And, so, there it was; so ugly that it made shivers shoot up her spine in nothing more than repulsion.
She could've gagged, his words running around her head and mingling with the rain cluttering outside. Don't hate me for it.
And it wasn't such that she hated him, of course — it was it, it, it, it!
Frozen and sickness and poison and denial. Red and black and grey glazed her sight and she racked a dry sob as he stood pathetically looking down at her. So, here it was and here it went. She should've known. He'd shrugged her away when she'd touched his arm and he was vaguely distant and she didn't miss the way he sat with the Slytherins. She knew what it all meant, of course. She knew the duties and rules and prejudice.
Maybe it had all been a lie.
Lily rocked on her toes and closed her eyes, trying not to feel his presence right beside her. She wanted to tell him to leave — leave forever — but words seemed to have got lost on the way to her tongue and instead they stood silent in the rain and the sadness.
She could not reach his eyes, that sparkled like ice in the summer and created an illusion like coal in winter. Right now they were sort of empty, and she didn't even want to think that — but the connection was unmistakable. They looked down at her red head and were empty with naivety.
They stood there as she shook her head over and over and muttered words that were inaudible. And then, "Lily." And, "don't." And, "I get it if you hate me." And, "but, but that's the problem, isn't it? I d-don't." And, "you should." And, "m-maybe, I'll learn to." And then the proper tears came. And just like Lily liked to think along with many things, she also liked to think that she didn't cry often. She did quietly into her pillow a couple months back when Nanny died, and when she wasn't as tall as present. But these were dry and hurting gasps for air that pulsated through her particles and clutched at her lungs. And Regulus Arcturus Black was causing it, and she hated it.
Whether it was a matter of hating him, she wasn't so sure, but it was certain that the black writhing mess on his wrist that moved like a snake, she hated.
She heaved and choked and as his hands shot forwards to touch her, she jerked away like he was toxic and she would die with one touch of his. And then it was a fuzzy chaotic mess as she shouted unprocessed words at him about trust and, and love, and he crumbled and tugged his sleeve down and watched her as she took the first step to hating him. And, "I'm sorry." But not, "it's okay." Just a whirl of angry red as she leaves.
- Sevens
