"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.
I look over my shoulder again, over the edge. It's a long way down but it looks so peaceful at the bottom, like a fluffy white cloud. The wind whips across my face leaving a burning sensation in it's wake. Tonight the sky is utterly black. Only the tiniest sliver of the moon to be seen. I place one foot against the ledge, using my other to hoist me up and I let go of the railing. Placing one foot in front of the other. I'm walking a tightrope and whichever way the wind blows me, I'll fall.
I look back to him—feeling impossibly tall—and pale, wide eyes stare back at me, somehow surprised and disinterested at the same time. I'm vaguely aware that I only feel so big because Regulus still has his feet on the ground.
"Get down, sunshine," He crosses his arms over his chest, and his voice has a bite I guess I should've been expecting. He's sopping wet and dressed in black head to toe. His shirt looks like tissue paper, glued to his skin, and his hair sticks up on one end, spiky and wet. It's flattened over one eye and dripping down his face on the other side. His white skin reflects the sliver of moonlight like a mirror.
I don't understand his words, I continue staring.
Regulus now holds out a hand. I gaze at it, not sure what I'm supposed to do.
His grey eyes appraise me for a second, and then he shrugs. In a quick and supple motion, he pulls himself up, joining me on the tightrope. He outstretches his arms and looks up to the midnight sky, closing his eyes. Regulus looks so painfully at ease, and the snowflakes contrast against his black curls and button up perfectly. I can't look away. There is something so striking about him, with barbed edges to his depiction and sophisticated darkness.
In a moment the world becomes a snow globe, one of those Christmas time ornaments children love to shake and watch the snowflakes swirl in unforeseen currents. He becomes one of the figurines inside. So neatly, meticulously, gently carved.
"Well?" Regulus questions, lowering his head.
He's now the one looking down at me.
The wind screams it's high pitched tune. "Huh?" my voice is drown out.
"Are you planning to jump or not?"
Rationally, I know my lungs must still be intact, yet I gasp for air and my head spins like my effort yields me nothing. My heart must be beating, too, but I can't hear the sound of my pulse in my ears anymore; my hands feel blue with cold. "I don't know,"
Regulus lifts his left foot, wobbling slightly as he holds all his weight on his right leg. Toying with the idea of falling, too. I think about what i'm seeing. Think about the time of night. The temperature. He's not wearing a coat. Gloves. Anything to protect against the winter weather.
"Are—are you?" The words are out before I can even fully process them. Though, I don't think I can process anything.
His lip curls up on one side. He sweeps the wet hair out of his face. "If I was, you'd be interrupting." Regulus hops down to the ground, to safety.
I pause—having to stagger my feet to stay balanced on the ledge, but I pause for just a second. My mind feels clear and sharp and I wonder if the idea of Regulus Black killing himself bothers me.
It would be the least painful thing to happen tonight.
I'm so caught up in the refreshing feeling of a stable train of thought, I almost miss his next words. "But, there's always the chance that if I did, I wouldn't die. Just break every single bone in my body."
Huh. I hadn't considered that possibility.
The wind blows too hard and my foot slips too quick and my eyes shut. I don't think I want to die. I don't want all my bones to break. I feel the air underneath me as I fall.
But he catches me.
☽☽☽
February 7th, 1979
I end up in Dumbledore's office and it seems as though he has been expecting my appearance, his hands are folded on his desk. He studies my face, his eyes widening as if, for once, he sees something he wasn't expecting. "Cordelia, welcome, it's good to have you back,"
Everything looks exactly as it was before and memories tear through my brain against my will.
Being back makes this all too real.
I want to go home.
I want to go home.
Hogwarts is your home, you can not leave.
As much as i've been struggling not to think of her, of him, I haven't been struggling to forget. I worry—late in the night, when the exhaustion of sleep deprivation breaks down my defences—that it is all slipping away. That my mind is a sieve, and one day I will not remember the precise colour of Iris' eyes or the feel of his warm skin, the texture of their voices. I can not think of them, but I must remember them. Because at some point over this last month, I had decided there was just one thing that I have to believe to be able to live—I have to know they existed. That's all. Everything else I can endure. As long as he exist's now. As long as Iris did at some point.
Forbidden to remember, terrified to forget; it's an unbearable line to walk.
