A Common Day
OC: Date and location (subject to movement) to be determined by @Matthew Campbell.
A common day for Gideon Athanatos looked, to most people as painfully ordinary.
Gideon woke before his dormitory mates in the burrow that they called the Hufflepuff dormitories, not with an alarm, but with the quiet certainty that morning had arrived. Gideon rose slowly, careful not to disturb the symmetry of the room. He chose to rest near older students whom have taken a liking for him such as @George Henry, whose bed Gideon sometimes shared under the claim that he was 'scared' or 'had a bad dream.' It reinforced the illusion of vulnerability he maintained and ensured that he did not sleep in the same place night after night.
When Gideon slept in his own bed, his bed was made with unnecessary precision: corners squared, blankets smoothed flat, pillows aligned just so. He owned an array of stuffed animals, but like most things, they were not what they seemed. Hidden deep within their stuffing was his secrets. He dressed in layers that made him look smaller than he was: oversized jumpers, sleeves too long, collars tugged up around his throat. While the clothes were rarely wizard robes unless he was in class, the mis-sized often foppish attire was deliberate. People were kinder to boys who looked breakable.
Gideon left the Hufflepuff dorms early, often early enough that the corridors were still half-asleep. Portraits murmured. Suits of armour clicked softly as he passed. Gideon acknowledged none of it. He walked like someone who already knew he was being watched and had decided it didn't matter.
Breakfast in the great Hall was taken inconsistently. Some mornings he sat alone at the end of the Hufflepuff table, picking at toast, tearing crusts into neat strips. Other days he didn’t eat at all, claiming he had eaten something earlier. When Gideon did drink, it was always from sealed bottles or untouched cups that he seemed to briefly assess before he used. Never shared pitchers, no refills. Anyone paying attention might notice that pattern. Most didn't.
In class, Gideon was unremarkable by design. He sat in the middle of the class, not the front or the back. He always had a quill and his text on hand, he paid attention enough to never stammer if called upon but never made eye contact or shown enough interest to be unnecessarily called upon.
Gideon asked polite questions. He smiled at professors. He earned decent marks without excelling enough to draw scrutiny or praise. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, he listened too closely. In Herbology, he handled dangerous plants with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. In Transfiguration, his posture slouched, but his wandwork was precise, almost clinical. he was paying attention, probably could have excelled more than he was presently but he preferred to remain in the middle of the crowd rather than the front.
Between lessons, Gideon wandered the school. Not aimlessly, never aimlessly. He favored corridors with fewer portraits, staircases that shifted unpredictably, alcoves where sound died strangely fast. He lingered near noticeboards, reading announcements that didn't concern him. He paused near groups of students without joining them, absorbing tone and body language like a study. He knew who avoided whom. Who flinched. Who followed. He did not take notes but if anyone watched the one who watched, they would observe in his expression that he was dedicating his observations to memory.
If he was followed over a few days, there would be some notable variation. It was not daily, in fact far from it, but there were certain students and professors that he would cross paths with at different times on different days. He would stop in front of his sister in law's class as it ended session in time to see her exit. Never the same class, nor the same day or time. A few professors, he would pause at a place where they socialized, where Hufflepuff Prefects commonly patrolled. Was it just chance? Was anything chance when it came to Gideon Athanatos?
If someone followed Gideon, they would notice that he never looked back even if they had made a sound that would have alerted them to their presence. Regardless of how well or poorly they pursued him, Gideon frequently adjusted his pace just enough to stay out of reach or be passed over. He might duck into the library for ten minutes, then leave through a different exit. He might stop abruptly to tie his shoe, forcing the follower to either reveal themselves or overshoot. If whoever followed him was careful, very careful, they might remain unseen. Gideon allowed for that possibility. Sometimes, he even encouraged it. It was a game to him.
Lunch was more predictable. Gideon sat with acquaintances, never friends. He did not have those, nor did he make any effort to change this. He laughed at the right moments. He listened more than he spoke. If gossip turned cruel, Gideon didn't start it but he never stopped it either. Occasionally, he added a comment so mild it sounded harmless, yet somehow sharpened the knife already in play. To most Gideon was an amiable, quiet boy with a young, innocent face and a powerful family name. There were some, several in fact, that knew better, but their claims suffered dissonance when placed against the facade he maintained for the rest of the world.
Gideon's afternoons varied. Sometimes he attended club meetings he barely participated in. Sometimes he vanished into unused classrooms or stairwells that staff rarely patrolled. Sometimes he spent hours doing absolutely nothing visible at all, sitting on a windowsill, watching the grounds, counting birds, tracing patterns in the glass with one finger.
As evening fell, Gideon became quieter. Dinner was optional, sometimes to-go. Study sessions were selective. He wrote letters that were never signed and burned drafts that never left his desk in his dorm. When night settled fully over Hogwarts, he took long walks under the pretense of clearing his head. He knew which prefects were lax. Which routes overlapped with curfew checks and which didn't. There were a few instances he was caught by an eagle-eyed Prefect, those served as learning experiences. To learn, failure was necessary.
By the time he returned to the dormitory, Gideon looked like every other tired student: soft-eyed, yawning, harmless. He climbed into bed, not always his own, turned his face toward the wall, and lay still. Regardless of where he rested his head, he didn't sleep right away.
And if someone had followed him all day, if they were clever, patient, and very quiet, they might realize something unsettling: Gideon Athanatos never did anything unnecessary. Not a step. Not a word. Not a single part of his day was wasted.
A Common Day
Date: December 1stIt had been a whole month since the harrowing expedition into the forbidden forest and its disastrous consequences that loomed in the air in bad taste. Time passed cruel and slow, like each second was a tick against his heart and a reminder of the binds he had sealed himself to, but each moment was also an opportunity, and one that the young snake had not put to waste. The target was in his crosshairs and while Gideon Athanatos was a calculated boy of rituals and decisive action, he was in no way predictable. It took a month of study to even understand the basics of the complex nature to which he was created, and even still Matthew had barely scratched the surface. Yet, all he needed was a window, and miraculously he believed he had found one.
The Athanatos brood had no lacking in danger or darkness, and paranoia fed off them like it was etched into their souls. Everything consumable was poison or tampered, people were props to be used or discarded, and life was a game of which they were the predetermined victors. Thus with such delusional obsessions Matthew found it contradictory that when the boy was being followed he never once let the ruse of their stealth be caught. Campbell was not idiot, the Athantos' liked games but Gideon required them like sustenance. No doubt he had known of the slytherin's pursuit, no doubt he relished in it. After all, that was the plan, you see obsessions are a dangerous flaw in all creatures, for what draws passion of you births hubris.
That, was Matthew's intention. Sometimes he would be as covert as the shadows themselves and merely take note of his routes occupying a distance that Gideon only further ensured. Other times he would pretend to lose him as he ducked into alcoves or the shelves of the library. On very few occasions Matthew would even allow himself to be seen, divert his route to work in opposition of his prey and then with haste disappear. It was not unlike what he had been doing the previous year after their spat in the dungeons. Matthew didn't want to believe it, he had done everything he had to ensure it, but he was drawn to the gold haired devil in a way he dared not delve. It was desire, for what he wouldn't say, but desire nonetheless, and Gideon knew it. Those piercing eyes had seen sight kinship in his own and the hags had only proven as such.
A whole month of watching the prince had taught him much in the ways of observation, it had taught him to discern the world around him more poignantly as it moulded him closer to his target. Shaped him into the form Gideon desired him to be. Though that was not entirely true, for Gideon preferred his play things broken. Forging them anew could only be done from the ashes of their prior self. Thus Matthew would have to become something else in order to not lose himself to his deal, still unaware, unable to see, that it was an inescapable trap. Luckily Matthew was no stranger to breaking, and with his fathers silence and the knowledge that he had already signed away his life, he felt more than set. No ghostly visage had come to rescue him in his hour of need, and now the parents he did have couldn't even summon a reply. Unwilling to risk his friends he had to do this alone, so that Gideon may believe him isolated and ready to break. A mirroring of his story, the sought for one another's destruction would bring upon their own demise.
Knowing that Gideon had no doubt clocked his behaviour through the various degrees he had allowed and likely those he had not, Matthew set his plan in motion the weekend before December. After constant observation Campbell went rogue, opposed the rigid form of Gideon's pattern, shifted the rhythm he was no doubt getting used to. While the Athanatos heir may consider it an attempt to off kilter his balance, that was not his intention. From their first encounter Gideon had seemed invigorated by the nature of those around him, of what exactly made them tick and so Matthew took a bet that such a stark change would draw his attention or perhaps even his ire. Sullen, yearnful glances would still linger and then hastily retreat in the halls and at meals but he would specifically avoid his pathing.
