One Thing Left to Hide

Chapter 2

"I told you to be patient

I told you to be fine

I told you to be balanced

I told you to be kind.

Now all your love is wasted?

Then who the hell am I?

Who will love you?

Who will fight?

Who will fall far behind?"

[Bon Iver//Skinny Love]

Eventually, my eyes open. Damn. I wake up. DAMN it. Somehow, I'm in my dormitory. I don't know how long I've been sleeping. I don't know how I got here. I glance down at my clothes. Pajamas. I was wearing pajamas. Lapels. I wince. There's a flash, and with it, a dull, gnawing ache originating in my chest, one that travels down through my arm all the way to the palm of my left hand.

I was in my pajamas, he was in lapels. The bastard.

I pick myself up. Somehow. I roll out of bed. The dorm is empty. What time is it? I squint at the pale, thin beams of light straining to stretch across the floor of my room. Morning? I decide I don't care.

I make my way to the bathrooms. The halls are empty. There are scattered artifacts of lives and livelihood discarded here and there: books, broken quills, sweets wrappers. I imagine if I touch them, they would feel warm. Imbued with a breath and a life that I currently seem to lack. I make the mistake of looking in the mirror.

My short, closely cropped blond hair sticks out in nonsensical directions. The mascara streams have dried into dotted riverbeds of black residue, mixing with the smattering of freckles haphazardly strewn across my nose and cheeks. My normally blue eyes now appear to be a sickly shade of green, nestled amongst the bloodshot mess that would otherwise be the whites of my eyes. I want to smash it, my reflection. Shatter the image of whatever physical pieces of myself that are somehow still remaining, still functioning. I don't. I wash my face instead.

I shuffle about, not really knowing what to do with myself. Should I go to class? Are there classes? What DAY is it?

Eventually, I'm dressed. I figure whatever course of action I decide to pursue, it will be slightly more bearable if there's coffee.

I can hear the voices before I reach the bottom of those revolving staircases that I still haven't really gotten the hang of yet. It must be breakfast. Or lunch. Either way, there's people. And I'm terrified. I hadn't really stopped to consider how I would handle this situation. Being that I was sorted into Slytherin House, it was generally expected that I comply with the rigid nationalism that seemed to infect everyone else at this school, and sit at the Slytherin table. When Regulus and I started dating two years ago, that really sealed my fate, and my seat. So to speak.

It wasn't always this way, though. We all used to be friends: James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, Regulus, and myelf. Even Sirius and Reg liked each other at one point - though they'd both die before they ever admit it. Regular poster-children for inter-house unity, we were. But then, things changed.

James shot up about a foot and started doing that stupid thing with HIS hair that he does. Lily claimed to hate it, but I knew she didn't, and I told her so. James and Sirius began acting like the owned the place; romping and rollicking through the hallways; barking and laughing and shouting loudly as they went, shoving each other and firing off hexes and spells - making sure they attracted as much attention to themselves as possible - not that they really needed to try. They were magnetic - they still are. People flock to them, their warmth, their friendliness; their easy-going natures. It doesn't hurt that half of the girls in the school are in love with them, either. The bolder and brasher James and Sirius grew, the more Remus retreated into his books.

Remus and I were never all that close, but I always liked him, his gentle movements; his quiet, measured voice. He never seemed to enjoy Sirius and James's antics, but he never said anything, either. If you watched him, you would always be able to see the subtle movements of his disapproval: an eye-roll here, a brow-furrow there, and every so often, a slow shaking of the head. But, he never said anything. Sometimes, it seemed that there were about a million other places that Remus would rather be than plodding along next to James and Sirius, the library, for one, but he was just too... tired. Too exhausted to break away and head in a different direction.

Regulus and I were both a year younger, but we never thought this mattered much. Sirius felt some sort of brotherly obligation to "show Reg the ropes", and Lily and I had an instantaneous connection from the moment we met at King's Cross Station my first year, when we both struggled to lug our heavy trunks onto that glistening, cherry-red train. And so it was, our little clique was born.

