Chapter Text
Mercy is non-existent.
That’s one thing I’ve always known.
Watching my mother grieve for a man who’s been dead for just under a decade has given me the truth: life doesn’t wait. It strikes when you’re happy.
My father was a good man. Or so I’ve been told. I can’t really say for sure; the Order likes wrapping their dead in shrouds of heroism.
I say this as the crisp wind nips at my ears, fingers twitching in the pockets of my coat. The air smells of smoke, like someone just lit up a cigarette in the area. My mother hums softly as she arranges the white roses she cut from our garden against his grave. The sound cuts through the cold like a knife.
She used to hum more. Now, she only does it at Dad’s grave. Like losing something that was her’s and saving it for a ghost was her gift.
An owl hoots in the background, and her shoulders jump before she returns to fixing the flowers. The petals are a crisp white against the grainy texture of his gravestone.
Apparently, Dad used to love them.
I turn my attention back to her.
She’s hunched over the grave, pale skin flush against the chill. Her dark hair is graying slightly, her crows' feet deeper than I remembered. A thin black coat swallows her slender frame.
I think back to the pictures I’d found snooping around in the attic.
She seemed so young.
Now, at thirty-two, she just looks wilted. Pleased, but sad, too. Like laying down flowers we’d carefully grown throughout spring and snipping them to death was going to fix everything.
Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids. My fingers slide over the smooth metal of the pocketwatch in my pocket. It had been Dad’s. It was the only thing Mother hadn’t packed away.
Last time I’d checked, it had been three in the morning. It’s five-thirteen now.
We’d been here for over an hour and a half.
My jaw clenches.
This had been happening a lot lately. Ever since I’d gotten my letter from Hogwarts, her episodes had slipped from once a month to once a week.
Today, she’d shaken me awake in my bed, eyes wild, muttering something about how Dad was lonely and that we had to keep him company.
I’d gotten used to it.
I’d lost more sleep than the number of pencils I’d lost in Muggle school, and I’d lost a lot of pencils.
“Elian, you haven’t wished your father good morning yet.” Mother’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I stride forward, crouching beside her.
Her hands are shaking, tips are bright red, skin cracking over her knuckles as she carefully adjusts the roses once more.
My lip curls.
They’re already perfect, tied up with a silky red ribbon in a perfect bow. She won’t stop picking at them, my brain says.
Focus on what you can actually help with, I hiss back.
I pull off my gloves, sliding them onto her hands. Mother stiffens. She doesn’t like me taking care of her. That doesn’t stop me.
I pull away, staring at her covered hands.
My gloves are too small, stretched over limp fingers, but it’s better than nothing.
“Take better care of yourself. It’s the third time you’ve forgotten your gloves this month.” I say. Mother just hums louder, and my throat tightens. “Leave gloves in your coat next time. I don’t want you to freeze your hands off.”
Mother’s eyes glaze slightly, her lips curving downwards.
“You’re ignoring your father, Elian. He’s going to be upset.”
I twist my head, eyes skimming over the intricate text of his tombstone.
Benjy Fenwick.
March 18th, 1960 - September 21st, 1981.
Beloved son, husband, and father.
It makes my chest wind up in annoyance half the time. Today, the emotions are quiet.
I don’t want to say anything.
I do anyway.
“Good morning, Dad,” I say, my voice rasping softly. I don’t register whatever I say after. I don’t care much for moments like these—frequent as they are.
“That’s a good boy, Elian.” Her hands brush over my hair. I duck my head slightly.
“Thanks. Can we go home now? It’s cold.” I ask, and Mother shakes her head, lips quivering.
“He’s so lonely, Elian. He needs us.”
He’s dead. I want to say that so badly, but I bite my words.
Still, the thoughts spill.
He’s dead. And you’re acting crazier than normal, and Uncle Remus promised to take me to Diagon Alley today because I need to get my school supplies, and I’m so—
“Elian?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m tired.”
My throat burns.
She gets tired a lot nowadays.
“Do you want to go?” I ask.
She goes quiet. That usually means yes, but I don’t move right away. Instead, I ask again. “Mom. Do you want to go home?”
“Okay.”
I help her up. She looks back, hands trembling, but I just nudge her side gently.
“Say bye to Dad,” I say, and Mother just nods.
