Chapter Ten: Not Because It Hurts
"I miss you . . ." The lingering voice of my mother hisses in my ear, the voice that keeps me awake at night and fills my dreams. She sits on the edge of my bed, her fingers reaching gently toward me: never quite touching me. I wish that the woman would stop taunting me, but there are some things that you never forget.
Still, her echoing voice only serves to worsen everything. It worsens the heavy guilt that I feel for what I've done to Draco and Hermione, as well as what has happened to Ginny because of me. It worsens the dread of Azkaban, that dark place where I know the horrible things that she's done will dance at the edges of my vision eternally. It worsens the fight I have to put up just to get out of bed in the morning. It ruins my appetite and leaves me tossing and turning for hours just to get the smallest amount of sleep.
I groan and push the bedsheets from myself. The clock reads 5:00 a.m. I squeeze my eyes shut and will the dark and terrible feeling at the pit of my stomach away before finally sitting up and groaning again. I force myself to my feet by moving one thing at a time: first my right leg, then my left leg, etc. I reach for my wand and trudge—like a soldier on their way to the death row—to the mirror that the Room of Requirements (my new bedroom) has provided.
I light every chandelier using wandless magic, a feat that takes roughly ten minutes, but is good practice. I close my eyes and focus on flames and the flickering, dancing pattern in which they spend their small existence. Then I try to push away the pain of mine: the guilt that encompasses everything, the hurt that stabs everywhere, and the intense fear that only grows as time passes. Finally, when everything fades in comparison to the fire, I mutter "Incendio" and the candles in the room are suddenly lighting one by one.
When I open my eyes, the weight of everything that I cast aside for the spell crashes into me so intensely that I fall to my knees, the scraping pain of the stone against them barely noticeable behind the weight of everything else. I stand up shakily and look myself up and down in the mirror, almost shocked by the zombie I see before me. I cast a glamour under my eyes and silently whisper thankfulness for my Italian complexion: surely otherwise I'd look like a ghost.
I hear the door creak behind me and turn to see none other than Theodore Nott stride into the room, a grimness set into his face and a glamour of his own sparkling slightly under his eyes. He glances at me only briefly, as though he intends to walk past me, but then stops directly behind me and to my left.
"Augustus," he begins softly in a tone only years of living in the elite of the Sacred Twenty-Eight can teach you, "You're unwell. Quite frankly, you look worse than I do, and I hardly ever sleep for thoughts of her, falling and falling, never quite touching the ground. She screams at me to save her, but there's naught that I can do. I refer to my mother, of course."
I stiffen at his words, but keep my gaze locked into the mirror, trying not to steal glances at his dreadfully matted locks that usually are kept in perfect condition. I feel him set his hand on my shoulder.
"Blaise," he tries again, "I'm worried about you." I can hear his showy pureblood voice melt away as it always does when he is at his most sincere. "Hermione's worried about you too. In fact, I caught her wandering aimlessly through the dungeons looking for me to ask about you. You haven't spoken to her in six weeks. Hell, you haven't spoken to anyone in at least three. You told me what had to be done, but Blaise—and I say this as not just an accomplice, but also as a friend—is there anything more I can do? Because if there is . . ."
"—No! There's . . . there's nothing! Theo I can't drag you further into this!"
"Blaise!" His voice switches from one of gentle concern to one that is sharp and rebuking. "At some point in time, you'll have to let someone in. Why won't you trust me?"
"I . . ."
If you don't trust him, at least tell him why. The thought echoes around in my head as though floating through empty space, but still I remain motionless.
"Blaise Augustus Zabini." Theo's tone returns to its formal state: mellow, slow, and yet somehow hardened into determination. It's a tone that he no doubt learned from growing up among the pureblood elite, but he's struggling to keep the spacing right: he's emotional. This is hurting him. This is yet another thing to add to the list of things for which I am guilty.
"I've been drinking again."
I jerk suddenly in surprise, turning to face him. I know that interruptions will cut off whatever he'll say next, however, so I keep quiet.
"Firewhiskey," he says in a whisper, "It's always firewhiskey. It's my father's favorite." He hangs his head in shame, pulling out a flask from his robes.
"This," he continues, "Is supposed to remind me not to do it, not to give into it. But I'm mostly alone, Blaise. I'm telling you now that you shouldn't be."
I open my mouth to speak, but Theo cuts me off.
