Circle of Truth

Kenna was so very excited. She walked ahead of the girl, this Katarina Rookwood, because she had a feeling that this would be her first. It seemed everyone within their group of friends had introduced a new mind into their little circle. All great thinkers, with charming sensibilities, clever accomplishments, and wonderful minds. None had stayed, of course. They stuck around for a few weeks before moving on, but they always felt graced to have an outside presence on occasion. Kenna knew lots of people - this was what she brought to the table after all –but she never knew anyone that had any sort of mind or skill that she thought her wonderfully talented group of friends would actually appreciate. And now, not only did she find one…

It was a girl.

A student.

A student girl.

Kenna paused briefly on the stairs. Maybe she had not thought this through.

She pushed on, certain she was correct. She knew them men would enjoy a feminine perspective. They had not avoided finding woman thinkers, they just… well, the simplest guess she had was that they met most of the women they met through flirtations, and these men were not the sort to be attracted to a woman who could potentially be smarter than them.  (Genius and vanity were often complimentary colors, after all.) They would not shirk a female mind if she was worthy, but welcome it. And a student… they had long looked for younger people to enter the circle, so they could experience some  sort of mentorship.

Kenna’s motivations were nowhere near noble. She wanted the satisfaction of bringing in her first newbie. And it would ensure that she was no longer the only female. Nor the youngest. Three birds, with one stone. That was Scottish luck there.

They had reached the top of the stairs and Kenna walked, tracing the familiar path of the hallway on the second floor of her bar. She reached the door that led to their sitting room and she looked back at Katarina, giving her a bracing smile. “They’ll love you!”

And she threw open the door. The boys, of course, did not look up. It was the same as always. Yuri fiddling with his record player, Remy and Rory drinking and talking heatedly, Kip looking into space as he thought. Kenna smiled and pulled Katarina inside. “I brought a visitor.”

Every head turned their way, giving Kenna reason to beam – she loved being on notice. She glanced at Katarina and then began pointing at the men. “That’s Yuri, he’s a professor at Durmstrang among other things. That’s Remy, the maddest Frenchman you’ll ever meet, but a bloody good wandmaker. That’s my lovely brother Rory, bartender extraordinaire who was gifted with brains while I got the beauty. And dearest Kip, a jack of all trades and the best man I know.” Remy openly sulked at this, while Yuri just looked down at his record.

Kenna smiled. “And this is Katarina. She’s an artist.”

There was long silence as the men stared at the young arrival. Kenna glanced around and realized they might need some proof. Kenna took out the painting that had inspired this train of thought in the first place and walked forward, handing it to Kip, whose chair was closest to center. Remy and Rory immediately gathered, followed by a slower and more reserved Yuri. Rory immediately responded. “Bloody hell, this is good!”

Remy reached out and touched the canvas. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been to a gallery, but this is fine, truly.”

“Good technique,” was all Yuri would offer, but Kenna was deeply surprised to hear a compliment come out of his mouth at all.

It was Kip who offered no flattery. He looked up at the girl, young and meek and gentle. His eyes locked with hers, and somehow offered comfort rather than a challenge. He had looked over the painting, felt what it had to offer, admired the work. Now he had an important question to ask.
“What does it mean?”

((a few minor godmodes, I hope you can forgive me))

This was like a nightmare coming true.

It had started out innocently enough, the older girl helping her pick up the papers that had scattered out of her sketchbook and across the pavement. Katarina hadn't been quick enough or rude enough to snatch the painting that Kenna held, leaving her in the awkward position of having to listen to flattery over her doodles. Before she knew what was happening she was agreeing to meet Kenna's friends and show them her work, two things the brunette had absolutely no interest in.

Katarina hung behind Kenna as they walked into the room that was occupied by quite a few men milling around. Her eyes flickered around the room for a moment, taking in the scene until the older girl called the crowd's attention, at which point her gaze dropped to her shoes. Kenna introduced each man to her and she managed to glance up for long enough to match names to faces, though she wasn't sure any of the information would stick for more than a few minutes.

