Once Lost Fin.

@Evelynn Decipio

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	Never mind the ball. Grindylow attacks, several counts of near drowning, and a hot date with hypothermia were old news. An almost fatal Hogwarts party was a dime a dozen, not worth dredging up. Yet some small factor of it was relevant in the odd bird's convoluted thought process. His attention darted towards the horizon, where the sun was nearly setting, though still too high in the sky. He needed it to be night. Instead of saying something cryptic and risk putting her off, Pericles made a vague gesture up towards Ravenclaw Tower. "It's nearly dinner, and I'll need to swing by my bunk first." His expression was innocent while his tone was plain: truth, with a familiar sliver of omission. The letter was in his pocket, but the rest of what he needed was stored away in Steppe Eagle Dormitory. They hadn't survived the school's chaos without caution. Peri knew testing her trust meant going out on a limb, but then, he'd gotten good at that sort of thing since gaining the ability to become an actual bird (pun intended I'll never apologize). Becoming an animagus was one of the most frightening things he'd ever done, and in the wake of the ritual, he was braver than before. Risking the ire of a fellow fifth-year was something he wasn't afraid to take a chance on. "Seven?" Peri reiterated.
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A somewhat dubious gaze continued to linger on the Ravenclaw, but no counter was pit against his explanation. Something that Evelynn couldn't quite place her finger on still nagged at the back of her mind, but his reply was sound enough. It was nearing dinner, and she supposed it would be reasonable that he'd need to return to the tower to retrieve whatever it was. She had half a mind to suggest he cut the time and simply fly up to his dorm—a feat that would probably take mere minutes—but that would mean braving the elements again. Plus, given the weather, it would be unlikely that there would be an open window through which to flutter. She was left with the only real option. If she wanted to discover whatever it was to which he was referring, she would have to play along. So, for the second time since he'd interrupted her grieving, she begrudgingly answered, "Very well."

* * *

The hours following sunset passed far too slowly, the obscurity of that which was yet to come fully occupying her thoughts. Cold, soaked clothing had been replaced with fresh attire; hair had been dried; and—what most would consider minimal—effort had actually been invest in putting a brush through her curls and making herself look remotely presentable. It was one thing to be caught unawares in a moment of despair, but quite another to willingly attend a meeting looking like she had just rolled out of bed. Which, if she had to be honest with herself, was a refreshing thought. More often than not of late, her appearance wasn't something she'd particularly cared about. She wasn't entirely sure what prompted the need to preen at least a little bit now, but it was a welcome feeling. The person looking back at her in the mirror looked more human than hollow for once.

Dralt's unexpected arrival and cryptic invitation had provided the fuel necessary to distract her. As much as his interjection had been an unwelcome one at the time, composure and control had been regained. It was almost enough to warrant thanks, except for the continued worrying thought of what it was of hers that he claimed to possess. This had prompted a furious scavenger hunt. Her shoulder bag thrown onto her bed, she had consequently begun emptying of its contents. It was a good thing she was the only one in her particular dorm. It afforded her the space to lay her things out, ensuring nothing was out of place. Her journal, despite having been ignored for some time now, was the first item secured. Then her knife of unlocking, her various cloaks, books, ingredients... She even made sure to locate her quidditch gear.

Nothing. Nothing seemed to be out of place, and the more things she was able to confirm had been safely stowed away, the more frantic her searching became. By the end of it, there may as well have been a conjured tornado that had torn through her room for the state it was in, and by the time she realized dinner was nearly upon her, she'd hastily had to put everything back away, nothing in its place, and everything disorganized. That would nag at her for the rest of the night. Nevertheless, she made sure to put a few select items atop the mess within her satchel for easy reach before descending Gryffindor tower to eat.

A comical notion. Eating. She may have had a bite or two. Most of the items on her plate ended up simply being pushed around and mashed into each other as though she were replaying the events of the last broom race to the peers on either side of her. Her gaze had remained far off and clouded, thoughts trapped therein, still tirelessly attempting to puzzle out what she was walking into. The fact that it was after sunset raised more than a few flags. It being near the lake as opposed to the Forbidden Forest, though, helped to quell some of that concern.

