aphelion { killian }

Billie nodded, getting to her feet as he did, feeling a strong swell of gratefulness towards him. She waited, patient and silent until he was stepping out of his bedroom door, then took a couple of extra tissues and followed down behind him, anxious at the idea of seeing his parents, then relieved when they weren’t there. She barely breathed as she tied her shoelaces, and pulled her coat on as she followed him out of the door.

“We broke up,” Billie said once they were out, hating the wrenching feeling inside of her as she said it. Hating the urge she felt to look at him, check his reaction. Hating the shame that came with it all. She started walking beside him, her wet cheeks catching the chill more acutely than the rest of her. She wiped away tears – it didn't seem to help. “But Killian,” She said, tentative but present, still feeling that strange buzzing in her chest, “I’d rather not talk about it. If – if that’s okay.” Anything else, she thought. But if he’d let her, she didn’t want to talk about Phillip this afternoon.

"Oh," said Killian, staring straight ahead, brows furrowing. "I'm sorry to hear that." He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets.

He sounded genuinely sad, and to his shock, he was sad. This had been -- part of the fantasy conversation, that he had imagined when Billie had written to him, but he couldn't have imagined the context of Billie saying it. He never wanted to get in the way of Billie's relationship before, hadn't now, just resigned himself to a set amount of perpetual sadness about it all until he could get over her or he died.

But this was, this wasn't a good ending to that relationship. Billie was clearly upset about it, and he felt upset on her behalf, wanted to ask if he had dumped her because of her parentage, which seemed so extremely messed up --

-- But Billie didn't want to talk about it. "Course, that's fine," he said, a little more gruff, his voice a little more stuffy from the chill.

It wasn't far to the little park - there were a few runners jogging along, but otherwise, it was fairly quiet. The benches were free, near the open grass, and so was the swing set. "Do you like swings?" he asked, looking in their direction. A beat, then - "Have you ever used a swing set?"

’Course, that’s fine. She exhaled a silent breath. "Thank you."

Would she ever move past this sense that Phillip was some kind of pivotal point, around which she revolved? It hadn’t been very long, but it seemed so unlikely. A part of her wanted to stop walking and just cry again – maybe he’d hug her. Maybe she’d let him.

But then if she did, she’d feel guilty again. And even though she couldn’t stop thinking about her boyfriend – her ex boyfriend (ouch) – being outside was better. She felt a little less sick in the cold air. A little less claustrophobic with the sky above her. She felt a lot of different, confusing feelings, but she didn’t want to invite more guilt into the mix if she didn’t have to. Didn’t want to ask for comfort.

Billie glanced at him when he asked if she liked swings, her mind blank. Distracted as she was, it took her a second to understand why she didn’t have an automatic, compliant sort of answer to the question. When he asked a second one, she was suddenly present again. She shook her head wordlessly. After a moment, she moved towards them anyway, looking back at him. “I understand the theory,” she said, a weak attempt at being funny. Weak or no, she smiled a little as she said it – her first smile today. Maybe it was catharsis. Or nerves, still. She wouldn’t be surprised if it was nerves.

How could she explain it? The place her mind went when she was scared, or anxious, or shocked? The way those strong compulsions to defer to anybody else’s wants, to make herself as small as possible – already ever present – solidified under pressure? It was like her brain turned off, and it wasn’t just that she couldn’t ask for what she wanted, and not even that she didn’t know what she wanted – although those were also often true – but that she simply couldn’t want. The space for wanting things for herself already felt so limited; under pressure it disappeared.

It all sounded so ridiculous in her mind, and she was inclined to believe that he would find it ridiculous, too. It wasn’t even something that she’d been aware of until she’d talked about something adjacent with Phillip (Phillip). There was something deeply uncomfortable about trying to examine herself outside of the way that she related to other people.

Anyway, none of that really mattered. Billie eyed the swing seat skeptically, wondering if any of the grime on the metal would come off on her pale coat. She sat down, holding the sides with both of her hands for balance.

