Gossamer Bonds pv Lestrange Finished

The weekend provided many luxuries, whether to relax, catch up on one’s studies, or to socialize with peers. To take a deep breath in a temporary escape from the rigorous routine on the weekdays. Cramming the information from the multitude of subjects, combined with the daily trek around this vast castle could prove exhausting for the youthful student body. One man’s treasure is another man’s trash. Proving true for Mister Lestrange in this regard, a student with enough misfortune to actively exercise the will of demons within. You read right, exercise. A boy dawdling on the end of a string, not to say his legs did not work when he elected to walk, or his arms did not move when he would try to reach, but above these physical extremities was a tampered mind. Thomas Lestrange was not in control.

So where one student may relax, another may catch up on studies, a third opting to socialize, all three could align to treasure the freedom of choice, and of mind. On the contrary for Thomas, when left to his thoughts he would consciously flee, but only for so long. The luxury of friendship was elusive, the dedication to his studies was non-existent, and opting to relax would only fuel the contemplative state he ran from. Instead, Thomas would often wander about the school grounds in search for distractions, an escape.

Upon approach to the courtyard, the rain began to fall. Something about the rain, the soft chilling hiss served as a stimulating white noise. Tap, tap, tap. The pleasant petrichor offered abbreviated comfort, countered by the realization his walk would be limited within the castle walls. Despite the perception that the house Lestrange may provide, Thomas was not wealthy. His late father did not leave much behind, and his mother’s career in child development did not yield the deserved sum. Due to this, it was not often you’d find the boy sporting anything other than his school issued robes. However, this afternoon was one of the rare occasions. Thomas may be known by some to dress for the occasion. Certain individuals may be disappointed to see him veer from the all-black aesthetic that rewarded him with his favorite nickname to date, Reaper. Though death was not on the menu this afternoon. He wore a plain light grey shirt, dark-blue jeans and a pair of black sneakers. It appears today, the occasion: Casually boring.

After traveling back within the school walls, Thomas did several circles throughout the corridors in silent observation. After several passes, he opted to rest near a window, resting his forehead against the glass to observe the growing rainfall. Several archways to his rear, a door opened and closed. Which clearly is an event of no significance, but when the boy turned his head, a ring of familiarity arrived from the girl’s unique blend of features. The big sapphire blue eyes, slightly pale skin, and black hair. It was the girl from the night of the ball, and the owlery. She had a habit of fading into the shadows when shit hit the fan, perhaps a credit to her intuition to recognize when to bail. Ironically, she came away far worse than he, on the receiving end of a poisonous sting, and a nasty fall. Developments that may have sprung the boy into action if he were not preoccupied playing sidekick to the bane of the ball.[Technically he is not aware, just a mention.]

The noirette emerged from the classroom once more, a bin in hand. Perhaps she saw Thomas, or maybe she did not. He would not turn to face her as she walked towards the ladies latrine, only glancing from the side of his eye. There was something about the girl that inspired curiosity, a surprise encounter a week ago that sat with Thomas. She provided a unique perspective, a sharp eye to see things simply...as they are. He stealthily watched her return to the classroom, bin now filled with water. It was unlikely she was in there to make slime, leading to his decision to approach.



Anyone who wants them will have to wait quite a while anyway. Don’t die, Reaper. The parting words that evening led Thomas to deduce her task this afternoon. This grim reaper has manners after all, opting to rap his knuckles lightly against the door as opposed to barging in with a scythe. “Reaper here. Did not die.” Only on the inside. Thomas would await a response.


The red tint accumulating from a collection of ascended candles gave the room an eerie aesthetic. The kind you could find at a modern day muggle nightclub, which is decidedly far more disturbing an environment. Surely fitting to uncover the memories of the secret ball, the blackness overcame the pitch not long after the last click of the camera. Thomas would note the collection of chairs, a water bin where Santario would let the photos sit to develop, and a utensil[presumably] to shift and gather the photos before hanging them to dry. “Fitting to relive the horrors in darkness...need a hand?”