If what was said was true, and events hadn't settled as she had previously thought, she would have to remain more vigilant. Laxity had crept into her routine, she was forced to acknowledge. There had once been a time where she recognized nearly every student in the school by name. Now, she existed in a sea of unfamiliar faces. Any one of them could be a hag, for all she knew. Memory flitted back through old encounters, to the drawing board still stashed—probably under an inch of dust by now—in the Room of Requirement. There were specific students of whom she knew to be wary. Dralt was not among them. But was he? She'd fallen out of the know.

By the time it was time to leave, she could hardly depart quickly enough. Repeating the pattern she had created earlier that day, she pushed herself from the table and hastened from the Great Hall, food left similarly abandoned behind her once again. In the Small Hall, she pulled a Robe of Warmth from her bag and pulled it around her. The fur-lined collar kissed her neck, the silver of a fox to mirror her eyes. Instead of her boot, her wand had been loaded into a quick release bracer, hidden by the cuff of black leather gloves.

As promised, she made her way to her tree by the lake.

@Evelynn Decipio

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	Peri weathered Eve's scrutiny again. Her doubtful squint was returned by a stare both relaxed and expectant, hiding no sordid agenda, but not giving away anything else either. His eyebrows twitched upwards under the pressure. Come and see, the look suggested, somewhere between an invitation and a dare. As soon as she said she'd take the chance, it faded for genuine gratitude. His head tilted at an appreciative angle, then Peri joined her at the door, snuffing out the umbrella charm as they entered the warm halls. That wasn't to say she was guaranteed to actually show. The Ravenclaw would be left in a suspense all his own, distractedly drifting through his evening routine, menial matters taking up the next three hours. Unlike Eve, he entered his dormitory and found what he wanted immediately. Pericles had a pureblood habit of relying an awful lot on magic. Rather than change, he warmed up with a hot air charm, then tucked winter effects into his enchanted satchel. The letter was relocated there to lessen the likelihood of dropping it. He half-assed his way through the tail end of an essay, and treated his tarantula to a cricket before making his way downstairs. The usual din of the Great Hall was easy enough to tune out with something preoccupying his thoughts. Pericles had always been a slow eater, scooping up spoonfuls of shepherd's pie only twice or so a minute. It was comfort food, prepping him for the encounter, both by settling his nerves and warming him up. Once he stole a curious glance towards the Gryffindor table, but failed to find the shock of red in a sea of unfamiliar faces. After draining the last dregs of pumpkin juice from his goblet, the bird inspected the enchanted sky overhead. The snow had stopped and the sky was still. Peri piled his dishes, dragged his hands across a cloth napkin, slung his satchel and roamed outdoors. The Ravenclaw shuddered as cold hit him like a wall. He staggered to a stop, braced his satchel on a knee, then dug out his cloak and scarf. A trail of boot prints were left for Eve to follow all the way back to her nook. By the time she followed it, Peri would be found rummaging through his things alongside the tree. The smile he welcomed her with was tired yet earnest. "Hello again, Eve. Glad you chose to meet me." This time around, he was prompt about getting to his point. Pericles pulled a blank paper lantern from his bag. It combined wires with papier-mâché, which extended into a small cylinder when stretched, and was equipped with a white tea candle like a model hot air balloon. These had been given out at the Fall Ball, but he hadn't had time to decorate one before students started drowning. Peri set it aside to dig comically deep into his enchanted case, arm disappearing up to the shoulder as he plucked a folded piece of paper from the very bottom.
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As the sun departed over the crest of the mountains, so too had the temperature dropped. While the ongoing precipitation had stopped, a layer of snow and frozen slush coated the ground making for treacherous terrain for the unwary. Careful to mind her step lest she have repeats of her earlier falls as well, it took Evelynn a hair longer to make her way to the tree than she might have liked. By the time she got there, however, she was absent of any sign of mishap; and although darkness had settled over the grounds like a blanket seeking to tuck the castle in for the night, Dralt could be seen by the light of the waning Gibbous rummaging in his bag.