He wanted to ask why, say how dare he, call Donnelly some kind of hypocrite, but Billie didn't want to talk about it. So Killian bit down on the inside of his cheek and kept walking.

He didn't know Phillip Donnelly well enough to call him anything, really. Before today Killian hadn't even had strong opinions on Phillip as a person! Most of his thoughts about Donnelly were general fear that he could smell his crush on Billie, and the general distaste the Gryffindor girls had for his sullen attitude. But now. But now he had opinions. Killian glanced sideways at Billie, then swung his gaze forward again.

He couldn't commiserate with the girls about this, even -- everyone would know what had happened before Ki could even finish telling Nola, and Josie would try to duel Donnelly in about thirty seconds after he finished the recounting. Maybe Mavis? Killian entertained the thought, just for a moment, before remembering that even on her best behavior, the chance of Mavis spilling the beans to Magnolia was too high. It didn't take a genius to sense that even if Billie was willing to talk about it with Killian later, that she wouldn't appreciate the girls knowing.

Perhaps he would have to write Adam about this. He was all the way in America, and so couldn't start a rumour at Hogwarts -- but also would possibly think him a loser for being occupied with it.

That left -- his family. Hm. Maybe Nora would have some sensible advice. The thought of looping her into the history of the wizarding wars was daunting, but Killian knew he couldn't sit on this simmering rage at Donnelly alone for long.

I understand the theory, Billie said, finally making a wane attempt at a smile, and Killian laughed. Just a small chuckle, since it truly wasn't very old and funny, but it was the closest to not incredibly miserable she had sounded since she had walked in his front door.

Billie sat on one of the swings, and Killian took the other one of the set, walking himself back and letting himself swing for a couple of moments. The wind rushing in his ears was cold. He slowed down to a stop, twisting the chains of the swing so he could face Billie. "You don't have to try it, but it always makes me feel a bit better?" Killian shrugged, a hint of nostalgia creeping into his tone. "For Muggle kids, this is as close as we can get to flying."

Billie watched Killian, finding it impossible to understand what he might be thinking. She already knew that he was kind, though she felt it quite acutely at the moment, and he really did care about her – maybe, maybe enough to still want to be her friend. She was nervous to hope for that – even now, with him sitting beside her, chuckling at her pathetic attempt at humour. It was disconcerting to dig a little and find that a part of her still wanted him to be angry. Angry at her. She wasn’t sure what to make of that feeling, but it didn’t seem relevant.

She smiled a little – weak again, but still a smile – when he said this activity could make him feel better. She imagined him playing in this park as a child. Coming here with his sister, or friends. She felt a familiar feeling when he spoke again, and though it took her a moment to understand it, once she did she wasn’t sure what to do with it. When they’d gone to the movies, and when they’d gone to the music store, she’d had this sense that it was something of an honour to have him sharing these things with her. Or, no, honour was perhaps a little dramatic, but it was something in that vein. It felt special that he wanted to share. She wasn’t sure if that feeling was maybe a little misplaced, and she didn’t know how she’d say it out loud, but a part of her wanted to.

“Killian, were your parents living here when you were born?” she asked curiously, pushing herself back with one foot, the other already curled under her seat. She tilted her head, resting it against one of the thick chains so she could look at him properly. “Did you grow up in that house?” She’d seen the photos of his family up the walls of the staircase, the little odds and ends that made the house theirs. She had a very tentative and well-hidden fascination with all of those kinds of things.

Killian spun himself all the way around in a circle on the swing, twisting the chains together as he rotated to look at Billie. She clearly wanted to change the subject to anything else. Killian was okay with that. A small part of his brain wondered if he was being too understanding right, too much catering to her needs -- but then he thought about the damp spot on his jumper again, and that part of his brain shut the hell up.

