Afternoon


It was too late in the day and too close to dinnertime for anyone to be lingering in the kitchens, when Virgil Carstairs slipped in to check on whether or not the dough he'd left this morning had risen enough for baking. The soles of his boots were caked with mud and he quickly shrugged off his damp jacket. He had only been out for a quick smoke fresh air when it had started raining; nothing seemed cosier now than settling into routine.

"How is it?" the prefect glanced at the house elves, or at least the two or three who weren't prepping the main table for later. The small saviours of their school scurried about, large copper pots vanishing or appearing at their will; boiling down gallons of creamy milk or simmering sweet-smelling marinades.

There was no one here so he didn't think  much of letting their thoughts ricochet across his mind. It was useful because it saved time, even if it looked like he was talking to himself.

Virgil disappeared into the pantry before reemerging with a large metal bowl that had a tea towel draped over it. He headed towards the extreme end of the kitchen, where it was less busy, and set the bowl down on a small worktable.

"No," he answered an unspoken question from the one elf trailing after him, fretting. "I'll bake it afterwards." A pause as he lifted the towel, noted the progress of the dough with a quick nod and then stuck it under the table. Virgil glanced over his should irritably. "Stop that."

He stared at the house elf, who was wringing its brittle wrists worriedly. "It happened once," the Slytherin hissed, " I'm not going to do it again, obviously, my mouth is fine." A pale hand rose, gesturing at his perfectly intact visage, and he turned around on his heels to go back into the pantry.

They were, of course, discussing last month's[1] annoyance.

The pantry was one of those rooms that happened to be much bigger on the inside than it looked from the outside. Somehow, one never needed to traverse a mile between its towering shelves to find what was needed, so Virgil quickly returned with the dried valerian root he'd meant to fetch.

It smelled heavenly and only a little medicinal. The house elf had a porcelain mug of hot water waiting, into which he deposited the root. "Thank you," his gaze flicked from water to elf a bit diffidently. Virgil felt... vaguely guilty for frightening them that day.

Unsanitary and traumatic or whatever it was.

He found a stool to rest on as he was finally left alone, and reached into his back pocket to pull out an old article clipping that he'd been saving to more critically peruse.

In the corner of his eye he could see the portrait swinging open to reveal another visitor. Virgil began to read as he tried some of his brew. "Hungry, Bevans?" he asked without looking up. "For food I mean."

1.	Forbidden Fruit - March 29th

Nicholas was dripping as he stepped into the kitchen.  He'd been out on the edge of the forest when he got caught in a sudden downpour.  Of course, it had looked like rain but it was better to smoke outside, no matter the weather.  And it was difficult to read in the common room.  Some of his housemates, a certain prefect in particular, liked to rub it in his face when he was actually doing work.  Not that the book was for class. It rarely was. The Perfect Memory, though now it was perfectly wet.  His umbrella charm hadn't been quick enough to save him or the book.

Instead of climbing back to the tower, he'd went down to the kitchen.  Warm fires and ovens, and hopefully chocolate or at least tea.  Something to warm him up while the book dried.

"What else would I be hungry for?"  Nicholas asked with a smirk as the portrait closed.  "Unless you've got a quidditch captain stashed in the corner, I didn't come here to scandalize, or traumatize, the house elves."  He said pointedly.  Speaking of house elves, he turned to the nearest one, "Please tell me you have some hot cocoa.  Or tea if you don't,  I'm really not picky, just whatever you have that's warm."

Grabbing a stool, he walked over to where Virgil was sitting, taking a seat next to him before pulling his wet cardigan off and tossing it to the floor, his t-shirt coming half off in the process.  "What are you cooking today?"  He said as he pulled his shirt back into place.

Virgil sipped his soothing tisane quietly, listening to Nicholas make his way into the Kitchens without looking up to otherwise take note of the Gryffindor. A soft snort was the only response to his mention of Wentworth - not a completely embarrassing 'conquest' or whatever the pair of them were. Inter-house romance. Positively prosaic as far as love stories went... but then, if house of Montague and Capulet could last the centuries, perhaps there was something to it.

          "What are you cooking today?"

