Disclaimer: Said before.
Red by Rockinfaerie
Escapism
The loud sound of Hagrid’s snores echoed about the wooden walls of his hut, and it was the first time in what seemed like an age that James felt properly comfortable in his surroundings. They had talked about very light matters; Hagrid clearly wanted to stay away from any subject that might upset James, and he was thankful for it. They drank huge mugs of tea with a shot of firewhiskey in each (at Hagrid’s suggestion), and ate the unburnt parts of the gamekeeper’s attempts at making toast.
He lay back further into the enormous armchair, pulling a spare blanket of Hagrid’s about him and closing his eyes. His legs ached with tiredness, but his mind was still active, as the nights events flashed around his mind.
Years of avoiding teachers and Filch on midnight jaunts around school corridors had instilled in James the often unappreciated talent of running silently. He had put this skill into full practice as he hurtled down the stairs of his family townhouse, packed suitcase in one hand, wand in the other, fully covered by his invisibility cloak.
It had been mere moments after that dreadful encounter with Lucius, and James had hoped it would be the last as he advanced down the darkened entrance hallway. But when he arrived at the living room doorway he stopped abruptly. Though no-one could have possibly seen him, it was with great caution that he had looked inside.
There he had seen her; his mother. He still saw her now as he gazed into Hagrid’s empty stone fireplace. She had sat rigidly on the sofa, her hands clasped tightly on her knees, her back to him, staring into the lingering fire. Her head was cast downwards, silhouetted by the light of the cracking flames. He did not see her face, but he knew that if he had it would have been lined with grief, the very grief he had seen her display in the study, for he recognised the slump of her shoulders, the shoulders that on any other occasion remained perfectly erect.
He had left her, he thought bitterly. He had left because he had to.
It was a notion that Lucius had involuntarily etched into his mind. Lucius, who in his father’s study, had blatantly proclaimed that he saw no fault in condemning her to death. He could not bear to think of spending another minute under the same roof as his uncle, the man who to all appearances was perfect, but underneath bore a rotten core, a man who personified the injustices of his society that he had, up until now, not understood.
James had imagined then, as he did now, what it might be like, to live in deception; pretending to his mother that he still thought Lucius to be something of a kind mentor or older brother. He had thought horribly what it might be like to sit and eat at the same table as him, knowing all the while that Lucius and his group of noble lies were responsible for the empty chair at its head.
He had unwillingly envisioned the vile actions Lucius might force on him as part of that group. The idea of lying to his mother on a daily basis for the rest of their days, and committing fiendish acts of violence to others had made the knot in his stomach grow tighter, and he knew that he could do no such thing. But if he did tell her the truth, he knew she would not believe him, and far worse, she could be… killed.
Thus he turned his head away from the ash-laden grate, as he had from the loving, familiar creature in the armchair by the warm fire, and saw again, as he felt a heavy drop slide down his cheek, her stricken face in the study, and he knew that he had not wanted to further add to her troubles. So without another glance at her and feeling as though wading against a strong current, he had opened the front door and walked out.
An icy jet of wind pushing against his invisible self, he shut the door noiselessly behind him. There, standing on top of the old stone steps, he had felt a sad sense of liberation. Breathing deeply, he descended, and had known at once that he must get back to Hogwarts.
He had never thought to use Public Wizard Transportation before “ his family had always used the private, comfortable Ministry transport, and the Hogwarts Express was of course only for the closing and opening days of term. But there was a first time for everything, he supposed, as he sunk against Hagrid’s cushion. The sky had, for the past two years, been under strict Ministry surveillance, and though James didn’t usually side with rule and order, he had known that to be caught by the Ministry meant being sent back to Lucius. He shuddered at the thought. PWT had been his only option.
Afraid that Lucius would be out after him if he did not act soon, he had pocketed the invisibility cloak, and made to flag down the Knight Bus. His watch told him then that it was two hours past midnight, and the street had looked deserted, the road devoid of cars. He had been just about to step to the kerb, however, when he was distracted by a Muggle couple rounding the corner, the same couple he had seen from his bedroom window.
