"Magic always leaves traces, sometimes very distinctive traces." – Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
When I left dinner early last night, it wasn't to do Arithmancy homework, like I told you. I just had to get out.
We were sitting side by side at the Gryffindor table, and my right leg was lined right up next to your left one. I think for most of the meal, that's all I was aware of. Unable to taste the food I methodically brought to my mouth, I was conscious of nothing except the heat of your skin against mine.
I was wearing those rich, maroon tights that always prompt disapproving sniffs from Professor McGonagall, and you were wearing gray stockings that went up over your knees, so that only a small patch of skin was visible between the place where your skirt ended and the tights began. The friction between the materials was causing sweat to break out under my eyes. The temperature in the room was cool, however, so maybe it wasn't the friction that incited the sweating. Either way, you seemed fine. I sweat too much.
Once, I grabbed for a roll at the same time you reached for a scoop of mashed potatoes, and our elbows bumped lightly. I laughed a little and glanced over at you, but you were still immersed in your conversation with Glady Corbett, who was sitting across the table, and you didn't so much as bat an eyelash.
Why would you, I suppose? I doubt you noticed, even. You were probably also oblivious to the fact that our legs were touching.
...Because brief contact between friends isn't notable. When Dena and I get caught lingering around the Restricted Section of the library, and she grabs my hand to flee Madam Pince, I barely notice the feel of her fingers entangled with mine. When I run to hug Winnie on September first at King's Cross after the summer holiday, the moment passes quickly. I smile and draw away; I don't linger for the smell of her hair or the warmth of her form. It's just a simple action. As time passed, I might reminisce fondly about all of the trouble Dena and I stirred up, or how great it always was to be reunited with Winnie. However, when those instances come to mind, the contact isn't at the forefront of the memory. I can no longer feel Dena's hand on mine or Winnie's arms around me.
But you're not Dena or Winnie. You're different. You leave traces, so that months later, when I call to mind a memory of you, I can feel a buzzing on the surface of my skin.
Remember last summer, when the four of us went to your house for the night, and your parents dropped us off at a Muggle movie theater to see a film? Dena and Winnie, both of whom have two wizard parents, were amazed by the place, and we kept exchanging glances, rolling our eyes whenever they oohed and aahed. That was nice... like sharing something, just the two of us.
Anyway, we ended up picking a really sad movie by accident, because we had no idea what was playing and were forced to choose at random. It was some sort of tragic romance about a husband's unsuccessful search for a cure to his wife's terminal illness.
You know you're the most emotional of the foursome, so of course you were in tears an hour into the movie. I'm probably a close second, though, so I welled up a bit too. We were sitting next to each other, and I'm not sure how it happened, whether your hands grasped for mind or mine for yours (I think it was the former), but there came a point in which your right hand was squeezing my left and we were burrowed right next to each other. Your eyes didn't waver from the screen, but I kept glancing left, losing interest in the movie and watching you instead. The screen cast light upon the front of your face, outlining the perfect contours of your nose and cheek. I forced myself to focus on the screen, but my vision was blurred by the tears that were now coming in earnest.
When the protagonist began to give a heartfelt and fervent speech about his love, you broke down and wrapped your arms around me, and I reciprocated your firm embrace. It was a perfect moment, huddled together in the theater like that, but I couldn't help but cry and cry.
If I want to, I can close my eyes and return to that moment. I can feel your warm arms around me and your hair brushing my neck, see the dark of the theater and the way your knees were curled up to your chest. I rarely wish to immerse myself in that memory however, for the tears I cried were for happiness and sadness in equal measure.
It was that night, in that theater, that I came to terms with the notion that I had been toying with for months and avoiding for years. That's a shitty way of putting it though, that I "came to terms" with my being in love with you.
You come to terms with the death of a family member, or the fact that your cat has run away for good, or the discovery that your friendly neighbor is an axe murderer who actually deserved that life sentence. Love shouldn't be something you come to terms with; it should be something you embrace. It's hard to welcome an idea, however, that injects conflict and contradiction into every aspect of your life.
All of the sudden, I found myself wondering if I ever really felt anything for Gaspard Shingleton, the guy I dated back in fourth year. I remember enjoying it when we kissed in the hallways. I remember laughing at his jokes and admiring his intelligence. Was I attracted to him? If I remember correctly, the answer is yes. Our relationship ended amicably, and I've long been over him by now, but I can't deny that there was something. What about Podmore, the chiseled young man three years above us, who I raved about for the better part of second and third year? Had I been deluding myself, knowing that that square jaw and that luscious blond hair were classic traits of a good-looking male?
It's too much to consider. Attraction, love, all of that... it's too subjective for me to define. It's probably crystal clear for most people, but it never has been for me. You have it easy, Lily. You just know. You told me so that night, a few weeks after the movie, when you came over my house and we walked to that park nearby. We spent hours talking, but I didn't ask you about any crushes for fear that you would return the question. Apparently I didn't have to ask, though, because you volunteered to share with me each and every one of all of the boys you had ever liked. It was fun... believe me, I wasn't jealous or anything, because how ridiculous would that be? No, I enjoyed listening you share quirky anecdotes detailing your awkward encounters with the boys you fancied. The conversation progressed, and before long we were discussing that Hufflepuff who came out last year. I mentioned that it seemed to me a hard thing to determine when you're young.
"Yeah, I agree," you said. "But I guess... I feel like I've always just known; I like guys."
I nodded without confirming that I felt the same way, and the conversation continued. As I've always been well aware of the fact that you're straight, I can't even honestly say that it hurt me to hear you say that. From the very beginning, I knew that my love would be unrequited. It has never been a question of 'what will I do with this feeling that I have?' Instead it has been 'why do I have this feeling?' and 'will it ever go away?'
To be perfectly honest, there are some times when I don't want it to go away. Loving you has become one of the only things I'm sure of. It's somewhat of an anchor for me. When I'm with you, whether it be that we are sipping butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks or laughing as we accidentally botch a recipe in Potions, I am at both my happiest and my most anguished. That feeling of joy... even ecstasy, that swims through my heart and my gut is something that a large part of me doesn't want to let go of. Realistically, are those moments of elation worth the ever-present despair this love has caused me? No. Emotionally (and therefore irrationally), however, I cling to my love for you and, by extension, the whirlwind of confusion, bliss, depression, wonder, and agony that comes with it.
I remember being fascinated by you right from the start. First year of Potions, we sat next to each other. With your dark-red hair and emerald eyes, you were already so compelling, even at age eleven. What struck me, however, was that unlike the other pretty girls, many of whom you hung around with, you were kind to everyone. I noticed it first when I spotted you in the Great Hall waiting to be Sorted. You were standing next that Snape kid everyone laughs at. It wasn't for pity, either; you seemed genuinely intrigued by whatever conversation the two of you were having, oblivious to the sneering of James and Sirius.
In my eleven year old mind, what the other students thought of me was everything. I would've never dreamed of associating with someone like Snape; I couldn't risk being ridiculed. To this day, it's a wonder to me that someone with that mindset would be sorted into Gryffindor. Still, I remember my heart doing a little leap because I'd seen you sorted a few minutes earlier. I was drawn to you.
You were nice to me too, which I was baffled by. Although I'd like to think I've prettied myself up by now, there is no doubt in my mind that five years ago, I was small and frumpy and weird. I wasn't like those gorgeous second-years hung around with, the ones who never forgot to brush their hair or put on a bra. Your willingness to form a friendship with me, dorky Dorcas, was surprising.
