Just what friends do

Jack walked right through security. And security let her walk right on through. Of course, Jack had counted on that. She had always been pretty self-assured that she was allowed to do as she pleased in the Ministry because A) Because they had all worked for her when she and Nemo had been punished by switching jobs; B) Because they knew Jack was not afraid of hexing anyone who dared defy her; C) Because she was Jack Dyllan and she typically did as she pleased; and D) they had all heard the commotion when the intern down the hall had attempted to stop her.

She made her way down the corridors of the Ministry holding cells, most of which were vacant, but a few held petty criminals here or there. They did not dare catcall or call her out. Many of them had met her before, either while drinking in shady areas of town, or when she had dragged them in on their sorry asses for whatever charges had to do with her department. She glanced into the cells, looking for the face of the man she was looking for.

She found him.

He wasn't looking at her. He wasn't facing out. In fact, he was napping. Jack paused and snapped her fingers down the hall. A security officer approached.

"Let me in."

"Look, Ms. D-"

"Let me in, Bernard. I know your uncle Randolph, and I know exactly what he is doing with all of those kneazles of his, and it's only been out of the kindness of my heart that I haven't reported him. Let me in. If the Potter kid kills me, it'll only be me to blame."

Bernard the guard looked flustered, but he nevertheless withdrew his keys and quickly unlocked the cell. She slipped inside and he locked the door behind her. "I'm not coming for you if I hear screaming."

"Good to know," Jack responded. She withdrew the small plastic bag that she had stowed away in her rucksack and approached Albus, dropping it next to him. The books on politics made a heavy thud as they collided with the salad she had put in tupperware - she had always noted that Albus typically chose the healthy option, and she knew he must be miserable with the greasy food they gave prisoners.

She glanced around and went over to the opposite side of the cell, leaning against the wall, before sliding down. She watched her friend patiently, certain all the commotion she had made was enough to make him wake.

Sleep was a curious entity when you were locked in a room with nothing else to do. It winked at the corner of your vision, trailed out cruel hands for you to seize when you started seeing spots, but refused to truly, actually come in all its blissful entirety. Maybe because you had no idea of day or night and your internal clock was all cross-wired and entangled. For a normally organized person like Albus, that in itself was torture. Additionally, he had been going through bouts of insomnia for the past four weeks.

So when sleep did catch at him, sliding a silken blindfold over his eyes and coaxing him to the land of nothingness, Albus acquiesced without protest. Sure, it was only fifteen minutes. Sure, it left him with a dry throat and a rapidly thudding heart and a stretched feeling in his limbs like he had been running across leagues and leagues of land; when he awoke. It was tainted, disturbed....but still sleep.

When he tried to straighten up, pushing up against the concrete wall, something small and bundled and replete with hard edges, dug into the back of his thigh. He looked down, feeling a curious strain right in the joint between his two eyes and a heaviness of the head, and saw artificial light reflect off a plastic surface. Something green, and looking bizarrely like a lettuce leaf, peeked from beneath.

Wonderful. Now, he was hallucinating.

Something shifted out of his vision, a slight rustle of movement, right opposite to him. He looked up.

"You, are a disgrace to the name of a hallucination. Absolutely inaccurate." He raised an eyebrow. "Jack would never wear such a preposterously feminine watch." More importantly, she would never come to visit him. Had better things to do, surely.

He looked down again, at the plastic bag. Even hallucinated-Jack irritated his eyes. Sent prickles under his skin. There was the hard edge, just under the lettuce leaves. Through the transparent sheen of the polythene, he could just make out the title, in short, brisk script. The Republic, by Plato. Machiavelli's The Prince lay just underneath, by the looks of it. Only two people in this world knew he had an interest in the subject. This hallucination was increasingly starting to not make any sense.

Which of course, like life, meant this wasn't one.

So he did what any sane, sensible young man shut in a 6x8 room for a number of days would do. He withdrew The Republic from the plastic bag, slowly, lifted it into the air and chucked it at the head of the only other current occupant of the cell.

Quidditch reflexes set aside, maybe the shock would lead her to stay still, and the book would actually make contact with that thick skull. And she'd get knocked out for a decent two hours. Hope made the world revolve.

But he was also rational, and a cynic at heart. So he spoke to the ceiling, just in case. "Get on with it. I know you won't get out since you're obviously intent on not leaving me in peace. I'm clearly not going anywhere. So get on and out with it, and lets have this done with. Then you can be on your noble way."

He was beginning to stir, and Jack just watched. She curled her knees up to her body and encircled them with her arms. There was only a small patrol of dementors that strolled up and down the aisleways, but it was enough to make the underground cells even colder than they already were. She had thought through that and brought a coat for herself and a thick, thermal blanket for Albus. She tossed the blanket towards him, and it landed heavily next to his feet, before she donned her own jacket, still watching him, waiting for him to address her.

