One Thing Left to Hide

One Thing Left to Hide

Chapter 1

"I still owe money, to the money, to the money I owe.

I never thought about love, when I thought about home.

I still owe money to the money, to the money I owe.

The floors are falling out from

Everybody I know.

I'm on a blood buzz, yes, I am.

I'm on a blood buzz."

[The National//Bloodbuzz Ohio]

"Why are you doing this?"

I grab onto his lapels. Lapels. It's three-thirty in the goddamn morning. On a Tuesday. But who am I kidding? When the boy heads down to the Great Hall on a coffee run, he's all cufflinks and properly pressed suits and embroidered family emblems.

"Because, I... Evie. I already told you. It's complicated..."

"And because I'm such a simpleton I couldn't POSSIBLY understand," I interject. My words are harsh, but notably lacking the bitter bite, the astringent sting I hoped they would have. Largely because a big, gurggling choking sound somehow managed to escape from my throat somewhere toward the end. Great. I hate crying. Especially in front of him.

"You know that's not what I'm saying."

I make a valiant effort to blink back the renegade tears stinging the corners of my eyes before craning my neck to look up at him. Craning. I'm always gazing upward. Not at the skies - but at him. He's tall. Freakishly so. A fact I always make sure he is keenly aware of, and of all the potential chiropractic problems that will plague me later in life as direct result of this relationship, and his inexcusable tallness. I guess I won't have to worry about that so much now.

I blink again, one final, failed attempt to clear my vision. It's gray in the dungeons, and cold. It's always cold. The perpetually unlit fireplace in our common room is a joke. I'm fairly certain some some ancient, crusty-faced Slytherin Head of House installed it once when he fancied a giggle.

I force myself to stare at Regulus now; he's shrouded in a haze of mascara-muddled tears.

His silk, silver and green tie is loosely knotted at the nape of his neck (I briefly envision a scenario in which I grab the aforementioned tie and slide that knot up to the bottom of his chiseled chin and throttle him to death. Bad idea.), the top few buttons of his white shirt are undone, revealing the planes of his equally pallid skin. Always one for appearances; so much more than a merely dedicated follower of fashion - he's practically a goddamn disciple.

I tell myself these minor wardrobe slips are clearly indicators of his extreme emotional duress. They had better fucking be. I deserve at least that much - a couple of unfastened buttons and a loosened tie.

"Then say it... BETTER." My words are forced now. My body weak from trying to restrain the full-blown sob that seems to have lodged itself in my throat. It aches. The muscles are tight, strained, stretched against my jaw. I quickly sweep my eyes back toward the ancient, elaborate stone floor. I'm sure it was pretty once. But now, it's gray. Just like everything else in here: the couches, the candelabras; the paintings of elaborately dressed, sneering Slytherins of yore still clinging to the walls, in spite of the fact that nobody bothers looking at them anymore.

No response. Instead, he sighs. And I don't have to look at him to know that he's running one of those long-fingered, bony hands of his through his hair. That HAIR. That STUPID hair. It practically has its own fan-club at this school - moronic Hufflepuffs titter about it in the hallways when he walks by; SHE makes sure to snake at least one of her disgusting fingers through those dark tresses, especially when she knows I'm looking.

I burn. The ache in my throat travels downward through my chest, my ribs, my spine, outward to my fingers. He's gorgeous. He's gorgeous, and I hate him. I'm standing here, red-eyed and puffy, clutching my hands into fists, digging my fingers into my palms, my nails ripped and jagged, because I'm pretty sure I gnawed them off somewhere toward the beginning of this conversation.

But, it's almost over now. I can feel it. It's come down to this. The final moments. I've made my protests; he's made his excuses. Part of me wishes he'd just turn on the heel of his black, polished shoe and leave; get it all over with. Part of me, the darker, masochistic part, never wants it to end. I want time to slow, to stretch out into some uncharted dimension; so I can wrap myself in this moment, curl up with it. Everything. Each black mascara pathway on my face, every contrived "sorry", every gasping gulp of air I manage to inhale that's laced with his cologne.

"I'm sorry..."

I wince.

"Evie, I... I want to tell you, but... I CAN'T..."