Then on the Sunday evening as students paraded around the great hall gossiping and fantasizing about the start of the winter season, Matthew fled the crowd. There was no way to know if Gideon would take the bait, if he would follow but it did not matter as this was more symbolic for the snake himself than his marked. With a month of constant vigilance and acceptance of his new leash he had to make a change, he had to start a new. With his wand in hand he ventured to the edge of the forest once more, the place he dared not enter again. Placing two objects down in the snow-kissed dewy grass he let go of the past and embraced his future. Whispering to nothing but the wood in his wand "Anathema Daphnis" he watched as his mother's journal and the amber ring he had not parted with in years took root and began to transfigure themself into a small tree sapling. A holly tree.
If Gideon followed he could easily untransfigure the plant, taking the items, merely observing them and their meaning, or even burn the whole thing entirely. If not, the deed was done regardless, Matthew was ready and his plans would be enacted as soon as the first December sun lit up the cold snap of winter frosted air. Something so simple, that it couldn't possibly fail. Matthew's task was to break Gideon, to infiltrate his heart and carve it from the inside out. He was to be ruthless, to take things too far and then push further. But that was not his way. Matthew was not born cruel, perhaps he could be made to be, but perhaps there was another way. A choice that would end with them both broken but at least make it real. It was time to see if thee Gideon Athanatos was actually capable of love, and to test that same theory on Matthew Campbell.
Their meet-cute would occur before the hallowed halls of Hogwarts had barely begun to awaken. When the portraits were begrudgingly arising and no one but prefects and firsties were bothered to lug themselves out of bed. When the morning sun was just beginning to rise upon this new day, shining light on the new beginnings of the boy. Hastily making his way down the steps towards the kitchens and secret entrance to the Hufflepuff common room that Isa had revealed. Their eyes met. Mid step he did not hold the same sad longing in his eyes but his face did betray him in other ways. They had not been this close in months, certainly never as close as they were in the atlantis cabin. Stumbling on the stone stair he felt himself begin to fall as all time seemed to slow while a collection of letters were flung skyward all decorated in stunning cursive.
Scattered across the ground between them, envelopes with all manners of names from students to professors crashed across the space. One gleaming slightly brighter than the rest, its gilded ink reflecting with sheen of the torchlight. An envelope addressed to Gideon Athanatos, the boy who was now close enough to touch, but not close enough to break. That journey was only just beginning.
Interacting with @Gideon Athanatos
| Nikolai Volka // "Light, light: do not go | I sing you this song and I will sing another as well." // Matthew Campbell |
A Common Day
A month. @Matthew Campbell sure does take his time.
In a month, Matthew would learn things about Gideon. Small things that seemed too deeply ingrained to be part of a fabricated persona. That his sweet tooth was real, that he regularly sent letters to Koldovstoretz and that he had an actual appreciation for beauty that went beyond his foppish, princely attire.
Other facets of Gideon's personal would be confirmed. He tested people. Not overtly, but enough for Matthew to notice. An accidental cut to see how someone reacts to pain. A compliment to see how they respond to praise. A moment of silence to see who fills it. Gideon studies people like puzzles.
Gideon did not notice Matthew following him at first. But paranoia defined this family's perspective of the world. Gideon believed he was being followed regardless, if not by a rival among the student body, then one among his family. Gideon was someone raised to either crack or become a vessel. His game, as exhausting as it was, continued on the whole of November. When Gideon first noticed Campbell, it was in the library, then the corridor, then outside of a room he had pretended to linger in a bit too long. It did not matter if Campbell was following him or if it was a coincidence, the difference was nugatory. All things came in groups of three, good, bad, and strange alike.
During the month, what did Matthew see in Gideon? Prey? A conquest? Himself, the parts about himself that he hated reflected back, warped? Matthew had gotten himself into an impossible game. He had chosen a target that deserved it, or so he had come to believe. But Matthew saw himself as a killer, Gideon as a boy who played cruel games. Who was the real monster here? What drew Matthew was more likely the cruel intimacy of the matter of their shared destruction. That he would crack Gideon open and find something there - be it good, bad, strange or nothing at all. That he would let it burn, and likely burn with him.
Gideon had always liked mornings like this. Before the school stirred. Before the world resumed pretending. The corridors were still half-sleeping, the portraits grumbling and stirring in their frames, and magic… raw and soft, just under the surface, like skin before the bruise.
The sun would not rise for at least another hour. In that time Gideon had preened before the mirror, finding robes tailored within an inch of arrogance to don. Deep garnet velvet, high collared and slightly flared at the shoulders, like he expected to sit somewhere more important than the Great Hall for the morning meal. The fabric shimmered faintly when it caught the firelight, embroidered with thread-of-gold in a pattern that might, to the trained eye, resemble coiling thorn-vines. Beneath the outer robe, he wore a fitted tunic in midnight blue, belted at the waist with a silver chain that bore a single charm: a lion devouring a snake: a private joke he was not ready to explain. His trousers were pitch-black, snug and creaseless, tucked into high, polished boots with too much shine for morning and not a centimeter of heel.
Gideon tried to look small, a failing endeavor since his growth spurt two years ago. He was short for an Athanatos, but he still met the eyes of most of his peers when he stood to his natural height. Gideon Athanatos embarked on this day like any other, in a facade that made him appear as someone else, the person he wished the world to see. Wealthy and soft, childlike yet non-threatening. The sort with the means one would wish to divert so they would keep him in their circle, but young and weak enough that they believed that they were in control. Gideon wore the role of student the same way he wore his grief, his power, and his madness: perfectly fitted and entirely false.
He had expected to find Matthew Campbell there of all places, the kitchens. [Query: Did we need to move this thread?] He caught the light in Matthew's hazel eyes, a glimpse of something he did not recognize. Stumbling on the stone stair, Matthew would fall and Gideon would not attempt to catch him, more curious how gravity would pull him to the stone.
Gravity was for lesser things: apples and ash, bodies without magic, children who were told the sky was out of reach. It was a narrative written into the bones of the world, a scientific law. He knew where gravity ended and intent began. That is why Gideon stood on ledges others tiptoed near. Why Gideon leaned from high places without fear, as though his bones remembered and savored these moments, this time before the fall. People feared falling. Gideon feared falling for nothing. To fall because one was weak, that was predictable. To fall because of love, tiresome. But to fall with purpose? To fall and bring the heavens down in the process? That was a symphony.
Matthew Campbell had fallen with purpose, not that Gideon had any way of knowing this at the time. A collection of letters fanned out on the hard, recently swept floor. Gideon's pale blue eyes glanced over the names, curious of the addressees. He recognized many of the names, but there was one letter that was unlike the rest. Was that intentional? A bit brighter. Was it his imagination? A trick of the eye? It did not matter because it caught his eye. Its' golden ink bore his name, Gideon Athanatos.
Gideon did not offer Matthew a hand to help him up, but rather he bent down to pick up a letter, not his letter. The paper looked different, he observed the difference in the parchment and nudged his with the edge of a letter addressed to another half-expecting it to burst into flames or let off an arcane spark. Not even a clever trap he thought to himself as he awaited the inevitable, assuming that never came he would then pick up the letter, pinched between his index finger and thumb.
"You are at the furthest possible point from the Owlery," Gideon commented, his voice light and sweet as he slipped the pair of letters into his robes.
House elves were busying themselves about the hearth, pouring great cauldrons of oatmeal into serving bowls. Gideon walked around the mess of discarded cards, or perhaps letters. "I was headed towards the grounds," he commented [unless you prefer here] to his former silent pursuer. "I saw what you had planted near the forest. You should know... holly is sacred to some of the old gods and a few of the new." A statement he was holding onto in case their paths did cross to tug him along. He was already walking away, unless stopped. "Protective. Purifying," his family's Greek roots also recognized holly as a symbol of rebirth, endurance, and protection, linked specifically to the cycle of life. Holly had deep cultural significance in his own family, not that he shared this fact verbally. "Terribly optimistic of you," his voice still the one he uses for common conversation, the facade.
Gideon continued to walk, not quickly. Matthew could easily follow the teen as he ascended the stairs. Towards not the Great Hall or even the common rooms which were behind him, but towards December. Towards the grounds and the curious tree on the edge of the corrupted wood, leaving Matthew in the corridor of scattered paper and slow, awakening flame: a battlefield disguised as a beginning.
In a month, Matthew would learn things about Gideon. Small things that seemed too deeply ingrained to be part of a fabricated persona. That his sweet tooth was real, that he regularly sent letters to Koldovstoretz and that he had an actual appreciation for beauty that went beyond his foppish, princely attire.
Other facets of Gideon's personal would be confirmed. He tested people. Not overtly, but enough for Matthew to notice. An accidental cut to see how someone reacts to pain. A compliment to see how they respond to praise. A moment of silence to see who fills it. Gideon studies people like puzzles.
Gideon did not notice Matthew following him at first. But paranoia defined this family's perspective of the world. Gideon believed he was being followed regardless, if not by a rival among the student body, then one among his family. Gideon was someone raised to either crack or become a vessel. His game, as exhausting as it was, continued on the whole of November. When Gideon first noticed Campbell, it was in the library, then the corridor, then outside of a room he had pretended to linger in a bit too long. It did not matter if Campbell was following him or if it was a coincidence, the difference was nugatory. All things came in groups of three, good, bad, and strange alike.