She couldn’t help the small smirk the made the quickest of impressions onto her lips. “I stole it from a coworker.” It was true – she had realized a watch may come into handy if it had proved difficult breaking in, so she had quickly pocketed Kirsty’s watch, leaving an I. O. U. note in its place. Still, leave it to Albus to be that observant. The clever man.

One of the books she had hunted down was suddenly spiraling towards her head. She ducked and scooted forward and it landed behind her back with a heavy thud. The smirk was gone and a grim look of solidarity had replaced it. She would not say she had not expected something of the sort – not because she deserved it, but because it was exactly the sort of stunt she would have pulled had the tables been turned. Did it make her any more inclined to think pleasantly of the turn of events? Of course not. It made her just as cranky as the next person – if not more so.

She could have handled nearly anything he said to her. Nearly anything. But he kept using that word. That stupid, f*cking word. Noble. It sounded like ‘mudblood’ when it came from his lips. What was he trying to say? That she judged him for Dark Magic, or for being a Slytherin? The idiot did not realize that any judgment in their relationship came solely from him. She had never held anything he was or anything he did against him, not the way he continually criticized every flaw and action that had wronged him in the slightest.

The Reupublic was flung right back, aimed for his stomach. It was building. She could feel it.

“F*ck you, Albus Potter!” Jack bellowed, rising to her feet. “Stop calling me noble as though I’m this pretentious douche on a white steed trying to save your sorry ass. You don’t need saving, you f*cking moron, and I’m the last person capable of doing it, don’t you get that? You think I’m doing this to be noble? I’m doing this because we were friends, Albus. And friends do stupid shit for each other. You keep throwing this n-word in my face like I think I’m so much better than you. F*ck you, Albus Potter, I’ve never thought I was better than you. You killed one person, yeah? – I’ve lost count. I created a spectral killing machine that slaughtered dozens. I started a war that tore families to shreds. You might be shy about your inner conflict, but you also wear it as a beacon of hope, that you’re different from ‘people like me’, that you’re special. I’d trade everything to bring back everyone I’ve hurt. I’m not noble, Albus, I’m f*cking ashamed. I don't want you to like me, or, or whatever, because if I can't even f*cking do it, how the hell will you? If I can barely stand living with myself, how long do you think you'll last? And, I swear, if you call me noble one more f*cking time, I’m going to lose my mind.”

He chucked a book at her head, and she threw him a blanket. Something to keep him warm in the cold.

How on earth was he not supposed to hate her?

(And the book missed too. Damn it. )

It grew better though. Something square, and extremely heavy, The Republic he would hazard at a guess, came flying right back at him. He got only a split-second to react. The heavy thunk that the book made, impacting hard with the palms of his hands, poised an inch away from his gut, made something ripple over his bare arms. Goosebumps, probably. From the cold, and now, pumping faintly through his tired veins, from a light trickle of adrenaline. Things were coming to a head. Finally.

Jack's face had contorted into a mixture of fury, and extreme frustration. Not a sign of the sadness that had been attached like a blood-curdling leech to her face, her eyes for so long; draining out all signs of life. Not a whit of apology, not a pinch of regret. Burning, white-hot rage, tempered with nothing but the truth. Not sugar-coated, just slapped on his face like the invectives flying out of her raw voice. She didn't look like she gave a damn for what he thought, or felt in these moments. She looked like she didn't give a damn for anything.

Albus leaned back his head against the unfeeling, stone wall- letting the cold seep in, hearing her words. It felt like a breath of the freshest, purest air. And he was still stuck in a dunghole.

There were several seconds that lingered on after she finished her tirade, seconds laden with the sounds of her heavy exhales, a result of lack of breath after the impassioned words. Impassioned. What a word. Just the word to describe Jaquellene Dyllan, the word which suited her best, in fact. Not unfeeling, not broken, not injured and wounded- the way she had most always been during the length of their friendship: ranging from the Diagon Alley talk to the night at Layabout Lane with du Hunt. And strange that she should be impassioned after their acquaintance had fractured. It almost suggested that she would do better without him.

"Now that's more like it." He said, hearing the words echo round the walls long after they'd been spoken. "Was wondering when you'd get rid of the apologies and come down to the real talking."

He looked up at her, straight. She was standing over him, taller, at a considerable height advantage. He sat, back straight against the wall, gaze raised and probing- feeling in control. After so long. The realisation sunk down his shoulders, sending down pulses, fritters of relief; making the lassitude leak out of the muscles and contract tight, on alert. He felt awake. Strange, what knowing your mind and not having an internal fight with yourself, could do to you. He felt sure, surer than he had in a long time, sitting in a jail cell, looking up at Jack Dyllan. Sure that it could be no other way, and it was a futility wishing for it.

