Dorian Montoir
October 01, 2020 3:33 AM
I grew up (tag Professor Brooding-Hawthorne) by Dorian Montoir
And just like that, it was over. For something that had loomed as a threat for so long, it was amazing how much it felt like a normal morning, waking up to yellow-soaked walls. Maybe he just didn't believe that would never happen again, because it was far too strange and too much to think that it might not.It all had an air of eery normality, even as he made his way to Professor Brooding-Hawthorne's office. After all, why and how could that ever possibly feel strange? He had done it so often.
He would collect the books he had lent her, and part of him wanted to talk about those and pretend nothing more than that was happening, but he kept doing that. It had been a lot easier to pretend than to confront the oncoming future but now it was waiting for him.
He opened the office door, wondering whether it was possible for the air to be so thick with emotions that it impeded its progress, or whether it was just that he was hesitating. Because now he felt it. There was something beyond this door that wasn't going to let the day be normal any more.
He swallowed his hello, looking at Professor Brooding-Hawthorne with teary eyes.
“I did quite a lot of growing up,” he admitted, slightly sadly, “I thought about maybe stopping. It seemed, for a while, like that might be a very nice idea. But I don't think the rest of time is going to oblige, and I'd need it to. I'd need it to make everything and everyone else stand still too, and I probably can't do that.” And there were things that were unfinished. He hoped that things with his mother were not as good as they were ever going to get - he hoped they could keep fixing and building back towards where they had been. But that sounded a little like he was willing to leave Professor Brooding-Hawthorne to get back to that point, and he wasn't. He was just running out of track.
He enveloped her in a hug, breathing in all the ways she didn't just smell of jasmine, but of something woody too, and of hints of potions smoke, and of memories of hot chocolate.
“Does it hurt much, becoming an actual grown up?” he asked, trying to laugh instead of cry, “Or did I already do the worst bits?
"And will you walk me to the wagon?" he asked, stepping back and sliding his arm into hers, assuming a willingness to grant the request, even if not one to let him go. Which was good, because he didn't want to be.
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Dorian Montoir
I grew up (tag Professor Brooding-Hawthorne)
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Mary Brooding-Hawthorne
October 01, 2020 10:13 PM
And I am so so proud of you. *sniff* by Mary Brooding-Hawthorne
Every year was hard for Mary because every year, someone went away. Actually, several people went away. This year was especially hard because it was Dorian. Her sweet little boy. Mary had a routine that she did every year, but that she had been putting off until now in this case. Finally, she knew it was time to give in. Sat at her desk with a pot of ink and a journal with rich, warm parchment, Mary tried not to cry. Then she gave up, and went ahead and cried. She flipped through the first thirty-some pages of the journal, just scanning the names as she went, before finally arriving at the first blank page.Parker Fitzgerald
Parker is a bright, kind young man, with a heart for adventure . . .
She went through each and every student who would be graduating and leaving, as she had done since her very first year. Even students who didn't take potions for their advanced grades were included now that she'd been there long enough to have known them as intermediates.
Gary Harper
I'm pretty sure he doesn't like potions, but he tries anyway, and has a big heart . . .
It went on and on. The page Mary was least looking forward to came last, and it was with shaky hands and a stilted sob that she began writing.
Dorian Montoir
She stared at the name for a long time, thinking of their shared time together designing her dress, doing her hair, discussing potions and philosophy and herbology and medicine, talking about family in all sorts of ways, and just being together. It seemed impossible to capture even a fragment of that on the page she had in front of her, let alone anything more meaningful than that. Finally, she settled for something that was true in every instance.
Dorian is the best of us.
She startled when her office door opened, although her familiarity with ink kept her from slamming the book shut and ruining what she'd written. "Oh, Dorian," she said breathlessly, opening a desk drawer and placing the journal open inside for it to dry. "Sorry about that. I was really focused." Her voice was a bit less thick now but it was no doubt clear she'd been crying and she pressed her lips together into a sad smile, knowing should couldn't hide it. As she saw the same expression on his face, she thought maybe she wouldn't want to.
By the time Dorian was done talking, it had turned to full scale waterworks and she accepted his embrace as bigly as she could, wrapping him up like she wouldn't be able to again for a while. "I love you dearly, Dorian," she murmured in a stronger voice than she'd expected, as she demanded the universe to let her words sink into and lodge themselves within Dorian's head, never to be forgotten.
She laughed some at his attempt at humor, although she wasn't sure she had much to offer in terms of comfort. Her own childhood had dumped her roughly into adult life and adult life had had tremendous ups and downs since then. "I think that you've already done the becoming part," she decided. "The only thing left is to do taxes and stuff and that's not that hard once you've done it once or twice."
He stepped into a position beside her and held out his arm and Mary took it with a hesitant hand. Dorian seemed very big and strong and Mary just wanted to wrap him up and sob a lot. Instead, she bit her lip and nodded, a watery smile finding its way to her mouth. "You're the very best person I've ever met," she told him. "It would be my honor. But only if you promise not to forget about me."
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Mary Brooding-Hawthorne
And I am so so proud of you. *sniff*
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