The Röbels were enjoying a sea-grey afternoon on the porch—supposedly. Ernst sat with his back against the front door and shredded a corner of the paper. His mother was trying to be discreet ("family troubles will only worry poor Ernst"), but she had forgotten he could read lips again.
"Did you read this?" she asked his father, bending a letter in her grip. "How is our favorite great-nephew?" His mother's family hadn't spoken to her in twenty years, but since he got his Hogwarts letter they'd been much friendlier. "We can't wait to have him visit. It's such a shame we never see him, he's such a sweet thing. A shame they didn't know I could do something right. Perhaps they would have kept me. Do let him come, darling, you're far too possessive of the boy." He couldn't see his father's reply, but his mother tensed. "His own kind! You agree, I'm too possessive?"
Mr. Röbel glanced over his shoulder long enough for Ernst to catch "just because you didn't get along with them—"
"That boy is the only magical thing I have. If they turn him against me…I'll walk off a cliff!" Ernst tipped his head back to block out the words, but instead of the gulls flying he saw only the spider's nest in the porch roof. The church bell echoed in his chest. He counted the days until school returned. When that didn't help, he closed his eyes and conjured someone else's, ice-blue and distant; a thin, mocking mouth turned down at the corners; fine hands that were too good to touch yet always seemed dirty.
Everything else went away.