phantom fatigue private

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Courtyard

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Samuel Reinhard Sauber did not indulge in retrospection or nostalgia for events that had already passed. It was, in his estimation, an inefficient exercise, one which yielded only diminishing returns when compared to forward analysis. The past, as he'd already witnessed, observed, categorized ad stored served its purpose to him as it was. To revisit certain events unnecessarily was to risk contamination of the present clarity he had come to.

And yet—

There were rare exceptions.

Not frequent or uncontrolled events, but they were present.

A considerable portion of Samuel's tenure within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been deliberately obscured by the authorities themselves. Not erased, as erasure implied loss, no, those were concealed with very clear intent. To most within the ministry, Samuel Sauber never existed, nor was he ever present in any operational capacity worth noting. There were no commendations bearing his name, no formal assignments ever assigned and no public acknowledgments of his involvement in any cases, by all measurable standards would require someone of his particular skillset; familiar soils or otherwise.

Instead, all left behind in Samuel's trail were results, outcomes without any visible origins and conclusions reached without traceable process. And behind those was just a single designation.

"The Ghost."

It wasn't a title he had chosen, nor did he particularly value it anymore. It was however very accurate going by the statements of his coworkers. Samuel had operated in spaces where presence was neither required nor desired. He existed between enemy lines, within margins overlooked, performing actions that would demand precision without recognition.

Information gathering among his other specialties, in their truest form, were neither glamorous nor were they ever forgiving. It demanded patience, discipline, an understanding not only of the systems but of people living within those; and far specifically, their failures, both as individuals and as bigger cogs in the wheel.

Because humans, as Samuel had long since concluded, were inherently flawed in their cognition.

They lied.

Not merely to others, but to themselves.

Under pressure, their thoughts distorted. Under guilt, they restructured memory. Under fear, they abandoned all logic and "humanity" in favour of preservation. It wasn't complexity that defined humans. Strip them to their basic instincts and it was fragility.

He'd never required Legilimency to understand an individual. Long before Samuel stepped into another's mind, he'd already constructed an idea of it. Speech patterns, micro-expressions, inconsistencies in phrasing, the rhythm of breath and the change in their heartbeat under interrogation. Each of these elements provided data, and each data only refined the model.

By the time he employed Legilimency—

It was merely confirmation to be had, a final incision in the surgery, a scalpel not a hammer.

He did not revel in it. There was no satisfaction for him to find in these intrusions. These minds, once entered rarely offered anything of value beyond what he had already deduced. More often than not, it was a shallow pit of self justifications and poorly constructed narratives, layered over impulses individuals lacked the discipline to control. The mind of others, were shallow pits and Samuel believed no reason was important enough for him to step into wells of such mediocrity that would only end up staining his mind.

Samuel found such environments...distasteful. Which was why he remained selective, precise and controlled in his Legilimency targets. His first experience with Legilimency only reinforced that philosophy with considerable force. The subject had been a werewolf, just merely afflicted but a very indulgent kind.

A man who had embraced his condition with a degree of enthusiasm one could attest to bordering on pathology. His mind wasn't chaotic in the conventional sense. It was saturated, overloaded with imagery so excessive, so repetitive and crude that it had lost all distinction.

Violence without purpose, consumption without necessity. A loop of degradation that served no function beyond itself. Samuel had entered with intent and exited with residue.

Not fear. Fear implied vulnerability, but something remained.

An imprint upon his mind. Unwanted, persistent, resurfacing in moments where his mind should've been silent. It did not disrupt function or impair his judgment.

But it existed.

And that, in itself was unacceptable.

so, he adapted.

From that point forward, Legilimency became rarer in his practice. Not obsolete—but reserved. Utilized only when all other avenues had been exhausted, and even then, executed this signature surgical brevity. The consequences of that initial act had been predictable.

A reprimand for the unauthorized use. Procedural violation. None of these held relevance to Samuel. The subject hadn't been innocent, the issue as it often was, laid elsewhere.

The werewolf had been connected.

Affiliated with individuals within the Ministry's older roots, figures who preferred certain truths remain undiscovered. Samuel had seen those truths. Through no fault of his either, they existed within proximity to his objective.

That alone had been sufficient for him to pick his options. Samuel hadn't been punished severely, at worst a formal warning, a paid suspension came his way. A performance of discipline rather than its execution. It had confirmed something Samuel had already suspected. The criminals didn't fear ministry, rather the ministry feared exposure. From that point, Samuel Sauber ceased to function as an individual within the department and only Ghost remained.

A tool deployed for discretion, a solution when conventional approached failed. An operative without hesitation, with no deviations or attachments. Efficient enough to overlook his habits of disobedience and his own code of conduct, a man so strong in his code, he wouldn't stray no reason what.

Which was why the present circumstances were—inconvenient.

Samuel stood within his private laboratory at Hogwarts. The dim, controlled lighting casting sharp contrast across surfaces arranged with meticulous precision. Glassware aligned, ingredients categorizes. A potion—mid process—simmering at a consistent temperature, it's surface tension indicating it to be approaching completion.

For all reasons and judgement, Samuel should've remained there, monitored and finished his experiment. However, the man found his attention divided. Not scattered but redirected, backwards; that too unnecessarily. The memory wasn't intrusive, never demanding his attention. But it lingered.