"Tell me Jack......when was the last time you did something due to ill-intentions?" So reasonable. So logical. This was how his voice should sound like. Should have always sounded like. Not frayed at the edges, breaking at the corners. Not subtly pleading, the way it had been that night at Layabout. "Your actions have had bad consequences, I acquiesce that. You've lost count of the people you've killed, I admit that too. But..." And his eyes sought out hers, uncaringly. "How many times have you killed a person- not because of righteous anger, or the Order of the Phoenix, or even an accident- but......" His lips quirked up in a sardonic mockery of amusement. "Just for the bloody heck of it? How many times have you truly enjoyed casting Dark magic, " The way his voice lingered over the word, so delicately bitter. " enjoyed actively hurting other people, did something horrible not because of good intentions gone awry, but simply because you wanted to?" The smile stayed constant. "Hopefully not too many a time."

Then the smile wavered, flickered a bit, and died. There was no further need for it. "And that's the most ridiculous part .I never accused you of feeling superior to me, Jack. You're so righteously determined to believe that there's nothing good about you. Nothing to like. Its f*cking annoying, really. And here you are, with a blanket and salad and Plato and..." He had to break off here. Take a breath. He was in control. Control. He couldn't afford to lose it, no matter at what desperate price it was bought. His eyes looked away, looking at the bright spot beside the ceiling, fixated. "I tri-....I walked out of that place, that night, with dignity, Jack. I tried. I didn't break off our friendship, I didn't say I would never see your face again...." I didn't break down. "I tried to leave in peace. And all...I wanted.....was for you to.....to stay away and respect that, for some time." To let him live, with himself, for a time. "And here you are, in spite of everything and....." Another hard-fought attempt at reviving the smile. "And you expect me not to use everything in my arsenal to drive you away? Even if it is calling you noble?"

"You forget that I'm a Slytherin, sometimes." Even though I'm not lying. Even though I do think you're noble. Even if it's the thing about you I hate with all my heart.

The air was heavy with life. Jack had never realized that life could manifest itself in such an unavoidable way. It was easy to get accustomed to existence, but when friends fought, and truth surged, and realization became public… that was when life emerged, bright and gleaming. It was not good, it was not bad, but it was open in all it was. It was open in all the happiness and comfort it provided, open in the pain and destruction it allowed, and open to everything else in between. Open to regret, loss, love, lust, memory, fear, compassion, pity. And as Jack breathed out the last of her words, though she could not say whether or not she was happy or sad, she knew, in that moment of all moments, that she was surely alive.

She hadn’t been angry, really angry, since Vito. She had been mad at Nemo, but because of the nature of his conditions. She had been mad at Max, but because he had seen her weak. When was the last time she was angry because she felt downright wronged? When was the last time she hadn’t made herself into the unforgivable bad guy? When was the last time she had sided with herself – or hell, even admitted that she had a side? During Hogwarts, she had been a lone wolf, fending for herself. And then, she had made mistakes, and it took blowing up at Albus Potter to make her realize that she hadn’t given herself the very thing she had always tried to give the people she had loved.

A second chance.

The anger was still there, but it waited. Because Albus Potter was finally looking at her, really looking at her. And she didn’t see a mask – good. If she saw him become fake Albus one more time, she was going to blow a gasket. She had come to terms with the fact that no one was really who they pretended to be, but having to face Max for who he truly was, and having to reveal herself had made her realize how exhausting and stupid these disguises were. She was not going to disguise herself anymore. She was not going to shroud herself in sadness and exhaustion. She was going to throw down the cloak of the martyr and become the woman who got what she wanted, did as she pleased, and made the world into the good she saw for it. And she would no longer let her friends hide from her.

’Now that's more like it. Was wondering when you'd get rid of the apologies and come down to the real talking.’ She wet her lips and responded, her chin lifting ever so slightly, “I lost my tongue, it seems.”

And then more silence. More heaviness. More truth. More life.

He turned questions onto her, and she stared back at him, doing her best to remain calm as she turned the questions internally. Searching herself. She knew she had possessed ill-intentions before. But there had always been something stopping her. Responsibility, usually. Whether it had been to Vito, or her friends, or Nemo, or her family, Jack had always been too responsible for the safety of others to ever do anything that would do bad to the world. She had set out to do wrong, but had always been stopped – if not by herself, then by those whom she loved so dearly.

