Chapter 4
Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again.
Richard Siken, Crush
*
Remember the boys we've talked about. They are important, a huge part of this story. Vital. Their struggles should not, cannot, will not be disregarded. Dismissed. But someone is missing from the story. The dark-skinned girl and the blonde girl.
Remember them too.
*
She lays on the dry sand that sticks on her skin, leaving little wrinkles on the smooth surface of her dark complexion. The atmosphere smells of sweat and the air is salty, clinging to her hair and face. Annoyed, she blows a thick, brown-black curl that fell in front of her eyes and supports herself on her sharp, bony elbows. She is tall and athletic, strong; curly hair, almond-shaped eyes the colour of bitter coffee. She is beautiful and she knows it. (Men don't like it when women know their beauty. Then again, men are stupid.) The good days she likes to think that she can hold some kind of power over men—with her beauty, that is. Of course, being well-looking isn't her only weapon, her only strength. Her fingers find the cool surface of her knife; she traces it with her finger. (Men think that if a woman is beautiful, she has no other values. They are wrong, of course.)
The sting on where the knife accidently just cut her index finger catches Dorcas by surprise; she jolts, startled, then frowns. Looks around, brows knitted together, to see if anyone noticed . . . of course not. People—adults, mostly—are rarely observant. It's the kids, the teenagers that see, and she has come to the realisation that the more you grow up, the less you understand. The less you see. Adults just . . . stop noticing things. They stop wondering about what they see; they lose their imagination; they stop questioning, content to perceive the world in the way they always have.
They stop caring.
A sigh escapes her; she bites her lower lip and observes with fascination the way the crimson red blood slowly slides down, reaching her wrist. At this rate, who knows when it will reach her elbow? Although she is half-tempted to wait and watch what will happen, (which is a very Regulus thing to do), Dorcas knows better. With another sigh, she gets up and heads towards the water. It's cold; it startles her though not unpleasantly, until she's used to the chilliness. How it gently brushes her ankles. She glances down at the small fish under the surface of the water surrounding her disoriented feet, feels the corners of her lips tug up. Tilts her head, takes a step forward. Bends down easily and shoves her left hand underwater. It goes blurry and the water is painted red just a little, like when you mix red paint with water in a painter's tin. The salt makes the cut sting, but it's okay. She is no stranger to pain—whatever its form may be.
Taking her hand out, she throws her head back, neck creaking, eyes landing on the vast blue velvet of the evening sky. A breeze caresses her cheeks and lifts her dark hair, the thick curls blowing around her face like little seething snakes. Dorcas thinks of Medusa; smiles a crooked smile. Turning others into marble statues would save her from a lot of trouble, really, but, alas. One has to endure one's fellow humans. Quite unfortunate, having to deal with other people, as Regulus often points out. Her lips break into a huge grin; she shakes her head at the thought and lays on the cool, smooth surface of the water, the sun blinding her.
Many minutes—hours? she can't really tell; Dorcas has lost track of time, typical—later, she hits something hard. Immediately, she curses and stands up, only to come face to face with another girl her age. She is tall and lean and currently pissed—she can tell by the way she's holding her head, scowling. Still, she's quite stunning, breathtaking—her dripping-wet blond hair reaching her shoulders, skin tanned, narrowed eyes green-blue. She's gorgeous and more, because the word for what this girl is hasn't been invented yet, Dorcas knows as much.
And then the girl curses. Loudly. "Motherfucker—"
She rolls her eyes, flods her arms, unimpressed. "That was my dad, actually."
The girl blinks; there are drops of water on her eyelashes that glitter like twinkling diamonds, flickering stars. She blinks again and the spell is broken. Then she looks at Dorcas. Properly. Their eyes lock for only a minute, then the girl's gaze strays further down; her cheeks burn. Stragely, it doesn't make Dorcas' skin crawl; it doesn't send her shivering in a bathroom, vomiting her guts out as Regulus holds her hair, careful not to touch her anywhere else. The way the girl blushes is cute, comical.
What the hell, Dorcas.
