Closer, Chapter Four.
"It is so much easier to look away from victims. It is so much easier to avoid such rude interruptions to our work, our dreams, our hopes. It is, after all, awkward, troublesome, to be involved in another person's pain and despair."-Elie Wiesel, The Perils of Indifference, Delivered 22 April 1999
"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." -Plato
"You're not alone. There is more to this, I know. You can make it out. You will live to tell." ~You're Not Alone, Saosin, Saosin
"A birth is not really a beginning. Our lives at the start are not really our own but only the continuation of someone else's story." -Vida Winter, The Thirteenth Tale, Diane Setterfeld
"No, they don't know who I really am and they don't know what I've been through like you do." ~The Story, The Story, Brandi Carlile
"Even if it's a dumb story, telling it changes other people just the slightest little bit, just as living the story changes me. An infinitesimal change. And that infinitesimal change ripples outward." -Colin Singleton, again, Abundance of Katherines
Random, unrealistic blueprints for a last ditch attempt at salvaging my popularity were increasingly coming to me as the trees around Hogwarts lost their leaves and the sky's warm, balmy countenance gave way to promising clouds. One idea that did a bit more than flutter about was that Quidditch might be my saving grace. However, beaters seldom have much fame- they don't score or save points. Uncle George was apparently very popular and a beater, but I personally doubt they were related; that, or he was fantastic. So sports is no good.
Maybe the bludgers were giving me a sign, anyway, that it wasn't meant to be. They very seldom came around my side of the pitch. It is a pity, though. Quidditch is the one thing that the first-years could never take away from me, and I can't even utilize it. At least it's good stress relief. The crack of the bat, the wind in my ears, the height from the ground...
The next and last inkling that drove a stake into my mind came by an unlikely source. Unlikely, because Professor McGonagall is too strict to support the students. Last, because there was no need for another.
She informed us during dinner in the Great Hall that those who wish to stay during the holidays must add their names to the list. "The Lonely List," my friends and I had once dubbed it. Now, I sat on the outskirts on their group and Scorpius sat in the center. Ugh. Exiled was far more invisible that the uninvolved. At this somber memory, I snuck a glance at Albus and Scorpius, whom I still considered my usurpers. Scorpius was always somehow able to be scarce when the populars sought his attention, learning a lesson I had never known or had the patience to learn: Less supply is more demand. Today he was present and internally basking in his glory; that's how I saw it as I stared, peeved, at the close-knit group I used to be a part of.
Rather than the derisive laughter and babble about what each of us would do over Christmas, there was simply silence as Scorpius, in his first-year fashion, pointedly directed all of his attention to the Headmistress. From my position, however, I could still see his expression as he turned away from the rest; it was almost as if I were intended to see it. But I couldn't have been. On his face were emotions private and frightened and confused. McGonagall went on to say that the list would be available all week, and Scorpius emitted a very small sigh, a puff of air that immediately dispersed among its fellow particles, never to be found and isolated again.
When I saw these strange occurrences, did I think of him? No. What I thought of was myself. Of how in front of the bathroom mirror, I wash my face and check the dark circles under my eyes and try to feel familial love. At least by Albus; but Albus hadn't talked to me for ages, and it was taking its toll on me. Of how I wondered how I appeared to other people, wondered what expressions crossed my face and if any real feeling was ever exposed. The way Scorpius' feelings were laid out bare for all to notice- and yet of all the people surrounding him, I was the only one who did. And of the way that I was able to dismiss his actual feelings as a person to consider my own. It was actually reassuring, to think that if anyone saw my internal weaknesses on my face they might not notice, they might not pry.
But once again, this was only a moment's glance and a rush of thought. Then, I contemplated the actual task of going home and facing my family. My parents. How could I, when my personal shield of self assurance had shattered? When I had nothing left to help me, or to save me, or to keep me from crying and exposing myself as a pitiful being. Who would want to love me then? No one I'd want to love me; for pity to be confused with love is a sorry fate that I would never want.
Even if I did hold myself together, Dad and Mom's doting reactions over Albus would probably frustrate me to no end. Oh, how it would only remind me of Christmas in first-year:
I had come home, ready to be loved and adored, having missed my family as only a firstie can and sending loving owls every week. Estranged from their actual behavior, I had fooled myself into thinking that things would be different, closer. So I gave Mum an enthusiastic hug and beamed at Dad. "I'm a Gryffindor," I cried happily, "And I got on the Quidditch Team! I was almost cut, but then the other prat for beater turned out to have stolen his broom so I made it in with Jo Brown! And we lost our first match, but I hit the bludger a few times!"
