- - -
"I've been treated so wrong
I've been treated so long
As if I'm becoming untouchable
I'm the slow dying flower
In the frost killing hour
Sweet turning sour and untouchable…"
- - -
Chapter Ten: The Frost Killing Hour
- Seventh Year -
The silent treatment. Very childish. Very effective. Oddly fulfilling.
It's been a week and four days. Since we last even attempted communication. We haven't spoken to each other since the debacle in the locker room. I've been keeping good on my word.
But it's hard.
It's hard when you remember good times but realize that they're now tainted by what has just happened. It's the hardest when something happens and you want to run over and tell them about it, but remember that you're no longer speaking. That's the worst. I'll do something moronic or something will make me laugh out loud, and I immediately think of him. And how much he would appreciate it. But then I remember. And it's her and him and them together and rejection and refusal and the pain is fresh and new all over again. And I've forgotten what was so fucking funny in the first place.
But there are times. Times where I forget why I'm so mad at him. I'll be sitting there, in class, at the table eating lunch, in the Common Room pretending to study, and I'll see him. And he's just…so perfect. He with the sparkly red hair that always feels so good to touch. He with the x-ray vision eyes that always manage to shrink me down to size. And I'll fall for him all over again. Sitting there, gazing at him from afar, trying to recall why exactly things went so sour. But then the moment passes. Lost as she walks through the door, greeted by him. Lost as my spur-of-the-moment amnesia fades away. The moment evaporating into the tension-laden air. And I hate him all over again.
This needs to stop. It hurts too much to relive it all over again.
But at the same time…Those few moments, those scant minutes, far and distant, they're almost enough for me. They've become what I live for.
But he'll never know that. He'll never hear it from me.
- - -
Classes are over for the day and we've accumulated enough work to keep us busy for a good week. We have a weekend to complete the load.
Some would say, "At least the weather's nice." I am not among them.
I've got a thundercloud hovering above my head and I want the rest of the world to share in my misery. Misery loves company. I've never really bought that one either, though. But I want the rain and the storms and the clouds to fill with anger, casting their wrath down upon us, our lot of unlucky fools. I want the Great Hall ceiling to be painted a dusty grey, the color of slate. I want the sky to match my heart.
But it never actually works that way. Of course.
Katie, Alicia and I are outside. Under the mocking sun and crystal clear sky. We're scribbling away frantically, be it Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, or, worst case scenario, Divination.
I glance up, reaching for another sheet of parchment. And regret the action immediately.
I must have some kind of radar-thing going on here. Because there he is, across the lake. Hand in hand with her. Smiling.
Poke my eyes out with red hot pokers. My soul is on fire.
The pain hasn't lessened any, each time I see him in passing. Always seeing them together. No. The sting still bites, getting sharper, clearer, stabbing me deeper until the knife is poking out the other side. And it's not any sunnier over there. He's killing me. Slowly. A sick torture robbing me of sanity and spirit.
I hate him for doing this. To me.
"Ange? Angelina? Hey!" A hand waves in front of my face, shaking me out of my reverie. Blinking my eyes rapidly, shaking my befuddled head.
"What?" Katie and Alicia are staring at me. A portrait of worry and curiosity.
Alicia sighs, tilting her head slightly to the side. "Okay, Ange. This has gone on for far enough. What's the deal?" Katie nods, signing her name to the statement.
"The deal?" Play dumb. That always goes over well with the audience. I'm twirling a lone blade of grass. Avoiding the question. Avoiding the answer. Avoiding the truth. Avoiding myself.
"Yes, Angelina." She says my name in a cutting tone. I know my name. No need to be so harsh about it. "What the hell is going on? You've become so…mopey. And moody. You sit around all day in a trance, you constantly look like you're just seconds away from just, I don't know, bursting into tears! You don't pay attention, you're never listening to either of us. It's getting old. And it's so not you. You're not opening up to us. I mean, you used to tell us everything, or what I assume to be everything. Now…nothing. We're just getting really rather bloody tired of it. Katie and I are your friends. We're here for you. And we're more than willing to listen." Katie nods her consent at this. "So, please. Tell us. What's going on?"
I look into her earnest face. And my first impulse is to laugh. And then lie. There is no way I'm opening this can of worms. Tell them about Fred and how we used to fuck on a regular basis and how I accidentally let myself fall for him but he fell for Blondie Ravenclaw and now more than anything I just want to tear my hair out and lock myself in my room with a whole shit-load of valium and never come out.
I don't think they even know what valium is. This definitely wouldn't go over well.
So, I swallow and smile. Letting the truth and my emotions sink just a little bit lower beneath the surface.
"I'm just…stressed. Is all. There's Quidditch, and that captain position is no easy task. Believe me. And then there's all this work to do. And N.E.W.T.'s. I'm worried about those. And I'm worried about leaving Hogwarts. I mean, I honestly haven't a bloody clue what I want to do once we're done with this place. And Fred and I are fighting over something…stupid."
Fuck. Why did I have to bring him into this?
They arch their eyebrows. "Fred?" Katie asks.
"Fighting?" Alicia adds.
"It's nothing. Nothing new or…unusual. Just adds some more flame to the fire." I smile. Convincing them, I pray, that fighting with Fred is nothing out of the ordinary.
But it's everything…
No. No, it's not.
"He's going with that Ravenclaw, isn't he?" Katie looks curious. And I feel like I was just punched in the gut. Hard.
"Yeah. Yeah, he is." Take a deep breath. Let it out slow.
"Good for him," Alicia adds idly.
