Disclaimer: Not JKR, ok?
Tea And Tears
There had been no trace of Lucius’ previous madness when his mother had met them in the entrance hall, and he thought not to mention it to her as they entered his father’s study. She was more tired than he had ever seen her, and as she led him into the room she sat down in the large, comfortable window seat. The dark lawn was stretched behind her, and beyond the glass James could hear the rustling of the leaves outside as the growing winds tore through them.
It was the only room he liked in their townhouse. It was smaller than the others, and lined on all sides by dark bookshelves, filled with well-worn volumes on a wide range of topics. It had no fireplace, but was always warm, and there were plenty of narrow windows, unflanked by curtains of any kind. His father’s desk was at the far end of the room, and behind it was the black leather armchair. As James glanced at it, he almost expected to see his father sitting there, reading a book or sharpening a quill. But it was empty.
Though James was a frequent visitor, his mother had rarely entered the study unless she wanted to urgently speak to his father, and he supposed this was one of those times. She was staring fervently at the tea tray on the little mahogany table beside her. The cup, saucer, sugar bowl and teapot were speckled blue and white, like a diricawl’s egg.
There was tea in that cup, but the tea was ice cold; the tray had not been moved for days. Nothing in the study had moved since his father had left it. His father liked tea “ he would often drink it, even on hot days. James had never cared for it much.
The tray had always sat, ready in the study, waiting patiently for his father’s return from the Ministry, and the cup would fill itself when his father entered, and he would sit down on the window seat “ where his mother sat now “ and he would perhaps pick up that day’s paper and flick immediately to the sports section.
But James’ father had never returned, and the tray stayed there, still waiting obediently for its master’s usage.
It seemed a mistake then, that his mother should sit on the window seat silently, and that the tea should remain untouched. His stomach was tight as he walked over to her and sat next to her, his backpressed against the cold window pane.
She turned to him and touched his shoulder gently. Her eyes were brimming “ James had never seen her like this before. Her blond hair fell down in pieces around her pretty face, and she may have seen the shock on his own, as she pulled him into a warm hug, something she had not done since he had reached adolescence.
This was something that was not present at Hogwarts. No-one hugged you when you were down, no-one could tell instantly that you were upset, or angry “ and if they could no-one did anything about it. He had forgotten what it was to have this sort of person, someone who knew what it was to be similarly troubled. His mother did not care that the shoulder of her robes were getting wet with his tears, or that his were wet with hers, even though he was sixteen and a Quidditch captain.
He had often felt that he and his mother had little in common, and six years of boarding school had done nothing to further their knowledge of each other. But now, with her arms around him as if he were a little boy again, and her shoulders shaking under his, he felt an odd, detached sense of unity with her.
His mother was hushing him now, and he pulled away, removing his glasses and wiping his face, his eyes sore and his cheeks stiff with salt. She had pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her face too, but her make-up smeared on it, and as she saw the bright blotch of red lipstick she sighed, and said, “Such a mess. I knew it would allwash off, but I persisted in applying it anyway!”
She wiped her entire face clean, and James smiled sadly. His mother removed her hair clip, and it all came down to her shoulders, then straightened up, brushing down her robes. She reached over to the tea tray, and touched it, withdrawing her hand as soon as she did so.
“I’ve always hated tea,” she said, turning away from the cold cup and saucer. “And he always loved it!” She pressed her handkerchief up to her cheek, and looked at her son. “And I will always love him.”
Her tears had started to flow again, and she dabbed at them in a frustrated manner and said to herself more than to James, “Oh, to stop this dratted flow of tears!” She closed her eyes, leaning back on the glass, breathing heavily.
James’ eyes roved the books on the shelves around him, in some vain desperation of finding one that would solve both their problems, and to remove their current emotionsand put them somewhere else “ anywhere “ the lawn, that couple, the teacup, anywhere other than in themselves. He glanced at the empty armchair again.