A quick glance up, in time to catch Bevans fixing his shirt. Virgil's thoughts ran amusedly past the mind of a house elf who was worrying about what kind of hot cocoa to serve and if they should ask or just make the usual mix. They decided hastily on the latter.

"Coffee cake," he replied with a smile to himself and then seemed to think better of it. "It's more of a bread[1], rather. Meant to be taken with a good coffee."

Virgil looked over at the house elf scurrying up with a steaming mug for Nick. "Or hot cocoa. It needs more time to proof, though..." a frown as he crossed one leg over the other, slipping his article back into his back pocket. "How did you manage at the career fair? Or did Wentworth demand all of your attention then as well?"

1.	Finnish Coffee Bread

Nicholas sighed, coffee cake had sounded better than coffee bread.  Coffee bread just sounded...like Virgil.  Probably would be good but damn now he just wanted cake and it was all Virgil's fault.  And maybe what he'd been smoking before he'd been reading.

He took the hot cocoa that the elf brought him. "Thanks.  And I really don't need anything else," Nicholas shouted at the house elves before they could decide he needed something to eat with the hot cocoa.  Though he was tempted to ask for cake.  But he didn't need the cake.  He just needed warmth.  And to finish drying off.

"If you say so," He said responding to the Slytherin's remark about proofing.  Especially since he had no idea what bread needed to proof.

"I did fine, talked to the Obliviators again.  I've got a position if I want it.  And I do," he looked at the book that he was still holding.  And which was still wet.  "Crap."  He carefully dropped the book to the ground and flicked his wand, opening the book and slowly starting to dry it off with a warm breeze from his wand.  Even with magic, slow was better for drying the book.

"He doesn't have all my attention, just all of his," he pointed at his crotch with his free hand.  He laughed once before sobering and repositioning his wand so that it was pointing at the book again.  "How'd you do?  Going into baking?  Gillyweed production? Both."

Ah, there was a thought. Nick Bevans: Obliviator.

Virgil made an amused sound - more pensive than tickled. Some might cringe at the notion of his classmate being responsible for the memories of innocent bystanders, but there was something unavoidably normal about Nick's mindset that Virgil trusted. Lecherous, yes. Depraved, no.

           "How'd you do?  Going into baking?  Gillyweed production? Both."

He continued to drink his tea, watching the pages of the book slowly dry. The Perfect Memory. At least Bevans was doing his homework. Not everyone was as enthused about their career choices.

"Neither." Virgil replied, leaning lazily against the table and turning his attention back to his classmate. "Level nine. Might try my hand at the life of an Unspeakable. The problem is, even if it's interesting work-" he smiled to himself, "- I won't be able to tell anyone, will I?"

Nicholas wasn't sure what the sound Virgil made meant, wasn't sure whether the other boy thought his choice was funny or made sense.  It did deserve a glare though.  Which was exactly what Nicholas did over his hot cocoa.  Not that it was particularly effective, but he also wasn't putting much into it.

It also didn't stand up to the shock of Virgil's career choice.  "Wait, really?"

Sure Nicholas was going to work for the Ministry too, even after everything.  But it was a different level.  A different department with people who weren't murderers.  Not that the man who'd kidnapped them was still there.  Nicholas wouldn't still be headed to the Ministry on graduation if that had been the case.

"You're really going to—I—after everything—don't—happened—how?"  He rambled, the work he'd done to move on seeming to evaporate and for the first time in a few weeks he was smelling blood again and his gorge started to rise.

Nicholas put his head down on the table, taking slow deep breaths, book and charm forgotten as he tried not to be sick.

Everyone, from Maiko to his housemates to the unlikely and sacred Cepheus Gamp, had not been especially surprised when they had discovered Virgil's intentions. Or they had at least not made a show of being surprised, insomuch that he was taken aback by how Nicholas was processing this news. The Gryffindor seemed incapable of finishing the thought.

           "You're really going to—I—after everything—don't—happened—how?"

Virgil could smell the blood too, could sense it drifting from Nick's mind like a poisonous stench. He pictured it as a wisp of crimson smoke, reaching out its tendrils. His own memory of the kidnappings stirred to life but he forced it down even as his stomach sank into nausea.

