aphelion { killian }

Knocking on closed doors was always something that intimidated Billie. Internal doors were the worst – doors to offices, or other people’s bedrooms – but front ones were bad too. There was something uncomfortable about demanding attention, and something anxiety-inducing about the waiting. The young witch glanced down the street, squinting as the late afternoon sun glinted off a car mirror. It was a beautiful day, she thought, for the middle of winter. She took a moment to steady herself.

Billie stood perfectly still once she’d rapped her knuckles against the wood, her hands now clasped patiently behind her back. She resisted the urge to check the time, trusting both herself to have checked enough already, and Killian to not have forgotten. On the outside, she was calm and still, but inside, her thoughts were a little scattered. Her stomach was in knots.

If Phillip’s anxieties around Killian had been right about one thing, it was that Billie had grown quite close to her fellow prefect in the past few months. She hadn’t had many friends a couple of years ago, and now she had far more than she deserved. Of the new ones, Killian was her favourite. She always looked forward to prefect duties when paired with him. She felt so much less out of her depth with the Gryffindors when it wasn’t just the girls. Billie felt a tug of guilt in her stomach.

She was right to be here, she reminded herself gently. Phillip had been wrong about a lot of things, but right about a lot of others; he should have heard it from her. First. The blonde swallowed, nervously pulling her thoughts back from the precipice they inevitably drifted towards. It wouldn’t do to start this afternoon off in tears before he’d even opened the door, would it? She chastised herself internally, reminding herself to be less selfish. Her face felt warm despite the wind.

“Oh, hello,” she said as the door opened and a figure appeared in the doorway. Billie made sure to offer a polite smile.

There was a knock at the front door, quiet, precise, and quickly ended. Killian, immersed as he was in this book (embarrassingly, a comic book, Grant Morrison's New X-Men, the first trade), had to blink a few times. Billie was coming today, yes, and he had been incredibly anxious, had changed outfits four times that morning before settling on a red sweater and blue jeans and brushed his teeth twice. Not because anything was going to happen! Really it was because he had eaten so many sweets over the holiday, and brushing his teeth was something to do, to occupy his hands instead of wondering what the hell was so important Billie couldn't wait until the train to tell him.

Nora had kicked him out of their shared bathroom and told him to go read a book. So. he had read a book. It had succeeded in distracting him a little - but at the knock, Killian realized he had been too distracted. An hour had flown by already. He peeked out the blue curtains of his room, just above the front door -- and oh god the door was opening shit shit shit--

Killian tumbled off the bed, throwing open the door and running in wool-socked feet down the carpeted upstairs hallway, down the wooden stairs past the portraits and vacation photos, past the kitchen and living room where they had all gathered last summer, and into the front door.

Meanwhile, Trevor Buckley (engineer) blinked owlishly at the girl on his doorstep. "Hello," Mr. Buckley said to Billie. "Are you looking for --"

Killian nearly bowled his father over.

"Hi," he said breathlessly, "Come in come in--" Killian pulled back, pointed to the shoe rack and the house slippers just inside the door, then to Trevor, who had pressed himself up against the door when Ki arrived. "This is my dad, Dad, this is Billie, she's a Prefect with me at school, we're going to hang out you can go back to what you were doing thanks!"

Trevor blinked again. Shook his head. "Nice to meet you, Billie." He gave an awkward little wave before wandering off, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl before settling back down with the paper in the living room. Looked up, considering the pair of them. "You'll be wanting the living room, then?"   

Killian looked to Billie, eyebrows raised. "If you'd be more comfortable down here, but there's my room too, if you want more privacy?"

From around the corner, behind the staircase, Rhonda Afolayan, PhD, raised her voice. "With the door OPEN!"

Killian winced. "Yes, mum."

Billie gave a slight nod rather than voice her affirmation prematurely, not wanting to speak over the man before her. Killian didn’t seem to have such qualms. He appeared out of nowhere, energetic and hurried as if he’d scrambled through an obstacle course to be here. In moments like this she questioned his status as the calm one in his Gryffindor friend group… And of course was reminded that all of the girls were totally bonkers.

