Even Prodigies Have Problems

He wasn't expecting it. Wasn't expecting her to bounce back so easily. It was rather nice, knowing that for all Reid knew about her she was still capable of surprising him. Vivianna had always been stubborn, she'd likely been born that way, stubbornness being engraved into her very cells, only growing stronger as she grew older. Flexibility, however, was something the witch had learned. It hadn't been easy, the redhead wasn't the type to enjoy bending around obstacles like an acrobat. Sometimes it was important to be able to bend, however. When forced into a situation where her options were that or break, Vivianna would choose to bend any day. The hard part, had been learning how.

"Recovery can be overrated," the witch admitted with a nod of her head. Sometimes, recovery shouldn't even be attempted. Like with her mother. For a long time, Vivianna had hoped that her mother would recover from her depression one day. Or at the very least, the the witch would try. The Slytherin knew better now. Even if the older woman worked to fight her inner demons, got over them even, an empty shell would be the only thing remaining of the woman who had birthed her. For her, there was no true recovery, and even thinking that there might be would be foolish.

"It can also be necessary," the Slytherin continued unflinchingly. Despite how painful, annoying, and time-consuming recovery could be; it was almost always needed. If one wanted to remain sane, that was. Then again, who was she to lecture upon the importance of recovery in relation to sanity? It was a hypocritical notion. Vivianna smiled slightly to herself, the saying about the blind leading the blind feeling awfully appropriate.

Reid had stood up, broken the contact. A small part in the back of the redhead's mind noticed that the movement had made her feel far colder than it should have, but the witch shoved that aside for later analyzation. What mattered right then was Reid, Reid who had taken a step back. A step away from her.

His face was once again a blank facade, far more closed off than Vivianna would have liked. She hadn't realized how much she'd enjoyed being able to easily read the male's face, until she found herself unable to. It was frustrating, to say the least.

"Oh don't worry," the girl said with a half-smile and an undertone of bitterness, "my hands are clean enough." Vivianna almost wanted to laugh the moment those words left her lips. That couldn't have been more of a lie even ignoring the blood that now covered one of them. Looking down at her right hand, the witch drew her fingertips over the blood on her palm, smearing the red fluid onto the pads of her fingers.  

"Besides," Vivianna stated suddenly, face transforming into something playful and just a little bit wicked, "the knife didn't have any enchantments against repelling germs." The witch knew that Reid would pickup upon what she hadn't said immediately. That there was some other kind of enchantment upon the blade. The Slytherin wondered how long it would take her fellow student to figure out exactly what the enchantments were. It certainly wouldn't take too long, given what he knew of her. Vivianna had always been the type of girl fond of leaving a mark.

The moon was a waxy, gibbous-like thing: floating, casting out wavering light amidst the sea of gathering black clouds. Clouds were scarce seen on winter nights, but the moonlight tasted them now, illuminating their foggy edges while the deep, ink-black recesses to the middle remained unseen and mingled with the night freely. Those shafts of light managing to penetrate the cloud cast wan pools of silver on the dusty, stone slabs of the floor, glinting off frost crystals gathered at the edges of the window sill. The glass was coated with moisture and ice, just translucent enough to shimmer with the image of his pale face, shock of dark hair contrasting with it like ebony with snow. His eyes had the time to sense, and register all of these. The window was far.......safer, to look at, than any other occupant of the room.

And it was this thought, meandering through the still trance that was his mind, that halted and made his hands stiffen, if just for that second. He had never felt the need to avoid his gaze from something before. Always, his eyes had purposely sought out the object of fear, daring it to come closer, daring himself to keep looking. Fear was a fallacy of the mind, nothing deeper, nothing more useful. It needed to be seen, regarded, then stamped underneath the shoe as sure as one squelched a beetle. Yet, some sort of unease that had begun the instant foreign fingers had made contact with his skin, the instant a hand had sensed his heartbeat, lingered; making him stare at the window fixatedly, making his features a portrait of untouchable porcelain mirrored in glass. And it was with another dull clunk that echoed through his head, that Reid realised he was loathe to let it stay.

Because it wasn't something he was familiar with. Because it wasn't something tangible. Because it didn't seem particularly hostile...or even unwelcome......so it couldn't be stared down in the face and defeated with sheer will. But hell, if Reid was going to let it win that easily.