Evelynn returned his greeting with a guarded crimping of her lips. "I may yet change my mind," she cautioned him. It was all well and good that he was glad she chose to meet him, but seeing as he had yet to reveal his intentions, the same could not be said for her. Curiousity was a damnable curse, though. Despite her paranoia and pessimism, it was a rare occurrence where the Gryffindor decided to leave a stone left unturned or a mystery unsolved. Whether he'd been aware of it or not, the cryptic bait that Dralt had laid had been the perfect lure.

The moment he pulled the paper lantern from his bag, she felt the barb of the hook. That nagging uncertainty she'd felt at the back of her mind in their earlier conversation came crashing back, its weight throwing her off balance. Her expression blanked, crimping exchanged for a parting of her lips as insidious panic threatened to take hold. She resisted it, for now, trying to tell herself she was jumping to conclusions, using the seconds he continued to rummage to try to control the sudden spike in heart rate and the very nearly overwhelming urge to run.

She should have run. The sight of the folded paper froze her to the spot. He may as well have struck her with a ball of hard-packed snow for the way her breath seemed to abandon her. A chill that had nothing to do with the outside temperature ran the length of her spine, leaving her numb. She didn't need him to tell her the significance of either of the items he'd withdrawn. No wonder he'd been pleased when she'd admitted to having missed the Fall Ball. If she had, there was no doubt that his question would have tipped her off. She would have refused the meeting. The last time she had released a lantern in memory of the lost, it had been alongside her mother, honouring her grandfather and grieving the goodbyes they never got to speak. Another painful memory.

The lantern had been his forceps, the letter his scalpel. With surgical precision, he had cut through her compromised barriers and sliced to her core. Tears welled, unbidden and sudden, and she hadn't the strength in that moment to wipe them away. He'd lied to her. Not overtly, but by omission. The letter had been on his person the whole time. It would have had to have been. By the time they had returned to the castle, the event had been ending in preparation for supper, and there wouldn't have been the time for him to run it up to his dorm before coming after her. And why would he have? It all made sense now.

They'd crossed in opposite directions on her way out of the Great Hall. He hadn't come after her immediately otherwise she probably wouldn't even had gotten to the tree before he caught up with her. It wasn't company that he'd sought for himself—it was for her. He'd found the letter and felt the need to impose himself in a situation he'd had no business entering. It wasn't gentility that had driven his actions. She'd given him the benefit of the doubt, and although she knew he'd seen more than she would have liked, it hadn't occurred to her that he'd had any understanding of the context.

Dots connected one by one, silent accusation stabbing at him through the dark. He had led her to believe that he would gracefully allow her to keep her dignity. She had allowed him to be a presence in that moment, to guide her back to civility, with the unspoken agreement that he would make no comment on what he'd seen. Betrayal glistened in her eyes. If she was lucky, it would be dark enough that he wouldn't be able to make out just how close she was to unraveling, just how deftly he'd cut the seams of her composure.

"Why are you doing this?" She tried in vain to keep her lips from quivering as grief and guilt surged back, their tendrils tightening around her throat, but the waver in a voice delivered at a pitch trying to stop itself from choking would likely give her away.