The Ravenclaw's hands clasped in front of her stomach, holding the sketchbook tightly pressed against her body out of fear that it's contents would burst again. Katarina could feel the eyes scanning her meticulously and she felt like an intruder in a sacred gathering. It had been a mistake to allow Kenna to bring her here, she was sure of it.

Kenna was introducing her and Katarina looked up again suddenly at the title that she had been given. Art was more or less a secret affair for the Rookwood, a hobby that wasn't worth wasting too much time with. She had confided in Cerelia about her passions and cultivated them with Elijah but beyond the label of 'artist' had never crossed the young girl's mind. It was an overstatement of her abilities and shame began to creep over her face as her painting was passed around.

As they reacted one by one she continued to examine her feet, a blush steadily rising up her cheeks. Her eyes did not leave their target until the last man spoke, promoting her to raise her head and stare at him with what could only be described as confusion.

What does it mean?

Her stare drifted off of his face to settle on the canvas that was being passed around. It was a scene of the Rookwood gardens, painted from memory while at Hogwarts. The painting was angled from above - she remembered the view best from her bedroom window - and the colors and shapes were slightly distorted from working from her mind. Several shadowy figures danced along the pathways but Katarina had forgotten what their features looked like half way through and left them the soft and blotchy.

The lilacs were the brightest, standing out in a bold purple against the muted backdrop, second only to the fountain at the center of the garden maze. Katarina could recall ever detail of that statue's aged and wise face. It had stared at her every day when she was younger. She had splashed her brother with the water that sat below him and made up stories about him in her head. (He had been a sailor that Medusa turned to stone. An angel. A demon.) It was odd that the statue was the only one who looked alive.

Katarina opened her mouth but had no words to fill the space. What does it mean? After a long, awkwardly expectant silence she allowed the truth to slip out of her lips.

"Nothing." She glanced between Kip and the painting, staring at the soulless faces and alien flowers, trying with all her might to come up with some words to explain herself. But she didn't know how to describe the absolute emptiness of Rookwood house, the masks her own family wore, the ghostly beauty of her childhood home, the details of it slowly slipping away into a sweet oblivion the longer she stayed away. "Does it have to mean something?"

Kenna had a good feeling about this meeting. She was one of the few who believed in Fate anymore, truly believed, and she saw Fate's hand at work. She knew the question from Kip sounded challenging, but she knew it meant his interest had been piqued. It was good. These men thrived on interest - it was their life force. They did not do work that bored them, talk to people whom presented no challenge, nor did they ever speak of something that they could not talk about for hours on end. They thrived on passion, on invention, on unanswerable questions. Kenna was not the thinker they were, but she was passion, was invention, was an unanswered question, and this was why she belonged.

She remembered one night when all the others were occupied and she asked Yuri, the man who her heart seemed to be so fond of, the one her favor lingered upon with no real definition nor cause, why he was apart of this group. He was the eldest, outliving them all by a decade at least, and he did not have the same outward vigor they all had. He did not raise his voice. He did not move quickly. He watched, he listened, and he felt. He did not even find much cause to instruct nor challenge. He was apart of their environment, algae on a rock that the ignorant but mobile fish rubbed against without much thought. He was the enigma, and Kenna just had to know why it was he had settled with a group of such unsettled people.

He had answered with a quote from an author Kenna had little interest in, an author Yuri had adored in his youth. Kenna only knew this quote, but it came to her often, and she knew it letter for letter. 'The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.'

They were mad. They were spiders. They were roman candles. They burned, burned, burned.

Kip saw the burning in the girl. He thought he did. He was not one to invest in others. He believed in coexistence, not codependence, but he believed that there was a marked difference in those he found to be interesting and those he found to be uninteresting. His friends were interesting. He was not certain this girl was, yet, but she was not uninteresting. He hoped she would not prove him false, but he would not be horribly diappointed either. It was a disappointment that happened often. It was an acquired taste.

