Scars of the Heart
November | Potions Classroom
TW: self-harm
—It was like a drug. The first time Archer tried it, it was difficult to even bring himself to consider the idea of setting a knife to his flesh, and so he had been tentative, light, barely an indentation, barely drawing blood. The second time he had dug deeper, the third time he had made more, and although he had only begun in October, one month eventually led to the mess that now marked the back of his right arm. It was the scars of his heart projected onto skin. He didn’t know why he was doing it. But this. This was a pain he could rationalise. This was a pain he could handle. This was a pain he had a solution to. And Archer, in desperate search of answers, of course chose the extreme. All he knew was that he was on a slippery slope and he just could not stop.—
A bustling classroom pulled Archer out of his mess of thoughts. That was an exaggeration; it was only bustling to his sensitive senses, for Professor Sauber was not the kind to have tolerated such unfiltered noise. It had hit him like a punch to the face, all this sudden speech, and hurriedly, disoriented, he pushed himself up from his seat. Pairings were rare in his class, and this, to absolutely no one’s surprise, only made him trust his professor further. But there was he, still sat, without a partner, after it just having been announced.
Giovanni De’Luca. A name that he had heard in passing, a figure that would remain more prominent than just that in hindsight. Dark brown hair, blue green eyes, taller than average but still shorter than his own lanky build. He did not know the boy well enough to seek him out, but once he somehow found him from the many observations he had made in his scratching away of notes, he discovered that the boy was not much too different from himself, at least to the stranger’s eye. Perhaps Archer was a more bedraggled version, with his wrinkled clothes instead of pressed collars, but even their leather satchels matched as he fumbled around in his own. Perhaps he was going to make a kindred spirit out of him yet, but when was the last time Archer believed in such things?
“Mister De’Luca, correct?” He confirmed, voice cordial, polite, the calm surface of a sea swirling with riptides. It was true that he was not in the best state of mind, and it was true that even some of his acquaintances could have tentatively admitted to their knowledge of that. Archer was knew with certainty however, that if they were pulled into a current far too strong for them to handle, they would go swimming for land and out of the storm. Instead of sulking, however, Archer simply took a seat next to him, sweeping his robes below himself and clearing his throat.
It was more greeting than an actual seeking of affirmation (because “hello” apparently, was now below him), but if it was to be given, he would reach out a hand and say, voice crisp and no different from his introductions in childhood, “Archer Duncan, pleased to make your acquaintance. Well then…” He continued, wasting no time and glancing down at the cauldrons and back at the boards, “Let us begin, shall we?”
Archer was no prodigy at Potions, but the straight Os and astute remarks proved him a good enough student. He, surprisingly, was not the sort to put in much effort when it came to group or partnership work, more complacent as long as he received a score he deemed worth his skill. Although not much of a slacker, he certainly had grown into bad, self-destructive habits since last December, and participation in class activities was the least of his troubles.
As he stirred the concoction absentmindedly, the sleeve of Archer’s robe rode up, and so did the loose folds of his sweater. The ends of his shirt tugged upwards as well, and soon peaked out a pale, slender arm. Dotting it were the same bruises you might see on a troublesome kid, the same scratches you might see on a far too curious one—but a series of lines were out of place. Hatches into flesh, some healed ones shades lighter than flesh, some new ones still freshly scabbed over, it was as if they were counted one by one, far too methodical to be a mistake. There had even been ones from this morning. Being the hasty, often cursory person that he was, he did not always bother to use anti-scarring potions, and that was not his mistake but his warning light. Among the two of them, the first two notice would not be the perpetrator of these marks.
@Giovanni De'Luca
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Scars of the Heart
_GDL_ |
───────────────────────────────────────────────── Giovanni De’Luca had learned, somewhere in the early instances of his childhood, how to withdraw into silence and stillness when the room expected brilliance. He had learned that, most of the time, they were the same thing. Sculptural awe was desirable. To look beautiful. To be admired. That was what was required of him, and stillness had been etched into him accordingly, a weight pressing harder and harder until it slipped beneath his skin and took up residence in his bones. Or perhaps weight was the wrong word. Weight implied resistance. This had been quieter than that. It was there at long tables heavy with too much silver, beneath chandeliers that hummed faintly with old magic, old money and old blood. It was taught in the careful pauses between his mother’s sentences, her cutting words, felt in the way his father had defined silence as a conduit for communication, and even now, it lived under his flesh: a discipline that settled into his shoulders, his spine, his hands, long before he’d known to name it. At Hogwarts, this stillness followed him. It sat with him here, now, on the potions benches, contained and immaculate, as though the chaos of boiling liquids and careless students had never been meant for someone like him. Steam rose, people now prepping their cauldrons for the lesson. The humidity softened the sharpness of his features, dampening the dark hair at his temples. It was irritating. The apples of his cheeks had already begun to pinken. He breathed in slowly, through his nose, trying to rid himself of this sombre mood, letting the layered scents of bitter roots, warm metal, and something faintly sweet and medicinal, anchor him in the present. He’d arrived early, of course, and where usually he would flick through his notebook and idly revise what notes he taken down from last lesson, he had let his mind fall blank, staring somewhere in the unhelpful space between the edge of his notebook and the blackboard, ignoring the shuffle of people entering the class, and not thinking of anything really in particular. Someone moved behind him and entered the narrow orbit of his space, and Giovanni looked up as a boy approached, eyes lifting from his workspace with unhurried composure. Tall. Long-limbed. Dark hair escaping its control in wisps of careless, unkempt locks. There was something striking in the angles of this boy's face, sharp in a way that may soften with time, and