A/N: Well, I couldn't leave well enough alone. James wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote his part of the story, too. He wants more, too—for one, he's unhappy that the Weasleys don't know that Ginny is alive or that he even exists. I may or may not comply with another chapter, but let me know what you think. shrugs
I also wanted to address the person who informed me that this should be marked tragedy and character death. First of all, if I told you it was character death, it would completely ruin the ending. The point is you're not supposed to have warning that he's going to do something like that. Ginny certainly didn't. About it being marked tragedy: I thought about it, I really did. I decided not to, however, when James started bugging me about the second part. Besides, from Harry's point of view, this isn't a tragedy. It all depends on how you look at it.
Well, enjoy. James is an...interesting character. Very lovable, but slightly on the psychotic side. This side of him would be much further exploited in another chapter, if I choose to write one, but you get a taste of it here. Have fun.
In my dreams we're always flying, the three of us together. We slip easily through the air with majestic white wings, cutting through puffy white clouds. Sometimes I dream that my wings are bleeding and broken, and I flounder in the sky. I begin to fall, and I want to scream because I know I'll hit the ground. I never do, though, even in my darkest nightmares. No matter what, he always catches me. In his arms, I'm never lonely. I never have to ask painful questions, and I never worry about falling.
The morning sunlight streams through the windows and hits my eyes. If I weren't already awake, that would certainly keep me from sleeping longer. I get out of my bed and join my mother in the kitchen, giving her a slow, sleepy smile. She nods in return, and silently indicates that breakfast is waiting on the stove. I give an almost imperceptible nod of thanks as I serve myself bacon and eggs.
Silence is a virtue. That's what my first grade teacher used to tell us when the class wouldn't sit down and be quiet. I wonder if someone told my mother that once, and she took it to heart. She rarely talks, and never says a word unless it's to me. Even then, it's only when we're completely alone and it's completely necessary. Silence is a virtue, intones my teacher. We should all be silent like Jamie here.
At first they thought I was stupid because I never spoke, even when directly questioned. I didn't say my first word until I could talk in complete sentences at six. I didn't see the point of the spoken language, and at first I thought they were stupid. I always spoke with my mother in a complex series of subtle shifts in body language. They didn't understand me when I spoke to them this way, and my mother eventually had to explain that not everyone knows what we know. Words are superfluous. Silence is a virtue.
When I was very young, the only time mother spoke in words was to tell me stories about him. My father. They were my lullabies, soft crooning songs of love pulled from the depths of my mother's shattered heart. I used to hate him for leaving her, us. He broke her, I thought, and nothing will ever fix her again. I grew up quickly, though, and mother told me new stories. Stories of what it's like to be really broken. Stories of my father's broken smiles.
In second grade we were supposed to draw pictures of ourselves with our dads for father's day. Everybody else drew bright, beautiful pictures, but I only stared at the paper blankly. How could I draw myself with someone who died before I was born? The teacher asked me what was wrong, and I shrugged. I had no words to describe what I was feeling, and the teacher didn't understand the language of my mother. She scolded me for being naughty, and insisted that she would call my mother if I wouldn't behave.
I drew a picture of my dreams that afternoon. Armed with my box of twenty-four brightly colored wax sticks, I sought to breathe life into the image of the man who kept me aloft despite my broken, bleeding wings. I drew him the only way I knew him—shining white wings, lifeless green eyes and broken smiles. I was proud of that picture, and I still have it. My teacher was distressed, though. She called my mother and told her I was a deeply disturbed little boy.
My mother looks up at me from the paper, and lifts an eyebrow in question. It isn't like me to be melancholy this early. I sigh and roll my eyes. I run my fingers through my hair, eyes darting to the ground before meeting her gaze. She nods her understanding. I'm thinking about him again, but don't want to talk about it. She turns back to the London Times.
I think my mother's name is Ginevra, and I'm positive her last name was Weasley. She changed it when she came here, to the Muggle world. Ginevra is a distinctive name. Virginia is not, though it shares a common nickname, so it was no problem for her to switch from one to the other. Evans was my father's mother's maiden name, and common enough that it doesn't stand out in either world. Thus it was that six months before I was born, Ginevra Weasley died, and Virginia Evans was born.
