In the days that Sloane had been gone, Cameron had exhausted every hobby, every interest, every possible task. He may have given up his dream of healing, but that hadn't stopped him from going back into his journal to reorganize his thoughts and deadlines under the guise of "being responsible". In reality, he was miserably doing everything possible not to go mad with worry.
He hadn't been like this before. When Sloane had fallen in the lake over the summer, he hadn't fretted when she'd caught a cold, and he knew if she'd came down with pneumonia then he wouldn't have fussed over her as he did now. She was her own person, sure, but she was his person, and after all the emotional turmoil this year he feared losing the one constant he'd grown used to: Sloane. He felt like a stranger within his own friend group without her seated beside him, and he knew he looked out of place, too; on more than one occasion he'd been asked if he was alright, to which he'd obligatorily answered "yes". But he wasn't. Sloane was sick—very sick—and there was nothing he could do about it nor any proper way to handle the emotions.
The library was an easy place to go. It was quiet, large enough to find a secluded corner, and filled with books on every subject under the sun. After thirty minutes of wandering he'd picked out four books: one lower-level potions book for review, one book on magical myths and legends, one on great wizards of the seventeenth century, and one advanced defensive magic book just for the fun of it. He'd failed to make it past the second page in any of them. He'd finally given up and pulled out the spare parchment he'd brought with him, his quill scribbling across the page as he attempted to copy the illustrations in the book. He was no good, but it was mindless work and that's precisely what he needed.
He considered going back to the common room, or maybe the Astronomy tower. The Astronomy professor rarely questioned why students chose to study and would even write excuses if they stayed past curfew. It was a good escape. Maybe. But then, just has he'd finished a poorly-executed drawing of a cauldron, he heard a voice. Her voice.
Cameron whirled around in his chair, mouth agape. His eyes went wide as he realized it was her—Sloane—standing right in front of him with a book tucked under her arm. He had about a dozen questions, the first being "Where did you come from?" but he was unable to find his words and instead stood up, took a step forward, and crushed her in a hug. Thank Merlin for the mazelike rows of shelves that kept them out of the librarian's view.
"You didn't tell me you were coming," he said as he squeezed her, not an accusation, but a statement.
He hadn't been like this before. When Sloane had fallen in the lake over the summer, he hadn't fretted when she'd caught a cold, and he knew if she'd came down with pneumonia then he wouldn't have fussed over her as he did now. She was her own person, sure, but she was his person, and after all the emotional turmoil this year he feared losing the one constant he'd grown used to: Sloane. He felt like a stranger within his own friend group without her seated beside him, and he knew he looked out of place, too; on more than one occasion he'd been asked if he was alright, to which he'd obligatorily answered "yes". But he wasn't. Sloane was sick—very sick—and there was nothing he could do about it nor any proper way to handle the emotions.
The library was an easy place to go. It was quiet, large enough to find a secluded corner, and filled with books on every subject under the sun. After thirty minutes of wandering he'd picked out four books: one lower-level potions book for review, one book on magical myths and legends, one on great wizards of the seventeenth century, and one advanced defensive magic book just for the fun of it. He'd failed to make it past the second page in any of them. He'd finally given up and pulled out the spare parchment he'd brought with him, his quill scribbling across the page as he attempted to copy the illustrations in the book. He was no good, but it was mindless work and that's precisely what he needed.
He considered going back to the common room, or maybe the Astronomy tower. The Astronomy professor rarely questioned why students chose to study and would even write excuses if they stayed past curfew. It was a good escape. Maybe. But then, just has he'd finished a poorly-executed drawing of a cauldron, he heard a voice. Her voice.
Cameron whirled around in his chair, mouth agape. His eyes went wide as he realized it was her—Sloane—standing right in front of him with a book tucked under her arm. He had about a dozen questions, the first being "Where did you come from?" but he was unable to find his words and instead stood up, took a step forward, and crushed her in a hug. Thank Merlin for the mazelike rows of shelves that kept them out of the librarian's view.
"You didn't tell me you were coming," he said as he squeezed her, not an accusation, but a statement.
