A year ago, if someone told Justýna that she and Marek Sarka would be holding hands under a tree in Vyšehrad Park, she would have laughed out loud at the absurdity. And yet… here they were, doing just that, basking in the June sunlight like nothing had ever happened those two summers ago. Like they hadn’t exchanged a single owl in over a year, prior to learning they’d be attending the same school last term. Like their Stormweaving paired project hadn’t ended in shambles within an hour’s time. Things actually felt as though they could be back to normal between them.
It was the most disconcerting and the most comforting sensation, all at once.
Justýna was not naïve, though. Part of her logical mind knew that she should not – could not – simply forget all about what had caused the rift between them in the first place in light of his selflessness at the end of this past term; but the other part would not allow her to factor that out of consideration, either. He could have left her to fend for herself but he hadn’t – he had come back for her, and seen her safe. That certainly warranted hefty consideration.
The most calculating, objective part of her mind knew she should resist the urge to lapse into old habits without some sort of formal reconciliation, or maybe even indefinitely; but her rarely-dominant emotional part of her insisted on throwing all caution out the window for the time being. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed him until he had – in part – returned to her, and now that she had re-sampled, she wasn’t quite prepared to distance herself from it once again.
The corner of her small mouth curled wryly at his comment. Justýna was still in a state of semi-disbelief; not quite outright shock, since the Headmistress had been becoming steadily less sane and more unstable as term progressed. So much so that her unprovoked attack on the student body didn’t seem like that much of a stretch. A horrifying realization, to be certain.
“We – well, I, mostly – have you to thank for that,” she murmured softly, giving his hand a quick, affectionate squeeze. It was very likely true: Justýna had been very close to the front of the room, and Marek had helped provide cover (and morale) as the pair of them darted among the overturned tables on their way out of the Grand Hall. He had also helped to look after her when the table had exploded behind her, giving her a solid concussion that left her so nauseated once the adrenaline wore off that she could barely stand.
“Here’s hoping I didn’t inadvertently throw up on you as payment for your efforts,” she teased lightly.
Justýna’s dove-gray eyes were lightly closed (she was still a bit sensitive to light), the clouds drifting lazily above them; but she could feel him looking at her. After a moment she let her head fall to the side and opened her eyes, squinting slightly at the sudden brightness before finding his bottomless blue gaze.
“What do you think it’s going to be like next term?”
The sandy blonde bit her lip. Unsurprisingly, gossip had spread throughout the Ministry like wildfire following the end-of-term incident; though Papa said he hadn’t overheard anything credible as of yet. The unofficial consensus seemed to be that, unless a dramatically new approach was taken, another attempt to combine the schools would almost certainly end in disaster. Justýna herself couldn’t see how the Ministry couldn’t not reopen Koldovstoretz given all of the hostility; especially with the death of a student, and even more so after the now-former Headmistress’s breakdown.
If Koldovstoretz did reopen, though… then she would almost certainly be going back. Her heart gave a brief twinge at the thought. But no, it was the only way… Mama and Papa would never let her stay after everything that had happened, even though she had told them how Marek had risked his own safety to come back for her (which, she noted, they mostly withheld comment about). They wouldn’t risk her safety with others who might still be hostile. And there was Milana to consider, too. No, she would have to go back to Koldovstoretz.
She wasn’t entirely sure she was ready to voluntarily bring that up for discussion, though. Not just yet…
“I don’t know,” she answered carefully, her brow furrowed in thought. “If the schools stay merged… could be much better, or much worse. I don’t think anyone liked the Headmistress, so there’s a plus for bonding over mutual dislike,” – her mouth twisted grimly at that – “but at the same time it could turn the Durmstrang natives even further away from the idea. As in that… episode… was proof of what they’d been saying all along.”
She stopped short there, feeling a bit awkward for the first time that afternoon. She was referring to the Durmstrang natives as though one of them wasn’t lying just a few feet away, hand-in-hand with her. Justýna was almost certain that she’d overheard him and his cousin, Sabina, plotting protests and petitions and everything under the sun to dispel the merger. He spoke so casually now, though…
“How do you feel about all of this?” she asked pointedly, rolling slightly onto her side and searching his face with interest. Had his motivation for revoking the merge been rooted in their tumultuous relationship? She knew the Sarkas were proud Purebloods, as a general premise… but in light of recent events she was very curious to know more. Was he still so opposed to combining the schools, now that things had changed between them?