"—But! I understand that you want to be left alone. So, I'll leave. You'll go on hurting and feeling guilty. I'll likely go on drinking. When the time comes, both of us will play our parts. It doesn't matter if we're hurt, we both knew that. We both know that."
With that, Theo turns to leave. He reaches his hand towards the door and nearly opens it before I stop him.
"Theo, wait. I . . . I. You're right, you know . . . and you're the only one who knows everything . . . about the plan. Every detail. The only thing that you might have missed is that I'm scared." I suck in a huge and desperate breath before continuing at a speed that surprises me, words tumbling from my mouth like water from a burst dam.
"I'm-so-desperately-afraid-that-it-won't-work-and-that-it-will-all-have-been-for-nothing!" I gasp in and out at the statement, sweat coating my face from the aftermath of an inner war. I take another breath, but this time I at least try to pace myself instead of stringing everything together.
"I'm afraid that I'll fail. I feel horrible for linking Draco and Hermione's minds and even worse about what my mother nearly did to Ginny Weasley. I'm also angry, so very angry about what my mother did to me my whole life, but at the same time I'm disappointed in myself for failing to be good enough for either of my parents. I just, I'm so . . . I'm so depressed, Theo! Every morning I feel this weight crashing all over me and . . . and I just feel so hopeless! I can barely get out of bed!
"I haven't gone to a class in forever because I feel like I can't see them: Hermione or Draco. I can't face them, the guilt . . . it's just . . . it's just eating at me! I don't know what to do anymore! I have the plan, and of course you were right when you said I would follow through, it's just that I'm . . . I feel like I'm signing my life away. And I am, really! Who knows how long I'll be stuck in Azkaban, if I ever get out at all? I've done so many bad things already and there's still so many bad things left to do. What if I crack? What if I lose my mind? I have nightmares all the time, you know. Mostly of my mother, but also of that place; of getting my soul sucked away and being trapped in a senseless world of terror forever, trapped in my own body.
"Can you imagine what that'd even be like? I end up bent over the toilet puking my guts out every time I try. I wish that I could stop thinking about it, you know? It's just that I can't. Every bit of my soul is screaming for me to back away; to give it up. I'm not only fighting the odds, I'm fighting myself. And I'm one enemy that I can't beat, but the plan can't be rushed. It has to wait until the time's right. But what is the right time, really? HOW THE HELL WILL I KNOW?"
I could be wrong, but I swear I catch a slight smile on Theo's face before it forms into a grim look, a look that's contemplated all that I have, maybe more. The look is heavy, weighed down by all that surrounds us: of the impossible and yet imperative task that we've set for ourselves, that the world has set for us.
"Accio Firewhiskey," Theo demands suddenly, and within a few moments, a large black suitcase has come to meet us. He slowly opens the case and gingerly lifts each individual bottle from its newspaper wrapping, each headline and picture from the Daily Prophet fighting for my attention. Then, one by one and almost in ritualistic fashion, he crosses the entirety of the Room of Requirements where he drains the bottle's contents into a sink that the Room has provided. Finally—after each one has been poured and lined up, one next to the other—he lifts them with his hand and smashes them to bits against the heavy stone of the mantel, glass flying everywhere and cutting both his hands and his face.
Theo leaves his wounds unattended and turns to face me, fire in his eyes and blood trailing down his cheeks and knuckles, shards of glass laying at his feet. He looks almost terrifying with such determination, but instead of anything else that he might plausibly have done, Theo tilts his head back and laughs deeply. It's a pure, clean laugh—purified with fire and blood—it's like the laugh of a child. It screams of freedom: the end of self-imposed shackles.
Finally, his face stills. He latches the suitcase by hand before standing to his full height. Then he once again makes for the door, but before he leaves, he turns to me one last time. "I'll see you tonight at Slughorn's Christmas Party."
I open my mouth to protest, but Theo lifts a finger to silence me. "Ah! It does you no good to be alone. I will see you then."
I can hear the tinkle of bells and the chorus of Christmas carols before I even step foot on the great staircase: the staircase where I once kissed Millicent and the staircase that carried Hermione Granger during the Yule Ball when no one could keep their eyes off her, not even Draco and the rest of us Slytherins that must stay united. I daresay that even Theo was staring at her, and he's one of the best at being what he's supposed to be.
The memories sparkle away as soon as my glamour does, the magic that Slughorn must have performed for the party easily peeling it away. My mother was the one who taught me about it, actually—the types of magic that would be peeled away as well as the feeling that would come with it—a slight tugging, like having a single breath pulled away. I tap at my undereye hesitantly, a pinch at my gut telling me not to expose such weakness, not to reveal that I'm lacking in sleep even more than I usually am with my insomnia.
