Disclaimer: As I said before...
A Changed Man
Several wooden steps flew behind him as he rapidly ascended, careful not to trip. His feet were muffled by the carpet that lay on the staircase, and he grasped the bannister tightly. He streaked across the landing, avoiding the scattered dusty furniture, and flung the door open.
He shut it softly. His bedroom looked the same as it did when he had left it that morning, only for the marble fireplace that now flickered with the remaining embers of its once powerful regime. He stayed there, by the oak door, and it was now that he heard his own breathing. His heart pumped with adrenaline – he had just bounded up three flights of steep stairs; he could not face them anymore.
The sunset gleamed through the windows, and the room was cast in a relaxed orange haze.
He methodically crossed the thick carpet and drew the heavy curtains across the wide windowpane. As he did this he caught a glance of his own reflection in the thick glass. He let the heavy material fall between his eyes and the window, yet he instinctively brought his hand to his hair. There his other hand joined its fellow and soon his face was buried in both. He stood upright, his knees shaking slightly, blind to the house by his fingers.
His head was thumping; he hadn't slept in a week.
He had left the drawing room with apparent ease, he hoped. The small group of relatives there had caused him deep discomfort, and he now wished them away from his home. Their sympathetic words had been muffled by cold eyes and hands that shook his awkwardly, with skin so pale and fleshy it seemed that they never saw the light of day. Blurs of red wine floated in their hands and they would raise these to their upturned lips, casting hostile glances towards others as they spoke to him.
That musty smell of black dress robes had made his stomach churn, and he was ungrateful for his uncle’s insistence that he should talk to every tall, ill-beseeming, grey-haired man in the room. They would emerge like shadows from the corner by the piano, inflicting their neat manner on him, sprung from common courtesy and no desire to please.
As his uncle went to speak to one of these wine-wielding spectres about “private matters,” James had stolen his chance. Avoiding his mother's eyes, he had crossed the room, and only stopped in his silent run when he came inside his bedroom door.
He moved his hands away. His cheeks were still dry, but the skin on his face felt stiff – it bore testimony to the expressionless mask he had worn all day. Glad to be out of the high-ceilinged furnace that was the drawing room, he looked around, his vision unbroken by other individuals.
His room never changed while he was at school. He gazed at his four-poster, seeing images in the pattern he had never seen before. His eyes followed a golden line of embroidery to where it stopped, in a fold of material, tucked beneath the mattress. He thought longingly of school, and wondered when he would return. The news that had been thrown at him like icy water a week before had upset his way of thinking.
It had transpired that the world was not a secure place, where a game of Quidditch would solve matters quite easily. It was instead a harsh, dreadful series of events that were piled miserably on top of him, whenever he was released into it. A part of him had been angered at the fact that he had been kept as a naïve captive of Dumbledore’s, in an effort to shield him from what lay outside. But more often than not he found himself wishing that he had never been told; he could carry on living in the childish misconception that no family of his would ever be affected by the dire, whispered affairs of the adult, ex-Hogwarts world.
He shut his eyes again, because he had begun to think of things he was not yet ready to think about. He hummed tunelessly, in an effort to clear these thoughts out of his mind. He kept hearing those words, over and over again.
James tried to focus his attentions on other things – the spellbooks on the bookcases that lined the walls, the torches burning steadily in their brackets, the dying fire – but these were no help. He needed something – anything, to help him escape the torment in his head, even if just for a moment.
He raced back to the window, flung the curtains aside and forced the windows open. Both panes slammed away from him as he leaned out, blissfully inhaling the cool dusk air.
The tall narrow houses stared at him from the opposite street. The sun had chosen to settle here for the night – it cowered behind those buildings, steadily darkening his room. The neighbouring houses were also white, and it appeared that many elegant pillars had been drawn on them in vertical lines. Spindly black railings divided them from the road, and enclosed were small patches of grass. Lights were lit in the windows – they brightened and darkened suddenly, like the blink of an eye.
His neighbours had never seen him, and neither had they seen his family. He now supposed grimly that they never would. Their eyes always passed over the house, their footsteps echoing on the concrete path.
A Muggle couple were walking below, hand in hand. The woman wore a long red coat, and a matching hat, apparent to James several stories above her. The streetlamps were lighting, causing an artificial glow to fall on the couple, and James watched them for a moment as they sauntered happily down the street. It was as if he looked down into another time, when people could be happy and carefree, and when love became a requited, splendid thing.
