Perhaps this is the sort of jolt he needed to stop his disorganized speech, a part of him thought distantly. All he had to do was feel cornered, and nothing would come out of his mouth. “I–”

Slowly, his gaze turned from his sister’s livid face to the map she had shoved into his hands, and his stream of thoughts, already too swift, grew even more erratic: why didn’t his sister understand why wasn’t he allowed to do–when he was…why was he married to someone that…couldn’t anyone see how he was spurred to he felt like he was dying really dying not only from boredom but also why was he so weak and was he really weak or just stupid and he did this because how else could he–

He stops, only because he notices the coolness of the parchment on his forehead, and the slightest trembling of the hands that had brought it there. Without another word, or indeed any emotion, he crumples the map with both hands and, waving his wand over the trash, wordlessly sets it aflame.

As it (a month of preparation, a week of sketching, fifteen drafts) is reduced to a pile of ashes, he does not look up. Do you really think I’d be that stupid with it? he wants to ask. Do you really think I’m that stupid? Instead, the words that come of his mouth are these: “Well–well, it’s…done.” The lack of energy in his voice is so different from just a few minutes prior.