And Samuel, despite his discipline, recognized the inefficiency of attempts to suppress something that had already surfaced. A temporary relocation it was then. A reset. He reached for his shirt, Dark Blue and unwrinkled despite it's placement.

A deviation from his usual presentation, but it was hardly the time to care.

Minor change, almost negligible.

His sunglasses rested where they usually did; near the edge of his workbench. He didn't pick them up, more notably, he didn't retrieve the charmed red contact lenses he typically wore to obscure his natural gaze.

An omission of mind, not an intentional one either.

Such lapses were uncharacteristic of him. Yet, his blue-green eyes remained exposed as he stepped away from workbench, leaving the potion to stabilize on its own. It would hold, he'd calculated as much already.

He closed the door behind him with finality.

Samuel's ascent through castle was unhurried. Not aimless, but not entirely purposeful either. He wasn't seeking a destination as much as he was seeking absence.

An absence of thoughts from his mind, a temporary disengagement from his memories. The corridors were silent, as expected at this hour. His footsteps echoed faintly. There was no need for concealment here.

As Samuel moved, his thoughts drifted with a controlled looseness he rarely permitted. They circled back, briefly, to Legilimency. To the structure of it, the precision required, the way he could isolate threads of cognition, examine them individually, determine their integrity under pressure and see things through the eyes on another.

Control.

Always control.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

He had left his laboratory to escape his thoughts, only to analyze them further. The courtyard further ahead, presented itself without resistance. Open space, cold air. Silence.

Functional, Samuel thought as he stepped into it without hesitation.

And then—

He saw her.

Katherine Kitty.

The observation halted his approach, not with visible reaction but enough to interrupt the continuity of his movement.

It was unexpected, at this hour, in this state. His first instinct was dismissal. Fatigue—Fatigue induced misinterpretation. A projection, hallucination. He told himself.

Posture. Breathing. Micro-movements. Consistent.

This was real, this form of Kitty was real. And—it looked terribly exhausted. Not superficially, with mild fatigue or inconvenience or poor scheduling. This was deeper. She had the looks of a depletion that extended beyond physical tiredness. Her posture lacked its usual balance. Her movements, however controlled, carried a subtle delay.

Her face, it looked less guarded. Not openly expressed but it wasn't entirely concealed either. Samuel should have left. The conclusion formed immediately. There was no necessity for engagement, no operational requirements or benefits to engage with this. And yet—He moved; towards her. Each step deliberate, his oxford shoes making no attempts to silence themselves against the stone. If she hadn't noticed him yet, she would.

"What has kept you up so late?"

His voice entered the space with controlled neutrality. Neither soft nor sharp. He approached a reasonable distance, gaze settling down on her fully now. Without his lenses or the sunglasses. His eyes—unfiltered and precise as they were, now completely visible.

A rarity.

Not intentional, but one he didn't correct either. She look worse up close. The signs were clearer now, residual tension in the musculature around her eyes. A faint tightness in her jaw, things that didn't originate from the stress and fatigue of a school teacher but rather something persistent. Something repetitive and unresolved.

Samuel reached into his coat, retrieving a small vial. A draught of Peace. One he had prepared earlier. Intended for himself. A contingency he had anticipated might be required given the direction his thoughts had taken. He extended it towards her, not insistently or forcefully, but rather as an option. He had already deviated sufficiently and continuing on was consistent.

Samuel lowered himself, onto his knees right in front of her. Positioning himself in a manner that allowed direct observation without imposing physical dominance. Intentional and measured actions with which his game met hers. Sustained eye contact, "You do not look well."

A statement, objective, not softened. His hand lifted briefly, making contact with her leg. Controlled, light and unlingering. "I am aware," he continued, tone even and detached, "that my presence in this moment may not be preferred." A pause as he calculated his choice of words. "But your condition suggests intervention is warranted." Concern, in Samuel's case, was usually not emotional. It was analytical.

Something was wrong with her, the variables did not align, perhaps it was his lack of intel. That required correction. His eyes remained on hers, focused with a precision that would suggest something deeper.

Assessment. Surface first, he observed the minute details—dilation of pupils, the rhythm of her breath, the micro-adjustments in posture that indicated her internal state.

Fatigue, layered with something else, some cyclical. He could only hypothesize. Inference after all, carried margin for error. And Samuel did not tolerate error. Legilimency wasn't his preferred mode of operation. It never had been.

But, the temptation remained available.

He didn't rush the decision, letting the moment extend to determine if this intrusion would ever be necessary.

Would she offer clarity or would he need to extract it?

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Kitty sat on the ledge of the fountain for a while, allowing a long, slow exhale to escape her parted lips. Her head was clear for a good moment — and though it allowed her to slow down and consider what to do next, she found even the smallest of decisions now required an inordinate amount of attention. To lean her head back or to keep it forward? To keep her eyes open or to close them? To try and work out the nightmares internally, to find someone to speak with about them, or perhaps to try and distract herself?

She found her knee bouncing as the decisions piled up. Tiredness grew into restlessness — caused by, well, lack of rest, and the knowledge that she wouldn’t be able to sit here, in the courtyard, for eternity. The sky was clear, as was the cold air, and yet Kitty still felt herself grow suffocated. As if her lungs didn’t have enough space inside her and were digging into her ribcage. She blinked. Once, twice; trying to fight the restlessness for another few seconds, before it grew into overwhelm. Kitty thought back to her lessons, the ones back in Ilvermorny. To her seventh year. She was emotionally volatile, back then, too, after all, and she had learned.

