Nothing But The Truth
Her hand stopped moving in its familiar pattern, and she stared downward at her own eyes. They gazed up at her, deep and thoughtful. She studied her reflection nonchalantly. Her hair was pulled back, or at least it had been. Right now, it was doing nothing more than clinging halfheartedly to the ribbon while most of it was falling inharmoniously about her face. Her face was whiter than usual, probably from having to wake up far too early to scrub hallways for Filch. Professor Snape had left him in charge of today's detention—her last day of detention.
She wasn't truly thinking about her ratty appearance, or that Filch would be pleased that the floors were so shiny that she could see herself in it. Instead, she was thinking; just thinking. About the past and the present and what could soon be. Most importantly, she was thinking about what had just occurred, the thing that chilled her to the bone.
He tried to come back. He's not dead.
She felt a shiver rotate down her spine, and she leaned back onto her heels, yanking on her left collar to make sure that every inch of her shoulder was hidden. The rumors were going around the school, about Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and the Philosopher's Stone. But those things had only been mentioned briefly. What they really talked about was Harry Potter and You-Know-Who.
It had been so long since Shiloh had heard people speak about the man who often haunted her darkest of thoughts and her worst of fears. When Symone had told her about the rumors, Shiloh had done her best not to show any reaction but interest. Not horror, not fear, not anything that would show she was nothing more than what everyone else was: a skeptic. The Slytherins thought it was a joke. A first year facing the darkest wizard—who just happened to be dead—and coming out with nothing more than a few scrapes! It was a laughable notion to them, and Shiloh wanted to laugh at it too. She didn't want to believe it; she wanted to believe he was dead.
Then again, she'd never believed that such a powerful wizard could ever have been vanquished by an infant, so it wasn't a great stretch to believe that, as ghost, spirit, or something darker, You-Know-Who lived. If she believed that, it wasn't so impossible to believe that he had tried to come back using their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.
It scared her, more than she knew she could be, because it brought up possibilities that she could only imagine. What would happen to her when he came back? The answers to that were endless, and none of them seemed exactly promising.
However, in the end, he hadn't managed to come back, and for that, whether it had been Potter's doing or someone else's, she was grateful. Maybe this would be the end of it. Maybe he was gone for good this time. But believing that seemed as strange as believing a one-year-old could have defeated him in the first place. Besides, Shiloh was tired of hoping for things that could never be. She wasn't going to let her guard down about this one.
She forced herself not to think about it any longer. Dwelling on matters wasn't going to change anything, and it certainly wasn't any help to her. So, as she picked up her scrub brush and moved to the last section of unwashed hallway, she set her mind to other things. She let it pick the first harmless topic it came to. Like the House Cup.
Slytherin had been so close this year; they'd even thought they'd won for a while. They'd had a huge celebration in the common room, and she'd been so happy with the victory, It was her dream to win the House Cup. She could finally use it to prove to her parents that if the Slytherins could win this, then they must be doing something right.
But she should have known it was too good to be true. No sooner had the Slytherin began having a second celebration of gobbling down the end of year feast when Professor Dumbledore had desired to take it all away.
She had supposed the points were fair, even though it was slightly unnerving that the so-called 'heroic' trio had broken countless school rules, endangered their lives and the lives of the other students, and failed to have a single point taken from them. If she, or any Slytherin, had done the same thing, Professor Snape would have had them expelled.
Yet, the Gryffindors were rewarded for their recklessness, because overall it had admittedly been a good deed. Why then did Dumbledore have to wait so long to take the Cup from them? Didn't it occur to him that a notice would have been a lot easier to take than open humiliation in front of the entire school? Or did he just not consider that the Slytherins cared about their victory – and would be hurt greatly that they'd lost it?
Shiloh switched her thoughts quickly. She didn't know if the accusations were fair or not. It was just how she felt. The House Cup had meant so much to her. But it didn't matter now. What was done was done, end of story.