I take the opportunity to study my mother. It's been awhile since the last time I really looked at her. Everyone agrees that she's very pretty and plenty of men have asked her out since him, but she never takes them up on the offer. Sometimes I think that he wouldn't want her to dwell on him like this and ruin her chances of happiness. Then I look into her eyes. Her eyes are her most arresting feature. Wide and brown, they dominate her pale freckled face. I suppose people described them as innocent when she was young. Now they seem old and jaded, as though they've seen too much—I think they are all the more beautiful for their wear.
Her hair used to be red, from what I can tell out of old pictures. Everyone in her family had red hair. She dyes it black now, so that people are less likely to question whether or not we're actually related. We share the same chin and ears, though I have my father's nose. I have my father's slender build, too, coupled with my mother's smooth grace and nimble hands.
Absentmindedly, she reaches over to snag a piece of toast from the platter in the middle of the table. She misses her target, and I scoot it closer. Her foot brushes against mine by way of thanks. When I pour her more coffee, the smile she flashes is small. I can easily imagine a younger Ginny grinning happily, eyes crinkling with joy. Now I can't imagine her giving anything but this tiny yet expressive smile.
Later today my mother has a meeting with my guidance counselor. They want to tell her about what a smart little boy I would be if I ever opened my mouth. He's so shy, they'll tell her. He needs to make some friends. Suddenly silence isn't a virtue anymore, and they'll tell her to get me a psychiatrist because there must be something wrong with me. We've been through all this before. She'll only look at them with sad, disappointed eyes. You don't know my son, she'll tell them with her little gestures. They won't be able to hear her, though, and they'll get angry. How old did you say you were? they'll ask dangerously. Her eyes will tell them that she is one hundred.
When I was seven, my teacher filed a report saying that I was abused and neglected. The case was taken to court and they fought to take me away from my mother. In the end the judge ruled that mother was mute, which accounted for my odd stillness. He said it was obvious that I didn't want to be taken away, and that was the end of the case. The judge did express concern about my mother's lack of a job, however. She just shrugged and picked me up. She was telling him that it didn't matter. She had me. I think maybe, just maybe, someone finally understood her.
My mother is unemployed, but when father died he left everything to her. His family was old and pureblooded, and he had the combined wealth of both his family line and his godfather's. We've never had to worry about money, because he left everything to us, including his name. In a way, it was like a twisted belated marriage proposal—my mother got the right to adopt his last name, and it gives me the vestige of legitimacy. More than that, she got the rights to his name. He's famous, she explained. Very famous. That's why, even though we could, we don't use his last name. She won't let anyone print anything about him, though. Right now, she's working on his story herself. She's writing everything about him down—all the glory and all the flaws. She's determined to write nothing but the truth. Her book will be honest. He deserves to be seen as he really was, how he would want to be seen. Human.
After breakfast I grab my book bag and head out the door. My easy posture and casual gait inform my mother that I'm in a good mood, and that I promise to be good at school. She makes a tiny sound right before I leave, and I turn to look at her. She gives me a wry smile as she walks over and tucks a brown paper bag into my backpack. My eyes smile back at her, though I school my face into haughty indifference. I stand on tiptoe to kiss her goodbye, and she wraps her arms around me. She presses a kiss into my hair and squeezes before releasing me for the day. I'll see her again this afternoon, for that meeting.
My guidance counselor is an earnest young man, and I have no doubt that he's sincerely worried about me. He's new, so he doesn't know about my family history, and apparently the teachers are still worried enough that they'd rather let him have a go at us than warn him off. He smiles pleasantly at my mother, and offers his hand to her. She just looks at him coolly before settling into the waiting chair. I settle into the other and pull my feet up so that I'm positioned cross-legged in the armchair. Mother tells me it's very endearing when I sit like this, though it seems to make other adults nervous.
The counselor is flustered already by my mother's behavior, especially by her lack of vocal response. When he sees my position, his eyes narrow slightly. I wonder which of his suspicions I've confirmed.
