January 9, 1978
I like to think I know a thing or two about unhappy endings: Papi leaving, Mami kicking me out, Papi refusing to have me, the courts refusing Tía Ramona my guardianship. The biggest thing I have come to understand about unhappy endings is they never happen when you expect them.
"What are we?" Connor asks me in a once-empty compartment on the Hogwarts Express. He puts my worst intrusive thoughts into words, slouching into the bench and looking up at the ceiling.
I think this is the end.
"We're a couple," I respond instantly.
"Couples tell each other things," he bites. "I found out through my sister about your own. I didn't even know your parents were still alive."
"What is happening right now?"
I stand, stepping away from him and falling back onto the opposite bench.
"I thought I knew you, but you don't tell me anything."
"What are you talking about?" I lean toward him, elbows on my knees. "I tell you everything of importance. I tell you how I'm feeling day-to-day and what I need from you. I tell you I love you. I tell you when it's hard for me to love you."
"You don't tell me your story. I thought your parents died."
"What does that have to do with us?" I stand once more, planting my feet firmly so as not to fall again. "What happened to me then has nothing to do with us now."
"You had lunch with your long lost sister five days ago, and I learned about it through Cara!" Connor covers his face with his hands. "What happened to you back then, Aster? What happened to you?"
"A lot!" I fall back on the opposite bench once more, though this time intentionally. "You live in a world where children are orphaned by death and destruction, but I don't. My parents didn't want me, Connor. They hated and feared me the moment my magic began to manifest, and when McGonagall came to my home to tell my mother what I am, she called my father and told him to take me. And he refused."
Connor reaches out. I recoil and look out the window, watching the sprawling landscape get further covered with pure, white snow. I liken the scene to one from the many snow globes Shirley and Arnold keep around our home.
"I'm sorry, Aster," Connor sighs, leaning back once more. Of all the things he can be — rash and hypocritical, stiff and judgmental to a fault — he has always been respectful of my boundaries. And I have a lot of them.
The first time he moved to touch me, I was eleven, and he was twelve. His hand landed on my shoulder in a motion of camaraderie after Cara and I got caught shoplifting, and I whirled around and whacked him over the head. He will never admit how much it hurt, but my hand was bruised for weeks after.
Now, he looks me over for a second: the fringed leather jacket, the gold hoop in my nose, my hair lazily falling around me in waves. I try not to think of my stomach or my thighs or the layer of fat over them both as I look back at him: fit and handsome with cropped, blonde hair; piercing blue eyes; a hard jawline; crisp clothes.
"I love you…" he breathes.
There is a moment between breaths where I wait for the inevitable condition to follow.
"But I need you to let me in."
"I do, though." I turn to him once more but find his hurt eyes hard to look at. "My life back then isn't my life now. I'm not an unwanted orphan anymore, love. I have parents and a sister in Cara and you."
"But your real sister —"
"She reached out to me, Connor, not the other way around."
Connor moves to sit beside me on my bench and reaches a hand out to hold my own. We sit in silence. I do not know how to break it. There is something deep in my chest, hurt or fear. Something I push deep within me. I do not tell him about Tía Ramona. I do not tell him about Fern. I do not tell him about the neighborhood children who used their fists when their words no longer hurt.
I do not tell him my birth-mother is dead.
.
"I thought he knew," Cara pleads once I'm back in our compartment, Connor off with his friends or quidditch team. I guess they're the same.
"Well, he didn't," I reply.
I stick my fingers into Dorcas's jar of raspberries, knowing my lips and fingers soon will be stained red like hers. Dorcas ignores us in favor of her snack while Emmeline twirls her hair and reads from a large book. Her and Cara's cats, Jasper and Cymbeline, lounge on opposite luggage racks.
"And why didn't he know?" Cara raises her brows.
"I thought he was going to break up with me today," I say instead of answering her question.
Cara's brows just rise further.
"I'm going to the loo," I mumble, quickly standing. "I should probably wash these berry stains off before they… you know… stain."
"Oi, I'll join," Dorcas adds with a smile. Her fingers and lips are less messy than mine, and I dread some type of therapy disguised as friendly conversation.
The compartment door opens and closes with two thuds, and Dorcas and I are off. The corridor is mostly empty, save for a few stragglers. We weave through them with ease on our way to the back of the train.
"You shouldn't be mad at Cara," Dorcas tells me.
"I know that."
