It was early morning, almost sunrise actually. Moira, however, didn't notice how things were slowly growing brighter and easier to see. All night, since curfew, she had sat huddled up by a tree not too far from the lake. She didn't sleep, though occasionally she dozed and never for long. Whenever she woke her face was wet with tears. Moira was cold, almost freezing, but she didn't notice that either.

The[1]Charms extra credit class had been a complete disaster. For the entire Fall season she had done her absolute best to keep it together.  Then the events there had ruined it completely. Thanks to Winifred, not that it was her fault since she didn't know and no one knew, she had a flash back in the middle of practicing the banishment spell. Now, she was a wreck. She couldn't focus on anything else but the events of when she was five and her chest had ached for so long now she didn't notice that either.

Trembling some, half from the cold half from her emotions, she sniffled. Animals, home... there wasn't anything the would cheer her up at this point. Moira had fallen too far into the depths of her past. It was likely she wouldn't be able to get out alone.

1.	1: Link to Charms Extra Credit Class

There were only a handful of the castle’s residents that kept as careful a watch on when curfew cleared for the morning as when it started in the evening, but Sasha was definitely amongst their ranks.  The Ravenclaw was typically ready to head out of the tower with his pack full of books as soon as they were able to move freely on the grounds.  Tending to the Healer’s Mustang mare and Gelar, and her adopted, orphaned hybrid unicorn had been a consistent part of his early morning routine.  It was that little bit of familiarity and home at Hogwarts.
 
There were a few others that graced the early morning hours.  Sasha could usually count on crossing paths with Zel or, sometimes, Professor Trishna as the two went out for exercise.  They were a minority, though – an elite and it didn’t take long for one to learn who to expect to come across in the pre-dawn darkness.
 
The fourth year, for instance, wasn’t typically amongst their ranks.  The Ravenclaw noticed her shadowed silhouette against the steel grey water as he crossed the lawn, grooming bag in hand.  It was evident, immediately, that something was wrong – even from a distance, the hunched posture of the silhouette revealed as much.  Sasha approached, cautiously.  He stopped as soon as he recognized her and glanced, anxiously, back towards the castle?  Should he go get someone?  Let someone know?  The last thing he needed was for someone else to come along and see him out, just after curfew, with a frigid fourth year.
 
Sasha hesitated a moment, torn with indecision.  A witness – a witness was all he really needed.  Someone to vouch for the fact that Sasha had just now (after curfew) come across the girl.  But, there was no one around.  And, the only alternative was pretending he hadn’t seen her and leave her sitting in the cold.
 
How many of his recent best intentions had he later come to regret?  Profoundly.  Sasha sighed and shook his head.  If this backfired, he was going to swear all this off and go join a monastery.
 
“Allo?” Sasha asked, approaching slowly.  “Are you – how long have you been out here?”  He watched the girl shiver.  “I … you’re freezing.”  Score one, Captain Obvious.

Moira shivered some more, her mind in a far off place. Or she was until someone relatively close by spoke to her. Jumping a bit she turned her head, neck creaking in the process from lack of use in the cold weather, to look at the Ravenclaw. Through eyes red from having not slept and crying on and off throughout the night she recognized him fairly easily despite everything. Sasha Schlagenweit, sixth year Ravenclaw prefect.

A few moments passed before the words he spoke actually registered in her mind. How long? Her gaze slid over their surroundings, noticing it was slowly but steadily getting brighter. It was difficult to believe it was dawn already. Freezing? Was she? Moira couldn't tell and, if she was going to be honest with herself, she didn't care at this point. Perhaps she was freezing. She couldn't feel her fingers. Like the rest of her, they were numb. Unlike the rest of her though, they weren't starting to get feeling again.

A final, quiet gasp. A shout. Her dad crying and then darkness. Moira, head bowed, shut her eyes even though she knew it wouldn't push the images out of her mind.

The Ravenclaw hesitated, glancing over his shoulder once more.  Again, somewhere in the recesses of his thought, a voice was cautioning him that nothing good could come from this.  Every time he tried to do something with the intention of helping, inevitably things got worse. 

