Schooldays of C.S. Lewis - boarding school misery and theological crisis.

Lewis slips on through the dim service passage, boots still heavy in his arms, and finds Parsley where the wall turns cold. The younger boy is crouched low, shaking in tight, relentless bursts.

The tremors are not fear alone. They come and go like a burden he has to carry and cannot set down.

Parsley fumbles a folded scrap from inside his blazer. It is creased flat and darkened by sweat, as if it has been hidden against him for hours.

His hands jerk again. In the corridor beyond, a tread passes and fades, the ordinary school noise making the corner feel even smaller.

Parsley swallows hard, still trembling, while Lewis stands between him and the passage, the note and boots suddenly seeming like tools in the same grim machine.

Parsley blinks, then lets out a startled snort that breaks the tension in his throat.

But his shoulders drop a fraction, and the tremor in his hands eases enough for the folded note to stop fluttering.

Parsley glances at Lewis, half ashamed and half grateful, as if he has remembered he is still allowed to be a boy for a moment.

Lewis shifts the boots in his hands, squares his shoulders, and lets his face go pompous and severe.

Parsley chokes on a laugh, one hand flying to his mouth while the other clamps down on the note.

Angel’s mouth twitches despite himself, and the service passage feels suddenly less like a hiding place and more like a corner of school where boys can still breathe.

As Parsley laughs, the folded note slips half open in his fingers, showing a smear of coal dust against the edge, and he notices it too.

Parsley looks from the note to Lewis, the fear in his face thinned by surprise and relief, as if the room has finally given him permission to be amused.

Lewis keeps the ridiculous stare in place a moment longer, then tips it sideways into something even more pompous, as if Blugg himself might bow to the performance.

Parsley’s laugh comes again, looser this time, and he folds the note down before anyone can think to make him hand it over.

Angel watches them from the passage mouth, openly amused now, while the rough plaster and dim lamp seem less like a hiding place and more like a shared conspiracy.

Parsley glances down at the coal smear on the note, then back up with a weak grin that steadies into real relief.

The joke lands, and Parsley is still smiling when the moment settles, breathing easier with the folded note safe in his hand.

Lewis lowers the parody at last and speaks with careful seriousness, turning from jest to counsel in the narrow passage.

Parsley’s smile slips. He looks from Lewis to the folded note in his own hand, as if it has suddenly grown heavier.

Angel straightens a little at the opening words, his amusement fading into a watchful, troubled stillness.

The silence that follows is small and tight, but it is honest. Parsley does not answer at once, only stares at the coal-smudged note and breathes more steadily than before.

The heavy thud of a boot against the passage wall echoes through the cramped space, cutting off any further discussion of escape. A prefect's shadow stretches long and dark across the floor, signaling that the time for quiet counsel has abruptly ended.

Fribble steps fully into the passage, his presence suffocating the small space as he reaches out to grip Parsley by the collar.

Parsley’s shoulders loosen a fraction. His fingers stop crushing the folded note, though he keeps it hidden against his coat.

Fribble’s hand remains at Parsley’s collar, but the younger boy lifts his chin by a little, looking from Lewis to the floorboards and back again.