Six months passed. The day they'd left the Guills', Harry had asked Mrs. Cormier what day it was. It had been his birthday that night. The mysterious boy the drug had shown him had known it was his birthday before he had.
He had turned sixteen in this strange world; he was aging, he was passing his living days estranged in, of all places, Louisiana, US of A. 1900. 1901, after December, passed.
He had thought his life was strange and unusual the moment he had been able to start performing magic, even more so when Hagrid chased them down and informed him that he was a wizard - but he had thought that the strategies would, if not end, at least begin to regulate itself.
His days went by in a malformed manner, sometimes feeling as if he was driving on automatic, other times feeling like everything - the light, the shadows, pain, smoke, hugs, were so incredibly vivid he might implode just from the sensation of it all.
He studied (uselessly, at that), sometimes with the feeling that it was all for naught, and sometimes feeling like he was on the verge of a breakthrough and that the distant dream that was going home had become was not so distant after all.
He worked, Guidry barking at him, the shadows nestling up close to him as if he were their dark mama. He went over to Carmelita's more often according to her ever-changing whims. She seemed to require his presence more and more despite that every day, and she interacted with him less. Still, it seemed to Harry that whenever she wanted to have someone over, she made sure Harry would be with her as if he were a prized pet or a fancy possession she wished to showcase like she had the radio.
But both the radio and Harry stayed hunched over a secluded corner, much ignored save for the occasional curious glance in their direction - when a guest would look over, Carmelita would start babbling about how Harry was magnificent with all these 'gadgets' and that they shouldn't interrupt him because he was up to some essential things. Her ignorance worked to his advantage because all he did was listen to it, which was debatably one of the laziest activities a person could partake in.
One day around the sixth month, when Harry was idling in the strange state that he was in, he hunched over the radio listening to a poorly told story of a, particularly gruesome murder. Carmelita emerged from upstairs where she had been conversing with her mother, positively screaming. "Oh, Alastor!" She yelped with a voice like a million tortured cats. Her cheeks were rosy, and her dead hair bounced together with her, the excitement leaking off of her in waves.
She had invited him over together with another of her friends, one Lilac, something, but the only person Carmelita was looking at to share her exciting news was Harry. He looked back at her with pain in his eyes. What now? "Oh! Oh! Mama just agreed!" She sighed, leaping over to him. "Agreed to what?" Harry gulped, confused. He suddenly heard his accent. It was like the voice of a stranger. "A ball, Alastor!" She screamed, grabbing him by the hands and lifting him from his chair with surprising strength.
She swung him around as if they were dancing, and she tilted her head back in utter bliss. "A ball?" Harry repeated, frowning. What the hell was she talking about? "Oh, yes, well, she told me papa was having all these… influential men from different cities over, and I asked whether we shouldn't make an occasion out of it.
I've been bugging her to let me throw a big party for months now, and she's always said no on account of her migraines and whatnot…." His eyes and speech strayed a bit, and she stood still for a second before gathering herself and acting the part of the chirpy social butterfly once more. "A ball, Alastor, can you believe it?!" She let out a little squeal of excitement, and Harry did his best not to smile like he was horrified by the prospect.
A roomful of rich, pretentious people that he would be forced to interact with? He thought sticking his hand in hot oil would be more appealing. But Carmelita would never let him miss it.
He thought of all these people, people that Carmelita didn't know and could be awful - outright strangers in her house, and yet he would never be able to invite the Cormiers over. Not that he'd want them around all those people, anyway.
Besides, he was already grateful that Carmelita never mentioned the Cormiers, as if they didn't even exist. And even more grateful she had never touched him inappropriately again after her advances so many months ago. It was hard to pretend he was pleased, though, but Carmelita confused her excitement for his own and was very happy.
When he got back home that day and informed the Cormiers of the so-called 'ball' (which, could it be called a ball if it was just in her house? Certainly it was spacious enough, but where would people even dance?) Guidry's expression was laughable.
He looked a mixture between appalled and amused, the way you'd look at a stinky dog chasing its tail. "I imagine she wants you to go?" He asked, trying to veil the resentment in his voice thinly. "Yeah," Harry replied with a knot in his throat.
The underlying message was there's no way you could ever come with me. Guidry gave a curt grunt but didn't say much else, and Harry scooped up a bunch of peas into his mouth, trying to have an excuse not to speak. "So, when is the big event?" Mrs. Cormier asked, raising her eyebrows as if she were excited for Harry, but they all knew what was going on inside their heads, what they all thought and feared whenever they shipped Harry off to the wolf's den.
It was a danger to be around Carmelita. Though she had not tried anything for months, it seemed as though the party was an excellent opportunity for things to get wilder than they had to be, and they did not want to see Carmelita in a drunk mood or even in a party mood. "Two weeks, I think," Harry replied.
