Father didn't come home often, just regularly enough to give us time to recover from his last visit before coming back to replay the nightmare. He would storm in the door, his eyes malignant and penetrating, and he would do one of his famous "inspections". He would search the house, top to bottom (or whatever he felt like before he got bored) for any imperfection in the way the house was maintained or run.
A speck of dust, a chair out of place, and my mother was beaten. Any sheet wrinkled in the nursery, or toy on the floor, and my brother and I were beaten. Any tainted flavor in the food, or less than prompt service, and the offending house-elf was tortured or dismissed, depending on what sort of mood he was in. And this was the first hour.
My brother, Regalus, took to these visits much worse than I, and although he was older, I was often the one comforting him at night as we huddled in the hallway, for the nursery and all other rooms were locked until he left. One particular stay stands out in my mind as the one time that anyone ever stood up to my father, and the consequences even more so.
It started out like any other time, with my father banging through the doorway, demanding a brandy. This was the only thing he would ever drink during the time he was at home; that one single welcoming brandy, so he wasn't drunk on alcohol while he stayed. He was more intoxicated by the twisted depths of his saccharine addiction. His addiction to his plan for perverse exactitude.
My mother strode forward, the only one ever allowed to approach him, and kissed his cheek. He ignored her completely and brushed his face as though it had only been a breeze wafting by, but there was hell to pay if she did not complete this ritualistic greeting.
"Well?!" he would roar, "Do you not love your own husband enough to greet him? You filthy whore, you don't deserve the likes of me, you DISGUSTING, WORTHLESS SLUT! You contaminate my very presence, GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"
But that did not happen on this occasion. On this occasion, my mother kissed my insouciant father without incident, and Regalus and I watched on solemnly as we pressed our backs against the wall, determined to reduce the space between us and this vile man, if only by a millimeter. He would then sit down to guzzle the brandy in a minimal amount of gulps, before slamming the bottle down and standing up to begin his inspection.
We were to follow silently, a good distance behind him, but always close enough so that he could "discipline" us if need be without having to reach too far. This particular time, we reached all the way to the nursery before he found anything worth mentioning. Regalus and I still slept in the same room, a child's room, because mother didn't want to have to bother with sending Netta, the house-elf who nannied us, upstairs each night to tuck us in, when she could just as easily leave her in complete charge of us 24/7, and out of her hair. Sometimes I wondered if she ever remembered that she had two sons until we tugged at her dress, asking for something that Netta had failed to grant us.
However, when father was home, she always tried to stay by our sides, a wooden dagger against the invincible beast. Though she looked torn and writhed with sobs each time our father hit us, she knew that it would do no good to intervene, and would only leave us with no one to feed us, for all the house-elves were locked up, only used for father's benefit when he was there. Back in the nursery, all appeared calm, and I almost hoped that there would be no beatings this time, but knew deep down that there was no hope for peace when the beast ruled the manor.
He paid careful attention to the nursery, for there always seemed to be something wrong with it; children's unavoidable mistakes. This time, the conviction was unexpectedly greater. He must haven noticed a bulge under my pillow, for I could see his eyes light up at the sight of imperfection even before I could comprehend the issue. His eyes moved slowly to me, then to Reglaus, before darting back to the pillow.
He strode across the room, and the next instant he was flinging it off the bed, and triumphantly holding up a thick, leather-bound book, inscribed with gold calligraphic writing on the front: The Rising of the Darkness. It felt as though my entire body had gone numb. I stood, staring into the leering eyes that spewed fire and hate towards me, disintegrating my heart into nothing. I was empty, nothing stirring inside me, and I swear that for those moments as he looked into my eyes, victory and distorted jubilation swimming in his, my heart stopped beating.
"So," he hissed in a deadly whisper, "though we'd steal a book from my study, did we? Let me tell you something, little boy; we don't steal in this house." As a matter of fact, I hadn't taken the book from his study, but found it in the library on a bottom shelf that I could easily reach. Indeed I'd actually forgotten about it until now. More importantly, I hadn't even been reading it, for at five years old, with no schooling at all, I could barely recite my alphabet. I'd loved it for the pictures, gray line drawings, though they were, because I could make up stories about them, the dragons and great wizards that I saw illustrated. My own escape from dull reality.
"YOU'RE A THIEF AND A GOOD FOR NOTHING IMBECILE!" he suddenly roared, flecks of spit spraying onto my face. I averted my eyes, unable to withstand the permeating hatred that they emulated. "YOU ASININE MISCREANT, LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU!" he screamed.
Then he reached out and slapped me hard in the face. I barely flinched. I knew that it would only make him angrier, but already my dignity was too great to be beaten so easily. His next move was always a punch, so I readied myself, slackening my jaw to minimize injury, and sure enough, the blow came, forceful enough this time to knock me to the floor. I tried to ignore the dull ache in my jaw, preparing myself for more serious harm, but to my surprise, none came. I dared to look up, hoping that I wouldn't see his face above mine. He had now turned to Regalus.