He leaned his arms on the windowsill, and now the street was empty. All that remained were the parked cars of other residents and their silhouettes in the reception room windows of the ground floors. The lawn before his house had grown dark and a strong breeze made the trees dance eerily. Far away a dog barked.
Exhausted, he retracted himself from this strange, sudden world, and fell numbly back onto his bed. He continued to stare through the open window, until the sun had made its full descent into the darkness.
His was an odd condition - he could not sleep, yet any attempts to think were blurred by fatigue. So he continued to lie here on his bed, in his formal black dress robes, the skin on his face quite stiff, but his eyes still quite dry. His head was stuck to the pillow, and though his position was not a comfortable one he made no effort to change it. He feared that sudden movement would rid the people downstairs of the idea that he was actually asleep.
This was an entirely new experience for James. For too long his family had been a tranquil, if futile presence, serving as providers but rarely councillors. Now the people he heard moving downstairs he cared not for, and he felt a sudden longing for his childhood, times that presently seemed distant and could never be grasped again without issuing a horrible pain within him.
He wished he could simply return to Hogwarts and forget the events of the past week. Those high stone walls had adopted him. He had lived there for so long that in the past few tiring days he had found himself trying to pick out student faces from the crowd that milled around him. Each time the disappointment was overwhelming.
A soft breeze drifted into the room, stirring the curtains and ruffling his hair. The fireplace had dulled completely.
He may have slept, he was not sure. His position on his bed appeared different, and his mind felt rather clogged. As the present situation reluctantly returned to his foggy mind he let out a deep sigh, and closed his eyes once more. He tried to block out the flickering torch brackets. Little coloured shapes needled him in this solitary darkness, and he angrily turned over. He was at once unpleasantly surprised to see his uncle sitting in the chair beside his bedside.
“Shut the window. It’s freezing,” the seated man ordered softly.
He only caught a glance of him, sitting upright in his own black dress robes, because James had immediately drawn his arms over his head and his back to the man’s face, hoping to block out the knowledge of this insufferable wizard by gazing furiously at the window.
“Go away.”
He heard his uncle sigh at this insistence – he had heard it twice already this week. James remained still, his head pounding more as he shut his eyes again. He heard his uncle’s soft footsteps as he rounded the bed.
Soon he stood between the window and James. He angrily flung his wand at the window and it slammed shut, the curtains rolling over it. He summoned the chair to follow him. As he sank into it, he cast his steely gaze on James, and, comfortably hidden by the folds in his dress robes, James held the protective presence of his wand. James rolled over yet again, happily facing the tapestry instead.
“That’s enough.”
His uncle’s voice was stern and authoritarian – reminding James of someone he had once known very well. How dare he speak to him in such a tone – his uncle was a mere six years his senior. It was all James could do to refrain from screaming curses and obscenities at him – that sort of behaviour was never deemed appropriate in this house. He hated it here.
James stiffened, and slowly faced his uncle, casually adopted an indifferent, cold expression – an obligatory requirement in speaking to this member of the family in particular. His miserable emotion retreated inside himself, as he knew it was not welcome in this room. He threw a questioning look at him, as thought he knew not the reason for such an abrupt tone. He grinned inwardly at his uncle’s displeasure.
“It seems that Hogwarts has spoiled you,” he remarked, producing a small, quilted box from his pocket. “Too often have boys from our family grown to be demanding, rude, and ungrateful brats.” He produced a cigarette from a quilted box and offered it to James. “Welcome to the club,” he added, his arms open wide in a sarcastic manner.
James fumbled with the cigarette. He never smoked – it was a stupid habit to accompany a sport that demanded one to race at sixty miles an hour for God knew how long. He had tried it only once before, and as he stuck the cigarette into his mouth he resolved not to let his inexperience show. His uncle produced a flame from his fingertip and lit it. James coughed slightly as he inhaled.
His uncle drew one himself, and soon the stench of tobacco drifted around them.
“I note you are a beginner. I thought that you might perhaps decline on the basis of your Quidditch pursuits. Too right you might. Smoking is a dreadful habit.” He exhaled, a thick grey cloud of smoke emitted from his mouth as he spoke. He eyed James carefully. “You know, you have missed an important match just by being here. You are undoubtedly upset.”
