Of Grief and Imagined Betrayals

I have found myself in a bit of a dilemma lately.

You see, just as I stand prone between two houses, neither of which fully accepts me, I find myself in much the same situation with regards to my life beyond Hogwarts.

I live in the middle ground, looking in on the muggle world with all too knowing eyes and observing the wizarding world warily. When I leave Hogwarts, a choice must be made and I don't know if I can bring myself to make it.. Can I assimilate myself into a world that will never entirely accept me? Can I really turn my back on the world I have lived in for the past five years and forget it ever existed?

I really don't know.

As with most things, the list of pros and cons reaches far beyond that of my latest Potions essay. I have looked the list over with contempt many times over the past two years, the crossing out and smeared ink a testament to the hours I have agonized over it, but lately that contempt has changed into resignation. I have come to realize that no matter which choice I make, there are undesirable consequences that I will have to live with. Now, it's just a matter of altering my mask--my tried and true defense of living in my brother's shadow--to protect me from the disappointment that lies ahead.

And with that thought, I grip the edges of the crinkled parchment, feeling for the last time the rough surface I have felt a hundred times before, and begin ripping the list into a snow fall of paper that slowly piles on the desk in front of me. While my decision is far from being made, I choose to not hide behind shallow rationalizations of my life on paper.

"I think that the parchment is very well decimated by now, Lily."

I look over to Nick in his desk beside me and see the concern he is trying to hide; he has never been good at concealing his emotions, which is one reason, I think, my brother dislikes him so much.

"Sorry, off in my own little world." I whisper, shooting an unnecessary look of caution at Binns at the head of the classroom. I smile, trying to alleviate his worry. "You going to the match today?"

Neither of us is big on supporting the Gryffindor team, but we both are avid fans of the sport and try to make any game regardless of the opposing teams.

"Can Mel come, too?" he asks, invoking his patented 'pity me' look in support of his plea. Mel is his on again, off again, on again Ravenclaw girlfriend. She weighs about six pounds, most of it in her head.

"Of course. You know I don't mind when she tags along." A complete lie. He knows this, yet he nods and goes back to his note taking, ignoring both me and the pile of paper insecurities in front of me. I stare down at the small shreds and watch as a slight breeze from the open window ruffles them, disturbing their quiet order.

All at once, I realize that the class has been dismissed and I am drawn into a world of my own flurry. I too feel ruffled by the jostle of students as they make their way to the door to head out to the pitch. Closing my eyes for a moment, I let myself be immersed in the ebb and flow of the yelling, giggling, talking, until the majority of it fades fast away beyond the closed classroom door.

"Lily, come on!" I am shaken by a laughing Holly and collect all my things in a daze. "I want to get good seats this time and you know the whole of Gryffindor will be out there today." And for some inexplicable reason, Holly grabs a most unwilling Nick and begins leading him in what must be some bizarre pre-game ritual dance around the room.

I sit back waiting for the whirlwind that is my friend to settle down.

"What are you doing?" I finally voice as a frustrated Nick finally gains his freedom, hardly able to hide the smile lurking beneath the surface.

"Victory dance," she responds and grins. "You're done packing up? Let's go!"

I follow closely behind them as they force their way through the throngs of students roaming the halls and gathering into groups to make their way to the pitch. I am surprised by the number that is amassing; it is only a Gryffindor-Hufflepuff game after all.

Outside, I'm struck by the intense afternoon sunlight. The day is perfect, cloudless, beaming, a tribute to the exhilarating match ahead of us. I can just tell by the smell in the air, the breeze pushing at my back and tugging at my hair, and the warmth of the sun on my face that this is going to be a match to remember. We make it up to the Gryffindor stands before they become too full and choose seats carefully away from some of the more animated fanatics who have charmed their hair and faces to periodically flash red and gold.

Mel joins us not too long after, sliding in between Nick and me with big, solemn eyes and pouty lips. Her impossibly long legs fold gracefully under her, the hem of her skirt riding up a scant inch or two, a move that I have come to realize has been precisely calculated to the last flick of the hair and the soft, escaping sigh.

Nicky is in nothing but trouble when it comes to her.