The voice of her professor from that year echoed in her head. She wasn’t supposed to get overwhelmed, even when someone was actively prying at her head. Unfortunately, the person prying this time was her own brain, scratching at the walls and bringing forth ghosts from a cemetery in East London; and the teenage heartbreak that made her slightly erratic back then did not really compare to watching someone die in front of her.

Perhaps she was simply outmatched this time around.

Her eyes snapped open with the sound of footsteps on cobble. Kitty lifted her head, finding her heart rate had spiked, startled for a moment, before she was able to settle down into an only vaguely weary state. Who was out at this kind of hour? No student certainly should be, and she really didn’t want to deal with anyone out past curfew. She had enough on her plate. Giving out detention in her pajamas was not exactly on her list of goals for the new year, though then again, none of this was. An exhausted sigh left her. Perhaps this could all be resolved with conversation. Get the troublemakers to bed and get herself to some attempt at calm, too.

“You know, it’s really way too late for you to be out—” Kitty called out. Her words fell flat and she was left staring when, turning around to glance at who was the person stomping around at 2 in the morning, she was not met with a student looking for detention; she was not met with a student at all.

Kitty thought, for a moment, that she was seeing a ghost.

She stared at the figure on the other side of the courtyard as it approached, pace unhurried, and for once, she had nothing to say. She did recognise it, of course — for a moment, she wanted to laugh, even. Had she thought back so hard to her teenage years that the boy she once declared dead to her had come back to haunt her — now as a spirit, an apparition. The ghost of letters never returned and things she was never supposed to see and overdramatic heartbreak, brought forth by a lack of sleep and unfortunate memories she had thought would never be relevant to her life again.

Unfortunately for her, Samuel Sauber was real, and not a ghost. Not even dead, to her or to the world, as she had so passionately declared at seventeen. He just seemed to haunt everything she now came to try and enjoy at Hogwarts. And even more unfortunately, since December, he had become far too relevant for even twenty-five year old Kitty’s taste.

He just had to be the person to greet her on her first day, and though it had ruined her mood then, it very well could have been coincidence. What was not coincidence was Anton, who she had not spoken to in years, suddenly learning of her new post through a “mutual friend”. Samuel’s then showing up at a tea party in Russia that Anton had said would be “just for the two of them,” was also definitely planned; and now this. When they were teens, he was great at leaving her alone even if she wanted him there. Could he not do the same now that his presence was distinctly unwanted? Could she be free of ghosts for a single moment?

“I could ask you the same thing,” Kitty deadpanned as he spoke, voice not really sharp, not really soft, only… there, really. Loud enough to hear, quiet enough not to disrupt the almost oppressive silence that blanketed the courtyard, broken only by distant owl calls and Samuel’s footsteps on stone. Her eyes remained trained on him, wary, watching as he produced something from his coat pocket. She had no interest in talking to him, or taking it, for that matter, doing so more on instinct than anything. She held the vial up to tired eyes, glancing between Samuel and the bottle. The turquoise blue liquid inside swirled and shimmered gently under moonlight; a draught of peace, if she knew her potions. Kitty had half a mind to ask, clarify, before downing the first thing she was handed, when:

“You do not look well.”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks,” Kitty could not help the sarcasm and the chuckle that immediately burst out of her. Not only was Samuel sticking his nose into what was absolutely none of his business or concern — she was a grown woman, she could go out into the courtyard for a stroll if she so wished — but he was going to call her ugly, while he was at it, too. She rolled her eyes, rubbing her hand over her face. “Really, incredible—”

Kitty felt his hand on her leg. Her knee stilled. Her hand fell away from her eyes as they opened.

She was met with Samuel, now kneeling in front of her. One of his hands was indeed, on her leg, which Kitty felt acutely aware of, and yet that was still, somehow, not the most surprising part of the sight in front of her. That would be the fact that Samuel was not wearing either his glasses or his contacts. Kitty felt stupid for not noticing it before, even with all her staring. His eyes did not gleam red or crimson or tangerine or any of the blazing warm hues she had grown so used to some years ago. They were just there, uncovered, unfiltered, unfairly pretty — a mix of blue and green shades together, the same swirling turquoise as the potion Kitty’s hands now unconsciously tightened around. She used to know what they looked like by heart; memorized the exposed sight like a miracle, like the rarity it was.

She had forgotten.

Her complaint from earlier had died on her lips, and another dry chuckle forced itself out of her chest as she searched for a response. The vulnerability, however small, on display, somehow tempered the irritation. Not entirely, but enough.

“It is not preferred. That is… certainly accurate,” Kitty muttered, unsure if she should maintain eye contact now. She glanced around distractedly for a moment before returning her eyes to Samuel’s. What he said was an understatement, honestly, but she had no energy to continue. Under normal circumstances, she would not hesitate, and she would correct, and probably argue for a bit, and then ask. Pry, probably, would be the better word for it. This was unusual, after all — Samuel without the contacts.

This was, however, not normal circumstances, and not only because the eyes looking back at her were no longer red. And while she could on some level appreciate the openness that the aquamarine hue on display implied, and allow it to tame her irritation, she was far too tired to be entertaining much further conversation. Samuel would have to understand and return to… whatever he was doing that had him up at two in the morning. A rare occurrence, one of many tonight: Kitty did not have enough energy to care.