Her eyes were bright. He was they could reflect anything, so bright and clear they were. Fabulous roman candles could explode in bright eyes such as these in a spectacular fashion, he was certain. It did not strike him that her eyes were close to his own hue, for he did not pay much attention to himself. He noticed on occassion, but not often enough to draw the connection. It had not been lost on Kenna, though. Nor Yuri, who found he could not help but look at this newcomer's eyes. And he was not one to look at others, if he could help it. Yuri caught Kenna glancing at the young girl, who was looking at Kip. Yuri fiddled with his record player.

Kip waited patiently. Finally she spoke. He stared for a moment, as though he were passing judgement. He was not, though. He tilted his head. "Funny. I would have said anything. They're the same though, aren't they?"

Her question was better than her answer. Questions typically were better than answers though. He could always tell someone was clever by the questions they asked rather than the answers they gave. "No," he said. "It doesn't have to do anything. But isn't it more interesting if it does? The good thing is there are no right answers. There are wrong ones, though."

"Amen," Remy said, as though Kip were speaking gospel.

Holy truths.

"Wouldn't you rather it be anything?" Kip answered. "You see the difference, right? They're virtually the same, except in a few small ways. Do you see the difference?"

Katarina looked back and forth between the two men, her cheeks beginning to gain a pink hue from the extended spotlight that shone on her. She was faltering under his continued gaze and slightly taken aback by his response. The confusion worked to her benefit and she only took a moment before stumbling out a response rather than another long period of silence.

"I see it" she blurted "but it doesn't really matter." Katarina hesitated, momentarily glancing at the other man who had spoken before turning back to Kip. "I mean -" she bristled for a moment, struggling as the pink continued to make it's conquest across her cheeks. "In the end it doesn't matter what I want it to mean. People will always decide for themselves, regardless of what I think." It was true in more ways than one. Words were constantly twisted, actions interpreted, all to whatever suited them best.

For the first time since being dragged into the room, Katarina smiled softly. "So there really is no difference, is there? My nothing is always going to be somebody's something."

Nothing had always been something to Katarina. The emptiness was as tangible as the suck of a vacuum, tugging at the furthest reaches of her mind, only there when she forgot to look for it. She did understand what he was saying, she really did. While Katarina's voice had stopped quivering her posture was still stiff and her completion rosy. She had been thinking about things like this for years but today was the first time she had ever had occasion to discuss them out loud. While the room full of men was intimidating she felt an undeniable intrigue as she stood before them.

Katarina's gaze had quickly dropped off of Kip's, returning towards the floor before scanning back up towards Kenna, her one point of relative safety in the room. She swallowed, suddenly torn between her prominent desire to flee and the more subtle, but no less powerful, feeling that maybe, just this once, it would be okay to stay. Just for a few minutes.

Yuri had glanced up long enough to see that the girl had more attention than any human should be capable of withstanding without extreme discomfort. He moved to the small bar in the corner of the room as Kip spoke, pouring a few glasses of amber colored drink before calling quietly to the others. Rory and Remy looked up, immediately obeying the call the alcohol had on them, retreating to the bar to take the unexpected gift from their older friend. Yuri held out a glass to Kenna but she was too focused on being as supportive as she could be to the young girl she had so eagerly thrown to the wolves.

Kip noticed the blush crawling across the features of the young girl, Katarina, glancing away from him to those watching. He kept his eyes on hers, entreating her to ignore them, to focus, to think, to speak, to share. If Kip could do one thing to others, he hoped he had the ability to capture. To capture and secure them by looking at them like they were the only other person in the room, to keep them safe from the judgements or injustices so often dealt when delving into the inner workings of themselves.

Still, he could not help but flicking his eyes skyward at Rory's exclamation.

Immediately, though, he was back on Katarina, focused. She spoke, and she spoke well, voice gathering strength and meaning as each word formed in her mouth and travelled to his mind. He truly considered his words, for he had always considered art from the persective of the viewer, never that of the artist. He did believe in the interpretation of art, and if it could mean anything to those who knew nothing of it, perhaps it did mean nothing to those who knew everything of their piece.