@Evelynn Decipio

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	Pericles' pleasant smile twitched as Eve warned she may still take her leave. For a fleeting moment, knowing what was to come, he fought to restrain a grimace. The Ravenclaw turned back to his bag, muttering more to himself than to her: "I wouldn't fault you for it." He had understood the instant this idea came to conception that it was no small gamble. In the young tactician's mind, he had tried to map out the possibilities of the interaction, ultimately deciding it was highly probable that he'd be cursed in at least three different ways. Good intentions would be damned the moment he aggravated her injury, like prodding a wound on an injured wildcat. What he hadn't anticipated was what actually happened. Brilliant, painfully perceptive Eve, cutting both him and herself on that double-edged cunning. She had an intimate understanding of a floating lantern's significance, and she recognized her hastily folded letter. The riddle was solved before he could even start to deliver its premise. For all his powers of prediction, Pericles hadn't expected the choked question, nor the way she looked at him as if he'd just drawn a knife on her. And him, looking like some wide-eyed criminal caught in a spotlight with the murder weapon still in hand. The Ravenclaw was pinned to the spot for several seconds, frozen with a knee in the snow and parchment pinched between two fingers. That polite mask Peri liked to wear so much was slipping away one piece at a time. The far-away daydreaming look left, revealing the exhaustion in his shadowed eyes. They welled with something poignant. It wasn't pity, that demeaning, borderline belittling sensation of feeling sorry for someone that couldn't be related to. There was only empathy, deep as a well. He knew it was worse, in some ways, to be seen and understood. He still wasn't sorry though- not yet. Pericles pressed himself to stand, habitually brushing slush from his pantleg. The slight hunch to his posture was guarded, but his melancholy eyes and bone-weary murmur made him more beseeching than anything. "Because the last time I ran from something that way, no one came to find me. I thought that was what I'd wanted. It took years to realize I was wrong. I ran and hid because I didn't want anyone to see my guilt, to think I was a lesser wix for it, or a lesser person. But I don't think you're half as at fault as this-" the letter was brandished "-makes you sound. I don't think any less of you, Eve." Her wound was still fresh. His had healed over wrong, and he would be stuck with the scar. For Evelynn, at least, Pericles hoped there was still time to stitch it up right. He held out his hands as he admitted, "I am sorry for the intrusion." With inflection, he was really saying what he wasn't sorry for. He knew it was rude to have read something so private, and he regretted acting with impoliteness. The choice of words went deeper. Intrusion: he knew he wasn't her friend, more a positive acquaintance, and shouldn't be barging into such a delicate area of her life, a near-stranger storming into someone's home. Yet he refused to regret picking it up, following after her, or what was happening in this very moment. "Only I couldn't leave it to be read by someone else, and putting it in a bin felt cruel, somehow. Crueler than bringing it back to you." She may have made the mistake of leaving it on the table, and he may have made the mistake of not minding his own business, but it was too late to go back on either action. Pericles was tired of playing stupid and pretending not to notice things. If he had read that letter and carried on as if he'd never seen it, he couldn't have stomached himself. Now he could only hold his breath, waiting to see if she could.
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By the angle of the moon and the glow that had so graciously provided vision for the trek to the tree, it was difficult to make out the details of Dralt's expression. His face had been shadowed by more than just his fatigue, bare branches of the tree's canopy casting diffuse shadows across everything beneath their span. There was little doubt about his hesitation, however. In response to Evelynn's question, movement ceased. She could see him looking at her, but not what churned within his gaze. Not without coming nearer; and at this moment, that was beyond consideration. But neither could she retreat. To do so, in her twisted sense of rationalization, would give credence to everything that assumed he believed. As much as she wanted to run, to actually do so would not only give all the indication that he was right, but put the whole of her ineptitude of managing any of it on full display.

So rooted she remained, boots resting in the tracks that had been carved ahead of her arrival, watching him where he knelt, dreading past, future, and present alike. When he rose, her gaze followed. She wouldn't have realized it in the moment, but her subconscious hope had been that he would reply with something half-hearted. A careless or generalized response of assumption that proved to be entirely off-base and providing her exactly the ammunition she would need to quell the rising flow of grieve and compress it into ire that she could sling back at him, to deliver her a reason to shoot him down and take her leave. He was not so kind. Instead, she felt the threads unraveling. Never mind the words themselves, just the tone was enough to know that his hadn't been a presumptive intervention. It brought with it a pain she couldn't quite describe, an anguish knowing that—if nothing else—it would be impossible to pretend there was nothing wrong. There was no hiding from a mirror. Whether desired or not, it reflected exactly what was there.