“Just the kids, you know. Keeping me up,” the lie fell easily from Kitty’s lips. She did not enjoy dishonesty, but it never came with any difficulty — especially for one so acquainted with, (notoriously good at, in fact) achieving a clear mind. Besides, Samuel was not exactly entitled to the real answer. She shrugged, fidgeted with the vial in her hands, even laughed: as if all of this was silly. Staying awake because of a change of environment. Like she wasn’t used to sleeping on trains and buses and in motels with strangers, like it would have ever been a big deal for her. “Going from a single person apartment to a boarding school is… a whole thing.”

Kitty looked between the liquid in the bottle and Samuel, making eye contact again. Swirling turquoise either way; calm in a controlled way. It was not soft, and she did not have faith that the little hint of concern she saw there had absolutely anything to do with her, personally. Samuel was focused as always, and that focus came easily dismissed as analysis; the one predictable thing about tonight, apparently, was that no matter what, Samuel was Samuel. Not a ghost or spirit of whatever drama had happened years ago; just coldly efficient in the same way he was back then. Kitty smiled, strained.

“Thank you,” she said, putting as much sincerity into her tone as she could muster when exhausted. “But really, it’s just a bad night.”

At least that part wasn’t entirely a lie.

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Courtyard

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Night had always belonged to Samuel Sauber

The day belonged to noise, to distractions of the world, to it's inefficiencies yet masked as productivity. The night however, stripped of the world's excess, offered clarity.

It was quieter, honest, far more honest and even less forgiving.

Not in any poetic or romanticized sense that lesser minds might be inclined to assign to it, but in ways far more practical, and entirely far too precise. Night was efficient, stripped of it's unnecessary noise, it's redundant movement and the world's constant demand for performance. The world, when stripped of it's daylight revealed its truer form—quieter, sharper, the more accurate one. Movements became intentional rather than performative. Sounds were fewer and thus, more meaningful by virtue. Even the air itself carried less, less distractions, less noise. Settling into a stillness that didn't demand constant attention.

It was in such environments that Samuel existed most comfortably.

There was something about the night that aligned with him. With beings like him. Constructs of intention rather than coincidence. Beings shaped not by circumstances but by design, molded into the right shape through someone's will. If there were creatures that lurked in darkness, those like him, it wasn't from the fear of light, but the honesty that dark offered; Samuel however had no fear to be felt.

"You know, it's really way too late for you to be out—" Samuel wasn't startled by her words, nor did those halt his movement. However the statement carried a certain irony that didn't escape the man. The idea that she would impose limitations upon a time that functioned precisely because it was...notable. Almost amusing in a sense.

Beings like him did not operate under the same rhythm as others. Night was not a time to withdraw, never was. If anything, it was when individuals like Samuel stepped out from structures imposed upon them during the day. When there was no need to dilute precision into palatable forms. When he could be free to exist without translation.

There was recognition in his eyes, this Kitty was real, her voice was real too. Her words faltered, not audibly but in intent. What might have begun as a reprimand to some child had dissolved into words of uncertainty as her eyes adjusted, not to the darkness but to the sight of him.

There was a moment where her expression suggested misidentification. As though she was expecting something else. Someone else, perhaps A ghost. That thought wouldn't be as inaccurate as she'd believe. Not an inaccurate interpretation at all.

Because Samuel, in many aspects, existed as something adjacent to the living world. He was present, tangible even. And yet, he was removed far enough that his presence often felt intrusive. As though he was occupying spaces he wasn't meant to. Specially for her, now and here. Because while he stood there, there was something about his presence, especially to her that occupied a space closer to memory than reality. Neither fully present nor fully absent.

A Remnant.

Samuel had approached her without alterations in his pace, there wasn't any urgency or hesitation in his movements to accompany. Each step was as consistent, deliberate and yet affected by her reaction all the same. The distance between them, physical one, gradually closed. Predictably so as Samuel had intended.

And yet beneath his consistency laid something else.

A recognition, not of her presence but of what it implied. Her absence from his life had been easier. That was something Samuel acknowledged with no resistance. Her complete absence had allowed him to categorize her, and their shared memories efficiently. To place her within memory, to reduce her being to something that could be referenced when necessary and otherwise ignored. It had dulled the anomaly she represented in his life, smoothed it into something manageable.

But proximity, this newfound proximity disrupted that system.

Something once within an arm's reach, once understood; however incompletely that might have been—did not become easier to ignore when reintroduced. It became sharper, the wound, this void it turned worse. More defined in both it's absence and presence simultaneously. It was inefficient to Samuel; all this feelings.

And yet—

It persisted.

There had been a time when Samuel had no difficulty disregarding her entirely. Closer to a decade ago, his priorities had been structured with precision into his work. Research and advancement in topics he'd found himself pulled into. Control is what the boy sought and through it all, Kitty had existed within that framework only insofar as she served her function. When she didn't, her existence was deprioritized, deferred and at times, ignored with no hesitation.

Owls remained unanswered, conversations that he intentionally or otherwise, left postponed indefinitely. Presence acknowledged only when convenient.

He did not see it as cruelty. It had been design. However, her presence now, was a disruption in this design. Not external but internal.

He found himself, more often than logic could ever justify, sharing the same spaces as her. Situations aligning in ways that could either be attributed to coincidence and yet accumulated into feeling something more deliberate. A man like Samuel did not believe in coincidences.

