'where we are now' remus lupin & regulus black

Hearing damage

"They say you're getting better but you don't feel any better. Your speakers are blowing, your ears are wrecking, your hearing damage. You wish you felt better. You wish you felt better."

___________________

February 7th, 1979

Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange jumps and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.

My mothers hand comes down on the table. "Hurry up, Cordelia! You don't want to be late,"

I look up from my cereal, which I'm pondering rather than eating, and stare at my mom in shock. I haven't been following the conversation---actually, I wasn't aware that we were having a conversation---and I'm not sure what she means.

"Late for what?" I mumble, confused.

"Today's the day, you're going back to Hogwarts," she clarifies.

My mother watches, exasperated, as I slowly grasp the meaning of her words.

"I thought I had another week," I feel my face crumple. That doesn't make sense. After the first week, which neither of us ever mention, I started being very careful about counting the days.

She scowls. "Yes, a week ago,"

I guess I'm not doing a very good job.

"I was okay with letting you come home for a few days, but now we are coming up on a month--' I make an effort to pay attention. It's not easy. I'm so used to tuning everything out, my ears feel stopped up. "--and pretty soon I won't be here and I don't need you moping around my house after I've died."

That stings a bit. I've been trying to avoid all forms of moroseness, moping included.

"I'm not moping around. And what will it matter to you? You'll be dead,"

"Yet you're the only one who seems lifeless," 

This accusations hits home. I sigh and try to put some animation in my response, "Do I really have to go back?" My question sounds flat, even to me. I thought I had been fooling her this whole time. Keeping her off my back was the whole point of my effort. It's so depressing to think that my effort has been wasted.

"Yes," She argues, frustrated. "I can't watch you try any harder. It hurts to watch--"

"Then I guess I should get to school," I interrupt, standing up and yanking my untouched brunch from the table. I drop it in the sink, not caring if the ceramic bowl shatters. I can't deal with any more conversation.

I run upstairs, taking my piles of clothes off the floor and throwing them in my never-filling suitcase. I don't change out of my sweatpants or his cable-knit jumper. I'm not allowed to think about him. That's something i'm very strict about. Of course I slip; i'm only human, and sleeping in his sweater every night is proof of that. But i'm getting better, and the pain is something I can avoid for days at a time now. The trade off is the never-ending numbness. Between pain and nothing, I choose nothing.

I run back downstairs.

I lock eyes with my mother.

I apperate before she can react.

☽☽☽

January 3rd, 1979

I exhale.