Incipient Stage PV Finished

Following a bitter man's impatient discharge, Thomas coasted towards the exit where Santario had already passed. In the process, taking the most indirect route as not to waste his elder's spurn. Remaining on the outskirts of the ice surface at a leisurely pace before stopping before the rink's exit. Thomas issued a solemn nod that leaked with a pretentious curl of his lips before turning away altogether.

The boy found his seat next to Santario, swiftly undoing the laces and loosening his skates to the point of removal. He folded the laces like a professional would with an electrical cord before storing them into the confines of his boot. One of many habits his former coached helped instill, handle each detail of your game with the utmost scrutiny and as some of his teammates learned the hard way, that extended to care of their equipment.

The boy retrieved a black bag underneath the lowest bleacher where he sat. First, sliding his skate guards to conceal the blades, which were made of a fabric meant to protect the skate blades from unwanted contact. Thomas zipped the bag up in his lap, letting his hands rest atop as he turned to Santario. He offered a glimmer of amusement at her lighthearted analysis, but no more than a nod to indicate he was ready to move on.

Then, as if a flip switched, the boy recognized a change of demeanor in the girl's sapphire eyes that indicated internal tension, as if she battled the words to come. Thomas... Much time has passed since their last encounter, but he could not recall her calling him this often. It was not the same as when he used her first name, as she had expressed exception with hearing Martin. And with a stern nature that would make Thomas hard pressed to order martinis when they were of age.

The boy narrowed his eyes with a careful nod, respecting the significance of this moment for what it was. Their relationship may not have started on the most still of waters, though amidst a photo reveal session the pair has established a shared comfort in each other's presence. Santario indicated in the moment a trend back towards their intimate connection. Though Thomas would repress any outward satisfaction, he was pleased to see things have not changed over the summer.

As per the norm, Thomas was silent. He was not a boy of many words, typically electing to take the less is more approach. The revelation her home was so near left his eyes widening at the coincidence. Though he would not have much to say except... "After you." Thomas quickly retrieved his cell, sending his mother a message to notify the change of plans. "Ran into a friend from school, I'll be a few hours longer." The boy returned it to his pocket, motioning ahead for Santario to lead the way.

When emotional tension of any sort grew between them, silence fell, and so far, they had never truly been in uncomfortable silence, except perhaps today. Santario and Thomas would leave the rink, making their way through the parking lot but instead of going towards the car, she would start to lead him away from the people, the crowds, and the buildings. On any other day, this would typically be an instance in which one would avoid following a person closer and closer towards the tree line and onto a dirt path that only existed on the side of the road because joggers needed something a little safer than the asphalt to take their morning run on. Horror 101 would be inclined to disagree with how safe this route really was.

Thomas had seen many, many different facets to Santario’s personality by now, a few being confident, patient, aggressive, determined, and a rare form of happiness. Today he would find himself coming face to face with three more turns of the gem, and she wondered what he would think of her when he saw self-loathing, vulnerability, and self-doubt. How long would it take him to realize just how weak she really was, and how long thereafter would it take him to walk away from her? As she wondered these things, Santario’s eyes shifted from her shoes to the landscape and back again, but never to the boy walking next to her. The silence between them would only last two to three minutes though it felt forever for her.

“Three more minutes down this path, and then we’ll take a right onto a gravel drive. The rest of that walk will lead us to the house. Muggles can’t see the gravel way up; they just see a particularly thick set of brambles along the side and stay clear of it. I don’t really know if you’ll like what you discover there, but… It is what it is.” Thomas would remain a boy of few words as he followed along the path giving an unseen nod. All good things had to come to an end eventually because nothing could last forever, but she didn’t expect this walk to feel like she was walking towards her own grave. How ironic.



So they would walk, turning onto the gravel drive as it came, and before too long, Thomas would see a decently sized log wood cabin with a constructed stone firepit just off to the side. The home was humble despite her pureblood heritage and the fortune she stood to inherit. It was just perfect for a family of three, and someday she wanted to live in one again. Without pause, Santario would walk up to the door and stop taking a deep breath. “I have not been inside since…” She murmured, staring at the doorknob as if it would burn her skin to touch it. “S'il vous plaît, donnez-moi de la force.*” She said more to the atmosphere than to anything else, wanting nothing more than to reach out to the boy next to her and draw on his strength, but instead, her hand shakily reached out and opened the door.