Being observant was not on the girl’s list of things to do today, not unless it involved looking at photo negatives. Nor did she expect to run into anyone she knew on a rainy Saturday as most people were hunkered down in their common rooms for the day. Sane people would be cramming for the impending final exams that were coming up. If there was at least one thing that Santario wasn’t, it was most people. That was the intriguing thing about being a faceted person, not two people would ever describe you the same way, but all would have an air of what you wanted them to know about you.

It would be no surprise that the child did not see her soon to be acquaintance stalking the halls as her eyes had been more focused on watching the water level not wanting to spill it and needing to go back for more. If she was anything, at least she was efficient even at the cost of seeing the eyes that were glued to her movements. So she resumed her predestined motions of locking the door and sitting down, getting ready to crack open the first roll of film. She even went as far as almost starting to sing right before a light rap, rap, rapping at the classroom door followed by a familiar voice proving that there was indeed the life she told him to keep.

Santario put her things on the table and quickly made her way over to the door, perhaps, a little too fast. Interesting people would someday be her downfall if they hadn’t already. She opened the door for him staying behind it so her already dark adjusted eyes wouldn’t be killed by the brighter light outside, causing a headache. “Reaper! In, in.” Her silvery voice uttered, and as soon as he cleared the door, she shut it and locked it behind him. Something that would typically be considered an ominous act if it weren’t for the fact that she didn’t want anyone barging in and overexposing her film.

“Looks like you have two perfectly good hands. Please feel free to sit. Horrors indeed for once I almost didn’t make it out conscious.” She motioned towards the only empty stool as she walked back towards her little setup, mentioning her fate off-handedly almost as if it didn’t really matter. Instead of clearing a seat for herself, she would instead reach down and pluck the end of a lace, undoing the bow on each of her converse slipping out of them, leaving her feet in black ankle socks. She would then pick up the film roll she was about to crack open and the toll to do it with before hopping up onto the table and settling in cross-legged so that San could face him while she worked whether he chose to sit or not. “This part is a little boring stabilizing the negatives takes around twenty to thirty minutes before we can even start in on the photos. If you want to help, you can just follow my lead.” With that, she would slip the tool in and giving it a quick twist with a crack of plastic popping it over to reveal the beginning of the negatives.

She gently started to pull the nagative out of its case with one hand while grabbing a reel with her other. "It gets wrapped around one of these and the placed in one of those." She used her elbow to point to one of the large canister that would hold the reels once the negatives were wrapped around them.

@Thomas Lestrange

The boy’s wait was short lived, not that it mattered. Less and less the impatient agitator of year’s past, Thomas has developed patience. His goals required such, to respect the ticking clock that was merely a construct. Shackles of time that tell you what to do, and when to do it. Thomas avoided the code that came with this routine. Though not completely independent, Lestrange was bound by his weekly schedule of classes, to be in a certain place at a certain time. But he would not willingly adhere and renounce his grip on the present, a firm belief he was still in control of the world around him. One of the many lies he tells himself, a distant reality. He was surely not in control.

The creak of the wooden door snapped him into focus, the daylight from the corridor windows illuminated the entry to provide his best visual of Santario to date. Her eyes contrasted the dark reddish tint of her environment, sparkling like a pair of blue diamonds. She did not hesitate to recognize him, ushering him into the room instantly. A pleasant surprise, for the boy to be recognized in a positive light. Even if as the door closed behind him there was nothing more than blackness.

Reaper, the name of identification. This choice of name likely based from the visual he provided that evening a week ago, but it reflected something more to Thomas. Supported by her lack of intimidation by his presence, and instead a glimmer of endearment that arrived with her willing acceptance. She was there that day at the Owlery, but she did not look at him the way the others did. Perchance too foolish to recognize the hazards of his acquaintance, or perhaps the girl saw through the facade of darkness, the name a playful taunt at what he was trying to be, but was not. Now was as good a time as any for Thomas to find out.

