Magical pursuits
A striking pop resonated between the silences filled with clickering cutlery and carefully mastigated mouthfuls.
From his seat, Lucius side eyed his wife slicing his steak with more force than necessary. Ever the socialist, Narcissa didn’t even bat an eye at his pointed stare and greeted the tardive guest.
“Bella dear, supper is at seven thirty,” she said, but gracefully stood up to embrace her sister.
Bellatrix rolled her eyes and answered, “I let the tournament know, Cissy.”
Draco let his silverware lie in disarray on the pearly tablecloth as he turned to gaze at the newcomer. His aunt was a strikingly beautiful woman in an unrestrained way, a complete opposite of his mother who had a controlled and poised beauty. She wore a feral grin with her dishevelled combat uniform and her hair curling in every direction.
As Narcissa regained her place, she looked displeased at the state of her son’s silverware.
“How is my lit~tle nephew ?” Bellatrix asked condescendingly, she sat at the table as the cutlery appeared for her. “Still learning the fundamentals of eating like a proper Black, I see. Cissy, you should let me teach him, he will be our pride.”
Draco looked thoroughly chastised as he bowed his head clenching on his cutlery. Lucius seemed to get impatient for attention as he coughed while the Malfoy matriarch exuded feigned indifference.
“Draco is still young. Your concern is appreciated but unnecessary.” Lucius deplored his own son’s childishness but he was a child still. “How was your tournament then ?”
“My brother-in-law, you will be happy to know that the French accepted the Dark Lord’s proposition. As for the fun part, the tournament. There was some challenge from the Indian wizard, Gup something and the German Sorceress, of course. Because their rules are so restrictive. No maiming. No killing. Bla bla bla,” she sang while raising her voice to a high pitch. “And as you well know, people are wary of us English citizens. Like being under the reign of the Dark Lord isn’t the utmost honour but a tragedy. Not killing some of them for their impertinence is getting harder~ and hard~er.”
“Bella, not before Draco. He is a child.”
The words had Bellatrix rolling her eyes in contempt for the overbearing and ineffective education her sister was providing their heir.
“A future Black. He needs to be educated in politics.”
“A future Malfoy too, Bellatrix,” Lucius corrected each time the woman occulted his family name while knowing it was a losing battle. “With Dubosc in the French government, they would accept to sign a treaty of annexation. If not for Dumbledore sniffing around.”
“Lucius, not at the moment.”
“My apologies dear, inner circle talk.”
“The blue room and whiskey will be at your disposal later for those.” Dutifully, each wixen ate in silence until the lady of the house engaged once more. “Bella, will you accompany me to the Parkinson's tea party ? I heard they’ll introduce their collection of rare breeds. Lady Cordelia Parkinson has been gushing about their exotic findings. We get a couple of halfbreeds and suddenly, they have some too. Could it be any more obvious ? I was already thinking of extending our own collection, but now I am second guessing. We don’t want to be seen as the one following their trend.”
“What important matter indeed,” sarcastically retorted Bella, a gorgenard grin on her face as she mocked her sister’s preoccupations. “Maybe I should teach them a lesson.”
“My dear sister-in-law, as the years grow you get more and more fiery,” said Lucius while staring right in her eyes, still cutting his bleeding meat.
****
The smell of cheap coffee and the ringing bell accompanied the orphans each morning. As per usual, Hermione freed her face from her wild curls, then fought with the heavy - but not insulating enough for the harsh English winter - blanket to stand up. Still groggy, she reached for her second robe, the used one and stepped towards the shared bathroom for a free stall.
In the mornings, the only noise was the grunts of orphans meeting each other in the corridor or the chirping of common blackbirds. She relished in the ephemeral tranquillity as she followed her routine. Undressing. Getting dressed. Washing her face. Brushing her teeth. Here they had an unbreakable toothbrush but she knew wixen had proper grooming spells like the teeth brushing one or ones for make up. Hermione couldn’t wait to get her wand, but as orphans, they would have to gather one week before the start of the school year to get one. One after the other. The books were a donation, she heard. The robes too.