I think it may have been the fact that you came to respect the fact that like you, I was a good student. Both of us were apt at mixing potions, so we got to be very competitive, comparing grades on every small assignment. I enjoyed our little game greatly. If I wasn't as pretty or graceful as the other girls, at least you admired my intelligence. We came to be Professor Slughorn's favorites in the class, so much so that he would readily change our grades if we came to him after class wondering why a paper got an E or (Merlin forbid) an A, instead of an O. You seemed to take advantage of Slughorn's favoritism more than I did. I thought it was funny, but you usually refrained from laughing with me until after you had been relieved of your so-so grade and accorded the grade you deserved. In class, our conversations would occasionally venture to topics other than that of school and grades, and I came to discover that you were a Muggle-born like me. I was relieved, and figured that if someone like you were of Muggle descent, the fact of it couldn't be nearly as bad as some of those Slytherins murmured that it was.
Outside of Potions, I wasn't necessarily the first person you came to talk to, but you were generally very friendly to me. First year was a good one.
At King's Cross Station on June 24th, the day we all returned from our first year at Hogwarts, I accidentally bumped into your mother beside Platform 9, on my way to find my own parents. The tall woman's dark-red hair gave me immediate insight as to whom she was.
"You're not Lily's mom, are you?" I asked.
She smiled broadly.
"Yes, I am," she said. "Are you... Dorcas?" she asked, some hesitation in her voice. I was just shocked that she knew me.
"Yeah, I-"
Your mother laughed.
"Lily wrote a lot about you!" she said. Just then, however, she caught sight of a parent whom she recognized and excused herself. I was a bit surprised, and I remember contemplating it as I lay in bed that night after a long evening of rambling to my curious parents about the wonderful time I had had at Hogwarts.
At that point, you and I, while I considered us to be relatively good friends, were not nearly as close as we are now. You more frequently hung around with either Snape or that popular, more attractive group of second-years. Even Dena and Winnie, the two other Gryffindor girls in our year, seemed, on multiple occasions, to be a higher priority than I was. So I lay there, the sheets pulled up over my chest, staring into the pitch darkness that concealed my bedroom ceiling, pondering why the hell I was special enough to mention in one of your letters. I considered briefly that maybe you talked about everyone when you wrote home, but after careful reasoning, I dismissed this theory. I was the first little girl your mother spoke to at the train station, and she assumed I was Dorcas. I was the first friend that popped into her head. If you had gone on about Dena, and Winnie, and the second-years, why would your mother be so quick to assume that the distracted klutz was me?
Eventually, after far more contemplation than any normal twelve year old should have done about such a simple, meaningless comment, I came to the conclusion that you noticed me, and therefore mentioned me, because of the fact that I was the only other Muggle-born you met at Hogwarts. I don't know whether or not that's true. How crazy am I coming off right now? If I asked you about your mom's comment now, you probably wouldn't have a damn clue what I'm on about.
Anyway, that little anecdote was meant to show how important your opinion of me was (and still is, in fact), and how easily surprised I was by the idea that I was important to you.
As the years passed, we became closer. You went from being someone I spoke to in class to someone I hung around with in the common room and in the Great Hall. The summer after third year, we even got together a few times throughout the summer. I now considered you to be one of my best friends, although I didn't tend to share as much with you as I did with Dena or Winnie. Our relationship was superficial, for the most part. We would compete for grades, compliment each other's hairstyles, and joke sarcastically, but a large part of me felt I didn't really know you.
You have always stood out to me, and you've always been someone I've been desperate to get close to. Naturally, I figured that it was your friendship that I wanted, and it wasn't until last summer, the summer before sixth year, when that began to change. I had inklings fifth year about my feelings for you, but I would always dismiss those thoughts before I had the chance to consider it for long enough, before words like "love" could creep into my head.
It started on the train ride from Hogwarts to Kings Cross Station. You, Dena, Winnie, and I were sharing a compartment, indulging in our usual gossip, when the subject of those popular Gryffindor girls, now in their seventh year, came up, and you said something that both surprised and pleased me.
"Sometimes," you began, "I like hanging out with you guys much better. They're nice, but sometimes, it's just that they're so, so shallow."