“Hell-Oh,” she raised her eyebrows slightly, trying to be polite as she was rushed inside. She gave into the urge to fidget just a touch, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear. “Pleasure to meet you too, sir,” she said, summoning another small, polite smile as she took a seat on the bench and begun unlacing her boots. She made sure to place them neatly side-by-side when she was done. When her friend’s mother called out, she winced too – mostly for him. “Er,” Billie said, smiling again (embarrassed this time), “I don’t mind.” He was the host; it didn’t seem right to assert a preference, even if she did mind. She’d been so focussed on needing to speak to him that she hadn’t even considered his parents’ presence as a factor. Billie had no idea what they knew about wizarding history.

“Hello Professor Afolayan,” she called out. Then more quietly, to Killian, “If upstairs is all right…?”

The tension of being around adults that she felt compelled to impress – so, adults – eased as she followed her friend towards the staircase. She felt its absence with some anxiety; being polite came quite naturally to the young witch, and it was a far more comfortable kind of tension than the other kind, which hadn’t eased at all. Her pale green eyes watched the back of his head as they went up. “So how have you been?" she asked.

Billie was quiet and polite, making herself small even to take off her shoes. Killian glanced at his father. Trevor had put back on his reading glasses but was peering over the top of the newspaper at the pair of them. Killian couldn't quite tell, but it seemed like Mr. Buckley had no strong feelings about Billie yet, apart from whether he should leave the couch or not.

Meanwhile, he could hear Mum thumping about her office, extracting herself from her marking and her big Macintosh computer. She definitely had opinions on Billie, Killian knew, mostly because she was a girl and here alone.

“If upstairs is all right…?” Billie said, voice just above a whisper. Ki nodded, giving his dad a nod as they walked past the living room to the stairs. "Door'll be open, Mum!" he called as they turned onto the stairs -- there was a hmph before the clack of the keyboard resumed in Dr. Afolayan's office.

"Been alright," Killian replied absently, taking the steps two at a time by habit. "How was your Christmas?" The open part of the staircase turned into a hall at the landing, blue painted walls lined with photos. Dad's family, Mum's family, the relatives still in Nigeria and the ones in North Ireland making a colourful contrast when placed next to each other. At the top of the stairs, there was the newest Christmas portrait, sat just a few weeks ago when Ki had first gotten home from Hogwarts. Nora looked grown-up and graceful, his parents regal, and Killian like a gangly tree.

Killian tried not to look at himself, just hurried past and into his room.

It wasn't small, but it wasn't big, either. Entering the room, there was a clear path from the door to the window overlooking the front of the house. The walls in here were painted a pale blue, lighter than the rest of the house, with white baseboards. Killian's bed was narrow, a extra-long twin, with dark green sheets and a light green comforter. The bed was made, but the top of the comforter was rumbled from where Ki had been lying out, a few comic book paperbacks strewn on his pillow. On the opposite wall was his bookshelf, tall and filled with old paperback sci-fi novels and hardback history books. There was a shelf at the bottom that was partly empty, only half full of magical textbooks, and another higher up where books from his lending library at Hogwarts were stacked haphazardly. His closet was open, clothes cascading out from his overfull laundry hamper. Under the window, his desk was mostly bare save for a few unopened boxes of LEGO, stacked high on one end. There was a spinny office chair at the desk and a bean bag in the center of the room. His trunk for Hogwarts was wedged upright between the foot of his bed and the wall, wand precariously perched on top of it.

Ki hurried to clear the comics off his pillow, stacking them on the desk. When he turned back to Billie there was a flush of darker color in his cheeks. "Uh, you can sit wherever you'd like," he offered, gesturing at the bed, the chair, the beanbag. "What's going on, then?"

He didn't really engage with her question, which was good. It meant that she could answer in turn. "Christmas was lovely," she answered automatically, "Thank you." It wasn't even untrue; it was probably the best Christmas she'd ever had. She ascended the stairs quickly, used to walking beside long-legged boys. Well, boy.

