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Red by Rockinfaerie
Affairs at the Ministry had been busy and time-consuming, and more than once she had lamented at the fact that she had not thrown a party in the townhouse for so long. Harry had said that there were much more important things in life than parties and socialising. She had always maintained that it was quite all right for him to say such things – he wasn’t much of a talker.
When she was in her twenties, and James still lived at home, there were often social gatherings in the townhouse. She loved to throw dinner parties in their large dining room, keeping wine and conversation flowing, and in the summer months would hold lawn parties for her friends. At first Harry had been happy to attend, but soon it seemed that her friends’ conversation bored him, for he told her that he would rather spend his time in their country place at Godric’s Hollow. Though it was undoubtedly a picturesque village, Godric’s Hollow was not what she would call the centre of the social scene, and while she appreciated the time spent there with James, she would often get lonely, and felt more at home in London.
It seemed that the Ministry was on her side, because in recent years she and Harry had moved to London permanently. Harry had said only a few weeks before that politically, the Ministry was in dire straits, deeply divided and weak. It was rare that her husband spoke to her about his work; politics bored her.
Though she had grown used to Harry’s absence at home, she had not understood why the Ministry was taking up so much of his time. He would spend whole days there, but her friends never seemed to understand her concerns – after all, he bought her everything she wanted.
Now, seeing the guests around her in the drawing room, she wondered suddenly how Harry would feel, honoured by a grim social gathering. For that was what it was. All around her she could see Harry’s associates speaking solemnly, their faces lined. Now and then one would approach her to express condolences, but after that there seemed little to say – their paths had rarely crossed.
On entering the drawing room she had stayed at Lucius’ side. They took part in conversation with Albert and his Healer friends, mixing hospital talk with past Hogwarts days, reliving Quidditch matches of their youth, hoping to include her lightly by mentioning James’ progress on his team, and she accepted their compliments with polite smiles.
Her eyes roved the room to find someone else to listen to – uncharacteristically, she didn’t feel much like talking – and she spotted Madame Demarchalier in the corner beside the fireplace, chatting with Mrs. Black. She excused herself, and made her way quickly to them. Mrs Black was significantly older than she was, and she often felt intimidated by her. The older woman wore a round hat on her head that she had refused to take off, and looked coolly at her, as though it was her fault that Sirius had left home. Isabelle Demarchalier eyed her sympathetically, and for once, Mrs Potter had simply no idea what to say. She looked at the photographs on the mantel, and Harry and his relatives smiled distantly back at her.
“Your robes are marvellous dear,” said Mrs Black, but her voice was still glacial in her attempt to break the ice. Mrs Potter was rather surprised to be complimented so suddenly, and she looked down at her robes as though she had just realised she was wearing them. She did not usually like her dress robes to be black, and had not imagined that she would ever wear black dress robes while hosting a large gathering in her own house, but she had never once envisioned that such an occasion as Harry’s death would ever arise.
“Thank you,” she replied shortly. Mrs Black’s own dark dress robes seemed well-worn – as did everything she ever was seen wearing, and they suited her, with her pale skin and greying hair. She wore black gloves that reached her elbow, and they shone in the firelight. There was a hole in one of the fingers, and a long painted nail was visible, but the wearer didn’t seem to care. It was as though her family was so important that she did not have to care about something as trivial as a hole in one’s glove. Mrs Black didn’t think her relevance as an important figure in high society could be achieved through fashion, and as a result of her somewhat moth-eaten appearance, it was often thought that she wore her lineage not only proudly, but literally. Sirius’ mother stood straight and tall, and now, in her shadow, Mrs Potter moved slightly, and for an odd moment sought to escape it.
“You know, Albert has just been telling me,” Mrs Black said, looking around for him, “that the new head of the Artefacts Accidents unit in St Mungo’s is a Half-blood. Can you believe it?” she asked, scratching her pointed nose. “I’m sure he has no clue of magic. How can he, what with Muggles in the family, patching up their injuries with thread and plaster?” She shook her head in disgust.
Albert had told Mrs Potter of this, and it was indeed a shame that the head of such an important department was not one of their own. Unlike many of her peers, her sentiments on the matter of Pure-bloods and Half-bloods were rather vague – she didn’t know any Half-bloods, except for the woman who cleaned the house occasionally – household spells had never been her forte, and of course James’ old nanny. They were unavoidable on Diagon Alley; she would often pass them on visits to her couturier, but she had never stopped to take a good look at them. They could carry on with their business and she with hers. She had never even spoken to a Muggle-born, though apparently there was a significant number in James’ year.
“Plaster is for building,” Mrs Black continued, waving her red cigarette holder with ease, “and thread, is for clothing! Don’t you agree?” She looked expectantly at Healer Melvin, one of Albert’s friends, who had appeared at her side.
Melvin laughed and nodded fervently, handing her a glass of clear liquid. Isabelle stayed silent – she usually did when a group began to form, and watched as Mrs Black’s nostrils flared momentarily, sniffing the glass. Mrs Potter nodded in agreement also, though she had never had any experience with construction spells or sewing charms. She certainly didn’t like to think of the idea – being sewed together or encased in a wall did sound terrible.
Mrs Black knocked back the glass, and a few more of Albert’s bloated colleagues joined the group, Mr Black being one of them. He stood at his wife’s side, and Mrs Potter noticed that he was considerably shorter than her.