It took a few moments for her to lose the confidence she had gathered in her speech. Eyes floated away from him, to a Kenna who was beaming with pride and surprise. When her eyes would return to Kip's, she would find a hint of a smile. It was a smile that had come into existence without the movement of lips or the lifting of cheekbones, a smile from somewhere inside, that showed he was genuinely intrigued by not only the answer, but the source itself. Such a meek one at that. Though, he knew often brilliance hid in vessels unwilling to show their treasures, sometimes unaware of their worth. He had learned that with his best friend.

"As one of those somebodies," he said, slowly, the smile still present, "it's so hard for me to look into something and imagine it as nothing. It seems to... wasted. To selflessly create nothing so others might find something in it." He was speaking in abstracts and he loved it. "Why does someone create nothing? What inspires it? Surely not boredom." He glanced to Kenna, who was looking in absolute confusion. He smiled, eyes flicking back to Katarina, as he resettled himself into his chair, tilting his head as his smile widened. "Why do you paint?"

Katarina listened carefully, fully, intently. She hung on to Kip's words - it was almost possible to forget about the others when she placed all of her attention on one man. But when he had finished speaking she was at a loss for words.

Why did she paint? Katarina had never chosen to start. It had been integrated with all of her other lessons, a tutoring program for the subjects she would never be taught in school. When she was six dancing had been her favorite. Katarina had worn dresses that had floated out in the air, fluttering as she spun to the music. On several occasions she had gotten Kendall to reluctantly join her and the pair attempted to waltz across the drawing room, tripping and falling in a pile almost every time.

When she got older dance became more serious. While she mastered the waltz, spinning was no longer considered acceptable and the joy the activity had once given her was turned into work. It was then that her attentions and affections had shifted to drawing. The skill had always been in her curriculum - hours and hours of sitting on the lawn, painting the same flower to microscopic detail - but it was only around age twelve that she began to truly tap into her own creativity.

It was an easy escape, much more subtle than dance, and Katarina began to carry a sketchbook with her on all trips. She would disappear for hours into the woods, her bag full to bursting with paints, brushes, pens, and anything else she could think of.

From the beginning there had always been a disconnect from that art to the art she did on the lawn next to her teacher. One was clean, professional, and done with impeccable skill. The other was messy and obscure, often ugly, as Katarina explored the techniques that she read about in books but had never seen in the portraits on her own walls. By fourteen the Ravenclaw had tried everything, no matter what monstrous failures she often produced.

Katarina found her style around the age of fourteen. It tended to linger much more closely to what she had been professionally taught, only occasionally being given some element of abstraction or surprise. Classical art was comforting and familiar.. it was what she had been expected to do from the beginning.

"I just always have." she responded uncertainly.

The last artist that had entertained Kip and his friends had been a man named Isaac Jackson, who had insisted on being called Montecarlo. Montecarlo had a talent with portraits and bringing the life into people, and that was what had interested Kip especially. He had asked Montecarlo to draw certain people, because the man had a strange tendency to bring the ugly out, even in the most beautiful of subjects. It was so contrary to what artists typically did, that Kip had been riveted.

Montecarlo did not understand that. He thought Kip was intrigued because his pieces, in his opinion, brought out the very fundamental questions about life. And the more Kip challenged him to draw, the larger Montecarlo’s ego swelled. He soon abandoned people altogether, thinking they brought too much of their own perspectives to the piece, and it was his perspective that made his art the ‘genius’ it was. He soon drew strange creatures, monsters looming over commonplace home appliances, etcetera.  Soon, no one understood what Montecarlo was painting.

’It’s a metaphor, for the demise of my own artistic vision! Don’t you see! Always pressured to do, do, do, never to enjoy, enjoy, enjoy. I write, but why? Because I’m searching for truth? Because, as a human being, I have the bestial need to express myself, the desire to make my own struggles and my own issues known, to find the sympathies and the love that we all need. But, in any case, why do we do anything?’ That had been Montecarlo’s last pompous speech to the group before he had stopped getting invitations to join them for a drink and a discussion.

Sometimes, the simple answer was the one that meant the most. Kip loved a good effort out of someone. But for the right reasons.

Kip allowed for a full smile and he turned to Yuri. “Good a reason as any, yeah?” Yuri glanced over at Katarina and dipped his head. “Sure is.” Kip looked back to Katarina and stood, approaching and holding a hand out to greet her more properly. “It’s really good to meet you, Katarina. Would you like something to drink? Feel free to sit down, make yourself comfortable.”

