The emotion radiates from a spot that seems to be deep within my sternum, in the middle of my chest.
Interesting . . . Not from the heart, as they say.
If I could cut it out with the kitchen knife, to stop this pain, I would.
All I can think about is Lily. They say that teenagers are too young to love deeply, that we confuse hormonal lust with actual feelings . . . I disagree most fervently. Ever since that awful day, the day of the Defense Against the Dark Arts exam, she has filled my every thought. If she isn't consciously on my mind, then her idea is clouding my every motivation, altering the color of my mind.
Lily Evans . . . Her dark-red halo of curls, her wry smile, her tip-turned nose with a slight smattering of freckles . . . her almond-shaped green eyes, glinting with ardent exctiement, or else narrowed in suspicious dislike . . .
Good Godric. I need to get a grip before I actually torture myself to death.
It takes all of my limited willpower to drag myself upright from my limp position on the floor. My bedroom floor, to be precise. The room is smallish, with a slanted ceiling to accomodate for the house's rather haphazard construction. The primary feature is a narrow bed against one wall, covered with a fading olive-green bedspread. A chest of drawers contains - unsurprisingly - clothing. My Hogwarts trunk stands expectantly underneath the uncurtained window. There is one small bookshelf, crammed to full capacity with an odd asortment of books. The selection ranges from a color-illustrated edition of The Borrowers (which I nicked from the local children's library at age seven) to an ominous-looking black tome entitled Most Potente Poisons. Sartre's Nausea is next to Hogwarts: A History, which is next to Jinxes for Enemies, which is next to Macbeth, which is next to a really nice limp-leather copy of Wuthering Heights that Lily got me for my fourteenth birthday.
How cyclical. Feeling darkly amused at my own inability to keep promises, even to myself, I reach for the book and thumb absently through it. I've read it about a thousand times, hungrily seeking fresh meaning each time. The story of Heathcliff and Cathy jarred me more than Lily probably expected it to - I see a twisted version of myself in the sadistic Heathcliff, who went to all depths to exact his revenge on those surrounding the woman he loved. Lily is incomparable to Cathy though . . . Cathy had a narrow mind, of sound intelligence but unable to see what she truly wanted . . . What did Heathcliff ever see in her? She was a heartless tease who willingly married his worst enemy while secretly loving Heathcliff all the time.
Unnerved, I toss Wuthering Heights onto the bed, where it lands with a deeply unsatisfactory thwap.
I turn to leave the room, but look back with hesitation. Everything is meticulously arranged, every surface bare, except for the pathetic-looking book on the bed. Neurotically, I replace it on the shelf. It's my own little OCD that I've come to accept, the need for neatness.
If organization is my compulsion, then Lily is my addiction.
The idea raises chills along my neck. I've never objectified her in my thoughts like this before, but it's quite true. I need two things: a completely organized environment, and Lily Evans. Not in a dirty way - I just need to see her, hear her voice, be in her presence.
I smirk humorlessly as a new thought comes to me. Quite possibly, I've been so depressed this summer because I have withdrawal. Lily withdrawal. It could be a new medical condition, previously unkown to wizardkind because of its rare and insidious nature.
I wander down the hall to the kitchen. Well, I suppose it is nominally known as the kitchen. Technically speaking, it is a corner of the house with a table and minimal food-preparation tools. A coffee percolator, a cheese grater, a paraffin-stove with two burners. A stack of plates. Some intimidating knives, an assortment of silverware, a pan, a kettle. I usually eat two regular meals a day, depending on how much money I have and - more importantly - my motivation level to stay alive. On average, I would describe my will-to-live as 'fairly thriving'. On good days, it stabilizes at 'positively keen' ; on my worst days, it plummets to 'borderline death-wish'. Today, I am 'vaugely motivated', which ranks somewhere above 'thriving' but below 'keen'. I haven't worked out the system to an exact science yet.
I am alone, as always. My mother died three winters ago - about two a half years, then. Losing her was a cruel blow. She was difficult and unaffectionate and disengaged, embittered by her estrangement from the Wizarding world, but she was my mother. I loved her. I miss her, a sort of constant twinge underneath everything else. Late some nights, I am overpowered by a sudden wave of grief that wracks my entire body and leaves me in floods of silent tears. Whatever she was, Eileen Prince tried.
My father typically stumbles home in the small hours of the morning, dead drunk. He had an ordinary Muggle dayjob at some sort of manufactoring place . . . in the past tense. He spiralled into a deep depression when my mother died. Despite having the familial instincts of a woodchipper, he seems to have truly loved her. All the more unpleasant for me - I am now the sole breadwinner, as they say. I don't know what he does with his days and I don't care. I don't really want to think about where he gets the money to fuel his vice.