So Thomas would follow her in, albeit reluctantly, as joining an unfamiliar party in a dark room was likely listed in the do nots section of the adolescents guide to avoid a predator. Though considering the girl was a few inches shorter, and presumably not as athletic, a physical attack was not an immediate concern. What Santario was doing alone in the darkness did not inspire much in the way of positivity, but the boy had enough exposure through muggle media to put the pieces together. A dark room to develop her photos that evening. Santario would offer the boy a seat, to which he would silently decline, instead joining to stand at her side to see the process.



It took a few moments for the words to process, his attention split between observing her actions and listening to the spoken words. As his mind caught up, the word conscious snapped his head at attention, icy blue eyes locking back up to hers. Thomas remained quiet, considering initial impressions that led him to believe she had a keen sense of self-preservation. It was Thomas, not Santario, that was forced to defend himself from the countless attacks from a physically superior and emotionally charged third year. Along with his choice to come to the defense of a Ravenclaw under constant duress. Yet it was Thomas that left without a scratch, and Santario that was...nearly knocked unconscious? At the very least, not far from the price he had to pay after the unwanted touch of the lips. At least your innocence was preserved. It was what he wanted to say, but would refrain. Nobody needed to know about the kiss, he would deny it at all costs.

Santario met his silence with further details on how to develop photos after assuming a seated position atop the table. Her mention of the tedious process certainly outweighed the previous activity where he watched the grass grow. Thomas would nod in agreement that he understood, and offer his assistance by retrieving the negatives to wrap them in film before placing them in the designated canister. If Santario offered any resistance, or intervention to what he was doing, Thomas would comply.

After placing a few in the canister, Thomas retrieved the stool to position it across Santario, as if he was prepping himself for the cross examination to follow. Thomas would resume his assistance, occasionally peering up to meet her eyes when he spoke. “What happened then?” Not one to shield what was on his mind, Thomas spoke directly in reference to her nearly unconscious state. “It appears words are not always enough, and we must go to greater lengths to protect ourselves.” Thomas reiterated the topic of their only direct interaction. “Who hurt you? Or should I be asking…What hurt you?” The buzzing creatures were not a fond memory, but Thomas did not fear them. Apparently only hostile when antagonized, and a reluctance to travel near flame.

In the midst of any lull or silence, Thomas would ensure his actions were proper. “Am I doing this right?” In addition to picking Santario’s mind, another motivation for this interaction arrived. There was something Thomas saw that evening early on. It led to his approach to the girl with the camera then, and it solidified his decision to assist her now. It was something he wanted to see again.

Santario sat with her back impeccably straight, almost as if she was a porcelain doll with a rod up the back of her shirt. Her shoulders were rolled back without an ounce of slouching, and only two things in life tended to give you posture like that. One of those things she was far too young to qualify for. The second, however, would have been something that started when she was very young. The way only her arms reached for things instead of her whole body was almost as if a scarf had been tied around her shoulders, holding her to the back of an invisible chair.

It was well noted that Thomas made the decision to stand next to her to watch what she was doing and when he reached for the negatives, she had already cracked open she allowed them to transfer into his hands. It could be noted that when she relinquished the negatives to him that she would be touching it as little as possible, leaving enough space between any point so that their fingers or hands would not touch. At least not on accident. Every item she would inevitably hand him through the process would be this way.

As he worked on the first spool, Santario would have made quick work of the last three. Cracking them open and setting them down between them before grabbing a reel of her own and starting to wrap the negatives around it. In total, there would have been five sets of negatives to stabilize, but ironically enough, the changing to the fifth one was interrupted by none other than himself that night. Her eyes snapped up to his face as he moved, pulling the stool forward and taking a seat with the last set of negatives that would need to be wrapped. Santario watched him, analyzing him, not hiding that she was doing so. Other then the fact that she sat on the table, this reminded her of when she was stuck in the Ministry that fateful night. He had questions more questions than she assumed he would let on to. Perhaps, she had answers, but neither of them would genuinely know until he asked.

