Introjection, Sonder and Psithurism PV| Katherine T.

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Samuel's home | Banner by Esme Hestridge |

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Samuel didn't believe in the notion of routine requiring the presence of obligation.

The departure of students for holidays had altered the rhythm of Hogwarts in ways most adults welcomed without hesitations. The corridors now stood emptier while the classrooms remained untouched and safe for a good few months now. Sam, much like his colleagues had embraced the quiet of his own home as respite while others viewed it as an opportunity to finally complete tasks otherwise interrupted through school year.

Samuel was of the former. It was now time to rest.

But to Samuel; Silence was never synonymous with rest. If anything, silence merely removed excuses and brought out the inner self of an individual. The baser impulses they carried, the desperation they wished to hide from all those around them.

Even on vacation, Samuel's mind could not find itself free of Hogwarts' clutches. There remained matters beneath the castle walls that demanded his continued attention far more than any classroom ever had. There were irregularities, pattern and information far too deliberate to dismiss as coincidence and not complete enough to qualify as conclusive data.

Students and most of the faculty remained blissfully unaware, and intentionally so.

Information introduced before the appropriate time possessed an unfortunate tendency to evolve independently of fact. The human mind excelled at speculation and speculations contaminated investigations. Discretion, as always, remained the superior approach.

Nonetheless, this wasn't the time nor the place for it as his alarm sounded precisely at five. It served very little purpose to an already awake Samuel. His sleep had concluded the moment biological necessity no longer justified its continuation and Samuel never extended it beyond that threshold. Excess brought no benefits. Remaining beneath warm blankets for the sake of comfort remained one of humanity's more curious indulgences to him.

He rose and found his way towards a cold shower. Water struck against skin with enough force and chill to eliminate every lingering trace of fatigue present in him before he could even recognize it. The sensation wasn't pleasant in the initial days, however their function overrode the unpleasant sensation it provided him. Comfort dulled awareness while cold only refined it further.

Compression shirt, joggers, running shoes, and a pair of headphones were the few articles occupying their usual location like they were the previous day. Samuel disliked searching objects once he'd determined their placement. Outside, the London view suspended between night and morning. Streetlamps outnumbered the foot traffic, one which was yet to impose itself upon the roads. This city, stripped of it's day time performance and theatrics possessed a sincerity Samuel found far more tolerable than the atmosphere he'd grown accustomed to.

The run began and soon Samuel had covered about ten kilometres. (For americans that's 6.214 miles). This distance had been anything but arbitrary, it represented exertion without compromising his recovering for the remainder of his training regimen.

His footsetps settled into measured rhythm against pavement, breathing patterns followed shortly after. Inhalation-exhalation and soon, consistency emerged naturally; allowing his attention to migrate to matters elsewhere without sacrificing any bit of the pace. This train of thoughts wasn't aimless but rather build on familiar architecture as it sorted through Hogwarts, the investigation that it involved. Potion formulations that awaited refinement in his laboratory, several papers regarding magical adaptation he'd recently visited for his research and finally, a hypothesis concerning selective genetic expression that continued refusing satisfactory resolution. Samuel expected those results, this research, this study was far too accelerated and too aggressive in it's approach to have data that would suggest otherwise.

His run concluded precisely where it began, sweat dampened the fabric clinging against him; a shower followed.

This one was warmer, utility had previously been achieved. Recovery however demanded different conditions. The home gym was reassuringly familiar, nothing had shifted since he'd accepted his position as the professor of potions. Stretching preceded everything else, muscles incapable of full range offered a man nothing but diminished utility. Controlled Pull-ups followed, each repetition completed fully before another could begin. The rest of his workout continued without much as a distraction to tear Samuel away. Cooldown occupied nearly fifteen minutes before the blonde man found himself submerged with a bath prepared considerably hotter than either shower preceding it.

Heat restored, cold awakened; both applications served their distinct purposes with neither capable of replacing the other, much akin to a human serving their function; only, Samuel found humans to be quite more replaceable.

Samuel dressed in lighter clothing, sparing all but seven minutes in his selection before entering the kitchen while breakfast demanded his attention. English muffins, evenly browned with boiled eggs, Hollandaise sauce; all home made while Smoked salmon replaced ham. A substitution Samuel had introduced to his diet years prior once he'd determined it as the objectively superior accompaniment.

To Samuel, presentation mattered and not for witnesses but as he'd concluded, disorder possessed an irritating tendency to replicate itself. He ate without distraction, followed by some lightly powered coffee before the study absorbed him.

Its shelves had long ceased bearing resemblance to those of an ordinary academic, lining it's ranks stood Potioneering books almost exclusively. Biology claimed another shelf, genetics, magical physiology, alchemy, transfiguration theory and obscure journals acquired through various channels filled all that remained. Most visitors, if any were ever allowed would find the collection excessive, even the staunchest of academics.