Billie stepped neatly around the beanbag on the floor, glad that her back was to him as a little disapproval slipped in and out of her expression. She moved instead to the bookcase, her head tilting to the side slightly as curious eyes skimmed some of the spines. She stopped at a familiar one, one index finger coming up to brush the spine of The Fellowship of the Ring. A small smile appeared as she noted the book beside it: The Return of the King. “I meant to finish the second one,” she commented, “And bring it with me.” She’d devoured the first one over the summer, but once school had gone back she hadn’t had a lot of time for reading for pleasure. She was nearly done with The Two Towers, but hadn’t been in much of a reading mood these past few days. Her smile faded.

She turned back as he tidied some magazines on his desk. Her eyebrows raised politely as she glanced at the bed, the chair, the beanbag in turn. It felt improper to sit on a boy’s bed – even with the door open – but he was still standing at his desk and she didn’t want to shoo him away from it. She glanced at the beanbag, really feeling that she’d rather just stand. Or pace. Her heart was beating more quickly now. She clasped her hands together and nodded slightly, very aware that she was overthinking this whole where-to-sit question as a way to distract herself from what she’d come here to do.

And Merlin, she did not want to do it.

“Firstly, I’m sorry if my letter sounded… Dramatic,” She began. Her gaze slipped away from his, settling on his open and rather untidy closet before quickly shifting down to her hands so as to not seem impolite. “I really didn’t mean to worry you.” Not that he seemed particularly worried. Curious, probably. She considered moving towards the beanbag on the floor, decided she couldn’t do it (was there a dignified way to rise from sitting on – in? – such things?), and gracefully placed herself at the edge of his bed instead. She folded her hands demurely in her lap, and tried not to clasp too tightly. She still couldn’t quite look at him. Suddenly, her mouth was very dry. She resisted the urge to swallow against a dry throat, focussing instead on the speech she’d recited a thousand times in her head.

“I suppose… There are some things that you might hear, I’m not sure…” She trailed off a bit, trying very hard not to think of Phillip, or the way he’d looked at her that night. Her chest felt tight, and ached deeply, thinking of him. It wasn’t as if she’d thought about much else recently, but all that came of it were more tears. Sitting on the bed was a problem, she realised suddenly – if Killian was angry too then she’d probably be leaving soon. She’d rather be nearer the door. A slight crease appeared between her eyebrows. “There are some things you might hear about me, and I would prefer you hear them from me.” Her face felt warm, and she could already feel a stinging sensation somewhere behind the bridge of her nose. She was quiet for a while, anxious to say what she’d come here to say, but nervous to do it.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head suddenly as she broke the silence, forcing a brief smile and meeting his eyes temporarily. “I’m being dramatic again. It’s just difficult…” She cut herself off, not wanting to fish for reassurance, even if she wanted it. She was so nervous. Nervous he’d explode, nervous he’d shout. Nervous he’d tell her to leave, then tell all of his friends. She knew quite well that she was risking losing them all, but she was working on coming to terms with that. Most of all, she was nervous to see the way he looked at her afterward; if it was anything like the way Phillip had, it’d be crushing. The thought made her a little sick.

“Er... I haven’t really told you much about my family,” she said, pushing through her feelings. Making him wait was selfish – she chastised herself internally. “You know I lived with my aunt, before she passed away? My current surname comes from her, but before that… It was Sinnoway.”  She barely paused before saying it, but the word was still heavy leaving her lips. Weighty like a spell. Her voice was more tight, more emotional. She glanced at him, but wasn’t surprised to see no signs of recognition. After the first war, it was probably quite a well-known name, given how small the wizarding world of the UK was. But he was young, and a muggleborn.

Her eyes were wet now, her composure slipping and vulnerability showing. So he was unfamiliar with the name, that was expected. She felt very outside herself right now, and the sensation of her knuckles aching was distantly surprising. “My family… My parents…” Her heart was racing, and her eyes returned to her knees as her vision swam. She was right on the precipice of crying, and she hadn't even said it yet. The words had to be wrung out of her body; She tried (and failed) to do so as casually as possible. “…Were Death Eaters?”

Billie was in his room, Billie was walking to his bookshelf, Billie was running her finger down the worn spines of his paperbacks. Killian was so hyper aware of every soft step she took on the carpet. He wished he had cleaned up better. “Oh, there’s no rush,” Killian said, lining up the stapled spines of the glossy comic books on top of each other. “I’ll be bringing Return of the King to school, so whenever you finish it. And if it’s after OWLs,” he gave a shrug, small, as he turned away from the desk to face Billie, “Well, that’s what the post is for.” Or an excuse for a visit, he wanted to say, but the sentence jumped up behind his Adam’s apple and Ki choked the thought down.

He was nervous. He hadn’t really had nerves around Billie before — not last school year and summer, when they really became friends, and not last term either. All of his nerves had been about her Big Scary Seventh Year Boyfriend, a combination of hyper vigilance and what Nola assured him was justified paranoia.

But Billie was in his room and they were alone (the door was open, thirty or forty degrees) in his room and Billie had asked to see him and he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about this conversation since he wrote back to Billie. Entertained fantasies and nightmares about the conversation in equal measure. It probably wasn’t going to be like, a thing thing. He was working himself up for no reason! Come on, Buckley, get it together.

Billie kept standing, eyes shifting away and down from him. Killian realized maybe he should make some space, if she wanted the desk chair — at the same moment she perched herself at the foot of his bed Killian shifted away from the chair, in front of the bean bag. Ah, too slow, Killian! He flushed, the warm brown skin on his cheeks darkening slightly. “Oh, I mean, friends worry, you don’t have to apologize!” Ki said, feeling stupid for saying it as he did. She was clearly struggling to say — whatever this was. He shouldn’t interrupt her, right?

There are some things you might hear about me, and I would prefer you hear them from me. Killian nodded slowly, putting his hands in his jean pockets for something to do with his hands. He should sit down, it was weird to keep standing, but what was she about to say? Into this silence he said nothing, let Billie work through her thoughts, feeling awkward and stressed.

When Billie spoke again, it seemed like she had to start over. “Take your time,” he said, softer than usual, going for gentle. He wanted to sit beside her, was that too forward, was that too much, what was so difficult for her to say? All of his imagined conversations had been tossed out when she said difficult, and he was flying blind. She mentioned her family; Ki nodded again, his brows beginning to furrow.

Current surname? Sinnoway? The crease deepened, Killian looking at Billie quizzically. Was he supposed to know that name? And for what reason? There were so many families, he hadn’t even gotten his head around the pureblood lineages he was required to know for History of Magic — and then Billie filled in the blanks for him.

She said it like it was a question, almost, like she could suddenly change the facts she was relating to him now they were out of her mouth. Killian swayed slightly — he could feel his knees locking— and fell into the bean bag on the floor. Distantly, he heard himself say “Wait, what?” Ki was aware that must be his voice, but the part of him that needed to make some sense of this was pulling back now, away from the front of his mind, settling in the back to rifle through memories and knowledge.

Death Eaters. Okay. Cool. What did Killian know about Death Eaters? They were Wizard Nazis. Fascists. Racists. Blood supremacists. Violent hate group members. The reason everyone had been so traumatized when he got to Hogwarts. The First and Second Wizarding Wars. Harry Potter. Voldemort. Killian blinked, looking at Billie. Small, quiet Billie who seemed so afraid to take up space, who was friends with him, a Black Muggleborn, yet — he tilted his head. She was beautiful, and looked like she could have walked out of a Hitler Youth recruitment poster.

Killian scrunched his eyes closed. “That doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, unaware he was speaking out loud. He knew anyone could be racist, but — would a racist blood supremacist have become his friend? Become friends with all the girls, all of color like him? He opened his eyes. “Well, are you a Death Eater?” The words felt ridiculous on his tongue (who eats death???) but it wasn’t malicious - he sounded incredulous, with a touch of genuine curiosity.

She felt a twist of something like regret in her stomach when he told her to take her time. She really didn’t like that he said it so kindly.

The beanbag was lower than the bed, so when he sat there, she dipped her chin a little lower still.

“I know,” she breathed. “I’m sorry.” Billie’s breathing was quiet and uneven through slightly parted lips, like she’d just finished climbing the stairs a little too fast. She was too aware of her body to sit there with her mouth open, though; after a beat she closed it and tried to breathe more slowly through her nose. She could feel her panic rising again; years of careful compartmentalising had alarm bells screaming in her mind. A powerful sense of wrongness washed over her; she wasn’t supposed to say it.