"Oh, no, not then," he said, a little surprised by that question. He wasn't sure what Billie was thinking about, now, but it was a simple enough question. "My mum was doing some, uh, a fellowship I think it's called, in Edinburgh, back then." Killian didn't really know much about back then - he could recall, if he really tried, what he thought were early memories of the flat in Edinburgh. Primary-coloured play carpets, a rack for shoes by a door he couldn't quite recall. Lights, warm and hazy, and a view from a window high above the ground. "We moved when Mum was hired by King's."

He lifted his feet from the ground and the chain unwinded itself, spinning Killian quickly around and around. "I've lived there since. Maybe four or five years old? Most of my life, I think." There was a upsetting thought under that, that in fact only a third of his life had been at that house. The other third was all tied up with Hogwarts.

“Oh,” Billie said, raising her eyebrows a little. She did recall something about Edinburgh – maybe some kind of joke made by one of the others about him not being a proper Londoner, or something. It was hazy though, so she didn’t linger on it. Four or five was young enough that her imaginings of him playing here as a child could be rooted in reality. She watched him spin around, not sure that she wanted to try to do the same. She did, however, lean her body into the swinging motion when she lifted her legs from the ground this time. Enough to get a little more momentum. “I was just imagining growing up here,” she explained, feeling that she needed to.

She swung a little, sitting straight instead of looking at him because it was more comfortable with the motion. It was nice, she thought, and she didn’t have much to compare it to. She didn’t like flying, personally. She hadn’t ever done it before school and didn’t understand why there was a whole class in first year dedicated to it. She held the chains tight and closed her eyes, thinking that this was better than broomsticks anyway. Cold air rushed over her still-damp cheeks, messing up her hair. After a moment, she stopped pushing and just let herself swing back and forth until gravity stopped her. She was tired, and her thoughts kept circling backward, picking at all of the things they’d talked about. There was so much more to it, but she only wanted to talk about it if he wanted to know. Asking him a question just now had been nice; even without all of the rest of it, she was never entirely comfortable speaking about herself.

She wondered what it was like to live with one’s whole family – mother, father, siblings. She wondered why her parents didn’t have any more children, and if they’d ever wanted to (and felt a pang of sadness that she would never have an answer, even to a harmless question like that). She reflected on her first year at school, and felt glad, suddenly, that she hadn’t really known Killian back then. She was too awkward, too maladjusted to make friends. She would have messed it up. Well – more than she had this time.

Billie opened her eyes again. “I’m sorry,” she said, apologising for a moment of unawareness. She did as he had earlier and twisted her swing seat so she could face him. “I was just thinking, about everything.” She paused, feeling nervous. Then, “I don't know if you have more questions..." She watched his face, trying to gather a response before she had to verbalise it. "But if you do, you can ask them."

Billie explained, even though she didn't need to. "I guess I did, mostly," Killian replied, looking sideways at the slide. "Fell off the top of that, once. Skinned my knee." He pointed to the top of the slide apparatus, wincing at the memory. "Healed quickly, that. Should of been a sign, looking back." Billie was swinging, slightly. Killian let himself smile a little at that but didn't comment. Just watched her swing for a moment, trying to feel the winter air fill his lungs, and just be for a moment, outside of all this madness.

They were both apologizing a lot today, weren't they? Killian shook his head. "No worries, sometimes you just... gotta think." That probably sounded stupid, to a Ravenclaw, but Killian knew the feeling well. Just sitting, simmering in his thoughts, until he burst out loud into some rant or another at Nola or Josie or, terribly, in History of Magic.

"I don't think I have any, like, other specific questions," Killian hedged, pushing back and forth with one foot. Or, at least, no other questions that weren't about Donnelly. "I'm curious about everything, of course, but I don't know where to start, what would be okay to talk about without upsetting you, without upsetting me, stuff like that." It sounded stupid, adding upsetting me in there, but it was true and now it was said so there was nothing to be done for it. He shrugged. "I'd listen to anything you want to share, though. Or," Killian felt like he should clarify, "at least, tell you if it sounds like something I don't want to know?" He winced - that sounded stupid. "Something like that," he finished, falling into stupid, awkward silence.

