Author: DMitchell1985

Story Title: Wicked

Chapter Title: The Past Isn't (6/?)

Chapter Rating: PG-13 - for small bit of cursing

Author's Notes: I now have a new beta for "Wicked" who is going to help whip this story into form. There should less errors from now on. Thanks Lauren.

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The dead never truly leaves us, not if we don't forget them. -Unknown


I stare down at the quote at the top of the page of the Muggle weekly planner my mum has sent me.

The dead never truly leaves us. . .

The words glare back at me, ripe with rightful accusation. I am determined to stare back at the black words, not willing to let them get to me. Not me. Never me.

Seconds tick by unnoticed, and I am unable to hold my gaze steady. It is the conscious of guilt that sways my sight. I look away when I feel pain stab into my eyes. I am unclean, but I got what I wanted, and is that not what matters? I achieved my goal. I am Harry's close friend, not her. Not anymore. I even have Ron back.

She liked Ron. I could tell. I saw her love, not lust, never anything as base as lust, but love in her eyes for him. She loved him, and I believe that he was beginning to realize this. I saw the secretive glances and the hand holding. I am not blind.

It was this shifting of Ron's emotions from me to her which sealed her fate.

I could not stand to watch Perfect Little Miss anymore. Everything from the way she was casually feminine to how effortlessly she played Quidditch on the Gryffindor House team nearly drove me to madness. What's worse is that she made an excellent Beater swift, yet brutal when absolutely necessary.

I still remember her tryout. I had hid in the stands to watch them last year. Andrew Kirke had given up on being a Gryffindor Beater, even though they had won the Quidditch House Cup the previous year. This was despite having Harry, Fred Weasley, and George Weasley thrown off the team by Umbridge.

I had been extremely hopeful that my fifth year would belong to Ravenclaw on the Quidditch pitch. I imagined the glory of joining a swelling Ravenclaw crowd to hoist our team triumphantly into the air. Yet somehow, Weasley had come through for his new rag-tag team to help Gryffindor win. By some almost unfathomable miracle, Weasley had managed to stop a goal. Along with the next 14.

So there I sat, elbows upon knees, as I hunched down on the lowest bench hoping not to be noticed. My eyes found themselves glued to the zooming figures high above me. Tabithia Reicher appeared to be little more than a moving dot to me then, as I am sure that I did to her. But she stood out among the other Beater hopefuls.

Tabithia made it a habit to set herself apart when immersed within a crowd. Whether it be with a vibrant fushia hair decoration or a seemingly scandelous affair with a Hufflepuff two years her senior, Tabithia found a way to shine. That day was certainly not a pause in the monotonous parade of flashy colors, plenty of money, and witty barbs.

On the outside, I pretended to adore her as the other mindless students did. Inside, I seethingly admired and despised her attractive qualities. Inside, I felt a hate I had never known twist and gash at my stomach that demanded to be acknowledged, relieved, and fed. This ever present loathing drank in that day's sunny orange robes, and howled to be sated in some manner. Tabithia needed to be brought down.

Hideous, half-formed methods of torture and killing swept behind my eyes as I watched her fly gracefully. Her method of flight stood out, yet it was still entwined with the other players with an almost feral strength that tested the males applicants' ability to withstand her.

Harry, being the last remaining player on the team with the most seniority, had been naturally been made Captain. He had several tryouts to oversee that day. Harry had rightfully reclaimed his position of Seeker when his Quidditch ban was lifted. Weasley had stayed on as Keeper, and Jack Sloper retained his position as Beater.

With three Chaser positions open, one Beater spot up for grabs, and an alternative Seeker place to be filled, most, if not all, of Gryffindor Tower arrived at the Quidditch pitch, ready for action. Those who were not trying out took to the stands, cheering on their friends. It had been a long time since so many positions were open for filling.

Harry's control and direction of the tryouts was organized and absolute, just as his D.A. lessons were taught. He arranged for the Seekers to go first, since, there was so few trying out for Alternative Seeker. Second, went the Beater bids. Last, came the gaggle of would-be Chasers. More than fifteen people opted to go after the three Chaser spots.