The concept of a party right now was rather indifferent to him - back at home, it would've been exciting, and he would've gotten nervous. Still, now it was just… another weird, awkward situation filled with people that were literally from another time and who he, therefore, had a hard time finding proper common ground with. "I imagine it's very fancy," Mrs. Cormier commented thoughtfully. "Hm, yeah, I think so.
Carmelita said his dad was bringing all these influential men from New Orleans or something," Harry said between bites. Mrs. Cormier pursed her lips as if something that Harry had said had displeased her. "You alright, Mrs. Cormier?" He asked. "Oh, don't you worry about me.
You excited about your party?" She asked, and for a moment, he was tempted to lie to her, but he couldn't see the harm in telling her the truth about his apathy. "Not really. Kinda dreading it." "Hm," she said with a final tone, rising from her chair and taking her plate with her.
Harry hoped they wouldn't be making a big deal out of it, but Mrs. Cormier certainly seemed stand-offish since he had told her. She arrived late to dinners and kept on looking at him like she was planning something devilish, but he couldn't get out of her what it was. Guidry surveyed them with cold amusement.
It was funny that she should be so excited, considering it wasn't a party that would be held in a very favorable fashion for any of them. Yet, somehow the very prospect of a party got her fluttery and light. Unfortunately, Mrs. Cormier was nothing compared to Carmelita.
The girl, woman, demon, whatever, ran around the house in a flurry every time Harry saw her, such was her excitement and restlessness. She invited him over very often now, mainly because she was hosting more tea parties and having more random people over as if a party needed a pre-party weeks before it happened.
Carmelita was hell-bent on everyone she wanted desired to show up, and she wanted to get this done by stuffing them with unique foods and gifting little trinkets so they'd feel in her debt and would be sure not to miss it.
Harry overheard her father sighting a great many times as she flirted with some young gentleman she had invited over, and Harry wondered whether he was afraid that she would make a fool of the family by throwing a lavish and slightly childish party for his essential, serious friends.
He also wondered how important the friends of a barber could be, but he had to remind himself that these people were like a mafia.
A part of Harry hoped it would be the most childish party in the world and that the Lundelvilles would fall into an economic depression from which they would never recover. He remembered Dobby and suddenly wished he had his party-crashing skills so he could mess with the Lundelvilles.
But if there was even the slightest chance of getting caught, it was too dangerous, so in all likelihood, he would stand in a corner all night with his lips pursed, sipping on some foul martini. During his long, dull days at the Lundelvilles, he listened to the radio more and more often, but he only barely focused on it these past few months except for when they played music.
All he could think of in the moments that his mind strayed was of the whitehaired boy that the spirits had shown him all those months ago, the way the smoke curled over his lips, the way his eyes had shone with a youth and carelessness Harry could never be able to understand even though he was probably younger than the boy had been.
It was like the boy was alive. Had he simply been an illusion crafted by his drug-induced brain? He couldn't bear to think so, and he truly felt, and he couldn't explain why, that the boy was out there, somewhere, waiting for him in that lavish red room, his long legs sprawled out.
Harry could see him as the radio played the music. He could almost envision precisely the way his elegant feet would tap to the rhythm, how he would close those lively eyes of his and nod his head, somehow smoking in unison to the tune.
The radio had once been his savior during those bleak moments in the enemy's house, and now it was the white-haired boy, his weird sort of angel. "What are you thinking of with that smile, Alastor sugar?" Carmelita asked a few days before the ball. She had only looked back at him because her guest had had to go to the washing room.
Harry snapped his eyes open and fumbled over an excuse. "I, uh - the ball," he replied. He answered right. Carmelita squealed, leaped up from her frilly pink chair, and draped her arms over Harry. "Oh! I'm so excited, too," she sighed, and then she moved her head from the nook of his neck and planted a sticky, wet kiss on Harry's unprepared cheek.
He did his best not to recoil, not to gag at the now overwhelming scent of candy, perfume, and rot. He smiled at her with inhuman strength, and Carmelita rewarded him by leaving him alone for the remainder of the day by his positive reaction.
But that was lucky for Harry because he would've vomited on her fancy little shoes if she had tried to go any further. He was so out of it that he barely touched his food when he arrived back home that evening. He forced himself to eat so as not to worry the Cormiers because he didn't want them to fret, incredibly not so close to the danger of the party.
Now that this had happened, though, that Carmelita had been more daring for the first time in months, he, too, felt scared. He tried to let the fear course through him and pass through unobstructed so that he might endure what was to come because it had been months, and he wasn't any closer to getting back home. So how long would he be here, stuck? How long would he have to play the part of the loyal pet?
His troubles wouldn't be ending anytime soon, and if he wanted to keep on at least having the hope of going back home, he would have to swallow whatever came his way. He had dealt with worse villains than Carmelita, right? Right? The more he thought about it, the more he considered maybe he preferred having I must not tell lies carved into his hand time and time again.
Carmelita reminded him of Umbridge in some perverted, hyper-feminine, grotesque sadist sort of way. He swallowed his shame and feeling of violation together with the tough meat Mrs. Cormier had served to them and kept his silence, hoping he was stronger than he felt.
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The day before the party, Harry felt a little nervous, like the day before you went to an excursion - if that excursion was to a live volcano or into the mouth of a massive shark.
Still, he couldn't entirely attribute all his nerves to his accumulating fear of Carmelita: there was something of expectation, of meeting new people to be found in his restlessness. Carmelita didn't call him over that day, probably since she was making preparations for the party, and her little pet would only be a dull obstacle to others in their way.
So he hung about Guidry, tending to the shop and reading his current book feverishly as if this would be the one that would give him the answers as to go back home. He tried not to think about what would happen if Guidry ran out of books to give him before Harry at least found a hint. He didn't dwell on it, didn't even really let it surface in his mind.
He barely noticed when Mrs. Cormier arrived a little earlier than usual, but he did think it a bit odd when she gave him a curt greeting and slid away discreetly to her bedroom.
He didn't overthink it. Right before dinner, however, she opened the door to her bedroom and called him in. he had very rarely been to the Cormiers' bedroom, only a few times to fetch something for one of them, so it still maintained its mystery.
It was a quaint, tidy little room, with as much of a homey feel as the rest of the upper chamber, and Harry was amazed to find that the little space that they had to walk in it mainly was wholly occupied by the oldest sewing materials he had ever seen in his entire life.
He saw Mrs. Cormier with pursed, pleased lips, expectant before his eyes immediately jumped over to the equipment. Still, soon his attention was diverted once again by Mrs. Cormier producing something blue from behind her.
Harry watched, a little nervous but pleasantly excited as she unfolded the item before her and displayed it to Harry.
It was a gorgeous, vivid blue suit, dyed so richly he felt dazzled – he thought, a little shocked, that he hadn't seen a color so bright as that since he had left his home. The fabric looked rich and expensive, tailormade to perfection as if it had been made by the seamstresses of some royal family member.
Harry stood, stupefied for a moment, looking at the beautiful clothing, running his eyes through it, and soaking in the fact that this particular suit, so crisp and lovely, was one of the few things he felt were genuinely alive in this new world that he lived in.
He didn't even really notice it when the minutes passed, and he only stood at the doorway with his mouth gaping open, making it painful for the very excited Mrs. Cormier. She waited a bit before exploding. "Oh! You don't like it, do you? I thought the color might be a lil' too much. Still, I just thought it'd look so good next to that lovely dark hair of yours, and if you are going to have a suit, might as well make a unique one, but I see why-" "M-Mrs Cormier," Harry interrupted with a stutter, finally landing his feet on reality. "It's beautiful. I love it.
How did you even have the time to make this?" Then it dawned on him, and a ball of guilt fell into his stomach. "How much did the materials-" "Oh, hush, you worrier. But do you like it? That's what's important. I got a little dye here, a little dye there, got some friends that work as tailors to pitch in a little bit – you know I can make clothes, but I ain't that good… I'm ramblin'. Come, try it on," and with that, she stood up through a bit of hop, the excitement getting the better of her.
Harry quickly peeled off his clothes and allowed Mrs. Cormier to assist him in properly putting on first the celeste chemise, of a surprisingly light material, then the dress pants, the jacket, and finally, he stood, his heart beating happily, as Mrs. Cormier adjusted a golden blue bowtie around the collar. He had never felt so good in any item of clothing – he could now understand the difference between decent material and truly rich, tailormade clothing.
It was incredible how everything simply slipped on like a glove, precisely fitted to his body. He had never known that clothing could be that comfortable. He was at a loss for words, and he simply moved around in it, taking delight in the sensation, not even thinking of what he might look like. "How-" he was about to ask, but Mrs. Cormier seemed to have read his thoughts. "I been giving you much too many hugs lately, don'tcha think?" She asked with a self-satisfied click of her tongue. Harry let out a little laughter. He couldn't believe she had put so much dedication not only into making this for him but also into hiding it so that it would be a surprise.
He stared at her, at her sweet, chubby face and her kind eyes, the wrinkles around them intensifying as she smiled at him as if he were her son. He suddenly remembered the vision he had had so many months ago: that same, charitable face buried dead in the swamp, the moths landing on her dark eyelashes.
He was in such a good mood that it wasn't hard to shake the image. He only focused on the warm light she seemed to emanate and all the darkness and coldness he had been feeling lately scattered from his crystallized heart momentarily. "Mrs. Cormier… I don't even know what to say. This is too much, completely too much. I don't-" "Oh, come now, Ally, you deserve this and much more. I just wish Guidry and I were able to give it to you. 'Sides, we ain't give you anything for your birthday all that time ago." Harry shook his head. "You've done so much for me. I wouldn't ever be able to repay you," he told her, feeling a swell of emotion press into him, knowing that every word of gratitude that he uttered was sincere.