I can feel the safety of numbness leaving my body, like a painkiller wearing off. I'd just remembered too much and it's going to cost me. I'm sure of it.
"Sure," I say, "I should probably go unpack,"
I've been thinking too much, and I want to be in my dorm before it catches up with me. Especially if I can't reclaim the haze the protects me. I feel too alert, and it's frightening me.
His eyes shine knowingly.
"Talk to you later, sir,"
He lets me go. I hurry to Ravenclaw common room, thankful all students are in class right now.
I lay in my bed a few minutes later, resigned as I stare at the mattress where my best friend used to sleep, and the pain finally makes its appearance. It hurts so badly I can't even find the strength to get my beloved bottle of whiskey from my suitcase.
It's a crippling thing, this sensation that a huge hole has been punched through my chest excising my most vital organs and leaving ragged un-healing, gashes around the edges that continue to throb and bleed despite the time passing. I curl inwards, hugging my ribs to hold myself together. I scramble for my numbness, my denial, but it evades me.
And yet, i'm surviving. Im alert, I feel the pain—the aching loss that radiates from my chest, sending wracking waves of hurt through my limbs and head—but it's manageable. I can live through this. It doesn't feel like the pain has weakened over time, i'm just growing strong enough to bare it.
I watch in the same fetal position as the sun gets lower and lower and the sky turns dark.
Coming back to Hogwarts today—and whether its the memories, the realizations or the pain that's responsible—it's woken me up.
And for the first time in weeks, I don't know what to expect in the morning.
☽☽☽
January 3rd, 1979
But he catches me.
I shudder, somehow he feels colder than the air itself. I hang in his arms, limp, as he lopes swiftly into and around the school. My head is pounding and the waves of hurt that had been frozen in the snow now rear high up and wash over my head. As I lose consciousness, I fear I may never resurface.
Much to my dismay I wake up. My eyes snapping open, my body jolting up and for a singular second everything is just as it was a few hours ago. Iris is alive, Fenrir attacked me and Remus is mine. But as the cloudiness of sleep disperses from my brain a sob threatens to crawl from my throat. It doesn't. Because this room is so unfamiliar and dreary and green.
"How was your nap?" I look to my left, Regulus is sitting casually on a velvet green sofa in front of a fire place, reading a book. The Great Gatsby.
I look down, laying on a colossal bed that dominates the central space. It matches. The coverlet is a dark green, just lighter than the walls; the frame is black made of intricately patterned iron. Sculpted metal snakes wind up the tall post, all connecting to the black canopy over-head. I jump out from the comfort instantly.
This is a Slytherin room.
My clothes are different. I'm now in oversized grey sweatpants and T-shirt.
Regulus must notice my observation. "I had a kitchen elf change you. I didn't want your wet clothes to ruin my bed," He says casually. I'm still confused, dazed. Regulus doesn't seem to notice, doesn't seem to care. He's no longer in his wet clothes either. He's wearing a thick, sea green, cable knit sweater. It's too big on him—too long in the sleeves, drowning his slender hands.
"Your dry clothes are right there—"He points to the fire place and for a second I think he's telling me he's burned them. But they are simply neatly folded in front of it. "Take them on your way out,"
Where the fuck am I going to go?
"I don't know or care," I hadn't realized I was speaking aloud. "Make sure you can't be seen when you figure it out though." Regulus says, his voice stern, final.
I scan the room quickly. There are bottles upon bottles of Firewhiskey on the bedside table.
On pure instinct I snatch one up and unscrew the lid and bring it to my lips and gulp religiously. The want of sobriety long fucking gone.
Sober happiness doesn't exist.
Doesn't last.
Neither does intoxication.
At least the latter gives me the choice though.
Regulus stares at me and I stare back. So incredibly angry at everyone and everything. "Stop saving my fucking life," I snap, it's harsh, it's bitter, uncalled for even.
I cant find the will to feel bad for my words, to want to take them back. Especially not after he says, "Stop being so fucking helpless. Then maybe I won't feel so compelled,"
I have no where to run.
To hide.
No one to run to.
To hide with.
Not here anyways.
Fuck.
I apperate home.
This chapter switches between present tense and the day she found out Iris died.
A/N: Y'all I need a new face claim for Cordelia so I can make edits. Is there anyone you have in mind when you read or think is a good fit? I'm desperate and open to all suggestions.
Song: Hearing damage by Thom Yorke