During the month, what did Matthew see in Gideon? Prey? A conquest? Himself, the parts about himself that he hated reflected back, warped? Matthew had gotten himself into an impossible game. He had chosen a target that deserved it, or so he had come to believe. But Matthew saw himself as a killer, Gideon as a boy who played cruel games. Who was the real monster here? What drew Matthew was more likely the cruel intimacy of the matter of their shared destruction. That he would crack Gideon open and find something there - be it good, bad, strange or nothing at all. That he would let it burn, and likely burn with him.
__________
Gideon had always liked mornings like this. Before the school stirred. Before the world resumed pretending. The corridors were still half-sleeping, the portraits grumbling and stirring in their frames, and magic… raw and soft, just under the surface, like skin before the bruise.
The sun would not rise for at least another hour. In that time Gideon had preened before the mirror, finding robes tailored within an inch of arrogance to don. Deep garnet velvet, high collared and slightly flared at the shoulders, like he expected to sit somewhere more important than the Great Hall for the morning meal. The fabric shimmered faintly when it caught the firelight, embroidered with thread-of-gold in a pattern that might, to the trained eye, resemble coiling thorn-vines. Beneath the outer robe, he wore a fitted tunic in midnight blue, belted at the waist with a silver chain that bore a single charm: a lion devouring a snake: a private joke he was not ready to explain. His trousers were pitch-black, snug and creaseless, tucked into high, polished boots with too much shine for morning and not a centimeter of heel.
Gideon tried to look small, a failing endeavor since his growth spurt two years ago. He was short for an Athanatos, but he still met the eyes of most of his peers when he stood to his natural height. Gideon Athanatos embarked on this day like any other, in a facade that made him appear as someone else, the person he wished the world to see. Wealthy and soft, childlike yet non-threatening. The sort with the means one would wish to divert so they would keep him in their circle, but young and weak enough that they believed that they were in control. Gideon wore the role of student the same way he wore his grief, his power, and his madness: perfectly fitted and entirely false.
He had expected to find Matthew Campbell there of all places, the kitchens. [Query: Did we need to move this thread?] He caught the light in Matthew's hazel eyes, a glimpse of something he did not recognize. Stumbling on the stone stair, Matthew would fall and Gideon would not attempt to catch him, more curious how gravity would pull him to the stone.
Gravity was for lesser things: apples and ash, bodies without magic, children who were told the sky was out of reach. It was a narrative written into the bones of the world, a scientific law. He knew where gravity ended and intent began. That is why Gideon stood on ledges others tiptoed near. Why Gideon leaned from high places without fear, as though his bones remembered and savored these moments, this time before the fall. People feared falling. Gideon feared falling for nothing. To fall because one was weak, that was predictable. To fall because of love, tiresome. But to fall with purpose? To fall and bring the heavens down in the process? That was a symphony.
Matthew Campbell had fallen with purpose, not that Gideon had any way of knowing this at the time. A collection of letters fanned out on the hard, recently swept floor. Gideon's pale blue eyes glanced over the names, curious of the addressees. He recognized many of the names, but there was one letter that was unlike the rest. Was that intentional? A bit brighter. Was it his imagination? A trick of the eye? It did not matter because it caught his eye. Its' golden ink bore his name, Gideon Athanatos.
Gideon did not offer Matthew a hand to help him up, but rather he bent down to pick up a letter, not his letter. The paper looked different, he observed the difference in the parchment and nudged his with the edge of a letter addressed to another half-expecting it to burst into flames or let off an arcane spark. Not even a clever trap he thought to himself as he awaited the inevitable, assuming that never came he would then pick up the letter, pinched between his index finger and thumb.
"You are at the furthest possible point from the Owlery," Gideon commented, his voice light and sweet as he slipped the pair of letters into his robes.
House elves were busying themselves about the hearth, pouring great cauldrons of oatmeal into serving bowls. Gideon walked around the mess of discarded cards, or perhaps letters. "I was headed towards the grounds," he commented [unless you prefer here] to his former silent pursuer. "I saw what you had planted near the forest. You should know... holly is sacred to some of the old gods and a few of the new." A statement he was holding onto in case their paths did cross to tug him along. He was already walking away, unless stopped. "Protective. Purifying," his family's Greek roots also recognized holly as a symbol of rebirth, endurance, and protection, linked specifically to the cycle of life. Holly had deep cultural significance in his own family, not that he shared this fact verbally. "Terribly optimistic of you," his voice still the one he uses for common conversation, the facade.
Gideon continued to walk, not quickly. Matthew could easily follow the teen as he ascended the stairs. Towards not the Great Hall or even the common rooms which were behind him, but towards December. Towards the grounds and the curious tree on the edge of the corrupted wood, leaving Matthew in the corridor of scattered paper and slow, awakening flame: a battlefield disguised as a beginning.
A Common Day
Date: December 1stWith a month of preparing, came a month of assumptions of all the countless ways this endeavour could fail. It was the fallacy of his mind to steer towards failure, a trait he knew he had to squash. Success wasn't just crucial, it was survival. So as his eyes fell on the well manicured character in front of him in his bold bright colours and ever-present shroud of mystery a small sigh of relief parted his lips that the bait had been taken.
The game had officially begun, the first battle in the war was being fought and Matthew refused to be foolish enough to believe they both did not know it. Gideon was nothing if he was not methodical, a silent observer, a subtle interrogator, able to draw information you didn't even know was sought behind the misdirection of questions and that casual soft voice. Concealing the poison that swirled within his veins behind the façade of innocence. But then so was Matthew, two wolves in sheep's clothing. In another life they could have been a disastrous pair by choice, but in this one they would be it by force of will.
With the letter exactly where it needed to be Matthew played coy with the mention of his mother's tree. Blushing slightly he found himself in a confused state, it had been his intention after all to be seen, but knowing that Gideon's eyes had been just as keenly tracking him was complicated to say the least. Matthew would have to control such senseless urges, would have to quiet the part of him that secretly wondered what the older boy thought of him. After all, it had been quite some time since they had last had a dalliance and it was hardly his finest moment. Such anger had driven him incoherent and his warring mind broke him free of any logic. That day he showed the venom he had, the venom he knew Gideon craved to surface.
Pushing up from the floor he scooped up the collection of letters hastily shuffling them into his bag before dashing after his invitation. A walk in the grounds was the perfect location, he knew the true Gideon wouldn't dare bare face without privacy, his teeth only came out to play when it suited him and if Matthew was going to have any shot he needed the true Gideon. Not the charade of innocence, who cowered his stature to seem small and laid all his words neatly so that they may seem desirable. The one who cut. Then perhaps he could find the one that lived within that mask.
Matthew did not believe anyone was born evil or cruel, he would not give anyone that pathetic excuse for justification. Hatred was made, it was condensed out of the harshest realities and while it could skew ones beliefs of their true self, it did not fully reflect. Like looking at yourself in the mirror and not recognising who you see, sometimes others have to show us who we can be. No matter the cost. So he followed along like the doe eyed shadow he had taken on this last month. Only this time he did not dwell in the hidden places but met him side by side, lingering on his words.
Protection and purification. If any place needed a healthy dose of that it was the forest. Matthew was not aware of the symbology, yet he was wholly unsurprised by the revelation. His mother was aptly named, and he supposed the act was purifying, releasing himself from binds he had prevented him from realising his potential. Prevented him from seeing that he was the power, that no one else would fight for him. It was catharsis and it was melancholy all wrapped up in the deep roots of the tree. As for the gods, Matthew had shared his fair share of cyptid beings for one term, though it was not the first time the Athanatos brood had mentioned these gods. His mission was to get close so where better to start.
For a while they walked in that silence, a strangely comforting presence running between them as he flashed curt stares towards the boy, wondering where specifically he would lead them. Then once they reached the crisp open air of that fine December morning he let his breath catch on it and felt his heart began to stop racing, when had that started? With the frosts sugar dusting covering the grass he let the light chill bleed into his trainers cooling him down and then broke the silence. "It wasn't intended to be optimism, rather the opposite, realism. Symbols are important, but I think I relied on them for too long, got lost in the truth that the only one who wants to protect me - is me." Pensive in his words he was intrigued by the truths discovered when spoken aloud. Like revealing a truth you didn't know you knew.
Breathing into the air a small cloud of breathe appeared in front of his face causing him to smile a little brighter. Growing up in Scotland meant the cold weather was a long time friend, an expectance that while somewhat unpleasant always spoke of home. Then with a look of genuine curiosity he asked, "These old gods and new, I can't say I know them. Being... what I am" Mudblood? the word echoed through his brain in distant torment, would Gideon refer to him that way, had he, averting his eyes he continued, "-being muggleborn, I can't say that I know of them. I remember at the wedding they were mentioned, it must be important to you. With how much you prod I wouldn't have easily thought you a religious sort." An observation, a hint that he saw beneath the guise. That he wanted to see him.