He's determined, I'll give him that. Despite the poor beginning to the meeting, he is steaming ahead. He addresses my mother as Ms Virginia Evans, because he seems unsure what he should call her. The pause he gives before introducing himself indicates that he expects her to specify which name he ought to use. Her unblinking stare seems to faze him slightly.
The meeting is as much a waste of time as I thought it would be. Everything that is said has been said a thousand times by a thousand voices. The boy is brilliant, but maybe he has a learning disability—would you like him tested? Your child is very talented, Ms Evans, have you considered special schooling? Your son rarely talks, do you know why? As always before, when faced with my mother's silence, the questions dry up. A single nod is the best answer he can hope to receive, and she only deigns to give even that when the question is a decent one.
Then he pulls out the pictures. Ever since the picture I drew in second grade, I've been obsessed with bringing my thoughts and dreams to life on paper. I've drawn many things over the years, and most people agree that I'm very good. I experimented with every media I could get my hands on, and I've drawn every subject that caught my eye. Always, however, I return to the image that started it all. I want to capture that picture on paper, but it never comes out the way I want it to. It never fully conveys the sheer volume of emotions that it ought to.
Apparently it has enough emotion to disturb the professionals, however. My counselor sneaks a few glances my way as he watches my mother flip through my art journal. She pauses the first time she comes across a dream image. Her hand comes up to rest on my fathers face, touching it hesitantly. When she looks toward me, I can see nothing but pride. The counselor seems to see something else, however, and looks smug.
Mother continues to flip through the book, lingering on several other dream pictures. She stops entirely when she reaches the last, unfinished piece—the one I couldn't complete because they stole my book. Silence is a virtue, reads the caption. My mother stares into her own face, done with watercolors. One brown eyes sparkles with life, while the other is still a gray pencil mark on the page. Her skin glows, and her freckles stand out in sharp relief. Red hair spreads around like a halo, hiding her ears from sight. There is no mouth, though the ghost of a smile lingers through the wrinkled nose and tightened cheeks. Traces of pencil indicate wings in the background, though I haven't been able to paint them yet. My mother's reverent touch is all the praise I could ever ask for.
Later that night, my mother takes me into her lap. She wraps her arms around me and presses kisses into my hair. The soft aroma of anise fills my nose as I breath in my mother's scent. I'm too big to sit on her lap like this, even though I'm rather small for my age. My mother doesn't care. "I love you", she whispers aloud. It's the first time I've ever heard her say the words. I bury my head in her chest, and allow a single tear to trickle down my face to be absorbed by her black silk blouse.
I cried the day the letter came. It was sitting on the breakfast table when I woke up, and my mother's eyes were boring holes into it. The paper was nowhere to be seen, and the smell of burnt bacon filled the kitchen. My mother didn't seem to notice as she scooted the blackened pieces of meat around her plate, the rest of her food completely untouched. We knew it was coming. We thought we were ready. We were wrong.
We are both pale as she pulls out her old robes. They haven't seen the light of day in eleven years, and they require a few spells to make them presentable. I slip on a simple black robe of indistinct cut. It's a bit too long and rather loose, but it's good enough. Mother pulls on her old blue robes, and I'm stunned by how different she looks. In tailored Muggle blouses, my mother looks beautiful and sophisticated and older. In baby blue witch's robes she looks barely seventeen. She would pass for my sister far more easily than my mother. The sharply amused look she shoots me indicates that she's well aware of this, and I giggle nervously. I'm too tightly strung to joke with her right now.
When we get to Diagon Alley, I press myself into her side. I've always known all about the Wizarding world, but this is the first time I've actually entered it. It blows my mind away. I clutch her hand in mine as we silently make our way through the hustle and bustle of the crowd. Our first stop is Ollivander's, where I go through over half the shop before finding my match. 11½ inches, ebony and dragon's heartstring. Good for Transfiguration and Dark Arts. The proprietor gives me an odd look when he announces this, as if slightly suspicious. Apparently my wand is one of only two in his store that specialize in the Dark Arts, and he wants to know why it chose me.
