Albus could see, no feel, Jack’s resistance to the idea in every twitch of her expression, the words quickly said but hardly meant, the slight dullness of the spark in her eyes. She disliked the idea of getting involved in the Wizengamot immensely. Correction, she abhorred it. But then, with a resigned sigh, she actually agreed. She did put forward her reservations in the form of an extremely weak joke, but agreed. Albus blinked again. How the minds of people like Jack worked was utterly beyond his comprehension. How did they do it? How did they manage putting up with something they didn’t like, putting their own happiness, safety and well-being on the backseat, sacrificing a frankly ridiculous amount of their peace and joy for the sake of the ‘greater good’? Albus couldn’t even bloody imagine inconveniencing himself for the sake of anyone, anything at all. And these people just went on with their noble Gryffindork lives doing noble Gryffindork things.
But then again……Albus supposed that was what you called passion. Jack wasn’t a selfless martyr, Albus could see that clearer than anything else. She was simply willing to prioritize, give up smaller pleasures for the sake of achieving a larger goal. Maybe that’s why Albus had never achieved anything worthwhile in his life. Maybe he didn’t lack desires, or ambition. Maybe he just lacked the passion required to convert dreams to reality.
“If you don’t want to do it, that’s fine.” Albus’s tone was significantly quieter, in light of what could be called a new revelation. Of course, his voice automatically strove to lighten the situation, make it appear different from what it was, a willing consideration of Jack’s feelings; by becoming wryer, with fainter hints of humor, “Besides, I think you’d choke to death, and I’ll die out of hysterics, just by the thought of you in that starched, stiff-collared Wizengamot robe.” The thought was kind-of humorous. Albus could just imagine Jack ripping the ‘robe of death’ off, setting it on fire, stuffing it into the mouth of whichever slimy codgeball speech-ing, and stomping out.
The humor lasted for a few seconds, then tottered helplessly on its legs and died out. The mention of old ‘family friends’ had that sort of effect on Albus. He responded sharply, unthinkingly, “He’s a family friend. That’s reason enough.” Then closed his eyes and cursed himself to Jupiter and back. Merlin, couldn’t he just have dropped a nice, sweet, innocent white lie of how he was simply a little unsure, and did not have any personal grudges against Neville? Grudge was too strong a word anyway…….he and Neville just…..chafed each other, the wrong way.
But too late, the words had already been said, and no matter how much Albus wished, he couldn’t draw them back from his tongue. A strange, uneasy crawling feeling started in Albus’s chest, somewhere in between his ribs and working up slowly, torturingly, up his sternum and wrapping itself around the base of his throat. Dread. He swallowed dryly, minisculely, mind intent that he shouldn’t drop anything too implicative, and reason stating that it was impossible. “He….I….he doesn’t like some of the things I do. He….caught me doing something which had been better left undone.” There. That wasn’t too bad. ‘Something’ was sufficiently vague enough for Jack to suspect, but not to confirm. The long tentacles of dread loosened their hold over his throat, slightly, but Albus knew one false word could lead them to tighten, into a fatal, choking grip.