"Mostly, I just want to know what you're thinking," he said after a moment, a little quieter. "Like. How are you feeling? Generally. About this, about the history of it, about telling me, stuff like that."

“Oh no,” she said, her eyes going to the slide too. She liked hearing about it, even the knee-skinning. It felt nice, normal. Last time she was at his house it had been so noisy and busy. Right at this moment felt more like late-night prefect walks together, before. But it wasn’t quite like that, was it? Her life was split so neatly into befores and afters, and Billie wondered if this was going to be another one of them. Before her mother went to prison, after her father died. Before she went to live with her aunt, after she went to stay with Kendrick. New Year’s eve was certainly one of those moments; she already felt like she was living a warped copy of her life, and that was how she’d felt all of those other times, too.

She watched him when he spoke, feeling a touch jittery on the inside of her skin again, a little too tense in her stomach. She nodded, wondering what he meant by curious about everything. Usually, she wasn’t quite so bad at this – speaking to people, connecting. She was no social butterfly, but conversational flow and motivations usually wasn’t so difficult for her to discern. Her feelings were affecting her perspective too heavily; it was hard to understand his motivations through the filter of what she thought he should or shouldn’t want from her.

She also wondered what things would upset him. Her first thought was the way she felt about her father; the grief, the yearning. She’d lost a whole future when he’d died, but Killian probably didn’t want to hear the details of what she missed most about the man, or what she was most sad she wouldn’t get to experience. It was unfair to share that particular perspective – a daughter’s take – she already knew that. She nodded as he spoke, waiting for him to finish it all before she answered.

How was she feeling? “I’m tired,” she said. Her heart gave a small squeeze when she said it, like it was a confession. “It isn’t really going how I imagined.” She looked at the ground, feeling that need to defer, to minimise, again. She forced herself to push through. She felt vulnerable. “But if I’m honest, then, I suppose I’m still…” Scared. Terrified. Terrified was the word, but she couldn’t say it out loud – it sounded ridiculous, presumed too much, was too dramatic. So she settled on: “Nervous. That – for example – if I talk about sad things that you’ll feel bad, or. Something.” Or manipulated, she finished. “I don’t know. I’d understand if you didn’t trust me.” She closed her eyes, her head resting on the chain once more. She felt drained, but she knew he’d react to that, so she had to keep talking. “Or if you didn’t want to be my friend anymore, I’d understand. So. Maybe it’s just my feelings –“ she let go of the chain she wasn’t leaning on and moved a hand to her chest again, curling her fingers lightly into the fabric of her top. “– but I guess it feels a little confusing that you’d want anything else.”

How could she say that she just didn’t want him to feel bad, without him explicitly hearing the unspoken rest of that thought – that she prioritised his feelings first of all, and that hers didn’t really matter? She’d answer any question, but when given the space to talk, what did she want to talk about? How could she want anything without knowing what he wanted? She kept her eyes shut for a moment, repeating his words in her head. Generally. About this, about the history of it, about telling me, stuff like that. There were a lot of questions there, all deserving of their own monologues, if he was really asking. And of course, a part of her wondered if he was just being polite. “There are so many things,” she said, opening her eyes again, meeting his. “In my mind, I mean.”

I'm tired, said Billie. Killian felt like he could see the fatigue in her body, in the way her head hung as she stared at the gravel under their feet. He wanted to give her space to just, be tired, to feel the fatigue, but she was pushing onwards, anyway.

It occurred to Killian that Billie had not said when Mr. Silverman was picking her up, or if he was in fact picking her up, or if Billie was meant to go home by Floo, and then if by Floo, did she need a lift to Diagon Alley? If she was too tired, how would she get home? It was the stupidest thing to be fussed about right now, the logistics of Billie going home. And yet. Christ, what had she meant to do if he had said yes, I want you to leave?