The truth is that she has never expected to feel anything about anyone, after . . . after. (There is after and there is before —that's how she counts the passing years, now. After. Before. Before is always brighter. After is dark and makes her twitch at shadows.) She had thought herself uncapable of ever feeling any kind of attraction, had thought this feeling, this emotion was irriversably stolen from her forever and always. Had thought herself too tainted, too haunted, too broken. (Of course it's not only men that are wrong—she is wrong too, about this, Regulus likes to say. When she asks him whether he feels lovable, he shuts his mouth, purses his lips, turns his head, says nothing. It's almost comforting, knowing that she's not the only one who's shattered and had to gather the broken pieces and stitch them back together. Remus says broken people come and go in packs, that somehow they always end up together, like queer people. It's not untrue. At least she doesn't think so.)
Still flushing red, the unanimous girl averts her eyes, looking at her feet, disoriented by the water's surface. Dorcas feels herself smile, just a little, then looks down too. The water has long cleared of her blood, thankfully. It has a bright quality that makes it seem almost fake; it's too shiny, too blue. Like the unanimous girl—too beautiful. Gorgeous. She gets the strange urge to ask her name. (She gets other urges, too—touch that blond hair, tuck it behind the girl's ear, trace her jawline; it makes her heart race. She ignores all of it.)
"What the hell were you doing?" the other girl hisses, folding her arms around herself.
Dorcas raises an eyebrow, amused. "I think we were doing the same thing, until we bumbed into each other. No need to be that rude, really."
"I—"
There's a shout from the shore; the unanimous girl jerks up, looking at someone who's waving at her. She sighs, turns to Dorcas, sighs again. "Look . . . well . . . " she trails off, unsure; her eyes scan Dorcas once more. Another shout. The girl rolls her eyes, heading towards the sand. "Gotta go." Then, hesitantly, head turning to meet her eyes for one last time: "See you around?" The sun is lowering just a little and painted in the sunset colours of orange and pale blue and grey, the girl seems ethereal. For a moment, she is a child that believes in magic again.
Dorcas shrugs, raises her hand to salute. Her arm falls to her side as she watches the girl disappear.
"See you around."
*
She stares at the piece of paper for hours. The hadwriting is messy, the numbers printed deeply in her memory, as if engraved in stone. She doesn't even need the paper, anymore, has simply memorised the number. It was unintentional, really—she didn't mean to. But she'd wanted to remember and she does. Remember, that is. Of course she does.
Marlene rolls on her side, eyelids shutting, cheek pressed against the white sheets of the bed. Her skin will have wrinkled when she inevitably wakes up the next morning, but for now she doesn't care, and is content to think of thick, brown curls, bitter coffee eyes, and perfect, smooth skin. Dorcas, and the curve of her neck, and the sparkle in her gaze, her teasing voice—her, her, her. Abruptly, she opens her eyes, turns on her back, stares at the ceiling of her hotel's room. Watches her chest rise up and down, breathing. The room is silent. Night has long fallen over the place; she can hear the muffled conversations and the rhythmic music from the floor below, a party raging downstairs. She should probably join the celebrations, James certainly invited her—but even he was a bit on a world of his own, probably thinking of his best friend's brother. She rolls her eyes. Sirius will be there, too. They had made out today, but that doesn't mean anything. None of the boys she's been with ever did. Still . . .
A sigh escapes her chest. She's definitely in need of a distraction and so will be Sirius, for that matter. She sits on the edge of the bed, looks down at her startingly white shoes, puts them on after some hesitation. Looking around in the dark room, she can just distinguish the faint outlines of the furniture—the desk near the wall, the chair, her bag lying on the floor beside the door. In the darkness of the room, they look like ghosts. Which is silly. Ghosts don't exist. Marlene yawns, stretching her arms over her back, neck creaking. Damnit. She winces.
The lights still turned off, she heads towards the wardrobe, opens it wide, and is faced with her own reflection staring back at her in the huge mirror. She tilts her head, watches as the other girl in the mirror mimics her movements; cocks her head to the one side, to the other; looks at the curve of her neck, the bone sticking out; traces it with her index finger, hand staying there. Shaking her head, she takes out a tissue and starts carefully wiping the maskara under her eyes. Dark, heavy bags decorate her skin like bruises. Something snarls inside her—a monster, she thinks. Too skinny, it says, like the monster it is, too ugly . Logically, she knows she is anything but ugly, otherwise why do all eyes follow her wherever she goes? But it doesn't always work that way. It doesn't always work with logic. She is beautiful. She feels ugly—is ugly? Is that even the same? If you feel like something, aren't you what you feel, or what?
