One Thing Left to Hide

Chapter 4

Ashes.

"Well, you've got your diamonds

And you've got your pretty clothes

And the chauffeur drives your cart,

You let everybody know.

But don't play with me, 'cause you're playin' with fire.

Now, you've got some diamonds

And you will have some others

But you'd better watch your step, boy

Or start livin' with your mother.

So don't you play with me,

'Cause you're playin' with fire."

[The Rolling Stones//Play With Fire]

He's staring at me now. I feel it long before I actually raise my eyes to meet his. For that moment, nothing else exists. The students chattering about essays, exams and expelliarmus; Lily, still standing in front of me, undoubtedly growing more impatient by the second - none of it. I should look away. I should turn, walk as far as my wary legs can manage, and never look back. But... I can't. My gaze is locked into his, unblinking, unwavering, but at the same time, I'm searching. Struggling to understand. To comprehend. The eyes are still the same - large, round, gray; tugged down at the outer corners by some invisible, ultimately unfathomable sadness. But now, the thoughts behind them are a complete mystery to me.

"Evie!" Lily's own bright, penetrating green eyes turn to see what I'm looking at. "Ohhhh, no you don't." She gives Regulus a sneer laced with the appropriate level of disgust for the boy who just broke her (former?) best friend into bits.

"Come on." She latches onto my sleeve and pulls me along, off the stairs, away from the Great Hall. My head whips around to follow the direction my body. My mind frantically struggles to find the appropriate expression of gratitude.

"Thanks." I'm shocked by the sound of my own voice. It doesn't sound like me at all. It sounds rough, raw, broken. It sounds like I've been crying for days, which, I guess isn't so far from the truth.

Lily glances over at me as she steers me briskly down the halls, deftly side-stepping a gaggle of gawking first years as she goes. "What're you thanking me for?"

"For... getting me out of there, I guess."

"Oh." She sets her narrow jaw into a disapproving frown as she walks. The same one she wears whenever she hears something she doesn't like the sound of. "Don't mention it."

She continues weaving her way through the hallways and amongst the throngs of students all the way down to the dungeons. Even though we haven't spoken since... God knows when, even though she receives top marks on every single one of her homework assignments - even though she has the largest course load of anyone else (Remus following at a close second) in this school, Lily Evans still somehow managed to remember that I have double potions on Fridays. I want to throw my arms around her neck and kiss the gentle, dignified curves of her cheekbones.

Somehow, in spite of the stunned state of silence I'd been trapped in for the past few days, in spite of the relentless buzz of daily life that continuously permeates the scattered scraps of withered thoughts constantly blowing through our minds, she'd managed to hear it. The stopping of my heart. The sound of my dizzying, silent fall.

And she'd come to my rescue. Taken my hand and pulled me up, up from the floor, back on to my feet - unsteady as they may be. Because, that's what best friends are for. And I would do just the same for her. But Lily so rarely stumbles, much less falls.

I watch her as she chats animatedly with some younger student, a Hufflepuff. Probably one of the ones she tutors without fail every Monday and Wednesday evening. Her hair hugs the contours of her long, slender face as she speaks, wafting downward toward the middle of her back in gentle waves and ringlets. The Hufflepuff stands there, slack-jawed and dumbstruck (not an uncommon condition for most Hufflepuffs), as his protuberant eyes flit back and forth between the movements of her full, sloping lips, and the dance of her dewy, petal-pink fingernails while she demonstrates the proper wand-motion for a successful shield charm. Self-conscious, I attempt to adjust the hem of my comparatively unkempt uniform.

I am at once envious, and spellbound. Lily doesn't need a wand for people to become completely enchanted with her. See one, James Potter. The ultimate playboy. The proverbial bachelor. Owner of a gleaming, magnetic grin, one tailor-made to grace the glossy covers of Witch Weekly and Which Warlock. James would strut around the school, Sirius so often at his side, effortlessly charming his way through his already charmed existence. His only cares in life were those Quidditch matches in which he almost always led the Gryffindor team to staggeringly defeat whatever poor, unfortunate team was slotted to play them that week. Simultaneously maintaining his credibility as one of the youngest Quidditch captains in Hogwarts history, and cementing his celebrity (and inherent crushability) at this school.