Which raised a question he didn't particularly appreciate. Could his past, for once, be something he was failing to contain? Specially the parts marked with her presence? Samuel had never been one to dwell on prior decisions. Regret required a certain amount of emotional investment that Samuel found far to inefficient to employ. He had long since dismissed both.

Except—

This, this behaviour he'd had with Kitty, the conclusion they had. There had been nights, rare but not nonexistent—where his thoughts had returned to that time. Not in sentiment but analysis. Examinations, hypotheticals, dissection of variables, intentions and outcomes; each factor he could have managed.

He had approached her with purpose, the spark was undeniable. She had represented something he had yet to quantify. A concept he'd observed in others, something that drove irrational decision-making, emotional dependency and persistent attachment. He had sought to understand it, to experience it, to categorize it. And for a brief period, He believed he'd come very close.

Close enough to recognize that it wasn't as easily dissected as he'd assumed. Close enough to know the experiment had deviated, to know that he too had deviated from the experiment. And then— it had all been removed. Not by his choice but hers, the untimely revelations had severed whatever fragile structure had been forming.

It was in many ways a failure of his methodology. A lack of discretion on his part, an underestimation of her capabilities. Could he have preserved it, had he been more careful, more precise? Had he concealed his truth and his motives more effectively or refined his approach?

Undoubtedly.

But that wasn't relevant any longer. What remained directly after it, was absence. And the residual effect of something he could never fully come to define or understand.

"Thank you...But really, it's just a bad night."

Her voice returned him to present. His gaze remained steady, fixed not only on her expressions but the inconsistencies within it. The exhaustion hadn't stop looking any bit genuine, neither the tension beneath it.

The explanation however, wasn't it, deep down he knew it, perhaps she knew too.
He didn't challenge it however, not immediately. Instead, Samuel allowed this bit of information to exist as it was, surface level incomplete data.

Because while it was indeed a bad night, it wasn't only that.

He knew this with the same certainty he applied to any and all observable patterns. There was something beneath her words, something contained within the pauses, the slight misalignment between what was said and what she might have meant. He recognized it. Because his own night, hadn't been typical either.

There were disruption; those of the mind.

Fragments of thoughts that refused to settle into ordered sequences, into containment as he'd preferred. Residuals that lingered beyond their needed duration. Not strong enough to be intrusive, just persistent enough.

They were unusual and therefore, couldn't be dismissed.

Samuel exhales slowly, gaze lifting briefly to sky before returning to her. "Indeed" he said in an even voice, controlled cadence. "It is a bad night."

Agreement, in this instance, required no elaboration.

He rose then, motion suggesting departure, an end to this interaction before it could extend into unnecessary territory. He didn't leave. Instead, he adjusted his position and moved to sit beside her. Somewhat close, closer than he'd permit others to sit with.

The decision wasn't consciously justified. It occurred and he allowed it to remain uncorrected. There was a brief moment, a fleeting but present chance where he registered the possibility of her leaving. That his proximity would prompt withdrawal and she'd remove herself from the setting entirely.

It would have been preferable, simples and he would not have needed to make the decision himself.

And yet—

She did not, and thus, he remained.

Samuel ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of adjustment rather than necessity, before he let his hand fall back to rest against his leg. His posture remained composed, though less rigid than it typically was.

The night, combined with her presence had introduced a deviation. Minor but measurable.

"If you have doubts about the potion," he said after a moment, gaze shifting to the vial in her hand. "You may discard it."

His tone carried no offense at the implication of distrust. It would've been very justified. "You will find alternatives in Hogsmeade. They'll be comparable in function, of course, inferior in execution but they will assist with sleep."

And though he didn't say more with it.

Samuel did not require validation of his work. His proficiency in potions was not a matter of opinion but of fact. Replication was possible but equivalence wasn't.

Still—

He understood if she had any reservations or hesitation. Trust once diminished, wasn't easily restored. And Samuel had not left their past in a state that encouraged trust. He had lied, manipulated and concealed. There was no reason for her to assume he would not do so again.

And objectively—

He was capable of it.

"What..." He paused, briefly recalibrating the phrasing before he continued. "What have you been doing since America?" The question was quieter than his previous statements. Not softer, but deliberate it it's placement. His hand moved, inching towards hers.

It was a calculated gesture, thought not entirely devoid of.... something less definable.

Connection, one could call it that perhaps, or the reconstruction of one. He didn't dwell on the distinction. Instead, he continued after she spoke her piece.

"I joined Ministry," he said, with a steady gaze and unchanged expression. "Exactly as I'd told you." The narrative unfolded with precision. "It was however not what I had imagined. It was a position of limited significance, mainly administrative in nature. I had a cubicle and minimal compensation; accompanied by far excessive paperwork."

Each detail was selected, each one plausible.

"I remained for several years, anticipating progression that never occurred." A faint shift of his jaw. "I found it....insufficient."

The statement, like the rest, was constructed. Because the truth, was not something he would offer her. Not here, not about the ministry and specially not to her.

Samuel Reinhard Sauber occupied no cubicles, nor did he file paperwork in obscurity, neither did he wait for recognition to be granted. He operated on an entirely different plane. Roles that required discretion beyond what most could comprehend.

Operations that did not exist in official records, or if they did. They didn't include his name. "The Ghost," some referred to him. A designation he neither confirmed nor denied.

