Kitchen Chats

Holy everloving Christ Padril thought to himself, pretending to be immensely interested in the content of his tea cup so Oliver wouldn't see his face. He's a blood purist. He felt his free hand hurt, so he glanced down to see he had clenched it until it had turned red at the word 'mudblood'. A number of ideas ran through Padril's head. He was tempted to throw the tea into Oliver's face, push him into the fire, punch him, or just run away. He wanted to scream at him until he was hoarse. Who was so utterly insane to actually think blood purity was a good idea? Who was so heartless, so stupid? He breathed out, calming himself.

This wasn't a war, he told himself. This was conversion therapy. He couldn't win by fighting, though he wouldn't shy away from it. He would win by being a friend, a good person who would lead by example. Oliver had been raised by blood purists, longing to live around purebloods. Yet he still helped strangers who had fallen in the mud up onto their two feet. He was a good person, Padril just had to show him that. The Hufflepuff took a sip of tea.

"And what's wrong with muggleborns? Mudbloods?" Padril asked, trying to keep his tone polite.

"Now that is something I can not answer." Oliver said, "I could only tell you my parents opinions and what they have told me of them. The way they tell it the muggle borns should not exist. But then you wonder who existed first witches and wizards, or muggles? How did the other come to exist. If muggles came first all then all purebloods are decedents of muggleborns. If the magical folk came first then all muffles would be decedents of squibs." Oliver was rambling, he was more relaxed not thanks to the drug he had placed in his drink. "Which do you believe it is?" He asked tilting his head to the side slightly giving pastille a sideways glance and leaning back against the table.

"I think anthropology doesn't work like that," Padril said, flatly. He went to take another sip of his tea out of instinct, but then thought better of it. That sugar made it taste so strange, it just simply wasn't pleasant. "It's like seriously considering whether Africans or Europeans came first. It's not a matter of who was here first, as if that could ever justify prejudice." He put the tea cup down and crossed his arms, feeling a little bit light on his feet.

"Some Muggleborns are immensely powerful, some Purebloods are squibs, and it works vice versa," he said tiredly. He hated explaining this, it felt like he was stating the obvious."There's no actual evidence that mixed unions with Muggles weakens or strengthens the so-called bloodlines. It's all just ancient prejudice. You know what we can conclusively prove weakens bloodlines and genealogy? Incest, yet the Purebloods love it. There's no logic, no reason behind their hatred. It's just easier for them."

This was it. He had started the race, now he had to finish it. "I'm a Muggleborn, and proud," he declared, putting his tea cup down on the kitchen counter as he stepped away from the fire. "And throughout all the years, I've never heard a single argument for blood purity that stands up under any scrutiny. Those who believe in it cast in their support behind Tom Riddle and Gellert Grindlewald." Padril grimaced at their names. "It's not just evil, it's stupid."

Oliver had set his tea down and was watching Padril closely to see what he did. "There are many powerful Mud-bloods, and purebloods too." He said quietly taking a step closer to him. Slowly Oliver leaned in close his lips brushing lightly against Padril's lips. "You are very passionate." he stated quietly. Oliver was not completely aware of what he was doing but he felt drawn to Padril in a way he could not explain. It may have been more understandable if they had not just met. Shaking his head Oliver turned away quickly crossing the room his fist coming down against the wall. He had to clear his head for a minute. His thoughts could not be clouded.

Padril watched Oliver closing, his body coiling as he readied himself for anything. He mentally collected his counter-arguments in case the Gryffindor argued his point, or tried to distance the cause from the atrocities of the past. If the boy tried insulting him, Padril had a sharp tounge. He'd throw retorts and insults like rapid fire until Oliver was blubbering wreck or until he was knocked out. If he tried violence, Padril was ready. There was no way he could win. He considered himself a surprisingly good duelist, but he didn't have the reflexes to cast the first spell. Maybe he could throw a punch, purebloods were always surprised by that. But the boy was an athlete and significantly taller than him. Even if Padril could land a punch, he wouldn't be standing long enough to throw a second. Oliver began murmuring at him, but Padril was past paying attention. Low voices meant a serious threat. He began eyeing the door, wondering if he could-

Oliver's lips brushed against his.

Padril blinked.

Had he been completely misreading this entire conversation? Was Oliver just messing with him? The boy turned away from him as Padril blushed furiously, still wondering how to respond to the situation. Maybe Oliver had a spectacularly dry wit and was just humouring him. Or perhaps Padril had made a convincing enough argument that Oliver had abandoned his entire family's philosophy. I could not be more confused right now he thought, flabbergasted.

Oliver punched the wall.

