Dreogan listened with a calm, reserved manner as the man spoke. He had never been one to much credit fate. At times, it was tempting. To avoid accountability usually. But with the notion of fate came a certain sense of doom. Inescapability.

Predestination was only a comfort for the saved. And who, truly, went through life untouched?

"I'm sorry to hear it," Dreogan said, knowing how empty those words felt -- to say and to hear. Isaac could not be more right: it was senseless. Numbing; illogical. No sense at all. But not always futile or pointless. He had never understood why those words had come to mean the same thing.

Dreogan was silent for some time. Another sip. He bit the inside of his cheek as he thought. "I'd imagine she was doing important work for the Ministry, then." A small reassurance, perhaps. One that might not carry very far at all, Dreogan decided. "Did they ever find the man?" he asked, wondering if there was some part of the man who longed for retribution, or if he was here, unable to move on. From his letters, Isaac had sounded steady. Grounded. Settled. An old rock, perhaps, comfortably situated and gathering moss. Not a bad thing, but Dreogan had not expected a young man from it. He couldn't imagine the man to rush out for revenge, he reasoned.

Isaac nodded slightly in response.  He was not the type to hold grudges or seek revenge, but when he had received that letter and all the details it had taken all his strength not to apparate to London and kill the man himself.  He took another sip of his butterbeer before he spoke again; taking a moment to find the right was to phrase what had happened.

“He was killed by a group of Aurors a few days later for refusing to surrender,” he told him.  “Marian was the sort that most people liked and it didn’t take long for a small group to seek retribution for the loss.”

It hadn’t surprised him at all.  She had always been well liked in school.  They type who spoke her mind and lived without regrets.  She had always done whatever it was in her heart and mind to do without holding back.  Part of him could still hear her scolding him whenever he got lost in the sea of regret of not being there for her or admitting his feelings for her.  She would have told him to grow up and get over himself since life wasn’t about having a constant pity party.  She’d probably even hate the fact that he was still having a drink in her honor during the Remembering Day holiday.

“It’s all part of life, I suppose,” he continued.  “She’d probably jinx me into the next decade if she knew I was sitting here today.”  He laughed slightly at the thought.  The feisty little blonde would not have been amused at all.  She had been a contradiction in some ways, petite and lady like but with a temper and tongue that would make even the most hardened criminal blush. 

Dreogan pressed his lips together in thought for some time, then let them curl into a melancholy smile as he, too nodded. "Yeh. The uh. . . the not being there and not knowing -- that's the worst," he agreed, wetting his lips now with a sip from the butterbeer.

He considered what Isaac had said: drinking here despite her likely wishes. Dreogan had always tried to tell himself that his father wouldn't want him to stop, to mourn, to give up life. But Dreogan had left school in order to keep things moving. Move his mother to England with her family, keep moving. It was when Dreogan sat down to things like this -- Remembering Day -- that he felt ill at ease.

"For myself," he said, with a slight sigh, "I find that any external remembrance becomes less about them, and more about me. But that is because I am prone to overthinking . . . can't seem to get out of my own head." He looked sidelong at the man beside him for several moments, feeling the man's pain as he returned to his own losses. "What do you think she would want?" His voice was thick, raspy with emotion and Dreogan coughed and took another sip, looking straight ahead now.

Isaac took note of some unidentified emotion in Dreogan’s voice.  It was clear he had his own losses on his mind, but Isaac wasn’t one to pry.  If he wanted to share more then that he would do so, if not Isaac could probably continue to talk about Marian for some time.  It had become easier given time and a bit of distance from the situation to do so, something he was often grateful for.

What do you think she would want?

He gave a slight smirk as he said, “That would depend on what happened when I got back from my research, I suppose.  I think I love her from the moment I saw her when we she sat next to me on that first train ride to Hogwarts.  Of course at eleven, who knows such a thing and what teenage boy is capable of admitting it?  We were always close, but I never got up the courage to admit it to her.  I was planning on telling her when I returned, but I never got that chance.”

Never knowing the ‘what could have been’ was his biggest regret.  It might have ended their friendship, or it might have brought them something they had only hoped to find with another person.  He had no way of knowing now, and he tried not to get too caught up on that fact as he took another sip of butterbeer.