As Santario entered, she moved directly to the left and across the room towards the fireplace, allowing Thomas plenty of room to enter and look around. The first impression could be cozy, warm, happy, and safe, but this was like one of those pictures where the more you looked, the more things seemed wrong. Though usually typical to their kind, the first thing was that the inside was slightly larger than the outside, which included an entire room that could not be seen from the outside. While the cabin was marginally bigger, it was not ostentatiously so; it remained decently humble even if there were some fancier things on the interior.

They would be in the living room, a coat closet directly to the right of the entryway. A stone fireplace was in the wall shared with the dining room, and if looked through, one could see the legs of the table and chairs. A large plush couch, an armchair, and a chaise lounge were set up surrounding it as two full bookshelves flanked the mantle. Upon the mantle were many framed photographs of her and her family; in fact, this scene should be picture perfect. The home had not been lived in by anyone for eight months, but it was oddly clean, not a speck of dust to be seen. There was still a preserved and decorated holiday tree in the back corner of the room with presents still underneath, and more observation would uncover the subtle but tasteful holiday decorations that still adorned the room.

To the right of the tree would be the door to the hidden room, and next to that would be a staircase leading upstairs. A door to the right of the fireplace presumably lead back to the kitchen and the dining area. Santario grasped the ledge of the mantle as she looked at the photographs. “I never really understood why I took photos before. I just fell into it because it was something my father liked to do. I lived a good life, I was happy, I laughed, I played, I joked, I took joy in cooking and gardening with my mother, having flour fights with my father, and my parents loved me... We were happy-I was happy.” She swallowed hard as emotion started to fill her voice, emotion she was trying so hard to fight, but the flush that was creeping its way onto her cheeks and the white-knuckled grip on the stone would far betray her. “I take them now because for just one moment, even if it’s only within a heartbeat, everything is perfect. The people are there, they are smiling, laughing, people are happy. In that ideal moment, nothing can go wrong as it is immortalized on film. That way, you have something to look back on when they leave you-“ Her voice broke as hot tears rolled down her cheeks, her arms wrapping around her stomach as if she were trying desperately to hold everything in; trying to wall him off again, but the dam was broken.

“Everyone… Everyone eventually leaves. No matter how happy they were.” Santario reached up to touch a photograph of herself right in the middle of the rest before finally looking at Thomas. “Even she left. She died that night… Right in that coat closet there. As she watched her parents’ crucio induced writhing and screaming until it was finally silent. But… But that’s the joke, isn’t it Reaper? Because it’s never silent after that. I see them night after night… I hear their screams every single time I try to sleep. Sometimes they’ve changed to begging me for help or blaming me. As I stood in that closet and watched them die. They are right to.” Her hands clenched into fists pressed into the sides of her abdomen as she held herself; tears continued to fall, some hitting the corner of her lips and spreading across them as others rolled down her neck only to be soaked up by her shirt, but still, they fell, and regardless of how controlled and angry her voice was her body trembled as if she were freezing. But she wasn’t cold; she was falling apart piece by piece as every tear fell another seam unraveled. When would she be nothing but scraps on the floor?

“That’s the big secret, Reaper. I was pushed into a coat closet by my parents and was too weak, too worthless, and too pathetic to help them…”
S'il vous plaît, donnez-moi de la force. = Please, give me strength.

Thomas’ choice to follow Santario through the sparsely crowded streets of Dartford signified a silent trust between them. Whether earned or not, blindly accompanying the girl did not provide discomfort. A significant instance for a boy such as Lestrange, partially entertaining the idea she led her to a site in the shadows for betrayal. Fueled by the emotional shift in the girl’s tone, the way she traveled across the pavement with reluctant steps. Thomas could denote it in these little details, she was taking him to a source of great pain.