How could this happen? I thought. How could I do this to my brother, for now he'll be beaten too. Father was snarling to him, "You, you must have helped him too, no doubt." And Regalus was struck to the ground with a blow from my father too. I slumped to the ground, not feeling strong enough to even support my own neck, and I remember looking at Regalus, his teary eyes swimming with accusation as though saying, how? How could you do this to me? before he was sent unconscious by a kick to the head. This sent a new feeling through me. Rage. I couldn't bear to see my own brother punished for something that I had done myself. A sudden rush of adrenaline pulled me to my feet.
"Stop!" I shouted. "Stop it, father!"
Father turned to me slowly, but before he could do anything, Mother intervened.
"Frank, don't! Please, Frank darling, don't hurt my boys!"
Her face was streaked with tears, and I could see the nearly tangible heartbreak that she so radiated. Father raised an eyebrow, looking eerily calm.
"Your boys? Are they not my boys as well? Did I not have even some part in bringing them onto this earth?" his voice rose, and he now pressed my mother up against the wall. "I KNOW HOW TO HANDLE MY CHILDREN, ANITA!"
He slapped her across the face, and I knew it was forceful because a red streak appeared in the shape of his hand. Again and again he slapped her until she cried, but silently, as to not make her weakness apparent- her dignity was just as great as mine. Her face was bruised and a cut had been made by one of his less than perfectly manicured fingernails that was now bleeding down her left cheek.
"Stop it, stop it!" I screamed, tears gushing down my face, but knowing it would do no good.
Finally, my mother reached out to defend herself, but my father caught her wrist and twisted it cruelly, making her shriek in pain. I ran up behind him and, not knowing what else to, began to beat on the back of his jacket with my tiny fists, the extremity of the situation getting the better of my judgment. He whipped around, and his arm caught me in the shoulder, knocking me down. I scurried backwards, trying to get to my feet.
"Sirius, no!" Mother cried.
Father had let my mother go and was now facing me, smiling at my obvious fear as I scrambled to my feet.
"No, Anita, let him. You want to fight me, do you, boy? Go on then, what have you got?"
I stood there, uncertain of what to do; this had not gone how I'd planned it.
"No?" he continued, seeing that I would do nothing, "Well, then I bet I could show you a thing or two!"
In two strides, he was across the room, and I had no where to run. He was reaching into his back pocket for his wand (God knows what he was planning on doing with it), but it gave my mother enough time to gather herself. In was swift motion, she grabbed a vase from the table next to her and threw it at my father. Her aim was good and it hit him square in the back of the head. He paused for a moment, surprise illustrated all over his face, before he fell to the ground at my feet.
It reminded me of one of the pictures I'd seen in the book that had started this all, of a wizard after having slain a dragon, and it lay at his feet the same way my father was now at mine. But I was no great wizard, I knew that, and I had not been the one to slay the dragon. So I ran into my mother's arms, and let her comfort me, her motherly instincts for once shining clear.
A while later he woke up to see my mother standing over him, twirling his wand in her fingers. He had not been moved from his place in the nursery, and he now jumped to his feet, though still looking groggy.
"I-what-Anita, what are you doing with my wand?" he asked aggresively. "Give me back my wand, woman, or you'll be getting more than those bruises on your face!"
Mother looked very calm. "Frank, I can do much more harm to you with this wand than you can to me with your fists. I can protect myself, too. You and your little games may have made me to seem like a fool, but I'm not stupid, Frank. With you unarmed, and me with a wand, I can use any number of curses on you, including Unforgivables. Do not forget that I am just as attentive to the Dark Arts as you are!"
Father seemed to know that he had lost. He could do nothing, now. With a glare, he stormed out of the room, and we followed him to the entrance hallway. He snatched his coat from the coat rack, and opened the door, turning back to us for a moment.
"You-I'll…just…" he couldn't seem to find the words, but only slammed the glass door behind him with such force that it cracked down the middle.
As soon as he was gone, Mother dropped to her knees and enveloped Regalus and me in her arms and hugged us tight.
"Never again, babies, never again…" she whispered.
That was the last time my father ever hit any of us. He died the next day, found dead in his Ministry office. My mother always was more powerful than she let on.
I pick up one of your thin, pale hands-so elegant. But then, that always was how you appeared: as such an immaculate lady-like woman. Of course, people never could tell just how wrong they were until it was too late. Until they'd already been captured by you, and then, even when they realized the truth, they couldn't go if they wanted to. Most of them dealt with this by calling themselves the domineering one, when they knew that in reality, you were full well the one holding them ruthlessly in your mental prison. They all hated it, knowing that you had them tethered to you like a dog on a chain, never able to make it past the image of you-everyone, that is, except me.