Still not yet a question, he would not force the boy to reveal things, he had to play him at his game. To make Giddy want to tell him. After a brief moment he paused in their tracks and shuffling his feet with an awkward sense of anticipation he spoke earnestly, "I wanted to say, that I'm not sorry for the way I acted last we spoke. You were a prick. Mess with me all you want, but leave me out of your brother's drama." The words cut him even to say, if only he had followed that lesson himself, such that a moment of genuine hurt flickered in his eyes as his mind replayed the lifeless form he fought and sacrificed everything for. Then in barely a whimper he asked, "How is he?"
Interacting with @Gideon Athanatos
| Nikolai Volka // "Light, light: do not go | I sing you this song and I will sing another as well." // Matthew Campbell |
A Common Day
Curiosity ached beneath the pocket where Gideon had placed the letter Matthew had 'accidently' dropped, a token to draw the enigmatic madman in. For all he knew, the envelope was empty, a decoy created for the purpose of drawing him in. A truth too simple for the ever-paranoid Athanatos. The letter left a phantom pressure against skin and bone. Not anticipation. No, "anticipation" was too clean a word; but that slow, gnawing itch that came from knowing something had been set in motion and for once Gideon did not know exactly what. Gideon wondered what the gesture truly contained. Anthrax, perhaps. Proof of some quiet sin. Or something far more interesting than death or disgrace. He intended to study the letter the way one studied a forbidden spell theory: annotated in the author's blood, elegant, damning, intimate.
The Hufflepuff had always seen something in Matthew Campbell, the rather average in most regards Slytherin youth, that others missed, and that more than anything was the pleasure of it. Matthew was not fragile even if he was the sort of small Gideon tried to appear to be; Matthew was volatile. He always had been, but in a world of haves and have nots, of those with legacy and those without, those with means and strength and power and those lacking... he has remained an unstable mixture forgotten on the burner. A device wired too tightly, pressure building year after year. He was meant to detonate. The only mystery had ever been when and who would be standing close enough to feel it.
Gideon did not hurry to the grounds. He never did when endings were involved. He let the moment stretch, let the air cool his lungs, let the forest remember him before he crossed into its attention. Had Matthew had chosen his stage with intent: the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where meaning clung to everything like frost? Or had he truly been foolish enough as to leave a psychic artifact within reach of the forest. If Matthew had not realized it already, he would soon come to recognize where Gideon was taking him. To a site neither had returned to since the holly tree was 'planted.' A holly tree stood there. A marker meant to signify an ending, or perhaps a transition. Certainly not a return.
"It wasn't intended to be optimism, rather the opposite, realism. Symbols are important, but I think I relied on them for too long, got lost in the truth that the only one who wants to protect me - is me."
"Untrue," Gideon said quietly. The tone, almost kind, but there was something underneath the single word. There was always layers with badger it would seem.
The tree came into view. But it wasn't the holly that mattered. It was the ground. The earth beneath Matthew and Gideon's feet crunched, but the topography here changed. Still a sound underfoot, but the noise was frozen and wrong. It should have been grass, uneven and wind-flattened. Instead the ground around the holly tree was choked with twisted roots and bramble, thorned tendrils creeping outward as though the soil itself had reached for the tree and refused to let go. A nest. A trap. A memorial that had decided to keep growing.
"You want to be alone," Gideon observed, his voice almost kind but never quite. "Probably to die." He paused, eyes tracing the brambles, the way they clawed toward Matthew's careful symbol. "Because nobody hates you more than you hate yourself." It was a familiar sentiment, one he knew well. He did not know the circumstances behind the symbol, nor did he know the genesis of the snake's self-loathing, only that it existed.
Gideon stopped a few paces from him, boots sinking slightly into the frost-bitten soil. He did not crowd Matthew. He never rushed the moment where a truth finished forming on its own. "That hatred," Gideon went on, voice low and even, "you think it's rot. A flaw. Something to be bled out of you so you can finally be clean. That people who do not deserve to be happy can finally be so." The teen tilted his head, watching for the flinch that always came when people were seen too clearly. "But it isn't." Giddy gestured faintly at Matthew’s chest, not touching. Just hovering. "It's power."
The forest creaked, branches flexing like knuckles attempting to make a fist. Gideon’s gaze drifted to the holly tree at last, its dark leaves glossy even in the thin winter light, berries bright as pinpricks of blood. Indeed, there it stood - deliberate, defiant, alive in a way that felt almost accusatory. "I like it," Gideon admitted. "it keeps its teeth when everything else goes bare. Because it hurts to grab." A soft, approving huff of breath left him. "Poetic. But you misunderstand what you made."
Gideon stepped closer to the tree now, fingers brushing one of the leaves. The edge bit him, a thin line opening across his skin. The badger didn't pull away. He let the blood bead. "You didn't plant a marker," Gideon said quietly. "You planted a conduit."
"These old gods and new, I can't say I know them. Being... what I am"
There was talk of gods. Matthew did not know them. "Good," he admitted.
"-being muggleborn, I can't say that I know of them. I remember at the wedding they were mentioned, it must be important to you. With how much you prod I wouldn't have easily thought you a religious sort."
"And what if I am?" He shrugged. "We all have our flaws," he sat down on the hard, uneven earth and opened his satchel. It was a rather well-made leather messenger bag, the sort that was usually seen on the glossy pages of magazines, not on someone's shoulder, but Gideon was among several other things, the picture of affluence. "Sit," his eyes never fully left Matthew but he made a show of looking through his bag as if he was temporarily distracted.
"Here," he passed Matthew a cigarette and pulled a second for himself that he would hold between his teeth. "Give us a light before you make whatever mistake you're planning and maybe have a drink," there was a thermos shaped like an orange, smiling cat visible in the bag. "The hot coffee is probably luke-warm at best, but warming all the same," there was something wrong obviously but exactly what would be conundrum left to solve. Perhaps the cigarette was poisoned. Maybe the coffee was the same stuff Mathias used to give Winnie. Maybe not. The problem with pretending to be social is the fact that there are social exchanges that occur, Gideon would know, he studied them well enough.
Lit cigarette or a distressingly cold one, he would recover the thermos and unscrew the lid. A confirmatory sniff, he would take an obvious sip of the contents before offering the canteen to Matt. That was the point of distraction and human interaction - testing tolerances, boundaries.
"I don't believe in the gods, but I believe in those that think themselves gods and expect to be worshiped the same," Gideon claimed.
If Matt took a drag from the cigarette, he would note it to be tobacco. That's it, strong, very cancer-inducing, tobacco. If Matt drank from the canteen, he would probably not notice the smell considering the cold and the coffee but he would notice the burn. The drink would burn the back of his throat and settle hot in his belly. It was pure whiskey with a splash of coffee for color and flavor in a cat thermos.
"So, tell me about the tree," his head nodded towards the holly feet away. "Holly doesn't grow on gentleness. It grows on grievance. On spite. On winter." He brought the thermos back to his mouth for a moment. "Magic for wizards is based on intention, powerful sentiment and of course the right words and flourishes," he observed and from what he saw - Matthew had planted a sacred tree that symbolized more than faith and endurance, but grief and spite. For once Gideon was missing a piece of the puzzle. A fact that would gnaw at him if he understood it truly.
Gideon planted his cut hand on the ground. The blood if unbandaged slid down his finger and darkened the frost at the roots. "Your hate keeps me curious and has an effect on the wood," he observed, unaware of the binding pact the mad Slytherin had made. Gideon paused, the brief silence heavy and intimate. "The trick isn't to get rid of it. The trick is learning where to point it."
Gideon was not prepared for one statement which left him confused.
"I wanted to say, that I'm not sorry for the way I acted last we spoke. You were a prick."
"Mess with me all you want, but leave me out of your brother's drama."
"Mess with you?" he echoed softly. "Matthew, if I wanted to mess with you, you'd already be convinced this conversation never happened." But he was messing with the snake a little. All the same, Gideon let the words hang and then tilted his head, considering the second question as if it were almost polite.
"How is he?" Gideon repeated, gaze drifting briefly toward the dark line of trees before returning. "Alive. Which, in my family, is already an achievement."
Then, lightly, almost kindly: "and don’t worry. You're already out of his drama..." He cocked his head, "you're in mine."
The Hufflepuff had always seen something in Matthew Campbell, the rather average in most regards Slytherin youth, that others missed, and that more than anything was the pleasure of it. Matthew was not fragile even if he was the sort of small Gideon tried to appear to be; Matthew was volatile. He always had been, but in a world of haves and have nots, of those with legacy and those without, those with means and strength and power and those lacking... he has remained an unstable mixture forgotten on the burner. A device wired too tightly, pressure building year after year. He was meant to detonate. The only mystery had ever been when and who would be standing close enough to feel it.
Gideon did not hurry to the grounds. He never did when endings were involved. He let the moment stretch, let the air cool his lungs, let the forest remember him before he crossed into its attention. Had Matthew had chosen his stage with intent: the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where meaning clung to everything like frost? Or had he truly been foolish enough as to leave a psychic artifact within reach of the forest. If Matthew had not realized it already, he would soon come to recognize where Gideon was taking him. To a site neither had returned to since the holly tree was 'planted.' A holly tree stood there. A marker meant to signify an ending, or perhaps a transition. Certainly not a return.