"It didn't seem that way seconds ago."
"I know that, too," I grunt. "And I know not telling Connor was weird."
Dorcas rests a hand on my shoulder. For a second, I think it's in comfort, but then her grip tightens as she slows us to a stop. I look up from the floor and down the corridor, spotting Mulciber and Severus with Regulus Black.
"Bloody hell," Dorcas whispers.
Mulciber's lips quirk up into a devilish smile. He, Severus, and Regulus are already in their robes with the Slytherin crest proudly displayed on their chests. I can't help the noise of the disgust that comes from my throat, but thankfully they don't step into earshot until after.
"Meadowes, Ruiz," Mulciber greets once more.
I think of him bundled in muggle clothes, a red plaid jacket and a winter hat, his hands shoved into his pockets as the cold bit his pale skin. He's more menacing in his school robes. I think of Mary Macdonald.
"Been too long," I respond callously.
"I agree." Mucliber's smile grows. "Still in your muggle attire?"
"I like jeans," Dorcas says lowly.
"C'mon," Regulus says, eying the compartment to my left. "We should go."
Mulciber looks back at Regulus before following his gaze. I look, too, and find Lily Evans standing directly in front of the window in her compartment with a face full of contempt. Her upper lip snarls when she locks eyes with Mulciber. He throws her a smile.
"Let's go, then," he grunts.
His shoulder hits mine roughly as he, Severus, and Regulus walk away.
Lily slides open the compartment door slightly, leaning out in the space she creates.
"Fancy meeting you here," she says slowly, a smile forming. Hers is so different from Mulciber, who manages to make a smile somehow unkind. "Is he giving you much trouble?"
"We saw him in London!" James unnecessarily shouts from behind her. "He said some nasty things to them."
"And this lot saves us once again," I mutter.
Dorcas chuckles.
"Sorry you find yourselves in need of saving," Lily replies without missing a beat. "I'm sure you had it handled otherwise, but I have my eye on Mulciber for a lot of reasons."
The benches behind her are overflowing with seventh-year Gryffindors all sat half on top of one another. Most are laughing or talking at a reasonable volume while James shouts over them. Sirius seems to be muttering into Remus's ear as he looks our way. Mary Macdonald is close to the window, eyes cast down to the hands wringing in her lap.
"Right, well, good luck that." Dorcas taps my shoulder. "We should be going."
"Stay safe," Lily calls as we walk toward the loo.
Dorcas and I are silent until we make it back to the compartment.
.
At dinner, Dorcas and I wave to Cara and Emmeline from our seats at the Gryffindor table. Cara and Emmeline sit next to each other at the Hufflepuff table, the former's face full of boredom and the latter's face full of excitement to be home.
The hall is still filling up with students as people slowly walk through the corridors while catching up about their holiday breaks. The only people I would talk to already lived through it all with me, drunken nights and family reunions alike.
Dorcas tells me I should get some plants if I really want to spruce up my room back home, but I tell her I don't have a green thumb.
"You don't need a green thumb to have plants," she responds, "you just need to care for them like family."
"I think we both know that term is a bit skewed to me."
Dorcas chuckles at my sarcasm. "Alright, then care for them like friends."
"Care for what like friends?" James asks, sitting across from us.
The hoard of seventh-year Gryffindors follows him, taking seats all around us. Sirius has to apologize several times for knocking my limbs as he squeezes in next to me. On my other side, Dorcas scoots closer to me as Marlene McKinnon throws a lot of blonde hair over her shoulder, almost hitting Dorcas in the face.
"Plants," Dorcas replies. "I was telling Aster to get some plants."
"I'm not getting plants," I tell her and only her.
I'm surprised she isn't as shocked as I am by the group around us. Then again, Dorcas, like me, can be almost too good at hiding her feelings.
"To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?" I ask slowly.
"Don't want us around, Cruz?" Sirius asks.
"We're good company!" James shouts.
"Just curious." I shake my head. "I tend to question the unusual."
I direct the latter part at Sirius, who is rubbing small buds of greens off the chest of his robes. He follows my gaze and shrugs. I notice the glassy layer over his eyes and the white parts tinged pink.
Mary Macdonald leans over Sirius, pointing to the crystal resting over my uniform.
"I like this," she says, quietly. "Far out."
"Thank you. It was a gift."
