Character; Terence Higgs
When he was a child, Terence was absorbed in reading the old novels that positively littered his family library. He spent every afternoon in an antique armchair, which had once been owned by his great-great grandmother, and read for hours, getting lost in worlds far away from the dismal city of London and his own estate. The stories would always end happily, usually with a beautiful princess, smiling wistfully at her saviour, who was often a suave and brave prince. Terence would secretly have a small smirk tugging on his own lips, and he’d always wonder if a beautiful princess or perhaps even a prince would someday appear in the rose gardens, and take him miles away from his father’s cold stares, and his mother’s constantly coddling. Sometimes, when the night was especially cold and dark, Terence dreamed of white castles, blond hair, and freedom. The dreams always ended, but Terence never gave up hope of leaving.
But it never happened, and Terence wondered why.
When he turned ten, Terence had a horrible accident. He wasn’t sure how it happened, he only knew that it did happen. It was a sunny day, perfect for flying, and his father had insisted he give Quidditch a try. Holding back the hopeful thought that his father would be proud of his efforts and reward him, Terence grabbed his broom from the shed, and began to soar without a care, even though he was afraid of heights and of falling. The next minute there was a loud crash, and Terence could taste the blood in his mouth, and see the sky change from blue to black. He woke up to a beautiful young man leaning over him, much like the prince in the fairy tales. He learned this was Adonis Warrington, an older boy who lived only about a mile or two away, and held more prestige than most boys three or fours years older than him. Terence was unable to utter a ‘thank you’ when Adonis brushed his lips across his forehead, and whispered that he would be there to help if he needed anything. Before Terence fell into a deep sleep, he thought he heard Adonis breath the words ‘petit ange’, whatever they meant.
But Adonis never said them again, and Terence wondered why.
When he turned fourteen, Terence was a cynical little thing, with hard eyes and a sharp jaw. He was extremely sensual for one so young, already having lost his virginity the year before to Adonis, who he now considered to be a noble warrior, instead of a soft prince. He is always dressed in the finest clothing, though he lets his trousers hang slightly too low, and he would sway his hips slightly with every step he took, even at the elegant family gatherings, which were often held. At the last event, his cousin, Calvin, had breathed in his ear, and told him how beautiful his slender body made him look, like a nymph from the myths of the ancient Greeks. One evening shortly after, while Terence strolled the streets of London, a muggle boy approached him, asking for directions in a whisper, his eyes wide and frantic. Terence only sneered at him, and pushed him aside, not wanting to be late for an event that didn’t exist. The boy cried, tears trailing down his cheeks, and muttered something about being unable to find his mother. When he told Calvin of the ‘stupid muggle’, he laughed, and Terence joined in.
But an inkling of remorse tingled his skin, and Terence wondered why.
When he turned eighteen, Terence believed himself to be the perfect idol of his uncle Evan. His features were like his dead uncle’s in every way, and whenever he visited his mother, she would gush, and her eyes would twinkle with admiration. Terence barely noticed how his father was never around, and how when he was around, would only say one or two words to him. And it hurt. Once, moments before his father rushed out the door, Terence caught up to him, only to find the door slammed in his face, his father gone. “I hate him,” he told Adonis, folding his arms across his chest indignantly. “I’m every fucking thing he could want, and he still pushes me away.”
Adonis smirked in reply, and he kissed both of Terence’s cheeks. “There is something you can do,” he answered, before he told Terence about the Death Eaters. Terence had heard of them, of course, but never like this. They flashed in his mind like the knights he used to read about ages ago, and he grinned up at Adonis, knowing what his destiny was.
But his arm burned, making him grimace in pain for months, and Terence wondered why.
When he turned twenty, Terence never acknowledged he was losing control. Every night was spent in a different misty club, and he would giggle as older men, with sneaky, leering grins reached out to touch him, offering to buy him drinks. Their words lingered in his ears, and Terence always purred as their hands wandered up his thigh, even though something in the back of his mind would shout, and protest. The alcohol always numbed the screams of the dead. It was almost as if the raids were a dream, a horrible dream that would end, just like the dreams of princes and freedom.
Once, when Terence woke up from another long night, feeling sore and hungover, he spotted one his books by his bedside. He didn’t know how it got there, and he didn’t particularly care. He growled, pushing his sheets aside, and ignored the bags under his eyes as he threw the novel in the fireplace, and watched it burn slowly. “There’s no such thing as love,” he sneered, the small cut on his mouth from a particularly rough fuck bleeding, dribbling down his chin slowly.
But he still looked for it, and Terence wondered why.
When he turned twenty-four, his life was a terrible nightmare, with quick twist and turns, making him wish that each day would be the last. Nothing made sense anymore. He did love again. Alaine was a darling girl, and almost like the little sister he never had. Then she was swiftly murdered, and Terence wept at the sight of her slit throat, still remembering her blood stain his fingers. When he asked his mother why she died, she frowned and said nothing. He was disowned the next day, and love had once again vanished from sight, only to become a bittersweet, cruel lie.
He didn’t need them, Terence decided. His family never had done anything for him. Instead, he found himself growing closer to the blood traitors and mudbloods of society. Especially Justin. Terence couldn’t help but be drawn to his hair, it was so blond and looked so soft, like the pictures of the heroes in his books, and sometimes he would subconsciously picture himself stroking it gently, even though he had a girlfriend. It was odd for a person who didn’t believe in love to laugh at another’s jokes, and blush at another’s compliments, but Terence couldn’t stop it for his emotions were acting all too fast to control. Then, it was gone. Just like every other gift he had received, Terence had destroyed it with a flick of his wand, and the lies he had grown to be talented at performing.
“He meant nothing,” Terence told himself firmly, tears stinging his eyes.
But he longed for having Justin again, and Terence wondered why.
When he turned twenty-six, Terence had more trouble sleeping for his nightmares were plagued with endless screams, and glares, and darkness, and shattered hearts. He walked slowly up to his bedchamber, his Dark Mark hurting and making his arm and fingers numb, and he held the small bottle in his fist tightly, as if he’d drop it any second. He laid down on his bed, and let out a staggering breath, his heart pounding loudly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,” he breathed to no one, but his own raging thoughts of emptiness, war, and forgotten love.
Without another word escaping his dry lips, Terence tilted his head back, drinking the cloudy liquid, and he whimpered, white pain tracing his pale skin. He shut his eyes, his dark eyelashes fluttering, and he fell into an endless sleep, hoping he would be free, at least.
The next morning, one of his wealthier cousins found him dead, and he relished in the delight of having his riches. When Terence’s suicide reached the Daily Prophet, no one paid much attention. These things happen every day, after all, especially during dark times of such anguish. However, the Auror who had invested the case, looked down at Terence’s dead body with mild sadness, as his mother stood next to him, rambling aimlessly about where she could find the best crafted coffins. The Auror didn’t remember the answer he gave her, but continued to stare down at Terence, looking at his dark hair, his closed eyes, and pale lips, which were forming a peaceful smile. He shook his head, unable to believe someone of such looks and wealth would take his own life.
But yet the beautiful young man had killed himself, and he wondered why.