Shiloh let her thoughts go to other things, things farther back in the year. She'd been doing detentions much like this since she'd been caught. Each one had been slightly different. One detention she was scrubbing toilets, the next, she was writing lines. At least she had never been doing the same boring thing over and over again, and she really didn't mind the punishments. They gave her time to think, to plan out her school work, and to debate about the things she'd learned in class that week.
The only punishment that had truly stung was the punishment her parents had sent in the form of a Howler. Professor Snape had never mentioned that he'd be writing to her parents, but she had known to expect it. Still, no matter how much she had braced herself for the shouts of her father and mother, she had never really been ready for it. Howlers were a common thing for the Slytherins, and she was used to the sound of them going off in the common room, but never before had her parents' voice screamed through them. The words We're so disappointed in you were still ringing in her ears.
Failing them was the only thing she'd ever minded about this situation. She'd wanted to make them proud this year, to show them that Slytherin was all right, but she'd done quite the opposite. It made her feel queasy to think of, but it was true, it was life, and she would have to deal with it that summer as they continued her punishment.
At least she'd gotten grades that would at least make her book-smart Ravenclaw mum smile. Shiloh had managed to make up for all her other potions and had gotten back into the habit of brewing the potions to perfection. However, this time she wasn't doing it for Professor Snape. Maybe a time would come when she would be able to impress him, but that wouldn't be this year. So for the rest of the term, she'd brewed potions for herself, getting them perfect because she held the expectations for herself and because she was simply thankful to be able to make them without great disturbances.
Then, of course, there were the exams. Detentions on half of her Saturdays had taken away an opportunity to study, but she had still found plenty of time to pour through the books. A lack of a social life tended to help in the areas of study. Going into the exams she had had a mixture of confidence, excitement, and a touch of apprehension. She hadn't wanted to do poorly, because then her parents would surely go from disappoint to disgust. Today, they had gotten the scores back, and Shiloh had been able to check hers on the break she was given for breakfast.
She'd passed by a considerable mark. She'd scored top of the Slytherin first year class and managed to be along the top five of all the first years. However, those were the overall scores, and in her potions by themselves, she had scored the highest, just a few points above Granger.
It didn't make her feel as proud as she thought it would, but she was satisfied, because she knew her parents would be happy. At least, they would think that she'd managed to do one thing right this year.
Shiloh gave the section of floor one more scrub, until she began to see her own gaze in it. She tossed the brush back into one of the buckets of water, and it landed in it with a splash that sent tiny droplets onto her robes. Shiloh didn't care; she was soaked anyways. It took her a while for her to stand. After so long of being on her knees, they were locking in place, and her back had a dull throb pressing through it. She ignored the ache as she placed her bare feet under her. She'd abandoned her shoes in another hallway when she'd found out what she was going to do. She didn't want to be tracking her dirty shoes on her clean floor.
Now, all she had to do was depose of the dirty water, and she was done. The thought of dry robes, a comfy bed, and a good book was sorely tempting. Shiloh bent and wrapped her hands around the two buckets. Pain soared through her palm and up her arm, and she unbent her fists, bringing her hands up to study them. The skin was red from strain and from lye, her fingers were wrinkled from too much time in the water, and a blister was forming on the side of her thumb. She would have to rub one of her potions on it when she got back to her room, but she couldn't do anything about that now.
She wrapped her hands in the loose fabric of her robes, and then circled the makeshift glove around the handle, so that the metal wouldn't press into her tender hands. Shiloh then lifted upward, gritting her teeth against the exertion. She tried to walk forward, but the weight of the buckets made her feel unbalanced. One knee buckled, causing her to jiggle unsteadily just enough that one bucket tilted, splashing her with a large amount water onto her thigh. She gritted her teeth in frustration and let the buckets slip back to the ground. Was any of this going to be easy? She hissed out a growl of frustration.
“Do you need help?”
The voice was only slightly familiar, but somehow, Shiloh found it unmistakable. She refused to turn; she didn't even dare look. Because there was simply no way that he could have offered to help her.