Samuel however, still regarded it as incomplete. His present research occupied the centre of his desk beneath several layers of annotated papers. The premise was deceptively straightforward.

Humanity, despite it's remarkable adaptability, remained constrained by biological limitations that countless creatures had solved independently through divergent evolutionary paths. Dragons demonstrated extraordinary cellular resilience, giants offered alarming resistance, Veela possessed neurological characteristics influencing an individual's very perception itself. Even comparatively mundane magical fauna exhibited traits humanity lacked entirely.

The question wasn't if those characteristics ever existed, but if they could be isolated. More importantly, whether these desirable traits could be encouraged while undesirable ones remained permanently suppressed. Samuel's work began to precisely explore that boundary.

Samuel sought neither crude transplantation nor indiscriminate experimentation; both lacked elegance and refinement. He sought compatibility, precision and selective manifestation. If beneficial expressions could be encouraged while latent abnormalities remained permanently inhibited, medicine itself would be ushered into an entirely different era, both muggle and magic. Countless inherited conditions could disappear before they ever presented themselves. Degenerative illnesses rendered obsolete. Injuries previously considered catastrophic would be reduced to minor inconveniences.

Ambitious? certainly. Impossible? Samuel did not believe in impossible. History had repeatedly demonstrated humanity's unfortunate habit of declaring all great tasks impossible moments before a sufficiently disciplined brain accomplished them.

Samuel had no intent whatsoever of applying such work to himself, the assumption had yet to amuse him. He found no dissatisfaction within his humanity. His fragility; the inevitability of his existence and demise.

Curiosity was often mistook for ambition. The two differed substantially as his objectives certainly did not lay in becoming something else. The German man had spent better portion of his life understanding precisely what he was. His laboratory took much of his time in the afternoon as hours dissolved unnoticed while formulae expanded and collapsed on themselves. Several theoretical pathways collapsed beneath mathematical inconsistencies only for newer ones to emerge.

Eventually hunger interrupted his advances and Samuel elected against cooking again.

A helmet, brown leather jacket and his motorcycle keys accompanied him to his BMW R nineT as the vehicle responded instantly beneath him. He appreciated machinery that behaved reliably, predictably.

He accelerated smoothly through London's roads, engine note settling somewhere between restraint and enthusiasm. Riding occupied a peculiar position among his interests. The very act demanded precision without monotony as every corner rewarded anticipation. Every mistake invited immediate correction and there existed barely any room for complacency.

Aircrafts offered similar satisfaction, perhaps even greater. Few experiences rivalled lifting several tonnes of engineered marvel into open sky through the precise application of mathematics and science. Obtaining a pilot's license was an inevitable occurrence.

Samuel's favoured grocery store appeared scarcely twenty minutes later. Basket in hand, Samuel sought his purchases with no hints of hesitation or second guessing his list.

Organic chicken breast, Rotisserie Chicken, grass-fed ribeye, eggs, greek yoghurt, cottage cheese, fresh herbs, vegetables were among Samuel's purchases. Cheese delayed him several minutes longer than he'd anticipated. Worthwhile however; inferior cheese possessed an ability to compromise otherwise competent meals.

Samuel's cellar remained sufficiently stocked with coffees roasted to his preference; teas considerably older than the supermarket offerings and spirits whose age exceeded that of several Hogwarts students and the adult staff.

One final item remained, a habit he'd picked up from a roadtrip long ended.

A snack.

Only one remained upon the shelf; of the particular brand Samuel had craved. Samuel reached, only for another hand to arrive simultaneously. The hands overlapped, skin to glove as contact lasted less than a second.

Recognition required even less. Not by appearance but presence, her cadence, her scent, it was unmistakably Kitty. His hands withdrew immediately. "You may have it," Samuel said evenly. "I insist you do."

His eyes settled upon her, "I did not anticipate finding you here." A pause. "I had assumed you would have returned to America, to South Carolina."

The statement lingered between them. Objectively, he knew otherwise, knew better. Months prior she'd told him of London Becoming her home. Information that she'd willingly passed to him. Acceptance however, of facts that had crossed the boundaries of one's ear occasionally required visceral confirmation before settling into permanence.

Outside of Hogwarts, Samuel had never been subjected to such proximity when it came to Kitty. Not once, this realization, of their lives so close together arrived with a peculiar weight he could not displace.

But Samuel's inquiry did not form without considerable thought behind it. Children, especially those like Kitty frequently returned towards parents who had earned neither affection nor forgiveness. Samuel had witness the pattern throughout years in his case files, teaching assignments and psychology journals. Validation remained a remarkably addictive pursuit despite repeated evidence against it's eventual success.

Samuel understood it all too well. He'd spent years convincing himself otherwise, his parents remained absent for most part; out of his own volition. At least functionally, not absolutely. Even he knew there remained threads the likes of which neither distance nor silence could severe. He disliked acknowledging them.

