motion sickness
“Hey, mom.” Lily greets, her legs stretched out in front of her in the grass of the quad, one arm stretched behind her to support herself, the other holding her phone up to her ear. The remnants of the summer air is wafting through the quad, sneaking between the Humanities and English buildings, the sun just begging for a few more minutes above the horizon. It’s peaceful, just a few other students lounging in the grass, playing catch or reading a book. It’s become Lily’s favorite spot quite quickly, usually bringing her favorite quilt, hand stitched by her mother, and breathing in the fresh Connecticut air.
“Hi, my love. How was your first week?” Lily’s mom says, and Lily can just hear the small, fond smile on her lips, even though she’s hundreds of miles away. Lily can’t suppress the way her lips tug up, the corners of her mouth creasing as she tells her mom all about her first week at Hogwarts Prep.
She talks about her roommates, Mary and Marlene, how they’ve known each other for a long time but had to problem bringing Lily into the mix. “They’re really cool, mom. Too cool for me, I think.” Lily says, her smile unfading as she thinks about Mary, with her impeccable style and easy charm that can’t help but demand attention from everyone else in the room. And Marlene, with her “aura of coolness,” coined by Mary, and the way she’s so unapologetically herself. Lily wants to be like that.
“Don’t say that, bug.” Lily’s mom tuts, “I’m sure they think you’re just as neat as you think they are.” she says good naturedly, and Lily just has to roll her eyes at that. No way. “Sure, mom.”
Moms have to say that kind of thing, don’t they?
The two continue on for a while, Lily’s mom asking about the difficulty level of her classes, if she thinks the homework will be easy enough to keep up with. After a short blip in conversation, an intake of breath from both, Lily asks the question she’s been itching, but nervous, to ask.
“How’s Tunie?” She says, the two words melting into one with the speed they race past her lips. Petunia is Lily’s older sister by four years, but you’d think they were just acquaintances by the way they interact with each other. Or more realistically, don’t interact with each other. “She hasn’t been responding to any of my texts.” Lily adds, trying to feign casualty. Her leg bobs side to side in the grass, her teeth worrying her bottom lip just slightly.
Lily can hear her mother intake a breath and release it, a slight tut clicking in the back of her throat over the receiver. “Petunia is–Petunia.” Her mother says, as if that’s supposed to mean anything.
But it does mean something.
Lily nods, even though she knows her mom won’t hear the affirmative. Petunia really was just–Petunia.
“Yeah.” Lily says, not really knowing where to go from there. They sit in silence for a moment before Lily’s mother clears her throat.
“I visited dad today,” She says with forced casualty, as if expecting a reaction from Lily. Lily’s eyes shutter closed for a moment before responding. “Yeah?” she says, trying to maintain a neutral tone. A light “mhm” is heard over the line. “The gardeners are not keeping up with the leaves falling. I had to clean them all off myself. Replaced his flowers too, some pretty ones I found at Trader Joe’s–carnations, I think?...” Lily’s mother continues to speak, and Lily lets the words wash over her like a warm bath, her eyes shuttering closed again and staying closed, leaning back into the grass, mumbling an affirmative hum every once in a while to signal that she’s still listening.
They say their goodbyes after a while. Lily looks around at the empty quad, the sun having said its final goodbyes long ago, and breathes.
She feels a little guilty for it, but she hasn’t thought about her dad all week. Not since she said her goodbyes to her mom and came to school.
But grief, for Lily, goes like this.
The dreadful feeling washes over her for the first time in over a week, replacing the warmth of the breeze with a damp chill that sends goosebumps over her arms. Lily runs her hands up and down her arms rhythmically, rubbing the goosebumps away and grounding herself in the process before getting up out of the grass and walking back to her dormitory. There’s only one more person in the quad when she leaves; a boy with curly black hair sitting in the middle of the grass, head tilted back to the sky.