This realisation did not have a sudden impact on James. Quidditch was currently a peripheral aspect of life, he conceded. He did not care that he missed a match. In fact, up until now, he had forgotten about it entirely. The team would not fare well without him, he supposed. He took a quick look at the clock. If none of this had happened, he thought, he would be in Transfiguration right now. It was Monday.
He lay back on the bed, taking another drag from the cigarette in his fingers, quickly preventing another cough as he did so. His uncle’s most recent words echoed in his head. He wondered what exactly his uncle was referring to.
The canopy had golden embroidery in it. He had not forgotten. He traced the pattern with his finger and then dropped it back onto the mattress, summoning the courage to take a proper look at the man he had barely seen for two years.
His uncle was tipping ashes from his cigarette onto the carpet. In his other hand he held his glass from downstairs. The remaining drops of wine swilled about in a slow, circular motion. One leg crossed the other at a right angle, and his black cape draped across his shoulders like the curtain behind him. He sat rigidly, his head arched back, and his white-blond hair was exceptionally neat; the long straight strands were pulled back tightly from his forehead. The collar of his shirt was crisp and white, and the hem of his robes brushed the carpet delicately. He held both hands together, each right finger matching his left. His eyebrows were straight, and a thin line had appeared between them as he studied James.
“Let’s have a look at you then.”
James raised his body slightly, and looked at Lucius directly. He engineered his scowl to such a degree that his face felt even stiffer. He made neater his own shirt collar, which had grown crooked. His uncle's pale eyes were fixed on his, and in the sunlight James thought he looked blind. James was amazed to see the change two years had wrought in the man he had once known as a lazy, dishevelled teenager.
“Clearly you are putting on quite a display of indifference to your father's death,” he commented sharply, as more ash fell to the carpet. He moved his face closer to James', as though scrutinising him for some wrong-doing.
James felt a strong urge to hit the man, but at the same time mentally congratulated him for not sugar-coating the matter at hand, as so many others did. He lay back, forcing his vague expression to stay there as he seethed inside.
“This interests me. Perhaps we are more similar than I first thought,” Lucius continued. There was a short puffing sound as he took another drag from his cigarette. James was at once reminded of his condolence gift and inhaled from his own quickly. “You see, many years of schooling sometimes forces children to turn away from their family values – especially when you have someone like Albus Dumbledore running the education machine.”
James sat up. He now stared at Lucius’ face, hoping to see some jest in his eyes, or lack of sincerity in his words, but Lucius, who rarely put up fronts like James did, clearly believed every word he said.
“True, I must confess that I had been looking forward to passing my Slytherin knowledge to my young nephew, perhaps guide you as I would a little brother, if I had one, but it was not to be the case.” Lucius smiled, but his eyes held no warmth for James. “But I came to see, during my seventh and your first year, that you were quite capable of governing your own life, and I concluded that any proposed guidance would have immediately been refused.”
James did not see why it should matter to his uncle that he went to Slytherin. James had had no choice in the matter, and Lucius had admitted himself that James was no younger brother, but his sister’s son. Since his return home he had noticed that grown wizards seemed to quell under Lucius’ gaze, as though frightened of him. James had never been afraid of him, but he found this new authoritarian stance of his highly irritating.
Gone was the mischievous but accommodating boy, who had looked after him when he was small, and taught him how to fly when he received his first broom. Gone were the days when they would pull tricks on their older relatives, and wreak havoc in each others’ houses. Gone was the shy teenager, who would be happier making up games with him than partaking in the adult conversation. Gone was the superior seventh-year, who would keep a look out for him, even from his own distant location in the garb of green and silver. Instead here sat an overbearing man, wallowing in a smug sense of self-satisfaction at the fact that he had triumphed in his life-long quest for a respected disposition.
“It’s a classic story, really,” he continued. “Your best friend is, of course, the only pureblood teenager in the school who rejects his fine heritage, and you yourself don’t seem to give a hoot about the pureblood moral code. But I have faith that you will mature from your rebellious attitudes as I teach you not just to think pureblood is best, but to know pureblood is best.”
James moved slightly away from Lucius. He was beginning to feel sick. He had suspected Lucius of possessing these leanings for the past few days, but he was nw beginning to get clarification.
