One Thing Left to Hide

Chapter 5

The Wind.

"Oh, the time will come up,

When the winds will stop,

And the breeze will cease to be breathin'.

Like the stillness in the wind

Before the hurricane begins,

The hour that the ship comes in.

And the sea will split

And the ships will hit

And the sands on the shoreline will be shaking.

And the tide will sound

And the waves will pound

And the mornin' will be a breakin'."

[Bob Dylan//When the Ship Comes in]

Slowly, miraculously, Time passes. They say it heals things, Time. Cures all wounds. Makes things we once thought to be unbearable, our ultimate undoings, fade away amongst the expanses of things long forgotten. Gaping wounds disappear, sink into scars, become buried beneath hard fought growth and renewal, blanketed, covered; tucked safely away by fresh new layers of thin coatings of skin. The once fresh, clear-cut lines drawing the roadmaps of our weary journeys and personal tragedies blur into indistinctiveness, from violent red, to shadowy purple remains, to blossoming, regenerative green; until finally, at long last, they merge into uniformity. They become a part of us, less distinguishable than any other mole, pock, mark or freckle dotting our bodies.

But they are always there. They never disappear completely. They're just less noticeable, that's all. They become muted, dampened; shielded, and surrounded by each protective particle of sand that slowly trickles through the hourglass. But still, they remain. Waiting, practically begging to be ripped open again. Waiting for the right person to come along and tug at the strings that once so artfully tied you together. Sure, it gets easier, eventually. Picking up the pieces, reforging the splintered fragments of ourselves back together again.

That's what I did. Somehow. I fell into new patterns, waltzed through my days in time to unfamiliar, truncated rhythms. I avoided places I once frequented, the common room, for one, and replaced them with others. Each morning, evening, or afternoon, I would glide through, ignoring the long, rigid bodies lounging statuesquely on couches and chairs, against walls and tables. But that's all they were - bodies. Not names, not people, not him. Cat-calls and unintelligible mockeries would follow me through to the doorway, until I stepped safely through, the door sliding resolutely shut behind me. Afterward, I would grip at the fabric of my shirt - sometimes white, sometimes black or heathered gray - and the layers of skin below it. Still there, still unbroken. No, not thick, but certainly enough to hold me together.

I don't sit at their table anymore. Instead, every morning, I plop my groggy, sleep and coffee deprived self down with the golden children of the Gryffindor table. A shock of green amongst the thriving crests of crimson and gold. I don't sleep much; I'm generally the first to arrive. Remus is next, always arriving promptly at seven, his copy of The Prophet tucked primly beneath his arm.

Remus and I easily fell back into the previously established boundaries of our relationship. He had always been guarded, but these days, he clung even more tightly to his thoughts than I remembered. Not that I blame him. I could only imagine the intense betrayal he felt when Sirius and James decided to exploit the secret of his lycanthropy for their own petty, vengeful ends. It's not a secret any longer. We all know, and then some. When I see him, I'm always yanked from the depths of my self-pity. I want to tell him how sorry I am. That I don't care what he is - that James and Sirius are reckless idiots, and that he deserves better. But, I don't. I don't know how. The words never find me. I guess he's not the only guarded one. He sits down across from me, crunching his toast and the pages of his paper.

I sip my coffee.

His clear brown eyes, flecked with freckles of gold, catch the early rays of the sun's morning light as they dart back and forth, reading the day's headlines. It's quiet, peaceful. Small handfuls of students line the various house tables, stretching and yawning away the stiffness of sleep. The familiar scents of Hogwarts breakfast weave their way through the air, in and out between and around the waves of white, unlit candles drifting slowly, up, up, down -- and always back up again. Warm sausages, rolls, strips of bacon, eggs, and more bacon, for good measure. All piled in teetering towers on platters running the lengths of the glistening brown tables, occasionally punctuated by basins of breakfast cereals. Reg always lamented the quality of Hogwarts cooking; claiming Kreacher's to be far superior. Far less meat. I wouldn't know. I'd never exactly been asked over for dinner. I guess now I would never be.

I sip my coffee.

Remus folds his paper in half, his perpetually crinkled forehead more deeply lined than usual. "There's been another abduction." I frown. It seems there's always "another abduction," these days. "Who?"

