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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.
Charlus wiped the sweat from his brow, and heaved out a harsh exhalation of breath. The wizard sat back on his haunches and admired his handiwork: the flowers were flourishing, fully in bloom and proudly displaying their colours.
Charlus ducked his head and searched amongst his tools for a brief moment—a drop of sweat ran down the side of his face, and made a hasty path for the tip of his nose, where it stayed until he scrunched his nose and it flew off. "There you are," Charlus mumbled, his gloved hand scooping up his pruning shears.
Charlus hummed a jolly tune as he cut himself a few yellow daffodils from the flower bush in front of him, and he placed them in a neat pile beside him. Dorea will love these, Charlus thought cheerfully. Charlus had just the vase to put the daffodils in; he would surprise his wife, and leave the small bouquet in her office to greet her when she came home.
Charlus carefully laid his shears down next to the rest of his tools, and with a grunt he rose from his kneeling position. His legs were numb from being stationary for so long, and pins and needles shot up along the length of his limbs as he straightened out.
Charlus stared down at the tools he'd accrued over the last few hours. He placed his hands on his hips, and tipped his head to the sky; it was a gentle blue, the fluffy clouds were lazily drifting on by, and the delight smell of fauna surrounded him.
When Doe gets back we can grab a cold drink, and sit out on the porch, Charlus mused. With a sigh Charlus's head fell forward once more.
Charlus pulled his wand from behind his ear, and muttered, "leviosa," with a swish and flick. The tools slowly levitated a few feet off of the ground. Charlus made a fancy flourish with his wand, and the tools cautiously glided through the air—as if hesitant and afraid to travel too quickly—and he trailed after them.
Charlus came to a halt round the back of the Manor in front of the gardening tool shed—it was layered with weather resistant charms, made of pine, and the hinges squeaked a touch (he'd been meaning to fix that).
Manually he opened the latch that had flipped shut with the wind and pulled on the edge of the right door; it creaked and groaned with effort as it swung outwards—wobbling slightly before it came to a rest.
Charlus's tongue peeked out of the left side of his mouth as he guided the tools back into their appropriate places with a flick here, and a swish there.
Charlus's humming picked back up as he shut the shed doors and fastened the latch back into place.
It was a bad habit, but Charlus tucked his wand into the back pocket of his maroon trousers on his way back over to his flowers. Once he reached them, he tucked his hair behind his ears (he really needed a trim, perhaps Hermione could give him one), he squatted down, and gathered the daffodils into his hands.
Charlus trekked round the side of the house, and ascended the porch steps. He paused in front of the door and kicked off his muddy boots one by one with soft grunts of effort.
He truly intended to get farther than the Sun Room, but as soon as he shut the door behind him, the warmth of the room massaged his tired brain and urged him to sleep.
To his credit, he gently laid the daffodils on the coffee table before he flopped onto one of the sofas. Charles brushed his hair back off his forehead, and threw his arm across his eyes.
In mere moments he sank into the plush cushions and drifted off, the sweet smell of fauna having followed him inside, and it swirled around him.
It was a peculiar dream: a dream that was far too pleasant, and made little to no sense. Oddly enough, there was a light drizzle hitting him, the cobblestones were hard under his feet, and a warm witch in his arms.
A peal of laughter fell from the young witch's lips.
I've been here before, he thought, and realised he had, many years ago. The young pair danced along the cobblestoned street in Diagon Alley, twirling as the rainfall grew more intense.
Dorea abruptly but not unkindly gripped his face, and with an urgency and ferocity that he was not expecting she said, "I love you, Charlus Potter. Forever. Never forget that."
"I love you too," Charlus responded, hands wrapped around her waist. A tiny frown tugged at his brow when he saw that tears were brimming in her eyes; a single, fat tear rolled down her cheek.
Charlus rubbed soothing circles across her back with one hand, and with the other he reached up to brush the tear away.
Dorea's smile wobbled as she brought his face down to hers, her kiss faint, and a bit cold. Charlus tightened his grip on her, but his body began to shake.
