++17 – Youth Lagoon, 2011

Roaming the campground up by the lake where we swam
We were hunting for snakes
But we couldn't find them
Surrounded by nothing
But the nothing's surrounded by us
But it's just me in my room
With my eyes shut

Three in the morning was a special time for Molly.  Three in the morning didn’t actually exist, regardless of what most people might have thought. Three in the morning was an inky void in which words did not stick, feelings were fleeting, and impressions were neither right nor wrong. The world was upside down, everything was backwards, and people were turned inside out. People didn’t know it because normal people didn’t utilize three in the morning.

She did, though. There was this really soft patch of grass right behind the greenhouses. It provided shelter from the castle, putting the glass structures between her and anyone who might approach, who might try to ruin her fun. She could lay in the grass with her carton of cigarettes, her cassette player blasting music through her headphones – loud enough to hear, faint enough to not reach much beyond her ears.

She let out a long sigh, exhaling smoke, her fingertips trailing over the blades of glass, tickling them along with the wind. Her eyelids fluttered closed and she felt the world turn backwards, head over heels, hurtling back to a time in which she and Margo and Clementine slipped into forest with young strangers, content to spend the weekend on their own, left to their own devices, snuggled in tents, enveloped in smoke, bloodstreams coursing with a mixture of drugs.

That was living.

No one was alive at three in the morning. But no one was dead either. It was nice.

She tilted her head, and the fuzzy peripheral allowed her a view of messy, blonde locks. She blew air from her lips, watching it rustle his hair, watching it make an effect. Watching it make a change.

No change that happened at three in the morning was permanent.

She liked living life that way. Temporary.

Simon was having a hollow day. That's what he called them, inside the safety of his own head. Every day was a little hollow, really, but there were some days that were worse than others, so much worse. Days where he woke up and blinked up at his four-poster and wondered why he should even bother going to class, getting his NEWTs, having a career, living, doing any of it. Days where even his usual mantra of "go to class, learn, do well, that's what school's for, Simon" had little effect. Days where he would be forced to ask himself "what would Wendy do?" just to leave his bed. The wizard wondered if he should get that tattooed somewhere, with the frequency he asked it of himself. But then people would ask questions. Wendy would ask questions. And that wouldn't do. The teenager had, however, scrawled it upon his palm in ink sometime between Charms and Ancient Runes. He hadn't even noticed himself doing it.

Apparently the news of the day, Simon had been informed as he picked at his dinner, was that the girlfriend of one of his dorm mates had cheated on him. Simon had nodded along, making slight faces as the story was shared with him, unable to muster up any more fake emotion than that. Pretending to care was draining.

It wasn't until around one thirty am, that Simon had given up on trying to sleep. Quickly changing into clothing slightly better suited to the cool night air, Simon tossed a full pack of cigarettes into his pocket, and headed outside. Simon waited until reaching the forest to light his first cigarette, ducking just a few meters into the trees, and following the forest line. When Simon had walked as far as he could without leaving school grounds, the teenager turned back, retracing his own steps. As he passed by the greenhouses, Simon spotted little trails of smoking rising toward the sky.

Changing trajectory, the Slytherin began striding toward the back of the greenhouse, eyes registering the burning embers of a cigarette a moment before recognizing the face of the person holding said cigarette.

"Molly," he greeted, sinking down beside her, unsure if he could even be heard over the girl's music, but knowing it didn't matter either way. Laying back to stare at the sky, his own freshly lit stick of nicotine clamped firmly between two lips, Simon traced his left thumb over the ink on his right palm that had yet to fade.

What would Wendy do? Not this.

She heard Simon only because she had seen his approach, been expecting him. Her fingers crawled like a spider towards the grass near her, before her palm flattened over the ground, smoothing the grass for him to settle down next to her. She drew her arm to her abdomen, resting her hands limply there as she tilted her head, eyes closed, feeling the way the blades of grass tickled the back of her head.

Nice.

"Simon," she finally breathed back to him. She reached for her cassette players and put it between them, arranging the ear buds so one stretched toward him and one stretched towards her. the sound was even fainter now, making it seem as though ghosts were singing to them from far away, far in space, far in time, far in impact. Far, far, far.

She finally rolled her head over to look at Simon, her eyelids sliding open to reveal those withholding blue orbs. She blinked once, twice, and then allowed her small little smirk, never a smile, to twist her lips. Then it was gone in another blink and she was turning her head so she could take a long pull on her cigarette, chest and lungs swelling with the effort, before releasing the tendrils of smoke into the atmosphere where they would dissipate and join all of the other particles.

Temporary.

"Sleep?" she asked. Not because she was particularly interested in his sleep patterns, and not because she needed to know what had brought them into each other's company. But because she had noticed how Simon sometimes did need some opportunity to speak. Whereas she thrived in total silence, in total detachment from the people around her, even Simon did like to air out a thought now and again. So she broke her silence to give him opportunity. Because even Molly Weasley could extend a hand every now and then.

"Yeah," Simon replied softly, Molly's music playing faintly through the earbuds between them, "just one of those days." Simon had recognized Molly's questioned word as the opening to speak that it was. It was almost frightening how well she could understand him, at times.

His thumb brushed idly across the acronym scrawled upon his palm. Wendy would probably tell him to be honest, to reach out if he needed help, to talk to the people who cared about him. Simon wasn't Wendy. But he did care about her.

"You ever wonder what the point of all of this is?" he asked, gesturing up at the sky and then, as his hand fell back into the grass, himself. "Life, existence, everything?"

Simon did. Probably more than was normal or anywhere near good for his mental health, if the wizard was being honest with himself. Some days he was content not to know. Other days no so much. Taking a long drag of his cigarette, the Slytherin closed his eyes, shutting out the stars.

Simon knew what he was supposed to want from life. To find a nice girl, to settle down, to get married and have his male best friend give a humorous speech about soulmates at the reception. To have kids, and to love them more than anything or anyone else in the world. Simon couldn't imagine what it would feel like to find someone he would want to live with and love and marry and treasure for eternity. If he ever were to get married, his "best man" would certainly be female, and Simon was pretty damn sure never wanted to be a father. Ever.

Molly felt hesitation in Simon's breath, and she felt something stir inside her. A compulsion that she could not escape. Her fingers trailed down to her side bag and fumbled with the buckle, sliding open the top flap. Her hand crawled into the bag, exploring the interior with slow, deliberate movements. She felt the smooth side of her camera and her finger hooked onto its strap, sliding it slowly out of her bag.

He finally spoke and she considered the question, freezing for a moment to allow her brain full opportunity to consider the question. Of course she had those thoughts. Drinking, drugs, men, clubs, sex... Those weren't the usual priorities of a fifteen year old girl.

"No," she lied, her voice light, hollow without truth. "Nothing's real anyway," she said, a little bit of weight in that statement.

She paused, taking a long, deep breath. She placed her camera on her abdomen and enjoyed the weight of her passion on her stomach. "You do, then?" She took a drag of her cigarette, before blowing rings into the air. She lifted her finger and threaded it through the rings of smoke, like popping bubbles. "Any leads?"