Yes. Good for him. Bully for him! Fantastic! Superb! Top drawer! I'm going to go hysterical on them in a second. And I know they won't like that.
They change the subject, but I'm still caught on the former. I think it's possible for anger to boil so high that instead of scorching you and scathing you, it freezes you instead. I feel like a fucking popsicle. The human variety. Not sold in stores. I'm frozen. My heart stopped mid-beat. Frostbite eating its way through me. Circulatory system to nervous system to respiratory.
I'm becoming numb to the pain. The pain that is him.
I know that this is just the beginning. Of closing myself off.
I can't even tell my two fucking best friends how I feel. I think I'll inherit the throne as Ice Queen.
"What did you say you and Fred were fighting over?" Katie is sometimes too bloody nosy for her own damn good.
"I didn't." I really didn't mean for those words to sound so cold. But it's hard not to. When you've let yourself dip below zero.
She looks nonplussed. "Fine. But brace yourself. Here he comes." She turns her head and I follow. Sure enough. Here he comes. Fred and his Blonde Bride.
"Hey." A timid greeting. From a Weasley. Hell has surely frozen over. Or I have at least. And it's funny. Looking at him. And feeling nothing for once. Nothing more than anger. Not the usual odd desire stirring deep within me. Or the aching need to have him hold me and love me. Just anger. And fury. And rage.
I can tell he's nervous. For some reason that fuels me on.
I refuse to say a word to him. I refuse to dignify him with a response. Surely, he of all people, must expect this.
"Um, this is Bridget. Bridget, this is Katie, and Alicia…and Angelina."
I keep my stare blank. My blood is blue, icing me off in its path.
"Thrilled to make your acquaintance," I say to her. I'll talk to her, but not to him. I can feel how rigid my face is. Impassive. Eyes stone cold. I can't handle the anger building inside me.
I get up and leave. I've suffered enough awkward situations to last me a lifetime. This, he must know.
- - -
I lay across my bed, horizontally. Feet bouncing in the air, ankles banging against the side. My head is hanging off the edge. Upside-down. I wonder if my hair can tough the ground. From this angle I can't quite tell. I can feel the random escaped tears getting lost in my hairline and wish for all the blood to rush to my head.
The room is empty. And of course it is. It's dinnertime. But I couldn't bring myself to leave the room. Not after the lake and seeing him and her and imagining a dinner involving him. Makes my appetite fly out the window.
And I wish desperately to follow.
- - -
I can hear the snores and heavy, sleep-induced labored breathing dancing around the room. It's late. And my growling stomach won't let me sleep. I need food. I need sleep. And in order to sleep, I need food. Logical thought process.
I gracefully clamber out of bed, grabbing my robe, wand and slippers and head off. Down the halls. In search of the kitchen. And of course, thinking of him.
We've gone down to that kitchen so many times. Tickled the pear, hob-knobbed with the house-elves. They have the best chocolate cake down there. Positively sinful. Makes me salivate to think of.
I reach the kitchen without running into Mrs. Norris, or even worse, Filch. I tip-toe across the tile floors, feeling the need to be cautious. Cautious in the empty, cavernous kitchen where nary a soul is about.
Or so I thought.
I find the pantry. And the light is on. And out he comes with an armful of sweets.
He looks at me, shocked, surprised. And something else that I can't quite place. He his hair is rumpled and one pant leg is higher than the other. His robe isn't tied and is hanging wide open. He looks a mess.
I hate him.
"Couldn't sleep," he mumbles. Explaining his presence. I feel no need to do the same. He's waiting for me to though. But I'm done jumping through hoops for him. Done catering to his every whim. Done trying to be the girl for him.
He inhales deeply. Exhaling loudly and slowly, his frustration clearly evident. "Fuck, Angelina. Is this how it's going to be now? You racing off every time you see me? Not even talking to me? Looking at me like I'm the bloody scum of the earth? I don't want for things to have to…be this way."
He's such an arse. A complete and total arse. I almost pity him.
"That's rich. That's really rich, Fred. Not only do you get to blatantly hurt me, but you also get to play the victim and place orders as well. Fuck you, Fred. Fuck you." I'm spitting venom now. Still frighteningly calm though. Not raising my voice a single decibel. But the pain and the anger and the hurt are all there. Echoing in the frigid tone of my voice. "You don't want things to be this way. Poor you. Poor sad Fred who hasn't a fucking clue. Poor confused Fred. Poor silly, stupid Fred. Nothing is ever your fault." I've closed the gap between us. We're face to face now.
"Angelina…" He's putting his arms around me.
And I slap him. Hard. And watch the shock and the outrage register on his face.
"Don't you fucking dare touch me. You bastard. Where do you get off? You think that touching me or-or-or fucking me will make it all better?" I have never been so angry in my life. How dare he. How dare he. How dare he try and fix things like that. How dare he touch me when he's still with her. He's still with her. Still with her with her with her. "I hate you. I hate your bloody guts, Fred Weasley. I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I hate you." I pound his chest each time, accentuating my words. I'm reminded of the night I told him I loved him. How I repeated it over and over again. It's like a sick reprisal. Only in reverse.
I haven't shed a tear. I don't think I have any left. The reserves have emptied out.
I back away. Staring at the ashen look on his face. His freckles stark against his pale composure. He almost looks as though he could cry.
"I hate you," whispering it one last time.
I start to walk away. He doesn't try and stop me.
I'm not hungry anymore. - - -
"Well, contempt loves the silence
It thrives in the dark
With fine winding tendrils
That strangle the heart…"
- - -
A/N: Song lyrics from My Skin – Natalie Merchant
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