something hidden in his hazel eyes, which, when caught the light briefly, danced with flecks of gold and olive before shifting away. Handsome, Giovanni decided, at some recess of his mind. A beauty that seemed almost accidental rather than performed. He did not recognise this boy, either by face or by name, and made no concerted effort to remember, since in a classroom this full, forgetting was far more common than remembering. “Yes,” then, with the faintest inclination of his head, “De’Luca.” They shook hands. He turned his eyes back to his cauldron, leather shifting softly as he drew his satchel closer and flicked open the buckle with a small clink of metal. They sat, the old wood creaking under their weight, and now that he had turned back to his cauldron, the steam once again rose to kiss his skin, painting his cheeks a blotchy pink. He registered it with quiet irritation, his brow furrowing at the faint erosion of his carefully maintained composure. A sheen of sweat gathered at his brow, and he wondered, idly, whether meter-long stirrers might exist, so one need not constantly bend over a cauldron only to be met with scalding steam. Professor Sauber’s voice droned on, now that the lesson had started, reverberating through his skull with the dull, soporific echo particular to lessons held just after lunch. Calm. Precise. Predictable. Sleep tugged at Giovanni despite himself, and he caught his elbow slipping more than once, the warmth of the room conspiring against his focus. Though his head felt heavy, his hands moved with instinctive certainty; ingredients measured with restraint, the flame guided gently. He stirred slowly, the bubble of his potion dancing in the blue of his eyes as he watched, with mild interest, the potion respond: darkening, thickening, behaving as it should when given patience. Beside him, there was movement. Quicker. Less contained. Fabric shifted with the heat. A sleeve crept back, exposing pale skin beneath. Giovanni used the back of his hand to smooth away the hair from his forehead, where it was beginning to itch, and in the same motion, allowed his gaze to drift. Lines traced across the boy's exposed arm, some faint, others still fresh, deliberate. If he were less tired, he might have looked away quicker, in an effort not to be caught, for he got the feeling this was not something one should openly stare at. His attention lingered long enough to register the detail, quietly curious, cataloguing nothing but presence. His stirring slowed by a fraction, almost imperceptibly, the observation settling alongside the warmth of the cauldron, the sharp green scent of crushed herbs, the steady pressure of his hands on the spoon. When he spoke, it was in a low, precise tone, meant only for the narrow space between them. “Your infusion,” Giovanni said after a moment. “You’re stirring too quickly. It will cloud if you don’t slow it.” ────────────────────────────────────────────────── | _GDL_ |
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*ੈ✩‧₊˚Star-pale, celestial, neither flesh nor blood.⋆⭒ ࣪ .⋆
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Scars of the Heart
“Your infusion.” A clear voice interjected with the precision of an arrowhead, the perfect keystone in the hollow space between their arch.
“Hm?” Archer uttered merely in response, lifting an unimpressed brow at the intrusion into his thoughts. He did not turn to face Giovanni, eyes barely shifting in his direction as the two words slipped into his mind. Carelessly, swiftness edged into his counterclockwise stirs as an instinctive defensiveness crept up his sleeve, muscles tensing. A silence had settled over the two students after their brief introduction, reducing them both to merely a dyad of figures hovered over a cauldron. Archer’s expectations of a fleeting classroom partnership were scarce, the standards of conversation he held himself to even lower. Yet there was something so striking of Giovanni’s voice he could not ignore, demanding presence in the quietude between them as it grounded his breaths, hot against the fire’s heat.
In a flash, his eyes widened as Archer traced Giovanni’s own vision. Indifference was quick to disappear under sheer panic, and heat crept up his cheeks, skin reddening as his throat bobbed in helplessness. He blinked in rapid succession, suddenly feeling overwhelmed amidst the strong scent of herbs and the bright lights of the working stations. Lashes fluttering with a downcast gaze, in his agitated anxiety he did not dare to meet Giovanni’s eyes. An amalgamation of shame and bewilderment tainted his features, and as his hand — dominant, he made certain — rose to rest between his eyes, he felt lost and left a fool.
De’Luca had enough decency to avert his eyes, yet he still pulled his sleeve down tightly, self-consciousness tainting every action as his movements slowed to a halt.
Perhaps it had only been out of careless disgust, Archer reminded himself bitterly.
Yet something just a step away from hope seemed to have sparked in his eyes as the light hit hazel, the brilliance of gold shining for yet another moment of briefness. As they cautiously crept up to Giovanni’s introspective turquoise, the wells of dark brown paused, searching for something, anything he was familiar with. When they came up empty-handed, Archer loosed a breath, much of a necessity in the suffocating Potions chambers. Much against his withering expectations there were no hints of judgement, no suggestions of revulsion. In fact Giovanni seemed to have regarded him the same way Archer regarded any other subject — with mild interest and mere observation. Curiosity, at best.
He expressed his gratitude efficiently, and for more than just the reminder.
“Thank you,” he spoke with grace, yet his voice came quickly, breathy, meagrely covered up by a hand gripping the spoon white-knuckled, seeking for any anchor to mundanity. Coughing lightly against more than just the cauldron’s steams, a cluttered mind fought for something to say as he fumbled with the ingredients, throwing a handful into the mixture with thoughtlessness than was worth the trouble. Finally, he settled on a few words with a small, forced smile: “You must be quite apt when it comes to this subject…. Or perhaps just better focused.”
Archer glanced over at Giovanni, his eyes resting on the other boy after a long day of classes and the classic post-noon dreariness. Settling on the other’s dazzling irises he seemed to have found some sort of solace in them as he refused to budge, staring at him not with the common challenge or contempt but a soft, sighing appreciation. He blushed, realising the awkwardness of his actions, before glancing away furtively, gaze returning to his potion.
He shrugged his shoulders, making progress on relaxation as his stir grew leisurely. “It must be quite the shame, that I am calling someone half asleep more focused than myself.”
A laugh even managed to escape him.
@Giovanni De'Luca
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht