Red by Rockinfaerie
Conflict...
“Still here, yes,” James answered, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.
Lucius’ grey eyes flickered to the desktop, his wand fixed directly at his nephew, and James’ left hand clenched the scraps in his pocket. With his right, he grasped his own wand, his hand sticky and shaking.
That moment seemed to stretch beyond limit, and for days afterwards James could not rid himself of that image; his uncle standing tall in the room: the study of his most recent victim. The high windows reflected his domineering form, and it seemed that there stood before James not one Lucius, but two, each sneering at him, their mouths twisting upwards, as though they secretly found James a figure of fun. Lucius still held the wineglass, and suddenly took a sip from it, some dripping to the floor in his haste.
James’ mind seemed to have slowed down, but the thumping in his chest was so rapid it was nearly painful. He had never before felt so unsure of himself. He wished to do anything, anything to break the horrid silence that swelled within the study, and to break every bone in that wretched man’s body, even to smash the reflection that similarly jeered. Yet he waited, stationary, straining his ears for someone to laugh, or to yell “joke”, to dismiss this scene as some sort of game. Some distant part of him searched Lucius’ face for a suggestion of jest, to tell him that it was not real, that it was a spell gone wrong, or that he had made it up himself, that he would wake up, that it had all been a dreadful nightmare.
But the clock ticked on, and the black windows showed no sign of brightening, and Lucius continued to gaze at him hungrily, shaking his head slightly.
“Shame,” his uncle declared, breaking through the stillness and striding towards him, his wand still raised. “Your foolish father, and I say foolish because I simply can’t bear to say otherwise, at this late stage of the night. Yes James, foolish. What man would put the lives of his family on the line for his stupid beliefs? What man,” he continued, his mouth grinning further, “would not surrender to the tremendous and righteous force of the Dark Lord?” He had that same glint in his eyes, eyes that were so close James could see the red capillaries snaking around his irises.
“Only a fool would do such a thing, James.”
Lucius grabbed him, his fingernails gripping into his shoulders, and James felt oddly entranced by his words; his wine-stained breath was lined with persuasion and conviction. James nodded, the area surrounding them a warm fog, and he began to feel curiously light-headed, as though his fears and worries were drifting away, as though he really were waking from a bad dream.
“The Dark Lord is a great man, James. Words can scarcely describe him. But I know James, that he would be glad of your service, your talent, and your noble lineage. You need not concern yourself about your welfare “ I will look after you. You needn’t even go back to that dratted school; we can leave as soon as possible.”
His uncle’s words echoed around him in a haze, and James only felt vaguely aware of Lucius steering him to the door past the tea tray, and he had a strong sense of revulsion at his traitor of a father. How had he dared to insult the might of the Dark Lord? The group of mystery and nobility, where great power and doings were recognised, not scorned.
“… and James, we need not also concern ourselves of the petty half-bloods, we need only converse with our equals," his uncle whispered, " - and soon, the world will be at our feet, and we may have it to ourselves “ enslave the Muggles, murder the Mudbloods “ the vermin that has the gall to wave wands among us…”
But something stirred in James as he heard this, some odd spirit that reared itself upwards at the sight before him, and it was no longer an image of his uncle’s captivating eyes, but of a girl, a girl whose face he knew by rote, gesticulating animatedly in the distance, her long, straight, dark red hair streaming down her back, her mouth parted in a wide smile, her eyes sparkling wisely as she glanced at him, with a look of utter repulsion on her face, as though she knew what it was he had been nearly convinced of.
Then she was gone, to be replaced by Lucius’ ugly face, his iced eyes, pale, drawn skin, and foul-smelling breath, still speaking, his eyes still fanatic and strangely famished, speaking to James as though he had established his abhorrent creed within him. James stared back, and his glazed expression appeared to have refuted Lucius’ notion that his trickery had worked, for a glimmer of victory shone on his uncle’s mouth.
Tricked. He had been tricked into believing his father a fool, tricked into believing himself superior, into thinking the Muggles slaves, and into considering her worthy only of death. He shook himself free of that tight, iron-clad grip.
He had never known such anger. The ashes that had inside him lain dormant now had ignited, wild flames coursing through his limbs. His own blood seemed to burn against his skin, hurting him, and his mind had been scorched; he could only think of one action, and that involved unleashing the utmost hurt on the man before him, the man who had now been thrown to the floor, the man who looked up at him as though betrayed, shocked, and horrified by James’ sudden turn of tact.
“You c “”
Ignoring his wand, he launched at Lucius on the floor of the study, his fists pummelling into his chest, and Lucius did not retaliate, he simply laid there, his expression one of utmost disappointment. But James could not look at it. He could not stand to see that look of disappointment, that look that had for his entire life made him feel ashamed and inadequate. So he simply did not look. Rage had blinded him.