His thumb shifted slightly against her hand, tracing the faint outlines of something beneath the surface. Scars, they weren't super recent, but held so much relevance.

"I have asked you this before," he said, voice lowering just enough to distinguish the shift in intent. "And you've avoided it." His words carried no accusation, just observation followed by a measured pause.

"I would prefer that not be the case tonight. But it is your wish in the end." His gaze lifted fully to meets hers. Direct.

"What happened that day?"

The questions settled between them with a heavy weight and Samuel watched her for a response; and for what laid beneath it. Because while there may have been nothing left between them, no defined bond, no obligation and no shared understanding.

There remained a constant.

Samuel sought answers. And Kitty—whether she chose to provide them or not, still held them.

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Bad night.

The words lingered in the air after Kitty said them — she watched as Samuel considered them, expecting disagreement. Samuel had a way of crowding even an open space: whether that was thanks to their shared history or the fault of his natural demeanor, she did not know. Either way, it meant every sentence that was supposed to levant and disperse into the night air, instead lingered and morphed into an interrogation. It left Kitty with the sensation of needles pricking throughout her skin. A specimen pinned down by the thorax for some sort of examination or experiment. At least the butterflies people pinned to corkboards were supposed to be long dead and dry.

Kitty had been afforded no such luxury, and remained capable of feeling every puncture her own irritation and suspicion brought with it. The late night air was cold, seeping beneath her sweatshirt and only serving to amplify the tension currently raising her shoulders all but up to her ears. She felt like she was bracing for a punch: one that would most likely come as an eyeroll with a flat comment, or as a push where one was not welcome.

The impact never came. Instead, Samuel sat down next to her; closer than she thought he would have. Still, on instinct, Kitty moved to make space on the fountain ledge; she only exhaled, and her chest felt hollow. She let the air pass out through her teeth, turning over the vial in her hands once more as Samuel brought both their attention to it.

There was no doubt — now or years ago — that he was a perfectly capable potioneer. Honestly, there was little suspicion she held that he would have tried to poison her; Kitty had plenty of words, and plenty of expletives and accusations, too, that she could level at Sam. “Murderer” or “sloppy” were not among them. Neither was “caring”, but still, the fact remained. She felt no need to discard the potion, as he suggested — and she knew — she was well within her right to do. Instead, Kitty turned it around in her hands for another moment, and gave a weary nod, pocketing the vial.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” her tone remained quiet. Every word felt like it was being squeezed out along with every breath: not quite a cough, not quite a mumble, but not quite level speech, either. It was full of unease. She wasn’t sure if what she was feeling was the air leaving her lungs, or something else entirely. A tangible sense of emptiness hiding beneath her ribs.

She tried not to overthink it. Same as she tried not to overthink his hand inching towards hers.

Kitty exhaled deeply again. “Since America…” she repeated in a murmur, turning the words over in her head as if that would help. America referred to one thing, and one thing only, coming from Sam: the trip that preceded their break-up. It existed, autonomous, in its own little pocket of memory, not relegated to the same shelf of unpleasant memories that her parents or the pageants were. A bittersweet league of its own. She could not call it all negative without lying to herself and others, and for exactly the same reasons, she could not call it positive, either.

It was impossible for her to return to the memories of America — being stuffed together into her mom’s Tahoe, to vivid red and orange sunsets, to racing Sam and Anton into the ocean — without also returning to everything that followed. The journal, the break up, the way her plans for next summer with Anthonie fell through. Paper and ink under her fingertips, a final letter she never sent, and the same hollow feeling in her chest that haunted Kitty now.

Instead, Kitty leaned backwards a bit, looking up at the sky for a split second. The stone of the fountain ledge was cold under her fingers; in some way, grounding. She forced herself to remember everything after after America: after burning the photos and the letters, and after cutting her bangs herself in a fit of drama, and after graduation, and after the suffocating loneliness she felt even when surrounded by friends. “Since America,” Kitty said, chewing the words out like she wasn’t quite sure she wanted them there, “I went to university. In Florence. With that scholarship that I did end up getting, actually.”

Kitty still remembered how annoyed she was at all the paperwork sent across continents; the nerves that every form brought. She was sure she had told Samuel about it at the time. She was not sure if he remembered.

Kitty continued. “I… travelled a lot. Got to brush up on my Spanish.” She bit her tongue before she could add something about finally getting comfortable with German when she was semi-stranded there for a week — like most things, she refused to share the language with Samuel anymore. She had better memories to associate with it now. “Graduated from uni, and had to move to the UK to finish my cursebreaking mentorship. So I was in Somerset, for a bit, and then I moved to London for a spot at Gringotts, and… well, you know. Now I’m here.”

She forced down any hesitation that appeared in her voice, even for a second, with a jerk of her shoulders — or, put simply, she shrugged. He did know. Everyone seemed to know — the students, fellow faculty, she had even met some Hogsmeade residents that connected the dots after only seeing her once or twice. Once again, Kitty did not want to overthink it any further, and simply forced her focus back to what Samuel was saying.