It was not hard to deduce, after losing her parents the girl’s former home would easily incite despairing contemplation of her past. Thomas understood the power this moment held, as traveling to the site of his father’s death was a topic often considered. He did not contain the bold pursuit of the girl traveling ahead of him. Silence between them, only interrupted by the occasional midday chatter of scattered folks, or passing automobiles. The wind was still, the trees fixed in place with only the occasional flutter of leaves on the branches. Yet still a weighted resistance shortened their steps.

Accepting the loss of her parents was a hard road, hindered by the pursuit to avenge what you no longer have. Yes, the boy had vivid recollection of the drastic change of tone on a gloomy afternoon of photo exposure. "My parents were murdered on Christmas Eve". Not passed, or taken, but murdered. Thomas’ loss of his father was unclear, an unknown void that hangs over him like a dark cloud, but also fuels him, embedded in the many salient decisions he’s made. Where Santario likely wanted revenge, Thomas simply wanted truth.

After his Slytherin counterpart instructed him on the remainder of their route, Thomas retained his silence, offering no more than a short nod of acknowledgement. What could the boy say that would dampen the effects of her approach to painful memories. There was nothing that would lighten the load, only a presence, someone that will walk the path along with you. Standing there, unwavering, at your side to catch the tears that may fall along the way.

Thomas’ eyes fell upon a congenial site at first glance, a wooden cabin with a stone chimney at its peak. Memories of his temporary home on the castle grounds flooded his mind with this visual. The inked man that came in passing, the ominous mirror, scattered loose pages and the textbooks they belonged to. “I have not been inside since…” Santario broke his concentration on the past, a welcomed change of thought. Thomas would look to her sapphire eyes that were fixed upon the entryway. “I’m with you.” He muttered, if she looked his way he would stand stiff as a stalwart would, even if only pretending to be.

The pair passed through the door that Thomas left open, allowing the daylight to illuminate the entryway. If Santario opted to turn back, her path would be easier that way. As opposed to the finality of being entrapped within the despondent aura of this place. He remained at her heels from room to room, wary of her kinesics, but careful not to view her visage for longer than a couple seconds. Thomas viewed the confines of the cabin with reluctance, this was not some house tour. He was merely here as her friend, step by step on her arduous journey of acceptance.

Thomas’ eyes followed as her fingertips found the mantle of the staircase, a shift in her demeanor arrived with spoken words. As the girl delved into the source of her passions, and the connection it holds to what is no longer there, Thomas took vigilant steps from behind to find her side, still at a formidable distance, but close enough to see the emotional release building. He remained rigid in place, even as the tears that welled in her lids slid along her cheeks. The emotion transferred to him, but not appearing as a direct reflection, instead giving the boy a unique intensity.

The byproduct of his way to cope with his own horrors, jaw tightening and his fingers along his pant sides. His head progressively lowered until his eyes found the floor, unable to bear the visual of Santario any further. Was it simply that the emotion has transferred within his frame, or where she displayed strength, he could only reflect his pity for himself. His refusal to allow his mind to be infiltrated by the deep seated resentments sourced in his loss. The truth was Santario was much stronger than Thomas. Where she acknowledged her pain, Thomas would only fold in fear.

So as she spoke, he would listen in silence, head tilted down, left to reflect on the weight of each word that escaped her breath. Repeating the words: everyone always leaves. A truth the boy knew, even if not by choice, accompaniment is not infinite. It was a difficult lesson to learn at such a young age, but the unfairness of life did not discriminate against your age. Sanatrio’s pictures captured a moment, nothing more. Moments pass and memories fade, to make your residence in something that once was is no way to live, but the boy could not blame her for how she chose to cope.

After all, reveling in old memories was far superior than repressing the truth, and hunting to replace it. Thomas Lestrange refused to learn this lesson, the finality of his father’s life was always met with resistance. And his choice of pursuit led him on a path of self-destruction in addition to endangering his peers. This present moment with Santario would do his vendetta no favors, but perhaps a building block to look back on one day--if he ever was to truly change.