Mother drags me away quickly, and as we walk, she indicates that it has something to do with people fearing the rise of another Dark Lord. I think its slightly ironic that I'm being suspected, seeing whom my father was.
When I go to be fitted for robes, the seamstress attempts to draw me into conversation. I refuse to rise to the bait. What House will I be in? How should I know! I don't even particularly care. She speculates over the reasons I might have for wearing a very outdated girl's robe. I raise an eyebrow and remain silent. I'll leave her to the amusement of trying to guess. I hope it keeps her up at night.
We finish shopping quickly, and head back through the Leaky Cauldron, pausing only long enough for something to eat. We talk silently about the sights around us, of this world my mother abandoned the night my father died. Deliberately we avoid any mention of why we are there. For this moment, we attempt to forget that in a few short weeks I will board a train that will take me far away from my home and my mother.
Our few weeks pass far too quickly. We spend every spare minute in each other's arms, desperately holding on to the only familiar thing in a rapidly reordering world. My mother presses her loving kisses into my hair, and I memorize the feel of being encircled by her warm arms. The night before I leave, I sneak down to the kitchen and open the spice cupboard. As quietly as possible, I removed the tiny jar of anise seeds and sneak back upstairs to hide it in my trunk between the folds of my new robes.
Platform 9¾ is even busier and noisier than Diagon Alley. Everywhere I look, people shout hellos to old friends, reminders to write often, and last minute goodbyes. I watch as one girl about my age bursts into tears as her mother gushes about what fun she'll have at school. Beside her, an older boy rolls his eyes and shouts for a friend to wait up.
I turn to my own mother. Silently we hug, and she places a soft kiss on my forehead. She tells me to stay safe and that she loves me. Carefully, she tucks one long strand of black hair behind my ear, rubbing a finger tenderly against my cheek. Looking straight into my eyes, she gives me a smile. I'll be alright, baby. I reach up to touch her nose with my forefinger, an affectionate baby gesture that I haven't used in a long time. You're my mommy and I love you.
After one last hug, I'm on my way to Hogwarts via the Express. It takes me nearly five minutes to find an empty compartment to settle down in. I'm already in my uniform, having decided that it would be much easier to deal with at home instead of the train. I reach inside one large sleeve, and gently stroke the head of my familiar, Anuuan. I've had Anuu since I was four or five—mother gave her to me after discovering I'd inherited one of my father's more unusual talents. I never have figured out quite what type of snake she is, as the black, silver, and green markings don't look like anything normally found in nature. Right now, Anuu is the only thing keeping me sane and centered. Without her, I would be lost in this confusing new world.
Ten minutes into the ride, the two children from the platform poke their heads into my compartment.
"Hey mate," begins the boy. He's tall, with sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes. I estimate that he's in his second year. His sister is slightly taller than me, with wavy brown hair and her brother's eyes. "Mind if we sit here?" I wave negligently toward the empty seats, watching silently as they step in. "I'm Michael Callon, third year Hufflepuff." I'm a year off. "This is my sister Madeline."
"Just Maj, please," she interrupts.
"Maj," he continues after rolling his eyes, "will be in first year." I nod to show my understanding and acceptance, then return my gaze to the window. Out of the corner of my eye I catch them exchanging confused glances. Apparently they aren't used to being brushed off and ignored. Oh well—not my problem. After a few failed attempts to engage me in conversation, they give up and pull out books.
A blissfully quiet half hour passes before the door to my compartment opens again, and two more strangers invade my privacy. One has vibrantly red hair and brown eyes that reminded me of my mother. The other is a strawberry blonde with silvery blue eyes that seem not quite human. Both are girls and both look my age. I almost groan—they look as if they plan to stay.
"'llo Mike!" chirps the blonde, tossing her braid over her shoulder absentmindedly. "We we'e jus' lookin' for you an' Maj." I'm slightly puzzled by her lisp. I wonder if it's a light accent or a speech impediment.
"Well, you found us!" My two companions stand and a series of hugs and hellos go around. From what I can gather, the redhead is Persephone and the girl with the lisp is Audelaine. They're both first years like myself, and know the Callon siblings through their parents. I observe their reunion in silence, turning away when they start to notice my presence.
