VIOLET (A Harry Potter Universe Fanfiction)

23.

Marlowe sat down beside her, mostly so he wouldn't have to respond to what she'd just said.

"I won't make you test it," Caiti said quickly. She must have been able to tell what he was thinking. "We can hire other people for that. Pay them. I can use some of the money for things like that."

But Marlowe shook his head. "I'll do it, Caiti," he said. "I trust you."

He did. It was scary to think about, but not because he was worried the potion would kill him or anything like that. It was scary, because he didn't know what would happen. The thing was, after almost two years, he knew what to expect from a full moon. He knew what to dread, what would be fine, what to do keep himself feeling the best he could hope for given the circumstances. It wasn't enjoyable. He wasn't really used to it. But it was familiar enough.

When he took this potion, he would be going in blind. No one would really know what would happen. No one would be able to prime him with real life accounts of the experience like the ones he had poured over with sick fascination in the days before his first full moon.

When he took this potion, he wouldn't know what to expect, what would happen to him, what he would feel.

He really did trust Caiti, but he'd have been lying if he said he wasn't scared.

"You don't have to," Caiti said again.

He shook his head.

"I'm glad things are starting to fall into place for you," he told her instead. "I'm glad you feel like it's making sense."

And when Caiti continued to watch him with concern, he turned his face towards hers, smiling a little, and he kissed her.

"You're trying to distract me," she whispered.

"Is it working?" Marlowe asked.

She kissed him again.

"Maybe."

—-

Marlowe thought a lot the next few days. He went to the greenhouse some, brought a book and pretended to read while mostly sitting on the couch and watching Caiti continue to fiddle with whatever it was she was doing that she still didn't seem quite able to explain.

Then she started writing a lot.

She lay on her back on one end of the couch, her notebook propped up on her knees, writing and writing and sometimes scratching things out and then staring up at the ceiling for long periods of time.

He wanted to ask if he could read it, but there never seemed to be an opportunity. Once she'd gotten going, she never put the notebook down.

So Marlowe just thought. Or maybe more accurately, he worried.

He didn't like that he was doing this, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

That weekend, he finished eating breakfast at the kitchen table and he got so lost in his thoughts that for almost forty five minutes he sat there, staring blankly out the kitchen window, his empty cereal bowl in front of him. He would've probably kept on sitting there if his mum hadn't come back in after her shower and said, "You still haven't cleaned up that bowl?"

He started and looked at her. "Oh," he said. "No."

She considered him.

Marlowe didn't like the way she looked at him. He got up and dumped the last of the milk out in the sink, pulled out his wand to clean it, and then put the bowl back in the cabinet.

When he finished, she was still watching him.

"Grab your coat," she said. "Let's go for a walk."

Outside, the air was brisk and bit at his nose, but the cold wasn't unbearable. Marlowe stuck his hands in his pockets and walked with his head down. The trees were bare by now, but brown crunchy leaves still littered the ground, crunching under his feet.