Mrs. Cormier, too, seemed at the very verge of tears. She went closer to him and pretended to smooth out some invisible crease in his jacket. "You have given us more than you can ever know. Before you came, Guidry and I…" her voice cracked slightly, and Harry realized that even though he couldn't fully see her face due to the fact that he had outgrown her so much, he knew that she was now truly about to cry. "Well, Guidry and I are cursed, Ally. We are." She choked on her cryptic words and dug her face into Harry's chest for a second.
He lay a pale hand on her back comfortingly, unsure. "What do you mean by cursed, Mrs. Cormier?" He asked, swallowing. Mrs. Cormier pulled back and wiped her tears without hiding them. Harry wished everyone was as honest as she was. Things would be easier, he thought. "I'm sorry - it ain't nothing that concerns you right now, my boy.
Come, let's show that thing off to Guidry. He ain't wear something so lovely since he was a little kid and his mama took him to church," she said with a light chuckle. Harry realized with a particular shock that they should've gone to church considering this time period, but as voodoo practitioners, they never did. He wondered how that sat with the other people in town.
Though Harry put up a bit of a fight, Mrs. Cormier wrestled him over to the living room, where Guidry was already rolling his cigarette, looking intently at the fire, which was burning high and proud this time of year. Harry still couldn't shake off what Mrs. Cormier had said when she was emotional; what did being cursed refer to? He thought that there was something strange about the Cormiers' conditions, how they lived, the things that he had heard while they were visiting the Guills. Yet, he could never get a concrete answer out of anyone whenever they mentioned something odd about his caretakers.
Could this have something to do with it? Regardless, he didn't dwell on it for long because soon enough, Mrs. Cormier was trying to show him off to Guidry like a prize-winning dog. It was simultaneously embarrassing and a little sweet. He hadn't had a lot of situations like these, no mum taking pictures of him before a big dance, no exclamations of cuteness when he put on a nice outfit. He had never even had any nice clothes, let alone adults that would treat him this way, save for the few times he had stayed with the Weasleys.
Mrs. Cormier cleared her throat as they made their entrance, and Guidry momentarily looked at them, about to blow them off before realizing Harry's outfit wasn't his usual attire. "Well, I'll be damned," he said appreciatively, the corners of his mouth going down as he looked Harry up and down with respect, the tip of his tongue bringing the final steps to his cigarette. "What do you think?" Harry asked, flopping his arms at his sides like an awkward penguin. "Don't be shy now, boy, give me a twirl," he barked, his words tinged with laughter.
Harry blushed hard but spun in a tight circle. Guidry didn't mock him, only gave him a respectful nod. "You look sharp, kid, clean up better'n I thought," he said as he lit his cigarette. Harry thanked him and then begged Mrs. Cormier to let him get out of it on account of not wanting to get it dirty before the big party.
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That night, as he lay in bed and thought of how nice he would look with his new suit, he was excited over the party. He momentarily forgot of Carmelita and the dangers that her advances represented and forgot about the dull and potentially (likely) racist people he would be forced to interact with throughout the evening. It was all because, in some part of his irrational brain, he thought maybe he would meet the boy from his vision.
It was ridiculous, entirely out of the question, and yet he couldn't help but hope that what the drugs told him weren't just fabrications of his brain, that maybe there was some truth to it… he discarded the idea when he remembered the vision that he had had of the Cormiers buried in the swamp.
If he had to choose, he would rather his visions weren't foretelling the future. Still, he entertained the dream more than he allowed himself to admit: fantasizing about the boy was as much of a beautiful escape as the radio was, maybe even more. He kept thinking of him arriving at the party and seeing that shock of white hair, and the wonder of white hair turning around and giving him an appreciative glance because he looked good and… When he awoke the next day, he almost vomited from nausea.
He always got inexplicably nervous before a big social situation even though he thought it would be different this time, considering how little he cared about the people going to the party. He tried to talk himself into calming down, and indeed, there was nothing at the forefront of his mind that was messing with his nerves, but he still couldn't shake off the feeling of uneasiness and anxiety. He took very little breakfast and was glad to tend to the shop and do his research on going back home when he was dismissed.
After a few hours, he was even able to concentrate on what he was doing. Lunch was tedious, and then he had only an hour before Guidry told him he should wash up before his big party. He washed up, put on the crisp clothes Mrs. Cormier had left on the table, and asked Guidry to tie his bowtie. "Any man should be able to do this, you know?" Guidry muttered moodily, but Harry could tell he took particular pleasure in it.
As he watched Guidry's nimble fingers at work and the way that he was oddly good at explaining how to tie a bowtie properly, Harry had the oddest idea. "Guidry, can I ask you a question?" "You can. That doesn't mean I'm going to answer," he grumbled. "Why haven't you and Mrs. Cormier had any kids?"
