Memoirs of Regret
Chapter 3
Don't Be Stupid Girl
Naive adj
Having or showing an excessively simple and trusting view of the world and human nature, often as a result of youth and inexperience.
September 1, 1968
It is easy for me to believe that, after the startling news about my marriage to Mr. Snape, that I calmly set aside my dreams for the future to make room for this unexpected event—for it would surely take precedence over any of my own wishes. Then, at the least, I could have said that I was one step closer to becoming a woman for surely any respectable pureblood woman would have gracefully, if not happily, welcomed the marriage. I suppose, it should have been a particularly easy feat for a girl like myself, coming from such a family as mine, to enter marriage to Mr. Snape as it will raise my social standing substantially.
Yet, here I sit, staring, quite ashamedly, into the reflection of a girl that I know did not accept specified marriage with the least bit of grace. If I could, I would stare past her sunken, blood shot eyes into the scenery passing by but no matter what angle I take to the window, she is still sitting there staring back at me. The strangest thing, is that she seems to be blaming me for causing her ill fate and, having a redundant quantity of dignity within myself, I can not help but glare accusingly back at her which only serves to deepen her own accusations and so on and so forth.
I wish deeply that I could look though her but she stands so adamantly in my way that even squinting does not help; to my dismay, her features seem to become even clearer. With a defeated sigh, I am forced to retreat to the opposite side of the cabin, nearest to the door. I dislike sitting here far more than I dislike the girl in the window because the door rattles on and off its hinges with a series of neverending clacking interrupted by an occasional clunk as the train hits a crack in the rails. Furthermore, one cannot possibly hope to get any small amount of sleep because each time one lays their head either upon the wall or the seat, the bumps and rattles of the train have a tendency of causing one's head to knock persistently back and forth between the seat and the wall, no matter what position one obtains. Consequently, not only does one not gain an ounce of sleep but they find themselves the unfortunate companion of a painfully thudding headache.
Nevertheless, I am convinced to stay firmly planted by these noisy doors by the prospect of suffering another glaring contest with my own reflection. I wish I could at least say that I had a reason to look so miserable. I cannot even admit to attempting an appearance of good mental, emotional, and physical health this morning. Nor can I say that I spent my summer enjoying life to its fullest before I was chained down in marriage, though I genuinely wish I could.
However, I can admit to one thing; if anyone were to look back upon my recent behavior these past weeks, they would have no difficulty in testifying that I acted like a complete cow. In fact, I would express no surprise if they were to inform me that I was an unmitigated coward towards my marriage, preferring to cry and wallow in self-pity rather than spend my summer doing something useful.
And indeed I cried, hours upon hours of sobbing. I blubbered 'till my voice was raw and scratchy and my muscles ached with the simple exertion of standing. It is hard to remember a moment where I wasn't crying or frowning intently at walls as if I could change anything that way.
I wish someone might have been around to slap me and tell me that this wasn't the end, that I was making a mistake, and that nothing good was going to get the slightest bit better as long as I moped around holding pity parties for myself. But alas! Though there is indeed someone to slap me, and I daresay she would do so without question or concern if I asked her of it, Mother would never be able to give me the advice I needed. She could tell me I was selfish and spoiled, a rotten devil child or any other name she could spit at me but though they were effective only in scaring me into silence; they offered none of the comfort I needed and wanted.
So, I struggled through the summer, trying—weakly, I admit—to withhold my façade of indifference to the whole affair, though I'm sure Mother knew better. I sobbed whenever I could find an empty room and though I always warded the rooms, my silencing charms were not always strong enough to last throughout my whole stay. I'm positive Mother heard me at least once or twice because she made a point of looking at me with the upmost dismay, as if she couldn't believe there was any possible way we were blood related, nevertheless mother and daughter.
Still, I can't honestly say that her new behavior towards me is much worse than before. Truthfully, ever since Father left, and possibly before, she's looked at me as nothing more than a burden. It seems that she has put it in her head that as long as I am alive, her life shall always be miserable. Although I have been aware of my impact on her happiness and therefore done most everything in my power to help make her life easier—even hiding from her for three days so as to give the impression that I was not there as she requested—nothing works. Each day, her eyes seem to sink lower into the wrinkles beneath them and her lips become only a thin line beneath her nose.