Then there was the content of his sentiment. She didn't want to hear what he had to say, but just like she found herself unable to retreat, neither could she ignore him. They were his words, but he may as well have been using her mouth to speak them for how heavily they rang true to her own experience. Although she might not have said that she was necessarily running from her situation. How could she run when it sought her in her dreams and followed into her waking thoughts? Still, she knew the guilt, and the anger that came with it. At the event for how it all had happened; at Ivy for having left her and put her in that position; at the school and the ministry for the restrictions that if not in place, could have prevented such a dire outcome; but mostly at herself. She was a lesser wix for it, and a lesser person. He might have hid for not wanting others to believe that of him. She didn't have to hide. She already knew it was true, and didn't care if they saw the truth or not. All the better if they did and chose to stay away. Then they wouldn't get swept into the wave of death and disappearance that seemed to follow her through the years since her introduction into the wizarding world.

Silent tears began streaming down her cheeks, the occasional sniffle quietly audible beneath Dralt's continued speech. At some point, her head began to shake faintly side to side, but whether she was disagreeing with something he had said or expressing grievance with the situation as a whole, who could say. When he had finally finished his thoughts, the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore nearby and the distant hooting of an owl filled in the gap. Until Evelynn finally offered hollowly, "You could have binned it. Or...burned it." She slipped her hands into her pockets, fingers curling into fists within, nails doing their best to bite into palms through the leather of her gloves. Her gaze dropped to a space somewhere between them. "It should not have been written in the first place.."

A pause, teeth biting at the inside of her cheek, chewing on the thoughts that now collided in her mind. Part of her, no doubt courtesy of her ever-insatiable curiosity, wanted to ask for elaboration on what he had said. While she could hardly say she knew him well, his words just didn't match the image she had of him. Top of their year, prefect, duellist, club leader, amidst every other accolade and achievement she could list about him, prim and proper perfect Pericles and "murderer" did not a match make. But then again, what did she know of him? She was ready to believe he was potentially working for the hags. Maybe he was. Or had once in the past. Perhaps he had done things he'd regretted under the influence of another. Or maybe it was a situation that he should have known better than to allow to play through.

"How would you know?" she finally asked, lifting her gaze back to the shadow of his face, referring back a ways to his recent commentary. "You doubt my words and make assumptions based on a preconceived image you have of someone you know nothing of. Were you there? Do you even know what happened or what I did? Do you even know who that letter is for?" Tears continued to flow and an aching had settled in her chest, and Evelynn was nowhere nearer to taking control of her voice, cracks in the words sounding every now and then. Weariness had set in, a fatigue that enveloped how tired she was of people speaking from a place of believing they knew more than they did, but it had been layered with mounting exasperation of the situation. She assumed 'no' to be the answer to every question she had posed, frustration evident in her tone as its volume rose, accusation lacing through it. "You said you ran and hid because you did not want anyone to see your guilt, to think that you were lesser. That means that you thought you were still worth others believing highly of you, that your guilt extended to a situation where you had little control and believed yourself redeemable if only you kept yourself in the high esteem of others.

"Perhaps I am mistaken," she admitted after a moment of pause, a brow shrugging along with her shoulders with a sudden drop in cadence, defeat prevalent. "But I cannot undo what I did. So maybe you should think less of me."