"Very nice," Mum said, and Dad gave a smiling nod. But then Albus came, and Lily, and Albus was saying how they had found out that the Hogwarts Express' appearance of a train had nothing to do with how it actually worked, and my excited story faded into nothingness. Albus and Lily had all of the fall and all of the spring to talk and demand Dad and Mum's attention. But now, here I was, fresh from school and full of stories and happiness.
It didn't get better from there. All holiday every time I worked up the courage to talk to them, their reactions would pale to how they treated Albus and Lily. They were polite and kind, but when I realized that at the end of the few weeks I still missed them, I knew that nothing had really changed. I would always 'miss' them, because they would never be there. For Lily and for Albus, but not for James.
Last year, I saved myself the disappointment by insisting on a family trip to the mini-Burrow (Based lovingly off of Grandma Weasley's house). Every day and some of the nights I would sneak out with Rose to the attic to talk and imagine and laugh. Although it wasn't a replacement for my own parents, Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione treated me the same way they treated everyone else (other than their own kids, of course). It was refreshing and enjoyable. However, that would not be an option this winter. Through my vaguely forced talks with Rose every Wednesday, I've gleaned a bit of information on the tension present in the Weasley household.
It didn't seem too bad, of course. But Rose said there was probably going to be some "distance" between them, "especially because Dad's so bad with expressing his emotions. He's not mad at me, but I worry that he's going to be scared of me or something. It's going to take a bit of work to convince him I'm the same as ever," she bit the inside of her lip for a moment, looking extremely troubled and pure-Rose, the way I liked her most. Or maybe that was how she always was, and I had just imagined the rest. You never know what happened, you only know what you can remember. She continued with a burst of frustration and that inexplicable bitter appreciation for irony she had gained from Slytherin, "First Dad and now you. Come on! Green is a pretty color!"
I laughed and blurted "Like Albus' eyes!" without thinking. Despite not making sense, the outburst's lack of sense was... refreshing. I knew I shouldn't have let my walls down so quickly this time, and I knew that I could lose all of my friends just for the sake of this one if I let us get too close again. But there was a smaller, defiant part of me that insisted this one was worth it. The same small, defiant part that causes me so much frustration and dissatisfaction about my lifestyle. The same small part that had started to make it better.
Rose gave herself a little self-congratulatory smirk. She had noticed, too. Rather than allude to it, however, she merely continued, "Or your Dad's, or Scarlett O'Hara's in Mum's favorite movie, or Grandpa Granger's car, or..."
So although Rose is a pretty good companion, and it would be great to let down my walls without guilt accompanied, just another awkward family situation was not what I needed right now. Instead, a new idea came to mind: Don't go. Hogwarts had no parents, just kids and elderly teachers. The students and the staff.
And another part of this new plan appealed to me. The solitude. None of the more popular kids would stay, and I would be able to own my reputation as on top. If I could work the castle's emptiness to my advantage, by the time the school returned everything would be fine again!
It had been a while since my last prank, however, so I needed to get myself back into practice for the big event on Christmas Eve (Well, aren't I sentimental!) Plus, it might give me a little leverage when I have to take the final bound. Choosing the time would be simple. Midnight, of course. It added a bit of flair, and it was my trademark. No one really knew how I did it, but I got in and out so effectively, like a ghost, accomplishing the unheard of- not getting caught. Patrols are far stricter with Headmistress McGonagall, so sneaking out has been impossible since Dumbledore's reign.
And I have to attribute everything to the Cloak and the Marauder's map, my adoptive parents. They saved me when I needed them most.
It was the end of Christmas break, and I was close to despair. I was rummaging the house to pack (Albus and Lily have their bags prepacked to go to Fortescue's, but I've had to take care of mine since the age of seven), and still disappointed that nothing had changed. To keep a little of my parents with me, partly out of love and partly out of spite, I went to their room and tried to find something special enough to help but unused enough to not be missed. Then I saw this silver blanket (my knight in shining armor) at the bottom of Dad's drawer, with the required inch of dust layered on top. Snatching it up, a small sheet of paper fell out of it. That was funny, I thought. Why hadn't I seen it before?
Picking it up curiously, I decided to keep the paper. Somehow, it seemed to belong with the Cloak. I put the parchment in my pocket, and ran the soft, silvery material over my arm. It vanished. I wondered for a moment if it was a trick in the light, or in the darkness, as there wasn't any light at all. But in this magical world, there are no tricks. Eager to see (or not see) more, I dashed it around my shoulders.
