A/N: Inspired by the song Nightmare, by Saxon, and all lyrics used directly have been placed in parentheses.
Written for Round One of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, with the prompts:
'Every family has bad memories' - Mario Puzo
Nightmare, by Saxon
Stubborn(ess)
'Every family has bad memories'
- Mario Puzo
They were always arguing; the shouting – yelling – screaming – a constant accompaniment to his early years.
He could vaguely remember sitting on the top step, leaning down and peering through the thin gap between the door and the frame, listening to the verbal war his parents were engaged it. They hadn't known he was there; if they had they might have stopped – calmed down – then again, they might not have. They hadn't gone to much effort to prevent him from hearing.
The argument had lasted for hours, but time was of very little relevance to him. He sat in a trance-like state letting the words wash over him, feeling the anger and contempt like a physical attack; feeling it as though it were aimed at him.
He couldn't remember going to sleep that night, but he could remember waking up curled up in a corner of the landing. His dad was still sleeping sprawled across the sofa, mouth hanging open slightly and snoring quietly. He didn't know where his mum was.
(Where were you)
Years later, when he arrived at back Kings Cross after his first year at Hogwarts only his dad was there to greet him. He hadn't thought much of it until they got home. The house felt empty – incomplete in the way that only a vital absence can create.
"Dad..." the hesitant question was almost lost in the echoing quiet.
His dad sat him on the sofa, kneeling in front of him, "She... she thought it would be better this way. She'll write, and you'll still see her. It's... I'm sorry. She's sorry. We both still love you. Just... not each other." He thought he would be more upset about that, but all he felt was an icy numbness that encompassed his entire body, the words holding little meaning to him – but one sentence came through the haze loud and clear.
"You shouldn't blame yourself." And he didn't. He blamed them.
(Where were you)
They managed to carry on without her. It wasn't as difficult as he had thought it would be; he was away at Hogwarts for most of the year now, and she'd always had a very busy life before that hadn't seemed to include him or his father for the most part.
They moved in with his grandparents; into a house that was much too big for just the four of them, and people kept referring to as a Manor. The rooms were emptier than his old house had been, bringing on a much better understanding of the term 'deathly still'.
The gardens, though, were an entirely different matter. He could wander those gardens for days and still come across something new. He would occasionally see his grandmother out there during the nicer weather, sipping from a delicate tea cup and watching the nature with a calm sense of detachment.
He thinks he can remember his mother occasionally joining her in the past.
(Where were you)
He received the first letter just before Christmas of his second year. Her flowery perfume permeated the air before he'd even opened it; invading his senses and bringing back memories that he thought he'd forgotten.
A toy broom given to him before he'd needed two hands to count his age; his father's quiet pride as he flew it for the first time. Sitting next to his mother, looking at the yellowed pages of the heavy book resting in her lap, her voice gentle – almost lyrical – as she read a passage; the words complicated and the topic to advanced for him to understand.
He sat staring at the letter for hours, unable to bring himself to open it. He put it in his trunk for safe-keeping; he'd open it later – when he was ready.
(Where were you)
She sent more letters. There were always some around holidays and his birthday, and a few sporadically in between. They were instantly recognisable by the scent of her perfume; it was the one thing about her that had never seemed to change over the years. That, and the parchment; no matter what sort of paper it always weighed heavy in his hand, leaving a sinking feeling in his chest and a stinging in his eyes.
He kept them all together; an old Muggle shoebox filled with the unopened letters. He would open them tomorrow; the day after; next week.
(Where were you)
She called once, on his seventeenth birthday. The fire had turned a violent shade of emerald green, the flames burning brighter and colder as the floo connection activated. His father had left the room, squeezing him firmly on the shoulder as he passed.
In the end, it had been his grandmother who had spoken to her. He'd just stood in the corner, back pressed into the V of the wall, feeling the familiar numbness wash over him. She hadn't tried that again.
(Where were you)
The letters came further apart, each on requiring less parchment than the last. He didn't really notice at first; it wasn't until he could no longer cram them into the battered shoebox and he'd had to move them to a larger container that he'd really been able to compare their length.
The unbidden swell of anger had surprised him, but not as much as the wave of sadness. He wasn't ready to read them yet – he wasn't sure he ever would be – but he still cared for her; he still loved her. She was still his mother.
(Where were you)
She was there when he returned to Kings Cross after his final year; at least, he thinks she was. It had been so long that his memory of her was starting to fade, and all he was left with was the smell of her perfume – a flower he had never been able to identify, but he was sure his grandmother would be able to tell him if he were to ask.
He didn't ask, and he didn't approach the woman who looked a lot like his mother – older; greyer; sadder; but still looking as if she were entitled to whatever it was that she wanted. Still beautiful.
(Where were you)
Emptying his trunk a few months later was more of a challenge than he had thought, and he hated himself slightly for putting it off for so long. There were clothes he'd grown out of years ago; socks he'd assumed lost; battered old textbooks; equipment that had seen much better days. And, underneath it all, a plastic container wrapped around with string to keep the protesting lid in place.
He dropped everything else, sat down cross-legged on the floor, and began to read.
(Where were you in the night)