the school of extraordinary lovers

II

Louis enters Jude's office on-time and quiet as a mouse, the latter of which isn't as difficult for him. Purebloods breathe and their hearts beat, but they can stop both at will if, for some reason, they need to. They can appear cold as the dead, or not, in an instant. They're a strange race, defying all understanding of life and death. Even average vampires are confounded by them. And jealous of them. Everyone, if they're honest, is a little jealous of purebloods.

They're born into this world crying like any other being — human or otherwise — and they grow and they age until around thirty, when they simply stop aging. Cemented at their prime for all eternity.

And none of this impedes their ability to reproduce. (Louis' father, for example, has at least twenty children, though Louis is the oldest.)

They have all the delights of mortality, but they never have to die.

Who wouldn't envy that? Harry, for more reasons than one, is envious too.

Louis sinks into the seat he occupied three days ago. He looks at Jude's desk and then at the door. "Where is everyone else?" he finally asks. He's not looking at Harry, but since they're the only ones in the room, Harry assumes the question is for him.

"I have no idea," Harry says. He received an email the evening prior from Jude asking him to come in the next morning. 'Impromptu Meeting', it was titled and sent to 'undisclosed recipients', which led Harry to assume Jude sent the message to the whole class.

The door opens and Jude steps into the room. "Oh, great. We're all here."

Harry assumed wrong. He and Louis watch him approach his desk like a person might watch a foreign animal. One must ask himself, 'Is the animal friendly?' 'Does the animal feed on human flesh?'

Jude sets his things down and turns to face them. "Sorry to spring this on you, but thank you for showing up. I've been very curious about you two since before the term began," he says. "I was there at the Sandoli International Competition, so I've seen you perform together."

He speaks swiftly and directly with no regard for the fact that he's uttered a forbidden word. Louis sits up straighter, ready to attack or defend himself. Harry slouches in his seat, wishing he could disappear.

"You two are some of the best I've seen, if not the best," Jude goes on. "And I've worked with quite a lot of people. Particularly as a duet, you're unparalleled."

Harry tries to maintain eye contact with the professor. He doesn't want him to know, or perhaps he doesn't want Louis to know: How little he's moved on, how poorly he's recovered. Unparalleled isn't how he would describe himself back then. He remembers his palms sweating so badly that any second he knew he would drop his instrument. He remembers the error he made at the very end. Within the last five notes. Like an ill-pitched dying breath.

"For two boys so young. Ten years old, and so confident and determined," Jude says. "And Harry, of course, I was so sorry to hear about the awful tragedy following the event— "

"Sorry, professor," Louis interrupts. "Where exactly are you going with this?"

Jude lifts his brows. "Oh, right, well— Chopin's Nocturne No. 20 in C-Sharp Minor. I'd love to have you perform it again at our recital this term. Together, of course."

"We haven't worked together in years," Harry finds it in himself to say.

Jude shrugs. "Doesn't seem like a problem. How about we assess your skills right now?"

Harry and Louis look at one another. They haven't shared a common thought in years either, but they seem to decide at once that their new professor is insane.