“I – What?” Billie looked at him, mostly confused, surprised, but also a little hurt. She looked away swiftly, trying to hide the latter. Unfair, she thought, filled to the brim with guilt. She wasn’t allowed to feel hurt. “No, it’s not… I didn’t even, understand, I…” Phillip had asked the same thing, more or less, and right now, Billie was sitting in the same feelings she had had the moment she’d replied to him. Feelings of wanting to explain – needing him to understand – but at the same time, a strong sense that she shouldn’t try to say anything at all. That whatever he thought or felt was right, correct, and that it wasn’t her place to try and change that at all. She was so much better at letting other people lead, following their cues.

But he’d asked, and he wasn’t yelling, so she also felt a responsibility to explain. A part of her wished that he could be more immediately demanding, so she could just react to him; his questions; his needs. Phillip was at the forefront of her mind, and just now, as she started crying properly, she thought of him. She wiped tears out from under her eyes with her ring fingers, then placed shaky hands back in her lap.

She’d prepared all kinds of things to say, depending on how he reacted. He’d somehow still taken her off guard. “I was very. Sheltered?” She said, not meaning it to sound like another question. “I didn’t know… Anything.” There was a lot more, but which parts did he want to hear? If any? Again, she wished she was on her feet, hovering by the door. Ready to be dismissed or yelled at. She felt like a stupid little girl, a stupid liar, stupid – “Kendrick found me… After my father died… I told you he was a family friend, didn’t I?” He'd asked, once. She glanced up at him but couldn’t linger. “That wasn’t true, he didn’t know them. My aunt didn’t know them either," she added. Also, "She hated them. I think."

Killian found himself at eye level with Billie's knees, now that he had sunk into the plastic beads of the bag-chair. He stared at the hem of her dress, long and modest and easier than trying to look up at her eyes while the revelation rattled around in his head. I'm sorry, Billie said, and Killian wanted to ask what are you sorry for? He brought one hand to his eyes, rubbing his fingers over his eyelids and pinching the bridge of his nose. Like it would recalibrate the conversation into something that made sense.

No, said Billie, and then I didn't even understand, and when she said that Killian felt a wave of anger wash over him, crashing against the back of his eyes and making him see red just for a moment. Didn't understand? What was there to not understand? It seemed pretty frigging obvious to him, the concept of the Death Eaters had immediately made sense when Mr. Flume had first explained it to him and his mother when he was eleven. And the war was -- what, the year before? Billie ten, eleven for part of it, and didn't know? Didn't understand?

His fingers curled tight against the fabric of the beanbag, his own breathing getting a little heavier. White people. Wizarding or not. They were all the same in this way -- the ability to not understand, to turn a blind eye to this shit.

Billie was crying. Another nasty twist of rage in his stomach. White girl tears. She came here to tell him that so -- what, so she could be comforted?

Billie was crying. Killian blinked, his stomach dropping. Shit, Billie was crying on his bed. He pushed himself out of the beanbag, grabbed a half-empty box of tissues off his bookshelf and placed it beside her. He wasn't going to wipe her tears for her, but he didn't need to be an ass about it.

And she had been right -- he didn't want to hear this second hand. He settled on the other side of the bed, legs crossed and facing her. Right, her dad was dead, she lived with her aunt and Mr. Silverman, Killian had always thought it was very sad, but now... He frowned, tapping his knee with one finger.

"Sheltered how?" He asked at last, voice low. "Like, how do you -- did you--" Ki stopped, let out a noise of frustration. "Can we, can we circle back, to your family, I just -- you were raised by racists so either you are very good at hiding your racism or you are not racist and I really need to know which one it is right now before anything else."

“Thank you,” she said politely, still not looking at him as he placed the tissue box beside her.

She hated them. Billie had never said that out loud before; it was one thing on a long list of things that she wasn’t even allowed to think about. A thing that hurt too much if she tried. She had always felt deeply that loving someone meant giving yourself away. That it necessarily consisted of steadfast sort of willingness to do anything, give anything, be anything, for someone else. After all, what more could she give than her whole self? But, as twisted as it all was, she loved her aunt, and Kendrick, and her father. She loved Phillip, too, even if he didn’t want that anymore. There didn’t seem to be enough of herself to give.