I dutifully blame myself for her lack of laughter and happiness. Obviously, there is no one else that could have caused her unhappiness except I; and she has gracefully admitted several times that I am the bane of her dreadful existence.
So, you see, in several ways, this wedding will be a good thing. For Mother, especially, she will no longer have to worry about her deteriorating status in the community, nor will she have to take care of me. I will be gone, possibly forever, and perhaps, she will be able to live the rest of her years in peace. For me, there are not many good reasons to marry Mr. Snape, though I suppose, it is nice to know that Mother will be so happy, even if it is at my expense. However, as Father always said, "Happiness is the product of much sacrifice."
It's also rather comforting to know that I shall have a place to go after school ends. Even though I had thought about traveling to America and helping Salem return to its magic potential, I suppose it is much easier to stay at home. I will not have to worry about getting food or water or shelter as Mr. Snape will surely provide it all. Perhaps, he shall even be a very gentlemanly husband to his wife, and I shall come to enjoy my marriage to him.
However, if I was to be honestly truthful, and if first impressions are anything to judge by, I cannot see Mr. Snape as being anything more than a self righteous, irritable, and dreadfully cynical young man with no more care or concern for me than mother.
S
When the Hogwarts Express has finally screeched to a bumpy stop, effectively dislodging all of its passengers from their seats as if in warning, I stay seated. It is of no use to try and push and squeeze myself through the crowd, meanwhile getting tossed everywhichway by the boisterous students. No, I'm much rather wait a few minutes for them to pass. It's strange, one would think that the first day of school would be a rather ominous affair and yet, judging by the pushing and shoving going on outside the cabin, they are all, for some reason, dreadfully excited to be going to school again. However, I suppose, I can understand their joy, partly, at least. For I too can feel a hard lump burning and pulsing inside my stomach; it's the feeling that I am almost home. Surely, there is no other place that I could as safely say is my home then Hogwarts? For the home is supposed to give a sense of security and love, with Mother I feel nothing of the sort, only at Hogwarts.
Outside the window, I can see all the first years already being sorted into groups for the boat ride. They're so nervous and eager that many cannot help but jump from foot to foot to contain their excitement. Our giant caretaker is laughing as he pats one of the boys on the back, who promptly buckles forward from the force, only causing the giant to laugh harder.
There are still people rushing through the hallways but I open the compartment door. So many faces I don't know pass by me. They eye me curiously for a moment—some disdainfully—before walking on. I ignore them and concentrate, instead, on getting my bags.
But the rack is too high and though my fingertips scratch futiley at the edge, unless I step all the way out into the hallway, I will not be able to reach it. Someone bumps into me, nearly causing me to lose my balance and tumble into the compartment; I glance over my shoulder but no one looks and I cannot tell who it was. Inching slightly backwards into the aisle, I strain to reach for the bag again but I attempts are no better than before.
Suddenly a large hand is on my waist and I feel myself being pushed slightly to the left. My cheeks subconsciously heat up.
"Let me help you," the boy says and he swiftly grabs my bag. He carries it with ease as if it doesn't weigh over forty pounds.
"Thank you," I say, forcing a small smile through my blush.
He nods. I can't recognize him, though I've definitaly seem him before. He looks to be about my age, maybe a sixth year but no younger. His hair is a deep brown, maybe black, and it's so shaggy and messy, one might think he was a dog. As if on cue, he shakes his hair and two bright blue eyes are revealed from beneath the fringe. He rather reminds me of a little boy on Christmas. However, although his facial features are still innocently boyish, the rest of him is not. He is muscular but not overly so, just enough that I can't help but let my eyes linger there for a moment or two.
However, I quickly regain my composure, though I'm blushing again because he's smirking as if he knows exactly what I was looking at. I realize that he's rather self absorbed and although he is nice to look at, I can't imagine talking to him. So I thank him again and make an attempt to grab my bag.
It's heavy so I stumble, until the boy laughs and grabs it easily out of my hands. Part of me wants to argue and insist that I carry my own bag but part of me also knows that as a woman, I am supposed to let men carry my bags. So I sigh and quell my protests. He smiles, and to my absolute horror, holds out his arm to me. I blink, surprised and trapped.
I did not want to be seen walking off the train with him as an escort as he was surely not a pureblood—no self-respecting pureblood would dress in muggle jeans. However, I, as a woman, was not supposed to refuse when a man made such an offer. But did that count for anyone other than a pureblood too?