"Master!" The voice called in the foggy distance, it fervently echoed in his ears, and he broke their kiss to stare off into their hazy surroundings. Diagon Alley was gone. When did that happen? he thought.
"Go, Mipsy is waiting for you," Dorea said.
"Mipsy? What do you mean?" Charlus asked, but then the fog crept up to them, and Dorea began to melt away into it, and with a loving whisper she said, "I love you, Charlus Potter."
He didn't get to say it back. The fog claimed her, he blinked, and he was staring up at a wide eyed Mipsy.
"Mipsy?" Charlus frowned, voice gravelly, as he blearily peered at the House Elf.
The House Elf's eyes wobbled, and she wrung her hands anxiously as she floated back down onto the ground.
Charlus sat up, and his eyes squeezed shut as his head began to pound. He carefully planted his feet on the ground, and held his head in his hands; Mipsy had scurried over to the fireplace, and it was then that Charlus saw noticed that green flames were furling around a disembodied head of a matching hue.
"Master he said it was urgent," Mipsy said, smoothing down the skirt of her baby blue apron.
Charlus rose from the sofa and strode over to the fireplace—he wasn't quite steady on his feet and he couldn't place why—and was surprised when he saw a familiar face. "Jameson?"
"Potter," the head nodded, a grave expression weighing down on his features. Jameson was a ginger, and he was a short, stocky man. The wizard's wiry, unkempt beard covered part of the puckered, scarred flesh on his left cheek from an encounter with a werewolf that went horridly wrong almost fifteen years ago (he insisted it was his own fault, and he should have known better).
Jameson was a beast and beings activist, and an outspoken Auror. The man was darn good at his job, but last Charlus heard he was thinking of retiring. Although, with the upcoming war he couldn't see Jameson backing down from a fight.
"How can I help you?" Charlus asked, scratching behind his ear.
Something dark flickered on the other wizard's features, "I think it best if I tell you in person...can you open the floo for me?"
It was an odd request for sure, and hefty dread was pumping through his veins, viciously spinning around like a merry-go-round as it swirled into the pit of his stomach. "Okay."
Charlus had known him for years, they'd gone to lunch together several times, they saw each other at Ministry events and enjoyed light banter here and there. However, they were not close enough friends to call on each other at home, which meant something was amiss.
Something was wrong. It was only then that an emptiness in Charlus's chest made its presence known. The world was off-kilter. As if his calibration was off by a few degrees, and as a result the ground itself had betrayed him.
Charlus's limbs were leaden as he opened the floor long enough for Jameson to step out into the sun room.
Jameson's hands were clasped in front of him, and the sadness swimming in his eyes shocked Charlus. It was then that he knew. His chest hollowed out as the loss of one of his most treasured bonds was made clear; the string had snapped—the intangible string tying his wife to him has snapped—it wasn't faint or weak, the bond was gone.
Charlus swallowed thickly, that isn't possible.
"I think your children should be here…" Jameson suggested kindly with a warm, broad hand on Charlus's shoulder. Charlus dumbly nodded.
A small pop sounded as Mipsy disappeared. He assumed she was summoning the children.
"It's gone…" Charlus whispered.
"Pardon?" Jameson asked, genuine concern pouring off of the man, his firm grip on Charlus's shoulder an anchor to this world in a nauseating storm of grief.
Another small pop. Mipsy was back. The children arrived: Draco, Hermione, and James, their laughter was jarring to him, and it stabbed at his noggin as he turned to face them. The laughter that had bubbled out of them seconds ago, died as their gazes fell upon a stoic Charlus and remorseful Jameson.
"Mipsy will go put on a pot of tea," Mipsy said, oozing discomfort; her light grey skin had taken on a sickly, greenish hue.
"Thank you, Mipsy," Charlus deadpanned. It was gone.
"Dad, who is this?" James asked. His beautiful, beautiful boy reached out and grabbed a hold of his siblings hands.