"'Ullo then," Audelaine begins cheerfully, plopping herself onto the seat beside me. I scoot away slightly, edging towards the window. I'm telling her quite firmly to leave me the hell alone, but she won't listen. "You might'a guessed, but I'm Laine Weasley. The redhead 's my cous Persephone." She offers her hand.
The look I send back to her is carefully copied from my mother. She told me once that she learned it from a man named Malfoy, my father's rival at school. It does the trick, and she lowers her hand slowly, frowning. "You're lookin' to be Slytherin, then?" I raise an eyebrow, wondering what Houses have to do with anything.
On Laine's other side, Persephone rolls her eyes. "Leave him alone, Laine. Just because he's shy and taciturn doesn't mean he's bound for Slytherin." I try not to stare at her—where did she come up with the idea that I was shy? In all actuality, I rather like people most of the time. I'm what my mother fondly calls a lurker—someone who wants to be in the thick of things, surrounded by people—part of what's happening, but out of the spotlight. She says that my father, ideally, would've been a lurker like she was.
"Non, non, I don' like big wo'ds, Seph! What does 'taciturn' mean?"
I turn back toward the window and let the following conversations wash over me, not really paying attention except when new people enter the compartment. Nearly a dozen people introduce themselves to me by the time the train ride ends, and I have yet to tell anyone what my name was. At one point Laine and Persephone make a game of trying to figure out who I might be. Maj even ventures that I'm a long-lost scion of the Potter house, because I apparently look quite a bit like the pictures of the famous Harry Potter. Michael rolls his eyes at that, and sarcastically tells her that it's more likely that I was Potter's son, or better yet, the Boy-Who-Lived reincarnated. It takes all of my will power to remain silent and unaffected, when inside I'm dying to explode with laughter.
The trip across the lake is amazing. My first view of the castle takes my breath away, and I wish I could capture the picture on paper. I vow to get into Hagrid's good graces to see if he'll take me back out someday, so that I can paint the view.
My companions are the three girls from the train, and they all chatter boisterously. While we wait to be brought into the Great Hall, I listen to them speculate about how we're to be Sorted. I nearly burst out laughing again as I hear a breathless Laine inform Maj that her Uncle Fred told her that we have to wrestle a troll. Persephone, in turn, says that Uncle George said the same thing to her, which obviously means it can't be true. This sends Maj into gales of laughter, so I assume there's an interesting back-story. I find myself hoping that I'm placed in the same House as one or all of them—Persephone and Audelaine are my cousins, whether or not they are aware of the fact, and I'm desperately curious about the family my mother left behind.
When the elderly Transfigurations Professor calls out my name, Evans, James, I have to take a deep breath. As the hat slips over my eyes, I wait.
Aah, Mr. Potter. The voice is dry and very, very old.
No, I think back with amusement. I'm not technically a Potter.
Weasley, then, the hat mentally shrugs. I didn't know there was a child of such a union. I'm happy, though. But where to put you? Let's see Mr. James, what have we here? You have all the bravery of a Gryffindor, but none of the foolhardy optimism that so marks that House. You have the brains of a Ravenclaw, but lack the drive. Similarly, you have the cunning of a Slytherin, but lack the ambition. You have a Hufflepuff's steadfast loyalty, but not the temperament for that House. So where do you belong? The Weasleys and the Potters have always been in Gryffindor, but your parents both would've done well in Slytherin...
I don't really care where I'm put. And I don't. I just want to go somewhere. I think back to Maj, who has been Sorted into Gryffindor. From what the hat indicated, Laine and Persephone will probably be in that House as well—and wasn't I just thinking that I wanted to find out more about them? And that is the House of my father and mother. I make up my mind. Well, if it doesn't matter, it might as well be Gryffindor.
Once we reach the top of the Tower, the prefect introduces us to the Fat lady. Her eyes linger on me, and as I slip through the hole she murmurs, "you have his eyes." I almost stop dead, but Laine presses behind me. I'll talk to you later, I tell her. She smiles—she understands.