"Some Muggle family. Apparently, they'd been missing for nearly two weeks until they were found strung up along the top of our ministry building. Muggle police are clueless how they got there, but..."

"But we know."

He ponders this disturbing bit of information. "Yeah."

I start to say something else, but he interrupts me. "Oh, and there's..." He flips over his folded paper, briefly glancing at the text on the other side. "Ian Parkinson. Lead Ambassador of the Muggle Relations Department. He's been gone for nearly a month now."

I shake my head. For the last year or so, Anti-Muggle sentiments seemed to have reached their feverish, maximum pitch. My parents assured me it was nothing to worry about - it had always been like this. Coming and going in waves. No matter how the Fundamentalist witches and wizards balked at and resisted the pulls of change tugging at them from every direction. As our society grows, so does the Muggles'. Both of our worlds are constantly expanding, spreading and sprawling nearer and nearer to one another, in spite of those of us who try so desperately to remain anchored to the past, who turn their sails away, fighting with everything they have against any breath of wind that blows in reeking of the new, the different; the unfamiliar. Inevitably, they always lose their grip, get swept along; carried away by the changing tides. And the turbulent waters come crashing over the bow.

From the earliest parts of our history, witches and wizards began to trickle through the cracks of our seemingly impenetrable wall of secrecy, mixing and mingling within Muggle society. But most problematic proved, as always, to be matters of the heart. The stiff, gnarled branches of lineages and traditions were forgotten. Forsaken for warmth, for softness, for love. Blood mixed with water, and "Mudbloods" were born. Of course, it was shocking. Of course people talked. A "disgrace to the name of Wizard," perhaps, but this was nothing new. Nothing unheard of. Trespasses amongst families were tolerated, but quickly hushed. Never spoken of. And that's how they were supposed to stay. Locked up, tucked away. Left to linger in the dark corners of closets with the other skeletons, untouched and unspoken, cloaked by the deepest of shames that only intolerance can breed. And that's how it was. And that's how it stayed. For awhile, anyway. Until those troublesome winds picked up again.

Integrated families clamored for their magical children to be allowed to attend standard schools of witchcraft and wizardry instead of the separate, thoroughly second-rate institutions that had been created for them. The rationale being that, due to their muddled lineage, their subsequently muddled magical abilities of "mudbloods" and Muggle-borns would interfere with the "proper" education of the pure blooded students. Owls flooded the ministry (to the point that an additional owlery was added so employees could finally return to their desks without fear of being pecked and pestered for treats). Each and every letter clutched between their curved beaks representing yet another family fed up with the silence; countless witches, wizards, and Muggle men and women, all demanding some semblance of equality.

Speeches were made, rallies were held. My father was even in attendance when Albus Dumbledore famously declared his full support for Muggle rights by commending Muggles for their invention of toesocks - the warmest pair of socks he'd yet had the privilege of wearing. He concluded his comments by stating that a society that so values the toastiness of even its tiniest appendages is clearly one deserving of the utmost tolerance and understanding. (From what my father told me, that wasn't one of Dumbledore's most well received speeches. On either end.) Eventually, in spite of hard fought resistance from the other side, and the notoriously glacial pace of any and all bureaucratic processes, laws were passed. The silence was broken. And with the passing of the silence, came the thunderous beginnings of a new generation.

Muggle techniques and inventions were no longer viewed solely as quaint, mockable, but ultimately useless attempts at surviving a piteous life bereft in the absence of magic. Suddenly, their archaic buttons and knobs and wires grew to be even more than just viable fascinations, but worthwhile inventions that could be modified and integrated into our daily lives. Wizarding schools throughout the country added Muggle Studies courses to their class listings. It quickly became fashionable, even trendy, to be "Muggle-fied." Muggle styles of dress began appearing in shop windows in all but the most prominent wizarding neighborhoods. The younger crowd, so quick to adopt any and all habits with the capability to shock and horrify their parents, enthusiastically traded their flowing, intricately embroidered robes for short skirts and tight trousers. Even Muggle music became popular - one trend, much to my wizard father's dismay, I eventually came to embrace whole-heartedly.