I glance rather irritably at the wall clock. Almost noon - I ought to eat something, then I have to go to work. Yes, being the sole breadwinner means that I have a summer job at the Muggle bookstore. So demeaning. I cannot wait to get back to Hogwarts, and then afterwards -
I sharply pull my mind away from that particular can of worms. Every time I think about what awaits me after my education, I get a leaden feeling in my abdomen that even I can't mistake for excited anticipation. Truly it is an honor - being recruited so young - but I still have doubts - no going back if - if he is truly willing to give me the Dark Mark . . .
Somehow, I can't help picturing Lily's face in my imagination, or possibly my memory. Her green eyes swim with disappointment and frustration and sadness and something else . . . a tinge of fear, perhaps. For the second time today, I feel an unnatural chill. Anything that makes Lily Evans fear me can't possibly be good - but -
Decisively, I shove the niggling doubts and fears to the back of my mind. I am quite a talented Occlumens, after all.
Only Lily could take a subject so passionately black-and-white, my elation at being asked to join the Death Eaters, and transform it into a muddy grey area.
Enough! I need to clear my head. I decide to leave immediately for work. Clarice, who has the shift before mine, will certainly not object to an extra fifteen minutes of liberation.
The shop bell jingles lightly as I pull open the door. The appealing smell of printed paper greets me. Over the past several weeks, I have surprised myself by developing a certain fondness for the Muggle bookstore. It is certainly a more entertaining employment prospect than, say, the coffee shop. Here, I have my choice of Muggle books to read during shifts. I'm currently excavating my way through the arduous struggle that is Anna Karenina. Its sheer physical weight is daunting, but I'm being gradually rewarded with a bittersweet taste of pre-revolution Russia, its complexities and meaningless social norms. I believe that what Tolstoy has been trying to convey all along is that every restriction imposed by Society looks silly and heavy-handed from an outsider's perspective. Or perhaps I'm fooling myself, who can say.
Clarice, looking pleased to see me for the very first time, ducks gratefully out. It's a slow day - somehow, Tuesday always is - and I open Anna Karenina to the page that I had marked with a piece of loose string.
It was a wet day; it had been raining all the morning, and the invalids, with their parasols, had flocked into the arcades.
Kitty was walking there with her mother and the Moscow colonel, smart and jaunty in his European coat, bought ready-made at Frankfort. They were walking on one side of the arcade, trying to avoid Levin, who was walking on the other side. Varenka, in her dark dress, in a black hat with a turndown brim, was walking up and down the whole length of the arcade with a blind Frenchwoman, and, every time she met Kitty, they exchanged friendly glances.
"Mamma, couldn't I speak to her?" said Kitty, watching her unknown friend, and noticing that she was going up to the spring, and that they might come there together.
"Oh, if you want to so much, I'll find out about her first and make her acquaintance myself," answered her mother. "What do you see in her out of the way? A companion, she must be. If you like, I'll make acquaintance with Madame Stahl; I used to know her belle-seur," added the princess, lifting her head haughtily.
Kitty knew that the princess was offended that Madame Stahl had seemed to avoid making her acquaintance. Kitty did not insist.
"How wonderfully sweet she is!" she said, gazing at Varenka just as she handed a glass to the Frenchwoman. "Look how natural and sweet it all is."
That last line is bitterly ironic, if ever anything was. Good ol' Tolstoy.
I am pulled unwelcomely back to the present by the insistent jingling of the shop bell. I look up - and my carefully constructed world shatters around my sorry head.
Yes. My idol herself, in the flesh. Her shoulder-length hair blows in front of her face in a sudden breeze from outside - she hasn't seen me yet. I get the guilt-ridden urge to run very fast in any direction, or possibly hide under the counter, but it's too late. The door swings shut behind her. She came alone.
I feel like a potential serial killer for even thinking that last thought. Godric, I really hate myself sometimes.
There is a suspended moment in the silence before I decide what to do. The counter is positioned some distance from the door, partially blocked by a bright display of recent publications. My pulse speeds up. If I greet her now, I honestly have no idea how she'll react. On the other hand, if I pretend not to see and/or recognize her, then the awkwardness will increase tenfold when she comes to pay and realizes I've been ignoring her. What to do? - !
I respond to my primal instincts and hide behind my book.
My eyes are frozen midway down the verso, not taking in the text in front of my face. I'm painfully conscious of her every movement; my attention is dominated by her soft footfalls on the carpeted floor. Everything and nothing is wrong with me. My inner economy is melting down, and still I squint unseeingly at this book.
At some point, it occurs to me that I ought to switch my burning gaze to the recto. Just to add to the realistic impression that I'm actually reading.
After what feels like an eternity of Dante's seven levels but what is actually about fifteen minutes, Lily steps up to the counter. I don't respond immediately; my knuckes are actually whitening at the pressure I'm applying to this godforsaken book.
She clears her throat expectantly, a genuinely discreet sound. I've heard some truly irksome attention-attracting coughs in my life, and this is not one of them. I clap Anna Karenina shut with unnecessary force and finally meet her leaf-green eyes.