Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me.
A/N: Sorry for the delay on this. Posting last three chapters of this now. Thanks again for all of the support.
VIVAASA
by: carpetfibers
One year, Day 279
He watches his father through the window, the early spring sunshine contrasting sharply with the washed out whites of his father's clothes and hair. The garden is a study in methodology, no two flowers sharing the same spot or color. Blocks of green, blue, red, pink, purple, yellow, and orange circle the stone path, and his father kneels, knees stained by dirt and heat, beside a patch of cockscomb. He turns away from the vista and drinks slowly from his cup of tea.
"He's better now," his mother tells him, fine lines by her eyes where there were never wrinkles before. "His flowers are needy children, and there is always more to do."
He nods and resists the window's beckoning. He thinks of the roses at their former manor, dried and withered; once upon a time, they had received equal care. "And you, Mother?"
She does not smile, but her lips curve still. Her hands spread wide and the room is encompassed in the gesture. "I have a house again."
The house is two bedrooms, a small bathroom, a parlor and a kitchen. It is modest and homely and without charm. The neighborhood is full of similar structures, white fences tailoring the curb sides, and conversation easily overheard between them. "How is your flat?" she asks, the non-smile still lingering over her lips.
It's only slightly larger than the kitchen he now sits in, and at night, the street below intrudes past his door and windows, and he can only sleep with the aid of his wand and a potion. "It's good. I like it."
Her lips disappear behind the rise of her glass, and when they reappear, she frowns, pretenses left behind. "And your work?"
"Occupying." He shelves and dusts and, twice a week, reads out loud for an hour to a gaggle of eight primary students from the pages of a monthly chosen chapter-book. They squeal when the heroes win and clap when the villains fall, and never do they pause and ask the sort of questions she used to. Questions that involve 'whys' and 'hows' and 'help me understands.' He can spend eight hours without thinking coherently, or cogently, and it's soothing in its blankness. Whole weeks vanish in blissful non-specifics, and he has no finite memories to draw from or point to at the end of them.
His mother stands, her tall form fuller and thicker than his childhood remembers it; the blond hair, a dull sheen of pale and less pale, rests listlessly on her back. When she speaks, she sounds strangely fragile, and her hands press against the cheap glass that fills the windows. "I wanted to be a dancer when I was your age. I had no real talent, and when your father asked me to marry him, I used it as an excuse to stop. Your father. . . he built me a barre last week."
She pauses, her back to him, and in her stillness, he can hear all of the words left unsaid. The world forever paints their villains in clean lines of black and white, and in that vision, there is no room for ballet barres and rose gardens. And so, the world hides its aberrations in plain view on a Muggle street, with hard water and second-hand dishes. Bitterness is what he feels, but its flavor is nearer and closer to him than most.
Her fingers tap softly against the glass, and from beyond, his father turns in acknowledgment. "Are you happy?" she asks, and the question brings a strange and foreign expression to her lined lips.
He cannot remember when he was last asked the question, and unwillingly, he thinks of when he last felt that faint emotion called happiness. He remembers the mussed bed sheets and the warmth at his side; he remembers the tangled hair caught in his fingers and the gentle whisper of her voice in his ear. She rises, too clearly, in his mind, and his breath catches, an ache of something alien trembling beneath his breast. He answers suddenly, and with a voice rich in its self-hate, he speaks honestly.
"No. I'm not happy at all."
End Day 279