Peter came along later; when James and his ego had reached their most insufferable peak. And, along with Peter, toddled this notion of "the side-kick". James attempted to relegate "us youngsters" and Lumpy McLumperson to this role, something neither Reg nor myself were very thrilled about. Peter, on the other hand, seemed thrilled whenever James condescended to speak to him. Over the years, Regulus quickly grew from a pale, stringy little thing into the sinewy, obscenely tall specimen that he is today. And as he grew taller, he began to develop an ego of his own.

To the delight of girls of all houses (and some professors as well - all of whom shall remain nameless), James and Regulus clashed famously - both on and off the Quidditch pitch. Sirius did what Sirius does best, act unaffected and disinterested until he felt so moved to hurl a well-placed punch at Regulus's face. Sirius never misses. And I have the skill with the episkey spell to prove it. Lily and I did our best to stay out of it, but every day it grew more and more clear that lines were being drawn, and, inevitably, sides would have to be chosen.

And then, there was "that Slytherin thing," as Sirius liked to refer to it. I never recalled it seeming all that important when we were younger, but now, I know so much better. I remember that day - the day of our sorting. I remember staring into the faces of James and Lily and Sirius - James's mischievous eyes glistening, the cascading light of a million tiny candle-flames reflecting off the waves of Lily's long, red hair, Sirius's pleased, knowing smirk at the trembling, awe-struck horror of me and my fellow first-years.

I watched from my spot toward the middle of the line as Regulus, Sirius's younger brother (Lily had kindly introduced me to him that day on the train), strode confidently toward the tall stool, only making the slightest of faces before Professor McGonogall dropped the dirty, sodden-looking talking hat onto his head. I imagined it would smell bad. It did. Later, in the privacy of our shared common room, Reg agreed. He also added that the stench was akin to that of onions mixed with the noxious smell emanating from his brother's bedroom.

But more than Regulus's overwhelming confidence and pride in his Slytherin placement, more so even than the smell of that stupid hat that has so much bearing over the fates of the students here at Hogwarts, I will remember Sirius's face. The day his younger brother, to whom he felt he had offered nothing but the best of guidance and sound advice, chose to follow the path Sirius had fought so vehemently to avoid. The smirk quickly fell from his face as he pressed his lips into a tight, disapproving line.

Sirius made that same face every time he breached the topic of "that Slytherin thing." And his belaboring of the subject only became more and more frequent. It bordered on obsessive. He wanted to, no, it was his DUTY as a brother, to do everything in his power to "save" Regulus (and eventually, myself as well), from becoming "one of them." We took Sirius's crusade in stride, at first. Then, eventually, anything and everything we did that Sirius didn't happen to approve of became a direct result of "the Slytherin thing."

We preferred coffee to pumpkin juice - Slytherin thing. We don't like cream OR sugar in our coffee? DOUBLE Slytherin points.

"Whaddyou mean you don't like DADA?"

"I tend to fall down a lot, so I prefer more... stationary subjects."

"And my brother?"

"Well, he's pretty much good at everything, so he doesn't really... care. Creepy old Slughorn adores him, though, so I guess he prefers potions."

"Fuckin' Slytherin thing, man..."

And so on.

James immediately jumped on the "Slytherin thing" bandwagon - he only ever really seemed to tolerate Reg's presence out of loyalty to Sirius - and Peter, quick to jump on just about anything that James did, followed suit. It didn't take long before our clique split into two very distinct units.

Lily did her best facilitate peace, but with her over-achieving nature and unending mountains of schoolwork, she had plenty to worry about aside from our own petty squabbles. After the first broken nose, it quickly became habit for me to wait up in the dark common room for Reg to return from Quidditch practice, or detention, or whereever it was he might have been.

More often than I care to recall, he would come storming in, blood splattered all over his otherwise pristine, crisply pressed shirts. After hurling his jacket on the back of some innocent chair, he would circle the room with his dizzingly long strides, hands knotted into fists behind his back, and regale me with a tale of how James and Sirius, occasionally accompanied by Peter, had attacked him. For no apparent reason, other than the fact that they didn't like that he wore rings engraved with his family's crest on them. Or maybe the way he wore his hair (it was always undeniably far more carefully dissheveled than James's, that's for sure). Or sometimes they'd just discovered a new curse and they wanted someone to try it out on (they typically sought out Severus for that one, but if he wasn't around, apparently Reg served as a sufficient back-up).