But, nothing's ever that easy. Just when the waters seemed calm, when the ship seemed even, settled upon its keel, gentle breezes began to breathe discontent once again. Ripples marred the mask of placidity and acceptance that seemed to have settled upon the collective face of our society. And the winds began to howl. Cries for tradition, for "normalcy", a return to the "Fundamentals of Magic" drowned the voices once screaming for equality. Why should we be accepting? Why should we share our coveted secrets with the very ones who once hunted, banished, and killed our ancestors with the deafening cries of heresy? Why now? After all, we were the ones forced into hiding. For centuries we had been the ones cloaked with shame - the forbidden, the frightening; the forgotten the unmentionables.

Of course for every new law that was passed, there were old ones. Long, rambling, barely comprehensible scrolls dragged up from the depths of the filing cabinets where all forgotten, outdated legislation goes to die. Pages and pages of parchment filled with statutes detailing the importance of secrecy, our decision to remain hidden, for the Muggles' protection, and, more importantly, for our own. Quite unceremoniously, these fledgling new laws were reversed and undone long before their effects could be thoroughly seen, much less observed and analyzed.

And, so here we sit. Caught within the bitter backlash. Neither here nor there, neither regressing, nor pushing forward, forging paths to new, tentative futures filled with all those gloriously hesitant possibilities. Muggleborns, no longer willing nor able to be denied, exist in greater numbers than ever, but struggle to find their place in a world tense with the unwillingness of those who refuse to accept them. The "pure blooded" wizards, enraptured with their own notions of nobility, novelty and rarity, close up; collapse in upon themselves into an all-consuming singularity of self-importance. And now, there are these abductions. Nearly everyday. But the blue blood of bigotry runs deep, and it flows ever stronger through the veins of even the students here at Hogwarts.

It began innocently enough - a hex there, an insult there. Nothing alarming, nothing to worry about. These things happen every day. Detentions are issued, "youthful indiscretions" dismissed, and the business of every day living resumes. But slowly, surely, these "pranks" took a turn for the malevolent. They became patterned, systemic; very nearly predictable in their insistent regularity. The attacker's identities grew increasingly mysterious, in spite of certain students being chosen as repeat targets. A misfortunate few selected to bear the brunt of their parents' personal decisions here at school. Madam Pomfrey easily righted their wounds upon a quick visit to the hospital wing, but the humiliation of "Mudblood," branded across walls, their clothes, or sometimes even their skins, always lingered.

I quickly scan the up-side-down text of Remus's paper, my troubled scowl mirroring his own. "This is getting fucking ridiculous."

He's silent for a long moment, before nodding his agreement. "Yeah, it is." And with a crinkling of pages, he vanishes.

I sip my coffee.

Lily arrives next. She approaches the table, leaning decidedly to one side, weighed down by the massive book bag slung across her chest. The crimson bulk of one of James's old Quidditch jerseys, the massive amounts of fabric dwarfing her slight frame, blends into the hair brushing across the tops of her shoulders. James proudly gave Lily his jersey - one he'd worn during countless Gryffindor victories, no less - when they first started dating. A bold gesture, one marking their official status as Hogwarts' first "power couple." She'd since worn the thing to every Quidditch match she attended. This isn't a good sign.

She plops down next to me, immediately thrusting off her bag and grabbing a piece of toast in one fluid movement. "Morning, sunshine." She grins at me, and I grin back, in spite of the growing sense of agitation forming in my stomach. I'm not exactly a fan of Quidditch. I glance around, noticing for the first time that the peace of early morning is being shattered more quickly than usual. Packs of students now crowd the tables that would otherwise be empty at this hour on a Saturday morning. Bursts of excited conversation fight to dominate one another as the vibrant masses of crimson, gold, navy, and green converge upon the waiting platters of food. Yes, there's definitely...