My dulled senses perked when it was Tabithia's turn to first avoid being hit by a Bludger, and then demonstrate her skill using it, and her bat, effectively. Both her flying and Beater skills were in top form. She breezed past the competition without a grimace of concern settling on her features. She was flawless.

Once she had been declared the new Gryffindor Beater, Tabithia took in the surrounding stadium. With Seeker-worthy precision, Tabithia spotted me in the stands below.

I do not believe that I shall ever rid myself of the memory of her face beaming at me with such exuberance while I ached inside to bash her teeth in. If only.

Tabithia hovered on broomstick in front of me, smiling at me as though I was her best friend. In some facets, I know that she was my best friend, but she was my pledged enemy as well. I always knew which side would win out.

Tabithia had chatted excitedly with me about her tryouts, and what the new status would mean to her. I had faked a few nods, laughs, and sisterly hugs before feigning cramps in a desperate attempt to discontinue any further direct contact with her. There was plotting to be done, but Tabithia had been so damned concerned for my welfare. Typical Gryffindor weakness. I sometimes called it her Motherly Impulse when she fretted about those around her. I truly believe that one can care too much about others. Tabithia fell squat into this dreaded category.

That particular conversation on a warm, dying Summer's day a year ago haunted my sleep every night after her murder. Though her assumed death following her unexplained disappearance was never officially identified as such, I knew the truth. I would know the truth, because I orchestrated her delivery into waiting Death Eater hands. I may not be able to first-handedly commit murder, but I can surely resolve myself through the use of others. Whoever says that books and cleverness can only lead to hundreds of hours in the library and answering questions perfectly has not truly experienced the power of being prepared.

My guilt surged at the indignity of the memory. The girl had been a good person, if not an annoyance, but no part of me could stand to witness her glowing happiness. No part of me that was still aching from my disastrous break up with Gregory Goyle earlier that day.

Draco Malfoy had somehow finally figured out that the girl Gregory had been sneaking out at night to see was me. I still remember the cold look of contempt that radiated Malfoy's hate for me throughout his entire body.

Though he deemed me useful when supplying his father with necessary virgin sacrifices for his Dark magic, he still thought of me as Mudblood filth. Apparently, finding out that one of your Pureblood best friends since childhood was secretly dating someone not of the same stature was clearly unthinkable, and most definitely, unacceptable in any form.

My mind replayed Malfoy's cornering of me in a hallway outside of the library during a break on an unbroken loop. With every turn of the memory, my skin shivered in yet another bout of glacial fear with the icy sweat to match.

"I'll get you for this Mudblood," his words never failed to return to me. "Leading Goyle astray for a quick, dirty shag wherever you could manage it. You'll pay for this Granger. You'll see."

His nasty words still held the slimy venom of the day he had spoken them. There was no doubt that he meant them. I could not discern why he had waited so long to take his revenge. Sure, there had been minor incidents, name calling, and the exchange of hexes that year, but nothing had occurred which could be completely pegged as Malfoy's revenge.

My stiff legs throbbed for a thorough stretching after being seated in the library for so long working on today's homework, and traipising through bitter memories. I stood up to balance on my toes and allow my whole body to smooth out its muscule kinks.

My scratchy eyes were drawn to the high windows along the wall to judge how long I had been here. I arrived just after dinner around 5:30 P.M. Daylight's Savings Time has not yet taken effect, so, it was not completely dark outside. I placed the time to be around 7 or so in the evening.

I slowly gather my books, parchment, ink well, and quills into my bag as my eyes scanned the other occupants of the room. All of the usual studiers appeared to be present. My mind continued to churn with Malfoy's words and Tabithia's tryout. Not until my eyes land on the most unlikely library occupant did my mind withdraw from its masochistic ruminations.

Gregory Goyle.

What would he be doing here?

Sensing my raising desperation, I sling my considerate load onto my back as I walk to the door, hoping that I am the picture of serenity. Though I am certain of my affections for him, my heart stubbornly flutters at Gregory's presence.

I weave through tables and bookshelves to make my exit as quickly as humanly possibly. I hear a loud scrape of a chair against the floor, and the impatient huffing of Madame Pince. Could he be following me?

I do not dare allow myself such hope. That would be detrimental. Why bother? I tell myself that it is some other student leaving at the same time as me.