I'm not foolish enough to think Reg was entirely innocent. I know he wasn't. His caustic, belittling comments can eat away at even the most amicable of people. In fact, he's a pompous, egotistical prick, most of the time. I know that, too. And he's always known just the right ways to throw Sirius into one of his infamous rages with minimal effort. Bad combination. Reg isn't defenseless, either. He's smart and lithe, with reflexes honed from the years of Quidditch playing. I'm certain Sirius and James often left with battle wounds and battered egos of their own.

But, it wasn't them I waited up for. I didn't see them coming back bruised and bloodied. I didn't nurse their wounds, gently dabbing at them with some salve or soothing elixir that I'd just learned how to concot that night. I didn't see their faces twisting in pain; didn't feel the rough, raw, raised areas of their skin as I lightly ran my fingertips over their arms or down along their spines, searching for places that hurt. I wanted to fix them all, each and every one of them, even if the ones that weren't exactly visible.

After these attacks, Reg would always act nonplussed, properly dignified, properly uncaring. And he was a good actor, most of the time. But after awhile, his well-varnished, aloof exterior became impossible to maintain. And I was always there, ready and waiting to listen, soft cloth clutched in one hand, my potions or herbology textbook in the other.

"Why are they doing this?"

"I don't know." I frown, squinting at his back in the little dim, greenish light filtering into the room.

"He's supposed to be my brother. And it was his choice. He LEFT. He left us..."

"I know he did." I'm quiet, fixated on my work. Fixated on making the pain I can heal with just a simple potion go away.

"I mean, I... I get it. He's punishing me. For staying. For being loyal to my family, God forbid," he says, the disdainful sneer clearly audible in his voice now. He twists his torso around to look at me. "But I mean, it's... that doesn't explain... this." He gestures to his bloody shirt, now lying in a crumpled heap on the cold stone floor. "So, he lives somewhere else now. Nothing's CHANGED, really..."

I look up at him now. "Yes, it has, Reg. You've changed..."

"But they're not even nice to you anymore," he interrupts me, a steely, dangerous edge to his voice now. The wounds quickly burying themselves deeper and deeper. No potion can fix this.

"That's because things have changed. You're different, Sirius's different, I'm different." I sigh as the realization presses down on me, weighty, inevitable, unpleasant, and completely unavoidable. Everything's changing. We're not first years anymore. And life is rapidly becoming only infinitely more complicated.

"Everything's going to be different now." My voice is hushed, wistful. Almost reverent. My brief glimpse into my first comings of adulthood twists and expands before me. I'm staring down a corridor, long, dark and unexplored. Somewhere at the unseeable, unknowable end lies my future. Will I face it alone?

This short-lived moment of clarity is interrupted when I realize he's still looking at me. Studying the focused, worried expression on my face. I feel my neck get hot as blood rushes into my cheeks.

"You alright?" He smiles at me now. Esaily, effortlessly, just like everything else he decides to try his hand at.

"Yeah. Now shut up, and hold still."

He twists his long, white torso back around and to resume staring into the empty fireplace in front of him. He's quiet after that, lost in thought. He doesn't speak, but he doesn't have to. I know what he's thinking. He's thinking about the treacherous uncertainty before us. He's thinking about how things are changing. And he's wishing they didn't have to.

But of course, they did. All too quickly. An "us" and a "them" came to be: Regulus and myself on one side; Sirius, James, and Peter on the other; and Remus and Lily both standing somewhere closer to the middle.

Sometimes, when it's quiet, I close my eyes and remember. I remember way back when. Before the split. Before perceived differences and stripes on uniform ties and cloaks and pins made it impossible to remember the things we actually liked about eachother. Made it impossible to remember those careless, idle days when we actually liked eachother.

Way back when. Back when all of us could always be found sitting beneath the strong, ancient branches of our favorite tree near the lake. Talking for hours, most often about nothing, nothing at all. The talking punctuated by laughing, joking, nudging, touching, perhaps the trading secrets and advice; the shattered physical demonstrations of our collective joy - the joy of our absolute togetherness. The thrill of cohesion, of belonging. Of having a group, a family, perhaps not one forged by blood, but one filled with people who would willingly do anything to keep you from hurt; protect you from unhappiness.

And all too abruptly, it ended.

Stupid me. Hopeful me. I actually thought it would last.