But, despite all reason and logic, he still couldn't just turn and walk away.  He'd never actually found himself in McBoid's situation; pride and stubbornness had always compelled him to convince himself things were fine.  At least until he found himself in the forest at midnight, staring at an abyss and knowing that it was not jumping rather than the abyss that he feared most.  He still could recognize the state of mind.  He'd never really known what to do with his own emotions, let alone anyone else's.  But, instead of walking away, he shrugged his own winter coat from his shoulders and cast a quick warming charm on it before leaning over to drape it around the fourth year's shoulders. 

He knew nothing about what had prompted the girl to be out here which left him at even more of a loss.  And, he'd be a bloody hypocrite if he tried to pretend he had any idea what the right thing for her to be doing was.  He himself felt like he usually managed to do the wrong thing. 

"I'm really not very good at this type of thing," he admitted as he sat down on the cold ground next to her.  "But, I know who is good at it; I can take you to them."  He sighed and shrugged.  "Or, I can listen.  All I do know is this-" he nodded in no specific direction, "-won't help anything.  At most, it'll just relieve the pressure enough so you can go back to pretending everything's alright." 

Moira's focus on the present was waning again, her memories threatening to drag her back down again with their ferocity. Memories shared only with her father, though he had a different point of view. It was something she never told anyone, something she had never needed to actually say out loud. She never cried in front of another person and magic forbid she ever told a secret, not that she had very many.

However, when the extra weight of his coat covered her with it's warmth and listening to him talk, the words didn't much matter, she broke when he sat next to her. She couldn't take it anymore. For nine years she had carried this feeling and guilt around, had grown up with it, and she simply couldn't do it. Sobbing she ended sagging against him, and the words that had long since haunted her finally spilled through, "It's all my fault."

One moment, McBoid was huddled in on herself in a quiet, reserved ball.  The next, she was slumped against him in a sobbing, distraught ... mess.  The Ravenclaw flinched and stiffened uncomfortably at first and glanced sidelong at the top of the girl's quivering head.  He didn't have a whole lot of experience with sobbing girls.  If his sister, Anna, had ever had breakdowns like these it was never in his presence.  She probably knew better than that.  Most of his experiences were with Eirene and, on the few occasions he had seen her cry, he'd generally been the cause of it. 

What was one supposed to do?  Were you supposed to try to stop it?  What he'd seen on tv didn't seem to offer a consistent, reliable answer.  Sometimes they let the girl cry, sometimes they tried to convince her whatever it was was stupid and not worth crying over.  How was one supposed to know the difference?  To complicate things further, on TV, girls seemed to be capable of breaking down just as much over boyfriends, ruined outfits and tiffs between friends as with events that were important enough to warrant the amount of emotion. 

The result was Sasha simply let the girl cry.  Less because it was an actual strategy and more from an extended case of indecision.  He patted the girl awkwardly on the shoulder a few times since that was what he usually did to Baldur when the shepherd leaned against him. 

"What's your fault?" Sasha asked.  The Ravenclaw still wasn't sure whether the girl's current state was a result of something trivial like a lost cardigan or something more profound. 

"My màthair." With the process started Moira almost couldn't keep the words from coming out, so she didn't even try. "My màthair is dead and it's all my fault. If I had obeyed all the rules, let them know, she'd still be alive. My da' wouldn't have to be alone and..." She took a shuddering breath, still sobbing, the tears flowing endlessly, "I may as well have killed her myself." All this Moira was reminded of at least once a day, in the morning at the start of everything.

Moira knew it didn't make her a bad person and that just about everyone would label it as an accident. It's what they did when her màthair died. After all, who would ever put the blame of an animal attack and the death of a woman on a five year old? Even so, she couldn't shake the guilt that shadowed and haunted her always.

Of course, Sasha hadn't been hoping for the the source of the girl's grief to be profound but, in some ways, he was relieved it was more than teenaged-girl drama.  He wasn't sure he would have known how to respond if the current breakdown was the result of a friendly tiff or a ruined skirt. 

Not that he was really any better prepared to offer useful support when she did finally offer a vague explanation.  Assuming, of course, màthair meant what it sounded close to and not something else.  If his assumption was correct, that meant the Hufflepuff's mother had died.  How long ago and the exact cause were still a mystery but, comparing and contrasting this girl from the last distraught fourth year Hufflepuff, the grief seemed more deep-set and long-lived, not fresh and raw and immediate as it had been with Bevans. 