He asked, and though on impulse he had thought that it was a relatively innocent question, he saw how tense Guidry got, the way his fingers froze in the middle of their deft act. He paused for a second before resuming very slowly.
Harry fully expected him not to say anything or just go on a rant about how bringing a child onto this cursed earth would've been cruel, but he didn't expect what he got. "We wanted to a long time ago," he said, his tone soft and reflective, going on with his task but at his leisure. "We even tried…" his voice got caught in his throat, and he stopped for a second. "Don't matter now, anyway. We can't have kids." "Why not?" Harry asked, but then Guidry patted him on his chest and moved away. "There you go, kid, it gon' hold up all night," he said, finishing the tie and turning away. "Wait!" Harry called after him. "There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?" He asked, the previous night and all the weird things surrounding them flooding into his head. "You know, you've gotten bold these past few months, kid. You better learn how to stifle it 'fore you go off to those white folks," he told him dryly, his face severe.
And then he left him, all the unanswered questions hovering like ghosts in the air. By now, Harry was confident that the Cormiers had some weird, possibly very dark secret, and he was impatient to get to the bottom of it. He twisted it around in his head, trying to find every last bit of evidence from the recesses of his memory. Still, he always came up short, realizing that he didn't have enough information to put it all together - it all seemed to indicate that the truth was too complex, too layered, and strange for him to conceive in the clueless state that he was in. Still, as he headed over to Carmelita's, his head was so packed with the enigma that he momentarily forgot about his nerves surrounding the party.
Only when he knocked on the door and heard the loud music coming from the inside that he land on reality and what he was about to do. He took a deep breath as the door flew open, and the usual servants that greeted him, now better dressed, offered to take his coat. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of the etiquette, and then decided it was probably weird if he took off his blazer.
He was led to the living room as if he had never been in this house before, and when he arrived, he was incredibly impressed by the setup. Whenever he stayed at Carmelita's, he was in the tea-room (they were that rich), but he had been in the living room multiple times, though he had never noticed how spacious and luxurious it was until now. Some of the furniture had been pushed off to the sides tastefully or entirely removed, and on one end of the room, a band was playing some jazz-y music that still wasn't quite jazz.
He supposed he would have to wait another fifteen or so years for that. The central area of the room was cleared for dancing. Still, it wasn't yet time for that, so people were standing around in little groups, accepting champagne and little breaded things that Harry thought were canapés from floating waiters that Harry assumed had probably been hired especially for the occasion.
He looked around and was actually pleased to see that there were quite a few people there already even though it was still relatively early, and so the part of him that feared the awkwardness of a failing party was quenched. But then his fear of crowds kicked in, and he realized he was standing by the entrance, looking like a quivering little lonesome fool.
It was like the Triwizard Tournament all over again - him standing around older, more handsome people than him, all of which intimidated him. "Alastor!" He heard the wretched voice of Carmelita calling, and for once, he was glad to hear that god-awful timbre.
He looked to the source of the voice and walked over to her with the pleasantest smile he could muster. She was standing in a small group comprised of two other ladies and one man, all of whom were wearing beautiful garments, small flashes of gems, gold, and silver burning his eyes as a wrist or neck moved.
He was glad Mrs. Cormier had gotten him garments that felt like they were a little too much because, in any other attire, he would've felt severely underdressed. He slid to his designated spot by Carmelita's side. She stank of perfume more than usual. "Alastor, how charming you look!" She remarked, her eyes twinkling like fool's gold, ravenous rather than appreciative. "Quite the statement," one of the ladies said with a bit of curl of her lip. All at once, Harry felt self-conscious, as if he were wearing a clown suit.
He watched as Carmelita rolled her eyes with a bit of relief. "I'm just tired of men all wearing the same, drab black-and-white suit - really, you'd think they can't see color," she said with a loud laugh. They all gave polite little giggles, and Harry was thankful for her quick snappish quality at that moment. "Anyhow, this is Alastor. Alastor, this is Jill, Jackie, and Joe," she introduced, and Harry had to try his best to stifle his laughter.
He almost felt so out of touch with people like this that he wished he could've nudged Guidry and said, 'white people, am I right?' Thankfully, he was discreet, and no one noticed that he was about to burst into tears of laughter. So many months with Carmelita had taught him the ever so helpful art of not showing what he thought.
He kissed the ladies' slender fingers and shook hands with Joe. "This one's a good liar, Carmelita, and you should watch out for him," Joe commented, bemused. The two other girls giggled. "How do you mean?" Carmelita asked, casually taking two tubes of champagne and offering one to Harry, who took it gratefully to have something to do. "We haven't met a lot of people so good at hiding their laughter at our names," Jill explained. She had a kind face, unlike her sister. Carmelita laughed a little at that. "He's just polite.