She was growing frustrated. So she had never done anything wrong on purpose. That didn’t make her noble, it made her not an idiot. For what good came of going against the powers of love and compassion? They always won, even if they were ground to the bone and exhausted, love always beat hate. Even Jack, the woman who had only recently discovered her own heart, knew that love always beat darkness. She didn’t choose light because of some higher sense of morality, but because it was simply the only choice that made any sense to her.

He attempted an answer for her and she scowled. “Do you actually want me to answer, or do you just want to go on and make yourself feel clever?”

His smile left and the air seemed frostier. Everything was crisper, more real. This conversation… it was actually happening. She didn’t break from him, but she took in a longer breath, trying to steady herself because he was throwing bullets at her. He looked away and nothing hurt so much as that. That her friend could not even look at her. The apologies bubbled inside her but she forced them down, waiting, waiting…

And of course. This was all because he was a Slytherin, right? She looked up at him, feeling as though time was waiting for her to respond. She couldn’t help it. She chuckled.

“Albus Potter, for someone who really hates to be judged, you love your labels. I think you care more than anyone that you’re a Slytherin, or that you’re a Potter, or that you stray towards the Dark. It all comes from you, Albus. You’re damning yourself.” She stared at him, and then slowly crossed her arms. “I think you like it. You’re just as bad as me. You say I can’t stand to think I’m good. You can’t stand to think you’re anything but… but this star-crossed villain. Life is choice. Just because one choice is harder than other doesn’t mean it isn’t a choice. It’s not any easier for me, or for anyone. It’s just as hard for everybody. Being a Potter or a Slytherin doesn’t make it harder.”

And there it was, that stupid flash of irritation that refused to be damped down. Albus resisted it, but his jaw tightened all the same, coloured, iridescent spots flashing intermittently in his vision due to staring at the Muggle tubelight too long. He didn't relent, light glancing across his retina, searing his eyelids, prickles of discomfort gathering as liquid clinging to the lashes. It was better than meeting another pair of green orbs, speaking words and emotions that left him blindsided more than anything.

"This isn't about me, you don't...." The words flung out rapidly, in a blur; were not half as measured as he would like. But that had been a throwaway comment, just a lark, a way to delude her into thinking that her self-righteousness didn't make a whit of a difference to him, he was just using it as an excuse to drive her away, after all he was a Sly-

His thoughts broke off, crashing to a speeding halt like a train brought to a screeching stand by someone tugging on the chain. Something, had just sunk in. Something of what she said, something of what he had been thinking- just linked together inexplicably, almost as if she'd been......

Right.

His heart was pumping a hundred beats a second under his skin, even as he remained absolutely still outwards. Not a twitch, not a single sound, not even a deviation of gaze. Nothing to indicate that somewhere inside his head, the masochistic voice that loved conflict and left destruction in its wake, was now quiet. Thinking. Pondering, almost. Reeling for control.

Fine. Alright. He had flung a few questions at her, she threw a few statements right back. Only one way to respond, to regain balance. The truth. Nothing but, what his mind believed to be, the truth.

No more cowardly behaviour. Remember your promise? Something whispered even as he forced his eyes away from the light, and back to the black hole. Her own. "I didn't choose those labels. They chose me."

A good beginning. Speak the truth and it shall set you free.

"The Potter surname chose me. So did Slytherin." A break. The truth, and only the truth. "Of course I care that I'm a Potter. Of course I care that I'm a Slytherin. These things are part of who I am. And I can't deny that. I can try to reject these labels half of my life." Something caught in his throat, hard. Tightened reflexively. Truth. "But I can't deny that I am the son of Harry Potter. I have belonged to Slytherin, and nowhere else. There's nothing I can do to change it. Nothing."

It was one of those moments, when you couldn't decide if you were rejoicing or lamenting. Maybe both.

The truth. All of it. Even the restricted parts. "Of course I care more than anyone that I stray towards the Dark." Unafraid. Brazen. Cold. His fingers, rough and cold-numbed, sought out the cuff of the left sleeve of his shirt. Hitched around the smooth cotton and pulled it up, almost ripping up the seams. Pulled it up to reveal the bare, unmarred skin of his left forearm. The truth. His eyes glowed with it. "If I didn't care, then this arm wouldn't be bare."

Something cold touched his lips the moment he spoke the words. The roof leak, of course. He had forgotten. The chapped pink skin parted, and the drop flowed, clinging; then falling with a dull, soundless sound, flattened to the ground. For some reason, it reminded him of his mother's tears.

Star-crossed villain? He wished. Villains were sure. They knew what they wanted, what they had, what they were to do.

But he had been sure, hadn't he? Just two minutes prior.

He stood, slowly; propping his palms against the filthy stone floor, rising as soon as his protesting limbs allowed him. His tail-bone came to rest against the stone wall momentarily, for balance, his hands held on his knees. Like an athlete after a long run. Or bracing himself for another one. The biggest of his life.