I guessed that the best thing to do would be to just take his arm but immediately release it once we had reached the exit. However the minute my arm slipped around his, he tightened his grip and it became clear to me that, without a struggle, I would not be able to escape his side until he so chose. My heart sunk.
So he lead me on down the hall and out the door, swinging my trunk as if it were nothing more than a picnic basket. Outside, I was glad to see that most of the students had already left and would therefore not be a witness to my mortification. However, of the few that remained, Mr. Snape was unfortunately among them. I considered making a dash for him, perhaps I could take refuge besides him for a few moments until the boy latched to my arm went away but I did not have possession of my bag and could therefore, go nowhere.
With a defeated sigh, I let the boy lead me away from Mr. Snape and over to a group of people who I distinctly recall to be Gryffindors.
"Oh," he said," I almost forgot, I'm Sirius,"
I stifled my amusement.
"Rose Bellant." I replied.
He nodded and stopped walking, "If you want, you can come on the carriage with me and my friends."
I glanced curiously at his Gryffindor friends and decided instantly that I should not like to be caught within a mile radius of the group. So, I politely shook my head.
"Actually, I have friends waiting for me, I'd shouldn't."
His smile dropped slightly, "Are you sure, we've got plenty of room. Prongs doesn't usually—"
Rather than inquire as to who could possibly name their child Prongs, I curtly shook my head again.
"I can't, sorry,"
It was at this moment that I realized Sirius was quite possibly not going to let me leave. Like the little boy at Christmas, he looked especially stubborn right now. I wondered if he was going to insist that I stay.
"Well, let me carry your bag over there, it's pretty heavy."
I resisted the urge to sigh again, "I was quite capable of carrying my bag before I arrived and I assure you, I shall be just as competent now. Thank you for your assistance, good bye."
He looked crestfallen and shocked but still stubborn enough to make me wonder if he would press the issue. Luckily, after a moment of consideration, he handed over my trunk without further protest.
However, when I glanced back over towards the carriages, I could see Mr. Snape looking at me as if I were the most wretched thing he had ever come across.
I suppose I was.
S
I can't remember the last time I attended the Welcome Feast. Surely my first two or three years. However, around fifth year, when I met Regulus, I stopped attending them. They were noisy and everyone was boisterous with superfluous excitement. The food is simply not worth the headache that results from continued exposure to such enthusiasm.
Instead, over the years, I have found myself wandering the more desolate areas of the castle. Some of the towers that I have never known existed have impossibly beautiful views of the lake. Regulus and I often meet up in such towers though I think that tonight—because the moon has hidden itself behind a thick layer of clouds, the owlery is more appealing.
I can still hear the chaos from the Great Hall, even though I am corridors away—I am grateful to be over here rather than trapped in the midst of their screams.
After a couple more minutes of impatient waiting, I cast a Tempus upon the wall and the illusion of a clock appears; the second hand ticks away toward nine o'clock. He's late. Perhaps he has forgotten. Should I venture up to the Owlery myself? If he does not show, all my waiting shall be for nought, but if he does and I have left then he will be angry and there is not telling when we will be able to meet again.
I wait a few more minutes, passing the time by transfiguring passing spiders into small blue bows and hairy, mutant roses. I flick my wand to turn a particularly large passing fly into a paper airplane. It soars high above my head before tipping down into a dive. I'm about to use a levitation spell to prolong its flight when the airplane suddenly bursts into flames.
I startle and look around. Regulus is walking down the hallway, the obvious caster of the Incendio spell that destroyed my paper airplane. He's laughing softly, whether at my surprised expression or my previous display, I don't know.
"I see how productive you've become in my absense," he smirks, glancing pointedly at the small pile of bows and roses on the wall opposite me. The corners of my lips quirk upwards slightly.
"A few measly spiders won't go amiss, I assure you."
He smiles in response and I flick my wand to banish the items. They, along with the ashes of my once airborne paper airplane promptly disappear with a small pop.
"I hope you haven't been waiting too long," he says politely, though we both know I have.