"Mel," I greet stoically, ignoring the annoyed look Nick sends me. "How'd you do on the Transfiguration practical today? I thought I might have smelled smoke."

Her eyes narrow at me; I can practically see the cogs working furiously behind her eyes. Once last year she had been trying to turn a small woven basket into bat. Somehow in the process she had started a fire, something I tried hard not to let her live down. She has been, after all, brilliant in every other endeavor since birth.

When she responds, her voice mirrors mine; detached, unemotional. "Sometimes that happens to certain Gryffindors when trying to tackle something too difficult for them. The practical wasn't too taxing on you, was it?"

"Your sympathy is duly noted," I say dryly, biting my lip in a desperate bid to stop myself from saying anything I may regret later.

Nick is glaring at me openly now. "Girls, do I need to separate you two?"

I manage to appear contrite, for about two seconds. "Oh, look, the game is starting," I note, hoping to divert his attention from me as I watch Professor Sienega take to the air from the pitch, circling once before signaling for the start of the game. Holly, in her excitement, leaps upwards, dragging me bodily up with her.

Everything she does is fast, from thought to action in a nanosecond. Sometimes I can hardly find the energy to keep up with her, but I always find myself willing to try.

Despite our nonexistent love for the Gryffindor team, I have to admit that they are probably the most entertaining to watch, sans the Slytherins. They are creative in their flying and have the nerve to back their recklessness up when plans and strategies change halfway through. Most other players would be screaming 'Abort, abort!'--at least to themselves--and then check to see what their teammates are doing around them. But the Gryffindors seem almost connected with each other, always knowing where the others are, and they all seem to change their game play simultaneously, looking like a well-rehearsed dance.

But it probably is. The Quidditch teams have been fanatical these past few years, spending hours over the required practice time per week, the Gryffindors out there the most.

And it shows.

After the Gryffindor team is announced and introduced (as if we don't know who each and every one of them already is) I sit down with the rest of the house as Holly continues cheering, much to the chagrin of those around us, for the Gryffindors as well as Hufflepuffs. It isn't long before she stops shrieking, pulled down onto the edge of the bench by Nick's long-reaching arms but hovering an inch above the wood for seconds at a time. I can practically feel the energy coming off of her in waves.

This is why I love going to matches with her. This intangible intensity that seeps into my pores has become addicting. I feel myself laughing; I am the happiest and most carefree I've been in a long time.

And the game is excellent. Even the snotty, Miss-Know-it-all Mel can't ruin the throb of exhilaration that is pulsing through my veins, not even when she and Nicky forgo all pretenses and spend more time examining each other's mouths with their tongues rather than watch the violent acrobatic moves in front of them.

Today the teams are waging an epic battle. Hufflepuff, while relatively inexperienced compared to the Gryffindor's completely senior team, excels at perseverance. Where they might lack in ability or strategy, they make up for in dedication to each other, to their goal of winning. Their captain, Patience Piercefield--for whom I have always felt a certain amount of compassion, considering her unfortunate name--knows of the teams shortcomings and instead of trying to catch up with the other houses in areas that they lack in, she instead focuses on reinforcing those few strengths into a completely defensive team.

Today, their chasers are acting more as secondary keepers, spending most of the time in their own corner of the pitch than the Gryffindor's. Their beaters are talented; Gryffindor's chasers are having a hard time flying five meters before a bludger comes whirling at them, and their seeker is their one and only hope at winning.

And everyone on the pitch knows this.

The score is ten-zero Gryffindor--has been for nearly twenty five minutes--and the spectators on both sides are starting to realize that this will definitely be a close game. It's completely down to the seekers now.

I have a sneaking suspicion, suddenly, that the Hufflepuffs are more conniving than anyone had previously anticipated. Our two best players, Black and Potter, have effectively been eliminated as a threat. Black, as Keeper, has yet to even see the quaffle on his side of the pitch, much less touch it. He is currently zipping restlessly to and fro in front of the goal posts, looking for the life of him as if he is going to abandon the poles completely to join the game. And Potter, despite his most valiant efforts, has broken through Hufflepuff's defensive web only once, scoring the only goal of the game thus far. His frustrated yells to his teammates can be heard even from where I am sitting, though all meaning has been lost to the wind.