"Recovery can be overrated.........it can also be unnecessary."

"Do not remind me of my shrink, please." Fleeted out of his mouth, almost carelessly. The immediate instinct after was to recoil, to divert- but Reid squashed the urge almost viciously. This stupid new unease was not going to make him fearful: of anything, or anyone. Information, particularly of the susceptible, vulnerable kind was not to be distributed lightly, but he could part with it without caring. She couldn't do anything. Not after what he was holding in his pocket.

But she could, evidently, leave a mark. Reid had begun feeling the curious stretch and strain of tightening, clotting skin several seconds before. It was a familiar feeling, of a familiar spell; the Durmstrang students rather liked leaving their marks too.

She had audacity, he'd give her that.

Almost forcing his eyes to their mark, he looked at the redheaded Slytherin still seated on the floor. In a singularly fluid motion, his right hand withdrew from his pocket and rose to the air, clasping the vial he had snatched from her, within its fingers. His voice was just as impassive as he'd like, with just that touch of silky promise. "Potions have this lovely characteristic of bearing the magical signature of the one who brewed them. Do that again, and this vial goes straight to the Board of Control of Illegal Substances." Then, almost as a careless, indifferent addition. "Drink another one of those vials, and I'll know. Then the vial goes to Law Enforcement."

Then the vial was back, sealed and safe in his pocket, and his feet took two steps away. "And don't delude yourself into thinking about bygones." Unease or no, that hardly-there smirk caressing his lips could scarce be denied. "I always like paying back my debts. You will not have to wait long for this one." The empty hand settled over the blood-soaked shirt, right where the stain was deepest. Over the criss-crossing lines marking his heart. A parody of a gesture. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Reid compared her to his shrink and well, that hurt. It was supposed to, of course. Everything that ever came out of Reid's mouth was intended, purposeful. The other teenager probably thought out every word, every syllable, before allowing them to leave his mouth. He probably looked down at her, and considered what would hurt her the most, what would sting and would would bleed like an open wound, incapable of ever being allowed to heal. The girl had once wondered if the other student sat away at night, thinking of new ways to get under her skin with a single sentence of perfectly crafted words. She'd wondered if he sat in front of a mirror, practicing the way he sneered her name. She'd wondered all that, and so much more.

It had been stupid of her to think all that. She knew that now. Vivianna was positive that it just came naturally to Reid, his eloquence, his ability to hurt her with it.

There was something about him, though. Something about the way that their minds worked the same way. Something about how he could smooth-talk his way out of practically anything. Something about the way his eyes could be unforgiving as ice, or so expressive it made her heart pound. Something about the way he challenged her, pushing her almost to the breaking point. Something about the way he made her strong, even in the weakest of moments. Something about the way he looked at her, like he could crack her open and read her secrets from the number of times she blinked, or something equally as ridiculous. Something about the way he drew her to him, like a moth to flame. Something about the way she was inexplicably fond of him, no matter what he said or did.

But then he'd held up the vial, her vial, and began to speak. Her heart stopped. He wouldn't, Vivianna tried to tell herself, attempting to rationalize what was happening. But he would, wouldn't he? The Slytherin knew that Reid was good at pressing her buttons, pushing her off the edge of a cliff to see if she'd fall or find a solution.

She wasn't too worried about the Board of Control of Illegal Substances, she had connections there. Quite a few connections, but Reid said that's where he'd send the vial if she hurt him again. The redhead hardly had any intention of slashing at Reid with her enchanted knife another time. She'd already made her mark on him. And Merlin, that thought was twistedly beautiful. The thought that Reid would forever carry around a piece of her, the thought that he wouldn't be able to bathe without running his fingers over her mark. The mark that she'd made right over his heart. X marks the spot.

The Law Enforcement threat, was a real one though. She'd be screwed, so screwed, if he sent the vial there. The charges were running through her head in an endless cycle. Experimentation of potions without a permit, creation of new potions without a Mastery, failure to register newly created potions with the Ministry, abuse of illegal substances. She probably had enough of it to be charged with dealing too, if the lawyer was at all intelligent. She could be thrown into Azkaban for up to twenty five years.

The withdrawal was going to be hell.