A week into summer break, when Dena invited you and I out for a day of shopping and eating in Diagon Alley. We spent the day laughing and gossiping about other Hogwarts students. We stopped into Madam Malkins and tried on some outrageous dress robes just for the fun of it. Dena and I wanted to stop into Eeylops Owl Emporium before lunch, but you said it stunk in there, so we passed by it and headed for the Leaky Cauldron to eat. While we were having lunch, the topic of friendships arose, and you mentioned Snape.
"We had this big fight... we just don't talk anymore," you said. "Yeah, it kind of sucks."
You said it in the most casual way possible, but both Dena and I could tell that it was a big deal that you told us this; that we were a few of the very small number of people who knew how you truly felt about the all-too-public 'Mudblood' incident.
I had witnessed it firsthand myself, and since then I had taken a special interest in Snape. Despite the fact that you two were no longer friends, he always seemed to be around, keeping out of your sight, but not quite out of mine. I would catch glimpses of him sitting under a tree, staring down at you as we sat by the lake. In Potions, the class we shared with the Slytherins, he sat in the back. He seemed to be busy expertly concocting and making notes in his book, but I would catch him looking up occasionally, sneaking furtive glances at you. One time, in the Great Hall, I saw him gazing at you from the Slytherin table. Your back was to the Slytherins, so he must've thought it was safe to stare. Sitting across from you, however, I had a direct view of him. Even three tables over, I could see something swimming in his black eyes. It was hard to discern, not just because of the distance, but because it seemed to be combination of so many emotions, boiling beneath his dark, homely exterior. Looking at him, however, a sadness fell over me. Something in his eyes hurt terribly. I found myself wondering if I ever looked like that when I was with you. I never told you about what I saw in Snape, but at the Leaky Cauldron that day, I came close. I was going to assure you that he still cared, but I bit my lip. You would of course ask how I knew, maybe even angrily, and I would be unable to offer an explanation. How could I tell you that I knew how Snape felt because I was in the same position? How could I tell you that his fervent stares were those of love unrequited? How could I say that I caught the affections that I constantly suppressed boiling over in your former best friend? I kept my mouth shut.
We were all stuffed full when we left the Leaky Cauldron, but that didn't stop us from strolling over to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor for dessert. It was then that we launched in to a discussion about religion. Dena didn't really partake, but you and I mused over our ideas on atheism and heaven. We were clearly making Dena uncomfortable, so we brought the conversation to an early end.
The three of us continued to get together on a regular basis, joined by Winnie that night we went to see a movie.
Then, one day, a week or two after Winnie left to go to Martinique, when Dena was off visiting family in Wales, you called me up.
I was up in my bedroom with Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find them, rereading the chapter on Demiguises, creatures which I find to be absolutely fascinating, when the phone rang in the kitchen. My mother picked it up and then yelled up to me, telling me that it was one of my friends.
As my other Hogwarts friends were, to my knowledge, oblivious as to how to operate a telephone, I assumed correctly that it was you, and went sprinting down the stairs.
"Hello?" I said.
"Hi, Dorcas, it's Lily."
"Hey, what's up?"
"I was just thinking that it's been a really long time since we've hung out, just the two of us. What are you doing tonight?"
Well, I thought, I still have all of those summer essays to do. I had been meaning to get a jump on them tonight, and had been using Fantastic Beasts as a means of procrastination. If I don't start now I'll be totally screwing myself...
"I'm totally free," I told you. "Do you want to come over?"
"Sure," you said. "I'll be there at seven."
As soon as I hung up, I did a little skip where I stood, beaming. I regretted this action immediately, aware that this was not an appropriate reaction to the prospect of seeing a friend who you had only just bid good-bye two days ago.
That had been with Dena, though, I thought. Now it'll be just you pair. This notion made me slightly anxious. Ever since the night at the movies, I had been careful to avoid just this instance. I was afraid things would be awkward if it were just us two. There would be no buffer. Maybe I would say something that would clue you in on how I was feeling, or maybe, somehow, I would let it slip altogether. At the same time, however, I was always eager to see you. Too eager.
