Ah -- so you did hear my little temper fit, then. I'd hoped you'd already left for Buckingham. (When will you be back to sleeping here, anyway? Or is that a complex question? I can join you, if you'd like; I am only sleeping here out of habit. Well, out of habit and because if I have lost my sanctuary at Hogwarts, I will defend Cottesmore with my last breath, but I suppose that much is a given.)
At any rate. It isn't just that he's come down so firmly on the Phoenix's side; I told Perks, and I was not lying, that I'm proud of them all for having chosen a cause and dedicated themselves to it, even if it's not the side I chose. (And even though that pride will not change how I must now treat them.) It isn't even the waste of potential, or the fact he is undoubtedly going to use that training against us: I am confident either you or I could prevail against him in a fight, under the "old age and treachery" clause; he is good, preternaturally so, but he still has a great deal of experience to go.
No, I find it's the premeditation that bothers me. And you're more right than you know. Do you know -- he told me on Sunday, that being the proximate cause for my little fit of redecoration, that he isn't the children of Squibs after all: he is Muggleborn. And he's been plotting this the whole way. Every helpful gesture, every listening ear, every cup of coffee brought at the tail end of a late night, every bit of assistance proffered. Every offer to spar, every bit of backup on a mission. It's all been carefully calculated, all along.
If it had only been that he looked at both sides of the equation and decided one would have to be a madman to follow the madman-whose-name-I-shall-never-write-again, that would be one thing, but for him to have been plotting from the start, and for me to have missed it, for so long? I feel like an idiot. And so damnably foolish. I was better at this, once upon a time. Perhaps it is only that my heart has not been in the cause, not for too damn long. Or perhaps I am getting old and slow, and this is a sign.
I'm sorry, lapushka, I'm clearly suffering from an extra helping of Russian fatalism tonight. Best if we keep this from Bella (and Rod), I suppose. It will only complicate things further.
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At any rate. It isn't just that he's come down so firmly on the Phoenix's side; I told Perks, and I was not lying, that I'm proud of them all for having chosen a cause and dedicated themselves to it, even if it's not the side I chose. (And even though that pride will not change how I must now treat them.) It isn't even the waste of potential, or the fact he is undoubtedly going to use that training against us: I am confident either you or I could prevail against him in a fight, under the "old age and treachery" clause; he is good, preternaturally so, but he still has a great deal of experience to go.
No, I find it's the premeditation that bothers me. And you're more right than you know. Do you know -- he told me on Sunday, that being the proximate cause for my little fit of redecoration, that he isn't the children of Squibs after all: he is Muggleborn. And he's been plotting this the whole way. Every helpful gesture, every listening ear, every cup of coffee brought at the tail end of a late night, every bit of assistance proffered. Every offer to spar, every bit of backup on a mission. It's all been carefully calculated, all along.
If it had only been that he looked at both sides of the equation and decided one would have to be a madman to follow the madman-whose-name-I-shall-never-write-again, that would be one thing, but for him to have been plotting from the start, and for me to have missed it, for so long? I feel like an idiot. And so damnably foolish. I was better at this, once upon a time. Perhaps it is only that my heart has not been in the cause, not for too damn long. Or perhaps I am getting old and slow, and this is a sign.
I'm sorry, lapushka, I'm clearly suffering from an extra helping of Russian fatalism tonight. Best if we keep this from Bella (and Rod), I suppose. It will only complicate things further.