Slightly over two months since that day. He was quiet for a bit, giving them both the chance to calm down.

"I am." Virgil finally answered as he drew his wand, and resumed the drying spell that Nick had abandoned. "I need to see level nine on my own terms. It interests me." His pale brow tensed with determination. "I can't let it scare me like this."

He glanced down at his free hand, which did not wield the wand, and forced its tremor to still.

Breathe in.  One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Hold.  One. Two. Three. Four.  Breathe out.  One. Two.  Three. Four.   Nicholas counted in his head while he did the breathing exercise.  He repeated it in his head, and body, several times before he felt that he was back under control.  And the memories had retreated.

He took one last steadying breath as Virgil finally answered the disjointed question Nicholas had tried to ask.

"I get it. I mean I don't but I do,"  He said, voice muffled from his head resting on his arm on the table. He sighed and raised his head up and looked at his classmate.  "I'm not scared of the place.  I just want to burn it down.  He may not be able to do it again, but the place is still there. A whole department of people doing whatever the hell they want." Before it all, he might have seen the appeal in that, but not now.  Well, a little bit.

"But, in the end, I'll be in the same building.  And I doubt they hire wizards who burn down a whole floor of the Ministry.  So I get it.  A bit."  His voice was still shaky, but he was under control.  For the moment.  Though he felt a little queasy still.  "Do you think they have some ginger tea?"

Nick allegedly was not scared of level nine. Allegedly. Perhaps he was right not to be scared. Virgil looked away, retrieving his tea again to drink the Valerian so that he would have something to do besides watch the pages of the book slowly dry off. The tea was very calming, though its scent generally had the opposite effect on cats.

            "So I get it.  A bit."

He snorted, shooting Bevans a dry smile over the rim of  his mug. As soon as the query about tea was made, however, a pair of house elves disappeared from nearby - no doubt to fetch something of that sort. Virgil knew that someone was always listening in the Kitchens.

A place of comfort, not secrets.

"Tea on its way. I don't want to burn the department down down. I want to understand it," Virgil muttered and pulled his legs up on to the stool so that he could comfortably cross them. "To understand why we were... why it was worth the risk to take us. Why anyone would do that."

An elf materialised next to Nick, carrying a small cup of ginger tea. "Honey?" it asked the Gryffindor politely.

"Please, thanks," Nicholas said to the house elf who delivered the tea, and shortly reappeared with the honey.  He added some to the tea and took a large sip.  Not his favorite tea, but it would settle his stomach.  Assuming he didn't lose it again.

"Because they were evil and insane.  What else is there to understand?"   He said after a moment.  As far as he was concerned that was really all there was to it.  What other reason could there have been? 

He took another larger sip of the tea before setting the cup down.  He suspected the house elves would not be so forthcoming with a shot of something stronger no matter how nicely he asked.  Not that you ever needed to ask a house elf nicely to get just about anything.

          "Because they were evil and insane.  What else is there to understand?"

Virgil felt his back teeth bite down, clenching uncomfortably at Nick's statement. He forced himself to take another sip of his drink before draining the entire mug of its sleepy brew and setting it aside. That was... one way to look at the events of February. Perhaps it was even the authoritative version of events. Mad and Evil wizard Mortimer Gamp commits unspeakable crime.

"Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.[1]" The prefect narrowed his gaze as he spoke in an obviously theatrical voice, blue eyes staring not-quite at Bevans. "You're not frightened, Nick, but I am. I'm convinced my Boggart form has changed. And in order not to be scared, I have to understand why..."

He trailed off, clearing his throat and remembering to breathe. A pause as he collected himself and straightened his back to stretch his arms behind him. "Why or how it happened. He's human, the person who did this to us." Virgil sniffed, looking away from his classmate.

"I want to work where he worked and see what he saw. I'm not even sure if I'll continue, after training. I just... have to be there," he sighed softly at the confession. "I'm sorry. I know you don't like to be reminded."