Of course, there was no option but to look, so slowly, taking a deep breath, she swiveled at her hips to look behind her. There he stood, just like he had at the beginning of the year when he saved her music box. It was the same kind look, the same easy smile and dancing eyes. All of it was the same, but yet she continued to stare at him and the identical image of him standing at his side. She couldn't believe he was there, but the more she looked, the more she realized that she wasn't imagining things and she wasn't crazy.
George Weasley really was standing there.
She continued to watch as George and Fred exchanged a questioningly look, and only then did realize that, yes, they very much wanted her to respond to George's question. She'd been standing there, staring at them blankly for far too many seconds; she must look like a complete oaf. She opened her mouth quickly, trying to force out sound but none came. Say something, Shiloh! she ordered herself. Before they think you're even more of an idiot.
She tried again. “I...” Brilliant, Shiloh! That helps loads! she thought to herself, resisting the urge to growl in frustration. Honestly, it's just a boy!
She felt more collected now, and she was too irritated to allow herself to slip up again. She took a deep breath, prepared to answer that yes, they could help her, and thanks for offering, and then...
“It's all right. I can help her.”
Shiloh blinked in surprise, closed her mouth, and looked to see Symone approaching behind George. Fred and George turned to glance at Symone as well, as though wondering where she'd come from, but after a moment, they clearly decided that it didn't matter, because they shrugged in unison. If she wanted to help Shiloh then that was just fine with them; they didn't have to help her after all.
“All right, then.” Without another word, they both turned and jogged back the way they had come, their movement light and springy. Shiloh watched them going, not really knowing why she was letting her eyes linger upon them as they made their way to the end of the hall. Before they disappeared from sight, George—Shiloh was sure it was George—lifted a hand over her shoulder in a silent farewell.
When they were gone, Shiloh swallowed hard and reluctantly turned to face Symone. She couldn't explain why she felt as though she wished that Symone had kept her distance, but that made little sense. Fred and George hadn't needed to help her; she probably should have refused anyways before she made a fool out of herself. There was no reason to be angry with Symone, because it was just her helpful nature getting the best of her.
Shiloh hadn't spoken to Symone very much since the night she'd gotten punished. It was time for them to put aside the make-believe and go back to the way things that they had been before the Veritaserum episode. So, Shiloh had once again pulled away from her, and after a few weeks, Symone had begun to do the same. It was clear Symone didn't understand why this was happening, but she accepted it. So here they were, nothing more than helpful acquaintances.
Shiloh heaved her bucket upward with two hands, and beside her, Symone did the same. No sooner had they gone a few steps then they heard uproarious and mocking laughter. Confused, they turned to look, expecting to find someone who had tripped on the wet floor or something humorous like that. Instead all they found were the three people Shiloh could do without ever seeing again.
Pansy, Millicent, and Annadel were leaning against a wall to support their shuddering frames as they giggled powerfully. The three had been doing their best to get revenge on her since they'd been caught. At least they'd gone back to the dirty and predictable things, like calling Shiloh's father a Mudblood and using every opportunity they had to make Shiloh's life miserable. Just as they were trying to do now.
“What's so funny?” Symone demanded, her anger showing that she at least had some idea what – or who—they were laughing at.
Shiloh hid back a groan. She should have known Symone would have gone off. Shiloh wouldn't have given them the satisfaction and would have simply strolled away. However, it was too late now. She wasn't going to abandon Symone to these jackals.
“You,” Millicent said through her laughter that sounded like a horse's squeal.
“You look like servants,” Pansy explained, with a large, girlish giggle.
Now it was Annadel's turn, and Shiloh had to wonder how it was possible for someone to laugh and snarl at the same time; Annadel was managing it expertly. “Which is quite ironic, because it's just what Halfbloods like you should be. I'm glad you're good at scrubbing floor, Sanders. Your mother must have taught you that. After all, it's the only thing she's good for.”
Shiloh had a few retorts for that one, most of them including a hex right to the nose. The only thing that stopped her was Symone's hand which had circled around Shiloh's wrist, silently restraining her and drawing her to look at Symone.