Another shake of the head. There's no time for this, really. If she's to go to the damn party, she should at least look beautiful. It doesn't matter, whether she actually feels beautiful or ugly or anything, but she has to . She has to look beautiful. Otherwise why would anyone want to be with her, or spend time with her in any way, platonic or not? What if people realise how ugly she is in reality? If they discover, if they know, if they understand . . . they will laugh, mock, taunt, won't take her seriously. You have no reason to be so self-conscious, McKinnon , she imagines them saying, no reason at all. Stop whining . You are fucking gorgeous, unlike the rest of us plain mortals. And she would laugh at them and agree, of course, you're right, no reason at all, because she really doesn't have any reason to feel the way she does, think the way she does, be the way she is. What most people don't understand is that you don't need a reason. You never do.
She takes off her shirt, looks at her ribcage, traces the sharp bones with her fingers, feeling hot anger burn her cheeks, her neck, her ears. She meets her own gaze in the mirror, averts her eyes, looks at anything but herself. Most people would kill to have her body—many have, in fact, said so—but . . . but. There's always a but , no matter how you look. She is beautiful, but she feels ugly. Seems confident, but is self-conscious. Would like to love herself for who she is, but does not. Should—ought to—like boys, but . But, but, but. That's how it goes and nobody knows. Facts can be misleading and she's spent half of her life relying on that alone. Deception upon deception. Smile at a pretty boy; make out with the pretty boy, and the next one, and the next one.
Putting on a top, she quickly dismisses the option and takes it off. Instead, she finds a tight dress her mother used to own before Marlene claimed it, some two years ago, and puts it on. Its colour is red, although a bit faded from having been washed over and over—but hopefully people will be too busy (or drunk) to notice that. Sirius will like it; they will probably end up making out against the wall. The thought shouldn't make her skin crawl now, but it does. And the thing is, she likes Sirius, thinks they could be great friends. There's nothing worng with him; he's fit, hot, handsome, everything any girl wants—ought to want. But , as always. But he is a boy. But there's another dark-skinned girl , the girl from the beach, Sirius' brother's friend, Dorcas. Dorcas, Dorcas, Dorcas.
But Marlene can't, because it is too dangerous to even entertain the thought.
A sigh. She looks beautiful. It's all she should need. All she should want. (Yet why does she feel so fucking ugly? It's wrong, all of it.)
She heads out, down the stairs, steps quick, the sound of her shoes against the floor muffled as she approaches the source of the music. The party really is raging, down there. Of course, most people are already drunk—typical. All she needs to do is get a drink. She's dying of thirst, anyways. Marlene looks around—all the people dancing, their sweaty, sticky bodies moving together like a sole beast. They reak of alcohol, their breaths coming out short, panting. She sniffs, holds her breath, and moves against them, trying to make a path, heading towards the drinks. Finally, after what feels like a century between sticky hands and sweat and hot, smelly breaths against her shoulder, she reaches the table, grabs a drink, and knocks it down, wincing.
"Wow, slow down, McKinnon."
Whirling around, she comes face to face with Sirius, who's definitely not drunk enough for the party's standards. Instead, he seems a bit tired, ghosty, perhaps, grim, weary. (The family reunion didn't go well, she supposes. They never do.) He's paler than usual, a bit slow to move, but still grins at her; a wide grin.
She knocks down another drink and thinks her head is spinning.
"Black," she breathes. "You're not drunk enough."
He quirks a brow, smirking, folds his arms. "Neither are you, Marlene dear."
"I just came here."
He huffs, "That's obvious. At this rate, though, you'll be drunk in no time at all. Slow down a bit; enjoy having some basic control over your actions."
Marlene snorts—she can't help it. "Isn't this why people go to parties?" she asks, tracing with her hand the edge of the table. She doesn't meet his questioning, too-knowing, silver-grey eyes. He looks a bit like his brother, right now, but he probably won't appreciate her pointing out the resemblance.
Another arched eyebrow matching his already raised one, he asks, "To lose basic control over their actions?" A half-smile, just a bit cheaky.
"No," she says, shaking her head, and he suddenly stops smirking.
Sirius tilts his head on one side, frowns, a crease between his elegant brows. "And why do people come to parties, then, McKinnon?" he asks, curious. He cares about what she has to say. He values her opinion. He doesn't treat her like an object to be admired and pleased, to be tossed around—although that last one is what he's probably going to do, at some point. Which is okay, really. She doesn't expect this to last, anyway. There's no romance between them. She's like this, too. The next boy, and the next, a girl she likes but can't be with, another boy, and another. Boys, boys, boys. Always boys. Only boys.
Yes, Marlene, why?
A step forward, and another, and another. They're closer now. She can smell him. And why do people come to parties, then, McKinnon? Why is she here, really? He comes closer, too, then waits for her, cocks his head, glances down at her lips. Yes, Marlene, why? Didn't she say it was for distraction? Something they both needed? To escape reality and not to think about their own problems?
"They want to have fun," she says, eventually. "They want to be distracted." She looks at his pink lips, involuntarily thinks of other lips, fuller, darker, and is almost disappointed. They're almost touching, now. She can almost feel his body against hers. It's wrong, but most things are, and she doesn't care.
"And what will distract you, my darling, dearest Marlene, treasure of treasures?" he questions in a mocking voice. Treasure of treasures . She wishes he hadn't said that. She wishes for many things.
She feels her lips tug up in something that may resemble a smile. Leaning towards him— wrong, wrong, wrong, but she doesn't care—she breathes to his ear, "Why don't you try?"
For a small moment, she thinks that he tenses, that his shoulders go stiff, but then the moment is gone and Marlene likes to think she imagined it. He says, smiling as always, "Be my distraction tonight and I will be yours."
Then their lips are crashing together, teeth against teeth, and it's desperate and needy and, God, is it distracting, she thinks, because it is , and it's also a terrible idea; she shouldn't be doing this at all, but that has never stopped her from doing anything anyway. Her hands travel over Sirius' body, exploring his chest under his shirt, and she feels him smile against her lips and Marlene thinks, just one more night.
*
The fact hat she has to share the room with someone isn't exactly comforting. She doesn't really know what's more awkward, accidently walking on the bathroom only to find her rooommate naked, or having to explain why she sometimes cries in her sleep? Both options are quite terrible, Dorcas thinks, although Regulus clearly disagrees. He thinks it's worse having to explain why he screams at night, which—that may be actually worse. Of course Dumble-something-nobody-cares-to-know was wise enough to put Regulus and Remus together, even though Remus is a year older—or maybe stupid enough, because those two could burn the place to the ground if they put their minds to it and Dorcas would happily join them—but what about her?
Her roommate turns out to be quite a discreet one. She has managed to catch only glimpses of her when she leaves their room in the morning, and the only indication she's sharing the place with another girl is the clothes casually thrown on the bed, a toothbrush, and other similar, daily things. Which should be good, really, but it only makes Dorcas paranoid. Her eyelid twitches when a door is hastily closed in the morning; she flinches at the sound of a slammed window; she rolls on her bed, restless, sleepless, because someone that isn't Regulus is in the same room with her. She is used to sleeping in Regulus' presence, knows how he breathes, (how he sounds when he's having a nightmare, the way his body twitches and thrusts in fear, in despair; how he screams his throat hoarse and clutches and pulls his hair and shakes), or even Remus', or alone.
But this is new. Completely new.
Paranoia isn't easy to deal with. When people think of rape victims, their mind goes to the lack of trust, or the lack of proximity when it comes to physical contact. It doesn't always work that way. The gaps and the voids, the abyss—all of them are filled with something. Fear. Fear of losing control, fear of the dark corners in her mind, fear of touch she has not initiated and if you touch me again, I will cut your tongue and feed it to my cat, fear, fear, fear. Sometimes it comes in the form of despair or anger—anger because she had been weak then, anger that she has not moved and healed as much as she would have liked to, would have wanted to. But trauma is complicated; it cannot be measured and should not be compared. Reaction to trauma is complicated as well; the human organism tries to protect itself from further harm and pain—whether that means keeping her up all night or giving her flashbacks and nightmares, keeping her vigilant and sharp.
It is how she finds herself waiting for her roommate in the dark of the night, the lights turned off, the outline of the furniture faint, barely there. The window is left open—the only source of light because she couldn't bear to be completely surrounded by vast blackness, unable to discern her environment. Creeping easily through the glass, the light is pale; a shade of blue—chilling, unnerving her. No need to be afraid, she thinks. All we'll do is talk. Talk . But Dorcas knows first hand that you don't need a reason to feel in a particular way. Of course the reason might exist, but that doesn't necessarily mean it will make sense to anyone else but you. Her heart hummers inside her chest, racing. Her hands involuntarily find the sheets and grip the fabric tightly, knuckles whitening. Deep breaths. She can best this. She can best everything.
The sound of the door opening wide sends her flinching and standing, light suddenly coming into the room altogether and blinding her eyes. Dorcas raises am arm to—defend herself, don't touch me again you fucking git and I will end you and get your hands off me—cover the sudden intrusion of brightness. There's a girl standing there and the first thing that comes to her mind is, gorgeousbut not gorgeous, because words have not been invented for the beauty this girl possesses. Green-blue meets bitter-coffee and her breath stills.
"Who the fuck—?" Marlene McKinnon stops, voice slurred because she's clearly pissed—eyes glassy and unfocused, bright blond hair dishevelled, her lips too pink and too red, cheeks too flushed, her uniform too messy; all the buttons open, her lean torso visible, a jacket over her shoulder. She's skinny; her bra is black, Dorcas registers herself vaguely noticing. Underwater, she's underwater, drowning, and there is no escape.
"Dorcas?" Here it is, the same voice. It says her name so clearly: Dor-cas. Dorcas . As if it is something sacred, something to be treasured. Something reverent. She might have wished it were. Instead she's drowning, can't think or wish for anything at all; she's dizzy, her head spins—the floor spins.
A blurred image, muffled words—"Hey, Dorcas, stay here, uh? With me, stay with me"—someone shaking her from the shoulders, caressing her cheek— no don't touch me stay away stay close staystayleave —then, "Breathe with me, you can do that for me?" and yes, she can; she nods her head, yes, she can do that—one breath, two, three, four, five—"You're doing so good, Dorcas"—six, seven—she can see Marlene clearly now, her worried face, eyebrows pinched and she wants to tell her not to worry too much, because it will be alright—eight, nine. Ten.
With ten, it's like her eyes snap open, although she never closed them. A strange emptiness, a detachment, fills her chest; she's here but she's not—not completely. Dorcas blinks heavily, stares at Marlene, blinks again, her eyelashes slow. Almost against her will, she reaches out, her hand stopping mid-air, showered by the blueish light from the window, wanting to make sure this is real, that Marlene is real. But then reality floods back, hitting her like the white waves of an unstoppable river, and she withdraws her hand, looks at it, frowns, looks at Marlene, only to find her staring back.
"Dorcas," says Marlene, watching her warily.
"Marlene," says Dorcas. Did this happen? She presses her lips into a thin line, says the first thing that pops into her mind, "You're drunk."
"I know."
"You were making out with someone." She doesn't for it to sound so judgemental. Accusing. Marlene is her own person; she belongs to no one—certainly not to Dorcas. Still, all she feels is envy, jealousy, and longing for something she can never have. Stupid , she thinks.
Flushing red, Marlene looks down to her open shirt, blushes more. She folds her arms in front of her chest, as if trying to hug herself, nails digging into her elbows. She will hurt herself, this way. Dorcas' brows furrow as she struggles to find a reason not to care.
"I was," says Marlene, then walks unsteadily to her own bed. She grabs a towel from somewhere and throws it over her shoulder, announcing, "I'm going to have a shower."
