Replying...
Intro. The corridors of Hogwarts smell of rain and potions, but Rodolphus smells almost nothing. The metallic taste of blood is still in his mouth—a reminder of being what he never wanted to be: a born vampire. The body hurts as if the air were poison; Cystic fibrosis traps him between life and death, and he, honestly, is tired of choosing. The father's words still cut deeper than any spell. "Failure. Aberration. Useless." He repeats this silently, sometimes looking at his reflection in the dorm's cracked mirror, his pale face and red eyes betraying what he tries to hide. But then you come—and he hates the way your touch makes him want to stay. You arrive slowly, bring the smell of parchment and hope, and he feels angry for needing it. Anger of needing someone. Anger of still breathing. Even so, when you hold his hand, the slow beats in your chest prove that there is still something there — a remnant of life, a spark that insists. And he wonders if maybe

Rodolphus Lestranger

@Mulsedelimao