He had no counter for these revelations of the painful reality of life. It is why he and Santario stood in this room together, the similarities between them were countless. Except the following part, where the girl would reveal the night she witnessed the death of her parents. The boy bit his lip with a tightened jaw, a grimace forming, internally urging himself to remain strong for her in this moment. His blue eyes warily traveled to coat closet, and just for a moment Thomas would disappear into his own memories.

Santario spoke of her parents’ dejected shrieks, and Thomas saw his father’s lifeless face.

"Sometimes they’ve changed to begging me for help or blaming me. As I stood in that closet and watched them die. They are right to. That’s the big secret, Reaper. I was pushed into a coat closet by my parents and was too weak, too worthless, and too pathetic to help them…”

“You’re wrong to blame yourself.”Thomas would still not look towards Santario, eyes remained fixated on the closet door. As her sorrow passed through him, so did her anger. The only clear thing was holding herself responsible was wrong, and would only lead her down a path of blackness. “They did what they had to do to spare you.” Not from the sights, nor the sounds, but from the ending where Santario lay on the floor with them, cold and rigid, without life. “I don’t think they blame you for staying where you did. But they would for letting it be for nothing.”

Thomas continued to force his sight away from the girl, afraid he could not fight back his own tears if he looked her way again. Instead, the boy approached the closet with slow steps, as if not to alert someone that lurked behind the door. He stopped, fingertips grazing the wood in a gentle slide down before returning to his side. He tilted his head back in her direction with a firm statement. “We should leave.” Part of him thought to suggest burning the place to the ground, but that was not his decision to make.

Thomas’ eyes remained forward as he walked past her, without permission he would clasp the girl’s hand and attempt to guide her back to the entryway. If she shook free in defiance to remain where she stood, he would continue on without her anyway. The boy would not take it personally, standing at her side until she stated her intentions.

However, if she did allow him to pull her away from the site of her parents’ murder, he would lead her back to the porch of the cabin and into the warm summer air. Thomas was not one to get sentimental, or a hugger. In fact, his experience at Hogwarts has left him hugless, and the boy might have even been proud of the fact. Though he was not at Hogwarts surrounded by the cold shoulders of his peers. He was close to home, and with his friend. Thomas would take the opportunity to break his impressive streak. The boy would wrap his arms around Santario, squeezing the top of her back firmly[if she allowed]. “Don’t let it be for nothing.”

@Santario Martin

The ridged stalwart stance that had taken over him had not gone unnoticed, but she was in no position to express her gratitude. If she had looked at him more than her peripherals allowed and fully taken in the loyal defender stance, she would have broken much sooner than she did. They wouldn’t even have made it to the cabin, only broken down on the side of the road instead. In fact, she almost considered changing his nickname, but she was much too fond of Reaper, the moniker she bestowed him within April. Being guarded by a Reaper was much more impressive than just a defender anyway.

Three usually insignificant words, when by themselves, I’m with you, mean nothing. Nothing at all. However, when you string them together and utter them to someone in need, there is a transference of power, a strength. In a way, that person is giving you some of them and allowing you to use that part of them to get done what you can’t on your own. Sometimes it even meant they would do what you couldn’t, but they both knew that’s not what would be needed here.

Without even looking at him as she explained, she had known his eyes had left her. He was hurting whether it was because she was hurting or if this reminded him of his own pains, she did not know. She instinctively wanted to reach out to him, wanted to wrap her arms around him and tell him that someday things would be okay, maybe not today and not tomorrow, and perhaps not for many, many years. But eventually, they would be okay. She wouldn’t have believed it if she had said it; she wasn’t sure either of them would ever be okay again. Both fighting tirelessly day in and day out, wrestling with their own personal demons when the lights went out. Only to do it all over again once the sun rose. There was no rest for them, and whether they would make it out alive at the end, well… That was yet to be determined.