He had sunk back into the shadows. He didn’t know their world, the world that tried to deny the thick dark sky that had hung above him, with dazzling yellow light that emitted from tall poles at the edge of the footpath. He did not know much about those people who lived parallel to him, who wore odd clothes and shoes.
The man had been laughing loudly, and the taller blonde woman held her red hat in one hand, her beau’s hand in the other. A Lucius-like stench of tobacco drifted towards him as they came near, and when they caught sight of him he had attempted to hide himself, stowing his wand away from their curious eyes. They fell silent, and gave him an odd look, as if they knew he was different, and James had looked down at his black dress-robes, which made a stark contrast to the woman’s matching coat and hat and the man’s slacks and shirt. The couple had continued past, resuming their talk once they were several feet away.
James had jumped away from the railing, glaring after the couple, for they confirmed his lack of belonging there, and went once again to the kerb, careful to see that they were far enough away. The windows in the houses opposite were dark, and he knew that if he didn’t do it now he never would. He stuck out his wand resolutely, and with a startling “BANG” that he thought even Muggles would hear, the Knight Bus had appeared.
The driver of The Knight Bus was a large, rotund man whose mouth hung open in astonishment as he gaped at James, who in his formal dress robes had clashed as much with the shabby interior of the bus as he had with the Muggles. Avoiding the driver’s eye, and with a glance to the placard bearing ticket prices, he paid him.
“Hogsmeade,” he said casually, hoping that the driver could not tell that this was his PWT debut.
The driver grunted, and gestured behind him. Brass bedsteads lined both walls of the bus, and James made his way down the aisle between them, and had tried not to disturb their sleeping occupants, most of who, he supposed, would have stared at him in the same way as driver had they woken. He sat down on the bed at the very back of the bus, the last remaining empty one on the bottom deck. His eyes pressed against the glass he had watched the house disappear from view; the long narrow windows, the steep stone steps and the large red front door, cast false Muggle light, before the bus jolted and they were suddenly bumping down an uneven, coastal road.
He had felt no urge to sleep, and listened, as he did now, to the low snores of the sleeper near him. Most of their heads had been covered by heavy quilts, and there was an unpleasant odour about them that James was not accustomed to.
As it turned out, his intention of staying awake was in fact shared with another passenger; his nearest neighbour. As James had tried to focus his mind on matters other than his currently dire family predicament, he had seen two bleary eyes watching him closely from the bed next to his own. James quickly looked away “ he was not particularly game for making eye contact with wizards he had never met; it was simply not done in these dark times.
“The name’s Fletcher,” the man swiftly said, holding a grubby hand over his headboard for James to shake, and directly contradicting the rule about not speaking to strange wizards. “Mundungus Fletcher. Dung, f’you prefer.”
His chin was covered in stubble, and the coverings about his head were wrinkled and filthy, and seemed to suggest that he had slept on the bus for days. There was a stench about him James usually associated with the Leaky Cauldron “ back in the day when it was crowded “ a bitter, unpleasant smell, reminiscent of onions and stale whiskey.
“Dung?” asked James, in spite of himself, though he declined to shake Fletcher’s hand.
“Yep,” he replied, “Or Mundungus “ take your pick mate.” He produced a pipe from his pocket, and tipped some dark powder into it. Lighting it with a flick of his wand, he stuck it into his mouth, and soon was basking in a peculiar yellow haze that made Fletcher’s eyes droop.
James withdrew his gaze from the man beside him and wished he had gone upstairs, where he could have escaped into his own thoughts.
“What the bloody ‘ell happened to your mouth?” Fletcher asked from behind his pipe, and James instinctively raised his hand to it.
“Nothing,” he had answered shortly.
“Nothing my arse.” Fletcher replied, sinking back into his pillow. Then he raised his pipe to his mouth again and blew a whirl of yellow smoke into the stuffy air above them. He leaned on his side; his chin supported by his fist, and grinned at James. “What’s a Charlie Ronce like you doin’ here?”
James had wished himself away from the annoying man. His reflection in the window showed his pale face, and his white shirt collar, and the red of his mouth, and James realised now that he did look a sight different to everyone else on board the Knight Bus. He had rubbed his mouth, hoping the swelling might go down. He had bit it, he supposed, when he had hit the bookshelf.