And Gryffindor's little Hani Ahmed, with her long, twisted, black hair and thick glasses is up against the Badger's Galvin Boyle, a boy who doubles both her size and flying ability, in a race to catch the snitch first. They had started by flying high laps over the pitch, circling each other cautiously, but now they resided down on the field, weaving in and out of the players restlessly, trying to spook the other into letting down his guard. As I peer out into the field, I notice that there are fast-moving clouds on the horizon. The sky seems to be growing darker as the chances for a Gryffindor win grow darker as well.

"Holly, if you don't stop tugging on my arm this instant, I swear I will not go with you to any of the matches for the rest of the year," I threaten in a nasty tone, knowing full well that I will be sitting by her side come the next game.

She calms down but only for a moment. "The snitch!" she shrieks, standing up and pointing up into the sky. Soon others are following her arm, craning their necks for a glimpse of the gold sphere.

I peer upwards, seeing nothing for a short time, and then--yes!--there it is! I see it! But where is Hani? Where is Boyle? If we can see it, surely they can. And then I realize something and sit down, meekly pulling Holly down with me.

"I'm not even doing anything this time," she begins to protest but I push my hand over her mouth and hiss at her.

"It's not the snitch."

She looks at me oddly then a patient look crosses her face, one that I could easily see her giving a three year old. "Yes, it is," I believe she says (her words are quite muffled behind my hand but the nod of her head indicates her meaning clearly).

"No, it's an airplane."

Holly rolls her eyes at me, clearly assessing my need for glasses, then pauses and wrenches her head upwards away from my grasp. "Fuck me," she swears and she hunches down in her seat, red-faced.

Giggling as I am, I almost don't hear the snickering behind me. As I turn, I find myself face to face with Remus Lupin who is looking thoroughly amused. Holly also notices and slouches down even further in her seat.

"Don't worry," he says warmly, his eyes focused solely on Holly's. "I don't think anyone else has realized yet."

She nods, her cheeks flaring a bit brighter as Lupin cuts his eyes over to me, his expression changing so smoothly I can't help but think it was calculated. He's now looking at me in a slightly puzzled way, as if I'm a tricky arithmancy problem he's been asked to solve.

"Why do you keep staring at me?" The words fly out before I have a chance to trap them. Blood pulses through to my cheeks.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Nicky pull his head away from Mel's as he focuses in on my conversation; Holly sits up a bit straighter.

Lupin notices this as well and pauses, examining Pettigrew next to him who is looking mutinous. Carefully, he leans forward, his lips hidden by my hair and he whispers. "Those with secrets tend to be drawn to each other." He stops speaking the same time my heart ceases to beat. "Not because we want to share," he continues, his voice dropping lower. "But because we need the company of the like-minded." His hand flutters across my back and rests significantly on my arm. "The fellow afflicted."

He knows, is the only thing that seems to be running through my mind, coursing over and over again until I jerk back away from his hand startling everyone around me.

"That's not the snitch!" an abrupt yell interrupts from down the row. Next to me Holly groans, practically sitting on the floor now. Flashing one more look behind me at Lupin and feeling achingly naked under that scrutinizing stare of his, I focus back on the players zooming around in front of me. I am so focused, in fact, that it takes me several moments to realize that my eyes are following Hani as she races Boyle for purchase on the real snitch.

In the excitement following the two seekers speeding down the field, weaving through the other players at break-neck speed, the whole of Gryffindor has forgotten Holly's mistaken sighting of the snitch and are frozen collectively. Some are poised, hovering between actually sitting and standing, while others are hunched forward, mouths hanging open mid-cheer. Everyone is thoroughly fixated on the two figures; everyone except me. I can hear Pettigrew's labored breath behind me and feel Lupin's calculating stare still concentrated on my back despite the hushed anticipation surrounding him.

I am unsettled, the feeling burying itself deep in my stomach until I'm not at all sure that I am completely well. Eyesight blurring, I grip Holly's arm. Something is wrong with me, I think to myself, but it seems foreign, detached, as if someone else is trying to convince me of the fact. But I am the only one who notices.