Yes, all the girls adored him. (Still do.) All the girls except one, Lily Evans. Fiercely competitive on and off the Quidditch pitch, James was never one to flee from a challenge. And so, the hunt began. Countless bouquets of exotic flowers and plants, massive gift baskets stuffed with every sweet Honeydukes carries; shamelessly elaborate invitations to any and every school dance, feast, soiree, and gala. Each and every one of these things Lily would turn down without so much as batting a single one of the eyelashes surrounding her large, doe-like eyes.

"Insufferable," she called him. But the suppressed, sweet smile that always managed to sneak out from behind her tart words led me to think otherwise.

"Lily, you're in love with the idiot. You might as well just admit it. Because... I'm all for watching James make a fool of himself and everything, but... even I think it's starting to get a little old." I bat away one of the blinking, heart-shaped crimson balloons flashing the words, "Go 2 the dance with me, Lils," in sweeping, love-struck gold script. This wasn't the first time Lily and I had arrived at our usual spots at the breakfast table to find some declaration of James's love there, awaiting our arrival.

Those harmless bunches of balloons were tame in comparison to most of his displays - the most dangerous one being the time he'd sent his broomstick rocketing toward us in an attempt to sweep Lily, literally, off her feet to some secret picnic he'd planned. Lily never made it. She dove out of the way, pulling me down with her, while the renegade broom slammed into the wall behind us with a distinctly satisfying crunch (something Lily and I would both find incredibly amusing much, much later).

She stabs at her cereal with her spoon, taking out her frustrations with James and with herself on some bystanding bran flakes. "I guess it wouldn't kill me to go to one dance with him." She pauses, probably remembering the epic failure of the rocketing broomstick abduction attempt. "Or, maybe it will."

"Lily," I'm rolling my eyes now, "seriously, just... GO with him. For all our sakes."

"FINE. I'll go." She sighs; contemplating the now milk-sodden brown bits of cereal left drifting aimlessly about her bowl. She looks up at me. "He's... all wrong for me, you know."

I nod, letting her have this final, last-ditch attempt at verbally denying the irrepressible infatuation she and James had for one another. All she had left were these tiny battles with her pride, the final, feeble rallies of rationality against the maddening, infuriatingly incomprehensible endeavors of our hearts (something which, I knew all too much about by that point).

Because, she was right. Lily and James are wrong for each other. In every conceivable way. Lily's studious, often times rigidly structured demeanor and lifestyle clash dramatically with James's manic, uncontainable excitement and energy. Even on his best days, James is gently misogynistic ("noble", as he calls it), still stubbornly clinging to the outdated notion that witches should spend their days at home honing their domestic spellwork skills. Lily, Head Girl, brilliant, industrious, and tirelessly hard-working, clearly wasn't going to wile away her hours enchanting knitting needles to embroider cats, dragons, and Gryffindor crests on every available surface in their future home.

Lily is careful, caring, and understanding; James brash, brawny, and pig-headed. Yes, they were all wrong for each other. Which is precisely why, to this day, they still drive each other absolutely crazy, and are still absolutely crazy about each other.

Perhaps it's a simple a case of the magnetic pull of opposites (combined with my threats to hex James in so many ways so that it would be excruciatingly painful for him to even think about sitting on a broom again), but James defied everyone's expectations. He never roved or strayed. In fact, he proved to be the most dutiful and doting boyfriend anyone could hope for. And James and Lily's adoration for one another is sickeningly apparent to anyone who spends any length of time around them. Lily has learned to laugh about the things she once scoffed at, and James, a playboy no longer, has eyes for no one but her. And, looking at her now, alongside this open-mouthed Hufflepuff, it's easy for me to see why. It's impossible not to love her.