He straightened, feeling the pelvic bones creak slightly, straightened up till he was at his true height, a couple of inches over her. It made him feel levelled. He exhaled.

"You're right Jack. Absolutely right." He had his bearings now, atleast some of them. He was in a Ministry cell. He was talking to Jack Dyllan. He was sure. Or as sure as he could be. "Choices are hard for everyone. I had been dithering for a bloody long time over this one. Because I was a Potter. Because I was a Slytherin, the next-generation beacon that was supposed to prove how someone from that House could actually turn out alright." His fingers were back, flicking once, unconsciously over the bare arm. He pulled down the sleeve.

It was going to remain down, from now on forth. Had to get used to it. For the future.

"Thank you, Jack."

Damning himself. Was this what it felt like? The road to hell had always been paved with good intentions. He didn't know. But he would damn himself if he stayed like this any longer. Just, somehow, balanced on the line, balanced on the fence. Sometime, the weight had to shift. Sometime, he had to fall. One side, or another.

He had chosen his.

She could feel her heart like she had not felt it in a long time. Pounding everywhere – in her throat, her stomach, her feet. This was not an argument with Albus Potter over whether or not they were friends. This ran much deeper. This was the battle between good and evil, right here. This is what wars had been fought over, what people had died for. This, here, was war. It was confused, and terrifying, and neither side knew if the shots fired made any difference or did any good. This was war, and terror, and sadness. And Jack felt alive in it because life was fighting battles worth fighting. It was not growing old too quickly and it was not resignation to an unsatisfactory life. It was fighting for what made sense and what brought peace.

Never before had she seen Albus so… reactionary. He was responding to nearly everything she threw at him, rather than digesting it for several long minutes and then spitting out some well-crafted rhetoric. As scary as this was, she knew she was really seeing Albus. (A juvenile part of herself hoped it was more true than any version that du Hunt woman had seen.) Really, Jack was just glad to see what had been bubbling underneath his surface for so long. It had taken courage for him to show up and say what he had said that night, but this was a different sort of courage. This was everything Albus found uncomfortable – highly emotional and unplanned. But this was how Jack used to live her life. Based in her gut and in her whims. She was finding her way back home.

Ah, the labels had chosen him. She sighed. “Didn’t stop you from adopting them as an excuse all,” she said, quiet and steady. She was teaming with emotion, yes, her hands were shaking with it. But she knew she was crossing into dangerous waters. No matter how this ended, she had never intended to come in on the offense. It had strayed there, but only in defense of herself, and she did not want to get carried away. But she simply could not stay silent, either, on matters that had long weighed upon her already-frazzled mind. Some things had to be voiced.

He began pulling at his sleeve, and Jack’s eyes fell to his arm, prepared to see the Mark there, in all of its permanent glory. She was not afraid to see it, she saw it often after all, but simply prepared. Prepared to face the finality of it. But it wasn’t there. There was arm. Only arm. And Jack felt her own arm throb tauntingly, mockingly. The girl who had been on the side of the angels since before she was even legally allowed to had sided with the others, for her own needs, her own glory. Her intentions had not been ill to herself, but to that of a war – yes, Jack Dyllan had acted selfishly before. Many times. And the evidence of the most selfish would never leave, would never stop reminding her.

Her gaze had dropped, leaving her face open to these thoughts, as they openly danced across her face. She looked up, aware that she was now clutching her own arm. She forced her mind back onto the matters at hand, trying to ignore the fact that this was the matter at hand. Albus was standing, and they were looking right at each other. As equals. Equals who occasionally came into opposition of each, yes, but here they were, both as confused and frustrated as the other. Perhaps that’s what had made them both such wonderful companions for the brief time they had been so. They were mad and sad and neither had any idea how that was supposed to be amended.

She wasn’t sure why he was thanking her. In all honesty, Jack had always been a simple communicator. She spoke to the point, she spoke as truthfully as she could. Jack stared at Albus, because even though he was speaking as though it was all finalized, she knew that these things never reached a conclusion. “There is no big choice,” Jack said, her voice nearing a whisper now. It sounded so soft in the cell, and yet seemed to fill every empty space. “There is no fork in the road that leaves every other path. It’s everyday. It’s every moment. And it’s not easy. We fail. We make mistakes. We regret.”

She clutched her arm for a long moment. He would never believe her, truly. He thought it was easy for her. That it was simple. She had never been a real Death Eater. But what was a Death Eater but another choice, another brand. She might not have jumped on the Blood Purity bandwagon, but she had used dark force to save the people she loved, despite the damage it could have caused the campaign of the Light. She had gone against the wishes of her friends and colleagues. She had sat next to the Dark Lord. She had let them make a permanent mark, signifying her obedience.

