clashed.
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| x | date and time: 23rd October, 2025; morning location: Transfiguration classroom mentions: @Alphonse Toussaint speech πΌ thoughts |
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XXπΏhis was the first day in nearly two weeks that Violence woke up before the sun. The sky outside her window was only just beginning to blush, a tired orange washed thin across the horizon. The air felt colder than usual, sharper somehow, as though the castle wanted to remind her that she was still here, still breathing, still existing after everything. She lay there for a long moment, eyes open, staring into space. The events of the ball buzzed around her like wrackspurts, clinging in stubborn, useless clusters. No matter how hard she tried to shake them loose, they stayed, humming against her skull with the same manic persistence as before.
She had hoped the break from classes would help, that a little space would give her room to forget or at least push things aside. Instead, the quiet gave her too much time to think. Too much bloody silence. She had turned everything over in her head until her thoughts felt worn thin and frayed. What sheβd done, what she didnβt do, what she thought she understood, what she must have misread. All of it, knotted into something that only grew heavier by the day. She was more broody now than she had been the morning after the ball, which she hadnβt thought was possible. It felt stupid to still be this stuck, but there she was. Still stuck.
Eventually, after far too many pep talks in front of her mirror, she forced herself upright. It was pathetic how long it took. Her feet hit the floor and she walked towards the wardrobe, soft steps echoing faintly. She pulled out a sheer top, a black tank and her favourite black cargos. It wasnβt a glamorous ensemble but it made her feel like she could actually function. Sometimes, that was enough. Good outfits were armour, and she needed something between herself and whatever the day was going to throw at her.
The shower was supposed to help, though her thoughts battled there too. They melted and tangled, hot steam curling around the mess. It all narrowed down to a single rule: do not think about the ball. Not today. Which, of course, made her think about it even more. Memory shoved itself forward anyway, eager and cruel, replaying itself over and over. The way her heart had felt too full. The way sheβd walked away without understanding why her chest still hurt. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine stuffing the entire night into some box at the back of her mind. She pictured it shut, locked and buried somewhere she wouldnβt find it. Somewhere she couldnβt find it.
To push herself away from the memory, she imagined the mansion in Lavenham. Quiet yet lively hallways and polished wood. A touch of marble. The safe solidity of her parents in the kitchen or debating over letters. Warm light spilling across rooms she knew like the inside of her palm. The memory was comforting in ways the castle never managed to be. For a moment, her body loosened. She even smiled. A tiny, fragile smile. Water ran along her shoulders, trailing drown her arms like someone sketching new lines onto her skin. It gave her a strange sense of control, as though each droplet was collecting whatever energy still lived inside her back beneath her ribs. She let herself believe that the water could rinse her of everything she didnβt want to carry. It was a pleasant lie.
Waking up early meant she could claim the bathroom longer, and she did. Half an hour vanished and in that time she repeated her mantras, fed herself borrowed confidence, scrubbed her hair until her fingers ached. Only when she felt steady enough to stand without folding did she drag herself out again. Steam followed her like a ghost. A welcome ghost. She dressed quickly, patting her hair dry with more force than care, then reached for her clothes. She put on her starry silver earrings and gave herself a quick do-over in the mirror. Her gaze drifted to her timetable, barely clinging to the wall beside it with a weak piece of tape, βI need to fix that soon.β The fixing would be done, eventually. Probably.
She gathered the books she needed for the day, shoving them into her bag with distracted efficiency. A bottle of water. Quills and ink. A handful of not-so Every Flavoured Beans because sheβd spent an entire bloody hour picking out the horrible ones. Beeswax. Beef something. Burnt celery. Hers always had more weird flavours than normal, for reasons the universe refused to explain. She also grabbed the homework that was due, though she didnβt feel as sure about it as she pretended to. She rested her hand on the knob of the dormitory door and inhaled, βeverything is going to be fine.β She repeated it over and over until the words stopped sounding like language. Then she stepped out.
The corridor was already lively. Students drifted from their rooms, adjusting robes or fits, muttering about timetables. Avina stood out, waiting for her. She had Potions today; Violence had Transfiguration. They hugged, quick and tight, barely making any small talk, before going their separate ways. The doorway out of the common room made Violence straighten. It felt like walking through a barrier between who she was privately and who she was required to be. All those etiquettes and mannerisms she had picked up from her mother and fatherβs body language and the way they spoke at home and in front of others slipped into place like second skin. Chin lifted. Spine lengthened. Steps measured. The old version of herself, flawless and composed, took over with a chilling reflex. It was impressive and exhausting.
By the time she reached the fifth floor, her body was tense enough to crack. Anxiety seeped through her again, slow and sour. She didnβt know what they were studying. Had no idea which topic they were on. She had missed too much. Her stomach twisted, and she frowned at the corridor, suddenly unsure if coming to class was a good idea. But she couldnβt skip forever. That only made things worse. She knew that.
Her mind raced. What if the professor asked where sheβd been. What if people looked. What if everyone stared at her like sheβd done something unforgivable. Her thoughts spiralled, ugly and relentless. She rolled her eyes at herself, chin dropping. She hated that she cared so much about being perceived. It made her feel ridiculous and small.
She tried to imagine the perfect scenario. Sheβd slip into the classroom behind some tall student, invisible. She would take a seat at the very back where no one bothered to look. She could exist quietly. Listen. Take notes. Pretend she hadnβt been gone at all. Maybe she could make herself look like sheβd always been there. Maybe everyone would be too tired or too distracted to care.
She glanced over her shoulder, checking whether anyone else was nearby, hoping she wouldnβt have to walk in alone. Her neck strained as she looked down the corridor, almost desperate for someone to appear so she could tail them. The emptiness answered back. Her hands clenched inside her sleeves. This would be fine. She kept telling herself that. But a tiny spark of doubt flared beneath her ribs. What if sheβd made the wrong decision coming here at all. The thought stayed, bitter and heavy, as she stood outside the classroom and let her pulse thunder quietly against her throat.
She swallowed and tried to feel brave. She didnβt. But she stayed where she was anyway. For now, that counted. And she made herself believe it.
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| XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX | wc: 1,283 notes: Avina is Vi's bsf, a dnpc outfit | x |
