Maybe they'll leave you alone, but not me

Hadn't they just punched the shit out of each other last week?

Hasn't she just blown up on him for asking about her dye job?

Hadn't she been annoyed he'd interrupted her training?

Huh. He had sort of just... stuck around. The black eye hadn't even faded and still, he'd stuck around. And she hadn't exactly picked up and moved on. She could have run her laps around the lake, or found a spot on the pitch. He had laid in the grass and mused while she ran her laps and neither had gone their separate ways despite the fact that they were factually, indisputably, inarguably not friends.

But they'd still hung out.

And he was telling her things. She knew she didn't exactly have an ear to the ground on Hogwarts gossip but this felt like unexplored territory. There was something raw and fresh about the words, like his mouth had never fully formed them all in this order before. As her eyes wandered back to the lake, she was feeling the intersection of the smoking with the drinking, a levelling that made everything draw in and out of a sharp focus, circling on some sort of revelation.

At least my mum didn't put it in writing, was all she could think.

She tried to organize the information. Grandparents on his mother's side. The mother he didn't know. Which meant, either they didn't know, or she knew and didn't bother, or she was gone. And none of those were exactly nice options, now were they?

She heard a sniff but she didn't look away from the lake, from the shimmering reflection of the stars, from the slight ripples caused by fish, or the squid, or who knew what else. It was probably the cold.

She wanted to say sharing your experience was overrated, but caught herself in time. After all, that's exactly what he was doing now and, pushy as she might be, she didn't pride herself in being outright mean. Besides, how would she even know? It's not like she had done that recently. Ever.

"It's not a muggle wizard divide," she corrected, continuing to watch the ripples. "It's a soul thing. Mum isn't convinced I have one. But what it really is, even if I loved her, we don't share the right kind of soul. Whatever that means. Same blood, different soul stuff." Without looking at him, she reached out a hand for the joint. "Sounds like that is something you can imagine."

In the moment that mattered, she held out a hand for a smoke instead of smashing it into his face.

It was a nice change of pace.

And so he passed it to her. Pleased with the outcome of what had transpired, he smiled.

"Moms are overrated anyway." he said absentmindedly, continuing to smile. Something had shifted in the air between them, he could see this was new territory for Jack just as much as it was for him. "Besides, the soul thing isn't because you're magic it's because you're a ginger." he attempted to lighten things for her. He could tell that if this was going to continue it couldn't be as heavy as low as it was suddenly plummeting. Somehow, despite everything, it was easier being uncomfortable with her than it was attempting to meet new people.

"I'm actually glad I never knew my mom. If I had known her or if she had known about me I imagine the family would have killed her."

It was a thought he wrestled with a lot. He deeply, DEEPLY, wanted to know more about his mother. Any boy without a mother would. But the harsh reality is that not knowing was better, he wasn't sure how he'd react if he attempted to and discovered she had been killed my the family. But, speaking it out loud made it real and he felt a weight lift off of him. She had shared with him as well, however, he hoped it had the same effect for her. He didn't imagine he would get much more out of her this evening beyond that tantalizing bit of lore - but he was hopeful.

"Thanks, Jack, I know I'm oversharing but there isn't anyone here who really gets it other than you."

She felt the joint meet her fingers and she took a final, long drag from it, coughing just a bit as she handed it back to him to finish off. Usually she did this alone under the bleachers, or in the middle of the pitch. It was usually her private time where she could think, feel. She didn't realize she could do that with company.

"Amen," she said ironically to his comment. Somewhere her mother was cringing at her blasphemy. Good.

A laugh exploded from within her. She'd heard ginger jokes her whole life, none of them were all that funny, but what was a joke but an expression of understanding. She didn't want to be pitied for her situation, she really didn't even want the sympathy. She didn't know what to do with it, she didn't know where to put it. She'd long stopped craving the love from her mother, she'd stopped waiting for her dad to step up, stopped expecting her brother to surprise her. It was little Charlie that gave her all the family she needed and the love of that little girl was worth any family she'd ever been foolish enough to dream up.

As her laugh subsided, that comfortable silence returned. She took a deep breath, enjoying the outside air, the smell of their smoke, the tickle of the cold.

And then a shiver went down her spine.

Right, that whole they murder people thing again.

It was gross. You didn't get to do that and then bring a kid into that legacy. You didn't get to fall for someone, whether in love or lust, then punish them for their existence. It was the seed of evil, a cruelty even her crass mind would never understand and never forgive. She glanced sidelong at him, cautiously, watching him as he considered the thought. Her father's betrayal to her would never be that deep. Her family shadow was more absence than it was darkness. To be a Lestrange was to constantly have to skirt outside that edge.

Damn. She'd been too hard on him.

Gross. She hated admitting she was wrong.

So she wouldn't. Not in words at least. She wasn't a words person. She'd find a way to show him.

A sudden thank you startled her from her thoughts and she turned to him in confusion before he explained. She blinked, considering that. How was it she, Queen of Action and the Anti-Feelings Squad, was best equipped to be listened to the Lestrange heir? How could she, a muggleborn with parents who believed to be a witch meant to be one with the devil, could understand how it was to be told you were meant to be superior, above the rest?

Because lonely recognized lonely.

And because Matthew Lestrange was kind of her friend.

A beat passed before she smiled. "You keep the weed coming and you can overshare anytime." Then she finally relented. "Anytime, buddy."

After a pause, she followed that up with a firm punch to his arm.

You know, friend stuff.