Being separated from her parents and thrown into this new and magical world had unsettled her at first, but she had bounced back with a plan. Studying every bit of magic she could get her hands on. Talk to people and gather information. Sell her help and knowledge in spells in Hogwarts. That way she could save up and realize her project : meeting her parents and restoring their memories.
The second day at the orphanage, she had written their names and address, every bit of information she could remember of them and their lives on paper. The next day, the papers were drawn on, insults and mockeries. It was impossible to decipher her previous words. This, more than being chased, more than seeing her distressed parents, more than being labelled an orphan when her parents were waiting for her, was the last push towards hardening herself before desperation got her.
Looking at her reflection, she shook her head to chase the thoughts, there was no time for remembrance. After grooming herself, Hermione had to run for breakfast if she wanted any food on her plate. Her thoughts had kept her in the bathroom longer than anticipated.
“Herm, you’re still there ?”, asked Ethel in the stall next to hers.
“Yes, let’s go. We have porridge and oranges today.”
“Like everyday you mean.”
Ethel languidly opened the door, too nonchalant for Hermione who grabbed her arm to motivate her. Her friend was since used to her habits of punctuality and perfectly played obedience as she only laughed at being dragged.
The little blond witch was a year or two younger than Hermione, they had theorised together. She had been one or the rare cases of abandoned witch from at least a wixen parent of the orphanage. With her birthday unknown, the two girls had decided on a birthday date with serious criterias like star placements, the magical energy of the season or holiday proximity, and less serious ones like the proximity between their birthdays. Ethel and Hermione were friends and sisters, a novel experience for the both of them. Ethel had been mostly alone, rejected for her status as an abandoned witch before Hermione came, a little late for the gathering of mudbloods her age. The wild mudblood never could suffer injustice, and when Ethel had been bullied in front of her, she reacted and protected her. Since then, Ethel has followed her everywhere.
“You like oranges,” said Hermione, frowning at her friend’s answer.
The younger witch pouted as she responded, “I do, but eating only oranges ..it’s annoying.”
“Hmm, think of Hogwarts. The long table filled with every food we can think of and some we can’t even imagine. Cakes, steaks, choux à la crème, italian pasta-”
“Please don’t. Thinking like that makes me hate the food here more.”
The last steps before entering the cafeteria, they slowed down until they walked gracefully like Ms. Golbert liked.
The round tables were already packed with half the orphanage as the girls rushed to get their oranges, their bowls of porridge and their glass of pumpkin juice. Hermione had had to get used to the flavor of pumpkin, especially in juice. She still frowned at the taste, but every bit of food was welcomed here.
“Oi mudblood, stealing our food after stealing our magic ! They should eradicate your people,” yelled Lester Flint from his table of only purebloods.
“Oh, I must have stolen your intelligence too, if you can believe those stupid theories,” snapped back Hermione, after sitting down with Ethel at an occupied but not full table.
“Miss Granger, keep your voice down. We are not on a muggle farm.”
Behind them, Ms. Golbert had appeared, straight as an arrow and with a face one could confuse with a muggle painting as her expression rarely changed from her sneer and raised eyebrows. No one really paid attention to the never-ending battle between the little group of pureblood children from parents who fought for the Dark Lord but died and the savage mudblood. Hermione had tried to keep a low profile at first, but her sharp-tongue and her sense of fairness had gotten in the way.
With Ms. Colbert breathing down their necks, the cafeteria quieted down. Ethel took apart her orange, tasting the first quarter to test the sweetness. Unfortunately, the fruit was more acidic than sweet. Seeing her little sister wrinkling her nose, Hermione peeled her orange to taste a segment. It was sweet and zesty. Without a word, she separated her orange in half and gave the other half to Ethel in exchange for her sour half.
