Remain in Light

Diary • 2006-09-07 • Private

v_vector — Fri, 08 Sep 2006 10:39:52 GMT

According to the calendar, it's been exactly a month since that night; I've been back for just over two weeks.

Sometimes it already seems longer than that — a protective mechanism, I think. It's the way our brains are wired, isn't it, to revert to a "normal" state as soon as circumstances allow. School's started once more, and those are definitely normal circumstances. In the classroom, and usually when among friends: I'm me again. Or close enough to her that the difference is immaterial.

Just as well, really. I don't want to dwell — I don't want to be the person people shy away from when they walk into the room. "Oh, gods, not her and her tale of woe again." Dealing with every major disruption in my life shouldn't require a Ministry grant and years of stubbornness.

No. Around people, I'm fine. It's when I'm alone that things creep in. I haven't been working on anything not school-related; I can't concentrate.

So much for self-sufficiency.

...

Honestly, what I really want is for my libido to come back, please.

Izabel advised me not to think so much, to let go. That was good advice that I haven't been heeding, I'm afraid. My newest worry: What if I decide to throw caution to the wind and make a move — only have to stop halfway through?

I think of how it was before, physically, and I would give up so much to have that back again — except for the fact that we do say them now, the I love yous. That I wouldn't change.

It seems to me that how I feel about him should have more power than either my memories or my guilt, and it only makes it worse that I can't seem to get things to work.

... I'm just still too angry.

How long should he be expected to wait for me to work through this? It seems so selfish of me. I know it isn't a matter of who owes whom what or anything foolish like that — but, damn it, I want to give something back.

I'm writing this in the study next to the Ravenclaw common room, listening to first years in there squabble with the older students and each other about everything under the sun. Luckily I haven't had to step in — looking up through the door and raising an eyebrow seems to be working well enough yet as a threat. Soon it'll be time to retire — but not to my quarters. Staying there alone doesn't bother me much any longer; the portal is sealed, there's nothing and no one to fear.

Tonight, though ... tonight I think I'll see if Roger wants company.

Diary • 2006-08-26 • Private

v_vector — Sat, 26 Aug 2006 22:57:48 GMT

We find out if there's to be a child on Monday.

They are nearly 100 percent confident that there isn't. But with the inhuman magic involved and the species of the father in question, extra tests were necessary ... and I think I'm going to be sick again.

...

They say the nausea is just nerves. And if they whisper a word of this to anyone, if they break confidentiality, I'm burning St. Mungos to the ground.

Other than that trip to London, I've sticking to the castle, mainly my quarters, and Roger's, and my classroom — have to get ready for the students, you see. That's the reason. Not that I'm too cowardly to leave, heavens no.

Poor Roger. I don't think he sees his role in all this as my mental-health ensurer, but ... he's doing the job, and admirably. I feel a bit like a burden. Also a bit like a dishrag, and a bit like a fake. I'd like to be normal again.

There've been some small inquiries about whether I'd like to talk about it or anything, and I've consistently thanked Minerva and the rest for their concern and turned them down.

What is there to say, really?

I was a vain fool, to accept what they offered for my hands so quickly. I wanted to erase my mistakes, and blundered into an immensely bigger one. And also, I thought — when you're in love with someone rather on the "golden perfect sun-god" side of things, you have to do what you can to keep up. I haven't shared that particular crumb of idiocy with Roger, but let's be honest, it was there.

They had the perfect bait for idiot me: "learn something new and get pretty on the side." There aren't words for how gullible I was.

I hear a turn of phrase on the wireless or something crosses my eye and reminds me of them and I get so damned angry. The paperweight Professor Radix gave me when I accepted this job has been hurled at the wall often enough that I almost fear the next Reparo won't hold.

How dare they? How dare they do what they did to me, to the others, to Roger?

How could I do what I did? How could I —

I've never hated anything or anyone like this before. Not even Cass, not even ... Voldemort and his followers. With them, the best thing to do was obviously to keep a clear head and think and eventually we'd come out with a plan. I can't plan a thing against the fae. I know how powerful they are; it seems futile. I can't think. I just ... I'd be absolutely delighted if they all were dead. All of them. Winter, Summer, high fae and the low — even the sweet small pixies. Even the ones who used to be like us — even Aeval. That's lovely, isn't it? Given the opportunity, I wouldn't hesitate and if it were someone else who did it, I'd be the first to applaud.

That's hardly rational, and it scares me a bit that I feel that way — it must be how Death Eaters feel about mudbloods like me, I guess — but I do.

They're not human, and I was beginning not to be human, and I'm afraid some of that stuck with me.

The Lost, Strayed, Stolen

v_vector — Mon, 17 Oct 2005 02:46:24 GMT

Professor Vector spread the parchment on her desk. It was unblemished goatskin, large and finely made, well-suited to the task she would put to it.

She retrieved the Trismegistum Chrism from its shelf, broke the seal and began to anoint the parchment.

Ideally, of course, the chart would have been prepared since last week, but teaching had been taking an unusual amount of time lately. The instructors who had taken over the Arithmancy classes for the younger students while she had split her time between Hogwarts and the Ministry had done their best, and the present upperclassmen were well-versed in technique, but their background in theory was shockingly light.

That had had to be remedied.

Add to that some tutoring for a Hufflepuff second-year who had demonstrated quite an extraordinary grasp of numerology — but unfortunately had little confidence in his abilities — and, well, time for tracking down fugitive ex-lovers was hard to find.

Here at last though were uninterrupted hours to work with. Vera replaced the lid on the jar of chrism, took up her quill, and began to trace glyphs on the four corners of the parchment.

She worked slowly, taking care to keep the line of ink even, to keep the curves well-defined, to keep the straight edges sharp. The areas where the balm had been placed on the parchment were slippery underneath the quill's nib and required focused attention.

Some time later, the invocations on the corners completed, Vera began to trace out a large grid in the middle of the parchment. Long years of practice had made the drawing of the long, straight lines nearly automatic: wrist still, unhurriedly moving from shoulder; and so she allowed her mind to wander.

Over the years she'd weighed the various possibilities of what exactly had happened that August. The facts were few: She'd told him her theories; he'd turned up missing; the subsequent attack on Hogsmeade had involved use of said theories; he was never found.

The Ministry's official view was that he was most probably dead. Either he'd given the Death Eaters the knowledge willingly and then been killed out of disdain for its use of Muggle theories, or they'd simply taken what they had wanted and then killed him as a matter of course.

The uncertainty of it chipped at Vera's composure, though, and a litany of possible fates scrolled through her mind: dead in any number of ways, hidden and plotting, hidden and repentant, amnesiac, cursed, imprisoned, bitten by Greyback, turned into an Inferius ... each fate, no matter how unlikely, possible in the absence of any facts.

And so to the working of this chart. If the spell worked as planned, Vera would have at least a few answers to her questions. If he was dead, she'd have a grave at which to mourn. If he was alive ... well, then. There'd be several questions to follow.

Grid set, numbering finished, she put away the quill, the ink and the chrism, leaving her desk clear of everything save the chart, which remained to soak in the moonlight.