A smile was etching across her lips, but Shiloh couldn't see anything amusing about this entire situation. Although...was that mischievousness Shiloh glimpsed in her eyes? Yes, most certainly. She knew that smile, the one Symone always had when she was up to something.
Still smiling, Symone's eyes went down to the bucket in her hand and then to Annadel. Just her eyes, nothing more, but as though Shiloh had read her mind, she knew what Symone wanted. Brilliant, Symone. Shiloh let her lips twitch, showing that she understood.
Symone grinned and looked back at Annadel. “You know what else is funny?”
The trio went silent, Millicent looking confused, Pansy still smiling, but Annadel looking suspicious. She had a right to, even if she didn't notice that Symone and Shiloh were slipping their free hands beneath their buckets.
“What's that?” Annadel snapped skeptically.
“This!”
With a mighty heave, Symone and Shiloh brought their buckets forward. A large spray of filthy water shot through the air. Annadel, Pansy, and Millicent's face froze in horror. And then...
Cla-splash!
The water fell right on their heads.
Three voices began to scream in horror as they flung out their arms, shaking droplets from their soaked sleeves. Their hair clung to their faces and their robes were pressed to their skin. Annadel looked shocked, her mouth gaping and trying to form sound; another scream, an insult, anything, but she failed. Pansy was making sounds that were more like sobs than yells. Millicent looked fiendish with anger and began to crack her knuckles.
In unison, Symone and Shiloh grinned and waved their fingers at them mockingly, before they turned and fled down the halls, their empty buckets swinging limply at their sides.
They held in their joy and laughter while Shiloh collected her shoes and reported to Filch. During the time, the two refused to look at one another. The one time that Shiloh made the mistake of looking Symone in the eye, Symone snorted a laugh, but quickly fell quiet when Filch gave her a stern eye. They didn't do it again, for fear that if they looked at each other, they would burst out laughing. It would be laughter that they wouldn't be able to explain to the man with no humor, and they didn't want to scrub more floors for suspicious behavior.
Eventually, he dismissed Shiloh and they jogged side by side all the way back to their dorm room. Once there, Symone could no longer help herself. She burst into laughter, leaning against the door to support her knees as the giggles shook her entire body.
“Did you see the look on their faces?”
Symone's laughter was pure and clean and as contagious as it always was, and Shiloh felt the delight bubble within her. Her lips parted in a few, rare giggles. She couldn't help it, because the look of the three soaked girls was replaying itself in her mind and that look that spoke of perfect shock and horror had been priceless! Mostly, though, Shiloh simply smiled. She listened to Symone's heartfelt laughter and enjoyed what she knew would be the last moment that they shared, enjoying life and bliss, for two months, if not forever.
Shiloh's smile disappeared. She watched as Symone's laughter ebbed away, and then, still grinning, Symone walked a few feet forward, towards her bed. On the way, she began to speak, “It feels strange to be going home.”
Her tone was light, but her message was solemn, exactly what Shiloh had been feeling as well.
Symone turned around, to smile at Shiloh. “You have to promise that you'll write me this summer.”
The blow landed like a fist in her stomach, spreading agonizing guilt through her gut and turning her insides cold. Didn't Symone understand what Shiloh had silently been trying to tell her since the beginning of the year? They couldn't be friends; couldn't Symone see that? Shiloh had thought she had seen it, but now she knew better. Looking into Symone's eyes that were filled with hope and certainty, Shiloh was convinced that Symon hadn't gotten the message. Now, Shiloh had no choice but to spell it out for her, but it would be so hard, because in the process she would do something that she hadn't wanted. She'd hurt Symone.
Forcing herself not to feel, not to think, not to do anything that would allow the pain to come, Shiloh opened her mouth. “No, Symone. I won't write you, because we're not friends.”
It wasn't hurt that flashed across Symone's face; it was anger, fierce, hot anger. It raged through her eyes, making them crackle, but Shiloh didn't feel fear. All she felt was guilt, even when Symone surged towards her so quickly she had no time to brace herself. Symone threw her hands into Shiloh's shoulder, shoving her against the door.