Therefore he did not see Lucius draw his wand, the wand he pointed at his nephew with little apprehension, and it was only when James’ head hit the shelve behind him hard, and when books came tumbling to the floor around him, with pain stabbing into the back of his skull, that he opened his eyes and saw Lucius once more, scrambling upwards, wincing, and saw with disgust that hisown wand had gone flying away from him, to the other side of the study.
“What is this James?” he sniffed, bloodying his clean handkerchief as he wiped his dribbling nose. “What is this, this… treachery? Am I “ am I below you?”
James’ mouth was stinging, and as he brought his bloody hand away from it, saw that Lucius looked hurt, but James felt no sympathy. In fact, he felt nothing towards Lucius.
Nothing.
“Surely you would never attack young Sirius?” Lucius asked vehemently, still wiping his face clean of blood. “Even after that incident with that Slytherin… Snape, was that his name? You did not attack him then? Why me, James? How am I different?”
James was shaking. That incident was not one he liked to be reminded of.
“He could also have been dubbed a murderer, could he have not? Yet you prevented it, though the would-be victim meant nothing to you, just like your father, whom you rarely even saw, who lied to you about matters of utmost importance, he who made you feel on a par with the worst of our world.”
Lucius’ tall frame bore down on him, and James rose to his knees, wondering where his mother was, why no-one had come when they heard their shouts. Lucius flung the wineglass at the wall above the desk, and the tiny shards flew everywhere, red wine spattering down on the scraps of parchment on the desk. Then he kicked at the small table where the untouched tea-tray sat, and as if in slow-motion, the tray fell to the floor, small sugar cubes scattering everywhere.
James watched as the cold tea seeped into the rug beside the window-seat, and saw that a large wet blotch was forming there. He only felt a detatched dismay at this lasting imprint of his father's presence was destroyed, and did wonder what his mother's reaction would be.
His uncle seemed to collect himself then, wiping down his robes, fixing his collar, glancing at his reflection in the window to check that he looked acceptable, his wand still fixed on James.
“Well James, perhaps you are among the worst of our world,” he said matter-of-factly, “as much as it pains me to say your worthless father was right about one thing.”
James glanced at his wand in the far corner of the study, and knew it was of no use to him “ he could never have reached it. So he sat there against the bookshelf, his eyes anchored on Lucius’ face. He knew there was no reasoning with him, but he felt that Lucius should get it over and done with, to stop wasting time gazing at his reflection.
But he couldn’t suppress the nausea that had ripened inside him, that was now bubbling and boiling in his fiery hatred.
Lucius left the window and turned fully on James, and James braced himself, closing his eyes for what was to come.
“No James, I am not going to kill you,” he said, and James opened his eyes to see the enjoyment in his uncle’s face, “yet.” Lucius shook his head. “No, no, not yet. You see, unlike your father, I care for my sister, and do not want to see her get hurt. Now, as you may have guessed from that letter on your father’s desk, there are a number of threats listed there that some believe should be carried out. Futile, the Dark Lord knows, but at least it might scare people…”
James did not relax. There was something else going on then, if he was not to die “ some similar curse that would befall him.
“But I do not want to see either of you dead, James!” he laughed, as though it was his idea of a joke. “Of course, if I were under orders, it would be different. Very different,” he emphasised. “But He has said nothing of the sort. Therefore, I do beseech you never to tell anybody of our little, how shall we put it… confrontation? And your revelation, whatever it may be, to all other ears is false. Agreed?”
James shook his head fiercely.
“James, you have not yet heard the conditions,” his uncle persisted. “Because if you fail to comply, and if you do reveal our little secret about my, say, participation in a certain incident of late, or with a particular group of people, the results will be dire.”
Lucius sighed as his nephew regarded him bitterly.
“What I mean by that, James, is that if you defy my wishes and divulge our secret… your father will not be the only parent you shall not see again.”
“You wouldn’t,” breathed James, his chest tightening, fear quenching the rage that had burned within him only minutes before.
“I might not James, that much is true,” agreed Lucius, wandering over to the desk, the furls of parchment there vanishing. “But there are plenty of others, perfectly willing to do it for me, and would I miss her? Of course not. The Dark Lord has taught us to distance ourselves from compassion; I feel nothing for her.”
Lucius strode past defiantly, his eyes horribly sincere. With a lazy wave of his wand the fallen books flew back to their places on the shelves, and James’ wand flew towards him. James caught it, and Lucius simply looked at him from the doorway, his own wand cast downwards.
“Go on James, I dare you,” he sneered, smoothing his blond scalp with one white hand.
But his nephew’s mind was too clogged to think of even hurting Lucius any more. He had done that, and it had not worked. Lucius had gotten up again, and now showed no signs of it. Lucius had left the room, to return to, he could imagine, the drawing room. James was thinking of his mother, his kind mother, who had comforted him in this very room, on that very window seat, not long before. His soul still ached for the loss he had just experienced, and could not imagine surviving another just like it.
So he too got up, wiping the blood from his cut mouth, and took one last look at the study, before sprinting out, his black robes flying behind him.
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