Bliss

Bliss

She stares at herself in the mirror, and the tear-streaked face she sees doesn't look like her. She doesn't recognise this person, this woman who is weak enough to cry, and human enough to hurt so badly. This isn't her; this girl trapped in a cage of her own emotions, and savaged half to death by that demon, love. She can't remember exactly how she got here. She doesn't recall every step on the path to her inevitable downfall, but she remembers enough to torture her.

She is a traitor. Not in action, perhaps, but she is a traitor in spirit, and that is what counts. That is what will stand against her for always. Never mind that she did not intend to betray them; she was a fool - but then we are all foolish sometimes. Even she, who values intelligence above all. But it costs some of us more than it costs others. And it might just cost her everything.

She knows that if she does not stop this, it might lose her everything she's ever valued. She knows, but she doesn't stop, won't stop, cannot stop, for she is an addict and he is her drug. Like all drugs, he is no good for her; he hurts her, he wears her down and makes her worthless, but she couldn't stop if she wanted to. And she only ever wants to at times like this, when she feels she ought to rebel, when the big deception that has become her life begins to frighten her, when she fears that, in spite of everything she is and everything she believes, she might be drawn by her obsession to one day do things that she will surely regret.

She glares at her reflection, cursing herself for crying, when the tears just disfigure her face. He will not be pleased to see her like this. For him she must be as close to perfection as possible. She never cries in front of him, because that is weakness, and he despises weakness. She never cries because it angers him, because it might make him a little more rough than need be with his hands. But mostly she never cries because it's pointless; there's no one to see but him, and he is as unsympathetic as the devil himself. There will be no compassion shown her, and what are tears without the promise of compassion?

She stops crying, but her eyes are still puffy and red. She knows she is not attractive at the best of times, and she would die before she let him see her like this. She holds her wand out and murmurs a word, and her face instantly clears. Funny that her mind, the best in her year, in the school even, should now be applied to cosmetic charms. She doesn't appreciate the irony. She only knows that it's a waste, and she mourns that waste. She mourns her terrible addiction, but she doesn't try to break it. She has tried before, and succeeded only in breaking herself.

She dresses in silence, her wide brown eyes trained on the mirror, marking every move. She brushes out her hair, no longer bushy after the charms and the potions she has used on it - all for his sake, and he seldom notices - and looks cheerlessly at the finished product. She will never be beautiful, but she looks pleasant, and she knows that's the best she can hope for. She looks deeper for a moment, shivering when she sees that the eyes of her reflection are no longer those of a girl, but of a haunted woman. And it frightens her to think about what she has become, frightens her even more to contemplate why.

She leaves quickly, unnoticed. There is no one to notice. She slips through the corridors as silent as the grave, as invisible as if she were wearing the Cloak. The other students are too absorbed in themselves to notice a girl dressed for a date, but whose face is set as one going to the scaffold. She doesn't want them to notice her, or the awkward questions that would ensue if they did; she doesn't even tell her best friends everything any more. They don't know about this addiction of hers. It would break them. They would absolutely despise her for it. They might show her pity, but that pity would destroy her still more thoroughly.

She pokes her head around the door of the meeting place and sees that he is already there. She knows she isn't late; she checked her watch so many times while getting ready, and on the way; but as always, he is there first. He does it to intimidate, she thinks, and whether that is true or not, he certainly succeeds. He looks up to see her come in, and his mouth narrows to a thin line. She knows that whenever he looks at her, he hates her for what she is, but more for what she has done to him. It always makes her own pain much worse to know that this is not a one way obsession - he is as truly and miserably addicted to her as she is to him. They hate each other - one way or another they always have - but now there is another, confusing dimension to their hatred. It is not quite love, but cannot be explained away as infatuation; it is far too raw and real to be explained at all.

He looks at her and she shivers. His eyes are as drab as her own, a hard, cold, mid-shade of grey, but they carry contempt so well, as if he were born to stare daggers at her, his perceived inferior. There is a flicker of emotion in his eyes tonight; she does not know what it is, but it looks like her own emotional turmoil reflected back at her. But she doesn't speak, because the last thing he wants is to be compared to her. Whatever lies between them, it does not allow her to make any claims on him.