He claimed that she was wrong to blame herself, and logic would agree with him. He was right. At the time, she was an eleven-year-old girl hiding from three full-grown adults who knew how to wield unforgivable curses. She would have died with her parents and lay lifeless on that floor when the Aurors arrived. However, Emotion told her she did not do enough, that she wasn’t doing enough, and that she never would do enough. She wasn’t enough. Santario Martin wasn’t enough for anyone or anything. She would fail. These are the things that she fought in the dark when she was all alone at night, holding her breath so her dormmates wouldn’t know.

She could not think of a time where she had known Thomas to be wrong, besides the wrong choices he had made in his past. His past had nothing to do with her, though, not yet, maybe someday she would be there to help him with his demons even if the demon was just uncovering the truth. He moved towards the closet, and she watched him like a hungry hawk watched a mouse skitter across the field. Santario reached up with one hand and gently wipe the tears from her face forcing deep breaths. She needed to calm down. Closer and closer, Thomas crept to the place where her heart, warmth, smile, laughter, and innocents had died. Someday that closet would burn, and with its ashes, she would mourn her losses, but not yet. His fingertips gently touched the oak as if it were a grave that he didn’t want to disrespect.

Leave. Yes, leaving would be good, Santario thought, knowing that she was emotionally drained; she had nothing else to give. As Thomas started to walk past her, he did something she did not expect. He grasped her by the hand, and she did not resist fallowing in suit beside him as if this was perfectly normal between the two. But this was not normal for them; in fact, this was the first time that either of them had touched in any manner whatsoever, let alone flesh to flesh. While this action was a demand, it was still a transfer of power, again with strength; perhaps it went both ways as their hands clasped. He gave her the strength to take on the world; could she do the same for him? She hoped she could, after all, what kind of friendship was this if she couldn’t do for him what he did for her.

The warm summer air embraced her like a long-lost friend, and while her face was still a blotchy red, she was far more controlled now. Which was a good thing considering another very unexpected first happened as she was pulled into an embrace. Her arms instinctively wrapped around him in return, her fingers grabbing onto the back of his shirt and her head resting on his chest. She allowed her eyes to close, and for just a moment, the world would disappear. All that was left was the sound of his heart and the air that filled and left his lungs. The rhythms that gave him life. His voice rumbled in his chest, sounding deeper than usual as it reverberated off bone and body instead of air.

She selfishly allowed herself one more moment of his warm embrace before pulling away enough to look up at him. A new determination burned behind her eyes like an uncontrollable blaze. “I won’t, I swear it to you, to them, to myself. I will make Gideon, Abbandon, and Loralei pay for what they have taken from me. Vladimir, too, because I don’t know how he is connected; I just know he is. Someday. Someday I will watch them all burn, and I don’t care if I have to burn the world with them.” Those three names he would have heard during the summer right before Victor called her up into the ring as if he was mocking her in a way he would never be able to understand. Vladimir had been the prize for those fights, and the connection was something that could not be denied. Nor would she.

Gently pushing out of his embrace, if he had not already dropped it himself, she would smooth her clothes. “We should get back. I shouldn’t want to worry your mother; I’d hate for her to hate me before ever knowing me.” A bold assumption that she would ever meet the boy’s mother, but if they were to remain close friends, she had a suspicion that it would happen sometime in the future.

There would not be much more for these two to say to one another as they made their way down the dirt path. What had started out as a perfectly innocent and even fun day had turned into a crater of unaddressed emotions and new information. Santario, at the moment, had no way of knowing what Thomas would do with the information she had given him and now was certainly not the time to ask, and even if it was, she wasn’t sure that she would have. Just as he, whether because of being wrapped up within his own emotions or thoughts, would not breach the subject of asking her more. He did not ask her why her parents were murdered; he did not ask her about the connections or the implications.

They would simply exist together in the time and space that it took them to walk from the home that she grew up in. The home that she longed for but knew now that she would never get back. A family that she would never have again. She would simply have to make a family of her own by the friends she allowed to get close enough. Cars would pass them intermittently as they made their way back towards town. Santario’s face still showing slight hints of blotchiness around her eyes and on her cheekbones from crying. While she would have been honored to meet his mother, but they would agree that going their separate ways, for now, was for the best. Parting once more until they would meet again at school.