You and I ended up taking a walk to a park nearby my house. We sat on a long bench with our backs propped up against the opposite arms. Your feet were stretched out on the seat, whereas I sat with mine crossed. We briefly discussed the superfluous topics we normally covered. Then we talked about crushes; that was the night in which you detailed all of yours. Finally, we moved on to continue the discussion we'd begun at the beginning of the summer, the conversation about God and heaven.
You said you struggled with the idea of forever, whereas I said nothing was ever perfect.
"What if," I began, "what if you wanted to be with someone in heaven, but they didn't want to be with you? How would that work? If heaven exists, and everything's perfect, then nothing's real. There's no way to please everyone without it being fake."
"Yeah, I've always wondered that," you agreed. "There's no such thing as perfect."
"Exactly," I said. "People… all people…seem to need conflict... even if nothing's wrong, we'd find a way to make something wrong."
You glanced down at your lap for a moment, thinking. Then I saw you smile, the corners of your mouth cueing dimples to appear on your cheeks. You reached out and touched my knee.
"Just forget about all of that for a second, Dorcas," you said. "What if we just forgot about all of those things? Do you ever think about what your heaven would be like?"
"My heaven?"
"Yeah," you said. "If it's real... what would your heaven be?"
This conversation led us late into the night. As we talked, the park grew empty and the sun set behind the trees. By the time we walked home, we had only the occasional streetlamp to lead the way. Yet somehow I managed not to let anything slip.
We both agreed that we would be thin and beautiful in heaven (although you already have that covered). I wanted to live by the beach, whereas you wanted to live next to a forest. We would be nearby our friends, but also have time to be alone. We would be able to eat whatever we wanted without getting fat. The weather would change upon our whims.
Of course I couldn't tell you the most important part of my heaven, though. I went on and on about how my house would have a lot of windows, and my bedroom would smell of lemons and old books, just like Amortentia, but throughout all of this chatter I was, of course, forced leave out the most vital aspect of my perfect world.
Not every day is as intense as many of the ones that I've mentioned. There are times when it's almost like you're only my friend. When I can convince myself I've been imagining it, exaggerating my feelings, being dramatic. When we're making jokes and laughing and getting along just like I do with Dena and Winnie.
Then there are days in which I am drawn to your every movement. We'll be sitting in Potions, and you'll tuck your dark hair back to reveal a delicate ear. I'll stare for a moment at your slender neck and your pale skin, and I'll want anything but to look away. There are times when your eyes catch mine, and I want to fall into you, to kiss you and never stop. One night, the night I am most ashamed of, I lay in bed after everyone else had fallen asleep, sobbing as silently as I could, because you'd been too busy to speak to me in several days. I knew it wasn't an intentional snub, but I was petrified that you had lost interest in our friendship. Curled up in a ball, hugging my knees, I wanted to die.
I wanted to die, because even as a friend, you don't care about me nearly as much as I do you. I wanted to die, because all my life I have been, in one way or another, inadequate or awkward or scared, but I had always convinced myself it would get better. Thinking about the future, I would picture myself with a husband and a few children, living that happy, generic life that had always been good enough for me. I wanted to die because that's no longer good enough. I don't want to be with this random, faceless man my imagination had conjured up. How can I love him over you? How can I ever forget about you long enough to be happy?
I wanted to die, because somewhere along the way, my love for you has squashed out all hope from my heart. At the worst of times, I truly believe that I will never be okay without you. In my better, more rational moments, I am able to reason those thoughts away... I am able to tell myself that isn't true, which is enough in those better times, even if I don't entirely believe it.
Yesterday was one of the bad ones. That's why I had to leave dinner. I didn't have any Arithmancy homework. I just love you.
I wrote this four years ago and on a whim decided to post this when I was going through old documents. I was a melodramatic teenager and a bad writer at the time that I penned this, but it's not quite terrible I don't think.