( — 空拳. )

            Pandora briefly considered snapping her lens cap on and settling in to listen to her companion, but she quickly decided against it. This was a conversation that was best had with faces averted, with eyes turned away. It was almost altruistic in a way: what normally followed words like these left an observer feeling vaguely voyeuristic, like they hadn’t been meant to see the leakage that inevitably happened.

            There was a funny thing about grief, the secret that nobody told you: time did not quite make it better. It just made it easier to detach from the memory, to make the pain less urgent. Pandora knew that for a fact. Nearly eighteen years since the fact, and she still felt the absence like a festering sore in her side. It would be a while yet before Henry Nott would learn the bitter truth: that the ache was just something you had to learn to live with; a traitorous companion you learned to anticipate because it would kick you in the gut when you least expected and leave you winded.

            She smiled slightly, snapping a picture of a chattering trio of teenage girls before replying, in a tone somewhere between sad and sympathetic. “It’s weird how normal it feels, isn’t it? Almost like being cheated, because it feels like the whole world ended, yet here is perfect evidence that it didn’t.” She cast him a glance then, a brief meeting of gazes over the viewfinder of her camera. “You’re fine, though. Look at you, dressed and functional and at a wedding. Nobody can begrudge you for not making more effort in socializing than that. Or, well, they can try, but fuck them all, right?”

          He wanted to say something in response. He wanted to nod and agree, muse about how swiftly time had passed, almost a year now and here he was, doing better and worse at the same time. He wanted to spill his guts out, to vomit words because he was drowning in them—too many thoughts and words shackled around his ankles. He wanted to admit to her that he was still lost as ever, wading through pools of sorrow, as helpless as a wounded animal. One prickle and the balloon was going to pop, for Henry Nott had never been hesitant of sharing his emotions. He was unafraid to stand, feelings laid bare, vulnerable but strong.

“My journey there was not as affecting, thus I imagine there must be a measure of truth to that.” Maybe it was true that the direction played a part or perhaps it could also be contributed to his reluctance toward returning to England for any amount of time. The jet lag may fade, but his disinclination only grew. Of course, he could be on the next flight back to Seoul, yet he knew that there was enough guilt gnawing at him that left him continuing to tie up the family’s business affairs instead. He did not want to add to the surmounting weight already eating away at him. Every day, he woke up and forcibly froze out the toll of his invidious decisions. There were injustices that he could not right, but he could attempt to make amends where possible. His youngest uncle had suffered the burden of being the family outcast while carrying the assumptions that came with the family name without reaping any of the benefits. 

Financial gain meant little, Brent knew. Material things held little value when compared to life’s real rewards. His eyes glanced over Henry’s work, a profession that his uncle had chosen because of passion for the truth and dedication to its pursuit. There still remained indications, too, of something even bigger than professional success. Whether it was a matching set of coffee mugs in the cupboard or a side of the bed that had tragically gone cold where it had once been occupied, Brent was certain there were reminders of Henry’s boyfriend everywhere. They were painful reminders, yes, but they were reminders of devotion and companionship. Brent had only had the privilege of meeting Isaac once, but he didn’t need to know the man well to guess the hole that had been left behind. 

Love was the greatest power that existed. Brent acknowledged this. The personal choice to build a life with someone else, the inherit level of trust that took -- it was no matter to take lightly and was worth more than any amount of gold. He could not return his uncle’s partner to him, and he was not sure how well he would be received, but he had to attempt to mend what bridges he could. His hands were no longer tied to prevent him from doing so. “I prefer home-cooked meals myself,” Brent offered as an explanation as he began to roll up his sleeves to begin preparing the bibimbap. He paused in doing so briefly when his peripherals caught the edge of the black mark scarred onto his arm, tugging the cloth downward to just above his elbow to cover it. 

Once the food was ready and their bowls were set in front of them on the table, Brent brought their conversation back around. “You mentioned a new editor at the Prophet? Have they brought a new perspective with them? I am certain that you have journalistic integrity, but my impression of the rest of the Prophet has always been that it is often slanted to the Ministry’s perspective which is unfortunate since it is the only major newspaper circulation available to the British wizarding community. It would serve better as a watchdog of sorts, do you agree?” 