Ethel gave her cutest smile as thanks. In those moments, Hermione thinks about how happy she is to have found Ethel. Their lives are sweeter, easier when they are together.
Bell rang signalling the end of breakfast, but every orphan stayed seated in silence. As the last note resonated, each wixen proclaimed : “We thank the Dark Lord for his infinite clemency towards us. We are thankful for the food and shelter. We are thankful for the future He gave us.”
A minute of silence later, they stood up leaving the elfs to clean.
Hermione and Ethel rushed discreetly towards the door, they had a free period until class which they liked to take in the garden in the summer.
But behind them was the pureblood clique following while snickering. Lester laughed loudly for all the corridor to hear before departing from the group grinning. A mean look in his eyes, he followed the girls.
Giggling the witches strayed from the original path to reach a little clearing. They had to fight high bushes and irritant plants. Ethel picked wild flowers on the way, finding a dandelion to blow on.
Taking their usual place at the centre of the clearing, Hermione started telling Ethel about the last book she read. The blond listened to her, her head in the grass observing the flora and fauna which changed from season to season.
“You lowlifes are so boring,” said Lester passing through the high grass to reach their cocoon.
“You really can’t get enough of us,” she responded, looking like she was ignoring him, but really she was putting herself as a barrier for Ethel.
“I was feeling courteous and decided to announce the grand news here so your general lack of decorum wouldn’t taint us more.”
He took a letter from his pocket, adorned by an emblem. One of a noble family. From this far it was difficult to see which.
Ethel jumped at the document and its meaning, “A sponsorship !”
“You know what it means,” he said mockingly.
“Oh we know. You’ll never have to work in life to get what you want and at the end of it, you’ll realise that you are good for nothing, good only by blood. Nothing else. Nothing in life was yours.”
She uttered the words like a prophecy, like the flows of destiny we’re taking her body as a vessel. A sudden gust rustled through the branches, sending leaves into the air.
Lester was shook and his shock always translated into anger. Admittedly, most of his reactions translated into anger.
“And you filths, you’ll be in the end class. And after that, non one is going to take you for work or apprenticeship. You’ll end up on the streets and for mudbloods like I wouldn’t be surprised if you started whoring yourself. That’s all you’re good for anyway.”
Ethel’s anger took over her. The feeling grew more, and more–until Lester was hurled into the bush.
He looked terrified for a moment, until fury drenched his face.
“You’re finished, stupid. I’ll tell Ms. Colbert and my sponsor, and … you’ll disappear,” he yelled, his finger pointing at her in triumph.
Hermione couldn’t let him say anything, “Oh you believe those rumors, Morgana, you’re gullible. But you know what, go on. Tell them you’ve been beaten by a 7-year-old. They will support you, right ? Your sponsor won’t think you are weak and doesn’t deserve their sponsorship, right ? You deserve it anyway, right ?”
Doubt crept inside Brian’s mind, he looked like he was thinking his hardest for the first time in his life. And without a word or a look back, he turned around to get back to the main building.
When the girls were alone for sure, the older one whacked her little sister’s head.
“That’s for your stupid move. You have to control yourself. I know it’s not easy. Flying books around isn’t a problem, but pushing a pureblood will get your head on a platter,” admonished Hermione, wrapping her arms around her as she felt the tears soaking into her robe.
Today, she dreamed she could run away, away from the orphanage, away from Great-Britain. They would cross the Barrier and get to France, on the coast where she had once been with her parents on holidays.
But Hermione couldn’t run. She had a mission, saving her parents and Ethel.
****
Today, Harry and Remus prepare themselves for their trip to the family house of the Weasley. The occasion ? James has a mission of two weeks and the Weasley wanted Harry, and Remus even if they don’t explicitly say it, to be lonely. They invited them to stay at least a week. Harry can’t wait, he misses Ron and Ginny the most, but as it is the holidays he’ll get to see the entire family reunited. Embrace their easy warmth and insouciance.