You know, the British way," she said breezily, broadcasting his 'exoticness' to them. "I thought your accent was a little funny," Jill said with a toothy smile. "He's been quite good at adapting to ours, but I don't know why he'd do that - I just adore the way he speaks." She pinched his cheek and winked at him. Harry swallowed down his vomit with a bit of champagne. Was that rich people's culture? He was blending in quite well.
When Jackie asked about his family, he was relieved as Carmelita expertly moved the conversation in another direction. She didn't want his 'shameful' background to be exposed any more than he did, and it was very likely that she could face shunning if she interacted with a boy raised by people of color.
He made a mental note to avoid it or outright refuse to speak about it if confronted by it again. He didn't want to know what kind of awkward scandal such a thing could bring about with this crowd of unsavory people. He zoned out a little as Carmelita turned their attention to the band, to the songs she had requested, and Harry couldn't help but admire her ability to set the ambiance for the party. Indeed her servants had more of a hand to play in it than she would admit, but it was still crazy how the setting had been managed.
All at once, Harry felt like he was a character in an old-timey movie. On impulse, when Joe offered him a cigarette, he took it without much hesitation - he knew he wouldn't make a fool out of himself, having smoked several times before. It felt right just now as if he was slipping into the shoes of a personage that already existed and that they were one. The personage was better at dealing with social situations, so Harry simply allowed him to take the reins.
He allowed Alastor to take the cigarette and take a deep puff before exhaling, like a confident man in a black and white movie. Though he didn't realize it at the moment, he smoked like he had seen the young man in his vision did. Carmelita stared at him with pleasant surprise as the talking went on. "You know, Alastor, Joe's father, works with radios and all of that.
Joe, Alastor is just amazing with all those weird little gadgets." "Are you, now?" Joe said with a respectful slight nod. "She exaggerates," Alastor said with a slight chuckle that didn't feel much like him. After that comment, Joe and Alastor sparked a conversation about radios and technology that seemed more like an interrogation to see whether Alastor knew what he was talking about.
He passed with flying colors, and Joe insisted that he meet his father so that they could discuss it all in-depth. Joe's father was a lead manufacturer in radios, and he thought whether to take it a step further or whether the invention would die down and not become profitable. If only he knew, Alastor thought, and with his new, confident character, he accepted politely, and they went to seek Joe's father.
They entered the smoking room, a place that Alastor had never really been to as it was usually just frequented by the Lundelvilles' fancier guests, the ones who came over for dinner and would later want a smoke and a little bit of port.
It was every bit as lavish as the rest of the house was, and Alastor realized he hadn't explored much of it. However, the first thing that Alastor noticed in this alien territory was a shock of white hair standing at the far end of the room. He held his breath unwittingly as Joe led him closer and closer to the man with the white hair, who stood with his back towards them.
Alastor couldn't believe what he was seeing - he thought for a few seconds, a few eternal seconds, that this might be the boy from his vision, but the closer they got, the more Alastor realized he had imagined the whole thing. He saw the protruding veins coming from the man's hand, the wrinkling neck, and the oncoming bald spot.
There was no way this man was the boy from his dreams, and yet, when he turned around to look at them, there was something strange about his eyes: they were the same, warm and yet cold… what color were those eyes?
They almost looked pink, but he wasn't sure, what with the somewhat dim, honeyed lighting. Regardless of whether they shared the same peculiar shade, these were flint-hard, devoid of that playfulness and vividness that had so charmed him, and yet… But he was focusing on the wrong man: Joe's father was standing right beside the eerily familiar gentleman, and Alastor looked like a confused fool for a moment before gathering himself and greeting Joe's father, who introduced himself as Joe Senior, which was surprisingly not the ridiculous name combination in the family, considering that meant that younger Joe was referred to as Joe Junior.
Joe Senior introduced him to the white-haired man beside him, who he called Sal Montenegro. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr…." "Alastor is fine," he told him with a terse smile. He was trying not to be weird by looking at Mr. Montenegro too much, but he reminded him so much of the boy in his vision that it unsettled him.
They had the expected conversation about his accent, and Alastor did an excellent job at giving as little information about his past as possible before turning the conversation over to radios and the fact that Joe Jr had told him that he should meet him because of that. "A young man with an eye for the future, I see," Montenegro commented. "Mr. Montenegro here is… an investment consultant. He's helping me with the radio sales," Joe explained. "Investment consultant, among other things," Montenegro said with a sly grin, a flashy, heavy ring glinting in his hand as he sipped his champagne.
Alastor might have been way over his head with it. Still, he thought that the overall look of Sal, together with his mighty name and the weird way his line was introduced, reminded him of how mafia bosses and other high-end criminals were portrayed in certain movies.
They all talked about radios and other 'gadgets' as they called them, and Montenegro and Joe immediately grew to like Alastor quite a bit when they allowed him to display his knowledge on it. "Say, are you working already, kid?" Joe asked. "Not, sir, no," Alastor told him, unsure of how he would explain helping Guidry with his voodoo. Besides, it would open the way too far to many questions he would not be able to answer without revealing his home life.