"I think we should all sit down," Jameson said, voice weak.
This could not be easy for the man, and Charlus did not envy him. Charlus nodded to confirm he'd heard the other wizard, but his ability to form words seemed to have been robbed from him.
It was gone. It couldn't be gone. She was going to walk into the house any moment now.
Charlus had somehow tracked dirt into the house, he caught sight of it as Jameson guided him over to their sofa he had been napping on.
The entire way there it was as if he was trudging through knee-high mud whilst he heaved a burdensome load on his back.
Jameson's words confirmed his greatest fear. Charlus's fingers moved back and forth across the plush sofa cushion, and Jameson's mouth formed words, but they came out as a muted buzzing sound.
In his peripherals he saw James turn to stone in disbelief, vigorously shaking his head, and Hermione crumpled in on herself, falling into Draco's arms with her mouth open in a silent scream. Steady, unassuming tears marched down Draco's cheeks.
Charlus wanted to hug them and tell them it would be fine, but his mouth was as dry as a desert, and he found himself unable to move.
A ruthless crack ripped the air apart, and then Hermione and Draco were gone. James stumbled over to Charlus, and he somehow mustered enough strength to catch his boy in his arms.
There was nothing he could express audibly that would ever be enough, so he simply held his boy, rocking him and stroking his hair.
James's body wracked violently with sobs, and vaguely Charlus heard Jameson saying that Charlus could stop by the Auror office whenever he was ready to collect Dorea's things and decide if they wished to take further action against her attacker; accident or not, there must be repercussions for one's actions.
Charlus mumbled something in assent, and said, "I'll come by…"
Jameson nodded, and the man's footfalls fell heavily on the hardwood as he departed, his boots thundered, leaving a permanent impression behind in his wake.
Charlus would never forget the expression on Jameson's face, and part of him would always be resentful towards him for being the bearer of bad news. Logically he knew he shouldn't, as he was only the messenger and not the actual perpetrator.
It wasn't Jameson's fault that his bond was broken, nor was it his fault that his son was unravelling in his arms.
Charlus briefly wondered where Hermione and Draco apparated to, but he didn't have to wonder long as there was a sharp noise from upstairs, and a broken cry that petered out until it halted abruptly. Someone threw up silencing charms, Charlus guessed astutely.
Mipsy appeared with a silver platter: blueberry scones, three dainty cups and a sturdy cornflower teapot. "So Mipsy's feeling was right…Mistress—" the house elf choked on her words, and Charlus subtlety nodded his head.
The china, and the silver platter clanging, clattering and smashing onto the floor made Charlus flinch. Mipsy was hurriedly on her knees—avoiding the still piping hot liquid all over the floor and broken pieces of china—hands shaking as she began to gather the pieces.
Charlus's eye shifted to the yellow daffodils on the coffee table, far too bright and joyful now; though, in a cruel way they were relevant to their current situation with their meaning.
James hands fisted in the front of Charlus's shirt and brought the man's attention back to his son.
James cried as the sun set, gulping in lungfuls of air as he blubbered, and Charlus was still wrapped in a impenetrable bubble of shock so he didn't show an inkling of his true feelings. Aside from which, he needed to be strong for his children.
Two of whom were upstairs: Hermione was curled into a ball in her room beside her bed. Draco was sat a few feet away—back against the bed frame—knees bent, head hanging in between them, hands fisted into his hair.
Around them was a sea of debris as Draco had broken anything he could get his hands on when they'd apparated into the room.
Hermione gathered herself enough to crawl over to Draco, and he clung to her as they both sobbed. Their eyes were red, faces hot, vision blurry, and their noses were running; they were a mess, but they held each other as the brutally gruesome waves of grief devoured them whole.
Their grief swallowed them, chewed them up thoroughly until they were ground into a smooth paste and spat them back out with disdain.
The Potter family had been splintered irreparably, and this tragedy only served to remind Hermione and Draco that the middle of their story—the Potter family tale—didn't have a happily ever after.