And then the moment on the precipice of elation or agony is broken. Hani catches the snitch. The Gryffindor stands go wild, the cheering, clapping, chanting, and stomping throbbing through to my heart, pushing at its sluggish rhythm until I feel I'm ready to burst.

And I can't stand the noise. I can't stand the reverberation of the stands, the sway of the crowd, the cold, uncomfortable feeling of someone watching me.

He knows.

I stand abruptly, belatedly letting go of Holly's arm, but she doesn't seem to realize this. And I'm running down the steep slope of stairs, eight steps then sharp-angle turn, eight steps then turn, over and over again until I'm down on the ground streaking my way towards the castle, following the trail hooded with trees and branches. Above me, the sun is blotted out by the darkening clouds.

I have no destination in mind, no thought except to get away, be on my own. And with each step that I take, I can feel the world growing clearer, lines sharp and rigid, colours more vibrant.

I make it to the broad castle doors as the first rain drop strikes. By the time I am four flights up, near the west corridor, the sky is coming down in a torrent of rain. Slowing myself, I peer out the window, the eerie silence in the castle behind me vaguely disturbing. Absently, I watch the students down below herding themselves under any shelter they can find to escape the downpour, to protect themselves from the weather.

I feel the electricity flow through the air right before the lightning strikes.

It spurs me back into movement.

I know that there will be a huge celebration in the common room tonight; I have no desire to be there. My mask is beginning to crumble. I can feel as the cracks web an intricate design across my skin and I itch at my arms uncomfortably. Every woman has her emotional trigger. Mine is my collection of carefully concealed secrets. Secrets that eat away at me day after day.. Secrets that I have nightmares about people discovering.

He knows.

Continuing up, I head north into the darker parts of the castle, parts that aren't often used. Some time in the past, I believe Hogwarts had taken on many more students than it currently does. The sheer number of unused classrooms and empty corridors seem to prove it. I have always wondered if the number of magical folks born each year is dwindling or if the establishment of other schools has offered more of a variety to students so they go elsewhere. Either way, the greater part of Hogwarts lays untouched, save for the dust of neglect and misuse.

It is a common right-of-passage to be dared to wander the lonely corridors alone after midnight sometime before your fourth year. Despite its sordid past, no one truly believes that this castle is dangerous in any way, but it still can be terrifying to tiptoe down echoing hallways, catching shifting movement from the corner of your eye, trying desperately to convince yourself that it is just a painting curious to see the quiet, young girl in her pajamas wandering around barefoot.

But it doesn't work.

The longer you wander, the deeper the shadows seem to grow, and the louder your raspy breathing becomes. I feel that heaviness now, that isolation that seeps into the quick of your bones, and I'm suddenly twelve years old again, scared and alone.

But I keep moving. I know vaguely where I am now, the halls finally taking on distinction from one another now that my unnecessary and thoroughly embarrassing hysteria is receding. The anxiety I had experienced--no, not anxiety, terror is more accurate--is slowly transforming itself into anger. Anger at Lupin for presuming he knows anything about me. Because how could he?

He comes from the quintessential wizarding family. He is intelligent, near the top of his class, and is extremely well-liked, not only within his own house but throughout the school as well. What in his life could possibly measure up to what I have gone through, what I will go through?

Moonlight streaks down the next hallway, drawing me towards a temptingly cracked open doorway. The pounding of the rain is louder here; I can smell it in the air. Without anywhere else to go, I start down the hall, only looking back once to find the shadows have shifted behind me. After a moment's hesitation I keep going. The heavy cedar door in front of me swings open without so much as a creak and I step out into the pouring rain, finding myself on a tower wall that I had previously thought only to be that. A wall.. Never would I have suspected that on top was a pathway.

At this height, the castle grounds appear empty and, squinting off into the distance, it seems as though the pitch is already vacant as well. I must have been wandering longer than I thought. I travel along the edge of the wall, ducking under each pillar for brief respites from the rain and find another looming cedar door leading into a small, squat tower.