She turns to me, leaving the dazzled third-year in her wake. "Look, I have to go, but..." She trails off as her eyes follow the languid movements of Regulus, flanked by Bella, followed by Narcissa, and a few others as they lazily stroll into the potions classroom. Bringing up the rear is Severus, his oil-slick eyes focused unblinkingly on Lily as he skulks by. She shakes off the severity of Severus's stare before adding, "I'll meet you. Right here, after class, alright? Wait for me."

I nod, catching a glimpse of Slughorn's velveteen, walrus-like shape ambling about in front of his desk. No more stalling. Class is about to start. I can no longer put it off - entering the snake pit, so to speak. Being mere feet away from him, and deflecting all the smug, satisfied stares hurled in my direction. I tear at the skin around my cuticles in an unshakeable fit of anxiety. I only look up when I notice Lily's stockinged ankles still standing in front of me. She's watching me. Her face filled with concern; she's chewing on her lower lip with worry. Christ, am I really that pathetic? Pull it together, Evie.

"Lily, I'm FINE. Seriously. Go to class - you can't stand being late. And if Slughorn catches sight of you out here, you'll never be able to escape." I manage a smile at her.

She studies me, her eyes still rightfully dubious. "Alright. But don't you even think about skiving off after I leave."

"Yes, mother."

She gives me a hearty shove toward the entrance of the potions classroom before she goes. I stare up at the rows and rows of tables stacked with cauldrons, the light cracklings of the tiny fires burning beneath them punctuating the low murmurings of my classmates awaiting Slughorn's instructions. Breathe, Evie. Just... breathe. I step over the threshold, one foot lightly placed in front of the other, like I'm testing the frozen surface of the Great Lake for patches of thin ice. Like the floor will rebel against any sort of known law of physics, and just open up beneath my feet. Swallow me down, swallow me whole. I would kill for an invisibility cloak right now. To be able to slink up to my seat, completely unnoticed. Untouched, unharmed, and unseen.

But of course, Horace Slughorn is no fan of invisibility.

"Ah! Miss Everheart! So good of you to join us! As you can see we've paired up into the partners we were concocting the Polyjuice Potion with last session - which should be congealing nicely right about now, so if you wouldn't mind joining Mr. Black up there, we can be on our way..."

His booming, bombastic speech barrages me with its falsely welcoming tones. I flinch when he says my name, flinch at the utterly unwelcomed bit of recognition. I glance up once again toward the tables, really seeing them for the first time. Really seeing the faces associated with the monochrome rows of cloaked students staring, or glaring, in Bell-UH's case, down at me. Partners. We were partners. Of course we were, we're always partners. Slughorn's behind his desk now, swaying back and forth in front of the chalkboard as he scrawls out the instructions for the rest of the class period; either uncaring or unaware of the gentle swishing sound his voluptuous, violet belly makes as it brushes against its surface.

You son of a bitch, Slughorn. I'm sure he's heard about our breakup by now. Horace cannot be contained from the viral nature of Hogwarts gossip, not that he wants to be. He revels in living vicariously through the exploits of his younger, prettier students - especially those of his prized Slytherins. Regulus is one of the finest jewels in Slughorn's collection of dazzling specimens of student bodies destined for prosperity. Infinitely well-connected, born into one of the most ancient and noblest wizarding families, seeker of the Slytherin quidditch team, and he's great at potions? The man practically wets himself every time Reg steps into his classroom.

I, on the other hand, tend to make things bubble, burst, boil over and outright explode whenever I start chopping them into bits and throwing them into cauldrons. My academic strengths tend to lie in the realms of History of Magic and Muggle Studies - lots of writing, thinking, and philosophizing. Nothing sharp, nothing toxic, nothing flammable. These are both noble subjects, to be sure, but both lacking the drama and flair Slughorn so adores. I get decent marks; I easily passed my O.W.L.S., even receiving a handful of Os in the process. I'm not much for extracurricular socialization - I prefer to spend my time alone or with few my closest friends, reading, lounging about; discovering new and inventive methods of procrastination.