@Evelynn Decipio

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	Of the alternatives, trashing the letter was one of the least likely paths Pericles could have taken. "E" had scratched her pain into the ink, achingly honest, something unfit to be buried with food scraps and crumpled class notes. In a morbid way, it was one of the most beautiful things he'd read. To talk of burning it on the other hand, he shrugged a shoulder, quietly commenting "We still could." Even then, he kept it too close to himself to snatch. The "we" was key; that paper was hers to do what she wanted with, and if that meant torching it instead of sending it floating to the heavens, he wasn't about to be disappointed. Whether Eve liked it or not, Peri was involved now. He wasn't about to leave unless she specifically demanded that he kick rocks. The young warlock had gone from saying too little to too much, from cryptically vague to a full-frontal assault, and when he cracked open that tightly shut lid, the contents poured forth with a fury. He hadn't come for a fight, and knew better than to assume he could mend her injury with some gentle platitudes and a moonlit ritual. But so help him, he had lanced open the festering wound, freeing dark humors to well at the surface. He watched it flow in waves manifested as tears, mute and melancholy as her grief crashed against him. His posture was a slight forward lean, rather than back, wanting to close the gap with comfort yet unsure of how to traverse the expanse Eve wedged between herself and others. "So maybe you should think less of me." He refused bluntly: "I don't." A rock battered by the ocean. She had enough force to wear him down, though it would take a long, long time. Pericles continued, "I don't need to know who the letter is for. I came here for the person that wrote it." Her anger wasn't enough to drive him off, knowing he wasn't its true target. It didn't take much reading between the lines to gather she had led someone where they shouldn't have been, a precarious place where that cherished friend fell, forever lost. He believed she hadn't meant for it to happen, not with the praying, crying, and calling for help her handwriting confessed to. "It was my fault. All of it. It was mine...." Pericles weathered her ire as she took a stab at the attempted comparison, trying not to flinch as its barbs prickled against his resolve. "It wasn't about esteem. It wasn't about what others thought of me, it was-" not wanting to see the blame he harbored for himself reflected in their eyes. "I didn't want anyone to know because I was trying to forget what had happened, thought I could stuff it down where I wouldn't have to think about it." Instead of accepting it and trying to mend. Some voice of reason in the back of his head knew that he couldn't undo the damage he'd done to the loved one in his life, either, and feared others would only confirm the finality of his choice. Assure him it was his fault. Pericles might have suffered from hypocrisy, though at least he wasn't heartless. "It was an accident. You loved them- love them still, so much. If they felt even half as strongly about you...." He closed his opposite hand over the letter, enveloping it, subconsciously protecting it as if it was a crippled hatchling, something tragic and precious. He couldn't even comprehend being loved so intensely that someone would write something as heartbreaking as this when he was gone, and it was devastating to know the recipient would never read it. "...Do you think they would want you to blame yourself?"
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"But why," Evelynn mewled, breath shuddering with broken sniffles.

Why wouldn't he think less of her? Why would he come after her? Why couldn't he have just let it be, let her marinade in her guilt and self-hatred? Why did he continue to stand there? Why had he taken the letter? Why did he let her backlashes wash over him? Why did he have to look at her like that, like he could see through past her feeble attempts to erect what little protection she still had to veil herself from exposure? Why couldn't he just get angry, to pettily retaliate? Why wouldn't he yield? Why did he wouldn't he just drop it? All of it. The letter, the conversation, the memory of what he'd read and seen. Why did he have to take an interest? Why did his observations have to be so keen? Why did they have to hurt?

Just. Why.

Try as she might, she couldn't regain anything close to the measure of control she generally prided herself on maintaining. The more she tried to clamber for composure, the more it slipped. Dam bursting for the flood, her vision blurred, diffraction spikes extending from the diffuse moonlight haloing her living boggart, bestowing upon the pale wraith a sort of ethereal existence and masking his inching approach. Were it another time under in another circumstance, she might have thought him hauntingly beautiful. But there was nothing beautiful about his cursed presence, nor the way his continued exposition chipped away her spirit.

Attempts to deflect had only received return volleys, crashing grief sprayed back at her. Surges to overwhelm the conversation and drown the topic had been steadfastly weathered, tide split and force depleted into little more than the lapping of waves like those of the lake that punctuated the still night. A storm may swell and surge, waves rising and falling to occasionally consume the stones that stood sentinel from the sea beds and shorelines, but ceaselessly, they would rise from the waters, finding breath, ever the observant sentinel, knowing eventually, the weather would run its course, expending its energy in a futile effort of attacking an immovable land, and accomplishing little more than sending wave after wave to careen into itself, spray and foam frothing and churning in the process.

