Payback

Payback

I looked up the stairs to see nothing. It was sheer darkness up there, and it had only been a small sound after all. Maybe Buckbeak was cleaning his feathers or something. I felt bad for the poor creature, trapped in that one room, alone all the time. I tried to be up there with him as much as I could, but then I would feel trapped. It didn't help that I was paranoid about missing a message from some member of the Order. I spent most nights sleeping on the chairs down in the kitchen, just in case. What else was I going to do? I didn't even feel comfortable revisiting my own bedroom.

Despite the fact that I had disregarded the noise, I still crept my way up the staircase, trying not to make a sound. For no particular reason, I banged my fist against the nearest wall, watching as the picture frames swung slightly on their rusted nails. Maybe I did it to see if Buckbeak was awake--and if he was, he was definitely concentrated on something.

I passed by a few doors of which I had forgotten where they led to, but was not intrigued enough to explore their destinations. I got to my room and my hand closed around the doorknob, but I stopped. I looked at the oak door as if it had offended me and then released my hand from the knob, backing away slowly. I stared at it for a moment, at the plate across the door where my name was engraved, before turning away.

No, I couldn't do it. There were too many good things in that room. It may sound ridiculous, but I'd rather force myself to remember the bad. Because having to look at what I still have is a lot easier than looking at what I had and can never have again.

The kitchen was stifling, which I found odd since I hadn't made myself anything to eat all day. I then came to realize how hungry I was. I didn't feel like eating, though. I opened the cabinet and my blind hand rummaged around for awhile, collecting mounds of dust, I was sure. I finally pulled out a bottle of firewhiskey, clanking it against a few other bottles. The sound rung in my ears; it was always silent here.

The hot liquid burned through my insides, warming my body a little at the touch. I leaned back, stretching like a cat, allowing two of the chair's legs to cease contact with the floor. My body ached every evening, mocking me. It was just a reminder that I hadn't done one productive thing all day. It killed me that I couldn't step out for a breath of fresh air or take a stroll around the drive. I was confined. Probably for the rest of my miserable, pathetic life. Damn Fudge. Worst Minister in ages. Incredible he even got the job.

I started walking around, noticing the tiny arch in my step, like that of a man who is on the brink of drunkenness. I wasn't though, I assure you. I can hold my liquor. I stepped through the main hallway, running a hand through my greasy hair. I really did need a good scrubbing--I was beginning to look like Snape. I even considered putting an Engorgement Charm on my nose and sending a picture to Remus. He wouldn't think it was that funny, though. James would have been on the floor. And Lily would have sent me back something large and heavy that would hit me repeatedly over the head.

At least it would've been something to do, trying to get away from a flying, punch-happy Lily Original. I laughed at the thought.

What I didn't realize was that somehow in the time I'd pulled back my hair and swerved to my right because of the arch in my step, I had lost my balance. I seized the only thing I could, which to my luck was the curtain of my mother's portrait.

There was a piercing scream that filled the house and rung my eardrums clear off.

"YOU!" she screeched, at an octave higher than human lungs can attain. "YOU ARE THE SHAME OF MY FLESH! YOU SULLY THE GOOD NAME OF OUR FAMILY! BLOOD TRAITOR! RUN AWAY! FILTH! SCUM!"

"For God's sake, woman, SHUT UP!" I shouted so loud that it made her hesitate for a second before continuing her pointless monologue. I could feel both my temples pulsating by the time I managed to shut the curtains. Her screams faded away, but my head was still ringing with the reverberation of twenty spontaneous gongs.

Figured I shouldn't have started drinking in the first place, so I set the bottle of firewhiskey down on the next flat surface I saw and made my way down the hall again.

I found myself upstairs once more, but farther down the hall. I opened the two giant, adjacent doors and stepped into my parent's room. It was rich with tapestries; crystal objects that held no purpose where scattered about the room to make it look even more opulent. A great chandelier, much larger than the one that adorned my room's ceiling, was placed in the middle, just above the enormous bed. In the headboard was engraved the Black family crest. Positioned above the headboard, there was a portrait on the wall of the four of us--a stunning likeness. I remember sitting for that one.

I'd been twelve years old and had already hated my parents, so I hadn't been too cooperative. I didn't get to see what I'd looked like back then, however. I saw a lone hand resting by my brother's shoulder, but nothing more. My mother had torn off the whole right side of the painting, which was where I had stood. Probably the night I ran away from this God-awful place. It was just cruel irony that I was once again trapped here, forced to remember the patches of a past life that I shouldn't have been in and where I clearly never belonged.

Being the odd man out, I never regretted not being a part of this family. And why should I have? They were vicious, cruel, uncouth snobs who could support with their money and their words, but not with real actions. They were cowards, the lot of them. Selfish prudes. They could never understand the true meaning of sacrifice. They could never understand why someone with my abilities and wealth and looks would be best friends with 'blood traitors' and 'Mudbloods'. My blood status was of the highest regard, yet there wasn't one time in my life that I wouldn't rather have traded it to be a Muggle-born.

All my family ever cared about was their reputation. What will everyone think of this? What will they say about that? Did it fucking matter what anyone else thought? Of course it did. It meant the world! And that's the reason I couldn't stand them. It wasn't the constant belittlement or the insufferable attitudes I had to put up with all through my childhood. With their beliefs, I expected to be privately disowned as soon as I was sorted into 'the wrong house'.

I actually recall reading a letter my mother sent me my first week at Hogwarts. At the time, the first paragraph gave me a good reason to snicker.

I am very disappointed in you for getting sorted into that retched house. I expect you'll be making friends with Mudbloods left and right! If you want to make friends, visit the Slytherins and try to fit in. Bella and Cissy will show you the ropes and now we can only hope that you start fitting in with the right people.

Without thinking, I balled my hand and punch the wall so hard it went through the plaster. I pulled my shaking fist out of the gaping black hole and lowered it to my side. I stared at that hole for five minutes before I grabbed a crystal figurine off my mother's nightstand and hurtled it across the room. I watched in satisfaction as it broke against the wardrobe, splintering into the wood as it exploded into millions of tiny pieces. They flew through the air like small sparks, hitting the small ray of light coming through the doorway.

I felt a load weigh off me. My shoulders heightened a bit like a burden had been lifted. It was...invigorating. At the same time, my throat constricted with the images of similar memories, and suddenly, I wasn't in control anymore.

I aimed my wand at the portrait above the bed, looked at the stoic faces of my parents and my young brother as they gazed into nothingness, and yelled, "Incendio!" The portrait burst into flames, the ashes scattering across the bed sheets.

I continued to savagely demolish the bedroom until there was nothing more of value that could be salvaged from the rubble. My back against a charred wall, I slid down its length until I was sitting on top of the ashen floorboards. I put my head in my hands, my elbows propped up on my knees. Underneath my palms I could feel my moist cheeks. My knuckles were bleeding, and I imagined so where my arms--the result of having so much crystal to throw about.

I heard footsteps, making the floor beneath them creak in protest. I looked up to see Remus in the doorway, staring down at me with a look of deep concern, lines of worry sketched on his face. He carefully waded through the mess of glass and made his way around the upturned dresser to kneel beside me. He looked at me for several seconds, but I turned my eyes away, wiping the tears up with the sleeve of my shirt. He placed a hand on my back and the other grasped my hand to lift me up. I wiped furiously at my eyes, as if they held a toxin. Remus gripped my wrist and lowered my hand himself, gazing down at me. I was too ashamed to look up at him, but I knew what that gaze held: understanding. But how could he have understood what I felt when I didn't?

My family never loved me. They never cared.

So, why do I?