Clearly, not the most stellar choice for chief wife of the reigning-king of the Slugclub Slughorn undoubtedly hoped Regulus would choose. (For awhile I thought Horace and The Burg were secretly involved in some sort of co-conspiratorial plot to split us up. There isn't clear evidence either way, as of yet.)

I glare at the back of Slughorn's rounded shoulders - Head of House, be damned. I'm sure he's already gathered a lovely selection of witches to audition for the coveted role of my replacement - graceful, refined creatures, smooth and pristine. All kneecaps and unending lengths of pliable, willowy limbs; swaying gently in the breezes of commonality and acceptability. Well-practiced, plasticine smiles, never once betraying a moment's unhappiness or even the slightest shade of discontent. All perfectly pleasant, perfectly forgettable distractions until the ready-made domestic bliss - a hallmark of all arranged marriages, no doubt - kicks in after Regulus's commencement next year.

As much as I abhor his gossiping, good-natured sycophancy, Slughorn's poorly masked dislike of Bellatrix always manages to win him points in my favor. Well, it's not so much dislike. He's more terrified of her than anything. And he's not the only one. Plenty of students, professors, and house elves, especially, cower in her wake as she careens through the halls, her matted black mass of tumbleweed curls trailing behind her. There isn't any one thing that's particularly frightening about her. Nothing you place, nothing you can put your finger on. And that's precisely what's so terrifying.

There's just this slight scorching of malice branded upon the darkened hide blanketing everything she does, wrapped around her internal squalor, warping and contorting itself to shield her demented whims from view - she is unknowable to anyone with even the faintest glimmer of compassion. Uncontainable and unpredictable, she weaves her way through life with the trajectory of a drunken hurricane, but noticeably lacking the calm internal eye at the inner heart of her storm. Certain in only her chaotic uncertainty - if you go left, she's destined to slither right.

If you ever make the mistake of looking into the flat, absorbent circles of her eyes, it's like she's looking directly through you. Like she doesn't see the living, breathing, beating mass of flesh and heart and blood standing in front of her. It's unsettling, to say the least. And certainly not something you'd want to inflict upon hordes of happy guests at your Christmas parties. Thus, Bella's name never managed to find its way to the list of Slughorn's chosen few, much less the roster of invitees to his frequent festivities.

This small semblance of commonality isn't enough to prevent me from silently cursing him one final time. I hitch my bag over my shoulder and begin the long journey toward where I know Regulus is standing - our normal seats at the table closest to the back wall of the room. I drop my bag on the floor once I reach the table, our table, wondering if the thunderous thud is really that loud, or merely amplified by my momentarily excitable imagination. I refuse to look at him. I can't. I won't. I don't have my book. Shit. Slowly, reluctantly, I tilt my head back. My eyes search onward and upward, all the way until they find his face, fully taking him in for the first time since that night I'd much rather not recall.

I nearly do a double-take. He looks... tired. But... tired doesn't even begin to cover it. He looks haggard. Weary. He looks... old. Like he's lived through about fifty mid-life crises in the few days since I last saw him. His eyes are dark, shrouded in puffy sweaters of sleepless, purple bruises, the slant of his smug smile completely vanished from the serpentine slits of his mouth. He looks terrible. Beautiful, tragic, and his hair's still fantastic, of course, but... terrible. For the briefest of seconds, I feel sorry for him. Until I remember that I despise him. We continue to stare at each other, neither of us willing to be the one to beckon any further awkwardness to our table by actually speaking.

He opens his mouth. I shake my head. "Look, you don't have to say anything. I'm sure the potion's perfect, since they always are, and if you just let me put my name on it, we can get this over with, and this piece of shit year will be over, and we won't have to worry about being partners again." Breathe, Evie. Remember? The breathing thing? I stare intently at the ash-covered coals glowing orange through gray as they fume beneath the suspended, rounded bottom of our... his cauldron. I can't bring myself to look at his face anymore. To see the relief I'm so certain is spreading across his features. "Besides, I... forgot my book," I finish lamely.

