A/N: OMSOMSOMSOMSOMSOMSOMS LAST CHAPTER!!!!!!
Took me long enough.
Sorry for the epilogueness. I had to write a certain amount, you know, so that's the way it had to be. But since the contest eventually ended I didn't actually make that word count . . . but who cares? Not me!
Thanks go out to:
J.K. Rowling (Jo) for creating the faces behind the characters, which I shamelessly stole.
WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot (Foxy) for creating the personalities behind the characters, which I shamelessly stole.
starry night blue (Zen) for all the prompts and insanity.
Tearlit (Silverlit) for being the best competitor a girl could ask for—well done! Silver Sisters forever!
funnieduckie (Taylor) for being a butt and yet getting me writing.
Random note: Check out my Livejournal (I'm irish-ileana) and there you can request any ficlet from any fandom, so long as you do the same for ten other people!
Okay, enough stalling. It's time for Illy to write.
Maybe I wasn't cut out for this, after all.
At first, it's all I can do to keep on my feet. I seem to have lost every aspect of personal grace and dignity tonight, and I've just realized that he's leading. I don't even know how to follow. I attempt to orient myself, but I keep stepping on his toes and at one point I slide on a loose pebble.
He chuckles, a calming, low note that I can feel through his hands. It's the first real noise I've heard from his mouth. We don't speak and instead step in endless circles until I balance myself in time with the beat. I look at his face, but he's staring intently somewhere over my shoulder, at something I can't see and for all I know isn't there.
The music takes me away from the silence. It's a soft, slow tune, gentler than anything the Weird Sisters have played tonight. His eyes are closed now, and I think he's listening. I concentrate on my feet again.
"What was he like?"
Startled, I look up from my toes, and this time he is looking at me. "Sorry," he says. "That wasn't clear. I meant . . . your real father. Since Pepper obviously isn't it."
"Flame," I correct him automatically. He hasn't smiled once; his eyes haven't twinkled since his arrival. But I think I catch a slight twitch in the corner of his lips. I want to kiss those tremors.
You gave up that right.
"Of course. But, I mean . . . do you remember him?"
"I don't, no. Just a pair of eyes and a really huge nose. And . . . Mum says he used to tap his foot a lot, like I do. Or . . . did."
I'm waiting for him to show up, but I don't think he's coming. I tap my foot against the floor, waiting, but there is absolutely no way he's going to come.
Yes, he did. I knew he would. I was terrified to think that he'd come.
Not that I want him to. Right?
Wrong. When was the last time I tapped my foot like that? I can't remember and watch my toes again. I've become a lot more patient over the past few months. Does that make me less like my father?
The music sounds like something I once knew, like something from a dream.
"There's something else," I realize. "He . . . he used to sing me this lullaby. I don't really remember it, but . . . I sort of do, you know?"
It's a muggle tune. For all of my pureblood crap that I as a Slytherin have to uphold, my father was not only lacking in wizard parents but in actual magical powers. Why is this just coming to me now?
Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. Life is but . . .
Life is but what?
I smile to myself. "You make me remember things. How do you do that?"
He doesn't answer, looks again just over my shoulder.
"Pansy isn't speaking to me." I'm grasping for anything that might make him meet my eyes. He rewards me with a surprised glance, a slight raise in his . . . eyebrows . . .
"Any particular reason, or did you finally hit her with a permanent Silencing charm?"
"I told her I was gay."
Another fleeting look along my brow. "She'll come around," he says decisively. "When I first told Michael, he accused me of trying to cop a feel, sat at the other end of our table for three weeks, and started dating Ginny Weasley. And now we're perfectly fine."
"Ginny Weasley," I mutter, amused. "The embodiment of males attempting to prove their masculinity."
"Yeah," he agrees, and I know he's going to give me a real look this time, a smile, something to prove that he really cares about me.
