Truth Comes Out open

Polytropos. The author of scandal. A wry smile curled across Astra's face as she folded the paper back to its original state. The author (whose identity Astra would know well) had done a fine job in their analysation of the crime and its ripple effect. As the child of a magical law enforcement agent herself, Astra was largely unsurprised when news of Fabian Winfield's arrest made it through the grapevine to her waiting ear. Crooked cops, always, everywhere. They never ceased, did they?

A thought of her father's "letting go," of the autumn funeral without a body, of the tense winter break, of the protest and Sofia and the sobering absence of such an important presence in Talla Sindharin. Of the strange circumstance. Astra pushed those thoughts aside. She dwelt on them too often as it stood, and these thoughts were useless and jumbled and helpful to no one so they were shoved away to be dealt with at an undefined point somewhere in the future.

Anyway. Where was she?

Miss Winfield was a housemate, a perfect, a captain of the Quidditch team (of which she'd been a member for over a year by now). Even if Astra had no personal knowledge of Winfield, the girl was not an unknown.

In fact, Miss Charlotte Winfield stood just across the hall and a little to Astra's left. The viper crossed the hall. "Are you practicing incineration by way of glare?" she asked as she reached the slightly (very very slightly, but still!) shorter brunette. "I'm sure the paper wishes it would catch fire. So your efforts wouldn't be wasted." She leaned against the wall with an easy sort of air which would be violently offset with that uncanny, off-putting shadow lurking behind blue eyes and in her presence. She'd learned the ease but couldn't shake the presence even after two years. Ah, well. Que sera sera. "Scandals are so delicious, aren't they? Fun for the whole family. Or so they say."

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@charlotte winfield
inventory : wand, school paper, satchel containing textbooks/notebooks/quills/exploding bon bons/exploding snap deck, emotional apathy paired with an investigative spirit

The Headliner was still hot as Archer clutched it between his fingers, so forceful he could have crumbled the paper. Wrinkled in his grip, he had it flipped to his own creation, his thumb rubbing the ink until it smudged. The article was not a first pager, but a exposé piece hidden in the very back of its pages, yet the name was glaring. It could have penetrated all the pages before it, and burnt a hole in a family until its demanded recognition was received. From every word he had overheard to every word he had put onto print, meaningless squiggles made up letters which made up a reputation ruined.

Weeks ago, before editing and publication, Archer, pen scribbling furiously as he sat curled in the comforts of his blankets, could not bring himself to write in the common room, lest he lay eyes on her. The locks of charming chestnut brown curled at the end perhaps were the same locks he would compliment months later. Yet today, stood in the middle of a bustling corridor as if she were a statue held within time… those eyes that scanned these pages furiously, that glared with enough force to reduce them to ashes, that harboured enough hatred that leave Archer to burn along with her esteem — they were the same eyes he would rush to praise. Olive, he remembered. And that voice, breath a soft gasp, whispered words loud enough to echo in the chambers of his mind. “Holy shit.”

Expletives that meant nothing. Out of the lips of a that would mean so much to him. Such atrocities he committed on the same body he would someday claim to love.

It should not have been a debate: he should not have considered whether to creep past with stealth and light-footed tiptoeing, or to rush to her side with swift urgency and shelter her from the ruthless badgering of the world. Such a ruthless badgering he had brought upon her. Yet as he quickened his steps and approached, something unmistakable hung in his voice, a wisp of sincerity that could not have been channeled without grounding. His voice was hushed, his pace rushed: “I saw the papers, are you alright?”

A cutting voice slid through the air, a knife sharpened by years of unpleasant spite. Archer turned sharply, his fists balling on instinct. One hand reached to fence off Lottie in natural protection, the other taking shape into a particularly vulgar gesture. His teeth clenched as she continued her tirade of sarcasm, “Ignore her.”

Are you done yet? Demanded Archer’s glare. Yet his eyes sparked with passing recognition, the disguised acknowledgement for a coconspirator. In those universes of hazel, with countless flecks of gold and green, were limitless promises and infinite interpretations. How Astra understood it was up to her crooked heart; how Lottie understood it was up to her broken soul. The depths of his sympathies were offered, his condolences emphasised, and his own helplessness highlighted. “Lottie, I am so sorry. No one should have written that. I should have stopped that from publishing, I should have done something, I’m sorry.”

The faux words tasted so bitter in his mouth he almost spat them out.

“It’s disgusting.” He was not quite sure if that referred to the own syllables on his tongue or the situation — either way, it still led back to him. Either way, he was the plague tainting the life of an innocent, and rather than repenting, he was making a joke out of it. Toying with her as if Lottie was a mouse on the brink of death, and he was the predator keeping her alive just for a few seconds longer to witness her final moments in glee. And when Archer promised her consideration — that was no mercy. Mercy would have been a swift end.

So he deflected. He pushed Astra, hand connecting with her stomach, hard enough to make her stumble, light enough that playing along was her choice. Archer trusted she would make the right one. There was a shadow lurking in those blue eyes, and they mirrored the same one that seized up Archer’s hazel wells. They marked their possession by the same demon of turbulence. Whirling on Astra, he raised his voice and he produced his wand, shielding Charlotte behind him, “And you, making fun of my friend? Fuck off.”

Archer glared at Astra, holding her gaze for just long enough. A shared secret that almost could have been a passing jest. “Sadistic bitch.”

As if he wasn’t the sadistic bitch himself.

Breaths heavy, he lowered his wand, just barely dipping it down. He snatched the paper from Charlotte’s hand, and held his own copy against it. “You’re right, actually. Whatever cruel joke is, it deservers to burn. So let’s make it.” With a swiftly cast incineration charm, the end of the paper bursted into flames, and as it tore its way up through ink until heat licked his fingers, he dropped it, allowing it to extinguish between the cold stone floor and the unforgiving sole of his boot. Despite an initial wayward glance casted Astra’s way, the communications through those tormented pools ceased as his morality crept up on him.

For one glitch of a moment, he almost heard her voice. Just because you decide to play the saviour after your villainy doesn’t make you a hero, Archer.

And somewhere deep down, he knew. But for now, he could play a game of bad cop, good cop.

@Charlotte Winfield & @Astra Norrick | banner by Adeline Spinks