"It wasn't intended to be optimism, rather the opposite, realism. Symbols are important, but I think I relied on them for too long, got lost in the truth that the only one who wants to protect me - is me."
"Untrue," Gideon said quietly. The tone, almost kind, but there was something underneath the single word. There was always layers with badger it would seem.
The tree came into view. But it wasn't the holly that mattered. It was the ground. The earth beneath Matthew and Gideon's feet crunched, but the topography here changed. Still a sound underfoot, but the noise was frozen and wrong. It should have been grass, uneven and wind-flattened. Instead the ground around the holly tree was choked with twisted roots and bramble, thorned tendrils creeping outward as though the soil itself had reached for the tree and refused to let go. A nest. A trap. A memorial that had decided to keep growing.
"You want to be alone," Gideon observed, his voice almost kind but never quite. "Probably to die." He paused, eyes tracing the brambles, the way they clawed toward Matthew's careful symbol. "Because nobody hates you more than you hate yourself." It was a familiar sentiment, one he knew well. He did not know the circumstances behind the symbol, nor did he know the genesis of the snake's self-loathing, only that it existed.
Gideon stopped a few paces from him, boots sinking slightly into the frost-bitten soil. He did not crowd Matthew. He never rushed the moment where a truth finished forming on its own. "That hatred," Gideon went on, voice low and even, "you think it's rot. A flaw. Something to be bled out of you so you can finally be clean. That people who do not deserve to be happy can finally be so." The teen tilted his head, watching for the flinch that always came when people were seen too clearly. "But it isn't." Giddy gestured faintly at Matthew’s chest, not touching. Just hovering. "It's power."
The forest creaked, branches flexing like knuckles attempting to make a fist. Gideon’s gaze drifted to the holly tree at last, its dark leaves glossy even in the thin winter light, berries bright as pinpricks of blood. Indeed, there it stood - deliberate, defiant, alive in a way that felt almost accusatory. "I like it," Gideon admitted. "it keeps its teeth when everything else goes bare. Because it hurts to grab." A soft, approving huff of breath left him. "Poetic. But you misunderstand what you made."
Gideon stepped closer to the tree now, fingers brushing one of the leaves. The edge bit him, a thin line opening across his skin. The badger didn't pull away. He let the blood bead. "You didn't plant a marker," Gideon said quietly. "You planted a conduit."
"These old gods and new, I can't say I know them. Being... what I am"
There was talk of gods. Matthew did not know them. "Good," he admitted.
"-being muggleborn, I can't say that I know of them. I remember at the wedding they were mentioned, it must be important to you. With how much you prod I wouldn't have easily thought you a religious sort."
"And what if I am?" He shrugged. "We all have our flaws," he sat down on the hard, uneven earth and opened his satchel. It was a rather well-made leather messenger bag, the sort that was usually seen on the glossy pages of magazines, not on someone's shoulder, but Gideon was among several other things, the picture of affluence. "Sit," his eyes never fully left Matthew but he made a show of looking through his bag as if he was temporarily distracted.
"Here," he passed Matthew a cigarette and pulled a second for himself that he would hold between his teeth. "Give us a light before you make whatever mistake you're planning and maybe have a drink," there was a thermos shaped like an orange, smiling cat visible in the bag. "The hot coffee is probably luke-warm at best, but warming all the same," there was something wrong obviously but exactly what would be conundrum left to solve. Perhaps the cigarette was poisoned. Maybe the coffee was the same stuff Mathias used to give Winnie. Maybe not. The problem with pretending to be social is the fact that there are social exchanges that occur, Gideon would know, he studied them well enough.
Lit cigarette or a distressingly cold one, he would recover the thermos and unscrew the lid. A confirmatory sniff, he would take an obvious sip of the contents before offering the canteen to Matt. That was the point of distraction and human interaction - testing tolerances, boundaries.
"I don't believe in the gods, but I believe in those that think themselves gods and expect to be worshiped the same," Gideon claimed.
If Matt took a drag from the cigarette, he would note it to be tobacco. That's it, strong, very cancer-inducing, tobacco. If Matt drank from the canteen, he would probably not notice the smell considering the cold and the coffee but he would notice the burn. The drink would burn the back of his throat and settle hot in his belly. It was pure whiskey with a splash of coffee for color and flavor in a cat thermos.
"So, tell me about the tree," his head nodded towards the holly feet away. "Holly doesn't grow on gentleness. It grows on grievance. On spite. On winter." He brought the thermos back to his mouth for a moment. "Magic for wizards is based on intention, powerful sentiment and of course the right words and flourishes," he observed and from what he saw - Matthew had planted a sacred tree that symbolized more than faith and endurance, but grief and spite. For once Gideon was missing a piece of the puzzle. A fact that would gnaw at him if he understood it truly.
Gideon planted his cut hand on the ground. The blood if unbandaged slid down his finger and darkened the frost at the roots. "Your hate keeps me curious and has an effect on the wood," he observed, unaware of the binding pact the mad Slytherin had made. Gideon paused, the brief silence heavy and intimate. "The trick isn't to get rid of it. The trick is learning where to point it."
Gideon was not prepared for one statement which left him confused.
"I wanted to say, that I'm not sorry for the way I acted last we spoke. You were a prick."
"Thank you."
One does try.
One does try.
"Mess with me all you want, but leave me out of your brother's drama."
"Mess with you?" he echoed softly. "Matthew, if I wanted to mess with you, you'd already be convinced this conversation never happened." But he was messing with the snake a little. All the same, Gideon let the words hang and then tilted his head, considering the second question as if it were almost polite.
"How is he?" Gideon repeated, gaze drifting briefly toward the dark line of trees before returning. "Alive. Which, in my family, is already an achievement."
Then, lightly, almost kindly: "and don’t worry. You're already out of his drama..." He cocked his head, "you're in mine."
A Common Day
Date: December 1stThis was meant to be a game, Matthew knew that as well as anyone. Every thing he said had to be framed in the correct manner, the way he reacted, the level of diligence he gave and when to withdraw it and yet he was playing it without any notion of the real rules. Matthew Campbell did not grow up hiding his emotion, he was not one to stay firmly on the handles in serenity. The snake was reactive, he was emotional and he had little control to the whims of it all. So in spite of his need to master a game he had no foundation or clue upon, he crumpled at the first hurdle.
"Untrue." One word. One stupid word and all the attempts to hide his mind wavered. The blush rushed his face with such speed he surmised it must have taken up residence in his neck waiting for the moment. What did he mean? Was he referring to himself, did Gideon Athanatos actually care about him. Unlikely, absurd even, yet his face disagreed entirely. Still that moment of whirring thoughts would barely be allowed to rest a moment as they came to the holly tree for Gideon's next words were like daggers and yet they did not wish to draw blood, simply expose what lay beneath the surface and expose it did. Gideon talked with the kind of knowing clarity that revealed himself, revealed that he too had faced the thoughts he read from Matthew and for a moment it felt surreal. For Matthew knew that Gideon enjoyed causing pain, he sought it out, like a moth to a flame, but how much pain had he lived himself?
With words of happiness Matthew would flinch, but not only for the harsh reality of the statement, but the even more vital reminder that Gideon was the only path to him ever being happy. A path that had to see him break. A path he had made to save someone, yet had begun to suspect would sacrifice his humanity, if not another, in the process. Distracted by Gideon's admiration of the tree he couldn't help but feel that draw to him, the one he so desperately needed to suppress and yet was the key to getting close enough to the boy. The key to his soul. It was almost funny, Matthew had always grown up with the fancies of romance, he loved poetry, Shakespeare and Austin all with the idea of star-crossed lovers. Here two boys stood over a memorial, bound to each others souls and yet Matthew wasn't even sure Gideon felt that draw. It could've been a tale as old as time, enemies to rivals, soul bound connection, unrequited love, it hit all the markers, except for the one where some kind of hag demon had decided that the only way to not lose said soul was to break the others. At least Shakespeare would have loved it.
Though as they waited by the tree and Gideon drew his blood on the prickly leaves that would survive through any harshness of winter, Matthew listened in closely, a captivated audience listening to each linger of his words, of conduits, of gods. He had no idea why he had brought them up and for a moment he wondered if the subject was a mistake given the defensiveness it was met by. Yet perhaps that was simply the gilded badgers way, nothing was offered freely, so to do so had taken him off guard, to actually offer something of himself. Whatever had changed between them it was clearly not as one sided as Campbell had originally suspected. When told to sit Matthew knew there was little room for grudge and in truth he didn't want to offer any. Being the tempestuous sort he was not good at sitting still but here, in the place he had finally accepted his mother was gone, he felt calm, cathartic even. So he adhered though luckily Gideon distracted himself in his bag long enough to sneak an eye roll off at the commanding of it all. How a man with a satchel so pristine it looked out of a catalogue could command anyone was absurd, yet somehow it was within his power.