From what little he could gather, it didn't seem like McBoid actually killed her mother directly.  Even with those theories he still wasn't entirely sure what to say and filled the sobby gaps between confessions with patting the girl awkwardly and as unobtrusively as possible on the shoulder. 

"I, you know, don't really know what happened," Sasha finally said, shrugging his shoulders slightly.  "So, I can only guess.  But, do you think ... would she want you blaming yourself?"  Sasha was careful to frame it as a question.  He hoped the answer was no  but, there was always a chance the girl's parents could be more like his own. In which case, 'yes' could very well be the answer.  Then, the already awkward situation would be getting considerably more awkward.

"I don't think so but it doesn't make it any less my fault." Moira paused for breath and shivered a bit some more, though her body was warming up some compared to how it had been before. "I didn't tell her where I was going, didn't ask. I spooked him and she had to pay for it." The memory was playing out in her head yet again, even as she spoke. Normally she could get it to stop after a time or to but this time.... This time she could do nothing to defend herself from the onslaught of it, same as she couldn't defend herself in the memory. She hated feeling so helpless, so unable. Never again did she want someone hurt or killed in having to defend her. Moira didn't think she could take something like that again.

Just as she didn't notice Sasha patting her on the shoulder she also didn't notice how her fingers were starting to turn blue but her head was rather hot. All she noticed was that he was there, the memory seemed to have shortened the scene it was repeating now, and that clip of the memory was moving at a much faster pace.

The Ravenclaw had no idea what he could, or should, be saying.  He was certain anyone else would have had more useful and poignant things to say.  Something that would actually make the Hufflepuff feel better rather than ... well, the last time he'd tried to help, he'd ended up bringing a Hufflepuff out into the forbidden forest to the place a student had been viciously, well, slaughtered a year before. 

If McBoid knew that, she'd probably know not to expect much.  He really ought to just have to wear a sign.  A less ... suggestive ... version of the scarlet letter that warned people to keep their distance. 

He didn't know what wise words or comforting reassurances he was supposed to be creating or even if now was the time she was supposed to be hearing them.  So, he opted for the only thing he did know: the truth. 

"I don't really know what to say," he admitted, shrugging slightly.  "I know people are probably quick to try to convince you it's foolish to think it's your fault.  That you can just ignore what you believe and it'll all be better.  But, I know that doesn't work.  But, I haven't figured out what does.  In the end, it comes down to figuring out how to forgive yourself - maybe because you know she'd want you to.  Or, in my case, despite the fact you know they wouldn't want you to." 

Despite the memory playing much more rapidly, Moira could hear Sasha clearly. His words cut through it. Forgive herself? It was her mother. A woman who had done nothing wrong. The ones he lost wouldn't want him to forgive himself? For a brief moment in time at least she had something else to think about, something else as harsh as her memory. You're not alone, his words seemed to say though he didn't actually say it.

Her sobs had died down over the last couple of minutes and when Moira turned her head and looked up at him, "They wouldn't want you too? That's..." She shook her head some. Now she felt a bit in his position, not knowing what to say. Looking towards the lake again she thought about it quietly, before speaking once more, the tears having run dry now.

"People think I'm odd and shy because I don't talk to many of them. It's true enough and I don't mind. I was raised on my dad's land, in Scotland. So much land... and no people. Just my da' and my uncle. Would have been my mathair too...." She swallowed. "She was home, at least. When she died. One of the young stallions was spooked, attacked me even though I approached them correctly. I was only struck once. She took the rest for me."

Taking a couple breaths she managed to calm down again. "We've still got him, in the herd. Gentle as can be now." Remembering something from a few months ago she looked up at him again, eyes lit with a spark she got only when talking about animals. "We've got a Unicorn too. Well, it's not ours, but it might as well be. Her owner only wants her tail hairs now and then, otherwise he pays her boarding and forgets all about her."

Sasha flinched, slightly, when McBoid reacted to his comment about apologies.  The gesture might have been subtle enough to go unseen in the low light but the fourth year was still slumped against his shoulder.  She would have felt it.  A furious blush rose in the young man's cheeks but there was little he could do to hide that, too. 

"That's just reality," he said, finishing the girl's sentence.  The next breath, he cleared his throat and swallowed.  In his case, that was the start and the finish of it.  There was no ambiguity.  No uncertainty.  No comfort to be found in blind belief that they wouldn't want him blaming himself.  Just as much had been said in the hours and minutes leading up to his family's deaths.  Only with Ava was there any comfort to be found in uncertainty.  And, he'd blown his one chance to really know for sure. 