He retrieves something from the black leather book bag (man-purse, satchel, whatever) sitting on the chair beside him. He bends at his knees, ducking down so he can hold a sample vial in front of my now stubbornly downward focused gaze: a small bottle, with a fat little cork straining against the confines of the lips at the top of its neck. There's a label neatly placed in the middle bearing his initials (which he's always been so fond of scrawling over everything he owns), "R.A.B.". Below them, lies my name in all of its alliterous, cumbersome entirety: Evelyn Estlin Everheart. His unmistakable script is tight and tidy, pretentious and exclusionary in the meticulous interconnectedness of each perfectly formed letter. I swallow, struggling to understand why he chose this particular moment to not be a complete asshole. "Why'd you put my full name on there? You know I hate it."

He shrugs, running the tip of his index finger along the inked trajectory of my name and his initials. For a moment, his face is taut, drawn; almost pained. "I like your name." His face goes blank as his gaze shifts beyond the bottle; off toward something I'm incapable of seeing. I hate it. I hate this. This distance between us, this rift that's suddenly ruptured into a gnarled, scraggled canyon of secrets and misgivings. I hate how calm he is, with his tiny little bottle - all neatly labeled and safely stoppered up. I hate the cool, glassy expression on his face. When I can barely breathe. Being near him. I hate his height, his unfettered tallness, while I feel like I'm continually shrinking, diminishing. Slowly fading. The lights behind my eyes slowly being snuffed out, one by one.

I want to grab him. Shake him, shove him against the wall. Scream at him a barrage of obscenities that would make even Filch blush; demand that he tell me what he's thinking. But I don't. Instead, I mumble, "Thanks."

I'm not sure if he heard me. He continues on, his stream of thought apparently unbroken. "The potion's finished. It's fine - I already tested it. I was only waiting for you to get here. So..." He struggles with his words, "So we could turn it in. Together."

"Why? It's not like Slughorn doesn't know you do all the work, anyway."

He squirms. He's uncomfortable, now. He's never uncomfortable. What the hell is going on? I know break-ups, no matter how "mutual" both parties claim them to be, spell death to all hope of immediate friendship, but he's speaking to me as if he barely knows me. As if he hasn't known me in the most intimate ways possible to know someone. Sure, I'm angry. But I get to be. He ended it. He runs his long fingers through his chicory-colored hair, briefly clutching it toward the ends. The ultimate testament to his nervousness. Why does he get to be nervous? This is all his fault, anyway.

"I just... wanted to do the... right thing, I guess."

Well. That's wonderful. Apparently he'd been drinking some of James's heavily spiked nobility juice in our brief time apart. Regulus Black, one of the most self-absorbed, self-serving people I'd ever met, was suddenly concerned with doing what was "right." I can feel the anger bubbling beneath my skin. My ears start to burn. Yes, I'm angry now, and it's delightful. Frankly, it's a welcome relief to the frozen state of misery and self-pity I'd been wallowing in. There's a fire burning at the center of my chest, one where the gaping, aching emptiness used to be. A fire that's causing my blood to boil. I decide to go with it; fan the flames.

"Well, that's great, Reg. Really. Thanks. But you broke UP with me, remember? I'm not your responsibility anymore. So don't waste any of your precious time worrying about doing the 'right' thing by me anymore, alright?"

I don't give him the opportunity to respond. I immediately grab whatever book happens to be in my bag and begin to read. I feel invigorated, pleased with my performance. I let the heat of this newly discovered indignation spread through my veins, ensnaring me with the lassoing warmth of self-righteousness. I feel his body shift as he collapses onto the stool next to mine. I hear him mutter, "aguamenti," to douse the embers beneath our cauldron, but I don't see. I don't look. I spend the remainder of class staring doggedly downward at my book. I'm through looking up. Or, that's what I tell myself, anyway.