A part of him wondered whether it wasn't wrong to hide it, whether he was being complicit in the racism that abounded in the town, whether he wasn't somehow racist himself, ashamed of who his guardians were. The thought was quelled when he remembered not only the trouble that he would get into but what could happen to the Cormiers should he awaken Carmelita's wrath. "That so?" Joe asked, taking a puff of a cigar as thick as his meaty fingers, "'cause we're always looking for young blood, fresh outlooks got a feeling you'd fit right in." "I'm flattered, sir," Alastor said, and his sentiment was genuine. "But I don't have any… formal education, and all that," he said, blushing, rubbing the back of his neck. Once the words were out, the other three men burst out laughing.
He blushed even more profoundly. "I love this kid," Sal chuckled, smacking him hard on the back. At that moment, a bell rang, and Carmelita's father, who Alastor hadn't noticed was in the room with them, asked them all to please join them for a 'lovely dinner.' Alastor hadn't even known that they would have dinner, but it made sense considering they were all invited quite early.
They hadn't cheapened out on anything, then. He filed out of the room together with all the rest of the men, and it was a hassle finding his place since there were multiple tables in different areas of the room. Finally, Carmelita's bouncing figure, more aromatic than ever, caught up to him and looped her arm around his. "There you are! One second I take my eyes off you, and somebody's already snatched you up!" She exclaimed, beaming.
She was very proud of the fact that her little pet was doing so well at her party. Alastor, too, with some shame, recognized that he enjoyed interacting with these people and having them like him. He almost wished he could've had dinner with the other men since they didn't see him so much as a pet like Carmelita did, but he said nothing as she led him to a large table with a predominantly female majority.
Since he had mastered the art of having an utterly vacant mind but looking very interested, dinner was a breeze, and he hadn't had such fine, exquisite food since the feasts at Hogwarts. He found his stomach wasn't agitated and ate heartily - how had he changed from being about to vomit to eating his food with relish?
More than he could count, the servers milled around the table, laying before them the many courses, offering wine, whiskey, water, the works. He was wrapped up in a small, very rare buttered steak when he heard a slight commotion from the other side of the table. He raised his head, dully curious, and that was when he saw a woman wiping up some spilled red wine and apologizing profusely. The lady who had been closest to the spill had had a few drops stain her red dress, and yet she stood up, flustered, her face turning the same shade of scarlet as her dress. "You absolute monkey!" She barked at the woman wiping up the spill.
The room went silent for a bit, the woman apologizing time and time again, and her weak, submissive apologies stilled Harry's heart. Mrs. Cormier raised her head from the mess momentarily and caught Harry's wide, shocked eyes.
She chewed on her lip, hard enough to draw blood, and then went back to cleaning the mess. Harry watched her as she walked away, the way to the kitchen passing by where he was seated, her hands full of soaked napkins. Carmelita caught her by her black dress and paused her for a moment, like a master pulling on a naughty dog's leash. "Don't you think that ain't coming out of your pay-check," she told her with a sickeningly sweet smile. Mrs. Cormier nodded, evidently distressed.
She wouldn't look Harry in the eye even though she was right next to him, and she rushed out of the room, completely distraught. "These negroes ain't even good as the help," the petty girl next to Carmelita sighed. Harry's heart thumped slow in his chest, not being able to assimilate what had happened, and Carmelita giggled a bit and whispered something in the girl's ear.
Harry stood abruptly from his chair. "Excuse me," he mumbled as he wove his way through the tables and out of there, not knowing this part of the house but craving some silence, anywhere at all that wasn't there. He walked through a primarily dim hallway, as lavish as the rest of the house, the signs of splendor and riches evident everywhere, even in a corridor that led to the bathroom. Everywhere he looked, there were people with money, money spent, money to be finished, accumulated excessively. Don't think that ain't coming out of your pay-check—horrible people with money.
How had he enjoyed being in the presence of those men and take pride in having them like him? If people like that thought he was 'such a swell kid,' then he was the worst of the worst of them. Nausea rode up in his stomach, and he did his best to stifle it as he looked around for a bathroom.
He was disgusted at himself - here he was, in this suit that he certainly couldn't afford, a suit that Mrs. Cormier had put her heart and soul into so that he could play pretend with the people that shunned her. These people despised her just for existing, even though she was making all of their lives easier.
Was this where he belonged? Whenever they visited the Guills, he always felt a little out of place, but here he had felt at his ease - was it because all these people were good at faking manners and well-being or because he was just as phony and awful as the rest of them? He was woozy, feeling as if he would faint at any moment, and he was grateful for the secluded hallway, the sounds of cutlery clattering against dishes and fake, gleeful chatter muffled.