When he asked her who or what hurt her, she took a moment to slip her reel into the canister, his now being the last one, so that she could put the night's events in order. Parts of it were hazy at best, but she needed to get the words in order not wanting to show that she was still somewhat weakened by the event. “You’re doing perfectly.” Santario’s silvery voice answered his second question as thunder rolled through the sky. She looked back over to him now, a slight smile playing on her face. Did he truly care who or what had hurt her? Probably not, she didn’t peg him for the type to actually care, but she had been wrong before. Maybe giving him the benefit of the doubt would be for the best in this situation for the time being anyway.

“It started with a purple bug… Mosp? By the entrance of the stadium. It minded its own business in the flowers that the LGBTQ+ club provided. Some complete buffoon threw a plate at it despite it allowing people to get past it. What was his name… Percival something… Hell, I really need to learn our housemates' names just so I know who to hate.” She shook her head a little at herself mostly, before looking at him again. Meeting his eyes if he was looking at her with the same look on her face that she watched him with that night. “The mosp got angry, and it wasn’t going to let anyone out without a fight, so I Flipendoed it. Not hard enough considering…” Her hand subconsciously placed over the now healed wound where the double stingers had penetrated her skin. “The venom is like your blood getting set on fire, takes your breath right out of your lungs. I think the only thing I’ve felt worse than it was at the Masquerade ball when I broke my arm and took skelegrow with no painkiller beforehand.” A small chuckle and a roll of her eyes at herself before she continued. “Anyway, long story short, some kid… Vincent, Ravenclaw, so I found out on Wednesday when he visited me in the infirmary, tried to fly me out. The broom freaked out, though, or his lack of experience and we fell like rocks. Almost left part of my skull on the pitch, probably would have if it hadn’t been grass. One of our housemates, Bridget, flew me out. She and I used to do drills when I was on the quidditch team practicing flying with an incapacitated teammate. That’s all there is.” From that night anyway, it would seem Santario had a knack for making herself collateral damage in some situations.

She put her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands, resting her chin on her fist. An eyebrow arched, and a smirk widened her lips as she appraised him once more. She watched him as if he were equal, yet evaluating his worth at the same time. “But is that really what you want to be asking me right now?” Her head slightly tilted to the side as she watched for his reaction.

@Thomas Lestrange

A silence accompanied the pair of Slytherins’ as they seamlessly went through the photo reels, submerging them in separate bins on the table between. Santario planted atop the table with legs crossed, higher off the ground than the boy atop the stool. Her upright rigid frame subdued the scarlet tint, only occasionally illuminating his skin when he would reach outside the perimeter of her silhouette. The girl confirmed he was not making any mistakes, subsequently leading to a quickened pace of work.

His icy blue eyes may have been hard to follow after escaping the reddened tint that was blocked by her frame. If not for the glimmer of her sapphire eyes that transferred between the photos in his grasp and up to his visage, he may have missed her close examination. Whether for the preservation of her craft, or simply preservation of herself. The name she labeled, Reaper, though spoken endearingly, it implied parlous connotations. It may have only been a reference to his visual that evening, but a line of thought materialized with time, that there was more to the moniker.

There was no air of anxiety in the room, partly due to the darkened lighting, but it hinted at a unique comfortability the two shared. To simply breathe in each other’s presence silently without uneasy tension reflected a rare compatibility. Not to say Thomas could be sure the girl’s mind was devoid of chaotic screaming of discomfort. Though her controlled movements and easy breaths would imply otherwise. It brought the boy back to the night of their official introduction, where she mirrored his crude energy facilely, handling him in a way few had.

Beauty of the pair’s contentedness with sitting and shutting the fuck up for a minute aside, there was a level of intrigue he felt obligated to address. She unfolded the story following her departure from Thomas, beginning with the shaky idiotic hands of new counterparts. As their eyes linked once more, her tone trended to irritation, sourced from the decisions of her company, or perhaps her decision to assist them. As she continued, he followed her hand to the mosp’s mark. Avoiding the pretentious declarations that surfaced, such as Afraid of fire, or only hostile if antagonized. Not that it was any fault of her own, the girl’s choice to attack the mosp was reactionary, and only a result of the heedless dish tosser. Thomas was a boy of few words, in this case one. “Ouch.” With a perk of the brow and lifeless tone, he acknowledged the sting for what it was, painful.