When it's finally time to leave, I jump to my feet, knocking my knees against the edge of the table in my eagerness to escape. To make a swift get-away from his suffocating presence. I hurry down to the front of the classroom, where I can see Lily is already waiting for me. She's standing next to Slughorn's desk, talking to him about candy or brandy or something, no doubt, as he erases the instructions he labored over for so long at the beginning of class. Slughorn's face is radiating delight as he works, the same way it always does when he's talking to Lily. And, I'm pretty sure that today, at this moment, I look just as delighted to see her as he does. When I reach her, once again, I have to restrain myself from throwing my arms around her in a grateful, exuberant (as exuberant as I can get, anyway) hug.

"I'll do my best, Professor, but I really don't think I'll have time! I have N.E.W.T.S. to study for, a graduation ceremony to plan, not to mention my regular Head Girl duties, and my tutoring..."

"Now, now, Lily, I know you're busy, but I'm simply just going to have to demand that you come to my little pre-graduation party! Especially since you'll be leaving me this year. I'd never forgive myself if I didn't know you'd had a proper send-off." Slughorn turns his beaming face toward us now; brushing white clouds of chalk dust off his belly as he does so. His puffy moustache, the color of faded parchment scrolls, rumples beneath his nose as he takes notice of me for the first time. "Miss Everheart, I'm leaving it up to you to make sure this busy bee of ours attends my party, you hear?"

"Er... what? ...Sir?" I glance at Lily, silently willing her to clue me in on what I had just walked into. I had never been a member of the Slugclub, and the only parties I'd ever attended were as Regulus's date. I certainly didn't have Slughorn's extensive social calendar memorized. But, judging by the way he's looking at me, apparently I should have.

"My graduation party, dear girl, my pre-commencement celebration! It'll be the largest event of the year, aside from my Christmas gala, of course. Surely you must have received your invitation by now."

"No, actually, I..."

He interrupts me with a fluttering wave of his stubby hand. "Yes, yes, well, nevermind that now." He rummages through the contents of his desk for a moment before thrusting an invitation toward my face. I warily reach for the vibrant green and silver embossed envelope, but Slughorn quickly jerks it away. Like I'd been positively desperate to get my hands on the thing in the first place.

"Now, Miss Everheart, I'll give you this on ONE condition." He smiles his most indulgent of smiles, the kind people generally reserve for five year olds and their most beloved pets. "Make sure that this girl here," he jabs a stump of a finger at Lily, "is in attendance. Preferably without that boyfriend of hers!" He forces the invitation into my hand before leaning back to chuckle at his own cheek. I give Lily my best, "Can we go yet?" eyes. Incredibly, unbelievably, she's still standing there, relaxed, happy, and smiling. I don't know how she does it.

"Alright," Lily laughs, "I'll go. If there's time..."

Lily trails off when she's abruptly interrupted by a flashing of cufflinks. One of Reg's arms reaches in front of my face to deposit our Polyjuice sample on Slughorn's desk. I don't know if he's looking at me. I don't care. Because, I'm certainly not looking at him. Slughorn's mouth drops open, but before he can utter even a single syllable of praise, Reg breezes past the three of us, and out the door of the classroom. There's a brief, heavy moment of silence. I know both Slughorn and Lily are looking at me now.

"Er... just one more thing, Miss Everheart..."

I grit my teeth. Bracing myself for some comment I already know I don't want to hear.

"If... if you do come, perhaps you should, ah... bring a date."

I crumple the smug, overstuffed invitation in my otherwise ineffectual fist.

He must be able to see the rage, fueled by my newly discovered fires of anger pouring out through my eyes, because with a few sputters, coughs, and jacket straightenings, he's gone. Retreated back into his over-sized office.

I'm moving again. Pulled along at the sleeve by Lily. I don't know where she's taking me. The fire's roared into a blaze now, burning hot, blazing bright, and it's all I see. I won't let them win. Slughorn. The Burg. Bell-UH. I can't. I won't. I won't fade out, I won't disappear. I'll go to his graduation party, and I'll have a fabulous time. And if I can manage to make a few of the lives of my self-proclaimed enemies miserable in the process, then that's just a perk.

This one's for you, Slughorn. You son of a bitch. If I'm going up in flames, then you will, too.

Except.

I'll be the one who's rising from the ashes.