Mary leans back as James begins loudly telling Sirius about something to which I pay no attention. Across the hall, Connor catches my eye, ignoring his friends around him as he looks between me and the group of people who have decided Dorcas and I are friends, at least for tonight. I briefly wonder if Lily, currently muttering to Marlene McKinnon, or Sirius, currently listening to James from across the table, has decided Dorcas and I are in further need of saving.
Connor looks less than enthused. I have never known him to be jealous, but maybe he has never had reason with me. I avoid most people in the castle at all costs.
Essentially, being surrounded by these particularly loud and friendly seventh years is a bit of a nightmare.
Dorcas places a hand on my leg as if she knows. Tearing my eyes away from Connor's sullen mouth, Dorcas and I share a look, she rolling her eyes, me sighing. The conversations around us keep on like we aren't there, James being the loudest of all with Lily in a close second. Some were somewhat surprised by their sudden final year romance, while others saw past Lily's insults and condescension to the fiery tension beneath. Or so Cara tells me.
I turn the hanging crystal over between my fingers, waiting for the food to appear, so I have something else to do with the hands. The burning anxiety in my chest aches for a cigarette, and I hope that with all the first-day-of-term excitement, I can sneak away for a fag during the rush back to the dormitories.
Or maybe my roommates will take pity on me and not say anything as I let my legs dangle out the window to keep most of the smoke out of the room.
"I could use a fucking fag," Sirius says, echoing my thoughts. "Or some shepherd's pie."
"Where is the food?" Peter throws across the table.
And like he summoned it, piles of food appear in front of us, the welcoming feast always being the biggest meal of the term. Sirius nudges me towards the pie in front of Dorcas, and I cut him a large piece before disposing of it onto the plate he holds in waiting. He moans rather loudly after taking his first bite.
I grab myself a helping of bangers and mash, keeping my own excitement over the food quiet as I eat. It quells the anxiety in my chest slightly, but the itching between my fingers doesn't go away. My hand shakes slightly as I lift a forkful of potatoes to my lips. It's different from Tía Ramona's tremors but still concerning.
I ignore Sirius staring at the shaking and place my hand under the table as I chew.
Thoughts of Tía Ramona bring forth thoughts of Azaelea, of Fern, of Theo and Ramon, of Papi. I wonder how many lines spread across Papi's face; I wonder if he has salt and pepper hair.
Mami's funeral was today. Between the feelings of receiving Azalea's letter and meeting Fern, I didn't realize — until this moment, at least — Azalea didn't invite me. I am silent throughout the rest of dinner.
.
After dinner, Connor catches my arm just outside the great hall. He leads me away from the crowd toward a tapestry on the first floor behind a suit of armor. When we first started dating at the start of my fifth year, before I'd told Cara, this is where we would meet. It was exhilarating then, the secret, the kisses, the feeling of his hands grabbing at places no one had ever held me before.
Tonight, it all feels different, lips and hands and groans. It's like we're past this; there is no secret between us, no reason for hiding behind statues and tapestries. We no longer keep our hands to ourselves in front of Cara. I no longer blush every time he looks my way.
I try to forget about all this and lean into the physical sensation of his touch, but my mind has other ideas as it wanders.
.
It's late when I tiptoe down to the common room in corduroys, a thick jumper, and even thicker socks. My right index finger taps against the pack of cigarettes in hand, and the metal from one of the many rings adorning my knuckles emphasizes the sound.
The common room is empty. I climb onto the little table beneath the window, grab the black iron handle on the window, and spin it to swing open the glass. The cold winter air breaks in. It sneaks beneath the hems of my sleeves to attack my skin, but I still push further until my butt is on the tabletop and my legs are dangling over the window's edge and into the night.
I spark a match and light a fag. The first breath brings me immediate calm, but I know it will leave me before I finish the cigarette.
I take a deep breath out, a trail of deep white smoke escaping into the night, floating away until it disperses into the inky black sky. Footsteps sound on the boys' stairs, and I hold the cigarette down beneath the window's edge and outside, ready to drop it. A laugh echoes, joyous and long, and I think I know who it is by its volume.
James enters the common room first, tossing a deck of cards into the air, all fifty-two safely tucked into a cardboard box not unlike the one that holds my fags. Peter comes next, a large, goofy smile plastered on his face. Remus follows next, more stalking than walking, hands behind his back. Sirius struts in last, already twisting a cigarette between his first two fingers, hair tucked into a tight knot at the nape of his neck.