Offering Kitty a restrained nod, Samuel departed. The interaction concluded, or so Samuel would make himself believe. It was the efficient choice. Instead— Samuel stopped before reaching the tills.

His basket remained balanced comfortably against his arm while his thoughts performed extensive and elaborate calculations whose conclusion continued shifting with uncomfortable persistence. Recent months had kindled a ray of hope or rather, a tangible variable Samuel could control. Their shared corridors, responsibilities and on some nights; their silence. It all had formed into incremental changes within the man that he rarely noticed as they occurred.

Only afterwards, once he'd been changed, did he recognize such difference. He turned, returning towards her, Samuel waited until she finished examining another shelf before lightly tapping her shoulders. No sudden movements and no unnecessary intrusions. He was well aware of the reflexes Kitty's previous work would have instilled within her.

Once he had the woman's attention, he began. "I wished to ask," his voice retained it's characteristic composure," whether you would be amenable to joining me for dinner this evening."

The phrasing was quire deliberate and clear. "Only amongst ourselves." Silence filled the distance after sufficient room. "It has been some time since I shared a meal with company, and you appear you would benefit from it as well." All of that remained his truth.

"I believe conversation may prove..." he paused, calibrating his words, "....beneficial, provided your own commitments permit the time."

Samuel rarely extended invitations, rarer still those without any identifiable professional purpose. This possessed none professional, yet all selfish personal ones; rendering the uncertainty profoundly inconvenient.

Samuel removed a small note from his jacket pocket, noted down his townhouse address, carefully written directions, clear navigation direction that ensure minimal effort. "Half past seven," he said while offering her the note. No expectation or assumption lingered with the note, only the mere possibility of her arrival. For the longest time since Samuel had took control of his life, this was the first instance of his own decision's outcome not belonging to him. There was uncertainty.

As Samuel parked his bike and entered his home, you could clearly visualize the philosophy with which it was designed. For Sauber, architecture had never existed merely to shelter individuals. This interpretation, while technically correct in an obtuse viewpoint, lacked sufficient depth to satisfy his own ideology.

Buildings, much like people communicated intent. Their proportions, their interior, their setup; it all revealed priorities. Their layout betrayed compromise or conviction. Each unnecessary ornament represented vanity. Every absent element or negative space suggested either a vision or restraint to not overfill. Homes were never simply inhabited but rather declarations; of them being an extension of those who occupied them.

His own reflected that philosophy with a vulnerable honesty that Samuel neither concealed nor advertised.

From the street, it invited remarkably little attention. A restored Georgian townhouse which stood quietly behind pale stone walls and black wrought-iron railings whose paint remained immaculate without ever appearing to be recently applied. Ivy climbed carefully across the masonry with deliberate restraint in place of theatrical abundance. It did however, lack any elaborate gate that would announce old bloodlines, neither was it adorned by carved family crests, fountains, statues or expensive spectacles that Samuel found severely beneath him.

It appeared inhabited by someone possessing clarity within their life rather than wealth or abundance. Samuel preferred that distinction. The interior however, rewarded observation to any who may dare. Nothing existed accidentally.

Limestone whites softened the walls while muted greys, retrained browns and earthy greens prevented a clinical feeling despite it's remarkable order. Wide European oak planks stretched uninterrupted beneath carefully selected Persian rugs whose subdued colours introduced warmth without tearing away attention. Each furniture occupied a position determined through repeated evaluation and evidence based practice, as opposed to aesthetic impulse.

Natural light governed the entire structure during daylight. Tall georgian sash windows welcomed the city's pale sun without obstructions, allowing shadows to travel predictably through the rooms before evening surrendered this responsibility to layered lighting hidden carefully within walls, shelves and ceiling. Italian sofas upholstered in cream cashmere faced one another, encouraging conversation over passive means of distraction; of which existed a huge television should his guests pursue so.

His leather armchairs bore subtle imperfections produced through genuine use, while walnut bookcases climbed towards ceilings with rolling ladders beside hundreds of carefully organized volumes.

Despite all it's attributes, Silence remained the home's greatest luxury.

Insulated walls, thick timber and soft materials absorbed the city until London itself became little more than an abstract concept beyond the windows. Traffic rarely intruded as the house existed within its own carefully engineered ecosystem where each sound possessed purpose.

His study however, explained its owner far more effectively than any biography ever could.

Books spanning medicine, chemistry, philosophy, magical theory, history, physics, potioneering, classical literature and darker disciplines occupied shelves without favouritism. Knowledge, as Samuel believed, deserved categorization and study rather than ethics or moral judgement. His walnut desk remained unnervingly uncluttered, occupied only by a fountain pen, a few sharpened pencils, neatly stacked correspondence, a MacBook and documents currently only he could decipher.