Santario lightly chuckled as she mentioned troubles at the Masquerade. “Balls are not your thing.” His lip curved slightly up in subtle amusement, little did she know they weren’t his either. Albeit Blossomfest was not a ball per se, but the sister to the Blossom Ball a year ago. An evening he would not idly discuss, not until trust in the other was solidified. The boy’s lips parted at her tumble off the broom, continuing her string of inept acquaintances. Which ended with a fellow Slytherin, one that had Thomas’ respect, even if it was far from mutual. Thomas has shown a willingness to embrace a darker side in her presence, and an inclination to drop pre-conceived agreements for his own benefit. “She’s capable.” From Bridget’s nimble swipe of a cagey blonde’s property, to the successful attack against Marion’s counterpart. She has proven her worth, and a strong willingness to fight for what she believes in. A worthy notion, even if misplaced.

The others became an afterthought as Santario leaned forward, questioning if the words that escaped his lips matched what was truly on his mind. She did not hesitate to speak her mind, to wave through the bullshit of idle chatter, or story time. Thomas Lestrange did not do things without a purpose. While this unplanned interaction seemed to be an innocent cure for boredom, additionally an escape from the conflicted fabrics of his mind, it would not take long for the boy to form an agenda, something to gain. To his dismay, that something to gain was less about him, and more about...her. A predicament that left him with few words, eyes finding the floor as he stirred on his stool.

No no no, not that easy Tom. He was not going to let her in. “You doubt my sincerity?” A faint smile formed, finding her eyes again. A hint of emotion ingresses his tone, of the sarcastic variety. Apparently the only speed he knew these days. He had shown no signs of giving a shit about anyone but himself, Santario saw it, or at the very least suspected it. Why wouldn’t she? He had given her no reason to think otherwise. Oh, the irony the moment presented. “How are those coming along?” He motioned to the photos that swayed in the water, arising from his stool to walk past her and towards the source of light in the room's corner.

Observing only for a moment, before he turned back to Santario. With the higher ground that came with being on his feet, he would attempt to attain control of this conversation. He stood at a distance, grasping one of the idle objects atop the classroom tables. A book to fiddle with. His eyes would remain on the book for a moment, before returning to her in casual approach. “Is there something I should be asking you, Martin?” He gave her a careful glance, or perhaps it was her turn to ask a pointed question.

Trust in this situation was only skin deep, but it was enough to allow each other to be locked in a room together. The silence that fell between Thomas and Santario would be a comfortable silence for her their breathing accompanied by the rain against the windows, and the occasional splash as she dropped a reel into the solution that it needed to develop. Glances occasionally met as they worked towards a common goal. There was no anxiety here, nothing that made them feel forced to break the silence. Only a sense of familiarity from one another, at least for her. There was something about him how the air always felt like there was a static charge around his person. If only she could be so bold as to reach out to feel its shock.

That would not happen though; regardless of this skin-deep truth, they both held each other at arm’s length, never even daring to allow fingertips touch because that would be too close. It would mean one of them conceding and letting the other break through the walls they have both so carefully constructed. They both were far too stubborn and too little knowledge of the other to allow such a trespass.

She watched him as he listened to her, analyzing what she could make out in the darkness. His movements, tone of voice, even the way he breathed sometimes it was how you learned the most about people. Like that, perhaps he wore a mask just like she did. He seemed to get fidgety like sitting in the stool was too much for him now. Ah and there it was the eye drop the guard being put up maintaining their mutual distance and strengthening the wall he had built up. Did she intimidate him somehow? Their eyes met once more, and she offered him a smirk in response as he asked her a question to try and divert her, or at least that’s how she saw it.

