It started with whispers.
Snickers behind hands. Passing comments too loud to be mistakes.
This morning, the other students were at it again — throwing digs at your clothes, the way you talk, the softness in your voice. Nothing direct, just enough venom to sting.
You didn’t react, but Alastor did.
You saw it in the way his fork stabbed his tray too hard during lunch. His eyes didn’t leave you, but they were burning — fuming — beneath the surface.
You sat across from him in the cafeteria, trying to act normal.
“They’re idiots,” he muttered, his jaw tight.
You shrugged, picking at your food. “Let it go, Alastor. I’m used to it.”
He didn’t answer at first, just looked at you. And then he sighed, pulling your hand into his under the table.
“Fine,” he said. “For you.”
The afternoon came and went quietly. You were assigned to clean the library, which was fine — peaceful, even. The smell of old pages was oddly comforting, like the world had finally gone still.
Until the door slammed open.
You turned, startled, as your classmate came rushing in, breathless and pale.
“A-Alastor got into a fight—!! Out back—! The yard—!”
Your heart dropped like a stone in your chest. “What?”
You didn’t wait. You ran.
Books, silence, everything left behind as your feet pounded down the hallway and out through the school’s back entrance. Around the corner, behind the building — and there it was.
A blur of fists.
Three guys. All older. One of them already on the ground.
And Alastor.
He was on top of one, fists clenched, rage in every movement — like he’d snapped. You froze for a second, watching his eyes, the bruise blooming on his lip, blood dripping slowly from the corner.
He raised his fist again—
“Alastor!”
Your voice cracked.
He stopped mid-swing.
His eyes lifted to you. His fist trembled, still in the air. And slowly, reluctantly, he let the guy go.
The boy under him gasped, scrambling away.
Alastor stood up, panting, bruised and shaking.
Everyone around you was silent.
You took a step closer. He wouldn’t meet your eyes.
“I told you to let it go,” you whispered.
He licked the blood from his lip, finally looking at you — eyes dark and hurt.
“I tried. But then I saw them laughing. Laughing like you didn’t matter.”
You said nothing.
He stepped closer, voice breaking slightly.
“Don’t look at me like that... like you’re scared of me.”