As if he hadn't gone far enough, Reid began to threaten her, promising payback for the scars that would forever be cut into his chest. Then he mocked her, mocked the injury that she had given him, the injury that seemed so very insignificant in comparison to the amount of pain she was in. Because along with what Reid had just done, Vivianna remembered why she'd searched for solidarity in the first place. Bertie.

In that moment it was all too much, everything was too much, and Vivianna wanted nothing more than to escape. To run as far away as she possibly could, and never return or look back. It was an impossibility however, no matter how much she wanted it. The redhead locked eyes with Reid, and swiftly pulled herself up in a motion far smoother than she should be capable of, considering the number of vials she'd tipped down her throat.

Not breaking eye contact, Vivianna reached down to grab her bag, slipping the knife carefully inside, and slung it over one shoulder. She opened her mouth to let Reid know just what she thought of him in that moment, but couldn't find strong enough words in her entire vocabulary. The teenager allowed her mouth to fall shut again, as she studied the transfer student for a few moments, face expressionless. "I have nothing to say to you," the Slytherin stated finally, eyes cold blocks of ice. Striding across the stone floor, the witch stepped deliberately through the doorway, refusing to look back.

Vivianna knew that she was screwed, so very incredibly screwed. She was in love with Reid Dixon. Not even Merlin could help her now.

She stared at him. Stared so long and so hard, unreadable emotions flickering like shades and hues in that pale expanse of blue. Stared like the condemned would stare down their judge, as if he'd done them great wrong. Stared like the condemned would stare down their executioner, like he was their own personalised, accursed saviour.

In hindsight, on the surface, it would have seemed obvious. She was striving with addiction, with the loss of her brother; and here he was, striding in, intruding where he didn't belong, mocking her inability to cope. Deriding her pride. Calling her weak. Threatening to reveal her illegal activities. Promising to repay her scar for scar. All at a time she was mourning. He had been expecting this, hadn't he? This incriminating stare?

Maybe it would have been alright if it was just accusing. But it wasn't. There was something else which Reid couldn't quite decipher. Something which stared out of her face and screamed for attention; but simultaneously skulked in the shadows, refusing to reveal its identity. And it was disconcerting, because from the very second he had stepped into the small, stone, circular room: he had possessed the upper hand. Knew and understood the grief and desperation that drove her to smile faintly at him in the beginning, was the cause of the rage that powered her to strike back, was the silent watcher-on of the determination that she clung on to with her fingertips, bent on staying strong and unyielding.

But the emotion that stared at him now, stark and challenging.....Reid Dixon found himself incapable of understanding it. It seemed like a personification of the very unease that had taken permanent residence in his veins. And he was no closer to recognizing it as he was anything else.

Then, almost as if acquiescing to his wishes, it erased itself. Now her eyes were only a cold blue, only accusing. Reid looked back, not speaking, not understanding. This lack of understanding bubbled up as irritation again, and black, tar-like anger. Idiot. Idiot.

Why in the name of everything that was important were maximum of the people he came into contact with such......blatant.....halfwitted.......imbecilic..... idiots?

God, and it stung hard and vicious, but he had been stupid not five minutes ago too, hadn't he? Because he had expected better of her. She thought he was actually going to follow through on his threat to send the vial to Law Enforcement, that much was obvious. Which he would do, truthfully, if she ever dared to bring another mouthful of that vile substance to her lips again. But not for the motive which she assumed. Not to make her life hell. Didn't she get it that if he wanted to destroy her life, he could have done it without warning her beforehand? Instead of imposing a condition which actually bettered her life, he could have mailed the vial to the authorities without telling her, even forging a confession note to go alongwith in her own bloody handwriting.

But he didn't. He didn't. He told her, in no uncertain terms whatsoever, that if she wanted to commit suicide by draining three vials of experimental potion a day and succumbing to addiction, he would shorten the process considerably and get carted her straight off to Azkaban. People like them didn't understand, or listen to concerned advice. They only listened to what was good for them if there were dire consequences involved.

But maybe there was no such thing as 'people like them'. She still didn't understand him at all. Did he really strike her as the kind of ridiculous tattle-tale who actually had the time to invest themselves in ruining other's lives? Did she not understand that he was helping her, much less his reasons for it?

And that was where Reid's thoughts came to a screeching halt.

Why was he helping her, again?

"I have nothing to say to you."

The words escaped for a second time, withdrawn, repressed, careless. "You could try saying thank you."