Inside the Common Room we are all directed to sit down. "Welcome to Gryffindor," begins the prefect. He tells us the rules, and I exchange a glance with Laine. When I express my boredom, I make sure to exaggerate it enough that she can understand. She responds with a barely concealed yawn, and we both smile. "The most famous Gryffindor of all time," the prefect is saying blithely, "was the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter."
Suddenly I'm not bored anymore. What will be said about my father? "Rumor has it that only one painting of our savior exists, and that it hangs in Hogwarts. There is an empty frame in the Entrance Hall, and it's commonly held that it belongs to him. He's never there, though—no one knows for sure where he goes, but legend says that in times of need, he'll come. If you see him in passing, though, it's extraordinary good luck."
"Where's he been seen before?" one boy inquires, tilting his head to the side.
The prefect chuckles dryly and runs a hand through his hair. I read exasperation with whatever he has to say—annoyance at the answer, not the question. "Strangely enough, casual sightings generally take place in the dungeons or the Astronomy Tower." It's plain that in his opinion father ought to be haunting Gryffindor territory.
"Why the dungeons?" Persephone asks at the same time another girl pipes in, "the Astronomy Tower?"
"We don't know," shrugs the prefect. "Rumor is he likes talking to the portrait of Salazar Slytherin, and some people say he enjoys bothering Professor Snape."
"But why the Astronomy Tower?" another girl repeats with interest.
"If anyone knows, they've never told."
"He threw himself off the Tower when he was sixteen." My voice is quiet, but it seems to resonate through the suddenly silent room. Even the older kids stop dead.
"How do you know?" the new voice belongs to a seventh year, and her tone is more curious than accusing. I frown slightly—my mother is including the suicide in her book, but I guess no one bothered to spread it word of mouth.
"My mother was the one to find his body."
More stunned silence, then, "go on, please." The query is soft, tremulous almost. I pause for a moment, trying to see the revelation from their eyes. I suppose they've never really dealt with the concept of suicide, even though I've grown up with it. I'm also telling them that their hero did not, in fact, live happily ever after, nor did he go down in a Gryffindorish blaze of glory. Should I censor for them? As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I discard it. I will not be guilty of sweetening my father's story. It is a tragedy—it shouldn't be altered in order to be palatable for the masses. That's why my mother reserved the sole rights to the story of his life and his name.
With a deep breath, I tell them his story as I know it.
Two nights into term, I sneak out of the Common Room to speak with the Fat Lady. I nod politely in acknowledgement and she smiles back.
"I told him you're here." He wants to talk to you.
I take a deep breath. To see him, speak with him in even the most rudimentary fashion... My nod is curt, but her beaming smile says she understands perfectly.
A week later I make my way up to the Astronomy Tower after curfew—there seems a strange sort of poetic justice to the notion I would meet him there for the first time. An empty landscape sits facing outside, and I settle myself so my legs dangle dangerously out the open window. I smiled sadly as the cool wind touches my face. I imagine what father must have felt, standing right where I am sitting. I see him in my mind's eyes—a frail young man, jaded and beaten, arms spread wide, black robes billowing ominously. It is a haunting image, and I imagine him plunging to the ground to the music of my mother's screams.
A tear slips down my cheek, and the ghostly hand of the wind brushes it away. "You didn't have to," I whisper.
"But I did," comes the soft reply. I turn slightly to watch my father's image. He wears a simple Hogwarts uniform, free of any House markings. He looks much as I imagined he would, and I quickly turn away. It's so hard to look at him, to see the man I would never know. Before I break eye contact, however, he gives me a tiny, sorrowful smile. I'm so sorry, he says. "You've grown up so nicely. You look like your mother. I'm glad."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, and we both gaze out over the starry expanse. "Ginny made everything worthwhile," he says suddenly. "Without her, everything would've ended long before it did." He paused, and I again turned to face him. I am staring into what I've struggled so long to capture—haunted green eyes and listless, broken smile.
"Tell her... tell her it's alright now. Everything will be okay. I'm sorry and I love her."