He stares over my shoulder again. I can't help but turn my head to see just what is so interesting. There's nothing there (except a group of tropical parrots that my mother had somehow thought could be considered "fancy"), and no way to maintain eye contact with the impossible Eddie Carmichael. Oh, except actually grabbing his chin and turning it towards mine.
That's not what I'm doing. It's an affectionate gesture.
(Why am I lying to myself? Haven't I learned yet?)
I feel a warmth at my side—his hands? An embrace? But no . . . it's coming from my pocket. We stop dancing for a moment as I search for the source and pull out the tiny tin pieces, my magical telephone, as though I had called them. At this size, they almost seem like promise rings.
"Oh . . ." I chew anxiously on my tongue. "I made these . . . well, enchanted them, anyway . . . er, one of them is for you. It's sort of . . . see, if you talk into one end, I can hear you through the other and . . . well, we could have conversations, you know, without being in the same room . . . it's, um . . . well, it's sort of like this Muggle thing, they call it a . . . a fellytone, I think . . ."
We're not dancing anymore, but in my helplessness my shoes have suddenly become incredibly interesting again. This is stupid. We're not together anymore, not after what I did. I can't just expect him to want anything to do with me now.
But to my extreme surprise, he puts his hand over mine (warm, strong; my heart stops beating for a moment) and slides his piece from my grip, puts it in his own pocket. "Thank you," he says, so softly that it's barely a vibration, and offers his hand again. To circle the room uselessly in a dance, a dance that will, eventually, have to end. I don't take that hand.
"Listen," I beg, pushing my gaze into cyan eyes. "Listen. That night . . . I can't believe what I did to you. I don't usually lose control like that, I never do. I would never . . . I didn't want to . . . I hurt you. I hurt you because I was angry, and every night I have these nightmares. I do it again and again in my dreams, and you're terrified, and you won't look at me, you avoid my face just like you've been doing all night. But I will never do that again. I can't. I never wanted to hurt you, Eddie, but I was scared, too. I'm so sorry. Merlin, I'm so sorry."
It's been just the two of us in our own secluded world, a place where two people can still feel loneliness, a place where neither of us can be saved. But my voice breaks over these last words and as I fall to his warm, broad chest, I am suddenly aware of the stares we're gathering. I push them away and lie sobbing, grovelling between his shoulders. And then I feel him lean down, gentle lips brushing my left ear.
"At least now I can say I was in an abusive relationship."
I giggle (giggle, honestly) and choke on the salty water at the back of my throat. He gestures for me to sit down, but it's easier to pretend that we have our own place here when we're spinning. Hacking and spitting, I somehow manage to stay upright. He wipes my face gently with his hand, which really only smears the mess, but I appreciate the thought. And I'm not done.
"Say you forgive me, Eddie. Please."
"Blaise," he whispers, his voice hoarse and barely audible over the music and talking. "Of course I forgive you."
"Good. Because I love you."
And without giving him a chance to say it back (or, since I'm an idiot, not say it at all), without paying any care to the thousands of people among us or the brine still on my lips or how Flame or Daphne or Mum might feel about it or the flashing lights beneath my eyelids or the parrots screeching "I love you, I love you, I love you," or the smell of camera powder or the scratch of Rita Skeeter's delightedly eager quill searching for gossip, I take hold of his head one more time and pull it toward mine, kiss him like I've never kissed him—or anyone—before.
"I love you too."
* * *
I wish I could say that everything ended happily as it did at Mum's wedding. But the world doesn't stop simply because of the unconditional euphoria pushing through it. Life doesn't suddenly cease once the hero gets the girl (or boy). Nothing is ever so perfect; life is but . . . something.