He was correct balls were not her thing. Too many unpredictable people and the only thing she ever liked was the dancing, and yet she never got either while at Hogwarts. “There isn’t a person in this castle that could make me go to another.” She murmured as she reached into a bin and moved the reels around, allowing more of the solution get to the negatives before answering his other questions. When he stood up, her back straightened as an automatic response. The relaxed sit that she had for a moment was gone, guard back up. She saw his stance for what it was the need for control because she had it too. They were in a power struggle, and she had disrupted that but putting herself on higher ground.

One of them would have to relent, and he had for the beginning, so she would show the same respect in kind he had earned as much. She left his questions unanswered as she watched him walk across the room, putting himself in a situation where she could see him better, intentional? She wasn’t sure what he was playing at. He fiddled with a book, and this told her that he was either stalling because he wasn’t sure or that she had somehow encroached on his comfortability again, telling her that it was her turn to relent in the power struggle. He asked her another question and met her eyes; she would meet his gaze from her perch.

Slowly and deliberately, she uncrossed her legs and set her hands on the table's edge next to her thighs. With a silent and gentle push, she lowered her socked feet to the ground. She regarded him with a curious expression wondering how he would react to her apparent stance in allowing him to take control. “I don’t doubt that you were sincerely curious about what happened to me. Whether you care if I made it out alive, unharmed, or unmaimed, I doubt full-heartedly. You don’t know me. Why should you care?” It was truly as simple as that. She turned to look at the negatives' reels judging their progress, something she hadn’t been really watching before. “They are almost ready to hang. Usually I would let them air dry, but I might gently towel dry them this time.” How should she go about responding to his last question? She bit her lower lip as she thought.

After a small moment, she would look back up eyes finding him wherever he might have moved to if he did. “Don’t call me that.” A small edge to her voice developed. She hated it when people referred to her by her surname, she couldn’t explain it, it just rubbed her the wrong way. “Thomas.” A pointed and the first use of his name. “You could ask me a plethora of things, do you expect me to ask your questions for you? You could ask me why I call you Reaper unless, of course, you believe the skin-deep explanation. You could ask me why I am comfortable being in a locked room with a boy I hardly know while a thunderstorm rages outside, making it impossible for someone to hear me scream if you decided to hurt me… Or vice versa. I could ask you what in the world made you call me over that night. I could also ask you what your involvement with those three are. But this is all a game, and quite frankly I am getting really sick and tired of playing games. So how about we make a deal. There should always be truth between us and mutual respect. The truth is, that we never lie to each other, and the respect is that if one says they don’t want to answer or talk about something, the other respects that answer until such a time that the feeling has changed.” She allowed herself a breath as she moved the reels from the solution to the water.

“If you wish to continue to try and play games, you can find the door.”

@Thomas Lestrange

The boy was unwilling to tug the cloak from his shoulders, to shed this shield of his guarded insecurities. Not hesitant to speak his mind, but to reveal all its aspects onto the table that Santario would delicately turn was too much to ask. The table upon which his Slytherin counterpart would carefully readjust herself before the gentle tap of her feet against the stone surface. With each step towards Santario, she would wave through the bullshit facade. She felt his reluctance, as he withheld her answers with a mere question of his own. Effortlessly slicing through his reach to attain control, she was having none of the boy’s games.

Thomas did not waver from his approach, to transcend past the pleasantries was what he wanted. To his delight, only a light tap was required to witness her raw state. He pressed his lips together in silence. Why should you care? Why should I? Why...do I? No answers arrived, the truth he could not verbally place, it was not consciously defined. All he knew was that it is there, not how it came to be. “Why does anyone ever care?” Whether this was a direct question, or Thomas’ way of confirming he had regard for her well being was up for interpretation. The perplexities of a person’s feelings and how they came to be are not always immediately understood. But we know that they are there, and it is up to us to acknowledge them, or to cast them aside. The small flash arrived, a blink of what really was.