The acute exacerbation of Evelynn's grief may yet have been a ways from running its course, but she knew when her logic could no longer be considered sound. She could deny to herself all she wanted the facts that had surrounded the event, conveniently neglecting to acknowledge those aspects that could have—would have—absolved her of her guilt, choosing—wanting—to be held fully accountable. But she couldn't deny the words he'd spoken. She loved Ivy dearly, possibly more than just as a companion. By then, Ivy was all that she'd had left, the light of optimism against a backdrop of potential terrors lurking in every shadow of the castle, the endearingly irritating force that had coerced Evelynn to partake in silly rituals and find solace in another while all others had abandoned her. Who, because she herself had lost so much and so many yet still somehow faced each day with eagerness and resolute investment in seemingly simplistic things, afforded some slice of hope that happiness might still be obtainable despite the trauma they had all endured.

Choked whimpers punctuated stifled sniffles, jaw and eyes clutched tight, determinately fighting against the swelling tide of emotion. Breaths came in shallow, desperate gasps, lips pressed together like the last defense against full dissolution. Her shoulders trembled, throat closing, chest aching. Yet, despite her best efforts to hold back the tears that had long ago begun to escape her, the sorrow she'd kept locked back proved too overwhelming. Pericles' question was the final blow, delivering an irrefutable attack against her faulty defense. "That's not fair..." With a shuddering wail, her facade crumbled, and the floodgates burst open. Knees faltering, she dropped to the snow, arms lifting to cover her head and face where she doubled over. Each sob tore through her with an anguish so profound that it seemed to echo in the very marrow of her bones, until she could cry no longer.

@Evelynn Decipio

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	Life was the proverbial snake under the porch: even though they didn't mean to aggravate it, it was in its nature to bite. But if life was fairer than anything, it was fairer than death, which was outright unlawful in its inevitability. Losing someone so young wasn't fair. Evelynn witnessing such a traumatic loss wasn't fair. Pericles being the one to read the letter, and not Ivy Bellamy, wasn't fair either. "I know," the boy lamented at a breathy whisper. Peri had always tried to save face and keep a stiff upper lip. He had carried the responsibility of being brave for so long, until eventually, he decided he was too tired to keep playing pretend. He had set the weight of keeping control aside, softly and silently. Eve's had it wrenched from her grasp. He saw the steely resolve in her eyes buckle, then break, and tried to catch her shoulders when her legs gave out under heartbreak. He knelt in the snow at her side as she curled in on herself, an arm wrapped around her shoulders in an ungainly half-hug. The letter had sunk a corner of itself into the snow alongside them. Even in that moment, he still thought to cast a spell, withdrawing one arm to wave his wand with a mumbled Muffliato. Her outpouring was closed off from the outside world, and although Pericles was still an audience, he thought himself as inconsequential a witness as a ghost. Close enough to be known, foreign enough not to be embarrassed in front of, an entity of limbo. He'd try his damnedest to offer comfort from the pain he'd unlocked. While he had never been an especially tactile person, if there was ever a reason to give someone a heartfelt hug, it was in the wake of devastation. With the unsteadiness of a first time surgeon, Peri shuffled to her right and crouched into a side hug, squeezing her shoulders. His voice wavered when he finally brought himself to say "I'm sorry, Eve. I'm sorry." Closing his eyes hid the watery sheen which overtook them. He would stay that way unless Eve tried to create distance, silent but present, allowing her to cry uninterrupted for as long and hard as she needed to- and oh, did she need to.
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The sobs tore through Evelynn, one after another, their depth a testament to the hurt she hadn't previously permitted herself to fully acknowledge. Even beyond the sight of others, where no evidence could be obtained, the witch was generally one to swallow her sorrow behind a wall of resolute stoicism. It had become easier over the years, continued loss and repeatedly dire situations feeding her paranoia and cementing her hardening cynicism. There was no feeling of disappointment or loww if expectations were nonexistent in the first place, after all. But that only guarded her from hurt derived from future interactions and relations. Those whose existence had integrated themselves into her daily reality had been the exception to the rule, Ivy last—and first—among them.