“What is wrong with you?” she yelled, only inches from Shiloh who was now pinned. “Every time I try to get close to you, you run like some frightened chicken!”
Shiloh didn't like being trapped and instincts made her duck away from Symone, squeezing around her so that Symone had to turn to face her. “I thought you understood,” Shiloh tried to reason calmly, tried to lessen the blow for Symone. “I thought you accepted it.”
Symone growled lowly, “If I hadn't considered you my friend, do you honestly think I would have helped you with the Veritaserum?”
The unexpected retort made Shiloh's knees feel like they had the substance of water. She caught the nearest bedpost to keep herself from hitting the floor. That couldn't have been the reason; it wasn't! “You said that was because you wanted to repay your debt.”
Symone threw up her hands, looking frustrated enough to start pulling chunks out of her own hair. “I only told you that because I knew it was the only way that you were going to let me help you. Honestly, Shiloh, I thought you were smart enough to figure that out.”
Yes, perhaps Shiloh should have been able to see it. All the signs had been there, proving that, debt aside, Symone cared about Shiloh. However, Shiloh had wanted to forget that, to think that the friendly feelings would fade, and they could go back to being just plain acquaintances. She hadn't seen the truth, because she hadn't wanted to see it. Besides, she had never imagined that Symone could know enough about her to manipulate her so well. But she should have known that as un-Slytherin as Symone could sometimes be, the fierce cunning was there.
“But...” Shiloh struggled. She had to remind herself that whatever reasons Symone had had, it didn't change anything. It was horrible, yes, but she couldn't help it. She wished things could be different, but they couldn't. Shiloh was still apart of something Symone hated. “Symone, listen to me. We can't be friends!”
“Why not? I don't understand!” Symone snapped back, her anger starting to turn into desperation, the pain beginning to push through the barriers. “Dang it, Shiloh! What have you got to hide?”
How could Symone ever possibly know that Shiloh was hiding something? Could it be so obvious? Shiloh felt fear and confusion, two emotions she hated more than anything. The feelings began to morph into anger. Who was Symone to ask her what she was hiding, when everyone had secrets? Who was she to demand an answer, when Symone clearly hid things of her own?
“Let's talk about hiding, shall we?” Shiloh hissed lowly, her tone as nasty as it would be if she was talking to Annadel.
Symone blinked, shock and horror beginning to etch lines on her face. Still, Shiloh couldn't help it, couldn't think reasonably, because she was too angry; she was too scared.
“How about how you, who loves her family so much and has never mentioned her so-called 'accountant' of a father? What reasons behind that, huh?”
Symone gasped, a hand flying to cover her lips in shock. She stumbled back a few steps, pain written clearly on her face. Seeing the pain, she couldn't bear it. A mirror of the pain shoved through her, and she couldn't watch Symone anymore. She couldn't stand and witness the aftermath of what she had caused. So, she turned around, taking a few shaky steps toward her bed. She closed her hand around the bedpost, forcing herself to breath, forcing the emotion to leave. She'd get through this. They both would.
“My dad's in a Muggle prison.”
Shiloh jerked her head around in surprise, staring at Symone. The anger was back in Symone's eyes, but this time Shiloh didn't think it was all meant for herself. Symone's pain was there too, but it had very little to do with the blows that Shiloh had inflicted, and very much to do with the scars that were already on her heart.
“I don't know if he's accountant, or what he does, really.” Symone was looking down at the floor, and her hands were fists as she fought for each word. “But whatever he did, he was in charge of selling something, and he sold something that didn't belong to him. I don't know why he did it, but he did, and they took him to jail.”
Shiloh could do nothing but stare at her, feeling sympathy, pain, horror. All of it for Symone.