The questions pop into her head. Why are you here? What are you doing here? Why are you leaving? Stay. Stay. She has the sudden urge to laugh—as if that would somehow solve her problems. Dorcas looks at Marlene's retreating back, says, "You didn't call."
This makes her stop, hand lingering on the bathroom's door. Marlene doesn't turn, doesn't say anything, shoulders tense, posture stiff, then— "What did you say?" As if she didn't hear. Dorcas wonders if she's also holding her breath.
"You didn't call," she repeats. "I gave you my number—you asked where to find me; I gave you my number. You didn't call." It somehow feels important, essential, vital for Marlene to know that. Why didn't you call? An obscured question, left unsaid, floating in the air, hanging from the ceiling.
A decade passes, or perhaps it is minutes. She can't tell the difference. Is there any? Will they sit there for eternity, the one unwilling to face the other? Is this how it's going to be from now on? Besides, it is obvious that Marlene has been avoiding her. She's too far away, way out of Dorcas' reach. Outside, the wind is howling like a madman; the open window bangs against the wall; the white curtain dances along with the chilling air, rushing inside the room.
"I—" the words die on Marlene's throat; she doesn't turn around, doesn't, won't look at her. "I'm going to take a shower," she repeats, and this time her voice is barely audible, the whispering of the air, the creaking of the fire.
Dorcas lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling. When Marlene inevitably returns, she rolls over to her side and pretends to sleep, uncaring, her eyes fixed on the wall, watching Marlene's shadow.
*
She walks towards the Great Hall with steady steps, head held high, chin up, and sits besides Lily on the table, who stretches her arms over her head and yawns. Red hair like burning fire, green eyes, fair skin, she's gorgeous.
"Hey, Marlene," she greets her.
"Hi, Lils," murmurs Marlene absentmindedly, stretching her neck to try and get a glimpse of Dorcas. She spots her easily: a head of brown-black curls among lighter shades of hair, sitting beside Black's brother and that Lupin bloke. Against her will, her heart flutters, racing. Dorcas is laughing at something Regulus said, head thrown back, the curve of her neck visible. A pang of jealousy hits her, before she shakes her head and turns at her breakfast.
"Please, Marlene McKinnon, tell me it's not Sirius' crazy little brother you were looking at," Mary says, voice sleepy, as she sits down next to Lily, kissing her girlfriend on the cheek.
Unwillingly, a snort escapes her. "Don't let him hear you say that. But, for the record, I was not looking at him."
Mary raises an eyebrow. "Then it was the Lupin bloke?" she asks, chin supported by her palm. "He's hot, I admit, sure—tall and all that—but not your usual type, you know."
"I don't have a 'type', as you stated it."
Lily watches their interaction with some amusement, the corners of her lips quirking, then throws an arm around Mary's shoulders. "Well, speaking of types, I have a type. Her name is Mary McDonald, she's absolutely stunning, and she should actually eat her breakfast without antagonising her friend."
"Maybe you should stick with the whole 'stunning' thing. Tell me more."
"Stunning, beautiful, gorgeous—"
"Alright," Marlene interrupts, her voice coming harsher than she'd initially planned. It's terrifying, how easy is to fall to jealousy. A pang of envy hits her. She longs for someone she can never have—meanwhile, her friends get their happy ending. "Alright, alright. Get a room, please—we're having breakfast, for God's sake, and I don't want to vomit my cereal."
A burst of laughter from behind her, then Sirius and James throw themselves on the seat next to Lily, Peter somewhere in the background. "And why," Sirius asks, grinning cheekily, "would you vomit your cereal, my darling Marlene?"
"You're the bane of my existence, Black," she drawls, scowling. Envy, jealousy . . . Who's stopping her from trying, in the end, though? A cage of delusion is still a cage. Is this what she has done to herself? Is this what she deserves? Ugly .
Lifting an elegant eyebrow: "I am simply delightful, can't help it."
"You really aren't, Padfoot," says James, winking at her. "But we won't hold it against you; don't worry too much though, you'll get wrinkles."