His father had warned him about these wizards, a year before; there were some “extremists” who thought their view was best. He had also learned that this “pure stance,” - the strong belief that pureblood was not only the supreme race, but the only one that should exist in wizardkind was in fact upheld by many acquaintances of his. These ideas were gaining more and more discussion, and support had grown for wizards who claimed they would put these theories into practise. James’ knowledge of these affairs was, however, quite limited, owing to the fact that Dumbledore put such emphasis on the idea that all wizards, no matter what their background, should be treated equally.
But how long had Lucius behaved thus? The odd creed that he had mainly seen deployed by elderly relatives with whom, out of some unwritten rule, one could not argue, had never made sense to him. Now, to see his uncle in support of these unfashionable views, caused quite a shock to him.
His father had told him that this belief held by many pureblood wizards across the board was not to be tolerated. There were rumours circulating about ideas and deeds done to support this belief. James could clearly recall the rare look of fear in his father’s hazel eyes when he had told him that sometimes muggle-borns did not return after the summer holidays. James always assumed that they had grown tired of a whole new system of living, but his father’s concise conclusion to these vanishings was a terrifying revelation.
It had confused James at first, on cold days during the school holidays, when he would overhear his father and those equally well-presented friends of his. They would gather in the drawing room to discuss current affairs, and as they sipped blurred red wine and perched themselves comfortably in the armchairs, they would give their ideas on “what should be done”. These purist views, so condemned by his father, were commonly discussed in front of him, and his father would join in, agreeing and laughing with his guests. The bright fire would flicker on their eyes, and on these days James would try to avoid the group of men at all costs.
But James was not uneducated about the occurrences in the wizard world. Mysterious disappearances were now so commonplace in the news that no-one seemed to care anymore. There were links between each missing person and an underground resistance movement that the ministry had dubbed as illegal, though there was no proof that it had ever existed.
From the moment he had seen that look on Dumbledore’s face outside the Transfiguration classroom, he had known.
“And at sixteen, you’re ripe for such an education. Don’t think that I was not once ignorant of what lay below us,” his uncle proceeded, his voice loud with enthusiasm. He obviously had little idea of what was going through James’ mind. “I’ll bring you into this movement, and show to you our great leader, and I will allow you to flourish. I know you are exceptionally talented, and we do not want that talent wasted.”
Lucius’ propositions disgusted James, and James had outgrown flattery. He never wanted to meet Lucius’ “leader,” never. He had seen the diagrams of torture chambers. He had seen information completely wiped from his textbooks to rectify certain stances those “politicians” took. He had understood that to be outspoken was to be killed – or worse.
Lucius had risen now, and his voice was shaking with emotion.
“You should hear him, James. When he speaks, it’s as if I want to crush them. And I will take care of you, just like I promised I would.”
James realised that he was trembling. Lucius’ figure was quite overbearing, and the idea that he actually wanted to take James and teach him his ways made James’ heart beat quite fast. He straightened up and looked at Lucius’s face. Perspiration was shining on his brow and his eyes had a glazed, fanatic glint that James had never encountered in him before.
“What has happened to you?” he whispered, and Lucius looked down at him with a start, as though he had just seen him.
“What has happened to me, I hear you ask?” His voice lost all sense of loyalty, and he lowered his face towards James’. “I have come into the power I deserve. And by the looks of the current situation, I will keep it.”
Lucius continued to smile, the skin on his jaw stretched on both sides, and his eyes were now quite meaningful.
“And you will join me there, young nephew. Up at the top,” he whispered.
Without meaning to, James had shaken his head slightly. Lucius had gripped his arm tightly, and he stood close to him. James could hear his deep breathing.
“That was an order, James. The family will be dishonoured no longer.” His smile grew wider and the grip on James’ arm grew tighter.
The sun had disappeared completely, and Lucius continued to smile, devoted to the force behind it.
“You're six years older than me,” James spat back. “Stop pretending you can tell me what to do. You’ve never done it before and you’re not going to. Stop pretending you're...” He could feel the anger coursing through his veins. His sullen demeanour had been dropped to the floor. “Now let go!” he hissed, trying to wrench his arm from his uncle’s fingers, but they clutched it firmly.
For a moment, Lucius’ face had slackened.
“Sad, really. But I shan’t worry. You’ll come crawling to me, begging me to make the offer again.” His eyes had grown watery, and for a moment, James thought stupidly that he had actually hurt his feelings. But any pity for his uncle was soon withdrawn. “Power is everything James. You’ll see.”
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