The bed dipped a little as Killian sat down beside her. Killian. Her thoughts had lingered on Phillip – as they always did â€“ and she had to purposefully draw herself back to the present. She nodded, willing and ready to answer anything he wanted – at least in theory. The ready part was a work in progress. Her thoughts were a little frayed.

Very good at hiding your racism. She drew one of the tissues from its box with two fingers and a thumb, then dabbed lightly at her cheeks. She folded it in half and placed her hands back in her lap. Billie didn’t think she was a racist, but she still cried on the anniversary of her father’s death – still wished for him to be alive – and felt that there had to be some kind of adjacent wrongness in that. Her own self punishing nature made her reluctant to tell him anything about it that might cast her in a better light. Her fear of being hated, her neediness when it came to being liked, argued for the opposite.

She nodded again, appreciating his directness, and spoke slowly. “I didn’t really know that muggles existed,” she said. It sounded ridiculous – especially here, now. But it was true. “I grew up far away from other people. I didn’t really see people aside from my father.” Her guess was that her mother going to prison had affected him – made him more protective, cling more tightly to his daughter. She wasn’t sure what the man’s eventual plan could have possibly been; even if they’d succeeded in doing what they’d been trying to do, she didn’t think she could have stayed on that island forever. She wondered if her parents had intended to send her to a different school, or to a school at all. But she kept those thoughts to herself.

“I didn’t know that there was a war. I remember he was in his office a lot…” she swallowed. Her mind was tired. Since Phillip had forced her to dredge up things she hadn’t let herself think about in years, she hadn’t really been able to stop. “We lived somewhere else when I was very young, but I don’t really remember… And after that, a house on an island.”

“I didn’t really know that muggles existed,” Billie said. "Do you thinks Muggles are a race?" Killian said almost immediately, his voice harsh and snappish. Jesus Christ, how had this never come up before? They had talked about -- about the differences, between the magical and mundane worlds, had talked about how stupid he found the word Muggle, and yet he had never asked if she thought they were a different species entirely.

And if that were true, then -- what the hell did she think of him? Of his family? Of this house?

His fingers itched for his wand, itched for magic. His face felt hot. She kept talking -- Billie had literally grown up under a rock, to hear her tell it. "That's ridiculous," Ki replied, not quite believing her. But -- wasn't Billie the most painfully shy person he knew? It -- kind of mad sense, the more he thought about it. Killian bit in the inside of his cheek, lips pressed together. "No post? No visitors?" But -- if her parents were Wizards Klansmen, then probably everyone who came over for tea was in that club, too.

Killian took a deep breath, raising his eyes to catch the side of her face. "Okay. So. Your parents are -- were," he corrected himself, "violent blood supremacists who wanted to exterminate people like me, and presumably my whole family and the whole world I know. But you didn't know that because you were raised away from anybody who could have told you. Presumably, they indoctrinated you with their shitty belief system. And then you've been at Hogwarts for nearly five years under a pseudonym, socializing with -- frigging mudbloods like me and half-breeds and all the other names your parents would have for us. And now, now you decide to tell me all of this." He watched her facing, looking for her reaction to the slurs. Killian opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Settled on asking, "Why now?"

"No, I..." Did she think muggles were a race? Billie was confused, caught on trying to answer the question about being sheltered before trying to start addressing the others, not understanding the way they were linked for him. Of course she wanted to, but didn't even have the capacity to truly understand it from his perspective. Empathetic as she was, she couldn't quite think outside of herself. She shook her head and kept talking.

Ridiculous. He echoed the thought in her head out loud. "I know," she breathed in response – he wasn't wrong. She knew that. He wanted to know about post, and visitors, and Billie wasn't sure what to say. She hadn't really had any friends, if that was what he was asking. Most of her family was in Azkaban by the time she was old enough to remember them. Had she spoken to other people? Well, sure. She'd had a tutor for a short period of time. Her father had meetings with other adults she'd thought were his friends, and in the few months before he'd died there had been times she'd been babysat by older men she didn't know, who didn't really speak to her. She'd been raised not to ask questions, with the understanding that she'd be told what she was allowed to know.