Two of the men spoke and Katarina turned to Kenna again, looking for any sign as to what was happening. Still not understanding, she glanced back to Kip who had moved forward and was extending his hand into the air between him. She stared at it for an extended second before gingerly mirroring the gesture and placing her hand in his. Katarina allowed him to direct the shake, her hand moving at his will and exerting no force of it's own. While Kip was not a dark man his skintone highlighted the pure paleness of Katarina's completion. He began to speak and Katarina slipped her hand quickly out of his, never one to have her touches linger.

Oh. He made it sound like she was expected to stay. Katarina looked from Kip to Kenna to the door and back to Kip again. Every muscle in her body was telling her to bolt for the door but the Rookwood was simply too polite for such behavior. So instead of running for her life she squeaked out a "I'm fine, thank you." before slipping the painting back into the messy folds of her sketchbook.

Katarina's throat felt akin to a desert. She had declined Kip's offer on instinct but she refused to request a glass of water now. No, it was better to dehydrate quietly in the corner than class attention to herself by asking for the drink. So Katarina smiled weakly at the group, more of a formal nicety than anything, and moved towards the side of the room where she spotted an open chair semi-near the door. She sat lightly down, her bum only half on the cushion, crossed her ankles, and clasped her hands on her lap. There was close to no chance of her ever genuinely being comfortable here but it was better to feel awkward sitting down than awkward standing up, right?

She wasn't sure, but the spotlight seemed to have dimmed slightly with her move. Katarina was all too aware of the presence and location of the others in the room but their attention had shifted from direct to indirect. It felt more like a passing curiosity now. She had gone from a center-stage performer to a television program that was on in the background while you cooked dinner.

It was easier to breathe now and she began to really look around for the first time, examining the faces of the others in the room. There seemed to be no obvious unifying factor between these features, clothes, or professional lives, leaving Katarina almost curious enough to ask a question.

What are you doing here?

They shook hands and Kip felt a pleasant warmth at her hesitant touch, and he felt something in his expression falter for just a moment. She relinquished the grip and he felt glad, for the sudden unsettling feeling was unexplained and Kip did not like being in the dark - especially about himself. He turned, hooking his thumbs into the inner pockets of his jackets, briefly allowing this new conundrum take a hold of him. He looked out the window into the sky, staring into the vast expanse as though the answer might be a connect-the-dots in those beginning stars.

Of course, no answer revealed itself. Yuri, perceptive as usual, poured a glass of water for the girl, pouring Kenna her favorite unwinding-drink and he reached forward, setting the down on the small coffee table before the window nook cushion. He watched Kip carefully, before nudging his friend back to life. "Need to be topped off?" Kip turned, his fingers still hooked inside the open jacket, and he realized he had drifted again, as he was prone to do. "No." He smiled, certain that Yuri had not actually been asking. "Thank you."

He took to his seat as Kenna waved enthusastically to Katarina to join her at the window seat. She hissed in an earnest manner, "Told you they would like you! I haven't seem them so approving of a new artists in... well, practically forever." She grinned widely, proving how much she truly was the voice of common people in this little ring of thinkers. She sat down in her spot, reaching forward for her drink, and began to suck it down - she was from a bartending family, after all. Smacking her lips, she folded her arms, looking at Kip who was settling nicely. Her pride was undeniable in her glow and her smirk. She stared almost daringly at Kip, goading him to break the silence.

Kenna was one of the few people could knock Kip off the pedastal he naturally seemed to step onto, make him see more like the young twenty-something he was. So with an emerging grin, Kip rolled his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing," she sag back.

"You look smug," he pointed out, reaching over for his abandoned glass. He drank the clear liquid inside and tilted his head.

Kenna heaved a shrug. "No big deal. I just... I contributed, now didn't I?" she smirked widely.

Rory rolled his eyes. "We're never going to hear the end of this."

