When She Spoke (Marauders Era)

Chapter Twenty-Four

"This isn't real," Lark whispered to herself as she stood wrapped in a towel, watching the steam cling to the large mirror that hung over her sink. She examined herself for the first time in a while, letting the unpleasant realism of her own skin strike her with a shocking blow.

She looked pale and broken, as if her outsides were slowly crumbling back to her insides. Lark's already pale skin was stretched unhappily over her cheekbones, and grew pinkish and irritated towards her dark brown eyes, which appeared to be strained and watery, as if they were slowly sinking into her skull. Her damp, knotted hair held tight to her scalp like mud.

She looked like the human form of the concept of death, and she knew it. Looking at the girl in the mirror, she felt accused and pressured. Everything about her was simply wrong, like she was rejecting her own existence, being questioned by the midnight eyes that gazed at her through the foggy glass. She didn't feel real.

Lark let her eyes drift to her left forearm, which was the only part of her that she could seem to rely on anymore; the pain was constant and obvious, like her skin was slowly peeling off of her arm. The mark itself, which she could barely stand to look at, was pulsing and writhing with glee. The jet black serpent twisted around itself maliciously on her exterior, always reminding her that she was never truly alone.

Tom had never told her that with "The Dark Mark", she would always be tracked and easily accessible, and he had most definitely not told her that it was nearly a sign of ownership. Even without this knowledge, however, Lark discovered the true essence of The Mark all on her own. Just as she had done many years before, she refused to let herself ask her older brother about his actions. Instead, she openly convinced herself that if she made him aware of the acts that he committed, then he would accept it as part of himself.

She didn't want him to. The Tom that tortured his sister and magically held her tongue was not the Tom that she had grown up with, so she refused to believe that it was Tom at all.

"Please don't be real," she begged the frost patterns on her window panes as she slipped into a sweater, skirt and tights, but it was real.

...

It was when Lark was burning scrambled eggs that the doorbell rang. As it echoed around the much too spacious Riddle Manor, she motioned for the house elves to carry on her unsuccessful cooking and hurriedly bolted across the kitchen to reach the door, unsurprised when a thin stench of singed yolk made its way through the air. She shrugged off the discomfort that her failure seemed to ignite and twisted the brass knob.

The boy standing on her doormat was tall and gangly, with greasy black hair all the way down to his strangely sharp jawline and a long, hooked nose that had taken her over two months to pry her eyes off of. He gave her a twitchy, uncomfortable sort of smile, though it could have been mistaken for a grimace to anybody who hadn't known him since he was twelve, and a small wave.

"Hi, Lark," said Severus Snape, and she would've responded immediately if not for the endless train of thoughts that was zipping through her mind.

Did she even want to see Severus? Afterall, she hadn't even spoken to him since before Christmas break, and there was a lot to be said for that. They'd been inseparable since the middle of first year, now suddenly, four years later, she was at a loss for words. After spending almost half a night with Sirius and friends, she couldn't help but compare his scrawny shell to the full, lively people she'd danced with. He looked so sunken, so distant. He looked like Lark.

"Hello, Sev," said Lark, not intending the two words to come out as emotionless as they did. "Happy late Christmas."

He nodded, shivering awkwardly and smiling at the same time, "It's good to see you; we haven't talked much."