The offer was tantalising, not just because of who it came from, not just because of the rebellious nature of it all but a whole host of reasons starting with his dad would kill him for smoking and ending somewhere in the notion that all of this could so easily be poisoned. The Athanatos were perhaps thee most paranoid family he had ever met. No outside food, no outside drink, no outside anything unless it had been thoroughly checked, and here he was offering it. Everything in his heart told him to refuse, told him that this was a loaded gun he had been handed and with Gideon as its owner there would be no bullet missing for the Russian roulette. Whatever was laced in the cigarette or hidden within the coffee was going to harm him. But that was the point. Gideon wanted him to submit to the game, he wanted to test the limits and Matthew absurdly was choosing trust. After all, when has trusting the sociopath ever done anyone any wrong.
Lighting his wand with a quick "incendio", he lit Gideon's first before moving to his own and taking in a draw he found himself spluttering slightly in a cough that he washed down with a healthy chug of the cannisters contents only to discover the hot burn of whisky. While the boy was a stranger to the world of smoking, whisky was not a topic of unfamiliarity, he had sampled many with his fathers. Growing up with a Scotsman and Irishman as your parents whisky was always uisge beatha, the water of life, so while the attempt at the smoke was borderline pathetic, he would not retreat from the Whisky's fire. After he finally came back up for air, he looked a little coy trying to read the lines between Gideon's perception of him. Blushing more, if that was feasible, he stated, "I didn't know you smoked, I suppose I don't know a lot about you under your 'layers'-", gesturing air quotes with a hint of mockery before continuing, "-you're right though. About people playing god, politicians make a whole career out of it, so I'm guessing that only gets worse with magic involved."
The draw of the holly tree had clearly worked but as Gideon spoke Matthew grew weary at the facts he was pointing out. It had grown in quite a peculiar way, it seemed to flourish under some kind of magical enhancement. Perhaps intention had more power than he gave thought, or perhaps there was other forced at work from binds he had submitted to. When he planted it so near the edge he was not thinking at what such a tree might imply, at what he was putting in motion. Still these were things that Gideon could not be offered, truths that would destroy their game before it had begun. So another truth had to be offered in its place. "Hate, you say. I suppose there was a fair amount of that, for a long time, maybe it took it with it as I don't feel it any more. The tree was for my mother, her name was Holly and she died giving birth to me." The pause came more out of familiarity that necessity, for he did not feel as doomed by the words as he once did, perhaps as he had traded that shackle for a greater one, or maybe he was finally finding peace.
With a longing stare towards the tree he continued, the moment growing almost intimate in the stillness of it, "I was angry for a long time about that, angry at the world, at myself, maybe even at her at times. I used to wear her ring every day, never even realising that it was not to hold a piece of her, but to hold myself accountable. So I guess you're right, I saw it as a rot to be cleansed and I gave that part of myself to the tree." Letting out a sigh of a laugh he looked back towards Gideon, "Though I imagine that's not something you understand. For power is meant to be seized and utilized, to be 'pointed' in the right direction. But hey maybe I did, after all it stands here now, protecting me from a place I have no interest in returning." With that last sentiment his eyes fell heavy on the forest that lay just beyond, the ancestral place he knew would be the death of him. What lurked in the shadows right now crept up his neck like watchful eyes, for he knew they were there, until his deal was done, they always would be.
After Gideon delivered his no doubt clear argument of why he should never give up his power, unless of course it was to offer to Gideon himself, they found themselves in the past. Discussing the puppetry that Gideon had tried to make of his life. But Matthew was not aware that this branch would be the biggest shock of them all. The snake watched with suspense as they discussed Aamon's condition and fear flashed across his face as Gideon looked upon those same dark woods that had brought about that pain. Not fear for what lay within, or fear for Aamon, but fear that Gideon already knew more than he let on. That Aamon had managed to recall the bargain, that this was all a trap. Just as it seemed he was on another precipice of his demise, 12 words stopped his maelstrom of thought and delivered him to the shore as a beacon of light.
"and don’t worry. You're already out of his drama... you're in mine." Matthew eyes blinked wildly for a second while his face reached levels of flush that had to have been dangerous. Did he really just say that? Did he mean it? Was this another trick? Grabbing quickly for the extremely irish coffee Matthew took another large swig, letting the ash of his cigarette blow off in the wind catching slightly on his clothing. Then he resolved and taking a deep breathe, he smiled, one that he could not fake even though he was supposed to. One that required no acting because he felt his traitorous heart actually flutter in the motion, and then he spoke, unsure what he was going to say, but allowing the heat of his chest to guide him, "Good, I've been hoping to be in that drama for a while now, ever since France. Call me deranged but I can't help but want to be close to you..." with a small pause he looked down to the ground in shame, "even if I know it's a bad idea."
Moving closer he felt the heat rising around them, even in the midst of winter. Matthew didn't know what he was doing, the urge to move nearer simply forced his body in proximity. Or perhaps he knew exactly what he wanted, as he looked at Gideon's lips, dry from the crisp air and cigarette still burning out through his teeth. Still he could not instigate this, for a deeper worry crept into his mind. If he actually fell for Gideon Athantos, how was he ever meant to break him?
Interacting with @Gideon Athanatos
Last edited by Matthew Campbell on 8 Apr 2026, 03:15, edited 1 time in total.
| Nikolai Volka // "Light, light: do not go | I sing you this song and I will sing another as well." // Matthew Campbell |
A Common Day
Gideon did not interrupt Matthew Campbell. Gideon was not one to interrupt others, when people started to talk, they revealed more about themselves than they realized. They revealed what was on their minds, what they found important, and what their pressure points might be. So he was not about to intervene when someone starts unravel themselves. There was something efficient about allowing people to do it themselves. There was no need to pry when the subject dissected their own mind with such earnest, clumsy hands.
So Gideon did what he did best: he watched. Matthew's tells were not subtle. The flush, the stammered recovery, the way he clung to composure like it might slip through his fingers if he loosened his grip even slightly. It was almost endearing, almost.
The cigarette burned slowly between Gideon's fingers, untouched for a moment as he regarded Campbell. The cancer stick did not smell of strictly tobacco leaves, but Matthew already knew that when he accepted the slender bit of wrapping over herbs. But the masochist would not feel a burn, a needle-like sting or choking cloud. Suffering was not without its place or its utility, but this bit of burned paper and leaf only served to ease in tensions. The relaxation would not come from Gideon's congenial presence, but rather the Damiana Leaf laced through the small rolled offering.
Gideon took another drag of his cigarette. Gideon was a seasonal smoker he supposed. "Just not when I'm inside, stinks up the clothes and hair." Giddy was not listening to Mat's words, or the story, but rather the pattern. "No layers," he lied.
Matthew would talk about his mother, her death. Offer a vulnerable point to a man that he very much understood to be dangerous. Which meant one thing: that the truth was being offered in place of something more dangerous. Were there careful omissions, substitutions, or complete fictions being submitted? Perhaps it was all three. Gideon silently wondered how much was fiction and how much of this was a lie, humans had this strange habit of lying so frequently that even their memories betray them in the end.
"Do you always do that," Gideon said at last, his voice quiet and precise. There was no accusation, just observational curiosity. His gaze shifted, not to Matthew, but to the holly tree. A convenient name for a woman. To the leaves, to the blood that had touched them. "Your life is a fiction," he commented. "I wonder if you can tell the difference between the truth and the lies you tell, I have a feeling the lies are not intended for me." He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, grounding himself.
"Your mother," he continued, almost thoughtfully. "Your anger. Your guilt. All very… clean and intimately yours." His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "Very convenient things to sacrifice." It is like a vegetarian giving up meat during lent. These were all things he would give up in time, regardless of any epiphany he might have, but were unnecessary sacrifices.
Only then did his pale gaze look back at him. "And yet," Gideon added, "you're still here." Here at the side of a tree meant to represent a woman he never knew but he knew he was supposed to love. That he knew he had to be eternally indebted to because he had killed her by existing. "There is nothing wrong with feeling pain," he shrugged. "Feeling guilt, regret, remorse, or some other essence of tragedy," the corner of his mouth twitched upwards, "is compounded by your self-flagellation." He shook his head, "I'm supposed to be the monster here." Not you.
The cigarette lifted, finally, a slow inhale. Smoke curled from his lips as he leaned closer, not enough to close the space, just enough to adjust it. To control the sense of it. Matthew spoke again. France. Closeness. Want. There it was.
Gideon's expression didn't change immediately, but something behind it sharpened. Focused. Like a blade being turned to catch the light. "Deranged is one word for it," Giddy murmured. There was no rejection of the sentiment, nor was there any acceptance. There was something worse. "You want to be close to me," Gideon repeated, as if testing the shape of it. It felt warm, and squirming. "Even knowing it's a bad idea." He extinguished the cigarette in the grass and washed the taste of ash out with coffee-laced whiskey.
His pale eyes lowered their gaze, resting on his throat "Do you?" His brow raised slightly as he asked the question which landed without weight, but it did not lack pressure. He was willing to closing the distance that Matthew had hesitated to claim. The scent of smoke and whiskey lingered between them, faint but present.
