Finished Should We Fear the Dark? PV Sinclair Carver

Sinclair was on her way to a secluded edge of the great lake. This week had been too chaotic, too different from the humble countryside lifestyle she'd grown accustomed to, and she needed a place of solace away from the upbeat chitter-chatter of fellow classmates. Just a little piece of peace. The air stung her face, but it was bearable. Normally in a state of needing to spend time alone, she would not have chosen to approach the lone figure by the lake, but she found it curious that someone was out there, possibly doing the same thing she wanted to do.

She stood from a little distance for a while, just observing. Sinclair raised a brow in consideration, then decided to join her by the edge. She approaches quietly and sits down in her proximity, not too close, yet not too far; a distance suitable for a conversation or none at all. Sinclair doesn't greet her, nor make a comment, deciding that perhaps they both would rather have a bit of quiet right now. She secretly hopes this is not the type of person to blurt out their misfortunes unprompted, as having met someone like that previously irked her. Sitting by the lake right now was a bit of a gamble, but to her, it was worth it.

The reflection of the grey sky on the frigid lake rippled peacefully. There were no sounds of laughter, no shouting, giggling, just the sound of wind and the gentle tremble of leaves.

Syrah felt the chill before she saw the figure approaching. Her fingers tightened around the edges of her book, though it did little to warm her. When she noticed the girl, approaching, Syrah tensed, instinctively shifting just a little closer to the tree trunk behind her. She was used to being alone, and the idea of someone intruding, even subtly, on that space unsettled her. But she said nothing.

The girl didn’t greet her, didn’t make a sound as she sat down a small distance away. Syrah could feel the space between them growing thicker with each passing second, but the silence wasn’t the kind that usually annoyed peole. No, this was different. It was a peaceful kind of silence.

She took another glance at the girl, who was sitting just a few feet away, seemingly at peace in the quiet. There was something about the stillness of the moment that Syrah found soothing. It was rare to have this kind of silence—no chatter, no meaningless words being thrown about. So many people she’d met recently seemed desperate to fill every second with conversation, eager to close any gap in the quiet with something, anything, just to avoid being alone with their own thoughts.

She shivered again, unable to ignore the numbing cold that crept under her scarf and nipped at her skin. Her breath came out in visible clouds, and she had to fight the urge to tug her book tighter against her chest for warmth. But instead, she leaned back against the tree, folding her arms tightly across her chest and continuing to stare out at the rippling lake

She couldn’t remember the last time someone had sat with her without feeling the need to fill the space with chatter. It made her wonder if this girl was used to it too. Maybe she understood.

Sinclair took out a carving tool and a cross-section piece of antler, planning to carve a hole into it to make a ring. Was it the most efficient way to do it? No, but she enjoyed it anyway and held the piece against her kneecap to scrape into the softer marrow of the antler. She let a few moments pass, simply appreciating the peace as it was.

Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't even bother speaking and might've just left without a word after a while after she decided she'd had enough of the cold. However she appreciated that the girl seemed to treasure silence as much as she did. There was a difference between being lonely and being alone. Are they friends? No. Acquaintances? Not even that. But Sinclair didn't feel lonesome at all. Right now with barely a lick of conversation between them, this was enough company.

Something stirs just beneath the surface of the lake, a fish, perhaps. Sinclair assumes any merfolk or bigger creature would not approach the shallow waters of the shore. A quiet sigh escaped her lips in a puff of white. She breaks the silence, her voice low and calm, "What kind of book is that?"

The cold gnawed at Syrah's fingers, stiffening them as she turned another page. The wind bit at her cheeks, turning them pink and raw, and her nose tingled, red as a berry. She pulled her scarf up higher, nestling her chin into its woolly embrace, but otherwise didn’t move. She didn’t want to shatter this silence.

She finally let herself look over, just a quick glance. The other girl was busy with something, her head bent low, short black hair, it reminded her of her pet crow back at home, Merlot. Syrah’s eyes trailed to her hands, watching as they worked at a piece of antler, the rhythmic scraping somehow soothing.

“What kind of book is that?”

Syrah debated internally if she could tell her. Then decided it didn't matter. She didn’t really care what she thought, anyway. If she got scared or ran off to tell someone, then whatever. It wasn’t her problem. But for some reason, she didn’t think this girl would. There was something grounded about her, like she didn’t care about gossip or rumors.

Syrah shrugged, her gaze drifting back to the book. “Dark magic,” she said, bluntly. “Origins, uses, consequences. All that.”

She didn’t look up to see the girl’s reaction. “Just curious about it,” she added, her voice flat. “People are scared of things they don’t understand. Figured I’d see what the fuss is about.”

Her fingers brushed over the worn cover, her expression unchanged. “It’s just a book. Not like reading it is going to make me evil.” She looked back at the lake, indifferent, like she hadn’t just admitted to studying one of the most feared branches of magic. “People are dramatic like that.”

She glanced at the other girl, half-expecting to see disgust or fear—or worse, pity.

Her brows just slightly knit together in a mix of concern, fingers pausing in their repetitive and careful carving, "Oh," the girl answered simply, running her thumb over the rough divot she created in the antler. A pause in thought- A book will probably not make you evil. It's what you do with what you've learned. Then again, I am still unfamiliar with this world, I don't know how everything works.