“My mum hasn't been the same since the Muggle police took him.” Her voice was going softer, full of more emotion, as she shivered from some inner cold. “Bran's doing all right, and Sherry says that that it's good riddance to bad rubbish. But Adrian – he used to be well-behaved and got in little trouble—as little as any Slytherin could. We used to be good friends, but he changed after that. Started hanging out with the wrong crowd, started drinking, started dating the worst kind of girls, and started hating me. And me, well...”
She could no longer stand, and she slid onto her bed, her elbows on her knees, but her hands reaching upward in exasperation. That was when Shiloh noticed the tears, the ones that hadn't quite left her eyes, the ones that were about to overflow.
Symone's next words came out quickly, half-sob, half-scream, “I haven't seen my dad in two years!”
She swiped angrily at the tears, trying not to cry, but in pain nonetheless. Shiloh was frozen in place, watching her, tormented for her. What kind of a man could ever do this to his child? How could he do something so stupid that would lead to him being taken from a child who had clearly loved him the way that he didn't deserve to be loved?
Who was Shiloh to talk? After all, what he had done to Symone had not been so different than what she had done. She'd been selfishly unwilling to take a chance to keep the tenderhearted girl from a word of pain. She'd selfishly hurt the girl who had cared for her—grown to know her—the way that almost no one else had.
Shiloh swallowed hard, wondering if she was really considering what she thought she was considering. The truth would only make her lose Symone, wouldn't it? Then again, looking at Symone now, Shiloh knew that she had already lost her. That was no longer a threat, but having Symone hate her forever was. But that wouldn't be the worst thing.
If Shiloh let the opportunity pass, she would never know if it could have worked. She would never know if maybe, somehow, Symone could accept her for everything Shiloh was—the good and the bad, but especially the bad. Shiloh didn't know if she could survive that, never knowing. But could she trust Symone?
Yes. Symone had trusted her, with something she had likely told no one else. Besides, Symone had already kept hidden so many things that Shiloh had revealed. At the very least, Symone would keep her secret, even if she hated Shiloh for it.
It wasn't going to be easy, forcing all the knowledge that she had kept silent for so long into a few words. But it was time to try, time to tell it all.
Nothing but the truth.
Using all the courage she could ever possess, she marched to Symone's side. Yes, she was scared. Everything she had come to know was now balanced on the edge of a knife, and she was betting everything for a slim hope. However, Shiloh was determined as well.
“Symone.”
She raised her eyes to Shiloh, her annoyed gaze reading Why haven't you left yet?.
Shiloh forced herself not to notice, because the first words were always the hardest. If she said them, there was no going back. And she was going to say them. “Did I ever tell you I was adopted?”
Symone only seemed slightly surprised, but mostly she was unimpressed and apathetic, even angry. “So what? That doesn't give you the right to be nasty to people.”
“I know,” Shiloh said sincerely, apologetically. She did know. Nothing, not her past, not her fears, gave her the right to treat Symone the way she had. “I know. But—” Her stomach felt like it was being crumpled into a ball. The desire to run was intense, and fighting it took everything within her. She wasn't going to run away this time. I'm going to do this. I'm going to stay. “I'm not the kind of adopted where I don't know who—or what—my birth parents were. I know who my mother was.”
Still, Symone seemed unimpressed. She seemed to expect some sort of joke, some sort of horrible excuse, because all she said was “Try me.”
Here they came. The six words she'd never before had the courage to say. “My mother was a Death Eater.”
Shiloh closed her eyes, not wanting to see Symone's reaction. If she wanted to hex her, fine. She'd take it willingly, but she couldn't bear to see the hate in her eyes, the rage and the disgust. Then she heard it, not an angry shout, a frightened cry, or a snapped incantation. Just of soft, “Oh God, Shi. Oh God.”
Shiloh opened her eyes to find Symone looking up at her, pain and anger replaced by only shock. No loathing. No enmity. Just confusion.
“How...” Symone started, a thousand questions rolling behind her eyes. She couldn't seem to find the right one, the right words to say, so she made a few stuttering noises. She needed more details, and Shiloh knew it. So, she told the story. Her story.
“I don't know much about my mother, only that she served You-Know-Who, along with the rest of her family.”