But that was the thing. What was it that defined her?

She lifted the sleeve of her jacket and held out her arm for Albus to look at. “Ever seen one this close?” It had not faded, nor would it ever. When it was present, it would be shining, black, and unmistakable. She stared at Albus. “We make choices every day. There are good days, and there are bad days. But there are people we care about who make those choices mean something, be it good or bad. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. That’s what they told me. But I am only what I let myself become. I have the choice, every day, to let this not define me. Most of the time, I choose well. I don’t know much about right or wrong - I’m not going to lie, my moral code is pretty f*cked by most standards, I know. But I do know that you gather up the few people who care, and you keep giving them reasons to care.”

She did not cover up her arm. She was choosing, right now, to forbid herself from being ashamed of it. All it did was give her more motivation, every day, to be better than she had been before. She would try to never be ashamed of it again. She let out a shaky breath and a small laugh, pushing her hair back out of her face. “It’s not being noble. It’s wanting to not be alone.”

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Albus Potter had first happened upon Muggle poetry at a very young age, courtesy of Aunt Hermione. Unlike most of the things she forced down the Potter-Weasley children's throats, this was something that he swallowed down, to no one's surprise, most willingly. Soon, Wordsworth and Dante and Dickinson and yes, Robert Frost, became a part of his daily intake. Rhyme, word and philosophy- what better food for the mind of a man?

So it was no surprise really, when the olden words inked by Frost on a morning walk one autumn morning, rose to mind like an empty bottle rising up from the depths to the sea level, floating on the waves, tossing back and forth. Flittered across his mind as he stared at Jack Dyllan's face, half thrown into sharp relief by the bleaching light of a Muggle tube, half ranged by shadows. It was an irony, one among the those that life loved throwing at you unawares. That her face should now be so eerily similar to a portrait of yin and yang; while she talked to you of choices.

"Isn't there?" He didn't keep his voice to mere breath and whisper, like hers. Just unerringly quiet. "I must have been lied to all my life then. Deluded. Because I was taught to think that there is a big choice, and if you didn't make it in time, then- you would end up like me. Confused. Uncommitted. Choosing differently in 'everyday', 'every moment', makes your life a big, conflicting mess of decisions. There is at least one big choice, that dictates where your little ones go. There is a fork in the road. And once you've chosen one, turning back to choose again makes no difference. Because a rolling stone can never gather any moss."

"And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

It was difficult to understand, what to think or say or do, when she revealed the Mark. The Dark Mark. Her Dark Mark. It twisted and curled upon itself, snake upon skull, black upon skin, and Albus was reminded. Reminded of all the times he had seen it in all its forms- a Pensieve memory of the flash of green and smoke in the sky as the Dark Mark broke out in the sky for the first time after the Quidditch World Cup, the small drawing in black ink on the worn out parchment of the book in the library, the faded grey scar tissue on the arm of Scorp's father. Just a small tattoo for the eyes of a Muggle. A lifetime brand for the arm of a wizard. His eyes were drawn to the long-deactivated Mark, yet still potent, still malevolent. The snake curling out of the mouth of the skull looked unsettlingly real, its eyes two beady shards of obsidian. Then of a sudden, its tongue seemed to flicker out, tasting the air, and the echoes of a long, sibilant hiss resounded through Albus's head.

He closed his eyes.

"Why?" The world seemed narrowed down to the two of them. Seemed to hang in the balance of the words that entered the polluted, stagnant air of this prison cell. "Why are choices so? Good, or bad? Doesn't everyone choose well, in their own perspective? In their view, what they did was absolutely right- even if it was a travesty in the eyes of others." That was the topic they had begun with. Judgement. "The 'Light' ones chose to fight, and win, and throw those who chose different into Azkaban, families and children and all. Stamp them out. Remind them that they were wrong, and remind them by a number scorched into their collarbone that they always will be." A sudden flurry of images. The runes etched on Athena's neck. He still remembered them. Algiz. Eihwaz. Hagalaz. The long, boring scratches down her hand- the scars that her children would probably often question her about. "You say you chose not to let the Mark define you. There are some....who did not torture or deliberately inflict pain without reason....who chose the opposite. In their eyes, they were right."

His gaze wasn't accusing. Wasn't even condemning. Simply the eyes of a man who was demanding answers to questions that had gone unanswered, for too long. Long enough. "What gives us the right to decide whether their choices were good- or not? What do we know of their lives....their minds....their motives?" His knuckles had grown white, by now, fingers curled so hard in that the pain nails inflicted upon the palm seemed to be a forever constant, dulled in the sensation of speaking radical words that regret would try to dampen, but never succeed in. "What makes us judge their choices by our personal set of morals? You may seem like a saint to some, Dyllan." A faint sound of amusement, more bitter breath than words. "And 'f*cked-up' to others. Can I choose to judge you under the pretence of caring?"