Sinclair was new to all of this. Being a first year muggle born, she had only just started her journey as a witch. She was not fully aware of the deep history of dark magic just yet- let alone magic as a whole. Rumours such as one house being evil and the others being good was also rather strange to her, as she thought it was silly to think that any kind of school would have a house dedicated to producing criminals. Though...is a student even allowed to own this book at Hogwarts? She observes the book in its worn state, curious about magic and the ways it can manifest.

"Frankly said, I feel don't know enough about magic just yet to form a proper opinion about it. There's probably some logic behind the reason it's called dark magic." She starts to carve into the antler piece again, taking this conversation rather openly and neutral, "But at least the book seems honest enough about the origins and consequences. Is there anything interesting of note?"

Syrah glanced at the girl, mildly surprised. Usually, people would’ve gasped or lectured her about the dangers of dark magic. But this one... she was just curious. Neutral. It was refreshing.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice as flat as ever. “It doesn’t sugarcoat anything. Talks about how some spells can backfire. How they can corrupt you if you’re not careful.” Her fingers traced the spine of the book, feeling the roughness of the worn leather. “But it also says that power itself isn’t good or bad. It just... is. Depends on who’s using it.”

She leaned back against the tree trunk, crossing her arms. “It’s not all curses and evil plots, you know. Some of it’s about protection. Binding spells, wards... stuff like that.” Her eyes drifted to the cloudy sky, her voice dropping a little. “People hear ‘dark magic’ and think monsters and villains. But it’s not that black and white. Not always.”

Her gaze flicked back to the girl, watching her carve the antler with steady hands. She wasn’t afraid. Wasn’t accusing her of anything. Just listening.

Syrah looked away, pretending she didn’t care, even though the tiniest bit of tension eased from her shoulders. “People are scared of what they don’t get. They call it evil because it’s easier than trying to understand.” Her tone was blunt, indifferent. “I just wan to understand.”

Sinclair casts a proper glance towards her for the first time, noticing her red nose and ice cold skin, that is, if skin can look cold as ice. It's her choice to be out here in the cold, so I won't make a comment of it. The girl's eyes were perhaps even colder, almost chilling. Sinclair didn't find discomfort in it, but rather felt some kind of strange flutter in her gut that she couldn't understand. The girl was just pretty, she thought, like a cold forgotten porcelain doll in glass case. Sinclair's gaze flits from her hair, her face, her fingers, and the book again.

"There are plenty of very normal things that can be used for bad intentions. You probably could do quite a lot of harm with regular spells if you used them right, yet they are part of the curriculum and not classified as dark magic," she ponders, now leaning her chin against her palm, her posture relaxed and unrefined, "I think people are just afraid of what happens if it gets into the wrong hands, so just to be safe they don't want anyone touching that stuff at all." A gun can be used to hunt for food, but it can be used to cause harm to other humans too.

Syrah's breath formed visible puffs in the air as she curled her fingers around the edges of the book, her grip tight despite the chill. The cold was unbearable, but she didn’t flinch. She was used to the discomfort by now. The wind made her shiver, her skin pale and lips tinged with blue, but she didn’t care to leave. The quiet of the Great Lake offered a peace she couldn’t find inside, where everything always felt loud, always felt too close.

"Maybe it's the fear of power," she muttered under her breath, addressing the girl, as though she was speaking to herself. "They say magic is dangerous when it’s in the wrong hands, but that’s just because people are scared of what they can’t control." She let her cold fingers trace the page again, but no words really stuck, only a deep-rooted frustration that gnawed at her.

The girl's presence disrupted that. Her voice cut through the quiet, too thoughtful, too curious. Syrah didn’t like it. Curiosity was dangerous. Curiosity meant questions, and questions led to secrets better left buried. She should tell her to leave, push her away like she always did with everyone. But her body wouldn’t move, her mouth wouldn’t form the words.

She blinked, realizing she had been staring. Her eyes dropped back to the book.

She closed it for a moment and stared out over the lake, letting the chill of the air settle into her bones as she thought. Her fingers had gone white, gripping the book as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. The wind howled again, and Syrah hunched her shoulders, refusing to show weakness—even as the cold bit deeper.

Maybe they’re right to be scared. People always want things they don’t understand. And they always ruin them when they get them

She listens intently, absorbing the girl's words.

While seemingly within her own realm in her lonesome nature, Sinclair was taught to stay curious, observant. How do you battle fear, if fear came from what you did not understand? Her father would tell her, you try to understand it as best you can, and keep an open mind. Maybe you'll learn something along the way that's useful, or maybe not, but you now know and are more prepared.

Sinclair breathes out quietly, gazing into the lake, "Probably, to some degree. I think.... people are misguided about what they're afraid of. Maybe they're attaching the fear of power to people with ill intentions, when they should be fearing the person and their intent and not the actual power. When something isn't widely understood, people are gonna be more afraid of it because they don't know what to expect, so... they'd be scared that they can't control that there are people that do things for bad reasons. Or something," Sinclair chuckles as she continues to scrape deeper into the piece of antler, "This became kinda philosophical very quickly...." She glances at Syrah and how much the cold seemed to bother her. At least, that's what it looked like to the young Gryffindor. "....If you're too cold I don't want to keep you here with this chat. You're obviously freezing," she tilts her head with a knowing shift in her brow. Had they been closer as people, she would've offered Syrah her coat since she was warm enough with her undershirt, but she barely knew this strange girl. She didn't even know her name.