I am back at Hogwarts, a place of black walls and drafty winters, trying to catch the eye of Pansy Parkinson. She's pushed up against Malfoy's arm as he tries to eat a bowl of cereal. His eyes are distracted and cloudy, but I don't really care. It beats the nasty comments he's been tossing my way ever since the story of Eddie and I came out (no pun intended) in Witch Weekly and subsequently made its way around the school. It's so fabulous when your mother happens to be a famous British socialite. Rita Skeeter had a lovely way of putting things that made Daphne's face turn bright red as she let out a long string of violent words, most of them curses. It's strange to say, considering how scared I was about people finding out about my sexuality, but I wasn't really bothered by any of it. Really, people were bound to find out someday. And people make comments. That's just how this world is. We can only hope that eventually, they'll understand.
Months pass, classes get harder, apparition lessons are abundant, and suddenly Eddie and I find ourselves in a new freedom. We're not a secret anymore; we can walk to class with our fingers interlocked and steal kisses in the middle of corridors if we want to and we even spend lunch "dates" with Daphne and her he's-not-my-boyfriend Michael Corner (he's her boyfriend). Of course, this often inspires a lot of our classmates to throw curses our way whenever they can get away with it, and many of the teachers seem blind to it. But it's nearly April now, and in just a few months we'll be free for the summer. We forget sometimes that there's a war going on, that people are dying, that maybe in the summer we won't be able to see each other as often; it wouldn't be safe.
The sun isn't shining all that brightly today. It hasn't shone brightly at all in a number of weeks, so it's not a surprise, really. I'm eating breakfast with Daphne as the post owls flutter about the students with their packages and I'm trying not to laugh as Eddie makes faces at me from the Ravenclaw table. Daph and I are completely isolated from the rest of the Slytherins, but at this point I'm used to it. Thankfully, Daphne doesn't mind all that much, either.
The weather is gloomy and I'm a leper, certainly, but these are everyday occurrences. There's no real reason for today to deliver any horrific news.
There are two owls for our little segregated area today; one for me and one for Daphne. As she unrolls her copy of the Daily Prophet, I examine the letter in my hands. I recognize the purple seal of an eye as my mother's, but the handwriting is much messier than anything I'd ever read by her. Feeling a strange sense of unease in the pit of my stomach, I move to open the seal but am interrupted by a suddenly strong hand on my arm.
"Blaise . . ." Daphne's eyes are wide, fearful. "You need to read this."
My heart begins to pound its way through my chest as I take the newspaper from Daphne's hands.
Another disappearance occurred last Thursday in London when Octavius Pepper left his home, supposedly to visit some friends at the Ministry of Magic. Foul play is suspected, as Pepper had expressed much against the Death Eater regime. He was recently quoted in this newspaper as an advocate of equality. "I don't care if a person is black or white, man or woman, straight or gay, pureblood or Muggle-born. Everyone is a person, after all, and it's right important for all of us to remember that."
Pepper's wife was too distraught to comment.
"Octavius Pepper . . ." I struggle to place the name. "I know him. Who's Octavius Pepper?"
Daphne stares at me. "Blaise . . ." Her voice shakes. "Octavius Pepper . . . he's Flame."
Flame. Flame. It hits me then what the letter's about. With trembling fingers, I begin to read my mother's nearly illegible scrawl. I notice that some words are especially hard to make out due to the tears that have dropped onto the page and smudged the ink.
Blaise,
By now you've probably heard about Octavius going missing.
I've arranged for you to come home next weekend for a (here the words memorial service appear to be written, but it's hard to tell). I know you're supposed to be having practice sessions for your Apparition Exam. I hope you won't mind missing it just this once.
Love,
Mum
* * *
"You'll take care of yourself, then?"
"Blaise, you tosser, I always do." Eddie holds me close. I know he's trying to keep a light heart for my sake, but I can feel him shiver in my arms. Daphne stands politely to the side as Eddie and I embrace.
"Keep an eye on him, Daphne. He's a git and he needs to realize it." I hug her, and I notice that she's stopped sighing after hugging me (that Corner kid must be good for something after all). She looks like she's about ready to cry. I'm starting to realize that Flame's disappearance could be affecting more people than just me.
