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15.
IT'S a week before Dillion can go back to the dormitories. A week. All because someone had had the bright idea to irritate his scratches, leading Reselda to assume they were either infected, cursed, or he was intentionally harming himself. He'd been allowed to go to class a few days later, once she'd decided bandaging and movement wasn't going to worsen them, but he'd still had to return every night.
Now, he walks the halls a liberated man. A pained, but free man. It feels as if he's been gone for years. The routine has remained the same, and yet he has the disorientation of an outsider. In classes, they reference lessons he missed; time has passed without him. He knows, realistically, there's little he needs to catch up on. But he feels as if everyone is miles ahead him. He never wants to miss another class again.
Another sign that the world continued while he was absent is that the preparation for the career interviews has been and gone. Dillion doesn't even realise they've started until Favian informs him he has his interview the evening he was allowed out. He's missed the pamphlets, the chance to gather information. He's barely even had time to prepare mentally, or find out from his friends what this entails.
Nerves rattle around Dillion's body as he stands outside the door and, if he had been asked, he wouldn't be able to say why. The career interview is there to help him, to guide him in his preparation for his future. It's not a test. It's not a trial. And yet, his mouth is so dry, his heart rate so heavy, he'd have thought he was about to pitch happiness to a den of dementors.
Favian's office is impeccably orderly. Everything seems to have its place, not a single parchment, book, or quill out of place. The bookshelves that line the walls are full of books arranged both in height and colour. The neatness only adds to the intimidation of the meeting. Dillion feels, just by sitting down across from the professor, he's somehow knocked dust particles out of their place.
"So, Mr. Lux, what do you want to do with your life?" Favian asks as he takes a few sheets of paper and places them in the centre of his desk, in front of him. When they've found their spot, he clasps his hands together and rests them just underneath the paper. From where he's sitting, all Dillion can read is his name and a list of his classes. "Where do you see yourself in five years?"
What does he want to do? The question rolls around his head as if charmed with some echo spell. No answer awaits it, mind drawing blank. He should have an answer. There should be one waiting on the tip of his tongue, full of confidence, a plan already laid out for him. There should have been little point to this interview, save for perhaps checking in that his grades are on the right track. He's been preparing for this question for years. This question is his existence. He'd lived and breathed this question for fifteen years.
Michael, as the eldest born, had had a career laid out for him. He would enter the Ministry, play the perfect host, and take over for his father within the Wizengamot when he resigned. The only reason that would ever not be his life is if he disgraced the family or chose to abdicate. Otherwise, that would be his fate. As it would be his child's, when he had one. But the chances of it every being Dillion's life had been slim. With Michael's record and insufferable enthusiasm, it had been essentially impossible.