"You don't want me," he said quietly with a certainty that seemed to lack emotion, it was a statement of fact as far as the Hufflepuff was concerned. But he did not care. "You want what you think I am." He would reach for Campbell's collar and attempt to draw the Slytherin towards him. His scent, what the smoke and whiskey attempted to hide.
Gideon's gaze dropped briefly to Matthew's lips, to the cigarette, to the tremor of something not quite controlled before returning to his eyes. So strange and human. "And that's the problem," he declared abandoning the cigarette on the ground, the earth can take it back. "You're playing a game you don't understand," Gideon continued, voice lowering, threading something almost intimate through the words. "And worse... you're enjoying it."
He was close now. Close enough that the distance once had meaning. "You think this is connection," if Matthew did not avoid his grip on his collar, he would find a second hand reaching for the angle of his jaw. "It's proximity to something that will ruin you." He let that statement linger just long enough to make it uncomfortable. "Are you leaning in anyway?"
Gideon's icy gaze would hold his. Measuring the weight of the error the snake was about to make. He was not pushing the teen away. nor was he pulling him any close. Just, letting him decide which mistake he wanted to make...
So Gideon did what he did best: he watched. Matthew's tells were not subtle. The flush, the stammered recovery, the way he clung to composure like it might slip through his fingers if he loosened his grip even slightly. It was almost endearing, almost.
The cigarette burned slowly between Gideon's fingers, untouched for a moment as he regarded Campbell. The cancer stick did not smell of strictly tobacco leaves, but Matthew already knew that when he accepted the slender bit of wrapping over herbs. But the masochist would not feel a burn, a needle-like sting or choking cloud. Suffering was not without its place or its utility, but this bit of burned paper and leaf only served to ease in tensions. The relaxation would not come from Gideon's congenial presence, but rather the Damiana Leaf laced through the small rolled offering.
Gideon took another drag of his cigarette. Gideon was a seasonal smoker he supposed. "Just not when I'm inside, stinks up the clothes and hair." Giddy was not listening to Mat's words, or the story, but rather the pattern. "No layers," he lied.
Matthew would talk about his mother, her death. Offer a vulnerable point to a man that he very much understood to be dangerous. Which meant one thing: that the truth was being offered in place of something more dangerous. Were there careful omissions, substitutions, or complete fictions being submitted? Perhaps it was all three. Gideon silently wondered how much was fiction and how much of this was a lie, humans had this strange habit of lying so frequently that even their memories betray them in the end.
"Do you always do that," Gideon said at last, his voice quiet and precise. There was no accusation, just observational curiosity. His gaze shifted, not to Matthew, but to the holly tree. A convenient name for a woman. To the leaves, to the blood that had touched them. "Your life is a fiction," he commented. "I wonder if you can tell the difference between the truth and the lies you tell, I have a feeling the lies are not intended for me." He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, grounding himself.
"Your mother," he continued, almost thoughtfully. "Your anger. Your guilt. All very… clean and intimately yours." His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "Very convenient things to sacrifice." It is like a vegetarian giving up meat during lent. These were all things he would give up in time, regardless of any epiphany he might have, but were unnecessary sacrifices.
Only then did his pale gaze look back at him. "And yet," Gideon added, "you're still here." Here at the side of a tree meant to represent a woman he never knew but he knew he was supposed to love. That he knew he had to be eternally indebted to because he had killed her by existing. "There is nothing wrong with feeling pain," he shrugged. "Feeling guilt, regret, remorse, or some other essence of tragedy," the corner of his mouth twitched upwards, "is compounded by your self-flagellation." He shook his head, "I'm supposed to be the monster here." Not you.
The cigarette lifted, finally, a slow inhale. Smoke curled from his lips as he leaned closer, not enough to close the space, just enough to adjust it. To control the sense of it. Matthew spoke again. France. Closeness. Want. There it was.
Gideon's expression didn't change immediately, but something behind it sharpened. Focused. Like a blade being turned to catch the light. "Deranged is one word for it," Giddy murmured. There was no rejection of the sentiment, nor was there any acceptance. There was something worse. "You want to be close to me," Gideon repeated, as if testing the shape of it. It felt warm, and squirming. "Even knowing it's a bad idea." He extinguished the cigarette in the grass and washed the taste of ash out with coffee-laced whiskey.
His pale eyes lowered their gaze, resting on his throat "Do you?" His brow raised slightly as he asked the question which landed without weight, but it did not lack pressure. He was willing to closing the distance that Matthew had hesitated to claim. The scent of smoke and whiskey lingered between them, faint but present.
"You don't want me," he said quietly with a certainty that seemed to lack emotion, it was a statement of fact as far as the Hufflepuff was concerned. But he did not care. "You want what you think I am." He would reach for Campbell's collar and attempt to draw the Slytherin towards him. His scent, what the smoke and whiskey attempted to hide.
Gideon's gaze dropped briefly to Matthew's lips, to the cigarette, to the tremor of something not quite controlled before returning to his eyes. So strange and human. "And that's the problem," he declared abandoning the cigarette on the ground, the earth can take it back. "You're playing a game you don't understand," Gideon continued, voice lowering, threading something almost intimate through the words. "And worse... you're enjoying it."
He was close now. Close enough that the distance once had meaning. "You think this is connection," if Matthew did not avoid his grip on his collar, he would find a second hand reaching for the angle of his jaw. "It's proximity to something that will ruin you." He let that statement linger just long enough to make it uncomfortable. "Are you leaning in anyway?"
Gideon's icy gaze would hold his. Measuring the weight of the error the snake was about to make. He was not pushing the teen away. nor was he pulling him any close. Just, letting him decide which mistake he wanted to make...
A Common Day
Date: December 1stIf tension had ever felt so palpable to the young snake he was not aware of the memory. Gideon's proximity, his ownership of the space and, his remarkably irritating ability to control the narrative so definitely was as tangible as it was intoxicating. Far more than the burning trail of the whisky. If it was the water of life this moment between them was the bloom that water nurtured.
Matthew could feel his heart racing through his chest, each minute inch the distance closed his breathe was robbed and sweat began to prick at the centre of his palms only cooled by the light dew of grass below. With every word, every claimed denial Gideon offered he felt his entire body reject the notion. The boy across from him had been nothing short of psychotic towards him and the people around him, he had caused immeasurable pain and drove him to the brink of fury more times than he could count. Still, in spite of that, Matthew did want him, or so his entire being told him. A body at war with the mind. Yet the truth remained that Matthew had seen the monster in front of him and wanted him nonetheless.
So maybe he was playing a game he didn't understand, maybe he did think it was connection and hell maybe it would ruin him worse than he already had himself. After all, the moth always found itself attracted to the flame again, no matter the hurt. Or maybe this whole thing was just about saving his own skin, maybe all that really mattered to Matthew Campbell was to fulfil his debt and break the monster in front of him. Maybe the connection he felt was a biproduct of that deal, of the very destructive nature of the boy. Maybe a million things and more. But there was no maybe about what came next.
Distance became immaterial, he swallowed it instantly, leaning in to kiss the boy he was intrinsically tied to, by debt, by heart, by truth or lies who knew, but fated he was. The bite of whisky on the other boys lips matched his own and burnt like fire, sparking between them in dangerous combustion. Another deal made, another debt to his conscience. Then pulling back slowly his eyes lingered though not with the brightness of joy, but a roiling depth of blurred emotion. Staying but inches apart he couldn't help but utter, "Don't you find it lonely?" Learning from Gideon's cadence it was not posed as a question but a fact. "Always believing that everyone is lying to you, that nothing you hear could possibly be the truth. To never take anything at face value and to characterise yourself constantly as a villain, or as a monster." Once the words hung in the air Matthew backed away until he was staring at the sapling memorial, "even I don't envy that life, as fictitious as you claim mine to be."
Taking another large swig of the coffee disguised whisky he watched the rhythm of Gideon's throat, lingered his gaze when the light caught the light moisture on his lips from where they kissed. Matthew was enamoured, and it terrified him, so he answered, "I don't understand your game, I doubt I ever will, and yet I wonder if there's ever a part of you that wants to stop playing. Perhaps that's the very naivety you so often infer me to be. But maybe your truth is, you're waiting for the day this all no longer feels like a game. When you can shed your layers and just be." Feeling the fire run down him he laughed, a kind of childing giddy that left him brazen enough to say, "We both know that won't happen." It was as melancholic as it was certainty.
In the moment of silence Matthew resolved himself against the winter wind, he marvelled at the strength of the tree to be so resilient against that which was determined to destroy it. A resilience he was not capable of possessing. So returning his eyeline to the oh so harrowing Mr Gideon Athantos. He studied his ever watching eyes, trembled over to those now familiar lips and like prey in the eyes of a predator he relinquished, "I know you will never be who I think you are and, I know I will never win your game, but I will have you as you are if you will let me. I'm leaning in." So he did, eyes closing in acceptance of his fate. For Matthew knew that the only way to break Gideon Athanatos, was to stop trying and let himself fall first. With the truth as clear as the cool winter sky, that no matter what, Matthew Campbell was not going to survive what he had to do.
