Sander Sides One Shots

Worth It chp 2 by MayaTL

[Heres chapter two. remember please go give some love to the actual author. And i will start on my own oneshots I have gotten requests for.]

He haunts the halls like a ghost in a body it no longer desires, never resting, never stopping, never seeing, not even as the students move out of his path with painful recognition and pity in their eyes, nor as most of the teachers he brushes by instinctively reach out to comfort him before pulling back, because they know as well as he does—as anyone does—that it would be in vain. Any touch he would not feel and any words would not reach his ears.

There was always only one who could bring him healing and now he is no more, and none will ever be whom he longs for.

There is no comfort for him.

He heads down a corridor gone silent, with students shut behind thick and heavy doors, engaged in lectures they stubbornly choose to take with heavy hearts and red rimmed eyes, and lets his feet guide him to a place he has memorized inch by inch and could find his way to in the dark.

The quiet would have been a blessing in a time past, but now it does not register. It does not reach him. Nothing ever will.

More often than not his mind is desolate and empty, but for once he lets it wander.

He has never known the greatest school of witchcraft and wizardry in its time of glory, the one glimpse he had gotten of it turning him away from everything it stood for, but even he knows it will never be the same again.

The Slytherin commons are suffocating in their stillness and the mermaids never show their faces around anymore; he wouldn't have known that if not for the others to tell him, but he can confirm it, since now he no longer sleeps under the stars, the peaceful night sky replaced with a glass dome weighed down by a black lake. He would have found the prospect terrifying once, but now he doesn't have much of a choice.

He has no other place to stay.

The proud tower of the Gryffindor common house is dark and shadowed with its true age, as if the magic that has been holding it together for centuries is suddenly starting to fade. The quidditch field is colourless and bland, in disarray from lack of use.

He has never seen the house of Ravenclaw, though by the frequency with which he spots any students clad in blue and bronze—close to zero, as a matter of fact—when his mind is clear enough to take notice, he would guess they are fairing no better than any others.

Even the Hufflepuff commons are eerily tense and quiet, but understandably so; it's the only place in the castle where one cannot hear echoes of barely contained sobs. No one ever mentions it.

He takes a turn and bumps shoulders with a passing figure; they stagger awkwardly for a brief second, but he carries on without acknowledging them and sees no more than that. He doesn't question why a student would be out in the halls at this time and on this side of the school, whereas everyone else is taking classes behind closed doors.

His body finds its spot easily, like a trained mechanism, and he stares pointedly yet without strength for heat in a spot just under the horizon, at the trees of the forest surrounding the hills. His mind is far away and his legs dangle over the edge numbly, not even swaying in the breeze that he should be feeling at this height, but he knows exactly what he's staring at. He's long abandoned any feverish desire of taking the nearest broom and bolting it back there, or even walking the distance if necessary, just to make sure... because he had to be sure.

They had explained to him the nature of a forbidden curse, though he had only been listening with one ear. The professor who had taught that lesson had tried to be gentle, they clearly had no intention of upsetting him further, but their voice had broken before they could finish. It was no matter. He had heard enough.

He still could have gone, to satisfy his need to see for himself, but it would have been pointless.

The would be no body.

There would be nothing left.

He feels a hand on his shoulder—strange, he thinks vaguely—and it's heavy with purpose, pressing into his muscles just a little bit, though not enough to come off as harsh; just enough so that he would feel it regardless of what state of numbness he happened to be in. It's the hand of someone who knows him well.

He doesn't know how long he's been staring, but he notes with a dull tone if disinterest that the sun is starting to set.

He doesn't know how long it takes him to slowly, so very slowly, raise his head and turn to the body attached to the hand, or even how long it takes him to pair the face above him with a name; too long, he thinks absentmindedly, because he can't think of one, but he meets a pair of eyes he recognizes. They aren't yellow or snake like anymore, but he knows them still, and his brain tells him it's odd that it's him and not his brother—he has a brother?—who is staring down at him.

He sees black and yellow on his clothes and a memory brushes by, of glowing eyes looking at him with horrifying realization, but now they only hold carefully guarded understanding.

Virgil watches without really seeing as he sits next to him, and he has time to remember that he does have a brother; twin brother, in fact, and people can only tell them apart because one wears glasses and the other doesn't.

He reaches out with a gloved hand—he doesn't like touching people very much, his mind supplies helpfully—and brushes a thumb over his right cheek with a gentleness that is surprising for some reason. He does the same thing to the other side of his face and then reaches an arm over his shoulders with cautious movements, like he's handling something made of glass, pulling him into a very light side hug.

Virgil doesn't realize he's crying until his head meets soft fabric, still doesn't know how long he's been crying for, and his face shows nothing and he's still empty inside, but the weight of an arm across his back is grounding and he's thankful for it.

"I miss him."

He doesn't know it's his voice that said it, because it's so empty and terribly hoarse from lack of use, until the fingers around his shoulder noticeably tighten.

He doesn't need him to say it back to know he misses him too.

They all do.

They all know why he did what he did, that without his sacrifice none would be where they are now, that if he were still alive and a similar situation arose he would do the same thing again, without hesitation.

Logan would have looked him in the eye with a tenderness he knew was reserved only for him and told him, with that passion he used whenever something he strongly believed in was concerned, that the world was worth saving.

No...

The sun disappears beneath the line of the horizon and the shadowy outline of the trees fades into the darkness.

...it's not.

He gazes over a world without Logan in it, a world that has everything to offer, and had there been any strength left in him he would have laughed, because his everything is already gone.

It comes out in a sob, and the fingers on his shoulder hold tighter.

It's not worth it.