She turned away from the Blacks and the rest of the group for a moment, observing the other guests in the room. Earlier that evening, her mind had been an unseeing haze, but now she recognised people from various areas of her life – Alice and Frank Longbottom sat by the window with Frank’s mother – they were acquaintances of Harry’s and she had spoken to them on her brief visits to the Ministry. They were Aurors, roughly the same age as her, and very well known. It was an instantly recognisable name; “Longbottom” was synonymous with wireless reports and the front page of the Daily Prophet. In spite of their fame, they kept to themselves and rarely showed at parties, and had been a married couple for as long as anyone could remember.
“… and what use would sewing be, if my ears turned to radishes?” the stately greying woman added, her voice beginning to slur slightly. “I’m sure that the half-blood quack would fly a mile rather than see me,” – Mrs Potter turned to see Mrs Black looking at Healer Melvin darkly, “and wouldn’t that be a laugh for all concerned?”
Mrs Potter didn’t excuse herself this time, but walked quickly to the Longbottoms, who were to all appearances quite out of place, the couple still in her work clothes. They looked up as she approached, Alice offering a warm smile, but Frank’s mother took Mrs Potter’s hand in her own and commiserated graciously with her.
“A great man,” she said resolutely, “and I'm sure you know it.”
Mrs Potter forced a smile, which by now was proving extremely difficult, and she avoided eye contact with Frank, who was looking at her kindly. She was unused to such benign sincerity among her guests. She walked them to the hallway, where she stood, somewhat awkwardly awaiting their departure. Frank held the door open for his wife and mother, whose red handbag swung freely from the crook of her arm, before nodding to Mrs Potter and exiting into the cool night air to disapparate after them.
The hallway now empty, she leaned against the wall, again facing a mirror. She was surprised to see that she looked older, and different. She pulled a wisp of blonde hair away from her face and secured it in place with a flick of her wand. She raised her hands and touched the areas below her eyes, which had darkened with fatigue. Biting her lower lip, she looked once more to the front door, and it looked strange too, as if it was separate, and no longer a part of her life. There were more photographs around the mirror, and she looked closely at one of Harry and his brother, whom she had never met.
For a fleeting second she wondered what it would be like to run through that door and follow the kind Longbottoms, and fly on her broom to some distant land, where she could… but she did not want to forget about Harry. She did not want him to leave her mind, but she did not want the horrible, heavy feeling inside her that grew with every passing day. She longed to think of him without sadness, without regret. She did not want to be reminded of him by every report, by the Ministry, by her friends. Lucius would understand – he always did. But Lucius was so busy these days, working tirelessly with the Ministry, and James would go back to Hogwarts soon, where he – and on some level she hated to admit it – belonged.
Leaning back further against the wall, she closed her eyes to the scarlet wall covering, and hoped that no-one would emerge from the drawing room to find her there. She lowered her hands to her sides, trying to relax, but could not drown out the voice of Mrs Black.
“What is it,” her voice carried through the doorway, “about the top jobs going to Half-Muggles? Next thing we’ll have a half-breed Minister for Magic…”
“A werewolf!” one voice quipped, a voice she did not recognise, and there were a few chuckles among the group inside. Mrs Potter opened her eyes and found herself imagining a furry, bent-backed witch in pinstriped robes, fleeing at the sight of a full moon.
“Or a vampire…” tried Healer Singh, and his suggestion issued more laughter for its implausibility. She nearly smiled, thinking about a leader in shiny robes and a high collar, with a bright white face and bloody chin, relocating the Wizengamot to some unknown forest.
“How about a Muggle while we’re at it?” Lucius asked seriously. “Throw all our affairs to the Muggles. They’ll know what to do…” Of course the group around him erupted in muffled mirth. Lucius’ jokes always made her smile. She could nearly see it, Lucius being ordered around by a confused man with a round head and strange, structured, bright clothes, sitting at his desk as he displayed a tangled mess of metal pieces and wire, gawking rudely when a broomstick flew by or an owl delivered a letter.
“And do you know what the most frightening part is, Mrs Black?” Lucius asked. “It just may happen.”
“Now come Lucius! I think that’s taking it a step far,” said the first voice, and she heard many others agree.
“Well…” she heard her brother reply, “We didn’t think they’d let a Half-blood be placed in a top position at Mungo’s, but look at the Artefacts Accidents Unit.” There followed a series of murmers and musings. Mrs Potter wondered suddenly what it would be like to be treated by a Muggle Mediwizard, and she wondered what she would do if he or she threatened to cut her open or sew her up with a needle and thread. She reminded herself not to get into any accidents involving radish ears, or she may have to face some such scenario.
The entrance hall had become very cold, and she didn’t wait long more before casually re-entering the drawing room. The following hour was spent in light, cautious conversation with others, and the guests steadily tapered out, and for the first time in her life, she was glad to see them go. The Ministry people shook hands with her and her Quidditch Club friends kissed her cheeks, promising that they would talk soon. Soon only she, Albert and Lucius remained.
The house was emptier now than it had been before the guests had arrived, and filled with silence. She sat in the old rocking chair, her tired eyes barely focusing on it, her skin absorbing the comforting heat of the fireplace, her chin in her hands. Lucius and Albert did not disturb her, for her mouth was curved downward in a tight frown, her thoughts riddled with disturbing images of terrifying, weapon-wielding Muggles, and of Harry, walking down a dull lane, an umbrella in his hand, oblivious to the villains who had waited for him nearby.
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