He let her work through her feelings, listening to every carefully chosen word. Billie was always careful about her words, but he was noticing it more right now, the way she trailed off, cut herself off, worked through a thesaurus in her mind, then carefully pronounced the right selection. His eyebrows creased closer together, and Killian was unable to stop himself from shaking his head at some of her assertions. Nervous, he understood. Killian had no idea how Billie thought this would go. Was it good that it wasn't how she had imagined? Killian wasn't sure.

If I talk about sad things that you’ll feel bad gave him pause. That just -- that was how empathy worked, wasn't it? His brows furrowed deeper, trying to twist the phrase around in his head until he could see what the hell Billie meant. Of course, sad things would make him sad. Sad things like dead parents, or parents losing their minds in unethical prisons. Bad? Like, conflicted? Of course he would feel weird about his friend's parent being Death Eaters, that was a weird thing to learn! He had -- already felt bad, in that he felt the floor drop out from under him while standing in his own bedroom, had to recalibrate his understanding of Billie's background. Was that what she meant?

He needed a dictionary or a translation charm.

I don’t know. I’d understand if you didn’t trust me. He couldn't get his head around that, opened his mouth to interrupt -- but Billie was finally talking at any sort of length, so he clamped his mouth shut until she'd finished. Who had taught her that her parent's sins were her own?

She seemed to reach a conclusion. Killian nodded, his expression flickering from pity to curiosity. "Um," he began, his voice feeling rusty all of a sudden. He licked his lips, chapped from the cold, trying to think what to say next. "I do want to be your friend, still. Obviously. I don't -- I don't feel like you've betrayed my trust, or anything? Like, you don't -- owe me your family history. That's your business, and it makes a lot of sense why you don't really share it." Would he have done any different, if the tables were turned? Killian didn't think so -- but the idea of his parents being wizard Nazis was so out of the realm of understanding he couldn't really imagine it.

Clearly there was more churning in Billie's head -- Killian yearned for a spell, a charm, something to bridge the gap between them. He bit his lip. "Do you still want to be friends?" Her repetition of if you don't want to see me again, if you don't trust me, if you don't want to be friends, was bothering him -- it felt almost like a trap laid out for him, to extricate herself from this friendship. He didn't think she meant it, but -- his eyes slide over to her, expression worried and vulnerable.

He said: Obviously.

Well, it wasn't to her. There were too many different feelings, all merging and colliding. Muddying the water. She nodded – eyes still closed – in response to it all but it was tentative; she wasn’t entirely convinced about the betraying, or the owing, or the her business parts. She felt like he was assigning her freedoms that didn’t sit so comfortably on her shoulders.

Her eyes snapped open at his last question, though, and she glanced up at him sharply, feeling stunned. He’d surprised her again. She felt like the same question had been embedded into a thousand different things she’d said in the past half hour but that was different; he hadn't done anything wrong. How could he ask that? He looked a little vulnerable now, and her mind spun up the image of him on his bed minutes ago, wet-eyed and moved by her confessions. She'd barely processed it before; it'd come hand in hand with too much guilt. Merlin, she thought, feeling a little overwhelmed as a powerful understanding dawned in her mind. She did not deserve to have this boy in her life. Her gaze, already soft, softened.

And it was probably too-dramatic a reaction, but new tears formed in her eyes as she nodded. Her hand was still resting just below her clavicle, curled slightly into the soft material of her top. Her fingers tightened a little when she spoke. “Yeah. I do,” she breathed. An informal yeah twice in one day was out of character for Billie but this whole thing had already careened so far from normal that she barely registered it. She took a deep breath, her exhale a visible puff of opaque mist. “I really do want that. And, and I do want to share more – if you want to hear. I just feel a bit scrambled up. All of these things – lots of sad things – all at the front, if you know what I mean? Sorry,” She added quickly, swiping a stray tear from under one eye with the ring finger of her left hand. She gave him a weak, watery smile.