"Quidditch today," James proclaims, hurling himself down into his usual seat next to Lily. Sirius is with him, clad in his ever-present (defiant even of the warmth of spring) leather jacket, a black spot besmudging the otherwise uniform show of House support from the Gryffindors. I smile at this flagrant show of disdain for the fervor surrounding Hogwarts' premiere non-academic activity. Sirius possesses a natural knack for athletic ability, yet another one of the many things he unwittingly shares with his brother. But, always eager for ways to further differentiate himself from Reg, Sirius doggedly abstained from joining the cause of Gryffindor's undisputed domination of the Quidditch world - in spite of constant pestering from James. Every time James asked him to join the team (which became a nearly daily occurrence at one point), Sirius would reply with an irritated toss of his head, followed by the proclamation that he doesn't "do team sports."

I watch James and Sirius struggle for control of a steaming platter of sausages before turning back to Lily. "I take it you're going?"

"Yes," she says. "Of course I'm going. It's the finals."

I'm pretty sure I roll my eyes. It happens so frequently now, I'm hardly aware of it when it does. After idly watching James and Sirius's continued squabble for a few seconds, Lily reaches over, grabs the contested bit of meat, and sets it at the deadly center of her plate. Ignoring the grumbled complaints of the two dangerously ravenous teenage boys, she plunges the tines of her fork into the tube of sausage of with all of the dignified finality of victory. She looks up at me as she slides in her knife, and smiles. "I don't see what you're rolling your eyes about, especially since you're coming with me." She pops a bite of food into her mouth, and begins to chew, still smiling her sweetest of smiles.

She's got to be joking. "Um, no, I'm not."

"Yes--" The fork screeches in protest, scraping against the ceramic of her plate. "You are." Another slice of meat disappears into her mouth. She smiles. She chews. I sip my coffee. I frown down into my mug. It's cold now.

"Besides, a bit of sun probably'd do you good. When was the last time you even went outside?"

"I... don't think that really matters."

"Of course it does. Regardless..." She finishes, washing down her final bite with a swig of pumpkin juice. "You're still going."

I chew on the inside corner of my lower lip as I glower at her. I'm definitely annoyed now. "Does he have to go?" I jerk my thumb toward Remus, still dutifully pretending to ignore everything happening around him. Lily serenely contemplates his back pages of The Prophet hovering across from us. "No, he doesn't."

I finally release the exasperated sigh I'd been repressing since somewhere around the time "Quidditch" was first mentioned. "Why the hell NOT?"

"Because. Remus hasn't been stuck in a spiraling, uncontrollable fit of depression, despair, and self-loathing for the past couple of weeks. That's why."

I glance at the paper formerly known as Remus. "Remus," I snap, "is this true?"

Slowly, he lowers the paper until we can both see his eyes. He's met with the undoubtedly delightful vision of our most petulant stares. Both Lily and myself fully expecting that he should take our side in this debate (if you could even call it that).

"Possibly." A smile plays upon his lips. He disappears back behind his paper. I reach for the precious pot of coffee in front of me to refill my now tepid mug. I'm not going. Lily stops me. She grabs my arm, and pulls me to my feet. "You're going." Before I can even protest, we're caught up amongst the stream of students filing out of the Great Hall and into the blinding sunlight of what would otherwise be a glorious spring day.

Suddenly, James appears beside us, whooping and hollering and yelling praises and encouragement to his teammates as he passes; shouting preemptive condolences to anyone who happens to be wearing blue. Apparently, Gryffindor is playing Ravenclaw for the cup today. Good. He won't be playing. Good. I'm relieved. I'm... disappointed. Secretly. Probably a combination of both. The few Quidditch matches I had attended, were always when Regulus was playing. Mostly, I sat there amongst the throngs of my cheering Slytherin housemates, hands clasped tightly in my lap, hoping he didn't die. Clearly, he didn't. In fact, he always performed brilliantly; frequently catching the snitch in the early moments of the game, long before the opposing seeker ever caught sight of it. Not every time, of course. But most times. Frequently enough to be considered talented. But after each match, every time, without fail, he found me in the stands.

He approaches, easily taking the rows two at a time. His hair, whipped about his head in all different directions, still somehow manages to maintain the effect that it's just been effortlessly styled. Probably because it has been. Breathless - athletically gifted, sure, but he certainly didn't work at staying in shape - and grinning, he comes to a halt mere inches away from me. I can still feel his warm, haughty breaths on my face.