I escape to freedom in the corridor outside of the library. I lengthen my strides so that I will be away from the library, and closer to the West wing of the school sooner. I hear footsteps mirror my pace as I cut around a sharp corner. I throw back a small glance to see who would be pursuing me. I sigh in relief when I see there is no one behind me and no footsteps can be heard.

I scurry up the hall to a flight of stairs, but decide that I would prefer a calming walk along the grounds before heading back to the common room. I also consider a short visit to Hagrid's.

I round another corner to enter a passage that leads to the entrance hall. As if in slowed reality, I collide with something muscular and unyielding. My body bounces off of what I have hit to land against the stone wall to my right.

As I bounce sideways to the wall, I feel a piece of paper being discreetly shoved into my open hand. Without thinking, my palm closes around the parchment.

Once I have regained my footing, my gaze rises to meet none other than Gregory Goyle. Only this time, Malfoy and Vincent Crabbe are in attendance. It is Malfoy who speak first, as usual.

"So Mudblood, just can't keep your filthy little hands off of our Goyle. Was it so good that you insist on coming back for more?" Malfoy paused for effect while Crabbe guffawed stupidly as loudly as he could.

I notice that Gregory does not immediately join in on the revelry. When he finally does, it seems forced.

"That would have been ten points from Ravenclaw if Umbridge were still here," Malfoy continued. "Oh, why not? And ten more for that ugly hair of yours too. Now move along like a good little Mudblood to your common room. I would hate to have to assign you a detention." Malfoy stressed the word 'common' to be certain that I knew what he thought of my House too.

Malfoy snickered viciously, amused with his own supposed cleverness. Crabbe joined his friend in laughter once again, but Gregory did not.

I stare after their retreating figures, dumbfounded, until they disappeared down the hall to the door which led to the dungeons. I do not know whether to laugh, cry, or scream. I settle for all three, which comes out as a high-pitched, gurgled sob.

My mind darts back to the parchment I am still clutching in my hand. I unball my clamped fingers to release the piece of paper. My eyes scan the page in disbelief.

Hermione,

I have not gone a day without thinking
about you. I still love you, and miss
our forbidden moonlit walks, and the
inevitable kisses. Meet me by the
Whomping Willow tomorrow at
midnight. Please?

G.G.

I reread the note several times to be sure of what I am reading. Questions jumble in my ming, demanding to be answered.

Why did he want to see me? Why not at our former usual spot on the far side of the lake? Why now? What about Malfoy?

Every question had merit, and deserved their companion answers. I knew that I could get them tomorrow at midnight, but did I dare risk getting caught, or this being a trick. How would I ever live down the humiliation if it was a trick?

I marched to the giant oak doors with more determination than ever to have that soothing walk across the grounds before I retired for the evening.

I crunched my way through the grass to the seemingly bottomless lake. The dark jewel of Hogwarts' landscape winked at me in the setting sun.

Why?

The question repeated in my head as many of my thoughts had the tendency to do.

I walked the length of the lake until I reached Gregory and I's usual destination. I knew this was also the place where Sirius Black, Harry, and possibly Tabithia nearly all met their deaths at the hands of Dementors over three years ago. Everyone knew the story.

I decided that information was information, and it could help me resolve many a gaping hole in my heart. This did not mean that I had to openly walk into a trap.

As I made up my mind to ask Harry for his Invisibility Cloak, I spotted a shaded figure down at the water's edge.

Believing that Gregory had decided to come a day, and many hours, early, I called out to him softly.

"Greg?"

The figure straightened immediately to face me. At first, the figure was too far away from me to be sure, but the long matted black hair indicated that this was not Gregory at all, but someone more sinister.

Panic began to well into terror within my chest. I turned to run back to the school to alert whoever I could find.

In mid-turn, a voice croaked out to halt my flight, "Wait, please!"

Dark wizards and dangerous beasts did not normally say 'Please.' I shifted my body to see who exactly had addressed me.

The figure pushed his shaggy hair away from his face to allow the fading daylight to fall upon his face as he stepped closer to me.

My mind struggled against the instant recognition. It could not be! He died! Harry told me that he saw him die.

"Sirius?" my voice cracked under my desire to keep it steady. "Sirius Black?"

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TBC