WHAT IS HAPPENING? his brain screamed at him, hands closing around his throat and throttling him. BOYS ARE WEIRD RUN RUN RUN. The Hufflepuff simply frowned and adjusted his tie, considering the situation. If this wasn't evidence Oliver was torn, nothing was. In a way, it all made more sense now. The impulsive Gryffindor knew blood purity was wrong, but he also knew he wanted his family's approval more than anything else. His morality and his life philosophy were conflicting, and he had to deal with that conflict. The poor thing didn't know how.

Padril stepped forward, stumbling slightly as his vision wavered. He looked at his hand, touching it. Then the other. Realization dawned on him. Who keeps clumps of sugar in their pocket? The sugar was blue. It didn't taste like sugar. Damn, he was an idiot. It explained so much. He tried to organise his thoughts.

"Hey," he said softly, moving his hand gently to Oliver's back. "It's okay. Talk me through what you're thinking." He tried not to think about how the Sugar made him obscenely aware of the texture of Oliver's shirt.

"No one hears about this," Oliver said quietly bowing his head against the wall. He couldn't have rumors about him going around, not right now. "We will never speak of his." He whispered sniffling quietly. He didn't understand what he was doing nor what was going through his mind, how was he suppose to explain it to Padril? the fifteen year old hit his head on the wall as if to clear the thoughts from it. Slowly turning around Oliver let his head fall on Padril's shoulder as he cried, "I'm so sorry," his shoulders shaking as he stood there. The big jock didn't seem so tough anymore, Oliver was loosing himself in everything he did.

"Of course," Padril replied, without missing a beat. Talking to people about someone's sexuality, especially when it was still being questioned, was one of the worst things Padril could imagine. It was simply unthinkable. He could come out to Oliver right now in hopes it would placate his fears. Yet the memories of how he said mudblood, his desire to prove himself to his father, and his clear impulsiveness. In a rash desire to reassert his masculinity and his blood purity, he could potentially do something terrible. It was probably better not to reveal anything to him just yet. It just wasn't worth the risk. Anyway, he didn't ask, and he didn't need to know. Never speaking about the issue, though. That seemed ridiculous, and overwhelmingly unhealthy.

Padril patted Oliver on the back as he collapsed into him, barely remaining standing. "It's okay," he said softly. "You have nothing to be sorry for. There's nothing wrong with you." That was all he could really say for now. Sometimes people just needed a good cry, and some words of encouragement. After that he would take the charge to reinforce the boy's soul. There were two beasts fighting inside him, and he had to make sure the right one won.

Oliver let Padirl's arms go around him as he cried on his shoulder. it was comforting and that was something Oliver needed at this point. The one thing Oliver had failed to notice was that Padril's reaction was not something one would expect. He seemed okay with what Oliver had almost done. "I'm sorry," he cried again pulling himself away from the older boy. with the back of his hand Oliver wiped away from the tears and turning away from him. This couldn't be happening, He couldn't be having these confusing thoughts. he shook his head and took a flask out of the same pocket he had produced the sugar from and took a drink. He needed something to clear his head. "I have to go." he whispered to himself meaning to leave but found himself unable to bring himself to leave padrils presence.

"Don't" Padril said immediately, his voice just louder than a whisper. The Hufflepuff's fingers closed around the flask and he gently tried to pull it away from Oliver. Padril wasn't exactly experienced in queer culture or the 'gay experience', but he knew that people struggling with their identity often found solace in drugs and drink. The over reliance on foreign substances lead to them being emotionally crippled, and addicted to dangerous drugs. It couldn't become Oliver's first response. Otherwise his life would take a definite downward spiral.

Padril moved until he caught Oliver's eye. "You called me a mudblood and I didn't hate you," he told him firmly. "I'm not going to hate you for this. It isn't wrong. You need to acknowledge that." It would be the perfect time for a kiss in the movies, Padril thought, but this was a real life. Oliver was in a delicate emotional position. Anything Padril did now would be hugely influential and to kiss him? That would be taking emotional advantage of him and that he could not allow.

"It helps me think," Oliver whispered. In his eyes life was always better in the foggy cloud caused by drugs and drinking. He even performed his best in quidditch when he was high. He needed the drink and the sugar, it would aid him to relax enough to try and understand what was going on. "It makes things easier." Olivers hand fell away from the flask and he shook his head again. Everything was amplified. The boys head pounded with a migraine an the rapid beating of his heart. Then everything went away, it was dark, and all Oliver was awear of was padrils voice. "Hate me!" He screamed falling to his knees, "hate me for what I am!" He was a basterd child who did nothing right except for in his sisters eyes.