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Jaxon Sinclair

Clipped wings, I was a broken thing

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Jaxon Sinclair

Prior to Hogwarts, Jaxon Sinclair had been a little bit of a social recluse.  Largely, this was explainable (if not forgivable) by the fact that he was a wizard living in a village full of muggles, bound by a need for secrecy that had been birthed by fear, ignorance, and intolerance.  Not all of it could be attributed to the abilities he possessed that other little boys in the village distinctly lacked, however.  Some of it was a simple side-effect of his aversion to social settings and to people in general.  He was not, by nature, a nice boy.  He did not often have nice things to say about people, despite the age-old adage passed down to him by his mother that if he didn't have anything nice to say, then he shouldn't say anything at all.  He did not often have nice things to think about people, either, and so on the rare occasions that he was forced to interact with children his own age, the results had never been positive.

At least, until he'd come to Hogwarts.

Somehow, between then and now, some miraculous little thing had wriggled into his chest and made him reach out to people, made him tolerate more, made him want human interaction on a level that he didn't recognize and was still, for the most part, uncomfortable with.  Somehow, he'd grown used to company and he craved the attention of his friends.  He'd even, on some level, grown a jealous streak in regards to some of them.  

Still, in his heart of hearts, deep beneath the skin and kept intentionally hidden, Jack didn't really believe that he deserved any of the attention that they so freely gave to him...as if he were like them.  As if nothing about him made distance necessary and it was jarring for a boy who had grown so used to distant being more than necessary...to distance being required.

He'd been foolish to believe Kelby all the times she'd said that he was a good friend.  He'd been foolish to let himself care, to let his guard down, to be stupid enough to think that he deserved any of them.

Kelby had done him a favor when she'd gotten angry and taken it all back in the dueling chamber just fifteen minutes before Jack's heated arrival in the Armor Gallery with a heated face, clenched fists, and eyes that stung of tears that finally, in the privacy of the Armor Gallery (which wasn't really private at all and made no promises of staying that way) left searing marks on his cheeks, clouding his vision even with his glasses on and Jack felt betrayed by his own self-control.

She was right, anyway.  He was a jerk.  He was cruel and he was demanding and he was paranoid about his own role in their little crew but Kelby didn't really know why.  Maybe if she had...

Jack shook his head, wiping furiously at his face while he stared into the chest of a suit of armor, reflecting a warped but obviously red reflection of his face back at him.  He had to keep sliding his glasses up to scrub his cheeks until finally, after a moment of disdainfully glaring at a reflection he felt such loathing for, he took them off.

Better not to see it.  Easier to hate that way.

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