Lots of sad things, she’d said, and though it felt deeply uncomfortable to acknowledge it, it was true. Being raised in isolation, having her parents taken away and killed – there were a lot of sad things in her story. Many of them things she hadn’t let herself think about for years – all at the surface and painfully accessible now. Her instinctive reaction was avoidance, compartmentalisation, minimising herself and her own feelings in her mind. But there was a small, new part of her that hesitantly – fearfully – found a different route appealing to consider, too.

 
Oh, no, Killian thought, not two seconds after his question left his lips. He could see the water welling up at the bottom of her eyes as something in her expression crumpled. Oh, shit. Killian dug into his pockets, desperate for anything. There was a scratchy, crumbled McDonald's napkin -- he winced looking at it but held it out to Billie regardless. He should have grabbed some tissues before they left. Or gloves -- his hands were cold, and he could feel the skin beginning to crack around his nailbed.

But - she did still want to be friends. Killian let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, a short, sharp sigh of relief. "Oh, good." He let out a chuckle, nervous and small, while pushing back against the gravel again to set himself on a gentle swing. "I'm glad."

He nodded again - Killian could relate to feeling 'scrambled up', he seemed to always feel scrambled up too, thoughts flitting from one subject to another, making connections in his head faster than people around him so when he spoke again he would have lost everyone's train of thought. Maybe that wasn't the same scrambled-up thinking Billie was experiencing, though? It was unclear -- but promising that Billie put some sort of name to her internal process.

"I'll listen -- I want to listen," he corrected himself, making sure to make his sentence mirror her phrasing. Maybe if he matched what she said, closer, she wouldn't doubt him so much? "To whatever you want to share. Whatever is at the front. Whatever is, um, maybe most pressing to say? Weighing on you the most?" Killian shrugged, his eyes wide. "You would know what that is, right? I appreciate you letting me ask questions, but, I don't know what to ask! I don't need to lead this," he waved one hand around in the space in front of him, "this conversation, I don't think I can."

Of course, the moment he said that Killian at once thought of a hundred questions, fully formed, on the edge of his tongue and ready to deploy. How do you get your name legally changed, is that through the Ministry? Did you have to testify at any trials or anything? Is there a support group for kids like you? Does the Ministry help you at all with this? Killian pressed his lips together, waiting for Billie to have a chance to lead them somewhere else before sticking his foot up his mouth.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the napkin and dabbing under her eye lightly. She folded it in half in one hand. Of course, she’d taken a couple of tissues before she’d left, and they were in her pocket now, but she didn't feel inclined to mention them.

Billie hadn’t really seen him vulnerable before, and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of gratefulness towards him for letting her see it. It always felt precious, those kinds of shared moments, though she wondered if it didn’t feel so meaningful that to people who had more close friends. She’d seen Phillip vulnerable, of course (her heart squeezed at the thought). Maybe Barbara, but Billie always got the sense that Barbie was quite uncomfortable being vulnerable, so she wouldn’t want to impose. Wendy, maybe? Jae, that one time?

“Good,” she repeated, finding the way he said it a little bit amusing. Good. Sorted. Bang a gavel. She was reminded of something Barbara had said once. Killian kind of writes like he talks. It’s quite funny. She wondered what it was like to feel things so decisively.

He laughed just then, kind of, and it made her smile a bit more.

As he spoke, she leaned her head on the chain again, only pushing back and forth rather gently with one foot on the ground. She noticed his correction, and hoped he meant it. Her eyes didn’t really leave his face. At the end, she hesitated for a second, not completely sure if he meant that she should say whatever was on her mind right now or just that she should be allowed to speak in general. What felt more pressing? Killian said it as if it should be the most obvious thing, but she was starting to think that there might be a lot of things that felt more obvious to him. Maybe it was a little less murky, that gap between the thinking part of himself and the rest of him. Or maybe she was particularly bad at it right now. That would make sense. She replayed his words again in her mind in bullet form. Generally. This. The history of it. Telling me.

“Okay.” He didn’t think he could lead it, but she had doubts about her own capacity to do it, too.