"Ah, Blaise Zabini, how good of you to come!" The chuckling and almost snorting voice of Professor Slughorn greets me with a ridiculously overdone bow.
"Good of you to invite me, Professor, the holidays might be quite a bore without this." I smile, though I never feel it reach my eyes or my soul.
"They would, wouldn't they," he laughs merrily, "Indeed they would! Well, my boy, enjoy the party—but not too much, if you get my meaning." He laughs again as though he's just said the most funny and clever thing ever to grace the ears of mankind. It isn't that he's arrogant, it's just that he's massively awkward and maybe just a little more confident than he perhaps should be. Either way the man grates my nerves.
I walk away, the smile melting from my lips as soon as my back is turned. I catch the eye of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived himself. Currently he's the Boy-Who-Scowls, shooting me a dark look that I would be insulted by if I were everything I've always pretended to be.
Ignoring him, I walk directly towards the least noticeable area of the room, an alcove near a wall that's covered in drapes. I slip into the darkness just in time to hear a faint sniff behind me. I turn to the sound, my eyes failing to pinpoint its whereabouts.
"Who's there?" I growl the words as fiercely as I can, hoping to scare whatever coward is over here hiding from the party.
"Get off your pedestal and quit growling at me! You're no less a coward than I am . . . trying to scare off a fellow miserable . . ."
"Ginny?"
"What the hell do you care, you already told me that you wouldn't come with me!" The words sting just a bit, but before I can fully react, she continues.
"I'm sorry, that's not what I meant. You said you would explain and I believe you. It's just that I've been having a rather miserable night. I shouldn't have bit off your head like that."
"No, I shouldn't have growled. I scared you, and you're right, I did refuse to come with you."
"Well," Ginny tries, the sniffing only barely affecting her voice, "What brings you to this abandoned alcove? You haven't exactly won any attendance awards of late: why even come?"
"I don't know. I wasn't going to come. I shouldn't have come, not really. I'm not exactly enjoying myself. Apparently it does me no good to be alone so much."
"Who told you that," she asks before continuing with, "Never mind, it doesn't matter. Good advice, though."
"You think so?"
"I know so. When you feel alone, you kind of are alone, aren't you. That's what Luna says, anyways. But almost no one really does need to be alone. If you push people away, most of them won't bother. Not much of a way to live your life if you ask me."
"I hate to break it to you, Ginny, but you're also hiding in this alcove."
"A good point right there." Ginny laughs despite the fact that she's likely been crying.
"What are you doing here?"
"Oh, it's just bloody Harry. I waited and I waited, but Harry never even asked me to come! I came all alone and then I saw him here and he . . . he acted like it didn't matter at all that he didn't ask me to come with him! Ugh! He's so . . . infuriating . . . sometimes!"
"He's Gryffindor through and through alright."
"What's that supposed to mean! Do you think that Gryffindors are stupid? I'm a Gryffindor! Do you think I'm stupid! Poor stupid Ginny and her stupid boyfriend Harry, is that it?"
"Okay, okay!" I raise my hands in surrender. "I meant that he's a boy through and through."
"Then why didn't you say that!" She demands, and I can almost feel the heat radiating from her.
"Because Gryffindor doesn't include me . . ." I mumble.
"Excuse me?"
"Because, though I hate to admit it, we men can be quite clueless at times. I just . . . I don't like to say it and blaming it on the Gryffindors makes it so I don't have to."
"Rather childish, don't you think?"
"Lay off, woman!"
"Ugh! You're no better than Ronald!" She sighs loudly.
"Excuse me? I am not anything like Ronald Billius Weasley!" I spit the name aggressively.
"How do you know his middle name?"
"I know everything, of course." I grin playfully, my eyes finally having adjusted to the gloom.
"You would." She makes a face and mutters, "Slytherin."
"Now who's House-ist?" I accuse triumphantly, barely caring that my house has been affronted.
"House-ist? That isn't even a word, Zabini!"
"It's BLAISE!"
"Mmhmm, and my name's Gerald."
"But my name IS Blaise!"
"Sure it is."
"Ginny!"
"Excuse me, but I only respond to Gerald as of now."
I can't help but laugh, a laugh in which Ginny joins me. And for a moment, all of my troubles seem to melt away.