Hogwarts: Echoes of Mischief

Trust wasn't something I handed out like sweets at a festival. It wasn't about being stingy; it was survival. You gave too much away, and the world would take every inch of you until there was nothing left but a hollow space where something like hope used to be.

So, I didn't.

I built walls instead—high, solid ones fortified with sarcasm. A sharp quip here, a dry remark there. It was armor that didn't gleam but worked all the same. It let me move through life without anyone getting close enough to see the cracks underneath.

Take Solace, for instance. You could almost feel the room tilt when he walked in, all confidence and charm, like he'd stepped off a painting meant to make people swoon. That grin of his? A little crooked, a little too perfect, like he'd borrowed it from someone who didn't know what trouble meant.

"You're quiet today, Finn," he said once, leaning against the edge of a weathered table, arms crossed lazily like he had all the time in the world.

I'd glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "I figured I'd let someone else take the spotlight for once. Didn't want to outshine you."

He laughed, the sound as warm as sunlight spilling through old windows. For a moment, I almost let myself enjoy it. But Solace was like fire—you could admire the glow, but get too close, and you'd end up burned.

Ellie was different. Everything about her sparkled, from her eyes to the way she talked, words tumbling out like she couldn't decide which thought to say first. She had this knack for pulling you into her world, even when you weren't sure you wanted to go.

"Finn," she said one day, hopping into a seat across from me, her voice bright with curiosity. "What's your favorite thing to do when you're not… you know, being so you?"

I tilted my head, pretending to consider it. "Oh, I don't know. Taming lions? Writing sonnets? Practicing my Oscar-winning acceptance speeches?"

Her laughter burst out, quick and effervescent, and for a second, the corners of my mouth twitched up, unbidden.

But Ellie had this way of digging too deep, asking questions that lingered like echoes. "What's your family like? Do they laugh as much as you do?"

I'd swallowed hard, the words sticking like stones in my throat. "They manage."

That was the thing about Ellie—she never realized when she was tapping on doors better left closed.

And then there was Marlowe. He didn't talk much, but when he did, his words were like stones dropped into still water, rippling out and making you think about things you didn't want to.

One night, when the fire was low and shadows stretched long across the walls, he said, "You know, you could let people in sometimes."

I'd snorted softly, pulling my jacket tighter around my shoulders. "I'm in. Isn't that enough?"

His gaze had lingered, quiet but heavy, like he was sifting through every word I'd ever said and finding what I hadn't. "Maybe. But I think you're more scared than you let on."

The silence after that was too loud, pressing into the spaces I thought I'd filled with cleverness and wit.

The truth was, I liked these people—Solace with his golden grin, Ellie with her endless questions, Marlowe with his unnerving insight. But liking someone wasn't the same as trusting them.

Trust meant risking the parts of yourself you kept hidden, the ones even you weren't sure you wanted to see. It meant taking off the armor and hoping the world wouldn't cut too deep.

So, I stayed on the outskirts, where it was safe. Where I could crack jokes and keep things light, where no one had to see the parts of me that weren't so shiny.

But late at night, when the fire was low and the world felt a little less sharp, I wondered. What if I let them in? What if, for once, I let myself believe in something other than my walls?

For now, though, I stayed where I was—watching, laughing, deflecting. Because sarcasm? It might not keep you warm, but it never let you down either.