“Harry, how many books did you take ? Do you even have clothes in the bag ?” Remus was emptying Harry’s travel bag, a growing pillar of books next to it. “When are you going to read this anyway ? You know how the Weasley siblings are, they are going to hog your attention.”
The young boy stared worryingly at the half-empty bag, pouting slightly as he directed his stare towards Remus.
“I’ll read in my bed. And if I get bored. I don’t want to be behind, I like the spells we’re studying.”
What Harry didn’t say is that Ron and he had discovered his siblings could do magic in their house with their wand and they wanted to try some spells. For that, he needed the books.
“I don’t think you’ll have time, but if it reassures you, why not,” nodded his uncle without much ado. Since his mother, Harry could ask for anything. He hadn’t really used the privilege, he didn’t see for what, but learning magic, he thinks his mother would approve. “Though, take some more clothes. Don’t forget underwear.”
Harry shuddered and shooed him outside his bedroom with his hand waving.
“Remus ! I’m not going to forget undies. You’re so embarrassing.”
From behind the door, Harry could hear him say as he laughed, “We’re going in thirty minutes. Be ready.”
“Huh adults,” he complained, but the next minute a small smile adorned his face at the bag full of books.
After taking a few more robes, pants and undies to put in the light bag, Harry slumped on his bed made by Barty. He closed his eyes. With him breathing silently, he could hear the silence of his room. The stillness. Listening to the silence for too long made him hear a discreet buzz. Sometimes he wished he could hear nothing else. His mom told him that some muggles don’t hear anything, they’re born like that. Muggles are full of weird diseases really, but this one, he thinks he envies them for it. Not having to hear people, he would love that. Being in his own world, all the time. A perpetual ward around him. The dream.
“-ry, Harry, we’re going.”
At the calls, Harry heaved himself from the now dipping bed and waited for the excitement to see the Weasley come back.
Slowly, he made his way down the stairs with the bag in one hand and the guardrail in the other.
Before the floo chimney was his uncle dressed simply but smartly with no bag to see. For a man in his thirties, he looked definitely worn out. His beard was streaked with gray. Bags under his clear eyes. His complexion which was once golden, now comes closer to sickly pallor.
Harry couldn’t pinpoint the reason for his appearance. Maybe his mother’s departure had been harder on Remus than he thought it would.
A thought crossed Harry’s mind. These days, his uncle was called more and more to the ministry for checkups. Maybe he was sick. Sicker than he already was.
Remus turned back to take a note from the dresser, James had written a word for them, for him maybe, though excitedly Harry.
“What did dad say ?”
Pity streaked Remus’ eyes for a second, then he composed himself and answered, “Oh James, just basic stuff for the house, it’s like he forgets we have an elf. Molly told me she made your favourite dish for tonight, can’t wait, can you ?”
Harry’s shoulders slumped, biting his lips. Finally, he nodded and smiled tightly.
“Yes, I can’t wait.”
Remus clenched on Harry’s shoulder, before letting the child, soon to go to Hogwarts, use the floo. Shortly, he followed.
After opening his eyes, Remus arrived to a heartwarming scene, Harry buried in a multitude of arms and ginger hair. He could see his eyes gleaming from unshed tears and a smile so stretched it must hurt. Clearly, accepting the Weasley’s invitation was already doing a lot of good to Harry.
“Hello Molly, Ginevra, Ronald, Fred, George. I let Harry in your hands,” he said while putting their bags on the side of the sofa.
The children were already running upstairs. Remus started talking to Molly before Arthur entered. They exchanged on the weather before diving in politics or deeper discussions.
“How is James ? It’s been a few months now and I feel like he’s still adrift,” said the matriarch, after the banalities were used up.