"You want it?" He unceremoniously holds out his hand, his gloved, white-knuckled fist clutched tightly around the snitch I know is still struggling inside. This, a deliberate, over-exaggerated mockery of the same triumphant ritual played out by every other team's seeker, and his or her partner of choice, had always been a private game of ours. But, like all things, it quickly became imbued with a whole new sticky set of meanings once we actually started dating. I imagine the tiny, flittering ball of gold struggling against the bony cage of his fingers, focusing its every effort into the flapping of its miniscule wings.

"Is it broken?"

He shakes his head. "No, this one still flies."

I smile and adjust the scarf draped around my neck before holding out both of my hands, cupping them together to form a bowl; one small enough for the bottom of his closed fist to cover entirely. He raises an eyebrow. "Ready?" I nod. He releases the snitch from his hand, transferring it to my own. I smile down at my hands, now clasped tightly together, the wings of my tiny captive tickling the insides of my palms in its continued struggle for freedom. I glance toward the sky.

His grin, coolly disinterested before, stretches out into the full length of his spectacular smile, actually revealing the rows of nearly perfectly straightened teeth lining his mouth. (The Burg paid to have his teeth magically straightened the same year he started at Hogwarts, but still, one delicately crooked incisor remains.) His gaze follows mine, upward, toward the steely cool gray of the sky.

"Potter really hates that, you know."

"I know." I smile, and unfold my encapsulating hands. The snitch immediately bursts free, at first a sparkle, then a tiny golden glimmer, before finally fully fading from view. It continues its delicate ascent into the sky, spiraling and darting this way and that, the beginning of its journey to destinations unknown. Still smiling, Reg pulls me toward him, his eyes closed; wearily resting his cool lips against my forehead. "May we please go now? I'm sick of this uniform." Still stupid and smiling, I nod. I only kept the broken ones. The snitches. I still have them. Stashed in a dusty box beneath my four-poster bed; along with every other trinket of happiness we shared together.

God, I hate Quidditch.

James is still glowing beside me, absolutely invigorated with anticipation for the upcoming match - he lives for these moments. He's been in his uniform since breakfast. Hell, he probably slept in it. He throws an arm around Lily, pulling her toward him as he walks. He buries his face against her hair, planting a kiss on top of her head, muttering something I can't hear. They beam up at each other, both clearly enraptured with the prospect of yet another Gryffindor win.

I wince. It's there again. The ache. I feel my hand reach up, groping at my chest, just below my left collarbone. My fingers clutch at flesh and fabric. Still there, still unbroken. My fault lines clearly visible, but still steady. Immobile. I'm not completely selfish - I love that they're happy. I just can't stand to watch it, that's all. I let myself trail behind them, James and Lily still linked together as they work their way toward the quidditch pitch and the stands already swarming with students and teachers clambering over one another in their eagerness to find the best seats.

"Come on, kid. James got me up at seven to go to this goddamn game. You're comin', too."

Sirius's low voice startles me. I miss a step in my plodding march toward the overly abundant festivity of the quidditch finals. This is the first time he's spoken to me since I'd made my modest reentry to the group. I look up at him, his face rising only a few inches above my own. He grins, but it's one laced with trepidation. He shakes his shaggy black hair, always kept long, just beyond the reaches of respectability, out of his gray eyes. Looking at them now, I'm shocked by their familiarity. Another similarity, one forced upon him by the irreversible hand of genetics. But, unlike Reg, Sirius's eyes are tinged with a clear, stormy blue.

Eager to accept this unexpected show of friendship, I shoot back, "Yeah, but he's your best friend."

"Not on quidditch days, he's not." He grins once more, and this time, it's genuine. And it's just as infectious as I remember. I grin back. His eyes dart up as he catches sight of someone - Peter, chatting with Wendy Davies, the keeper for the Ravenclaws, who stands nearly a full three inches taller than him. "Christ." Sirius winces embarrassment on behalf of Peter and his insistent attempts to date girls of a higher social rank. "Somebody's gotta stop 'him before he tries doin' that Dumbledore impression again." He waves slightly over his shoulder as he jogs ahead to catch up with Peter. "See you around, kid..." A group of giddy, giggling Gryffindor quidditch groupies pull in front of me, blocking Sirius and Peter from view. The crowd shifts, and with that, they've disappeared completely, mixing in with the throbbing mass of the crowd.