He set his hands against a slim hallway table, trying to gather himself. He looked down at his shoes. They weren't anywhere near as fancy as the rest of his outfit, just Guidry's best dress shoes, which were probably the equivalent of the worst shoes any of these people owned. They were the only part of him that brought him comfort now, the only factor that seemed…. not precisely honest, but at least genuine in the sense that it wasn't a fake, that it wasn't all the glimmer and glamour and heavy perfume that masked the deep decay in these people's souls. He gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white, and he took pleasure in seeing his blood drain.
His horrible blood, that blood that didn't belong here, didn't belong anywhere, the blood underneath the white skin that condemned the Cormiers, the blood that made him somehow related to all the horrible people back at the party. Something moved in front of him.
He snapped his head up and was shocked to find that the slim table was a stand for a massive mirror, ancient-looking, probably more valuable than any of the other flashy things in the hallway. It was an ancient thing, with some slightly rusted bits marking the age of its ornate silver frame. The frame was etched, but he couldn't correctly read what it said, mainly because he was focused on the image in the mirror and not the thing itself.
He only noticed the frame because he was sure it was a mirror and not a window. After all, the reflection did not show what he expected it to. The reflection should've shown Harry, dimly lit in the low light of the hallway, but instead, it depicted a man (if you could call it that) and around him nothing but darkness, a black void where the rest of the hallway should've been.
Harry ogled at the man, looking at him up and down, and the man looked back at him in a similar way, his eyes following where Harry went. Except his eyes were the color of fresh-drawn blood, massive and imposing.
He was dressed… well. He was dressed just like Harry was. The suit was the same cut, the little details Mrs. Cormier had bothered with copied down to the T, but it was red. All the same things, only red. Red instead of the green of his eyes, red somewhat of the blue of his suit: all red, even his hair. Harry gulped. He had seen him before, he knew, but all those other times he had seemed almost like a ghost, and Harry remembered him as if through a dream, hazy and not all that real. This was real, down to the shadows his bowtie, perfectly timed, just like Guidry did it, shed on his figure.
Harry cocked his head and moved closer to look at him better, and he almost jumped when the man in the mirror did the same thing he did. He was mimicking his motions, he thought, but then, it was a mirror. Harry held up a hand. So did the man. His eyes were mocking him, but they were far too synchronized for it not to be… Harry.
Harry in the mirror, in the form of this hell-creature, this thing that looked as if it had been through fire and death and came out drenched in blood. Harry waved the hand, and Harry, the demon in the mirror, waved it too. When he moved even closer, so did the other Harry. He saw the blood sprinkled on the man's nose, the flickering shadows that passed through his eyes as if he were on fire. "BOO!" The figure suddenly exclaimed, his arms shooting out of the frame towards Harry as if reaching out to take him into the void of the mirror. Harry jumped back with a yelp and fell on his ass on the other wall of the hall.
He hit his head hard, but he still crawled back and looked attentively where he was sure the demon had crawled out of the mirror to claim him. Instead, the man was standing with his back straight, arms tucked behind it, laughing. He was laughing at Harry, deep, grating laughter that sounded like all the worst sounds of the world put together - fingernails on a chalkboard, rusty nails grating together.
He was sure that at any moment now, someone would come into the hallway and ask what the hell was going on and what that unearthly cackling was. But no one did. It was just Harry and the hellish man in the mirror, the laugher, and the joke. The fear that had knocked Harry back suddenly subsided died down as if it were fire quenched by a bucket of water, and the steam rose to his head, and whether it was because of the knock on the head or something else, something he couldn't explain, he felt anger swell up.
Hard, flickering, red-vision anger towards the man laughing at him. Nothing in his life seemed like something to laugh about. He was a slave to the people back at the party, the people that he despised, a slave to the orb that had brought him here, a slave to time, a slave to lies, to himself, to the shadows, to everyone that he had to adapt to - because that was what he had been doing, adapting and hating himself for adapting, hating himself for making the best out of the shitty circumstances he had been dealt with.
He had been whimpering in a corner as life dealt out blow after blow, smacked his cheeks purple, blue, and yellow, and then he chastised himself for not healing fast enough. He was angry, angry at the world, and mad at himself for hating what happened to him when nothing was in his control.
But some things were. He leaped up and punched the mirror hard. It shattered instantly, and he had hit it with so much force that some shards flew out of it and down onto the floor. Once the mirror had cracked, the laughing demon disappeared, and in his place, there was just the dim hallway and Harry, his fist bloody from the broken mirror, and something like hellfire in his eyes. He thought they looked red for a second, but when he blinked, the redness was gone, and the flame of his ire was snuffed.
And there he was, the moment that the glass had cracked, he had hurt not the demon but his fractured face. He looked like a man with too many, too twisted faces. He sniffed, looked around him to make sure no one was coming, and set out to find the bathroom so he could wipe the blood off himself.