Shiloh's tone was cool, calm, as though she was stating everything about someone else's life, not her own. She forced herself to think of it that way, and it was easy, for the details were so familiar to her that she could state them as though reading from a book. She didn't let herself think that if Symone didn't hate her yet, as soon as she heard the story, as soon as it sunk in, she would.
“She lied. She knew the Dark Arts. She murdered, and she had me. I don't know who my father is, but he's probably a Death Eater just like her. My mother died when I was almost three. My uncle went to Azkaban, and through a serious of events, I was taken in by the Sanders.” She ebbed to a close, knowing Symone could easier figure out the rest of the story, the one that had led Shiloh here.
Symone didn't even look at her. She just stared blindly at the floor, trying to take all of it. She seemed to be doing a good job, being able to accept it, because she moved past what she knew to ask a new question. “Do you remember her?” Symone finally looked up to her, her eyes seeming to plead for something. Perhaps, she wished for Shiloh to say no, because then it would be as though she was untouched by a Death Eater. It would then become little more than a known fact, not an actual experience, not a part branded on to Shiloh. Most importantly, if Shiloh didn't remember, she couldn't be like her mother, could she?
However, Shiloh couldn't give her what she wanted, what Shiloh wished she could say. Because if she hadn't remembered, if she'd never known, everything would have been much simpler. The pain that was now going through her as memories, feelings, and flashbacks of the dark part of her childhood, flashed into her mind. “Yes,” Shiloh replied, her voice flat, but beneath it was a tremor as a cold shiver made its way through her body. Talking about this was so hard, because it made her remember. And remembering was painful. “In flashbacks and in nightmares. And...”
She struggled for words, as a hand closed around her throat. Saying these things brought up every emotion she wished she didn't have to feel: the loathing, the anger, the hurt. She gave up the fight to speak and fell silent.
Symone stared at her for the longest time; then she opened her mouth to choke out, “Did she...” She couldn't finish the sentence, because a strangled sound came instead.
Shiloh was slightly thankful, because with those two words she knew what Symone was going to ask. It was the one question that she wasn't sure Symone had the right to ask, nor did Shiloh think she had the strength to answer. She didn't have the strength to think about it! Not when it already haunted her in every harsh touch, in every loud noise, and in the dark of the night.
Symone didn't give up so easily. She wanted to know. Perhaps, she needed to know, just so she could be able to understand it all clearly. Whatever reason, it was clear that it mattered to her, because she pressed onward. “Did she...hurt you?”
Something closed around her throat, restricting her breath, and a memory tried to press into her mind. She had only memory, but it was enough. Shiloh wrapped her arms around her belly, not sure if she could speak. But she'd promised herself to tell everything. Even this.
“Yes.” The memory assaulted her again, and this time it wasn't pain or fear that she felt. It was hate, so passionate, so fierce that it lit her blood on fire. Her skin felt hot, and the rage wiped her mind clear. It stripped her of reason, until there was nothing there but the anger and the truth.
"And I hate her! I hate her for hurting me. I hate her for every, bloody memory where I'm cold and hungry and scared. I hate her for being a Death Eater. And I hate her...I hate her...” She faltered, then pressed on. “I hate her for this!”
Without thinking, she whirled around so that her back was to Symone. Aggressively, hatefully, she seized the left side of her collar and yanked it downward, until her left shoulder was exposed. Symone's gasp screamed into her ears, and she could hear her hands slap over her mouth and the muffled sounds as Symone mumbled over and over, “Oh, dear God...”
Shiloh didn't blame her for her shock; she wouldn't have blamed Symone if she turned in fled, because, if given the chose, running away from it was exactly what Shiloh would have done. Symone remained, though, and soon fell quiet. When she spoke, her voice was no longer muffled, but it still shook. “That's...that's...”
“The Dark Mark.”
Thanks to Sandy for beta-ing, and I can't quite remember who came up with this chapter title, but it wasn't me and I give them full credts and thanks for helping me.