His own piece was more interesting than Kitty would have liked. A very plausible story, too, and one that — though she was ashamed to have him see — did make the corners of her lips turn upwards, even in spite of the exhaustion and annoyance currently creeping through her bones. Cursebreaking itself turned out to be a lot more pouring over books and filling out reports than she would have liked, and it seemed the research Samuel was so passionate about had the same issues, only more intense. She almost smiled: oh, academia. If anyone had so much as tried to tell 17-year-old Katherine that both of them were to end up as school teachers, she would've laughed in their face. Both when she was lovestruck and when she was heartbroken; the only thing that would have changed would’ve been the amount of cursewords she used.

Unfortunately, whatever smile could have been pushing itself to Kitty’s face quickly faded with Samuel’s next words. “I have asked you this before, and you have avoided it.”

Her face fell entirely, in fact. Her jaw dropped slightly with a stupid-feeling kind of surprise that quickly gave way to annoyance once more. Objectively, she shouldn’t have been surprised that he was asking, prying like this. It aligned perfectly with what he was — how he had been acting since the viaduct, how he had acted since America. Some sense of shame crept up the back of her neck, but too exhausted to get properly angry, Kitty just turned to look at him with disappointment — perhaps just disillusion — hiding behind her eyes.

“... Sam— Samuel. What is this?” She swallowed hard, quiet distaste curdling somewhere in her gut. He did know; everyone seemed to know, but Kitty was sure that Samuel specifically did know, had to know of the accident; and that it was not something she wanted to disclose the details of, to boot. She felt stupid for assuming the little catch-up he had offered was anything but part of his own little interrogation.

With it, she suddenly felt regret wrap itself around her throat and tighten.

She should have known better and not told him anything. Not about Florence, not about university, not about how she got to the UK, or the scholarship, or anything. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What an idiot Kitty had just acted like. Her lips twisted into a frown and her stomach lurched as she blinked rapidly. Acutely aware of the feeling of his thumb tracing the thin scars that crept down past her wrist, and that she had so far simply been frozen, like an idiot, she moved her hand away with a rapid jolt of her shoulder. She scooted away from him on the ledge of the fountain.

“I mean, really. What are we— what are you doing?” Kitty huffed, words coming out more rapidly now. “Why— I told you, it was… a mess. Client failed to report some hags. We got disarmed, and it got messy. It— there’s nothing else there for us to talk about.”

“That’s it.”

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Courtyard

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"I'll keep it in mind."

Samuel noted the cadence of her voice. There wasn't anything particularly different about it compared to everything she'd offered him through out their night together. Every sentence seemed to arrive wrapped in Kitty flavoured exhaustion, carried on shallow breaths that had Sam concerned for her accessory muscles. Breaths that didn't quite fill her lungs.

Most would likely dismiss it as fatigue or irritation but Samuel's talents laid in his tendency to observe, observe closer than most would prefer. It was as if just sitting beside him had put her body into a state of constant readiness. This however, wasn't fear. He was certainly sure of it. Fear carried a different texture. Fear sharpened people, accelerating their pulse and narrowing their focus. What laid in her eyes was discomfort, perhaps unease and surely, revulsion.

He did not know, more importantly, he did not possess sufficient information to arrive at a conclusion that would provide him satisfaction. Ordinarily, that realization itself would've prompted an urge for further inquiry, Samuel disliked unknown variables, and he disliked incomplete data even more. Tonight, he allowed the uncertainty to exist, for it was a bait for another time.

His eyes remained fixed upon her regardless, not entirely intentional, partly influenced by his innate nature. There was something fundamentally predatory in the ways Samuel observed the world. It had been ingrained into him long before Hogwarts or the academia that defined most of his career, far before he had ever involved himself with the ministry.

Everything was analyzed, examined and further catalogued. People were no exception, once someone had accused him of looking at others the way scientists looked at specimen beneath glass. He'd dismissed the criticism but found himself unable to disagree as the pondered over it.

A strange little period of time preserved perfectly in memory despite years that had followed. He watched her pause. The hesitation was brief but enough. Enough to drag him backwards through time, to force him into memories he kept locked away.

For most, America would be a location, a destination, a holiday. For the newly minted head of house, it had become something else entirely. A dividing line, a before and after. The trip represented both gain and loss in measures he could never quite quantify. The cruel symmetry of that reality had never ceased to irritate him.

For years he convinced himself, how the outcome had been favourable, if not necessary and beneficial. Considering it a worthwhile trade, something his younger self would have argued for. The logical, efficient and most importantly, the correct outcome. It was both amusing and pathetic, the way humans possessed this remarkable ability to manipulate not only those around, but also themselves. They alter memories, reshape narratives, all for the sake of convincing themselves that their pain is purpose. That the mistakes they willingly make are some divine lessons.

Losses counted among victories when viewed from another angle, Samuel had done precisely that to himself; repeatedly.

He had taken events that followed and reconstructed them so many times, eventually the falsified fictitious work had become easier than the truth. And then she returned, and suddenly all the carefully maintained lies began unraveling by the bits.

Absence was needed, it had always been useful. Distance simplified things, transforming people into concepts, into memories, statistics and stories, all intangible and easily overlooked. And yet, once the person returned, this sweet illusion shattered. For the mind forgets, but the heart remembers, it remembers details, her voice, her expressions, the ways a certain individual looks beneath the fading rays of sun. The way they smile, the space they occupy and for all of Samuel's eternal disappointment, Kitty remained impossible to be reduced to simple memory.

His gaze drifted, not towards the fountains or the stars, but towards a Tahoe. One packed far too tightly with souvenirs, luggage and three teens possessing far more confidence than sense. He remembered Anton, Kitty, the long drive, taste of ocean water, photographs at the sunset and the absurd amount of time they'd spent together.