Not sure how to reply, I choose to wisely remain silent. I'm disappointed that I was to wait for so long but not angry, and certainly not at him, only at me, if anyone at all. Nevertheless, I feel no need to hear an apology nor any desire to have to go through the tedious process of forgiveness. However, it seems he does not know me well enough because I can see an apology in his eyes; or perhaps, I wonder, he only requests forgiveness because he is a gentleman and that is the proper thing for a gentleman to do when he has kept a lady waiting so long. Needless to say, I don't stop him because as a woman, I have no right or reason to interfere with what a man says or does. I can only stay silent.
He sighs, the cheerful expression sliding off his face. A deep breath to prepare his apology and I wait patiently.
"I am sorry, Rose, I couldn't get away. You know how Lucius can be; he thinks I'm meeting with a secret lover and I couldn't escape his attention until half-way through the feast."
I nod, not sure whether to speak nor what I should say if I were. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, my hesitation is enough to spur him to continue.
"I truly didn't mean to leave you here so long. If I could, I would never have attended the feast at all but then Malfoy and Nott . . ." he grimaced, "Well, it's nothing to worry about, I'm here now. Where would you like to go tonight?"
I suppose I could have inquired as to what exactly Malfoy and Nott had been speaking about before Regulus trailed off but in truth, I didn't want the burden. Although I cared deeply for Regulus and I was concerned, I couldn't carry any more sorrow than I did now. My façade of passivity was already weakened by this summer's events, to have to carry Regulus's troubles as well, especially when I knew how deeply woeful they could be was too much. Moreover, he wouldn't have told me even if I had asked. Many of Regulus's friends like Nott and Lestrange were associated with the Dark Lord; Regulus would never put me in a position where I could potentially be in danger just because he needed someone to talk to.
It is a cruel life we live in. I often wish Regulus would tell me his secrets; he needs someone to talk to. I can see the effects bottling it up has on him. He looks tired and wilted, his face has sunken in and that young mischievous look I used to love has long since begun to fade. He has suffered beyond his years the knowledge of great despair collects in the wrinkles of his forehead and the shadowy depths of his eyes. It is a terrible thing indeed to know exactly what he needs but be forced to stay silent for his safety and mine.
"I should think the Owlery would be nice." I say.
He nods and extends his arm, unlike this morning, I take it without a second thought, "Excellent choice,"
We walk down the corridor, our shoes clicking softly against the cold stone floor. The noise from the Great Hall falls into muffled silence behind us as we venture further and further away. For the moment I am content with not talking. I wish to listen to the sounds around us for it doesn't feel silent at all. It's as if silence isn't the absence of sound but truly a whole new sound altogether. Like the color white. It can be considered the lack of color but truthfully how could white be any less colorful than all the other colors of the rainbow? Surely, white is but a whole new type of color just as silence is truly a different manner of noise. Just as wonderful, if not more, than any kind of noise to be heard.
However, I am the first to break the silence.
"How is my dear cousin Bellatrix?" I ask.
I can hear his smile, "As sane as ever."
S
"Miss Bellant?"
I freeze. I fear it is a Prefect, I am, afterall, out after hours. Perhaps, he'll let me go with only a small tap on the wrist. But no, it is not a Prefect, he sounds too old. It is Professor Dumbledore.
The blood in my veins seems to turn to ice and I can feel my heart fall several stories down to the pit of my stomach. He's watching me curiously, probably looking for my reaction. Do I look guilty? I try to force myself into impassivity but I can tell it won't work on Dumbledore. He's too wise and I am far too young.
I only hope Regulus has escaped to his common room.
"Miss Bellant," he repeats and this time I reply.
"Yes, Professor?"
I don't know why he's here or how he knew I would be here, by the owlery. Normally, Professors tend to stray towards the corridors nearest the House Common Rooms and the entrance to the kitchens. Why was he roaming so far out here . . . if not to catch me?
"We missed you at the Welcome Feast," he says brightly, as if he has only just told me that it was quite sunny this morning.
I frown, how did he know I didn't attend? Why was he looking to see if I did? Why was he even concerned? Something is wrong about all this, Dumbledore knows something, I only wish I knew what.
"Yes," I reply, pausing slightly to finish my lie but hopefully not enough to reveal that it was indeed not the truth," I've just run up to the Owlery to check on my owl."
He folds his hands behind his back, " May I inquire as to why the journey took you three hours?"
I glance sharply up at him, "I was talking with my owl, I wanted to make sure she was comfortable here."
