Equinox

four

There are many things in a day that force time to standby. Repetition, enjoyment, and laziness are time's worse enemies.

Repetition has had a hold on me for many weeks, the schedule forced upon me by Corvus, and even my own daily regime. It wasn't until Theo had asked me if I were celebrating Samhain in a couple weeks, that I'd realized it was October. I had just shrugged and told him time will tell.

Corvus only left for a few days with Alastor Moody to track the magical frequencies. Nothing became of the search, so he returned to us sooner than he'd expected. He'd described the locations as 'a hum of pins and needles shooting up from the earth and into the soles of your shoes,' which means nothing to me. But it seems somehow hopeful to him, so I smiled and nodded. Blaise took over Corvus's research while I continued deciphering for the days that turned into weeks.

Only having the first few words—potentially—translated.

The magical soul, to be precise.

Though meaningless, it does reign true that the page may solve the clue to Voldemort's immortality, or how he'd been in a pseudo-living entity until being brought back to full embodiment before Harry's eyes.

I've hardly had even a spare opportunity to think. It somehow has aided the internal monologue. They say it's hard to think when you're busy and exhausted.

With the sunrise, comes pre-breakfast training. Then we are allowed a brief meal before one-on-one sparing. Corvus has gotten stricter with each day, and I can't help but question him. Is there something he just isn't telling us that's forcing the tight system?

"Zabini," Corvus calls out, "your footwork is sloppy. Tighten it up!"

The grass is practically scratched up under their shoes from the months of training, leaving nothing but striped of dirt across the yard. Theo and Blaise are sparing, both with blades rather than wands. Corvus has been pushing the hand-to-hand combat practice. It's the one thing I've agreed with him on. The possibilities of being under pressure by a person that wants you dead; the chances of not having a wand are unknown. I sure am grateful for the lessons, in contrast to the helplessness without magic.

Theo has a holster wrapped around his torso that holds a dozen throwing knives, which he's been unsheathing two at a time to throw at Blaise. They're enchanted to do no more than graze the skin and feel like a toothpick. Blaise has a few cuts on his bicep, and Theo has one on the side of his torse. The cuts aren't deep enough to draw blood, and the magic allows them to heal on their own. The only sign of contact is the rips in their clothes. The two of them have been going at it for at least an hour, and out of sheer boredom, I've been stabbing the grass next to me with a dagger the size of my foot.

I drown out Corvus's insistent directions to the boys and grabbed a nearby twig to whittle with my blade. Shaving and carving.

Shaving and carving.

Just when I thought I'd successfully evaded the mental exhaustion from hearing the drawled complaints from our self-appointed father, a cry pierced the crisp air. My head pops up from the twig and I catch Theo falling to a knee as his hand surges to wrap around the side of his ribs. I'm up in an instant rushing over to him.

Blaise is swearing with hands tied to his head, as he remains a healthy distance away from his victim.

I crouch down next to Theo and spot the wound. It's deep and appears to require at least an hour of healing charms. Thick scarlet blood runs down his side and completely coats both of our hands as his shirt stains.

I snap my head to Corvus who is just standing there smug with his arms crossed. The moment he starts shaking his head in disappointment is when I see red, beyond the image of blood.