His mother rose from the seat, and walked to the shelf in front of them, as though she had read his mind. “Oh dear,” she said grimly. She traced a finger along a line of books on the second shelf “ the old charm books. “So many books “ I don’t think I shall ever have the time to read them all,” she sniffed. She seemed so small and vulnerable next to the giant bookcase, and it dawned on James that she would need protection “ and he was now man of the house, a position he had never desired. “He did love his books,” she said, as she opened one. Its jacket was coming off, and ripped in places.
“He did,” replied James stiffly. It did not seem right to say “he did,” when he half-expected his father to be eaves-dropping on their conversation. His throat felt sore and his chest ached, but his eyes were now tearless, and it seemed hopeless to cry without them. He was finished with crying. Crying had made him feel better, but he did not want to cry again. He went quickly to his mother and took the book from her hands, and with his face close to hers “ he had to bend down slightly, whispered, “Who did this?”
His mother looked down for a moment, and he saw that her eyelashes were wet. “Why, Sebastian-Stuart Pixley! I thought you knew that dear “ it’s on your syllabus this year,” she replied.
“No,” “ and James shoved the book back on its shelf “ “the… the…”
His mother looked so inquisitive, as though she didn’t know, or as if she thought he was about to talk about his schoolwork “ which was now the furthest thing from his mind. Her eyes were clear, and he was amazed by her ability to change the conversation so abruptly. Now his father’s death seemed highly inappropriate for discussion, and Charms class did.
But it was urgent, so he took a deep breath “ “Listen to me. I want to know who killed my “ ”
He heard sharp, quick footsteps against the tiled corridor outside. He would recognise those feet anywhere “ he had grown up with them running around his home. It was Lucius.
His mother turned away from him in sorrow, and her voice sounded more serious than he had ever heard it. He had grown up listening to her joking with friends, and gossiping with people in the Quidditch Club, but now her voice had no jovial tones; she spoke so low and quietly that he had to turn his ear to her, and he felt emptier than ever before when he heard her say, “I don’t know James. I don’t know.”
She fingered the trim of her handkerchief carefully, and turned just in time to see Lucius enter. He was still perfectly intact “ and he had given his hair a re-combing. He looked anxiously at his sister and nephew, and asked, “Is everything alright?”
Of course nothing was alright, James thought miserably as his mother walked over to Lucius, saying “Oh dear, the guests -what a dreadful host I’ve been!” She looked under the window seat to retrieve her bag, and James could tell she was close to tears again.
“I think it’s perfectly acceptable Sister, under the circumstances,” said Lucius, putting his hand on her shoulder, and she gazed at him sadly. Their hair colour was the exact same, James thought, but they were so unalike otherwise. His uncle must have felt his glare.
“Poor James,” Lucius added, his voice and eyes lined with false sympathy. “I can’t possibly imagine how difficult it has been for you.” His mother looked up at her brother gratefully. “Losing a father “ it is not something I can recall.” His eyes were cold and his face was stony, and James tried to avoid looking at him. He looked past his uncle to the empty leather armchair at the end of the room.
Both his mother and uncle turned to go, to go back to the living room, to the musty smell of dress robes, to the officials, to the glasses, to the guests, glad to be at some sort of soiree. His mother looked at him expectantly, but he shook his head. Lucius hooked his arm with his mother’s, just as that mediwizard’s had been when James had encountered her in the hall. Her expression turned to one of understanding “ she always did understand his expression “ and she and Lucius left. The door still open, Lucius could be heard clearly in the study, discussing James’ emotional state in low tones.
For the second time that night, it took all his energies to close the door gently, and not to slam it.
The study was silent now. He studied the tea tray, the sick feeling growing in his stomach once more. The armchair was still empty, and James walked resolutely towards it, his own footsteps echoing against the wooden floor.
He was hesitant for a moment, and stood there, absorbing the creases and shine on the black leather.
Then he sat into his father’s special chair, his head in his hands, his elbows digging into the hard desk, his fingers pushing his hair away from his head.