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Yet even with her passing, Evelynn had attempted to retroactively apply her developing world view. To minimize Ivy's significance in her life and pretend it hadn't been anything more than the usual tragedies that had befallen Hogwarts. When that didn't work, she had reverted to distraction. That proved unsustainable, however, fuse shortening with every interaction and finding herself more prone to hearing the voices and seeing the images the more emotionally charged she became. Solitude has been her sanctuary, then, and without others to absorb the turbulent overflow of her torment, her anger turned inwards. Instead of allowing herself to mourn, she convinced herself she wasn't, and would never be, allowed to. That the fault was hers.

If she had been more prepared.. If she had disregarded silly rules and brought her wand.. If she'd had the foresight to predict possible emergencies and taken appropriate countermeasures.. If she had avoided the more remote trails where she knew reception often failed.. If she'd had Janus to send a message.. If she hadn't taken them out in the first place.. If she had chosen Ivy's safety and security over her own selfish desire for her company and cut their friendship as she had with Marshal.. If she had done anything other than the actions—inaction—now carved in stone and laid to rest.. Maybe she would still be alive. Perhaps then, the Bellamy's—who had sustained so many losses already—wouldn't have lost their last daughter and heir.

But she hadn't done anything else. She hadn't done anything. Her care and well-being had been entrusted to Evelynn for the duration of her visit. And Ivy was dead.

It wasn't just a life that had been lost that day. In the moment where breath drew still, Evelynn's self-image had shattered. Until then, she had prided herself on her competence and preparedness. The welfare of her fellow students had always been of utmost importance. Her attendance at events and school balls was never for merriment or personal enjoyment; hers was the presence and ever-vigilant gaze to ensure the rest could enjoy themselves in peace. Although never asked of her, she had taken a role of guardian, seeking knowledge and honing skills to better serve her peers. To do what she could—however little it might have been—to protect the castle and its inhabitants.

How misguided and delusional she had been. She couldn't even protect her best friend from a simple fall from a spooked horse. What use was she going to be for anyone else.

Thus, it wasn't just for Ivy that she wept. It was for her own guilt and regrets. For all the things she couldn't take back and everything she wished she had done. It was for her innocence and the illusion of strength that she'd never had. It was for her failures and the responsibilities she had left behind. She cried for her fear of all the questions that yet remained unanswered, and the monsters that still lurked in the shadows. It was for the revelation that the calm she'd thought had befallen Hogwarts was but a fragment of her own ignorance. Out of frustration of not having had the grace to carry on, and for the weakness she displayed now. She cried for all of this and more.

Despite that, what sat foremost in her misery was that she hated that Pericles was right. Even as he knelt beside her and offered what comfort that he could, the weight of his embrace was as damning as it was consoling. While Evelynn was rarely the first to initiate a physical touch, neither was she adamantly adverse to them. She weathered shows of affection from those closest to her and understood the importance of therapeutic touch for others, even going so far on the rare occasion to dole out a hug to someone in need. But therein lay the issue. To someone in need. That she was the recipient in that equation only hammered home the fact that she hadn't been strong enough in the first place. Her hatred for him in that moment—for the way he had turned Ivy's beneficence against her, for bringing attention to the hypocrisy of her skewed honour of responsibility that only dishonoured what would be the wishes of the dead, for being an uninvited witness to her crumbling—layered itself through her anguish. And yet, she didn't push him away.

Eventually, after what felt like time eternal, sobs reduced to tears that would no longer flow, and gasping breaths seeking life in the drowning of her turmoil faded to sniffles. The advice to wear winter gear had been sound; her clothing was almost entirely soaked through, but the enchantment of warmth permeating her robe kept the biting chill at bay. Her hands lowered to her knees, fists grasping at the sodden linen while hair hung heavily to curtain her bowed visage. Fatigue hit her like a wave. "I.. I think I would like to have the letter returned to me now.." she whispered meekly. Then, lifting a sleeve to wipe her face, turned to peer at the Eagle, eyes pleading. "You will not tell anyone... will you?"

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