"So," he says, coldly, patronizingly, and she knows the word Mudblood is hovering perilously close to the tip of his tongue, begging to be said. "We meet again," as if he had not arranged this meeting and all those before it, and all those that will surely come in the future. He manages to make this sound so inconvenient, as if she dragged him here, as if he himself could stop coming tomorrow; when in fact he is just as much a slave as she. She doesn't say anything because he doesn't want her to. She doesn't really have anything to say. Oh, speechless love, she thinks, surprised that she is still capable of humour, however dark.

She crosses some of the distance between them and stands looking at him impassively, willing herself to feel nothing, and failing that, to show nothing of what she does feel on her face. He nods imperceptibly, smiles slightly, and she knows that she has passed part of the test, at least. The first part she always fails. She can never pass that, because of who she is, what she is. She is impure to him, and she knows it. It causes her such pain that she is not what he would like her - no, what he needs her - to be.

He is in a good mood tonight, for he steps up to meet her, that tiny mockery of a smile still curling his lips slightly. "So, my dear," he says, every word dripping with sarcasm. "What shall we do tonight?" And there is no need to say those words, because they both know that she is not dear to him, and that they will do what they always do, what they cannot help doing. It is their addiction, this monotony. It is their addiction, and their torture. It is inevitable, and both of them know that and do not fight it... most of the time.

He touches her lightly on the arm, a mockery of tenderness, when she knows that he feels he's demeaning himself. Something in her wants to scream at him for daring, to slap that awful look from his face, but that part of her lies in ruins now, dead. The only part of her living still is slave to this addiction. And that part knows what is coming, is quivering eagerly. She can see and touch her drug now, absorb him through her skin, and her heart races with anticipation. An answering glow lights his eyes, and she knows that he feels it too. They step closer, until the distance between them vanishes, and then he captures her lips in his. And that is when the world explodes for her, her senses gone, ensnared in the rush, consumed in the beautiful drug-induced blaze within.

Time passes unmarked. The hour is late, and they should be with their Houses, but somehow, neither really cares. They lie in a sated sprawl; the inner addicts still high on raw, beautiful sensation. They don't even think to put on their clothes, because no one will come here. Everyone is too absorbed in their own heartaches to come looking for them, just as they take no note of anyone else. And if they were discovered, no one would believe their eyes; it is possibly the least likely story in the world. If she didn't know it was true, if she didn't live it every night, she'd never believe it either.

She's the first to leave tonight. He looks up as she gets to her feet, gathering her clothes from the floor and trying to tidy herself up, but he says nothing. There are no words. Their mutual addiction has been satisfied for another day, and he needs nothing more from her. But sometimes she wishes that he would say something. A shameful corner of her heart wants him to see her as a human being, to acknowledge whatever this is between them, but she knows these are foolish hopes. Even if he wanted to, he could not - it is in direct contradiction with his very nature. And that is why her addiction is more dangerous than his; this is enough for him, but for her, it never will be.

She makes her way back to the Tower in a dream. Her thoughts are in turmoil, as always. She is coming down from the high, and speedily heading for the crash. The terrible, crippling guilt will hit her soon, and she has no desire to be conscious when it does. She hurries back, slips in through the portrait hole and climbs the stairs to her room. Once there she stares into the mirror, and sees again a face she does not know. This is the addict's face, flushed with the drugs in her system, her eyes feverish with triumph and her hair dishevelled.

She reaches for the bottle on the shelf under the mirror, and shakes two white pills into the palm of her hand. Then she swallows them down with water and goes to bed, ignoring her clothes, ignoring everything. At the moment, all is right with her; she is still glowing, still possessed, still perfect. And then she lies down to sleep, and her eyes flutter closed as her head touches the pillow. The sedative kicks in within minutes and then she is asleep. Her sleep is dreamless, a slumber so soft and pleasant because she is neither haunted by what has passed, nor tempted by an impossible future. It is only now, when she knows nothing, that she can be happy; truly, ignorance is bliss.