Lily drags me up into the stands, finding two seats for us on the side packed tightly with exuberant Gryffindors. Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and Slytherins fill the bleachers on the opposite end of the pitch, all their anti-Gryffindor merchandise (believe me, there's plenty): hats, buttons, rosettes, and shirts - erratically singing, slinging, and flashing insults back at us. Charming objects, all of them. Especially the ones depicting images of ravens consuming or dismembering a lion in some form or another. Slightly disturbing, sure, but still maintaining the reputation for morbid cleverness so touted by the members of the Ravenclaw House. Clearly, there's hope for an upset.

James marches confidently out to the center of the pitch, his captain's cape billowing out majestically behind him. After the obligatory gripping of the hands with the Ravenclaw captain, he mounts his broom. And with a thunderous, rallying cry from the Gryffindors, the match begins.

In an instant, everyone is on their feet. I'm surrounded by a forest of stick-straight calves, shins, and ankles. The Gryffindor crowd acts as one finely tuned machine, channeling every collective ounce of their energy into screaming encouragement for their team. Not a moment is wasted - every second of the match corresponds to a well-rehearsed chant, cry, or cheer. It's impressive, but also mildly terrifying for all its practiced uniformity. Even Professor McGonogall, notoriously thin-mouthed and tight-lipped Minerva, has her hands cupped around her O-shaped mouth to amplify an unmistakable "BOOOOOOO!"

Gryffindor scores. The wooden bleachers tremble with the excited foot stomps punctuating the maniacal chants of "GO, GO, GRYFFINDOR! GO, GO, GRYFFINDOR!" echoing above my head. Fearing I might be trampled, I clamber to my feet, popping my head up beside Lily's. I stare down at her. She's descended into full-tilt quidditch madness. Her hair and the loose folds of James's jersey swirl around her in a furious storm of red and gold. She repeatedly pummels the unabashedly blue sky with her fists, screaming an impressive stream of obscenities - one that would ordinarily land someone with at least three detentions.

Lily Evans. So studious, so courteous in most other aspects of her life, just referred to the Ravenclaw keeper as a "talentless, steaming puddle of bowtruckle piss". Whatever that means. It used to be tradition for Lily to escort a group of unsuspecting first-year students to the first Quidditch match of the season. After... numerous complaints, McGonogall sternly suggested that perhaps it would be best to let the first-years fend for themselves from then on. My cheeks pucker into a smirk. I'm pretty sure those kids aren't exactly fans of Quidditch these days, either.

I poke Lily's shoulder. She doesn't respond. I doubt she even felt it. Now's my chance. I quickly make my escape, trodding on toes, climbing over the stacked rows of the quidditch fiends - each one tossing me a brief, angry stare for having the gall to leave prior to the match's conclusion. I manage to make it out of the bleachers relatively unscathed. I breathe a sigh of a relief, and peer back up toward the game.

The players are tiny dots against the sky now. Zipping and zooming this way and that. Ravenclaw scores. It's a close match. They're going to be here awhile. The triumphant cheers of the Ravenclaw supporters well up in a wall of sound behind me as I turn to head back to the mercifully quiet, empty castle. I'm lost in thought as I walk, trying to convince myself that the Transfiguration essay I have to hand in on Monday can be put off until tomorrow.

"Leaving already?"

A rough, firm hand grabs hold of my forearm. Startled, I gasp, and immediately yank my arm away, lurching backward a few feet in the process.

"Christ, you're jumpy. 'Course, can't really blame you, livin' with that lot you do..." Sirius wags his head from side to side, clearing the hair that's constantly dangling in front of his mischievous eyes from view. His foot propped up against the back of the bleachers, he pulls a small flagon of fire whiskey from the shadowy interior of his jacket pocket. I stare at the bottle; completely unaware of the look of pure, unadulterated longing that's managed to work its way across my features. Watching me the entire time, Sirius takes a long swig, then wipes his mouth clean; dragging the back of his palm across his stubble-covered chin. I can smell the pungent beverage from where I'm standing. My nose crinkles against its will.