His voice breaks. I snap my head up. He's gripping his left arm, caressing it. He's always doing that lately. For a moment, the tiniest second, he looks small. His head hangs elegantly to the side, his grey eyes focused on something I can't see. I used to see everything. I knew everything: his pet peeves (there are many), people he'd really rather not have to associate with (even more), how to make him smile (something he reserves for a privileged few). But not anymore. Not lately.

His face is suddenly smooth again, after he catches me staring.

"But I... can't explain it. It's just... not working out."

Well, there you have it. Things are spinning now. I try to remember how to stand. It's difficult - standing. Colors are bright, unnatural; dripping with hues. This doesn't make sense. Shapes are warped, stretching, folding in upon themselves; sounds amplified, wailing, like the cacophonous army of de-tuned accordions Flitwick sometimes charms to play alongside his chorale group (God, I hate those kids). All of this pounding, hammering at my brain. But it doesn't process. I refuse. My knees give. Suddenly, laughter. Sick peals of laughter; witches cackling. Two of them. Getting closer. This is real, I think.

"Reggie..."

I know that voice. I'd know that simpering, nasally drawl anywhere. Maybe this IS a dream. A very, very bad one.

"Come ON, Reggie, we're going to be late. And you know how He HATES it when we're late."

Bellatrix looks directly at me as she makes a show of encircling herself around one of Reg's long arms; her dark, pointed-nail tipped fingers slithering playfully up into his hair. THAT hair - hair I no longer have any claim to. I'm fairly certain I'm going to vomit. Narcisa giggles - a fairly simple task for most, but one that Narcissa, excuse me, "CISSY", manages to make to make look as though it's sapping every ounce of energy from her frail body (probably because it does). I'm guessing this draining giggle is in response to the mixture of pain, rage, and outright nausea contorting my face into a grimace.

I look at him. For some reason, I'm waiting for him to protest. To disentangle himself, push her away. Say, "Forgive me, Bell-UH, but Evie and I were in the middle of something." That's me. Stupid me. Eternally hopeful, always seeing the very best, and expecting just as much from him. Because I know. I know him.

But he doesn't.

"Yes." He clears his throat. He straightens his tie. "He isn't exactly a fan of... tardiness."

More giggling. More lilting, jeering laughter. Jeering, because they're laughing at a joke that I'm clearly not in on. I don't know who "he" is, and I don't care. I don't give a fuck. The only "he" I know at this moment is Regulus Artcurus Black, and all I'm aware of is the fact that he's walking away. Walking away with her.

He hangs his head as he walks by, Bella clinging to his arm, practically skipping alongside him to keep up with his lengthy strides. Cissy glides along behind them, looking dimly aware of the fact that she's moving. I stare after them. This can't be happening. He wouldn't do this to me. He couldn't. Not Regulus. Not my Reg. The person I'd spent the last five years of my life with - in one form or another. No. I hear the entryway to our dank, gray, dungeon common room slide closed. And then it's there. The silence.

I glance around. My tongue lies limp in my mouth, heavy and thick. My heartbeat knocks against my brain, up near my temples. I can't move. I stare at my feet. Still there. Still standing. And then, the rage comes. I hate him. I want to hurt him. Do something so much more visceral than throttle him to death with a tie. I want to grab him, scratch his face, pummel him, make him hurt. Hurt like I do. Because once the rage is gone, it's overwhelming.

My knees buckle. I sink back against the cold stone walls, smacking the back of my skull as I fold into a sort of sitting position. But I don't feel it. I can't breathe. It's there. The pain, the loss. Sitting heavy on my chest, obstructing the air I'm gasping at, air that's repeatedly failing to squeeze its way through to my lungs. I grasp at my chest, those ripped and jagged nails of mine catching, tearing at my blue, nearly translucent flesh. I hope I bleed. I can't see. I think I might have screamed; a pathetic, choking fox-cry, but I'm not sure.

"Oi! I'm still standin' 'ere, ye know! Merlin's BEARD... howlin' like banshees, never payin' proper respects, none of 'em..."

I turn my stunned, wild-eyed gaze to look upon the figure in the painting I'd just collapsed/slammed my head into. Such a trivial, mundane part of my everyday reality. These things still exist?

"Yeh, NOW ye see me," says the pompous little wizard.

But I don't. I close my eyes.

All I see is Black.