Midmorning

ix. ten days

I was not familiar with embarrassment. Not because I had the charm to play it off like others, but because I'd steered myself off the coastline of social ineptitude so many times that the rugged land had smoothed over with my excessive touch.

             So to say I was embarrassed after thanking such an arrogant prick so many times over in the last few days was a statement and a half. I'd done so well in not having the pink pinch my cheeks that when the heat began to line my throat, I began talking to myself, and when I began talking to myself, all my skin burnt up like sand to glass.

             From there, it only got worse.

             It died down when I got to my dorm, undressed, head to my pillow, no light to illuminate my chagrin—but once the cool morning brought lustre to my cheeks once more, I wasn't as blessed.

             To shut my head up, I caked the inner walls of my cheeks with jam-slathered toast, Wren staring at me like I was feral.

             I looked straight at her, still chomping. 'What?'

             She blinked quite a few times. 'What's gotten into you?'

             'Nothing,' I said, flooding my mouth with water.

             'Right,' Wren nodded slowly. 'How was your two-day retreat at the library?'

             'Fine.'

             '"Fine"?'

             'Is "fine" a bad response?'

             'You just—' And she stifled what wavered between concern and rage, 'You usually go when you're upset.'

             I could feel his stare burn into me from the Slytherin table. 'It's nothing to worry about.'

             Her imminent fear of prying crept in just when the bell gave out its infamous shrill scream and we headed to Transfiguration, a worn, recycled routine, Wren and a few other girls taking my left and a tall figure blocking my right.

             'You didn't have to lie, Briar.'

             I refused to look up at him, warmth at my tongue again. 'I didn't lie.'

             'That's what liars say,' he said, 'But regardless, I'd like to ask you something.'

             I still stared at the dirt littering the floor. 'What is it?'

             'Did you write the list?'

             'I did.' It was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever written, comprised of every late night thought that had ever crossed my mind. It was a kindness that I'd be dead before the humiliation could hit me when he read it.

             'Well then, I'll ask you another thing.'

             'Which is?'

             'Are you busy tonight?'

             And that was enough to make my face blaze across every shade of pink through red, choking my words, and if Wren heard—even though she'd practically disappeared into another cluster of people—I'd never hear the end of it.

             'Yes.' What?

             Tom cocked a brow. 'Yes?'

             What?

             'No, I mean—no, I'm—I'm not.'

             He smiled, holding a door open, wrenching another thanks from me. 'I'll come and get you at midnight.'

             'Midnight?' I repeated as we made it to Dumbledore's classroom.

             Tom held his reply down seconds before we got to our seats, just to savour my glut of agony, which was, to my core dismay: 'You didn't think it was a date, did you?'

             My lips parted, totally dry of words since he knew he'd won in embarrassing me. 'Not at all.'

             Then I remembered he was a Legilimens and began to choke on every ounce of self-loathing, humiliation plucking skin, making me feel it was suitable to start talking to myself again, maybe even start punching myself in the head until—hopefully—my hippocampus would obliterate the episodic memory from my mind. If I was any luckier, my brain would be completely wiped—even from life.

             Half an hour later, he got up, leaning over my desk.

             'It's fine if you did.'

             'Course you'd say that,' I clenched a tighter grip around my quill (a mistake—my hand was still half-sore) as everybody else stood to practise spells, 'You weren't the one who thought it.'

             'So you were?'

             Fuck.

             'I didn't say that.'

             'You certainly implied it.'

             Off.

'I'd have wasted my time if I did,' I said, 'Killers don't fancy people, no matter how good they are at making you believe the contrary.'

             His stare went cold, but he said nothing. Once he was certain Dumbledore wasn't looking—though I think part of us knew that Dumbledore never looked away—he sat next to me, folded a piece of parchment in half, and scribbled a note.

             Don't mention that here. You're insane.

             I studied the curves and bends in his words before taking it and writing on the inside:

             Textbook psychopath:

             — Large letters: confident, but a liar
             — Pointed and connected: aggressive, intelligent, curious, logical, systematic
             — Crossing T's at the top: ambitious, high self-esteem

             But I'm insane?

             Tom's cold stare melted ever so slightly—something like the slow bend of hot butter, just before it clumps and folds into a pool of yellow—as he stuffed the parchment in his pocket, not bothering with revising the spells since he was obviously so confident he understood them.

             'Briar,' came Wren's voice behind me, 'I don't know what I'm doing wrong, I'm pretty certain . . .' and the voice fizzled away but I went to tend to her, regardless of my mind still running on the preceding conversation.

             Somewhere near the end of the lesson, my left palm was met with cold parchment, tinges of icy skin—the edge of a fingertip, ball of the hand—to which I folded my hand over it like a Venus flytrap. I didn't even get a good glance at who gave it to me, but given the platinum blond hair and arrogant stature, I presumed Malfoy.

             I opened it up like my digits were spikes forking a fly, dissecting the familiar handwriting.

             The forest.

             And the forest plagued my mind for the rest of the day.