A frustrated grimace stained the boy’s lips, the potential reveal he provided stung in the wake of Santario’s harsh disapproval. Don’t call me that. She did not explain further, merely a stern warning that came with the usage of her surname. Thomas responded with a slight tilt of his head in a nod of understanding. He could sympathize with aversion to one’s surname, though their reasons may differ. The name Lestrange invoked sorrowful reflection for his late father, and the unclear string of choices that led to his demise. A name the boy has considered shedding one day.

Thomas stopped a few feet short of Santario, as not to invade her personal space. But he would reach past her to place the book he grasped on the table behind. An inaudible announcement, that she no longer had a part of his attention, but the full amount. His brow quirked from her usage of his real name, accentuating a piercing glare as she went off on a tangent of supposed discussion points.

"You could ask me why I am comfortable being in a locked room with a boy I hardly know while a thunderstorm rages outside, making it impossible for someone to hear me scream if you decided to hurt me…"

“Are you...” Of the emotions Santario displayed, fear was not among them, but he challenged her nonetheless. He tilted his head down meticulously. “..comfortable?” He specified in a neutral tone, a genuine question. The boy had a knack for bringing life to disconcertion within others. It was time to put Santario through a real test. “No games then.” He agreed, but when she took her eyes off him and reached for the reels to transfer them from solution to water, he extended his arm with the intention to push the bin out of her grasp. Thomas demanded her full attention for the words that followed. “You think you have earned my truth?” At her side now, transfixed on the girl’s sapphire orbs. “My respect?” Thomas turned away with a scoff.

What prompted this dramatic reaction? Was it sourced from the boy’s internal conflict to agree to these terms with so little information? Or the encroaching feelings for her that were not readily definable? He turned back to her. “You think I have earned yours?” What did she see in him, to offer this. “No, you don’t know me. If you were smart, you would’ve ran the moment I called out to you.” He reached back towards the bin to assist in the next part of the process. “Let’s just develop the fucking photos, Santario.”

As her hands reached for the reels, his hand came into view, pushing the bin out of her way like a petulant child throwing a temper tantrum on the grocery store floor after he was told he couldn’t have a chocolate bar. For just a moment, a different scene passed behind her eyes hands, not his, shoving her hard to the graveled ground near the great lake. It had caused her hands and knees to get skinned when she landed. tap, tap, tap, tap. Quietly went her nails on the table in just one round of index, ring, middle, and pinky before she looked at him with a passive expression on her face looking far more bored than she did intimidated.

When he finished his tiny little rant, she grabbed the reels and swirled them into the water to rinse off the developing solution. “Do you feel better now?” She left his original question about comfortability unanswered as a form of punishment for his outburst. While her face remained passive, the smallest hint of an edge to her voice indicated that he has, in fact, pissed her off, something most people would not catch. If he tried to meet her eyes again after this point in their interaction, he would notice that it was basically impossible short of grabbing her face and trying to force her too.

“No, I don’t know you. I know nothing literally about you besides what I learned between that night and now. Nor am I in the habit of taking in other’s opinions of a person. I have a brain, and I am perfectly capable of making my own, which couldn’t be said for at least seventy-five percent of the other people here.” She grabbed a reel from the water and walked over to the rigged clothesline that she had made and took a wooden clothesline pin before pinning the free part of the negative to the twine. Santario let go of the reel, allowing it to unroll itself and clatter dramatically to the stone floor.

“You have not earned a notion of my trust nor any amount of respect from me. That would be foolish. Perhaps I was wrong about you.” The last sentence was more whispered than spoken, but he would hear it just fine all the same. Why was she reaching out to him, being so friendly, or even attempting to create a friendship? Or whatever the hell it was she had with people since she found herself tolerating people less and less these days. Being alone was easier, lonely was easy. She knew what to expect when the hollow feeling in her chest started to overwhelm her and take over, she knew what to do when all she felt was nothing just facing the day to day alone and with no one. She was already prepared to spend the rest of her life with no confidants or companions. So why again and again did she find herself metaphorically trying to reach out to people when all they did was leave her hurt or disappointed? The truth was is that she didn’t want to be alone; she wanted to heal; she didn’t want to be cold and numb. She lived it because that’s all she had left now coldness, numbness, nothing, and no one.