Their grunts and laughs and quips die down as they notice me on the table, and I take a long drag in response to their stares, turning back to the moonlit grounds. Melting snow appears in patches atop the grass, the once fresh white blanket now yellowing as it ages like the wallpaper in the attic back home in Caerphilly.
Their shuffling grows louder as they near, and before I can finish the fag and put it out on the castle wall, Sirius is sliding up beside me on the table and fumbling with a match.
"This scene feels familiar," he says, swiping the match four times before it finally lights.
It's not the first time we've been in the common room alone at night, but usually, he'll simply walk back upstairs when he notices me in the window. I used to find it insulting, but then, one night, he got to the window first, and I understood the perceived invasion of space and shuffled back up the girls' staircase.
He swings his legs around, shoving them through the window frame, his entire right leg rubbing against my entire left leg, and I am acutely aware of how his hand holds onto my elbow to steady himself.
"Don't you have a Head Boy's suite or something?" I ask James.
"It's a tiny, lonely bedroom with a tiny, shared common room where Lily spends all her time reading," he simply replies.
"And anyway," Peter says, "we like Prongs much more than he does."
I hate their stupid, weird, old-timey animal nicknames.
Sirius laughs beside me, turning as smoke cascades out of his mouth and right into my face. I roll my eyes, taking a drag off of my own fag, watching as it gets closer and closer to the butt. I had planned to be alone tonight, chain-smoking on this very windowsill and not thinking about my mother's funeral.
Was there an abundance of flowers? Did any of them hold the significance she would have wanted? Were there any sympathy bouquets of chrysanthemum, marigold, lily of the valley, cypress, and mint? Were there any hemlocks or forget-me-nots scattered about the funeral home?
Was Tía Ramona there to mourn her sister?
"Never sad next to a pretty girl who didn't cough after I accidentally blew smoke in her face," he says. I know enough about enough to know this is supposed to be a line. I guess blokes as attractive and adored as Sirius never had to practice in front of a mirror.
"Are you romanticizing my addiction? Because if I keep this up, I won't be so pretty in ten years."
Sirius just snorts in response, eyes dancing as his gaze lowers to my jumper. Its lumpy, thick fabric hides the curves of my stomach beneath. These corduroys are about half a size too small, so I always pair them with a loose jumper to hide the way the bottom of my stomach pushes against the high-waisted pants.
"Maybe five," Remus adds, dealing out a few cards to James and Peter on the floor.
I wonder where four boys who grew up in the wizarding world got a simple deck of cards but do not voice the question.
"Stop hitting on my rival's girlfriend," James groans.
"Stop calling him your rival. It's so histrionic."
"Stop using big words, Moony," Peter quips. "We already know you're smarter than us."
James, Remus, and Peter proceed to play a card game I do not recognize, but I only know a little about poker and a lot about solitaire. James yells a lot, Peter huffs even more, and Remus sits in a quiet focus that leads him to eventual victory. Watching them play, I don't think twice about lighting another cigarette after my first one begins to burn into the filter.
James looks away as Remus begins to clean up the cards — his apparent punishment for victory — and looks to me, smile vanishing.
"Ruiz, I know you're all lone-wolf or whatever," James says slowly. I know I'm not going to like whatever he says next. "But Lily's worried about Mulciber. He tends to get a little short-sighted. The thing with Mary… It wasn't the first time he'd done something. It was just the worst time."
I take a moment to take a drag, staring at him. At some point during their game, I turned around to lay my legs across the table, back unsupported as it precariously sits almost outside the window. I turn to blow smoke at Sirius, who only narrows his eyes, a smirk playing on his thin lips. With his hair back like that, I think his cheekbones could cut glass. I turn back to James, pushing that thought out of my mind.
"I'm not a little girl, James."
"It's just that you and MacDonald are both…"
"Gryffindors?" I ask, teasing.
Watching his face contort in caution and embarrassment brings me more satisfaction than it probably should.
"Muggleborn," Sirius finishes, his usual careless confidence shrinking. "Evans is just concerned."
"Yes, well, Sirius, thank Lily for her concern, but I am not in need of saving."
"You never use last names," Sirius comments.
"Familial titles and all that," I reply, "never been a fan of them defining a person."
"So would you prefer we call you Aster?"
I slide off the table, socked feet making little noise as I hit the ground. I turn to the four boys and say, "I don't really care what you call me. Goodnight."
I do not wait for their obligated replies as I walk away.