Still watching me with a curious, slightly amused expression on his face, Sirius holds the bottle out to me. "I take it you want some?" I contemplate the amber-colored liquid for all of a second before nodding. Vigorously. Probably a little too vigorously. This isn't my first encounter with alcohol, not by any means. First and foremost entertainers of all the right company, and, consequently, enthusiastic drinkers themselves, my parents always keep our home fully stocked with bottles and bottles of the finest liquors and spirits the wizarding world has to offer. Bottles I eagerly skimmed off the tops of every time I was left at home, alone to my own devices (which was often). I've tasted the unwelcomed truths that only Veela Veritas Vodka can bring; I've known the warm, rosy sorrows that accompany a bottle of perfectly aged Goblin-made wine.

This is, however, my first encounter with... I squint at the ripped, faded label, Ab's Flamin' Hog's Fire Whiskey. I shrug. This stuff is supposed to make you forget. I have plenty to forget. I grab the bottle from Sirius - "Least you can do is say please..." - ignoring the blistering scent wafting up toward my nostrils. I wrap my lips around the cool glass, and throw my head backward, gulping down as much of stuff as I can manage. I blink. Then, it ignites. The fire rockets downward, charring my esophagus, briefly pausing to lick and linger at the insides of my chest, before exploding in all its liquid ferocity in the pit of my stomach.

I cough, I sputter. I can't see through the tears stinging the backs of my eyelids. I wipe furiously at my eyes, glaring at the black, glittery streaks of make-up clinging to the cracks of my skin on the backs of my hands. My stomach still burns. I break into another fit of coughing. At some point, I manage to gasp, "What the hell is this??? Poison...?"

He smirks that same superior, all-knowing smirk I saw him make the evening of my sorting. Sirius shoves his hands into the pockets of faded jeans, and uses the foot he was leaning against to thrust himself forward from the bleachers. "No, that's fire whiskey." He makes a grab for the bottle, but I jerk it away. I'm not going through all this torture without getting at least a little drunk. In spite of the immediate, lurching protests of my gag-reflex, I press the bottle to my stinging lips once again, and take a gulp. I cough, but this time, it's not so bad. And the warmth in my stomach is comforting. Nearly familiar.

Sirius stands there, still studying me with that same strange expression. Expectant, maybe? I reluctantly hold the bottle back toward him, but he pushes it away. "Keep it. You need it more than I do. Anyway..." Once again, he reaches into his jacket. "There's more where that came from." He pulls out a shiny, silver flask. I notice the delicate curves of the Black family crest engraved on its front. Funny, the pieces of his past he chooses to keep. He follows my gaze, and hastily shoves the flask back out of sight. "It was a gift from my Uncle Alphard." Uncle Alphard. I'd heard of him. Reg mentioned him to me a few times. "He's, uh..." Sirius tugs his fingers through his hair. Another similarity. "My favorite uncle." Reg hated the guy.

I nearly laugh. Instead, I take yet another determined swig from my bottle of Hog's Fire. I swallow, but don't cough. This time, the burning mixes and mingles with a pleasant, numbing sensation. Beginning at my stomach, its caress flows upward, detaching my face from the rest of my body. Rounding out the sharp edges of anything and everything I'd hoped to never think or feel again. Things are soft, fuzzy; ill-defined. Blurred, indistinct images from some distant life lived far, far away. Just the way I want them. They can't get me. They can't hurt me now. Satisfied, I screw the cap back onto the bottle, and gingerly, carefully stow my new best friend inside the bottomless depths of my bag. I can feel him watching me still. Uncomfortable, and mildly irritated at the audacity of his unrelenting stare, I shift my weight from foot to foot. "Is there something I can help you with?"

He laughs. A short, rasping bark. "Naw, kid... I..." He peers at me. I know this face. It's contemplative. "You wanna get out of here?"

My shoulders roll forward; relieved from the weight of a tension I didn't even know I was carrying. He grins. And, maybe it's just the fire whiskey, but... I nod. A cool breeze blows in from the North, stirring a few stray hairs across the top of my head, altering the course of my plans for that Saturday afternoon.

I hoist up my sails, and let myself be carried away.

I smile. "I thought you'd never ask."