1.	Polonius. Hamlet, William Shakespeare.

Nicholas had talked about it with Peyton, with the counselor, but he was realizing now, he'd not really talked about it with anyone else who had gone through it.    Or even really about how they were doing.  Virgil was right, he didn't like to think about it any more than he had to.  And with the nightmares mostly over, he was thinking about it even less.  It helped getting a full night's sleep, or what counted as a full night this close to exams, and it being a sober night's sleep.

"I think," Nicholas started, "that you are being overly generous with the human designation.  But it makes more sense."  It did, at least a bit. 

It was the same as fighting off a boggart to some degree.  Facing your fear.  Making it something that's not terrifying anymore.  Of course, it was probably easier to do when you could use the charm on the boggart.

"Really, though, it's— I'm doing better.  Usually.  It's just...," he looked down at the cup of tea, "I just wasn't expecting to.... I don't even know really.  Some things remind me, drag up the memories.  Other's  don't.  I just have to remember to breathe."  Nicholas picked up the cup and took a drink and then turned to look at Virgil, a smile on his face.  Act as if and all that, he thought to himself.  "You know, if it doesn't work out you can join the obliviators with me."

He smirked, mostly in agreement that Mortimer Gamp was lucky to be designated as human by the mouths of his victims. Nick was alright. If anything, a little saner than some others; more relaxed than the likes of Schlagenweit and miles away from the sheer wickedness of Theo Whitman. At his core he was not inherently disturbing.

              "I just have to remember to breathe."

Virgil nodded and took in his own deep breath, the comforting scents of the kitchen. They'd added nutmeg to the creamy milk simmering for this evening's pudding. It mingled with the smell of Nick's hot chocolate.

"Obliviator? Me?" he touched his chest, raising blonde eyebrows in mock surprise before quickly dropping the act. "No, I don't think I fancy altering memories." It was, in his opinion, too close to his Leglimency proclivities - he didn't trust himself.

And it struck him as too routine anyway, as someone raised on the hazards of theatre. Virgil glanced down at the damp book he was still drying off with his free hand, the charm effortlessly flitting through pages. "I don't know what I want to do, if I'm being entirely honest. I don't know where I see myself in five or ten years time."

Alive, hopefully. He sighed.

"All the world's a stage - but no man knows his role?" he smiled at Nick wearily. "Or not. I think some men do. Some lucky few."

Nicholas just shrugged at Virgil's description of an obliviator's job.  He didn't see it that way. Or at least not that simply. But he wasn't about to argue the point either.  It wasn't his job to recruit for the obliviators.

"Not here?" Nicholas tried helpfully. "I don't know where I'll be either.  Not sure I need to know either.  I know what I'm doing next.  That's enough for me."  It also helped that his mother was muggle, so she was just happy that there was work for wizards.  Especially once he'd explained the summer before that he didn't need to go to university that it wasn't needed or required. She hadn't really been convinced until after his internship with the obliviators though.

"I think they are just really good at faking it...wait no...what's the word...improv...they are really good at improv."

"I know what I'm doing next.  That's enough for me."

Virgil nodded at this, seeing both its wisdom as well as the difficulty of trying not to look further than simply the next step. Sometimes it was hard to stop oneself from thinking in the long term. But Nick didn't seem to have a problem with that at all, something the Slytherin envied.

"Improv?" he laughed, eyes lighting up at the metaphor - it doubled as a distraction. "You could be right. Just because it looks easy on the outside doesn't mean it really is."

He didn't need to be a Legilimens to know that (though it helped). Virgil glanced down at the book he was drying, realising abruptly that he had reached the end of the book and that it was mostly safe from the hazards of mildew or damage. With a lazy flick of the wand, he levitated it on to the closest kitchen counter.

"We could expand that comparison," Virgil mused. "It's all one big round of improv, isn't it? No amount of Divination or planning will prepare us for what's to come. No sense in worrying about.... I don't know."

A frustrated gesture, and he ran his hand through his hair. "About the multitude of possibilities." He sighed to expel the irritation of that thought, quickly searching for a change of subject. "Where will you be staying to train? In London?"

It wasn't unusual, after all, for people to live outside of the city and apparate in for their work. But there was something exciting about living in London - especially to Virgil, whose parents lived in the muggle area of Maida Vale.