Awkwardness filled Remus, he never liked discussing others while they were gone. Especially his friend and benefactor on his reaction to his wife’s death. Remus didn’t doubt the sentiment behind the questioning. Molly looked worried for the Potter family.
“He’s getting better, but recovery is slow. His work consumes most of his time, he says it’s better like that but I don’t know. And taking holidays is an arduous process.”
He couldn’t bring himself to tell his growing restlessness and worry at seeing James interact the bare minimum with Harry. The uneasiness between them was suffocating. Remus didn’t want to think more about James' novel destructive habits.
Telling the Weasleys felt like tattling, no matter how childish as it sounded in his mind.
****
A cold chill passing through his light clothes covered Harry with goosebumps. The darkness instilled an icy dread in him, one repelled only by the presence of his panicked friend. Their breathing made a ruckus in itself.
Creak. Creak.
Creak.
In the night, each wooden lathe of the house would fidget, wiggle around to liberate themselves of their forced inertness of the day. The humming of their magic followed their movement.
Creak.
Hunched close to the ground, Harry had to slither to the second floor where their objective was. But in doing so, they had to walk on the lathes.
The creaking, moving lathes.
Creak. Creak.
For a second, Harry had a passing thought that the house could hear them think. That they were only playing its game, trapped inside. Magic had never felt so unescapable.
Before him, Ron was already moving oblivious to the turmoil inside Harry. Seeing his friend so nonchalant anchored him.
Ron turned his head, jerking it in the direction of the stairs signalling to move faster. Harry nodded in though Ron couldn’t see him anymore.
Inhale, exhale.
His hand on the guardrail, he slowly put a foot on the first step–Creak.
Ron and him stopped moving, even their chest gave no proof of life. After what felt like fifteen minutes, the ginger side eyed him viciously like he was supposed to know not to step on this part of the staircase.
Taking extra precaution to not be heard, they stepped on the parquet like it was a possible runespoor pit. Their objective was Percy’s room, precisely his wand. They had heard from the twins that they could do magic at home. After that, their curiosity took over and here they were.
When they had discussed their plan under the covers, they had concluded that Percy was likely the easiest to steal from. The olders could have protections and the twins certainly had traps.
The stairs behind them, they had braved the worst. Before them was the door ajar, Ron pushed it slowly. Thankfully, no grating from it. There was Percy snoring softly, half his body on the covers, his hair tousled–a far cry from his neat appearance.
On the nightstand, their treasure laid aligned to the side with a straight stack of papers.
Ron dashed outside, the wand in hand. Now they just had to get back to their bedroom and open the books Harry had brought. Their excitement was palpable.
Walking back slowly was harder with their prize in hand. Harry made sure not to step on the damn creaking lathe under the piercing glare of Ron.
They had arrived inside their room, finally. The door was closed. The books on the ground with the wand. They were ready.
“We should try easy spells before fun ones,” Harry whispered, browsing through the books, his eyes squinting from the poor light provided by the moon only. “Lumos, maybe ?”
“Urg. You’re probably right, but let’s do a curse after.”
Ron was wiggling next to him in uncontained excitement, mimicking throwing a spell in mid-action.
“And I’ll take revenge on the twins for all their pranks,” added Ron followed by a machiavellian laugh.
Harry rapidly covered Ron’s mouth with his hand to muffle the noise as much as he could.
“Shut it. Someone will hear us.”
After staying still long enough, they took back their place between the opened books. Harry took the wand first, “Lumos…Lumos.” He swung the wand, left and right, up and down. “Lu~mos. Lumo~s. Lumos. I don't get it.”
“Wow, calm down,” whispered Ron, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender. “ You’re going to break it, swinging it like that. Give it. I want to try.”
Pouting, Harry abruptly put it in his hands to flip through the book. The action, done thousands of times with his mother, took him back to a lesson he had with her on magic.
She had said something like, “Magic is intent, Harry. You need to want it, to really want the spell to work. Like when you apparated, what did you think and feel ?”