“I do know she wasn’t one for regrets though,” he said after a moment, “which is why she would not be amused.  That was the only time she ever got mad at me was when I’d dwell on what might have been instead of what actually is happening in this moment.”

His status as ‘confirmed bachelor’ had nothing to do with Marian.  He had simply never found someone who made him feel anything close to what his best friend had.  Plus he had his commitment to teaching.  He couldn’t see complicating things further, and much preferred his quiet life.

Dreogan listened to the telling answer. The question hadn't been interpreted in the way he had meant it, but Dreogan gave a soft, melancholy smile and nodded. Unspoken feelings -- always a regret.

"Not knowing," he repeated with an understanding nod. "Your friend was right," he added quietly. "The best way to live, sometimes, is to separate yourself from the dead. My father," he said, nodding, "disappeared when I was 15. We never heard from him, and since then," he shook his head sadly. "It took a while, reconciling myself to it. That he really was dead, that I could no longer be a part of his life." He gave a pained smile now, taking another drink.

"Still. Living can sometimes be the best memorial. I try to take care of my mother, like he would have wanted. It's the little things . . ." Dreogan looked up at the Muggle Studies professor thoughtfully. "So it's been ten years for you," he nodded. "That's a big year." The words sounded empty and meaningly, like congratulations on your birthday: one could hardly call a years' survival a true victory, though sometimes, he imagined, it was.

He was silent several moments longer before asking, "Her family -- do you keep in touch with them?"

Isaac listened out of respect, knowing it had probably been hard on Dreogan.  Having spent the past few years watching his own father slowly slip away he knew a bit what it felt like.  The only difference was that he had time to prepare himself for the inevitable, Dreogan had not.  Isaac wasn’t entirely sure which was better.

"So it's been ten years for you.  That's a big year."

“It seems like yesterday sometimes,” he told him.  “But when I think about it as an entire decade it makes me feel a bit old.”

Every year the third years that entered his classroom for the first time seemed to get younger and younger.  The graduating seventh years seemed like children still to him, and it was amazing that it had not always been the case.  He also wondered if people had thought the same of him when he graduated from Hogwarts.

"Her family -- do you keep in touch with them?"

“Occasionally,” he said.  “Her mother and I exchange letters every few months and I try to visit near the holidays.  Her father never really accepted it though and sometimes I think it’s easier for him not to have a visit to remind him of everything.”

"Hm," Dreogan said quietly in response before taking a final sip. He looked at the tankard, considering another.

"Students -- they specialise in making you feel old sometimes. I had some students -- non-traditional ones -- who made me feel young, though." He gave a breathy laugh at this as he shook his head. "They enjoyed it, actually. Far too much. It was interesting, teaching people about my age. Difficult in ways. One of my students -- brilliant young man, all the makings of becoming something really great," Dreogan said wistfully, "became one of my dearest friends. And research assistants."

That was something he didn't want to talk about, he decided too late. Still, he'd keep silent about it and wouldn't need to worry. The man did not seem the prying type. Fortunate. He wondered what the man's reaction might be to the idea that his last research assistant had died in crossfire . . . and here he was, asking for recommendations on interning research assistants.

Dreogan still hadn't visited the Penn family; now it felt too late. Embarrassingly late. According to Aleron, a professor who remained at Laevenstrome's Fundunct of Sorcery, the family had taken the news very badly, demanded for Dreogan's removal from his position -- even after he had resigned voluntarily -- and withdrawn all funding, though they had prior been some of the biggest contributors to the institution.

All Dreogan ventured was a "Grief can bring out a lot of unexpected things in people. Sometimes distance is best, but I think it's good that you try to stay as close as is comfortable."

He shifted in his seat. Dreogan felt himself exchanging hackneyed truisms and vague cliches.  Time for a change in direction. "I did mean to ask you. I've actually gotten several applications. Maybe there' s a time we could meet and discuss that?" he smiled. "Since we haven't been able to orchestrate that in letters." He was thoughtful a moment. "We could go somewhere in London -- give you a true break from school, when you can afford to." Dreogan did not mention that London would be most convienient because he himself did not enjoy being too far from work. With late nights already, he did not want to add travel time. "Sometime next week, perhaps?"