"We live our own lives, Jack. We walk in our own boots- tattered, frayed and all. Anyone who 'cares'," A hint of breath, hissing out between closed teeth. "Should care enough to understand that. Understand our choices. Because, no one apart from us really can."

"So if solitude is the price of choosing.......I'll take it. Cared for everyone and everything, no matter how pathetic, long enough." A slight twist of the lips. "You know that better than anyone else."

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Albus wanted to split life down the middle by black and white, and both Jack and him both knew that it simply was not so. He acted as though finding a definite line would help, when the very lack of it should have been his redemption. When Jack had realized that there were no clear bounds of right or wrong, she had found some level of relief. Because even though a world of grey was so much scarier and so uncertain, it provided a certain degree of grace, it was more forgiving. But she couldn’t blame him. So much of life was just trying to understand why people had to suffer through what they went through. It made sense that he just wanted to know whether he should be worried for his soul.

Jack reached up and rubbed her eyes. “No, there’s no big choice. If there was, then it’d be final. You could never go back, you could never change your mind. Of course, the consequences never leave, but you can always choose differently for yourself, at any time. I’ve seen it.” She paused. “But there is… that one big realization. Where you look inside and you realize your own perspective, one final… hint. One hint, one clue that makes every decision after that seem less like a decision and more like instinct. But it doesn’t mean you can’t choose differently. It’s not like… when you choose, you simply can’t change. It’d be easier if it were so. We’d all be able to excuse any f*ck ups from then on.”

Albus stared at her Dark Mark and she felt like she had never been looked at before. That was the nature of the mark. It did not tattoo itself to the skin on one person. It tattooed itself to eyes, minds, memories of everyone who saw it. Despite whatever Albus would think of her, he would forevermore see the Mark on her arm, whether or not she had it covered, whether or not she was reading to blind orphans. It would always be there.

And good thing too. She never wanted to forget that life was more complicated than one side or the other. There was hope on either side, and there was no label that defined anyone – even if you could not wipe away the label.

“This is the way I figured it. We look out and we can’t read people’s thoughts, or feelings, or minds. We can’t judge whether or not they’ve done good or bad, so we have to assume that we must be kind to them, at least. Help each other survive. Help each other not… hurt. Help our lives suck less. We can never be sure, can we, so why assume that we have any right to deny anyone the chance to live, or to be free, or to be happy.”

She opened her mouth and then promptly shut it. No, perhaps not… No. She had said she would be honest. She dropped her arm but did not cover her Mark. She dropped her gaze. “I led Potter’s Army in school, don’t know if you know. You know, the little group named after… after your dad. I wasn’t sure what I believed, even back then, but I knew we all had the right to defend ourselves. I adopted a philosophy, one based on what I read of your dad. I didn’t know much about him until then, raised muggleborn and all. But your father… I don’t want to upset you with this, you see,” she looked up at him. “But the only real thing I learned about how to use magic was from your father. Every time he faced Voldemort, he never used the killing curse. Ever. People link Expelliarmus to your dad, because he always went to stun. And despite everything, who could deny that Harry Potter didn’t always try to do what was good for everyone. Your father taught me, and then I had to teach others.” She stared long and hard at Albus. “Never aim to kill.”

She dropped her gaze and strolled towards the entrance of the cell and wrapped her hands around the bars, letting her head rest against the crossbar. She took a deep breath in and shook her head. He was so willing to condemn herself. So ready. She smiled grimly. “Look, if I’ve proved anything, it’s how little I really know, but please, if you will believe anything I say, believe this. It’s the one thing I know.” She straightened up and turned around, still gripping the bar. “It’s caring that made any of this worth it, Al.”

Understanding. Such an important, focal word. The key to living, one might say. Understanding life, understanding other people, understanding minds, means and purposes. No one was granted the same mindset, the same way of looking at the world. They were given individuality; and thus the inability to truly understand. So we stumble through life, watching tragedies play out between minds and people without impediment, instigated by fear and hope and anger and hurt sentiments- and the greatest of all those evils: misunderstanding.

Perhaps in the end, Albus Potter and Jack Dyllan were arguing for the same thing. For the right of people to choose, for no right and wrong, no black and white, no verdicts slammed on any man or ideology. But they were driving at it from different directions, taking different paths- and they were as far from understanding that fact as they were anything else. You and I- mere spectators to the drama, could only watch as spectators do, watch two friends steepled on opposite sides of a self-drawn line, unable to make a whit of a difference, a solution to something that must seem so simple but was elusive, for all of it.

