III. Rivers Left Uncrossed

Some tales are often never told, left in some dark corner of minds that wish to forget them. But no memory is ever lost, even if we choose not to remember it, even if the object of the memory never knew such a memory ever existed at all.

Staring back lifelessly at his reflection, he feebly adjusted his tie, banded between dull silver and evergreen, hardly noticing all the commotion from the hallway, no doubt created by faces he could recognize but could not fully appreciate. Seven years at this school and not a real memory of any of it. Seven listless years.

Blaise Zabini took a final look at his hair, dark and wavy, before grabbing his black robes and heading out to the Great Hall. Every time he passed an arrow-slit window, his eyes would linger at the night sky, the particularly dark night sky. The sky must've been wearing a black veil—was it hiding a secret of its own? Finally, Blaise reached the tapestry of the Parcae, behind which was the secret path back to the main hall of the castle. Pulling out his wand and tapping the golden thread, which shifted on the loom slowly, ominously, Blaise watched the tapestry roll up obediently. He let out a bored sigh. It was going to be a long night.

He started his way up the curved, stone steps, and finally reached the archway, only meters away from the entrance to the Great Hall. He could just get it over with, this last meal, and then he would never have to see this castle and these people again. But there was something in the back of his mind that still bothered him. A whispering. He could hear it, but just barely. It wasn't until a few moments had passed that he realized that the whispering wasn't in his head. Blaise stopped. The quiet voice was coming from around the corner. It was a familiar voice, a soft voice. He leaned against the stone wall quietly and glanced over his shoulder.

It was her. She had an evening bag slung over her shoulder and she was wearing her Slytherin uniform as well. And that was just about all he noticed. But his mind made up all kinds of other details: the way her hair moved as she walked, like the thin curtains of an opened window on a breezy day; the way she seemed deeply saddened by something no one would ever know about; the way the way a slight grin would play upon her lips after their eyes met.

So many imaginary details flooded his head that he hardly realized it when actual words were spoken. His head tilted upwards and their eyes met. Lavender Brown had the most gorgeous blue eyes… "Oh! Blaise… I…didn't know anyone else was here. I must sound like a madman, talking to myself." A pause. "Are you…coming up?" she said to him finally, feigning ease of expression.

But he saw beyond this, at what she really wanted to hear. Or rather, what he wanted so much to say. Not just a simple answer to her words of courtesy, but a full explication of us. She didn't even say my name because she doesn't want us to be two separate entities, but rather one union. Not he and she, but us. So define us.

I battle within. What is it that you want to hear?

What if I told you that I never spent a sleepless night on account of you? What if I told you that I never wept a single tear thinking about you? What if I told you that I never smiled just thinking about what it would be like if we shared something real?

Certainly, I would've been telling too many lies to count.

I looked her straight in the eyes. But a part of me—a part that prefers the dark, little corners in my mind—took over. It answered for me before I even got the chance:

"Don't you have somewhere to be, Brown?"

And there it was. The frown appeared on her face, her shoulders sunk. In less than a second, she had turned around and fled the scene. And throughout it all, I maintained the cold sneer on my face. I didn't even give her the simple courtesy of a look in the eye. I had frozen up, more on the outside than the inside, becoming the image of just another Slytherin, cold and unfeeling, with no understanding of love.