Harry had frowned heavily at having to remember such a situation.
“Hmm. I was scared of the magical elk and I wanted to go away.”
“Exactly. Emotions can play a big part in a spell. But just wanting something really bad can make it happen. You have to trust your magic, honey.”
Next to him, Ron was spinning the wand in frustration and had just abandoned saying “lumos”.
“I want to try something my mom said,” he whispered, putting the book on the ground.
Ron practically threw the wand at the words and responded, “Yeah. I wasn’t going anywhere with it anyway.”
The wand in his right hand, Harry closed his eyes to imagine the glow of light, its warmth. Expressing his need for light to see, to read.
At first he felt nothing but his breathing, and then–a surge of power.
“Harry, look !”
He opened his eyes to glance at the wand, but nothing at the tip. Surprised, he raised his left hand gesturing his incomprehension. But there it was a glow inside of his own hand.
A small flame dancing over his palm.
His own light.
****
A firm knocking on the door unfocused Marvolo Riddle from his research. Straightening his back behind his wooden desk, he distractedly threw his quill in the glassy inkpot. The deep green liquid swirled on the carved scales of the serpentine pot.
“Enter.”
The door was slowly pushed by a gloved hand, the wixen entering was covered from head to toe with a somber hooded robe. Seconds after letting go of the door, it closed itself smoothly with a resounding click.
“Welcome Unspeakable Lovegood,” said Riddle with an authority polished by years of command.
The black silhouette nodded, staying perfectly still before answering, “Thank you Mister Riddle. Should I start my report ?”
Riddle was an enigma for many wixen, a man of sciences and politics. He was one of the trusted of the Dark Lord, not an easy, even if enviable, position to reach. His name suggested muggle descent at least from a side, a curious lineage in this government, but most wanted nothing to do with a close follower of the dirigeant. The ones who played with fire had inadvertently been demoted for the luckiers to disappearing for the luckless. Those instances had only added to his charm, giving a dangerous edge to his classic beauty.
He nodded in agreement. At his right, a quill dipped in the inkpot several times before flying in tandem with a parchment waiting for the report. Next to the pot, no job description on the nameplate, but he had his own office in the ministry.
“The team Nebula has reunited their complementary research and started to experiment with the objects contained in A178. The nexuses are still unstable,” she said, bowing her head in fear-motivated shame. “The flux of magic they provide is following a law we have not deciphered yet. The specialists in arithmantic are adamant that we are missing a major factor for the equations to work. The flux is of a pulsing nature but the regularity is unknown to us. Without it, we risk having a spell of a too broad spectrum to ensure proper conductivity, endangering the Cloak of Protection.”
“Very well. Do you have any clues as to the nature of this factor ?”
“From my own experiments on the permeability of magic to skin and other conductors, I have hypothesized that a spell or a ritual is necessitated to ease the process if it’s not from a biological stimulus.” The words were illustrated by little spheres of light forming a silhouette and the flowing of magic between the diverse materials. “Though I am not specialised in any of them.”
Riddle didn’t need to see her face to feel her frustration at her failures. He was quite impressed by her work.
“Mimicking a biological process is an arduous and delicate task. Show me your attempts.”
At the command, the Unspeakable reached for one of her grimoires from her pocketed satchel. She stepped in front of his desk to deliver the book harboring parts of her research. No good researcher had every hypothesis or experiment inside his official report. Especially not Pandora Lovegood, a witch who thrived on mysteries and letting space for more of them.
Flipping through the book, the wizard stayed indifferent until he paused on a particular page. It depicted an unfinished ritual, one he was familiar with. From a mysterious death. At the time, he had used his academic reputation to keep an eye on the investigation, but he hadn’t found any conclusive answer. One of the rare times his genius hadn’t pulled through.
“Tell me more about this,” he said as he pointed at the page, a small interested grin on his face.