“Bye, Benjy.”
The wind whistles softly like it’s trying to answer for him. My mouth curls downward.
“Say bye, Elian.” She murmurs.
I draw in a shaky breath.
“Bye, Dad,” I reply.
Then, I tug her towards the sidewalk, turning her towards our house. It’s a fifteen-minute walk, and the sun is barely starting to come up.
The walk is silent for the most part. Then, a few minutes away from our house, Mother starts up a conversation.
“School supplies.”
“Hmm?”
“You were saying something about school supplies. Back when we were with your father.”
I exhale.
“Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”
“But—”
“Uncle Remus promised to take me. You just rest.” Her face softens slightly, lips spreading thin.
“Remus promised you?” She asks, and I nod sharply, looking away. “I’m your mother, Elian. I should be taking you, not Remus.”
“I know, it’s just—”
“Just what? You didn’t even tell me about any of this.”
Something hard coils in my stomach, and the words are out of my mouth before I can think about them.
“Well, you didn’t seem too interested in my Hogwarts letter, so I asked Uncle Remus.”
Mother’s face twitches.
“I was interested. I’m just…”
“It’s okay,” I say, but her shoulders tighten, her mouth twisting into a scowl.
“I’ll take you. We’ll go today. I’ll owl Remus about it, and we can—”
“But I want him to take me.” I blurt, and Mother’s eyes narrow, face hardening ever so slightly.
“Remus isn’t your parent, Elian. This is important to us. It’ll be a good bonding session for us.”
I clamp my mouth shut. Arguing with her isn’t going to change anything. I hate that it won’t.
Several beats pass.
“Elian, look at me.” She says, and I reluctantly meet her gaze.
Her face is sharp with guilt, her brows furrowed together. Her eyes, green-gray as my own, are full of an emotion I can’t name.
“What?” I say. Mother’s hand raises to thumb across my cheek, and I nearly pull away.
“You’re my son.”
“Yeah. What about it?” Mother sighs softly.
“That means I know what’s best for you. I want to take you to Diagon Alley, okay? I want to be there for you, so, as I said, I’ll owl him about it.”
I grit my teeth.
We don’t even have an owl right now. I don’t even know how she’s going to owl him when Jester is at the wizarding vet hundreds of miles away because he broke his wing.
“Jester’s at the vet. You can’t owl Uncle Remus,” I mumble. Mother’s shoulders tighten. She looks surprised, a little confused. Normally, that look would pull an apology from me. Today, it doesn’t.
“Right. Look, how about we—”
“Can you just let Uncle Remus take me? I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”
Mother falters, her lips pursing.
I tap my foot impatiently.
After a minute, she opens her mouth. Her voice cracks midway.
“ Alright.”
My heartbeat slows, and a sharp, digging sort of relief claws at my chest. It’s dizzying.
I hate how warm it feels.
“Okay.”
“Come on, then. We’re almost home.” She says. Her voice sounds more tired now.
I nod sharply, turning to walk ahead of her.
We turn the corner towards home—Mother fumbles, searching for the key she didn’t bring.
My shoulders slump.
I push the door open. She always forgets to lock the door during her episodes, and she’s never trusted me with the keys, even though I’m eleven.
I’m a little surprised we’ve never been robbed, but I’m grateful anyway.
The house is clean as usual.
Blue walls that I convinced her to paint.
The key bowl with our keys still in it, metal gleaming like they were trying not to be forgotten the next time around.
Picture frames of Mother, Dad, and me back when I was a baby, and he was still alive—loads of pictures of me after he died.
Mother doesn’t like clutter unless it comes to pictures, so the rest of the house is minimally furnished.
I toss my coat over the stairway pillar.
We settle into the kitchen easily enough, like we hadn’t just fought. I pour myself a bowl of cereal, and Mother gives me a look as I shovel it into my mouth.
I pay no mind because she’s probably going to try and make some fancy breakfast, burn it to a crisp, and settle for cereal with me. She’s always trying to prove she’s normal after grave visits. It’s sort of her thing.
I don’t stop her.
As soon as I’ve finished eating, I head upstairs before Mother can say anything to stop me. Something in me preens about the tiny rebellion.
My eyes catch on the clock as I hobble up the stairs.
It’s six-twenty.
Remus arrives at eight.
I pick up the pace.