Albus searched her eyes, frustration leaping and licking at the insides of his head, searching for a way to make her understand. Maybe it was futile. They spoke, again and again, and yet came- spinning and tumbling and whirling back to square one, from whence they had started. At a loss for one point, just one point where they could meet and agree and find a light, a way from there forth. That night, he had been searching for one fleck, one single drop of acquiescence, one sign of a yes. He hadn’t found it. And now, this.

Maybe he was meant to keep searching his entire life.

Realisation was starting to dawn, slow, blurry.......inescapable, at the depths of his mind. Doors were trying to shut it out; doors of denial, of stubbornness, of pride- that absolutely refused to believe what was drawing forwards, as inevitable as the ebb of the evening tide. What began as a single no......spanned out to pleads, then anger, then tears and inexorable weariness. What the word ‘friend’ tried to tell him, thrown as it was at him, so frequently, wrapped in her voice. What those disagreements, the frustration, the complete lack of understanding tried to show him. What the Dark Mark on her forearm....she had it, she did, it still hadn’t sunk in.......was screaming at him. What the words she spoke now...Potter’s Army....Potter’s.....the only real thing I learned about how to use magic was from your father...who could deny that Harry Potter didn’t always try to do what was good.....never aim to kill....Potter’s Army.........was shoving in his face, yet again. Realisation was starting to dawn, slow, blurry.......inescapable. And the light of it was starting to illuminate, to an uncomfortable degree- his delusions. Idealisations, more like. Of the woman standing opposite him. Of how in his mind, he had given her......no, not her, it......it, the idealisation of her.....every quality, every virtue under the sky. All her flaws- reasonable, justified. Her anger- righteous, her words- life changing.

But she had made mistakes. That was what she’d been trying to explain to him, all along, hadn’t she? Made selfish decisions, regretted choices. And he wasn’t condemning her for it, now. Just realising, unwillingly, reluctant....that maybe he’d been mistaken. Maybe her nobility wasn’t something he hated, or even what she possessed. Maybe it was a quality he liked stropping on her, to make her higher than what she was, for the sake of his own misbeliefs. Maybe he was starting to see her for what she actually was- more human; and not the personification of an idea, his idea, of change. The idealisation of someone who would simply sweep in, untouched and invincible to the flaws that he hated, flaws that so contaminated himself, sweep in and wave a hand and change everything, including himself, for the better.

Maybe he was meant to keep searching, and never find it. Because it didn’t exist.

He breathed.

“Yes. But..........caring for what?”

Things were starting to seem a bit clearer now. Focused, more defined. Even now, he couldn’t have pinpointed the exact moment when his resentment.....no, hatred; for his father had begun. The man had been something to aspire to, an apparent embodiment of ‘right’....possessing the strength to so easily overcome weaknesses that Albus struggled with on a daily basis. The struggle continued, and with years memories of the man started fading, and resentment began setting in- till a teenage Albus convinced himself that no one could be so bitterly perfect and untouched by faults. And this was the standard he was supposed to be setting himself up against. Stupid.

But how ironical; that he had actually been searching for one person that even moderately satisfied that standard. And when he did find it.....he manufactured virtues and faults alike to suit his wishes, warped the qualities Jack Dyllan did possess in his own perception...till he convinced himself, one more time, that her one ‘yes’ would make everything better....till he convinced himself that he lo-....

Something cracked, far off to his left. The dish probably, that had contained the peeking lettuce leaf. Uncontrolled magic.

Caring for what.....that indeed was the question. His father had cared to make the world a happier place. His friends had cared to help him. The Dark Lord had cared for himself. His followers had cared alternatively: whether for pureblood supremacy, or power, or money, or revenge, or even protecting their families. All had cared, in their own-own ways.....to make a Second Wizarding War that wiped out thousands of lives, handicapped hundreds more and condemned an entire generation to live under its shadow.

She was standing by the bars, now. He was standing back, flattened against the damp cell wall. Distance separated them; but he looked at her, not with a smile because his masks had tainted them too much, but after a long time, without accusations and grudging regrets. It seemed right.

“I’ve made a choice now, Jack. It was high time for it. And I don’t think I’m going to turn back, now.” His very exhales seemed lighter now. He hadn’t realised how heavy grudges could be. “I hope you’re right. Maybe choices can be unmade, then taken again. I’m walking on this one, for awhile. Maybe it’s right, maybe it isn’t. I’ll take the risk. And if it isn’t, I’ll have only myself to blame, no one else.” That, was an almost happy thought, he didn’t know why. “Maybe at that point, I will turn around and walk back. And we’ll meet.” His lips turned up, just by an inch. “But until then, let sleeping bones lie.”