“It’s–It’s a blood ritual, a partial one,” whispered Lovegood, her quivering voice transmitting her agitation. Inhaling deeply, she continued with more confidence. “I theorize that it was made for the purpose of an exchange …of magic maybe. It’s difficult without the runes of the receiving part to make hypotheses.”
Her restlessness was his ambrosia. For a second, he was calculating with how many words, the less the better of course, he could make her falter.
“Where is it from ?”
She stilled at the question, even as she anticipated it. She had put it in the grimoire after all, but the ritual was complex, far more complex than she could risk memorising.
“From Lily Potter’s last ritual.”
“Her death, you mean,” he retorted, annoyance on the edge of his tone. He hated euphemisms on death, people were too nonchalant for the magnitude of such an event. “Quite the interesting death, such a fiery way to go. Exactly what one would picture for one like Lily Potter. A family friend of the Potter, I assume ?”
Staying standing up as much made the ground feel more like a bunch of pins and needles for her feet than the smooth carpet it was. The piercing gaze of her superior didn’t ease her, but being as weird as she was around children had made her more resilient to intimidation.
“You assume well.”
Her short and sarcastic answer made Riddle squint before he added, “You’re not much of a talker, Unspeakable Lovegood.”
“I don’t want to impose myself and waste your time, sir.”
Riddle was losing interest in the conversation already, but work was work.
“We will decompose this ritual to apply it to our needs. Go sit at this table.”
As the words fell from his mouth–a table appeared, chairs galoped behind. Lovegood prepared herself for long weeks of working with her callous superior.
****
As he finished the last words of his book, Harry felt a distinctive emptiness. The one, he felt after a really good book, a world you never want to separate from. Maybe another book could help fill the emptiness.
He stood carefully in the cupboard under the stairs, to not bump his head on the ceiling. Before going out, he kept his ears open, searching for the sound of steps. The coast was clear. He opened the door slowly to glide outside. Harry liked to keep his cupboard mostly secret, as his.
He walked to the library, his eyes on the ground thinking of the books he could choose from. Head in the clouds, he didn’t hear the steps coming from ahead.
Shoes appeared in front of him. Harry raised his head to see his dad. His heart squeezed.
His dad looked at him right in the eyes. No smile. His body straight as an arrow. A blank expression.
A bad day, then.
Fear creeped inside him. He gulped before stepping aside.
Without a single glance, James walked away. And Harry stayed there.
He stayed there longer than he can count.
In a jolt, he continued his previous walk, no thoughts just a path to follow. Before the library door, Harry stopped.
Perhaps he didn’t need a book after all, he didn’t think a book could fill the overwhelming emptiness he now felt. Perhaps he should lie down, sleep a little.
He changed course for his bedroom. After lying down on the covers for too long, lost in the heavy void he felt, sleep came to him.
A knock on the door woke him up. One accompanied by a few words, “Harry, come down. We’re eating.”
A frown on his forehead, he opened the door. Outside was his dad smiling, Harry looked at him suspiciously.
“Yes. Coming,” he answered automatically.
His dad turned his back to him to walk back to the dining room. He chatted excitedly during the walk, “-ould play Quidditch tomorrow. I’m not working and Remus will let you free if we play our cards well. Maybe a -”
Harry couldn’t really concentrate on the words, but he did pick up some words like Quidditch or our. It felt surreal. He wasn’t sure what felt more surreal : his dad talking to him now or him ignoring him before or the two happening today.
“Harry ? Are you not excited for tomorrow ?”
His dad was now face to face with him, adorning a worried expression.
“Huh. Yeah, I love Quidditch.”
“Hmm. You should sleep early, you look tired buddy.”
Harry nodded without thinking much. He felt outworldly, like he was in this reality for a moment only. Disconnected.
A sweet fragrance came from the dining room. Moony was seated, a plate full of a sweet and savoury salad.
They sat down and served themselves, his uncle and his dad made the entire conversation.