A sharp laugh leaves Sirius' lips; it has an unusual edge on it—too sharp, too nonchalant. Like shards of glass, splinters—too pointed, too dangerous. Careful . "Blacks don't get wrinkles, Jamie," he says, clapping him on the back and James jumps, startled. "They made a deal with the devil—eternal beauty for eternal evilness."
"Your brother doesn't seem all that evil, you know," Mary points out. "He's just antisocial, I'd guess. Maybe a bit scary."
"Don't talk about my brother, McDonald."
Marlene winces. This isn't going to end well.
*
"What the hell are you two doing here?"
A strangely silent Regulus is lying on her bed, his back on the wall, a book on his lap, Remus sitting on the edge of her roommate's bed. Marlene's bed. Dorcas sighs, rolls her eyes, and enters the room, closing the door behind her quietly. She turns, hands on her hips.
"You're not supposed to be here."
Remus lifts an eyebrow, folds his arms, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, the scars crossing his hands like veins, white and thin. "And since when has that ever stopped us?"
Well. He's not wrong, but she's not about to tell him that. Her eyes drift to Regulus, instead, his expression closed off, staring at the yellowish pages of the book. Dorcas doesn't think he's actually reading. She thinks he's not seeing anything there, his eyes reading nothing through the letters. Thinks he can't see anything at all. He's blank. Vacant. At least she can understand the hollow feeling, the emptiness. He's drowning; he's underwater and he's drowning, all sounds muffled, movements difficult. His eyes flicker up to meet hers—maybe not. Not just yet. He's not gone completely, not yet under.
Carefully, carefully, she sits down on the edge of her bed, knows better than to touch him. They've talked about this— he has talked about this. It's like I'm floating, he had said, staring at something beyond her line of sight, something far, far away. Somewhere she couldn't go with him, or else she would drown too. Sort of detached.
And Dorcas gets it, too. Sort of detached. Floating.
"Hey," she tells him and Regulus stares at her, blinks, eyes unfocused, unseeing. We don't want that. Try again. "Regulus." It helps, he's told her. His name. He feels more like himself. More solid. More whole. And it does, because something passes from his blank expression; the magician's trick, the light of a half-burned candle, there and gone again, blown by the wind. For a minute, though, for a minute she saw it. And a sparkle is always enough. ( Carefully, though. We don't want him burning . Stars burn out, too .) "Regulus, are you drowning?"
A stiff nod, shoulders hunched, gripping the sheets tightly. Her heart clenches.
A little closer. "Tell me about it? How does it feel?" Make requests; don't expect anything. Don't demand. This is how it works. Carefully. Test the waters. Don't slip under with him. You'll both drown. Carefully.
He closes his eyes, his breath hitches. "The sand—" his eyes fly open; Regulus clutches at the word like a drowning man. His voice is ragged, a painful sound. Tell me about it? "It's constantly shifting under my feet and—" a shudder passes through him.
She's doing this wrong. You don't want him to drown further, you see. "Tell me about my room, Regulus," she says, voice a bit firmer. Not unkind, though. Carefully.
A crease between his elegant brows. Wrinkling his porcelain-white skin. Fragile and still strong; a little bird with broken wings, a phoenix that will rise from the ashes and burn. "The room," he repeats, like a broken record.
"My room," says Dorcas. "You are gripping something—tell me about it?"
Another frown. Lips a thin, white line. His knuckles turning white. "The sheets," he says, eyes darting to his hands. "They're soft, smooth, a bit wrinkled."
Urge him to say more. Don't let him slip. "What else?"
Eyebrows knitting together. "What else is there? They're white—I can feel the mattress." His pale, slender hand travels to the wall. Regulus tilts his head like a young boy wondering what's next; Dorcas holds her breath. "The wall—" he shivers at the contact "—it's cold. Hard." He blinks. Shakes his head. Blinks again. There you are , she thinks.
Remus shifts. "You feeling better, kid?"
The clouds retreat from his gaze; the storm has passed. His eyes are clear as the night sky. "I'm not a kid," Regulus says, lifts his chin. His expression shifts— "I called him. Sirius. We're going to meet."
There is silence, then.
*
In the end, family is family, isn't it? It's all that matters. All that matters.
(Is it?)