“I suppose I wanted a bit of adventure,” he told Fletcher cryptically, still staring at the window. James’ idea of adventure did not usually consist of smelly buses, but he supposed that The Knight Bus was more exciting than the average Potion lesson.
“Adventure,” repeated Fletcher glumly. “Th’only adventure most people ‘ere is getting is horror.” He gestured to the newspaper on his lap. “’Ear about it? Another one today “ a Muggle family in Yorkshire. Says ‘ere, now tha’ Potter’s gone, there’ll be more, much more…” Fletcher shook his head, passing the paper to James.
The front page depicted a grim photograph; the ruins of a small terraced house, with charred walls and smashed windows. He thought back to the Muggle couple who had seen him on the footpath, and realised that the Death Eaters were a danger to them too “ perhaps even more so than they were to him.
“How did the Muggles explain it?” he asked Fletcher, and the man looked up from the pipe.
“Hmmm? Oh, the Muggles can explain away anything. They kill each other too “ they can just pin it on each other… Pureblood, I take it?” he had asked, his bloodshot eyes narrowing suspiciously.
James nodded, vaguely annoyed that he had made it so obvious.
“Though’ so. ‘Ee won’t be after you then,” Fletcher said, his grin growing wider, baring several yellowing teeth.
The bus had stopped in a dense, urban area, with scribbled brick walls and small, huddled groups of Muggles standing around shopfronts; an area of London he had never been to. The bus halted and he was thrown forward, catching himself just before he hit Fletcher’s headboard. Fletcher had risen from the bed, and had put on a red cap, and was zipping up a navy Muggle jacket as he turned to James.
“Well, this’ my stop.” he said gruffly, waving slightly at James, but James caught him by the jacket and Fletcher’s grin fell away. “Wha’ you doin?” he asked, trying to pry James’ fingers off it.
“My watch, Dung,” James had said smoothly, his eyebrows raised, his wand pointing at the thief’s stomach threateningly.
He still remembered clearly Fletcher’s sour, defeated look, as he dropped the watch into James’ lap with a sigh.
“Sharp runt,” he had muttered, and James smirked while Fletcher sulked down the aisle, prodding other passengers awake with a grubby finger, reminding James faintly of Peeves. He arrived at the top of the bus, and then out the door which shut firmly after him. James could see the driver shake his head crossly in Fletcher’s wake, and James wondered if he too was trying to rid himself of that awful, stale-onion smell.
He pocketed the watch. As he thought about it now, in Hagrid’s hut, James assumed that he had been targeted by Fletcher as a poor-little-rich-boy. But he had been nicking stuff himself for too long not to know the tricks of the trade. Be charming, be talkative, and be subtle. Of course, Fletcher’s failing had been in doing the first two, as no innocent wizard would ever speak to a stranger on a bus “ no matter his age “ in the current state of affairs with nothing to gain.
The darkness persisted outside Hagrid’s hut, and James still felt as if he were on the bus, which had swayed to and fro like a pendulum. Now and then, the bus had taken its passengers to areas where rain lashed against the windows, or where a white mist would press against the sides of the bus, chilling James to the bone. Fatigue had begun to creep up on James, and he had found himself reluctantly lying down on the bed, which was, despite its frayed appearance, actually quite comfortable.
“Hogsmeade,” the driver had grunted, and James had stood to attention, pulling his suitcase out from under the bed. He strode up the aisle, ignoring the wanton stare he received from the remaining passenger who had now woken; a girl no more than his age, her long black hair straggly and a cigarette hanging from her mouth, her striped stocking-ed legs tucked beneath her. He had nodded to the driver, who grunted again, and stepped off into a light rain.
The Knight Bus had disappeared almost instantly behind him, and he pulled his robes around him to keep his clothes from getting wet. As he had made his way under the dripping sign of The Hog’s Head, he had been unexpectedly greeted by a well-known voice.
“James! This is something of a surprise.”