Conversation moved, as it was prone to do above the MacBain's pub. Kenna told the story of their budding friendships for the sake of Katarina. She explained the connection of Kip and Yuri, and how the two met Remy, and then how Kip met the MacBains. She thrilled the entire group with the amusing story of the first time she had ever met Remy, who had wandered into the wrong bar and was flirting horribly with who he thought was Kenna.

The conversation then moved to the occupations of the men. Yuri's rolling voice spoke of teaching and his own personal studies. Kip followed, more lively in his telling but also claiming to have less to boast of, for he still felt like it was just a job, not quite an occupation. He spoke briefly of the Ministry and his own hopes there, before Remy cut in. Remy easily spoke for a half hour on himself, though no one could say it was boring. He was very vain and proud, but he had stories, definitely. Rory then rounded out the night with as many bar jokes as he could think of - and he had plenty stored.

Though the anecdotes and jokes were all fairly light, each person was given their due attention, only being interrupted when something could be added. And at the slightest provoaction, a deep discussion was initiated - whether it was about wandmaking, or the merits of teaching, or the Ministry. The entire group seemed to have a desire to turn over every idea and thought over in their own heads as many times as possible before handing it off to their friends so they might do the same.

No one pressured Katarina to speak. Kenna looked desperate to say something, and Remy brought attention to her once or twice, but Yuri and Kip especially made her feel as though she had no obligation to speak, but was welcome to if she chose.

The sky had become inkier when Kenna stood, taking one of her periodic walks through the room. She caught sight of the time and let out a gasp within a yawn. "My! I didn't realize. It's getting late." She turned, her eyes finding Katarina. "Is there anytime you need to be home? We're not holding you from anything, are we?"

Kenna quickly summoned her to sit by the window and Katarina obliged almost immediately, her caution overruled by her inability to refuse a direct request. Before she had even been seated a moment Kenna was offering her a compliment and all Katarina could manage was an awkward smile of thanks, her capacity for speech exhausted after the brief but none-the-less terrifying spell in the spotlight.

Before long Kenna left her alone on the windowsill as she went to talk to Kip across the room. Katarina's eyes followed the path the older girl had taken and came to rest on the features of the man she now spoke to. He had surprised her. Katarina had never been a brave girl, always quick to bend under the will of others regardless of her own wishes. Despite her subservience she understood people well and was quick to pick up on the character of others. Most people, especially teenagers, were boring. Unintentional carbon copies in their quest for identity, all motivated by their own vanity and ego. Katarina had almost concluded that this was the case for everyone and then she had met Erika - strange and frightening, more human than anyone she had ever met before, the girl had captured the Ravenclaw's interest and affection.

Katarina had a similar sensation now as she looked across the room at Kip. No one had never asked her questions like that before. No one had ever listened so closely to her replies. He was different. This whole room was something completely different from what she had experienced before. There was an undefinable energy, flowing from the walls to the drinks to the occupants who milled about. And then they opened their mouths.

Once the stories began Katarina was able to almost relax into the wall behind her, sipping at the water that had been provided without her having to ask. She let herself get lost in the voices, clinging especially to the individual laughs of each, diverse and completely suited to their owners. A few hours in Katarina began to smile more and more freely herself, never quite laughing as her inbred elegance kept her all too contained and uptight. But more than anything these people were simply interesting. Compared to the stuffy old Purebloods and hyperactive, horny teenagers she spent her days with they were angels. She was genuinely entertained rather than feigning entertainment for the benefit of others.

Kenna spoke and Katarina realized that amazingly she had lost track of the hours too. Is there anytime you need to be home? We're not holding you from anything, are we? Aside from a pair of house elves the Rookwood home was empty. No one was waiting up for her but Katarina still felt an unexplainable obligation to return home at a reasonable hour. Not once in her life had she stayed out 'too late'. Katarina followed the rules when there was no one to enforce them or, in this case, when there we're even rules in the first place.

"I should probably get home." Katarina offered, her statement almost coming out as a question, depending on the reactions of the others to make the decision for her. She moved to stand, pulling the bag that contained her sketchbook towards her chest. "Thank you all for having me.. I've had a lovely evening." And for once she wasn't lying.