"I don't know, not really," she answered. He took a deep breath, and she felt his eyes on her. After a beat, she made herself look at him, too. She was scared of what he might say, but she'd known he might hate her for all of this and come anyway. Hoping for the opposite was a disservice to him. The muscles around her eyes tightened slightly at his correction to the past tense. She tried to be very still, to let him speak, but he was so emphatic, and she was so readable. She couldn't help but wince slightly at his words.

She started nodding again, understanding why he was asking, and trying to acknowledge that he was right – all of it, the words, his feelings – it was all right. And anything he thought of her was right, too. It was difficult to hear, though. Or, it was difficult to hear without feeling a rising sense of panic. She tried to calm herself by being stern, reassuring herself that he was correct and that she didn't have a right to feel bad, but, once more, she was too small for her feelings. She felt sick. Felt trapped. Wished he would actually yell at her.

Her heart was racing. "Because you might find out," she said, the words spilling out of her. She was too worked up. Needed to calm down. "And you should know because you're my –" Are? Were? "–One of my closest friends. But. You're right, and I understand if you – I just wanted to – You're right," She cut herself off abruptly, trying to end it with the main point she wanted to make. The main thing she was feeling. "It's not a pseudonym," she added, her lips moving against her will. "It's my name. She changed my name. But–" she shut her eyes. "It doesn't matter." She tried to catch her breath, tried to compose herself. Stupid little girl. She opened her eyes, looked down at the tissue she'd accidentally torn with fingers clenched too tightly. Looked at him again. "I can go, if you want. If you'd like," she corrected automatically.

Her no sounded less than convincing -- like she was confused by the question. Killian's brows furrowed closer together. It wasn't reassuring, that. He was hoping for, had wanted something more empathic. More convinced in the rejection of bigotry. He frowned but didn't pull further on that thread. Billie was already trying to answer his other questions.

Did she know? Did she know how insane that sounded? Everything about wizarding society was a nightmare -- they didn't know about anything outside of their bubble. Not the war in Iraq, not the so-called Muggle history of Great Britain, what a telephone or a computer was. And then, on top of that, to know nothing about the tiny tiny amount of world wizards bothered themselves with? Killian let out a shrill, barking laugh, leaning up to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Jesus. Jesus Christ. This was mad, this was all so mad.

Billie winced, drawing into herself as he listed the litany of the situation, particularly on halfbreed. Okay, so it seemed she was ashamed of it, ashamed of those views. Killian let out a sigh of relief, not realizing how tense he was until the breath deflated him. His fingers uncurled. He was looking at her properly now, trying to see his friend properly again. He rubbed at his eyes again with the back of his hands, feeling sweaty under his jumper even though they had hardly moved.

Billie pushed back against his list, saying It's my name. Killian was a little surprised, raising an eyebrow but nodding. Okay, so that was important. "It's your name, so it does matter, if it matters to you," he tried to interject while she was catching your breath. "Not a pseudonym. Got it." Her name was Billie Fay. Not Billie Silloway or whatever the hell. And if her name was Billie Fay, still, that was -- that was a shared piece of knowledge. It was ground, common ground, under their feet while Killian tried to make sense of this in his head.

I can go, Billie suggested.

"Why would I want that?" Killian asked, confused himself now. "I'm right about -- what?" He shook his head, leaning his arms onto his knees and tilting his torso closer to her. "I'm not, I'm not angry at you." It didn't feel true when he said it, so Ki repeated himself: "I'm not angry at you." That was closer. He was angry, yes, but what crime had Billie confessed to here, except to being born? "It's just. A lot to take in. And it's kind of an upsetting topic." Of course she knew that already -- who was crying, here? "But I don't want you to go, if you don't want to go. You can, if you'd like." He thought it would be pretty shitty of her, though, to dump all of this on him and then bounce.

She shook her head slightly – an automatic reaction – but stopped that, too, because she didn’t want to argue with him. He was wrong, though; It didn’t matter because nothing about all of this – her history, her family, her feelings – mattered outside of the way that they affected other people. Him, Phillip, anyone else it would hurt. It was her story, but at the same time it wasn’t; Billie would not think of herself. He sounded genuinely confused, and she felt like she was losing her mind. Flustered, her words came out over the top of his.