And so, there was the beginning of my social life. There was my savior. My map mum and my immersed-in-darkness dad, right on schedule.
I draped the Cloak around myself that night and flexed my fingers and toes in anticipation. The map lay in front of me (By now I had inadvertently discovered its secrets), but bare. I had already checked it; the caretaker was in his office for a butterbeer-and-bathroom break, and that should last for fifteen minutes, if my calculations were still accurate. Then I took off the Cloak and tucked it under my shoulder. My entrances were meant to be noticed for a moment before I magically disappeared; it gave me credibility and resembled the stuff of legends. Just as producing light (in the form of sparks) is a basic, rudimentary art, so is producing sound. I took a breath, and then slipped out the door of the dormitory and down to the common room, and, theoretically, out the portrait hole before shoving the Cloak on to myself.
I never got that far.
Instead, I barely got past the hearth. For sitting in front of the flames, eyes reflecting a strange, cold shade of grey in the fire, was Scorpius Malfoy. Before I could stop myself, a small gasp reached my throat.
His head swiftly turned, and as he turned his eyes returned to the striking brown I knew so well, from the first day we met to the envious glimpses in the great hall. For the first time, I noticed that the edges were silver, thus creating the magnified sideways effect of twin stones. "Oh, it's you," said the boy, but not unkindly. His voice was a bit hoarse, as though he had been yelling. I then reevaluated when he wiped the silvery remnants tears from his eyes. Not yelling; sobbing. "Hi," he said with a little hiccup.
"Hey," I responded, confused and uncertain. I had not at all forgotten my purpose, for some reason I only could wish that he wasn't here, that I could simply go on with my duties, and he not part of it.
"Sorry," he mumbled, and I found myself inching closer to hear. "I just, I'm so... stupid. I just don't know... I don't want to go home, James! But I can't stay here, knowing!"
Instead of the "what?" I had intended, I asked, "Why are you telling me this?" Such a childish, selfish question, I berated myself. I should be a sponge and allow him to spend his sorrow on me. Is it horrible that I want so much to leave?
He didn't seem to be put off by the question, or parry it as one might expect. "You're my only friend in this d*** school," he swore.
Still perturbed, I foolishly protested. "Our only conversation was two and a half months ago!" though I remember it as clear as day. And he talks to so many others. Many of the populars pay him mind! mentally added I.
As though he could hear me, he responded sadly, "Just goes to show how shallow the company that chooses me is... But for my wealth, they would hate me openly. Only the decent do."
"I don't hate you."
"Exactly."
"Oh," I said, not sure what to say, trying to focus solely on the way the streaming tears caught the firelight. For the past few weeks, I had been letting go of my control as my popularity slipped away. Or had it slipped away as I let go? Nevertheless, I was letting it go and now I desperately needed it back. It was essential that I didn't say the wrong thing, and yet no one was even there to watch me say it right. My silence did not fall ill on him.
"Why can't they just keep us here? Why can't they make us stay all year, twelve months, vital classes that cannot be missed each day, and keep us forever?"
"You can stay over the winter holidays if you want," I offered.
"How can make it sound so simple?!" he said, his voice getting louder.
"Shh," I soothed, trying not to feel cruel as I glanced around to make sure that this private conversation stayed, well, private. "Why can't you stay here?"
"Because I can't be so selfish! Maybe you can," he spat. "You don't have any problems other than your little superficial junk about keeping up with the clique."
Well, now he was being unreasonable. Yet, he was clearly distraught, so surely I could forgive him for his thinly veiled insults. "Um... Problems?" I couldn't imagine his problems. I had envisioned the entire body of Hogwarts carefree and simple, but now such a theory seemed idiotic. But with the broken boy in front of me, I could not rethink my world at the moment. He was a distraction that I could not block out, for that small part was growing inside my chest, filling me up, and I was closer to bursting by the second.
"Oh, fine. I'll tell you," his passionate fit seemed to leave him and he leaned back into his chair again. "I shouldn't get mad at you, it's not your fault. Sorry about that." There was a moment of silence, and I thought, Is that what he was intending to tell me?, but then the moment passed, and he began his monologue.