Interacting with @Gideon Athanatos
| Nikolai Volka // "Light, light: do not go | I sing you this song and I will sing another as well." // Matthew Campbell |
A Common Day
Gideon was a contradiction to the observer. The Hufflepuff appeared to be something that could be easily understood, categorized, explained, perhaps even managed. Even the house the hat had sorted him into, was the sort of house that called to friends, companions, and hard workers, not to manipulators and dark deviants. But Gideon operated in a way that made understanding him inherently dangerous. Every conclusion drawn about him felt correct… until it wasn't. Gideon did not resist definition, he shifted within it, becoming whatever shape was required to elicit a response.Gideon had a sustained, controlled fascination with someone who refuses to walk away, and a quiet willingness to let that become something irreversible.
And it was because of the very images Gideon portrayed that people saw someone they could influence. He appeared small, child-like, and vulnerable during his first years. He wanted to see who would protect him. Who would try to crush him. Who would simply watch, unwilling to intervene.
But for those who remained too close for too long, they would eventually realize, too late, that they had been adjusting to the 'mad dog of the Athanatos family' the entire time. They were learning to protect him on impulse. To overlook him and to even believe him small when his brothers towered at the same age.
For as much control as Gideon had, Gideon was unaware of the bargain Matthew had made. A strange pact made with a powerful, dark and dangerous force, that demanded a man to be broken in exchange for a soul. A bartering chip that seemed like it was worth so much more than the psychological or physical trauma a teen could inflict upon another. But neither of them understood the forces circling them: those ancient, patient things that did not value cruelty for its own sake, but for what it produced. The breaking of a person was never an end. It was a function. A method. A refinement of something deeper.
The question that mattered most was never asked. Why? The darkness that lingered in places like Hogwarts did not act without purpose. Hogwarts as a place that attracted and refined power, bringing wizards from their most juvenile states into some of the most powerful beings in the modern world. There were players in political and social games that never even knew they were a part of the terrible equation. Their actions appeared chaotic, disjointed, senseless; but beneath it all was demiurgic design. Long-form intent. A thinking cruelty that unfolded not over moments, but over years, decades even. The kind of intelligence that did not rush, because it did not need to because it would get there eventually anyways.
To Gideon, even this with Matthew was a game. Not in the sense of amusement, but in structure. Matthew was comprised of unexpected variables and therefore the promise of unanticipated outcomes. For Gideon, there was a need to resolve a question that had not yet settled into certainty. Knowledge for things such as the badger, were power. And curiosity for Matthew had sharpened into something clinical.
Gideon had revealed pieces of himself before. These revelations were always small, controlled exposures. His actual size, his actual voice, his confidence, his baseline cruelty. The reactions were predictable: anger, revulsion, fear. People recoiled the moment they understood what they were standing too close to.
Matthew did not. Gideon was not an idiot, Matthew was no friend of his. He did not desire friendship, or revenge. In fact, Gideon could not fathom Campbell's objectives and the underlying intelligence, if there was any, that drove him.
Matthew Campbell was the anomaly for he did not flee quickly enough. He did not create distance where distance was required. He did not try to strike him down, even if that would have merely meant that Matthew had either overestimated his own capacity or underestimated Gideon's.
No, he leaned in.
"He shouldn’t have leaned in," was Gideon's first thought. There was nothing moral about the consideration, just another facet noted. With this specific variable being introduced, another line was crossed. One that Gideon was willing to cross with... enthusiasm.
The distance was closed like it was inevitable, like it had already happened somewhere else and this was just the moment catching up. Gideon let him. That was the distinction that mattered.
The taste registered first. Whisky: burning, crude, human. It was not that different from Gideon's flavor, with a hint more tobacco. While this did not belong to Gideon, it was similar. It made it harder to observe, challenging to separate.
Gideon was unable to identify calculation in the way Matthew moved. He could not identify his hesitation if there was any or his restraint. Just raw, unrefined intent, pressed forward like it expected resistance and was prepared to break against it.
Gideon didn't resist. If anything, he enjoyed it but he also measured everything about it. The pressure. The hesitation that came a fraction too late. The way Matthew lingered, was it because he was unsure or because he didn't want to pull away.
"Interesting," was Gideon's thought. Far from romantic, but prose was meant to posture feigned affection in hopes of it developing eventually and for reciprocation of a promised emotion that could only exist later. In this however, Gideon saw something strange. A pattern: Matthew knew what this was. Perhaps not what he was, but enough to recognize a predator, a risk, a deviant. Matthew knew it wasn't safe, he knew this would not... could not resolve cleanly, and yet he still chose it. Did he leaned in as if making it his choice gave him control over the outcome? He knew it didn't.
"Don't you find it lonely?"
The question lingered between them, dressed as concern but constructed like a statement. Gideon did not react immediately. He adjusted—subtly, almost imperceptibly—testing the response before it was given, mapping the possible outcomes and discarding most of them before they could ever exist. There were answers expected of him: deflection, denial, or perhaps something theatrical if he were his brother's kin. Gideon chose none of them. "Yes," Giddy replied thoughtfully. It was not a confession, nor was it a vulnerability. Yes was the answer stripped down to its most efficient form, true and therefore useful.
"Always believing that everyone is lying to you, that nothing you hear could possibly be the truth. To never take anything at face value and to characterise yourself constantly as a villain, or as a monster."
Gideon exhaled faintly through his nose, something almost resembling amusement threading through the gesture. Not because Matthew was wrong, but because of the way he chose to frame it. "Believing," the teen echoed quietly, the word turning over once before he discarded it. He shook his head side to side, no. "That implies uncertainty." Gideon tilted his head like a curious bird, the posture somehow both familiar and disarming. Something boyish on the surface, but calculated beneath it. "I don't believe people are lying," Gideon said, his voice even despite his emphasis on the word 'belief.' "I account for it."
His gaze looked past Matthew, towards the forest and the hidden terrors that neither of them fully understood. "It simplifies things," Gideon continued. "If you remove the expectation of honesty, you stop mistaking performances for truth." A truth, just like the previous words spoken and the words before that. Gideon was not like his brothers in more ways than none.
"I don't understand your game, I doubt I ever will, and yet I wonder if there's ever a part of you that wants to stop playing. Perhaps that's the very naivety you so often infer me to be. But maybe your truth is, you're waiting for the day this all no longer feels like a game. When you can shed your layers and just be."
Gideon leaned forward, and something eclipsed his face. An expression that one would have thought they had seen the boy don before, but they had not. A grin, not the practiced, small twitch at the edges of his pale lips. That slight upward curve, an almost genial, pleasant expression. No, this grin was slightly too long, too wide. A tow of teeth, pale and clean, but a bit sharper than they should be and if one were to count, they would count too many.
"You keep calling this a game," Gideon said finally, his tone in spite of the expression that seemed simply wrong sounded thoughtful, almost curious. "Games end," Gideon explained. "Games resolve. Someone wins, someone loses, and then it is over." He looked Matthew over, the look seemed less genial and more predatory. "This doesn't end," but that was only the first correction. The next was that "there isn't a version of me underneath this," he added. His voice dropped, there was a depth and a rumble to his voice that was comparatively jarring to the charming voice he often chose. "There isn't something waiting to be uncovered once the performance stops if you were paying attention the whole time."
A suppressed cough escaped him, as he allowed his voice to return to the presumed norm. "You're not seeing layers," Gideon said. "You're seeing what I chose to show and inferring your truths from there."
"We both know that won't happen." Matthew announced, simplifying Gideon's display to a few choice words. Except truth, as Matthew would eventually come to learn, is as fickle as Scottish weather.
"Yes," Gideon agreed, but to exactly what was another question. The Hufflepuff's gaze lingered, not on the words, nor on the implication, but rather on Matthew himself, as if confirming something that had already been decided long before this moment. "You do know," Gideon said softly in that sweet voice that was easy to become accustomed to. "You came anyway," and there it was again. That pattern. That anomalous nature that had piqued the teen's interest.
Gideon tilted his head slightly, studying Matt, not as a person now, but as a result. "Which means," Giddy added, almost idly, "you're not trying to understand me." His voice lowered and his blue eyes rested on Campbell's jawline. "You're trying to see how far this goes," perhaps a misunderstanding accompanied by just enough of a smile to make it worse. "So am I."
And with that, Gideon moved, decisive and unhesitating, his hand attempting to find Matthew's shoulder as he guided, then possibly pressed him back into the frost-bitten grass beneath the memorial. Not forceful without reason, but deliberate in intent. Whatever this was, it was no longer a question of restraint, but of how far Matthew had already chosen to go and whether they would allow it to continue. This was not friendship or love, nor was it an emotional bond, but rather this was an attempt to satisfy (within the bounds of PG13 and site restriction) the carnal want and need of either a madman, a sociopath, or someone that masquerades as both.