The sound of James stomping down the stairs to breakfast was only barely audible beneath the cracks of thunder that insisted on interrupting their morning. It wasn't enough that the torrential downpour had the sky cast even dimmer light than usual – Fleamont really depended on even the barest amount of sunlight to fully wake up – but of course it insisted on injecting itself into breakfast's conversation as well.

"Auntie Dorea's cat is going to die," the little boy said tiredly. James pushed his bangers and eggs around his plate with a fork. At nine years old, he was growing so quickly that he was usually 'starving.' The last time James had barely picked at a meal was when he had a fever so bad that he couldn't get out of bed. This time he was just… strange.

Euphemia recovered from her surprise before Fleamont. "What makes you say that, Jamie?" Her voice was even enough to fool James, but Fleamont could hear the unsettledness in her tone. A flash of lightning lit the rain-beaten window behind her, and for a brief moment she was a shadow against an eerie silver glow.

Their little boy dropped his fork with a clatter and frowned. "I had the strangest dream last night."

"Dreams don't necessarily come true," Fleamont said kindly, if a bit apprehensively. Something was off about this conversation. "Bumblepuft is still very young; I'm sure he's fine."

"My dreams come true," his son muttered under his breath.

Before he could interrogate that line of thought, an owl – Dorea and Charlus's owl – pecked at the dining room window. Although little Snidget (ridiculous name for an owl) was soaked, the wax-coated letter he was clutching wasn't. Fleamont let him in and quickly slammed the window shut (though not quickly enough: the force of the water pelting his body was about enough to bowl him over). Snidget flew directly to Euphemia and politely dropped the letter directly onto her black pudding before starting to peck at Fleamont's bacon.

After a moment Euphemia gasped and flung the letter on the table as if it had burned her. She looked to Fleamont with pursed lips and nodded in affirmation: James's dream had come true.

"What a pickle," said Fleamont weakly. "What a pickle…"

"What's a pickle, Dad?"

The adults in the room ignored him for a moment, communicating through expressions instead of words. Euphemia was anxious, to make it an understatement. The shaking right hand, the pursed lips, the deep crease between her brows: all familiar to Fleamont from some of the most agonizingly uncertain moments of their lives together. Euphemia had a great-aunt who had been a seer; she was poisoned by a business rival of her husband's who was sure they were 'cheating' the market.

She let out a heavy sigh and put her hand to her forehead. "I think we need a cup of tea for this."

"Can I have a cup of tea?" James asked grumpily, still put out at being ignored for even a moment.

"Of course, love," Euphemia said absently. She already had her back turned to the two of them. The rain was slowly letting up against the kitchen window she was facing. Intentionally or otherwise, she'd left him to handle the first wave of questioning on his own.

"So, James…" He struggled to find the best words for this. "You said you had other dreams that came true?"

"Mmhmm," James acknowledged. "I knew that Puddlemere was going to lose that match we went to." Everyone knew that, Fleamont thought ruefully. James started counting dreams on his fingers. "I dreamed about what I was getting for Christmas last year, and it was right. You even said the same words! I knew that Mrs. Norwin's cat was hiding under that one bush." He smiled mischievously. "And I saw that your favorite chair's leg was gonna break, Dad!"

Fleamont cringed. James had tried to convince him to sit in another chair, and it had broken, and it had been a literal pain in the arse. "That's very interesting. Isn't it, dear?" he called to his wife. "James, this is very important," Fleamont said, eyeing Euphemia briefly, who was still clumsily putting together tea. "You can't tell anyone about… your dreams coming true. This is our secret, alright?"

His son's next words were quiet: "Are you ashamed of me?" As boisterous as he was, James could still be very sensitive, and Fleamont's eyes softened. The boy's eyes were boring into his plate and Fleamont was up in a flash, kneeling on one side of James's chair while Euphemia took the other.

"Oh, don't cry, sweetheart," Euphemia told him gently. "Of course not, James. We just want to keep you safe, love," she explained as she rubbed his shoulder. "What you can see – what you can do is very special, and not many people can do it." James perked up at that, and Fleamont really hoped telling him that wouldn't backfire. "There are bad people who would want you to… to only tell their futures," she finished lamely. The fate seers sometimes faced was perhaps too dark for them to tell him now. He was still so young, so naive to the dangers of the world.

James's little brows drew together. "People would kidnap me?"

This was all too heavy for such a young boy, but it couldn't be helped. "Maybe," said Fleamont. "In any case, I have a vision of the future, too." James's jaw dropped and Euphemia gave him a look. "I see," he whispered conspiratorially, "that you are going to finish your breakfast and we are all going to have tea."

James groaned but acquiesced. The conversation was forced to lighter things and once James put his plate in the sink he was allowed outside to play. The storm had stopped; the clouds it left in its wake were the uncanny yellow of an aging bruise. They watched as their son ran joyfully across the side lawn. "I'll make more tea," Euphemia said tiredly. The caffeine of the first cup had yet to fully awaken Fleamont, and more tea sounded perfect.

His wife, though, looked like she might faint, and Fleamont wasn't having that. "I've got it, sit down, love."


That night, James was reluctant to go to bed. "What if I dream again?" He seemed to be under the impression that his dream had caused Bumblepuft to die rather than the other way around, no matter how much Fleamont and Euphemia tried to explain that that wasn't how things worked.

"If you dream, you'll tell us what you see." It was a testament to Euphemia's strength that even he couldn't see through her projection of calmness. "We'll talk about it in the morning." She tucked his burgundy blanket up almost to his shoulders and began gently stroking his hair.

James frowned deeply. "What if I dream something bad?" He was clutching his stuffed bunny for dear life. The plush had seen better days, but James refused to give it up. He was glad, now, that his son had this scrap of comfort.

Good question, Fleamont thought. What he said out loud was, "We'll figure out what to do in the morning. Everything will be alright."

"Okay." James clearly didn't find the answer satisfactory but had given up arguing. He accepted a hug from his dad and a kiss on the forehead from his mom. When they turned out the light on their way out, he harrumphed and flopped over to face away from the door. Fleamont shook his head. This was really all they could do, right?


James had not dreamed something bad. Apparently his dream had been amazing, as he'd told Fleamont and Euphemia about a dozen times before breakfast was even ready. Fleamont was grateful the storm had disappeared and let the faintest rays of light through their bedroom window so that he was conscious for this conversation.

"And I'm going to play with a dog! A big black dog!" Fleamont nodded, only half-listening. He was somewhat preoccupied on eating his cheese on toast without coating his hands in a melted mess. "Does that mean we're going to get a dog?" He paused, thinking deeply. "I want a puppy?" Fleamont was dragged back to full awareness by James tugging on his arm. His toast fell to the plate cheese-side-down. "Can I have a puppy? Please?"

A glimpse at his wife saw her face in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking, and he hoped it was with mirth. This whole seer business, he thought, is really going to be a pain in the arse.


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