He had spun around to see Albus Dumbledore, standing behind him in the dark doorway of the pub, holding a silver umbrella above his pointed hat to keep himself dry.
“Sir!” exclaimed James, equally surprised to see his headmaster emerge from a pub in Hogsmeade at such a dark hour of the morning.
“I suppose I may accompany you to the school “ for I assume that is where you are going?” Dumbledore asked serenely.
James nodded, and Dumbledore held the umbrella over him too, which expanded until it was big enough to shelter them both. For a while they walked in silence, interrupted only by Dumbledore’s spell to allow entry through the Hogwarts gate. James felt a surge of anger at Lucius for speaking so derogatively of his headmaster, for he knew no better than the man who had walked beside him.
“James… I am deeply sorry for your loss,” he had said heavily. James thought with a jolt to the time he had last spoken with Dumbledore. Whole ages had passed since. He saw that the headmaster looked very sad. “I knew your father well.”
Uncharacteristically stuck for words, he merely nodded in reply. The unrelenting drizzle had turned the path to a fine muck, and James had seen, with a certain degree of satisfaction, that the hem of his robes was covered in dirt.
Thankfully, Dumbledore did not ask why James had travelled on his own, or why he hadn’t waited till daylight to arrive in Hogsmeade, or why his lip was cut. James did not want to tell anyone why he had run from home. They walked on, the comforting shape of Hogwarts growing bigger as they approached it, the headmaster stroking his beard thoughtfully.
But instead of leading him to the Hogwarts door, Dumbledore led him to Hagrid’s, and it only took Dumbledore to rap smoothly on it for Hagrid to open it with a flourish.
“Professor!” he exclaimed, smiling through his wiry beard. “And “ wha’s this “ James?”
“In, out of the rain,” said Dumbledore smoothly, and he followed James inside, shutting the door behind them. On the table was an opened box, brimming with straw and chirping noises, which Hagrid hastily put away.
“None for me thank you, Rubeus,” Dumbledore had said, as the gamekeeper placed three cups on the table. “I have further business to attend to. But if you would, James has had a very long week, and I’m sure he would be grateful to rest here until morning.” He glanced at James, who nodded fervently. The circular moon shone through the window; Remus would be in the Shrieking Shack. Of course, Dumbledore did not know that the others would be there also, rendering his dorm empty. But the Fat Lady rarely allowed visitors at such an hour, and James was equally comfortable at Hagrid’s. It was therefore sensible that he stay put, and perhaps his headmaster also sensed that for once James did not want to speak to other students. “You are excused from classes tomorrow, James,” Dumbledore had added, as he reached to the door.
Only when the bright light of morning streamed through the curtains did James wake, his body stiff from sleeping in the chair. He looked across the room, and saw Hagrid’s enormous form still sleeping on his bed in the corner. Suddenly restless, James rose, careful not to disturb him, and went to the back door.
He did not know why he was wandering outside “ he had only been asleep for a few hours, and his mind was still foggy as he pushed the door open and stepped out into the pumpkin patch. He felt irrevocably drawn outside, and here he beheld the sky, streaming with red and orange, as though someone had splashed colour on the blank night. Hagrid’s cabin still in sight, he walked down towards the lake, the trees beginning to show their April foliage. Sunrise, and he knew Remus’ torment would be over, for another month. He half-thought of going to the Shack, for now, he felt ready to see his friends again. He continued under the branches, knowing he would be back in time for Hagrid’s waking.
But he stopped in his tracks.
Through the gaps in the trees he saw someone. He leaned against the nearest one, too far away for him to be seen, hidden by the small green leaves. Yet he was close enough to hear the lake lapping on the stony shore, close enough to know who it was. She stood there, in the cool water, her robes hitched above her knees, her long mane of glorious dark-red hair falling away from her back as she bent down, her hand skimming the glassy surface. He stayed there transfixed, as she treaded the water around her, the streaked golden sky bathing the lake in clear light.
For a brief moment, she looked up from the water, directly at him. Sure she hadn’t seen him, he retreated rapidly behind the tree again, tearing his eyes away, breathing quickly.
HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams
Aedh Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven - W.B. Yeats
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