“Well,” she said, glancing away to gather her thoughts. It was more difficult to think about it and look at him. What had she been thinking about a moment ago? Why her parents didn’t have more children? What would have happened if she’d become friends with Killian at eleven? “My father, mother, aunt…” Dead. Azkaban. Dead again. She swallowed, then came to the next obvious item on the list: “Kendrick.” She could probably talk about Kendrick, couldn’t she? The fact that thinking about him didn’t fill her with dread was a good sign.

“Kendrick works for the ministry,” she said after a pause, “I think I’ve told you…?” Glancing over at him, she noted the fact that it was perceptibly a little darker now. She felt a little colder to acknowledge it. Killian didn’t seem disappointed or bored or anything, though, so she continued. “He’s my guardian now, but I think legally I’m like a… Ward of the state?” She frowned a little, frustrated suddenly that she didn’t actually know the technical details. She hadn’t ever asked. “He’s not family, but… I feel like he is. I stayed with him for a short while when they were trying to find someone to look after me longer term. When I was ten, I mean.”

Billie looked away, presumably to collect her thoughts. A few names and subjects dropped from her lips, but with commas. Billie was deferring those topics for now, it seemed. Killian stuffed down the urge to try and finish her sentence. He wasn't -- impatient, exactly. Just eager. Billie finally seemed to be opening up, putting down her walls a little bit and driving the discussion herself. He didn't want to dissuade her by interrupting like he was prone to do.

Kendrick. Mr. Silverman. Killian nodded, trying to collect the sum total of his knowledge of Billie's Kendrick (big, white, cop???) in the front of his brain before Billie added to it. "Think you did, yeah," Killian confirmed when Billie glanced his way. Ward of the state? Killian almost wanted to ask 'what state?' but resisted. "That makes sense. I've got uncles and aunties that aren't my blood relatives." Was that in any way comparable to what Billie was describing? Maybe not, but he felt like he should offer proof that he had gotten his head around the concept.

Ten. So. "This is, 1997? 1998?" Killian bit his lip. "Hm. Did he sign your Hogsmeade slip?" Stupid question! But he was curious.

For a moment, Billie had the thought that Kendrick sometimes felt like a father to her. But that was followed swiftly by a strong swell of disapproval, and the sense that she was betraying her father by thinking it. It was a familiar cycle: disapproval, guilt (a lot of this), chagrin, guilt again â€” this time guilty that she’d felt guilty in the first place — repeat until the echoes were too weak to keep momentum. That was one of the most difficult things about all of this, she decided. There were so many conflicts in her head. So many things she wasn’t allowed to think, or feel. Conflicting truths. Cygnus Sinnoway: Loving father. Cygnus Sinnoway: Murderer. She shuddered at the thought.

She didn’t say anything when he mentioned aunties and uncles that weren’t related to him by blood. She nodded slightly, but couldn’t really relate. Or, well, actually — she didn’t think Gaius had actually been her uncle, had he? He was gone now too, but she didn’t know where or why. Her mind felt like it was full of different paths, but at the ends of the twists and turns were just walls made of fog, or cotton balls. No answers. She felt frustrated that she didn’t know for certain. Regardless, for a little while she’d felt like he was one of hers, and maybe that was what he meant. She didn’t say it out loud.

“Ninety-eight,” she answered. It occurred to her that the date of the battle of Hogwarts might not have been seared into his brain the way it was seared into hers. It was the year the ground dropped out from under her, and even though things were so blurred now, whether from trauma or repression or the opposite — too much reliving — there were elements of it that would always be crystal clear. She thought of Phillip, and the way that date was pressed deeply into his being, just like it was in hers. Her eyebrows raised slightly at his question. “Oh, no. I was with my aunt before I went to school. It was brief, with Kendrick. Just weeks.” She was quiet for a moment, then added, "I meant that that was when—" She didn’t pause here, but her mind went a little blank, knowing that her words were clumsy and inadequate even as they came out of her mouth. “—we met.”