in the end ~ d. malfoy

Chapter Thirty-Four

A FEW DAYS INTO WINTER BREAK . . . .

PTSD and high-functioning anxiety.

It's scary, seeing those words on paper. It should be scary, in fact. But oddly, Maya feels nothing. She supposes that's the numbness of it all. Whatever hellfire was scorching through her veins earlier has been chilled to ice. Almost like the flames have burned themselves out.

So, she's mentally ill.

That's fun.

To be fair, she doesn't feel as . . . crazy . . as she did a few days ago. There's a new understanding between Maya and her mother. Gone are the days where they tiptoed around each other, waiting for something to snap the tension. Nandini knows everything. No really, everything. Maya's told her about the hate mail, the D.A., every little childhood secret she's kept tucked away in her mind until now.

Except those involving a certain blonde-haired, grey-eyed boy.

Manipulation is a powerful tactic, Maya knows this well. It's the art of subtlety, of quietly toying with someone's emotions. Pulling at their little puppet strings until you see cracks appear in their exterior. Pushing, prodding and poking until finally, they're right where you want them to be. She's been in that situation more than once, decieved under false promises and empty words. Helpless, like a fly caught in an intricate spiderweb.

He could be lying, her brain taunts, Why would Draco Malfoy, of all people, want to prove himself to you?

Even in her temporarily frazzled state, Maya notes -- eyeing her frizzy curls and sickly green cardigan with a degree of immense distaste -- there's no way anyone could fake that kind of genuinity. Even the most experienced mythomaniac wouldn't have been able to replicate the tone of his voice. He didn't look like the silver-spooned aristocrat she knew, arrogant and determined to get his way. Draco had looked almost . . . . broken. Tired. Used. His shirt scruffled and hair mussed, the words had seemed to escape him faster than he could think. Like steam rising into the air after you've lifted the cover of a pot.

"Do you want a slice of cake?"

Jeremiah Carstairs is pouring out mugs of cinnamon scented tea, the swirling liquid near the color of his dark brown eyes. He looks no older than twenty-five or so, though Maya's sure that's due to the anti-aging effect that being a silent brother apparently gives you. Oddly, he doesn't dress like an immortal, not adopting the flashy suits and golden ties that Magnus adorns himself with. Not like a silent brother, either, Maya notes, studying his vintage-looking ripped jeans and white t-shirt. In fact, you wouldn't really guess that Jem was actually a silent brother, judging by the way he holds himself. Carefree, warm, he's like sunshine rippling on a lake in summertime. The kind of nostalgia you miss as you grow older.

He's also Mina's father.

Whether that's a conflict of interest or not, Maya doesn't know, but what she does know is that a slice of cake sounds very nice right now. She accepts the plate with slightly shaking hands, digging in gingerly with a fork. It's deliciously warm and chocolatey, almost melting in her mouth as she takes a nice swig of tea with it. Jem happily digs in with gusto, the peaceful sounds of plates clattering with forks filling the room for the next few moments.

"So?" Jem says, calmly leaning back in his seat as Maya swirls around the last dregs of her tea, feeling somewhat relaxed "How's life?"

The liquid moving in her cup suddenly feels exactly like the dread pooling in her stomach.

Of course he was trying to pull this out of her.

But unlike before, Maya doesn't let her sickly feelings consume her. "Talk about your feelings, beta" Nandini had said, last night, stroking her daughter's hair as Maya lay her head in the older woman's lap, "You'll save yourself and others a lot of trouble if you just speak up for yourself, "