"Whenever you're ready, Mr. Sabina." Professor Snipe's eyes are cold and empty. Well, not everyone has empathy. I throw some Floor powder into the fireplace and step inside. Then I greet my mother, who falls instantly, sobbing, into my arms.
* * *
The memorial service is dreary, black, and not at all something Flame would have asked for. I think it's pre-emptive, anyway, to have a memorial service for a man who could very well be alive, but something in my mum's face shows that she knows a bit more than the Daily Prophet. I try not to think about it and instead concentrate on welcoming all of Flame's weeping Australian friends, comfort them with expensive tea on useless, expensive china. I've heard that memorial services are supposed to be a celebration of life, but that vibe just isn't around today.
On Monday, Mum packs my bags for me. Wearing a ratty woollen jersey, her cheeks are streaked with the remnants of tears and dark circles have formed under her eyes. I give her a million tight hugs (as tight as possible, anyway, considering she's quite pregnant now) but they don't seem enough. She hasn't eaten a thing since I've been here, and now I'm scared not just for her but also for the baby. I actually want to be a big brother now, although maybe it means being a dad, too. I'm already late for school, but I feel like I haven't been here long enough.
Since everyone else is already in class, Daphne and Eddie are not in Snape's office to greet me when I arrive. Neither is Snape, actually; I suppose he's off terrorizing some poor Defence Against the Dark Arts class. I head to Transfiguration and try not to think about Flame or Mum or my future sibling. Everyone's eyes are on me as I sit down in my seat. I look for Eddie but I can't find him, and immediately my heart starts pounding again. My eyes lock with Daphne's and she mouths at me. After class.
I spend Transfiguration distracted. All I can think about is Eddie. Where is he? Did he try to meet me in Snape's office and get caught? Is he sick? What's going on?
At the end of class, I toss my notes (basically just random scribbles on a scrap piece of parchment) carelessly into my bag and hurry over to Daphne, hitting someone in the face with my bag in the process. "Where is he?" I ask urgently. She looks down.
"The hospital wing."
* * *
"Bollocks . . . Daphne, you just had to bring him, didn't you? Couldn't you have waited until I was out?"
"He wanted to see you, Eddie. And he has a right to."
I try not to gasp when I see him . . . but it's hard. His face is bruised, his lip split. His beautiful eyebrows are misshapen in the swelling above his eye, and these are just the injuries I can see. Daphne explained it on my way over: He'd been attacked in Hogsmeade while practicing his Apparition, and attacked again later that day, later that night, the next day, the next night. Seeing that I was no longer around to defend Eddie, the Slytherins had used every chance to target Eddie for being a "twink," among other, more vulgar things. They'd not only resorted to wizard warfare but to Muggle fist fighting and weaponry—even scissors—as well. Eddie had been valiant and refused to go to the hospital wing until he collapsed late Sunday evening. It was Daphne who brought him to Madam Pomfrey.
His face reminds me of when I hit him . . . for being who he was. It set another twinge through my heart. "Eddie . . . I'll kill them, I swear I will."
He gives me a smirk that turns quickly into a grimace. "Typical Slytherin. Don't do anything, Blaise. They might never be okay with us. I've accepted that."
"But they should be okay with us. Daphne is. My mum is. Flame is." I don't use was here, because I don't want to believe Flame is gone. "Why can't they just accept us?"
"Why couldn't you?"
I don't feel like answering that, because I know he's right. Instead, I take his head into mine and gently kiss his cracked lips. And even though he's in pain, even though Flame is gone . . . even though we're in the middle of a war and my baby sibling could be in danger and Daphne's still standing there watching . . . once his lips meet mine, everything else slips away and life . . .
Life is but a dream.
Random note: Check out my Livejournal (I'm irish-ileana) and on there you can request a ficlet in any fandom and any ship, and I will write it for you, providing that you do the same for ten other people!