Sasha was probably one of a very, very small group of people who could legitimately, if only for a moment, feel a hint of envy as the girl relayed her story.  It was sad, of course.  But, she'd had a mom.  A mother who loved her.  Enough so that she'd willingly lay down her life for her daughter.  Logically, Sasha knew that what made it enviable probably made it all the more painful for her.  But, the girl's situation was so vastly different from his own, he could only understand it on a logical level. 

"It sounds like she loved you."  He tried, to keep the hint of jealousy out of his voice but it still came out a bit more bluntly than he'd been intending.  He cleared his throat, again.  "And, if she ... anyone who works with animals does so knowing the risk."  Especially if they'd kept stallions.  "I mean, every time I get ready for a show, I do so knowing something could go wrong.  I ... and ... I don't know.  I don't think she'd want you blaming yourself and not living your life.  I mean, maybe you're forgetting how lucky you were to have a mother who loved you that much." 

"Just because it's reality doesn't make it right." Moira shook her head and let the subject drop. He was obviously as uncomfortable with it as she normally was with regular conversation. If he wanted to tell her about it, and there was no reason at all why he would, that was his business and she wouldn't ask.

The bluntness in his tone, before he corrected it, caused her to tilt her head to look up at him. Despite her emotional exhaustion she felt a rush of empathy for him. To go through life without a mother's love... she could only imagine how it must have been; lonely with the world a little colder than it should be.

"I don't remember her. All I have is her death and dad's stories. I don't remember her laugh, or how she looked when angry. You're right, though. Maybe I am forgetting, but it's difficult to remember when you have so little." With a soft sigh she dropped her head again. "I suppose that's how it goes though. One person wants what the second one has and vice versa, neither realizing or caring that there's always a price for having it.

I'm curious. You talk about living your life. How do you live your life? I don't want any secrets or personal stuff you don't want to tell, just.... I always spend my days avoiding people and being with or learning about animals, unless I'm home."

Sasha shrugged, slightly, unsure how to respond to her comment.  He was still trying to figure out things himself; he had no real answers for her.  To be honest, he was still struggling to get to the point where he felt entitled to pass judgement on whether it was right or not.   "Maybe.  Maybe not," he offered, vaguely. 

"But, you remember the feeling," Sasha pointed out, glancing briefly down at the girl before looking back down over the water.  "The feeling of being loved and cared for.  I know it's probably not a lot but it's ... isn't it the most important part?  I don't know.  Sometimes ... in some ways, memories are a skill in themselves.  Our minds usually hold more than we recall - I count on that a lot during exams.  Sometimes, if you focus on a memory you do have, holes gradually start to fill in.  Maybe there's a partial memory you do have.  If you ... I don't know ... think about it before bed every night, maybe your subconscious will draw up more."

Color rushed to the Ravenclaw's face and he glanced down at his hands awkwardly.  How did he live his life?  There were probably a few out there who'd say he hadn't been doing a very good job of it lately. 

"I'm ... I'm not sure I'm the best example of that," Sasha offered, hesitantly.  "I, you know, everything that happened for me...a lot of it happened just last year.  My family was killed last Christmas.  And, they weren't very fond of my magic anyway.  So I'm still trying to figure a lot of it out.  Mostly, I keep busy.  And, I know who I can trust and try to stick with them."  Mostly.  Even if some thought his judgement was a little off at times.

"I... guess I do." Moira knew at the very least she didn't know what it was like to not have that feeling. Any other tangible feeling of it... for the most part that came from her father. However, there was that small faint glow that she knew didn't come from him. Perhaps he was right, and that small feeling was something she could take comfort in.

When Sasha spoke of his life, what had happened and when, she stayed quiet but attentive. She listened as he said he kept busy, stayed occupied so his thoughts and memories wouldn't overcome him completely. Just like her every Fall. "I'm sorry you're lost." For he did, in her eyes, seem so very, very lost. Maybe it was the way he talked about it, or maybe it was just a look in his eyes, or the way he seemed so awkward.

It was about then when Moira noticed she wasn't leaning against him because she couldn't support herself. Instead she was still leaning against him simply because, on top of the fire he conjured, he was warm.