He picked at his uncle’s brain, keeping the subject on one that he was sure to have opinions about considering it was his work. For him to have stuck around through it all, even during the war when the newspaper was rife with inaccuracies spun by a Death Eater-controlled Ministry, Brent believed that Henry had to have a fair amount of passion and pride for what he did. “Particularly during this transition period when the public could use an objective voice.” Maneuvering the chopsticks in his hand, Brent inquired, “Are you working on any pieces like that? If you are at liberty to discuss it, that is.”

          He nodded, carefully adding spoonfuls of gochujang and sesame oil. “Seems like the Prophet has decided to embrace the change. Or, more likely, to keep up appearances,” he added warily. His last boss had aligned with Death Eaters—unsurprising, considering how severely the press was controlled by the Ministry during the war. He himself had been screened and threatened to scratch the stories he'd worked on. Appointing someone like Javon Walker as head editor carried a symbolic meaning; it would be naïve to assume the decision was made from good intentions. They wouldn't miss out on seizing such an excellent opportunity to send a message to the public. However belated, it was a step in the right direction, but a calculated one. They were smart.

“It’s the food and fitties,” she replied wanly, raising both brows to emphasize, “cheering people one shrimp cocktail at a time. But see. It would make for top-notch media coverage, too. Imagine the beautiful photographic evidence: forks flying, sauce splattering, shrimp sailing past! What a headline!” She paused momentarily, bracing herself, then added, “You too, though. You look good.”

          “I—thanks,” he smiled, sadness hanging from the corner of his mouth. Henry knew he was allowed to enjoy himself, but still, sometimes he couldn’t stop the guilt from creeping up his throat. “You know, I haven't done this much socializing in weeks. That’s the sad truth.”

Brent had spent the bulk of his childhood alone. But loneliness was new, a swelling in his chest that took root and blossomed in the empty space. The holes that he had punctured himself. The sensation still held a hefty weight nearly a year into his self-exile, but he had learned to carry it. He was humbled enough now to acknowledge to himself what he lacked – emotional perception his primary deficiency – yet he had spades of self-discipline that enabled him to move forward and stick to his solitude. His iron wall remained in-tact, his iron will accompanying it and further solidifying his fortress.

He especially needed to keep his guard up now that he was in England, lest he have additional encounters that were similar to the one he had with his sister back at the Nott estate. This meeting with Henry was different. It was one that was initiated by Brent. His uncle’s company, Brent anticipated, would not threaten his resolve. If anything, it would serve as a reminder as to why he was there in the first place. For him, being back in London was not something to smile over. He returned his uncle’s expression with a more subdued one as a result, an upward turn of his mouth and a bow of his head as he stepped into the flat.

“It certainly took a lot longer to arrive than I am used to, and I am still shaking off the jet leg,” Brent mused conversationally, thinking to the flight in that took far more time than Apparating would have, shucking his shoes off at the entryway. “I am glad that you were able to respond promptly to my request for a meeting. I imagine you must be kept busy at the Prophet.” Brent acknowledged the cat as much as the creature did him: with a brief stare before there was a turn away.

He kept up somewhat with magical British affairs, only enough to satiate his curiosity without sparking a terrible degree of homesickness. “I will likely have a cup, thank you, but first I was wondering if you had a skillet and rice cooker I could help myself to?” He held up the grocery bags, having based his purchases on the assumption that Henry would have what Brent considered to be kitchen necessities.

“     I’ve been fine. Keeping myself busy, settling into a routine. Doing a lot of reading. Nothing all that interesting, really. And you?”

          This feeling would never completely disappear, Henry imagined, surveying his nephew. He didn't regret breaking away from his family, but the thought of his nieces and nephews remaining under the roof of such a problematic environment had made his footsteps heavier. “Ah. Well, it’s less exhausting if you’re crossing from west to east. Hopefully it’ll be gone in a few more days,” he said, sympathetic, not at all surprised that Brent opted for the Muggle method of transport. Apparating between continents would have been too stressful, considering his current circumstances. Speaking of —- why was he here? Family matters? (Even thinking about his oldest brother left a faint but unpleasant taste—a mix of fear, disgust, and anger—in his mouth.) The trained journalist part of Henry was feeling inquisitive, but his curiosity had to wait.

“They’re great. It’s a solid effort to end blood purity-based riots, right? Anyone looks the slightest bit close to starting a fight, they can just lob shrimp at ‘em.”

          “What a waste of top-notch food! But Shrimp Skirmish at Urquhart-Rowle Wedding is quite the catchy headline,” he quipped. "It's good to see you smiling."