Mischief Managed

16: Advice & Arguments

How difficult it is to do the right thing.

Righteousness is in our blood, isn't it? Deep down, don't we all want the love, the admiration, the pride of taking the right path? Yet, not all of us make the right choice. We've both seen that too many times over.

Perhaps people choose wrongly because, yes, they do want to do the right thing, but their bad habits, their fears, their weaknesses, drag them to such a point that they have to surrender to cowardice.

You have never surrendered. And I don't plan on it.

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I awoke the next morning still wearing the black dress from the previous night. My forehead was dripping with sweat, and I felt strands of my hair stuck against my face.

I rolled over, and the dress fabric glued to my legs. A gloomy fog hung inside my throbbing head, resulting in an unpleasant pain not unlike that of a hangover.

And it was very possible that I was indeed hung over- at least from all of the hurt and confusion I'd inhaled last night.

I repeatedly bashed my head against my headboard, which only worsened my headache, and chastised myself for my stupidity.

Sirius had said he'd liked me, that he'd liked me all along, that'd he'd fancied me for months...I shook my head, now feeling incredibly stupid for obsessing over that fact while Sirius was currently locked in the company of a violent, hateful woman.

I checked my alarm clock.

10 a.m. If Sirius could, I was sure he would be here by now.

I flopped over on my sheets so that I laid flat on my stomach.

What was the point of getting up today, anyway? Sirius wasn't coming, I had no performance to prepare for, and my parents would surely be lurking downstairs in anticipation of an explanation of my behavior last night.

Twenty-four hours ago, I'd looked forward to this morning the way a marathon runner would long for cold water.

Tomorrow, I had told myself, you'll finally be worry-free. The concert will be done, no matter what happened.

I almost laughed. My worries had doubled- no, tripled- from what they had been yesterday. All of the relief I'd felt after finishing my piece was nearly immediately crushed with heaps of unsorted emotions stemming from feelings that had been completely mutilated by Mrs. Black.

Shoving my head into my pillow, I began to count down the days until the end of summer.

6 more days, 144 more hours.

Little did I know, a few feet and five walls away, Sirius Black was laying on top of his bed, ticking the time off his fingers.

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About an hour later, I heard a soft knock on my door.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure," I answered, my voice painfully hoarse, as if I'd come down with a cold.

My dad, dressed in a dark blue collared shirt and long black pants, stepped inside. His face was clean-shaven, his hair dark brown with only a few flecks of grey. He was wearing his glasses this morning. The big, dark lenses and thin frame softened his face, and I rolled onto the side of my bed to make room for him.

He sat at the edge of my mattress and studied my face for a moment.

His eyes scanned over my swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks, and then he spoke.