up technicalities. Ami hadn't actually said that Cel wasn't American, just that she was less American. That didn't really make sense, except it did a little. Cel was a little offended, but it was true. And... most likely she was over-analyzing this, just like she did whenever she was presented with a confrontation.

...Yeah, she was definitely over-analyzing this.

Respond. That was what she had to do. There had to be some mistake, some misunderstanding... was this about the pen she hadn't returned? No, people could be silly, but probably not that silly, especially the ones that she dared to deem friends. Ami wouldn't be this worked up over that one pen. "What--what--Ami, what are you talking about?" Maybe not the most gentle response for someone in a bad mood, but Cel was both puzzled and aghast. If it didn't get cleared up quickly, it would probably only get worse. "Whatever it is, um, I'm sorry about... it, and it can probably be reversed?"

There, the first thing to do: apologize. Perhaps a bit poorly delivered, but it was done. Usually when Svana yelled at her, the thing she did wrong would be made clear right at the beginning, so she had little experience for apologizing for something unidentified. Oh, she was no fool; the girl knew full well that apology would not be the end of this conversation. Her mental self was running fingers through her hair at this point, repeating one very confused and slightly irritated phrase over and over: what the frick?

At least she'd gone by her stepmother's words. It usually worked to calm Svana down quickly, though sometimes it, uh, didn't. And of course, Svana and Ami were extremely different people, but people were still people, and both of them were mad at her because of something she did wrong. Betrayal, apparently. Did she... lie about anything of consequence recently? Hurt one of Ami's possible friends? Accidentally trash something? Cel racked her brain in earnest, trying so hard to remember something, anything, but... nothing presented itself. Hmph. There went her plans for a couple hours of good, high-quality, peaceful essay-writing. The glow of satisfaction as she went to bed would probably soon be replaced by the hollow feeling in her stomach. This was going to be a long night.

Dictum, factum.

So much for working out her social predicament slowly and rationally. The temper before her was as far from rational as she would have liked it to be; practically smoking from the ears, actually. Cel drew her arms in, shoulders stiffening just shy of imperceptibly, brow furrowing in both confusion and fear, spooked enough for her hand to wander toward the belt that used to be constant on her hip. It was no longer there, of course, but she had yet to learn the reflex of going for her wand. This was going to be an uncomfortable conversation, to say the least.

She picked up on the name change immediately. Yup, she was definitely mad—what a useful thing to know now. But what exactly was she missing...? Ah. Gray. Not Celynne, or Flores, or whatever else would replace her usual nickname. Gray. Could that be what this was about? For the hundredth time this year, the girl considered her and her family's decision to keep the story quiet. Not that she regretted it or anything, but it was making her do a lot of explaining, and explaining—well, that was something she didn't like to do very much. But was that even any more than tangential?

Did that even matter?

The young Ravenclaw allowed herself a long, non-mental sigh, hands going up to tear through her hair in anxiousness, gut clenching uncomfortably. Maybe the hands weren't even there for her hair. Maybe they were there so that they could be in a defensive position, closer to her face, directed away in her memory that that wasn't... necessary? Was it? It never had been before, with anyone she'd allowed to be her friend, but the anger and betrayal and rage in the redhead's eyes—she'd seen it before, only once, only that time it hadn't been sober.

Because the furious, condemning madness that was in the closed fists, the hard brow, and the double-edged voice was completely sober, completely valid, and maybe getting a glass bottle thrown at you wasn't so bad compared to the shards of sentences that slid so carefully into her heart, her mind, her nerves. And she was afraid.

Oh, she tried. I don't understand, she tried to say. I didn't know, she tried to insist. I'm sorry, she tried to cry. But when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. Her vocal cords failed her, her tongue failed her, her diaphragm failed her... and her mind failed her, as it never had before. She was... not prepared for this situation? No, no, she'd never seen it before. What was happening? Her... her family, summer... brother... parents?... what... journey? What, what, what?

What the frick?

Then the scars came out. Cel's jaw dropped with an audible inhale, just loud enough to be heard in the beat of silence that followed. Raised skin, hypertrophic... those would have to be... second degree? Third, maybe? She followed the burns up until they disappeared under red hair and over shoulders, mouth closing but eyes narrowing in concern and... confusion. What a familiar feeling these days. Wait, but—

Dorian did this?

Had her mind been fully functioning, she would've reasoned through it like a rational human being. If Dorian did it, what did it say for her? Was anything actually her fault? Was Ami's argument valid in any way at all? No, actually, she thought of every reason listed. But certainly she wasn't thinking straight, because even with logic on her side, Cel's mind was on autopilot, because as blank-faced as she could look, she most definitely did have very human emotions. She just never knew what to actually do with them, especially when they were splitting her mind into pieces.

Only when the Hufflepuff had stood, spoken and egressed did she regain control of her vocal cords, though her diaphragm still barely responded to her wishes. Her skin felt cold, her throat felt strange and dry, her head hurt a little. A couple of seconds passed, her head lowering to the parchment forgotten in front of her, a little glazed over, not quite seeing it. "I'm sorry," she mouthed, and then the tears finally brimmed over.

egressus

Exit a visibly distrubed Ami.
we love a good, short, kind of useless reply.