The jokes, far too many of them, some quite inappropriate even. Many concerning the vehicle itself. He remembered Kitty and her photographs, racing into the ocean and most of all, enjoying himself. That memory alone remained deeply embarrassing. Samuel, stripped to his very being, was an entity who thrived on productivity. On purpose and efficiency and yet some of his happiest memories contained none of those.

Only people.

An infuriating realization.

The tragedy of it all, was the collapse had been entirely self-inflicted. Nobody had sabotaged or manipulated him. He had done it all for himself, the engineer and the architect of his own disaster. Once he returned home, there had been a brief period of weakness within him, one lasting several days. Almost a week, giving him long enough to write a letter. Enough to contemplate apologizing, to consider repair.

The letter continues existing somewhere, locked away and forgotten, never to be sent. Because returning home meant becoming Samuel Reinhard Sauber again.

Not the Sam Kitty and Anton knew, not this version shaped by freedom and friendship,

The other Sam; Samuel.

The being bred for purpose, raised for ambition; to pursue objectives without hesitation. The man who shed people like old coats. Once an individual no longer served a purpose, maintaining their relationship became both irrelevant and inefficient. A time consuming act he did not partake in.

And so, it remained unsent.

The friendship remained broken and the passing years helped no amount towards reconciliation.

Samuel returned to present as Kitty spoke about Florence, her university, travelling and the eventual settling down in London. To an extent, he found himself pleased by what he heard, A life. An entire life lived outside his observation, or his influence. Strange, but not surprising.
Kitty succeeding academically had never been surprising, he'd never doubted her intelligence or the determination behind it. If anything, her accomplishments merely confirmed what he already knew.

She'd come out succeeding in life, despite her parents, the circumstances she'd been placed into and especially, despite him.

This outcome, albeit with it's own roadblocks, felt appropriate for her.

"Trabajar para Hogwarts, verdaderamente el pináculo de la academia."
"Working for Hogwarts, truly the pinnacle of academia."

The comment escaped almost automatically, dry humor and wit. The closest thing this Samuel possessed to lightheartedness. A small huff followed, "though, I was unaware you lived in London." That detail was genuinely interesting for the first five seconds.

The conversation should've ended there. It would've been the intelligent decision.

Samuel should've recognized the folly of his actions, should've known better, yet curiosity for the unknown remained his oldest flaw. That, and testing his limits, and how far he could cross certain ones.

He attempted to push through, attempted to peer beyond the surface, beyond the superficial conversations they had been carrying. Samuel had once again attempted to pry into what had happened at Gringotts, and immediately realized how grossly he had miscalculated. The reaction from Kitty was instantaneous as her expressions changed, a shift in her jaw marking it all over with disappointment. The sudden shift in posture to accompany it all.

Disappointment appeared, Not anger; Disappointment.

Samuel hated disappointment, It was infinitely worse. Anger implied conflict, disappointment however, implied failure and failure carried implications Samuel would never be attaching to himself.

"Sam—Samuel. What is this?"

The question landed harder than it should have, for Samuel already knew the answer. He knew what this was, this was him repeating his own history. Once again he'd turned a conversation into an investigation. He'd found a small opening, a chink in her armor and had immediately attempted to force it wider.

And there it was. A familiar sensation that made years vanish instantly. He had seen that look before, years ago. Different location, different conversation and the same strike of disappointment painting those eyes. Time had not dulled it, If anything, the familiarity only helped sharpened the impact.

He could practically see the regret forming behind her eyes. The realization that she'd shared too much, had let her guard down a little too much and predictably, by the virtue of his very nature, Samuel had tried to exploit it.

A part of him admired the response, another one found it deeply inconvenient.

For several seconds he simply listened, as she both dismissed the incident and attempted to explain it away. A feeble attempt at closing the subject entirely. When she finished speaking, he remained silent, long enough for silence to settle before he exhaled.

"I'm sorry."

He knew her mind well enough to imagine what was going through it as they spoke. It was possibly a collage of regret, self-recrimination and frustration. She was possibly questioning her motives to share anything at all, why she'd ever allowed their conversations to become personal yet again. Mostly, she questioned why she'd ever given him another opening into her heart.

For she had always known Samuel to do this. He found something, he prodded it, examined it. Only difference? She'd tolerated it years ago. Now she clearly did not, and yet, for all his brilliance, Samuel found himself unwilling to simply let the door close.

It was an unfortunate impulse, one he understood a little too well and refused to examine it any further.

"I mean, really. What are we—what are we doing?"

An excellent question, one that Samuel lacked a genuine answer for. What were they doing? Two former friends, two former lovers. Sitting beside a fountain at an unreasonable hour discussing dead years and buried memories, stabbing knives of nostalgia within each other's ribs.

Objectively absurd.

"I apologize for bringing it up again." He exhaled while apologizing, he didn't do it without calculation. This was a means to an end for a desired outcome. "I told myself I would not ask again. Several times."

He shook his head, "I apologize for prying." Samuel folded his hands together, gaze drifting away. "It is a flaw. My mind dislikes empty spaces."

"When information is missing, I possess an unfortunate tendency to attempt filling the gaps."

"It is useful professionally." A dry smile almost appeared. "It is significantly less useful socially."

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