The kitchen represented an intersection between domestic practicality and professional precision. Copper pans hung according to size. Knives rested perfectly aligned as glass contained bore handwritten labels displaying herbs, grains and ingredients arranged in an orderly manner. Every drawer closed silently while every appliance existed for it's application.

Throughout the residence, craftsmanship consistently triumphed over reputation. Oil paintings styled the walls beside charcoal architectural studies. Classical sculptures stood quietly in alcoves where natural light emphasized their form rather than their perceived monetary value. Somewhere, hidden behind enough books and forgotten canvases to discourage casual discovering, rested a faded, unfinished watercolor study, portraying a girl dressed in pink. Samuel had painted it himself. He'd also hidden it exceptionally well.

The garage beneath the townhouse betrayed the only meaningful indulgence within the property. A collection of cars rested beneath museum-quality lighting, immaculate yet unmistakably driven. Chips marked the front bumpers while tyres showed off the wear. Machines existed to operate, not merely admiration.

Beyond the rear doors waited an enclosed garden isolated from neighbouring properties through mature hedges and carefully positioned trees. White roses perfumed the evening air beside a narrow reflecting pool whose surface rarely disturbed itself.

Samuel himself had designed the space for solitary morning and uninterrupted reading before the rest of city awakened around him.

To enter his home was, perhaps unintentionally, to enter Samuel's mind itself.

As evening arrived, the residence had acquired a different purpose altogether.

Preparation.

Hours of his had disappeared within his kitchen while methodology replaced idle thought. The meeting earlier that day had disrupted the structure of his day in ways Samuels continued to find difficult to categorize. Ordinarily, Samuel corrected deviations and this one; he'd cultivated it.

He stood dressed in a white spread-collar shirt with sleeves rolled below his elbows, charcoal tailored trousers, brown suede loafers and a silver watch whose face reflected the warm lighting above his dining table. His gloves remained absent, so did the charmed red lenses and the dark glasses that concealed his natural gaze. His natural eyes regarded the room with inspection while the table itself had been prepared with discipline identical to that of his own.

A crystal vase occupied its centre, containing pale pink flowers whose color had required more consideration that Samuel cared admitting. Fine porcelain rested beside polished silver. Crystal stemware waited beside constantly replenished water glasses. Every distance between plates was both mathematically and aesthetically consistent.

The meal itself progressed through seven carefully constructed courses. An amuse-bouche of smoked trout upon brioche accompanied by crème fraiche, lemon zest and chives. Beef Carpaccio. French onion soup, Pan-seared Chilean sea bass. Beef wellington. A curated cheese course and vanilla bean creme brulee.

Champagne had already reached appropriate temperature while white burgundy rested beside the fish course. Bordeaux waited patiently for wellington. Sauternes remained prepared for dessert. Coffee beans had been ground scarcely twenty minutes earlier. Every choice possessed order, intention and yet beneath all that preparation, lingered uncertainty. Samuel found this irksome sensation remarkably inefficient.

He had negotiated with dangerous criminals more comfortably than anticipated conversation across a dining table. Interrogations followed structure, research followed methodology. Even violence possessed predictable variables once sufficient data is collected.

Hospitality, however, remained one field that continued to be frustratingly imprecise for Samuel.

The doorbell sounded and Samuel didn't move immediately. Instead, he'd already left the front door unlocked. Meeting Kitty at the entrance would require her to cross one final threshold beneath direct observation. Individuals frequently reconsidered decisions when someone waited visibly for them. They experienced hesitation, embarrassment or simple instinctive retreat.

Samuel had therefore, removed this barrier entirely.

Her entry would only be influenced by her own choices. Several measured footsteps later, moment within the hallway announced him of her arrival. Approaching from deeper within the house, he stopped at a conversational distance as his gaze settled upon her naturally.

"Thank you for agreeing to this."

His voice carried its customary restrained, neither particularly warm nor deliberately distant. "Here, let me take that to the coat rack." he asked before placing the coat as a brief silence followed, and Samuel recognized it.

He had no prior knowledge on what entailed an ordinary welcome into one's abode, specially for those you once appeared to care for.

Several possibilities were examined before each being discarded for a sufficient lack of authenticity.

"Would you like a tour?," he asked evenly, "or shall we proceed to dinner?" Another infinitesimal pause as he collected his thought. "If you require the bathroom, it is through the living room, first door on left."

His words remained practical, objective and entirely safe. However, his eyes betrayed him. They remained upon hers with none of his well curated concealments blocking their vision. No sunglasses, no lenses altering his eyes. All his deliberate barriers had been shed, for her observation and reality to finally coincide.

Samuel could neither explain the omission nor did he wish to draw attention towards it.

The man merely stood there, aware within his own quiet dissatisfaction of how despite all his calculation and preparation, Kitty continued to serve as the greatest uncertainty present in his life.

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