When Lily gets back to her shared dorm–quickly adjusting her facial expression, knowing it’s definitely not the typical smiley Lily that Mary and Marlene have gotten to know–Mary and Marlene are sitting on the colorful tufted rug, absolutely swallowed by blankets and pillows and watching some reality show. Mary looks over when Lily opens the door, smiling immediately.
“Hi, dear! How was your day?” Mary asks, genuine interest in her voice. Marlene looks over now too, her eyes peeling off the TV screen. “Hey, Lil,” Marlene says, and Lily can feel her searching her face. “Everything alright?”
Lily’s face heats immediately, not used to people being able to read her so easily. Marlene is good at that.
“Hi, guys. Had a great day, yeah. I’m alright.” Lily says quickly, smiling warmly at the girls in front of her.
Lily doesn’t think it’s a great time to have the dead dad conversation.
Mary and Marlene don’t push it further, if they wanted to. They’ve only known each other for a week, anyway.
. . . . . . . . .
Regulus grunts, blinking sweat out of his eyes as he sends another sharp forehand across the net, perfectly down the line as he readjusts his grip, preparing for the next ball to come flying out of the machine across the court from him. His private coach is sitting on the sideline, his intense stare piercing through Regulus as every muscle in his body burns from exertion. Coach Riddle doesn’t say a word as he watches Regulus, but he doesn’t have to in order to put the fear of God into him.
Tom Riddle has been Regulus’ private tennis coach for almost seven years now. Tom became a private coach after retiring from coaching the greats, boasting famous names and many, many tennis titles himself. Ever since the Blacks sent their sons to Hogwarts, Coach Riddle has accompanied Regulus there. Orion and Walburga will not trust anybody else to oversee their son’s “advancement in athleticism” as they say.
Regulus likes tennis, don’t get him wrong.
There are moments he loves it, even. The whistle of the ball shooting across the court, the echo of the impact to the strings of his racket, the smell of fresh clay courts, the ecstasy of a game point serve.
But outside of those moments is another story.
The predatory eyes of Coach Riddle, the tut of his father, the faint feeling he must push through, the need for perfection.
These moments make Regulus despise it all.
The Spinshot finally runs out of ball to lob at Regulus and he resists the urge to hunch over and gasp for air, instead putting his hands behind his head and inhaling deeply as Coach Riddle watches him, his stoic, chiseled face scorching Regulus more than the sun beating down on him.
“You weren’t contemplating placement.” Riddle’s voice rings out across the court. He doesn’t even have to raise his voice, the cold tone of it carrying itself towards Regulus. A direct message. Regulus doesn’t reply, staring ahead at the other side of the court and breathing. His hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat, and he can feel the sunburn across his cheeks. “Your footwork is lazy, Regulus. Your shots are flat footed.” He continues, his hands steepled across his crossed legs. “Your split-step timing is late. I counted at least ten balls you were late to.” Regulus is barely listening, not even looking at the man picking him apart. “-are you even listening, Regulus?” Riddle says, and Regulus only hears it too late. His coach is on him in seconds, standing over him, a cold, emotionless expression on his face.
Regulus flinches anyway.
If Riddle notices the flinch he doesn’t say anything, looking down at Regulus in only the way he and his parents do. It used to be scarier, when he was ten and terrified. Now he’s nearly Tom’s height, and he’s not terrified.
He swears he’s not terrified.
He’s not terrified when Riddle grabs a fistful of his shirt, or when he leans impossibly closer to Regulus’ face.
“You listen to me when I’m speaking to you.” Riddle says lowly, threatening yet so intensely calm. Regulus nods, forcing himself to look into Riddle’s cold eyes. “You have a voice, Regulus.” He chides, a phrase he’s used since Regulus was a child. Regulus swallows, his throat feeling impossibly dry as he chokes out a “yes, sir.” Tom smiles icily, releasing his grip on the front of Regulus’ shirt. The thing is, for Coach Riddle, Regulus only has a voice when Riddle sees fit.
He swears he’s not terrified as Tom brushes the hair off of Regulus’ sweaty forehead.
He can’t look him in the eyes this time.