When he was more himself again, in the morning, or in a few days or a few weeks from now, Jimmy would be embarrassed at being so broken: he had never wanted to seem soft, soft and helpless and weak.
He wasn’t a baby; he was only a year and a while from turning seventeen. Maybe Hogwarts had done it to him, made him soft – living in comfort, cooped up in a castle where the worst thing that could possibly happen to him was being given lines to write or a dunce cap to wear. Compare that with the way his life had been before, back in Italy with Alessandro looming in every corner, or even running errands in Hestia’s world, where he had seen bad enough things and Hestia had almost certainly seen worse. Maybe life with Great-Gran had done this to him, too. Hogsmeade was too small and familiar to fear; and Great-Gran was always there, and always the same, and her kitchen always smelled of the same three soups on rotation.
Had always smelled. Wouldn’t anymore. Jimmy scrubbed his face with the palm of his hand, trying to fight the urge to feel sorry for himself, to feel alone. Because he wasn’t – Hestia was here – Hestia would let him stay. Or, rather, Hestia was making him stay. To his ear, it was less an invitation and more an instruction. (If he had gotten used to following anyone’s instructions, it was Hestia’s.)
She was sitting beside him now, and rubbing his back. Jimmy collapsed slightly into her, leaning his head on her shoulder, suddenly desperately tired but uncertain he would ever be able to go to sleep like this. “Thanks,” he mumbled into her sleeve. “It’s just for tonight, I swear.” Then he would force himself to go home and pull himself together. He just – didn’t want to be alone.
He wasn’t a baby; he was only a year and a while from turning seventeen. Maybe Hogwarts had done it to him, made him soft – living in comfort, cooped up in a castle where the worst thing that could possibly happen to him was being given lines to write or a dunce cap to wear. Compare that with the way his life had been before, back in Italy with Alessandro looming in every corner, or even running errands in Hestia’s world, where he had seen bad enough things and Hestia had almost certainly seen worse. Maybe life with Great-Gran had done this to him, too. Hogsmeade was too small and familiar to fear; and Great-Gran was always there, and always the same, and her kitchen always smelled of the same three soups on rotation.
Had always smelled. Wouldn’t anymore. Jimmy scrubbed his face with the palm of his hand, trying to fight the urge to feel sorry for himself, to feel alone. Because he wasn’t – Hestia was here – Hestia would let him stay. Or, rather, Hestia was making him stay. To his ear, it was less an invitation and more an instruction. (If he had gotten used to following anyone’s instructions, it was Hestia’s.)
She was sitting beside him now, and rubbing his back. Jimmy collapsed slightly into her, leaning his head on her shoulder, suddenly desperately tired but uncertain he would ever be able to go to sleep like this. “Thanks,” he mumbled into her sleeve. “It’s just for tonight, I swear.” Then he would force himself to go home and pull himself together. He just – didn’t want to be alone.
