maybe Nate McGonagall has been reading too many vampire novels, but Remus Lupin is starting to seem very suspicious. He's always out late at night, he always looks tired, he's covered in scars and he always spends nights in the hospital wing at a ti...
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Graduation comes around so fast, like a bucket of water being thrown over your body, droplets of water snaking down your spine, nerves jolting in resistance. One minute you're dry, the next you're wetter than a drowned rat. It's nerve-wracking just how much time they've lost.
It feels like they just finished exams, and now, Nate is standing in front of the full-length mirror propped up in the corner of their dorm room, hands shaking as he tries desperately to tie his bow tie. It isn't working. His fingers are basically frozen. Everything is coming to an end. Michael tuts from his spot on the bed, tying the laces of his shiny black shoes that his mother sent over in the mail. He's gelled his curls so that they fall back out of his face and he's wearing a daffodil suit with a black shirt, no tie to match, top three buttons undone. He looks like he should be going to a disco, not graduation.
He smooths back his hair once more and for a moment he resembles Al Pacino. Nate almost laughs, but the sound gets caught in the back of his throat, scratching against his skin. This will be the last time they're ever in this room.
"Come here." Michael gets closer and twirls Nate around to face him, hands expertly working to tie his black bow tie. Once he's done, he smooths down the collar of his pastel orange shirt, like he's his mum trying desperately to hold back her tears as she sends her son off to his first day at his fancy new job.
Nate doesn't feel fancy in his tangerine suit. It's new. His actual mum forced him to spend a whole day in Gladrags over the weekend, trying on suit after suit until she decided that this one looked best on him and that it would come in handy for any future events. He runs his hands over the corduroy trousers. At least he doesn't have to wear the jacket.
Hiro and Benjamin come up behind them. Now, all four Hufflepuff seventh-year boys are standing in the mirror, fixing up their varying shades of orange and yellow formal wear, hands shaking just a little bit more than they're used to. Their packed bags sit in the other corner. The posters have been ripped from the walls, the plants have been deposited in the greenhouses, the records have been safely tipped back into their boxes. The room is an empty shell of what they had created throughout the past seven years, like someone has thrown white paint over the Mona Lisa.
As soon as they step out of this room, they will never step back in.
Adulthood beckons them closer with gnarled fingers, razor-sharp nails scratching against their skin, begging to pull them apart like puppets on strings.
"The girls will be waiting," says Hiro, smoothing his silvery blonde hair out of his face. It falls to his chin and no matter how many times he runs his hand through it to keep it back, a few strands fall free and into his eyes.