“I don’t know – “

I’m right about –

“Maybe you don’t want to be around – ?”

– what?

Me.

That was the end of her sentence, but she didn’t say it out loud.

She shut up and listened to him instead, watching him with wet eyes. Her body hurt from being tense, but she was scared that if she spoke too much or moved too much that it would all be more difficult to contain. Still and silent was easier. She tilted her chin slightly – a nod – agreeing and acknowledging. Billie wished that she could go to Phillip after all of this, and cry into his chest. There was no one in the world she felt more comfortable speaking to, and certainly no one she felt more comfortable being silent with. Their silence was a cocoon to curl into; soft and safe.

She was quiet for a moment – the less safe and comfortable kind – trying to guess at Killian’s thoughts, or his feelings. Trying to process what he’d said and work out if he meant it exactly as phrased, or if he was just being too kind, too polite to tell her to leave. “I really… don’t want to,” Billie breathed, her eyes fixed on his. True and not true at the same time. “But…” The word slipped out before the next ones had formed properly on the tip of her tongue. But she couldn’t read his mind – she didn’t know if he might just never want to see her again, or if that was overdramatic? But she didn’t want to impose, didn’t want to force her presence upon him? But she couldn’t make herself small enough? But he wasn’t angry enough? She didn’t have an emotional or social touchstone for this, didn’t know how to behave, or how he’d react.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had one.

“But I would understand if you did,” she finished.

They were speaking over each other, talking in a way that reminded Ki more of arguments with Josie or Mavis than it did any conversation he'd had with Billie before. He nearly didn't catch maybe you don’t want to be around – over the sound of his own voice, eyes widening when he finally heard and processed that. "Around you? Billie, I --" Killian bit down on his lip, holding back another frustrated grunt.

I really… don’t want to, Billie eventually said. Killian opened his mouth to reply, closed it again on the but, let her finish.He pressed his lips together, suddenly a bit sad, when she couched her statement again. She really just did not know how to say what she wanted, he was realizing. Killian had sort of noticed this before, known Billie for being very willing to go with the flow of things, but hadn't realized that it went this far.

He wet his lips, nodding. "Okay. I'd like you to stay, too. So that's settled." Killian tried to give her a smile -- it came out small, tighter than was normal for him, but the smile still reached his eyes. "And, I do. Want to be around you. I just -- you get where I'm concerned, right? If you came here and told me your folks were in Blood and Honour --" he shuddered, "-- I would also, y'know, freak out and wonder if you still saw me as a human being." But it seemed like she did. "And I am glad," glad wasn't the right word, what about, "you're right to tell me, this would have sucked more if I found out from someone else."

There was still some roiling disgusting in the bottom of his stomach, a vague sense of nausea permeating every cell. "Would you like some water, or tea, or cocoa or something?" He needed to stand up, walk some of this energy through his legs before talking any more.

Around her, around the daughter of murderers – ? She finished his sentence for him in her head. She watched him, still panicked and confused and ready for everything to drop if he changed his mind. Why did he sound so shocked? How could he have put all of those awful – true – things about her family into words, asked her if she was a Death Eater herself, and then still be surprised when she assumed he wouldn't want to see her again? It didn't make sense. She was waiting for it all to fray and unravel before her.

It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, waiting for things to fall apart. At least once a month she had a vivid nightmare in which Kendrick died somehow, and she was shuffled off to live with another guardian. She had those death dreams about Phillip, about Barbara. Recently, about Killian, too. A part of her was sure that she would lose anything she put her hands on, but instead of making her apathetic to holding them – like loss had done to Phillip – it only made her dig her fingers more deeply. Commit unfalteringly. All she could give was herself, after all.

And it wasn't usually so acute, but after she and Phillip – No. Her chest ached, she didn't finish the thought.

Billie nodded distantly, still unconvinced and not sure what she was agreeing with, but externally convincing. "Thank you," she said, reaching for another tissue (alarmingly, the last one in the box), and tidying herself. She went to tuck her hair behind her ears but it was already neatly done; she was half convinced she should be disheveled and straggly to match her state of mind; She was so tired. Wiping her tears away, she did her best not to replace them.