I am now facing away from the pitch, angled down towards the lake, and I turn around a few times to get my bearings. From what I can figure, I don't think I have ever been in this portion of the castle. I can't even begin to think where the passageways leading to it may be. So of course my curiosity gets the better of me and I reach for the latch on the door, while shoving my wet hair off of my forehead.

Inside, it takes a little while for my eyes to adjust but once they do I gasp in realization.

It's a church.

It even smells like a church, the air heavy with moisture and incense from the thurabile off to the right. It has been a long time since I have been in a church, not since--

Tears form in my eyes and I sniff, trying desperately not to think about my parents right now. Not today, of all days, when my emotions are running high already. But before I can stop them, they are already falling, streaming down my cheeks and leaving a telltale trail along the floor as I wander..

Slowly, I wind myself through the pews, the tears slowing, fingering dust-covered bibles and feeling a sense of serenity wash over me. I feel as though this place is all mine, a place undisturbed by time or magic. As I ascend the wooden stairs leading to the altar, I hear echoing footsteps behind me.

He is only a silhouette to me, broad shouldered against the dim light pouring in with the rain from outside, but I instantly know who it is. He looks like a fallen angel, haloed by moonlight.

"Black," I say, trying to keep my voice steady as I once again fight off the urge to cry. This time, there are no tears. This time, there is only emptiness and I feel it set in the straight line of my mouth. I am not strong enough for this. Not right now.

For his part, he seems startled to find me here. "Evans? Are you bloody lost?" He appears torn between indignation with me for contaminating his secret place and all-out anger from our last confrontation in the common room.. And on top of it all, he's just sat through a Quidditch match where he was easily the most useless player on the field. He's got to be in an awful mood.

"Not all who wander are lost," I whisper back. Raindrops spit against the window, alternating a light patter and harder bursts, as gusty winds occasionally blow against the intricate stained glass skylights above us. For a moment, it is all that can be heard.

He seems to weigh my statement, eyeing me with blatant mistrust and when he starts walking towards me, I can't tell what conclusion he's come to. He comes to a stop not five feet away, at the base of the steps leading up to the altar. I feel a tad bit safer looking down on him, but when I finally meet his eyes, my stomach drops. He's practically seething in anger; his eyes are darkened to a void of black and droplets of water drip from his long, dark hair down his arms and over his clenched fists.

"It's not a good idea to be wandering around alone." His voice is controlled but his hands are shaking. So are mine. "Especially for someone like you," he finishes threateningly.

I concentrate on sounding rational, clear-headed. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

Black smiles, a feral grin with a flash of teeth, and pushes a hand through his tangled, dripping hair. When he speaks, his voice is coolly confident, a rare occurrence with him. "Do you suppose that next year when your brother is gone, off playing Death Eater underling, my brother and his friends won't hesitate to hex you when your back is turned?"

"I'm not an innocuous Hufflepuff, Black. Just because I chose to uphold family loyalty instead of disavowing my brother based on childish house rivalries doesn't mean that I'm not disillusioned to the workings of another's mind."

I can see his eyes clearly now; they are glinting with malintent as he stalks deliberately up the steps and I find myself backing up as he crests the top.

"Look," I continue placatingly. Maybe if I keep talking he won't notice my nervousness. "Just because you had a bloody hell of a time playing 'keep-the-goal-post-up' today, doesn't mean you can take it out on me."

"Why do you bait me when you are obviously terrified of me?" He's looking down at my hands which I am dismayed to find are still shaking.

I shake my head, a flinch. "You don't scare me." I put as much force behind the words as I can muster.

He is smiling again, trying to crack me, trying to provoke a stronger reaction. I am determined not to let him.

"When you speak to my brother, do your hands shake then as well? Does your stomach flutter nervously when he touches your arm? Does your heart pound recklessly when he leans in to talk to you?"

As he creeps in closer, forcing me past the podium, I ask myself why I haven't left yet. I have no answer other than I can't seem to look away from this tragically beautiful boy in all his anger and viciousness. Never, in all of our years at school together, have we ever been alone and I'm not sure what to expect from him. He seems to operate on three different emotional settings: the devious prankster, the seducing playboy, or the cruel, easily angered aggressor. I'm not sure which of the three I'd rather be facing right now.