I know I've been caught but this charade of lies is far easier than telling Dumbledore the truth. I wish I knew why though. I wish I knew why Dumbledore is so curious as to my absence at the Welcome Feast or why he wants me to tell him I was talking with Regulus? Where has this sudden interest in my life come from?
"I see, and what is her name?" he asks politely.
I frown, "Who?"
"Your owl,"
"Oh, umm, Juliet,"
"Hmm, well, as it is now past nine and therefore after hours, I must insist you go back to your room. I suppose a detention is in order but, tonight being your first night back at Hogwarts I shall conveniently forget I ever saw you wandering the hallways so late at night." He smiled gently, his eyes twinkling.
"Thank you Professor."
"Run along now." He said and I was willing to do just that but as I turned to go, he stopped me.
"Oh, and Miss Bellant, I want to remind you that if there's anything, anything at all, you'd ever like to tell me, my door is always open."
I nod stiffly. He stares at me for a long moment before he bows his head and strolls off down the hallway. I watch him leave before I make my own exit.
The walk back to my new room (an old Prefects room) that I share with Mr. Snape—the Malfoy's idea of giving us ample opportunity to get to know each other better—is cold and lonely. The hallways are quiet except for the creaking of wooden doors and the small shuffling of portraits as their owners rearrange themselves in their sleep.
Luckily, the old Prefect rooms remind me somewhat of the Ranvenclaw rooms. The colors are black, blue, and green though Blue, I am happy to say, is the predominant color. My room specifically, which stems out from the main entry room, is decorated in solely Ravenclaw colors. There isn't much furniture, only a bed, a bookshelf and a beau—which could have very well belonged to Helga Hufflepuff by the looks of it—but the simplicity of the bedroom gives it a spacious touch. I like it, though I am rather envious of the big comfortable chair I saw in Mr. Snape's room.
As if on cue, I hear the door open and close from the living room. When I open my door to see who it is, Mr. Snape has already settled himself in the couch and a fire is crackling in front of him. I think about retreating back to the safety of my own bedroom but then am reminded that very soon, I will be married to this man and this whole affair would be a lot easier if we could at the very least, manage a friendship of sorts.
So, I push myself to sit besides him on the couch. He tries to ignore me for a few minutes, during which I wait patiently, until he finally acknowledged my presence.
"What?" he asks coldly. Though I honestly expected nothing less. It has become clear to me, between our first and second confrontations, that Mr. Snape is not very charismatically adept. Either that, or I am truly horrendous company.
"Nothing, I wish only to speak with you."
His tone is terse and curt, it is clear that I am not wanted, "You have done so, now leave."
I wait a few moments to see if he really wants me to leave but he makes no other comment so I speak again.
"Have you seen your room yet?"
Have you seen your room yet?" I ask quietly.
He shakes his head stiffly, "No."
"They're magnificent, both yours and mine though I find that yours is much better suited for school than mine. A vanity mirror will do me no good in classes but I guess I'll find some use for it."
I'm only trying to hold a decent conversation with him but it becomes increasingly difficult when I realize that he does not intend to contribute anything, himself. I am about to press on, hopefully to lure some type of response out of him but he beats me to it.
"They say that only the most narcissistic women will not admit to their own vanity." He says quietly.
"Then what do the others admit to?" I ask, half-afraid he might interpret my question as impudence.
Mr. Snape rolls his eyes, "Nothing. A woman's secrets are secrets because they remain unspoken. How do you expect me to know of them? You are the woman, not I."
I hesitate to respond, "Well, as a woman, I think that the most narcissistic women can not admit to her own pride because she does not believe in it. Perhaps only the plainest women recognize their beauty because they have none compared to the narcissistic one."
He looks at me for the first time today.
"You seem sure of yourself." He comments coldly after a moment, "Most women would not share their opinions yet you have many things to say."
I frown nervously.
"I did not mean to offend-"
I am speaking quickly, worried my foolish boldness may have discouraged him from speaking with me but he interrupts me.
"Offend?" He sneers, "No, I'm amused by your naivety but be wary that most men do not tolerate a woman's opinion."
"I know," I reply quietly.
He raises an eyebrow curiously, "Yet you still share your thoughts despite it?"
I don't reply. He's right. The weight of failure settles heavily on my shoulders. I can see Mother standing right behind Severus, looking down at me with utmost disdain.
"Don't be stupid girl,"
He stands up and leaves the room.