"The story begins with the man named Draco Malfoy. Son of the hated Lucius Malfoy, he was not quite hated as much for himself as his family name. But he was still an abominable person. Power-hungry, malicious, terribly weak. He was responsible for the death of Dumbledore. He almost killed the Chosen One once or twice. But after the war ended, he left behind such pretenses of evil. All it was was the peer pressure and influence that he couldn't withstand. So at this point, he's not good, but he's not that bad," Scorpius paused in his narrative and rubbed his eyes, which were now dry. The spirit started to return to him as he got into the story. "This is after the war ended, right? So the Malfoys are disgraced. Pardoned for rebelling against the Dark Lord, which was actually mostly Narcissa, but disgraced. Their blood meant nothing now."
"So, Narcissa, Draco's mom, she conferred with Lucius and they figured out a way that would show the wizarding world that they were reformed. So they looked around, picked out a girl that fit all of their requirements, which was actually very simple. Blond hair, muggleborn. And the Greengrasses were desperate for money, so it didn't take much 'negotiating' for them to accept."
"Draco himself was a different matter. They tried to reconcile him, telling him that arranged marriages were traditional in the family. And, as for their solving their notoriety, 'this is the only way,' Narcissa said."
'Well, you marry a mudblood then!' he screamed back. But no matter how he protested and fought, he married the girl. And I thought, maybe I should forgive him. He's my dad. He was forced into marriage. He was forced to live a life he hated, and live with a woman that he hated so much he didn't want to get in a ten-foot radius with her..."
"But," I interrupted his narrative, "If they hate each other, how were you..." For a moment, I searched for a non-scarring way to articulate my question for the first-year.
"Conceived? Oh, simple... Firewhiskey," he sighed. "Lots of firewhiskey." I was silent, so he continued where he left off. "So I tried, right? But every time he looked at me, it was with such disgust and repulsion. Any kind words fell on deaf ears. He looked at me with the same repulsion that everyone else did, because of my last name, my hair, my height, my chin. Because I was supposed to be just like this thing that calls himself a man and drags himself to life every day.
"Whenever I was alone, though, I felt that I should try again. Be brave, I thought. Help him. And maybe it would have worked, James. It might have worked."
"What happened?" I asked, surprised to find myself whispering. I no longer wanted to leave. My feet were rooted too deeply in this strange, horrible tale.
"I saw the scars. I didn't know what they were at first. I asked, 'Mother, why are you limping?' 'Mother, why are you purple?' But it didn't take long for me to figure it out."
This was the end of the tale, and once again his eyes bored into the the depth of the fire. I felt pathetic. Shouldn't I be saying something? "Sorry," I broke the silence. "Sorry that I'm not helping."
"No, no," he said. "You listened. Most would have turned and run at the sight of tears. Most would have judged me from the beginning. You listened... I suppose I didn't finish, did I? But the end is obvious. I want to stay here, and stay away from him. But I have to go to that house and support Mother, right? I have to save her!"
He was very carefully avoiding the word "home," I noticed. This whole story, this life that had been detailed and brought to life, so different from my own, almost unrecognizable as a life... An entirely new perspective is more precious and strange than anyone can imagine. It should be having amazing, metamorphosing effects on me. Instead, however, for once in my life, I felt like my own identity had been swept away. It was impossible to think of myself, to try to analyze the impact. I was needed for more than just myself.
While I finalized my decision, Scorpius had continued,"...Unlike you and your petty issues, it's not even just my problem! I can't do this alone!"
I walked to his side, closer to him than I could ever remember being near anyone, and gazed long and hard into the eyes that had caught my attention from the beginning. Not grey and cold like a Malfoy. Brown, looking so forlorn and empty. They should be full.
"You're not alone."
A/N: This chapter is considerably darker than the others. And it occurs about two and a half months after the last, so if you noticed a bit of a change, you would be right. Oh, and by the way, this will not end up being slash, or any kind of romance for that matter. I don't think any of you would harbor such a notion, but before anyone got excited I just wanted to make that clear.
To my darling reviewers: (I encourage joining this prestigious group if you are not already involved)
xandromedax: The plot thickens, and your wish (for a full-fledged fanfic) is coming true.
Lady Stephy: Not so apathetic anymore, though. I just love dynamic characters. And I'm glad that this story is an unofficial favorite.
the unsigned Katie: Quidditch! Wow, I almost completely forgot! I conveniently took care of that in this chapter, I hope. Sorry; I'm not too into sports.
Lietus: Yes, characters must have flaws. Characters without flaws or depth annoy me to no end (*cough Twilight cough*). Yes, yes, exactly right! Rose and Scorpius are wonderful, aren't they? Back to James' flaws, though: here, we start seeing some strengths, too.