I feel my breath catch in my throat and I have to forcefully mold it into words. "I have never and will never be interested in Regulus other than as a friend--" But I'm abruptly cut off as he lunges at me, hands gripping my arms above the elbows, breath warm against face, lips crushed against mine, grinding mercilessly, demanding something I'm not sure I can give.

But I try anyway.

My hands flatten against his chest ready to push him away but instead they linger, feeling the ragged breathing beneath the wet material and curling around the edges of the rough cloth. I come to the realization that sometimes giving in is more satisfying than putting up a fight.

In the back of my mind, I know he is doing this to provoke my brother. It always comes back to my brother with him. But remarkably I don't mind.

Maybe a little part of me is doing this to provoke my brother as well. Or maybe the cold, wet hands slipping inside my cloak, flattening against my bare lower back, causing delicious chills to shudder through my body, are what are controlling my actions.

He is not a gentle person, although I never would have expected him to be, and I soon find him tugging on my hair roughly, exposing my neck to his brutal mouth, leaving a trail of searing bites down to my collar.

This isn't what I want, isn't what I need, but I can't seem to focus on anything but the pattering of the rain around me and the feel of his hard chest pressed against mine. And then I understand that this is what I want and it is what I need. I push at his robes, yanking them back, off his shoulders, choking him along the way. But it doesn't matter. None of it does, I realize.

For months, I wandered around too caught up in my delusions of life to come to actually live life in the now. But not anymore. It doesn't occur to me to question the motives of the boy currently ripping off my soaked shirt because he's not questioning mine. We are not looking for love, compassion or understanding. We are looking for release; we are looking for something that neither of us can achieve on our own.

I hate him, he knows this, and that's what makes this work so perfectly. That our hate for each other is so passionate it encompasses all other emotions. I don't feel pity or warmth for him. I feel cold, hard, fervent hatred and an even stronger virulent desire.

As he lifts me up and onto the dark, smooth, wooden altar, I can't help but feel excited at the sin I am committing. He slips off his pants, shoves my skirt up past my waist and climbs on top of me with only a seconds hesitation to look at the figure of Christ on the cross hanging above our heads.. And then all I know is pain and pleasure and boys who look like angels but speak and taste and act as devils.

He grunts in my ear, a harsh breathy sound that blows my damp hair to fan across the wood beneath me in clumps and I grip the altar stone above my head to create some stability in the chaos that is consuming us. As the rhythm becomes frenzied, I take all that I can from him. I take his breath away with the shifting of my hips. I take his sweat when I lick my way up his salty neck. I take everything he can give me by arching my back, forcing him to plunge deeper into this frantic madness we are lost in. I take and I take and I take until I have taken everything from him and I am so full that my world explodes into a blaze of light and warmth. He hisses through clenched teeth, jerking violently into me as we crash back down to earth.

When it is completely over, when we both are sated and limp, I allow myself to look at his profile, the shallow cheeks, the squared-off chin, and I am satisfied to find that I hold no particular affection for him despite what we had just found in each other.

Black rolls off of me, dipping his head to avoid the all-seeing gaze of Christ, and pulls his pants up as he winds his way around the banister to the thin, tiled isle that slashes the room in two. He is almost out the door by the time I crawl my way onto the floor and I watch as he stops abruptly, jolting around and meeting my eyes.

At that moment, he is a complete enigma to me; I can't even begin to understand the depth in his eyes, nor do I want to. I am simply satisfied that he can meet my gaze as readily as I can meet his.

Giving him ample opportunity to wander back to the common room, I take my time straightening my clothes and hair before making my own way towards the arched door left carelessly cracked open. As I pass through the very middle of the sanctuary, I see a brief shine of reflected light along the walkway, highlighted by the small hint of light bleeding in from the outside. Bending down, I gingerly pick up the delicate rosary, letting the beads slip through my fingers and I picture my mother holding her burgundy rosary, teaching me the Apostles Creed.

I toy with the smooth beads as I cross the rest of the church and belatedly lay it down to rest at the feet of the stone Madonna and Child statue at the back. I finally step through the door and into the calming storm, the voice of my mother whispering the Memorare echoing in my mind.

* * * * * * * * * *

TBC...