She would continue her process one reel at a time with the remaining three reels, whether he continued to help her or not after watching her do the first one. Finally, when all the negatives were hung, she would extract a tea towel from her bag that was worn enough that you couldn’t even see the design on it anymore. She would take the tea towel and start gently patting the negatives dry without saying another word to him unless anything he said to her warranted a response.

Why was Thomas so reluctant to let someone in past the badinage, or the compulsory inclusion that comes with the pursuit of learning. Even one with a luring personality like Santario would undergo the long trek to gain access. The key required to unlock a vulnerable state is quite possibly buried under the nine layers of hell, attached to the bones of his dead father. The girl did not request the raw exposure of his story, only a respectful confidentiality the two would share. To be honest or silent. Though the notion of releasing his guard provided fear, thus reinforcing the defense mechanisms to not only keep her at bay, but to push her away.

Fear had a stranglehold on Thomas. The name his father spat on when taking a muggle’s hand had him endure the brunt of pessimistic judgement from family acquaintances. A tainted boy, a lost cause. His father’s absence did not help, there was no counter, nobody there to explain to Thomas his blood was not tampered. That his mother’s blood does not make the boy any less than the many purebloods before him. It did not help to be placed in Slytherin, notorious for its superior ideology and pureblood lineages. Leading to a predisposition sourced from fear, to be judged, dismissed, and cast aside.

Funny how the fear controls you, corrupting your subconscious to elude rational thoughts and treat others the same way you perceive they would you. Is Thomas a hypocrite, or a coward? Or both? He dismissed Santario Martin’s open-ended offer of honesty and respect, afraid to be judged as she learned more about him, ultimately casting him aside. As Thomas slid the bin out of her reach, her fingers tapped against the table, her speaking tone accentuated her silent aggression. It was easy to deduce she did not care for what he had to say.

Thomas bit his tongue to stop a sarcastic retort. The words may have left his lips in challenging fashion, but they were not meant that way. Regret seeped in, the air around her transformed as she sliced through his bullshit. Highlighting her displeasure was the remark she left him with before going silent. Perhaps I was wrong about you. It left her lips coldly, more disappointed than angry. It stung. Thomas could only stand there quietly, contemplating the hidden affirmation. Unsure of why, but he has done enough to elude the 70%. The girl held him in some decent regard after their first encounter. Now it was up to Thomas. Attempt to undo the damage, or walk away.

“You weren’t…” He blankly glared past Santario, if this agreement warranted her to look towards him, he would refind her sapphire eyes to confirm. “Aren’t.” A silence followed as he followed her example, beginning to hang the remaining reels before she retrieved a towel to dry the negatives. Thomas took a deep breath, eyes lost to the ceiling as Santario went across each negative. “I don’t know how to do this.” He could have been referring to the act of developing photos, or releasing his guard. Santario may be unsure given the lack of specificity, but it was most certainly the latter.

“Let’s give it a go, then.” Thomas conceded, his tone playful. He would retrace the source of conversation to the topics Santario mentioned before, discerning them to be of interest. “Why did I call you over…” With a playful hum, he tapped his fingers atop the table, nodding towards the hanging photos. “Simple enough. I wanted to know what you intended to do with them, and who asked you to take them.” Thomas vaguely remembers the photos to be a topic the night of the ball, but reiterated his intentions anyway. “The three, you mentioned.” Some amusement seeped into his expression, there were many groups of three he was associated with. Ryan, White, and himself. Vlad, Victor, and Marion. And who could forget Auntie and the gang?

“Trying to play friends with the Raven, the other two aren’t relevant to me…” Thomas confirmed his involvement, beginning to enjoy this euphoric release that came with being openly honest. The last person he did this with...well, it wasn’t a person. “Wouldn’t believe me if I told you why.” A dry smirk formed, his impending relationship with Vlad had many layers. “Your turn. Do start with my flattering nickname. Why reaper?”