After a couple of table reads and two actual rehearsals, Barry begins to suspect that McLaggen is an insufferable prick.

This is not a hasty observation. Barry’s taken his time trying to convince himself of the opposite. He’s come up with multiple excuses. McLaggen is stressed, obviously. It’s his final project, and his WADA graduation depends on it. Stakes are the highest for him and other third years. He has to succeed as a director. Stuff like that.

The problem is, McLaggen doesn’t look that stressed. He looks like he enjoys his newfound powers of shouting, mocking, and demeaning his fellow classmates. It doesn’t help anyone. He doesn’t seem to care.

His take on the original play is also— surprising, to say the least. Barry reread it several times already. McLaggen thinks it’s a comedy. It’s not. It’s funny sometimes, but not that kind of funny. The whole thing is an intelligent, insightful take on the British wizarding community after the Second War, the challenges it faced, and the obstacles it didn’t overcome. Vaguely connected different storylines come together at the end to form a beautiful yet somewhat tragic ending. It’s an immensely satisfying read.

Barry’s character is a Death Eater’s son. The kid loses everything after the war, and his reputation is ruined even though he himself was on the right side of the conflict. Struggling to get back on his feet, he has to rent a place in the cheepest, seediest part of magical London. His new flatmate is a witch.

In the play, this is not a love story. McLaggen, of course, thinks otherwise. He springs to his feet, stopping Barry mid-sentence.

'Come on, give it more heart, Shafiq! You’re falling for her, remember? I need more passion!"

"He needs a good jinxing and a kick in the arse," Barry’s scene partner mutters under her breath, and Barry chuckles.

McLaggen’s neck reddens in an amusing fashion. He keeps his insults to himself, however, because today’s rehearsal is special. The playwright is here, in the audience, for the very first time, observing their work. Mars Daly-Something. Another third year.

"Tell him, Mars," says McLaggen.

Barry looks at Mars, too. Yes, tell him, Mars.

The stage goes silent.

Barry can't help but smile. Mars is a Roman name, he remembers, the name of an ancient Muggle god of war. If so, Mars the playwright does it justice. In Barry’s eyes, he wins the argument fair and square. His soft words reverberate through the room like a thunder. He’s neither cruel nor unjust, he never loses his temper even though he's got every right to; and, well, McLaggen did ask.

McLaggen doesn't seem too happy about the answer. When he opens his mouth again, he spouts something that makes Barry clench his fists.

“Who do you think you are?” And McLaggen doesn't stop there, oh no. He goes utterly ballistic. “You know nothing about us wizards! I should bloody know! You should be grateful they let you in here and keep your stupid Squib views to yourself!”

“That’s enough, McLaggen.”

Barry doesn't think, he reacts. Everyone else is silent, seemingly aghast with McLaggen’s words. He can't just stand and listen.

“And why so?” McLaggen mocks Mars once more, imitating his intonations to a T but adding a lot of his own hysteria. “He is a bloody Squib, a pompous bloody Squib! He shouldn't even be here!”

Barry jumps off the stage, seething, angry. “It's you who shouldn't even be here. Mars is talented, unlike you. Talent does not require magic. And the truth is, even without the latter, Mars is twice the wizard you’ll ever be. His play is brilliant. You’d know if you’d bothered to read it without a broom stuck up your sorry arse.”

He looks straight at McLaggen, ready to draw his wand at any moment. Mars is perfectly capable of protecting himself, he's sure of it; he just can't stand McLaggen’s rubbish any longer.

That’s how Helvius must've felt when someone ridiculed his flatmate, he thinks in the back of his head for a fraction of a second.

That's how he loses his spot in the play, he knows for sure.

Отредактировано Bassam Shafiq (2019-03-12 00:19:01)