After Sarah left, there was nothing much he could think about. He knew he would feel alone for a time, but he did not think he would ever feel like this. He did not feel lonely, left-out, ignored or belittled by Sarah leaving. Nowadays, he just felt…empty.
He had first met Sarah ten years ago,shortly after his father’s death, on the subway. Peering over his newspaper, he had caught sight of her, dressed up in a frayed pair of jeans and coat, sneaking a glance at him and had smiled. She became suddenly interested in her own fingernails (painted a ridiculous shade of maroon that matched her curly, auburn hair) after that. He had thought how beautiful she looked when she was not, seemingly, aware of it. He particularly admired the way she absent-mindedly played with her curls.
He remembered trying to make small talk with her on the weather and the way she eagerly replied; as if she was waiting for him to say something. He later found out that she was indeed eager. They married a month later, even though his mother disapproved of Sarah’s scruffiness at first, he kept on arguing until he had her convinced. And, eventually, at his wedding, he saw his mother dabbing at her own joyous tears with a handkerchief. For ten years, he had considered himself the luckiest man on the planet; finding the love of his life in a way that was almost cinematic. Ten perfect years, marred only by the sudden death of his aging mother a year after his wedding.
And then, just two weeks ago, Sarah had walked into the kitchen and told him she did not think this was working. Chuckling nervously he had asked exactly what was not working. And as she flailed her hands in her trademark and very Sarah-ish ‘everything’ gesture, he just knew. He remembered feeling his face losing the last trace of that nervous chuckle as he said the first thing that crossed his mind, “But…Seamus…He’ll be…eleven in two weeks, Sarah!”
Their son, Seamus, was born a year after they were married.
He saw Sarah hang her head, then say, “He’ll…manage. Without me, I mean…”
He remembered hearing those words now; remembered how terribly they shocked him coming from the mouth of the woman he had loved so much. How insanely cruel they sounded, how inhumanly merciless. He was so flabbergasted that he did not reply back. She had already packed when she had walked into the kitchen that day, and was gone hours later. Two weeks now and still no word from Sarah (unless you counted her lawyer’s request for a meeting to arrange the divorce). He felt that was for the better, for both himself and Seamus.
He almost did not notice Seamus walking in on him as he sat down that night, drowned in his own thoughts and watching television absent-mindedly. His hand made slow, yet consistent and successful, journeys up and down from the bag of crisps resting on his lap. He had rekindled his childhood love for junk food over the past two weeks; he found it eased his mind off things a little.
“Dad?” said Seamus.
“Uh-huh?”
“Something happened at “ at school,” croaked his son.
He met this with a questioning grunt; the verbal equivalent of a question mark.
“It’s just that,Mrs. Wilkinson wants to speak to me - er - in her office. She also requested…” the boy’s voice seemed to trail out but of course he knew what was coming.
“That she sees me!” he finished the sentence for his son.
“Yes. She did!” said Seamus with a sigh.
There was an awkward pause. The father’s hands, still immersed in his crisps, had stopped. He looked at his son with an expression of mingled affection and disappointment. He tried not to have pity etched anywhere along his own face; seemed to almost fight against it. This was the second time Seamus’ headmistress, Mrs. Wilkinson, had wanted to see him in the same week.
“Very well, then. I’ll be at school with you tomorrow. We’ll sort this out…” and he stood up, clearly aiming for the bedroom.
“But I thought you should know what I…what I…”
“What you had done to deserve a meeting with Mrs. Wilkinson and what I should be expecting? No, later. You go to bed now, and don’t forget to brush your teeth!”
And on that note of finality to his son, Dudley Vernon Dursley walked to his room (he didn’t bother to brush his teeth), rested his head against his pillow and tried to sleep. He struggled for a moment, and then realized what was making him stay awake. He sat on his bed, and looked at his wedding photo with Sarah. It was perched on his bedside table, the glass so dusty it eliminated his bowtie from view. With his face supporting a bizarre combination of a scowl and a smile, he gently turned the picture so that it faced the surface of the table instead.
With a pang of guilt, he remembered that it was Seamus’ birthday tomorrow. In his sorrow and wallowing, he had not bought his only son a present. As he tried to sleep again, he thought he could hear faint, weak, sobs from the only other bedroom in the house.
Mrs. Wilkinson always reminded Dudley of a very fat hen. She squinted at him as he sat before her the next morning, her face half-covered by a rather thick file she was reading through, her eyes hidden behind the very thick glasses she wore. The yellow blouse she was wearing, that matching the depressing school floors, made her look (if possible) much uglier than her regular self.
“Mr. Dursley, things have been going rather oddly again with Seamus here “ “ she began.
He hated that; hated the way she stressed on words that had no importance in mid-sentence.
“I know.I thought we had settled this matter. He is…upset, as you know. Due to the circumstances” began Dudley, all at once.
Mrs. Wilkinson closed her eyes for a second or two, apparently aghast at Dudley’s boldness in sudden conversation. Spending this much time with students must have made her feel she was in a real-life classroom the whole time. She seemed to force herself into a calmer tone.
“I’m aware of the circumstances Mr. Dursley, nevertheless, Seamus here has been acting much more dangerously than before. In fact, although it was within my power to expel him after he purposely blew up Stevie Fenwick’s nose “ “
“I didn’t do it on purpose; I swear!” started Seamus, his head moving frantically from Mrs. Wilkinson to his father and back to Mrs. Wilkinson.
“Silence, please, Seamus” snapped Mrs. Wilkinson and Seamus shut up at once.
Dudley looked uneasily at her, then his eyes moved to his son, who was now examining the back of his hand.
“The unfortunate incident with Mr. Fenwick was apparently the tip of the iceberg, however. Two days ago, a classmate of his had a run for his life when he was discovered behind a badly ruined sink…The boy was in fits, water was leaking everywhere and your son was standing idly at “ the “ site “ of “ the “ crime!” she finished dramatically.
Dudley seemed to be waiting for her to finish. He sighed then leaned over so he could have a stronger eye contact with the beady eyes behind the many layers of clear glass she wore. He thought she looked more like a hen than ever.
“Mrs. Wilkinson, it seems that Seamus was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. On both occasions! I mean, you can’t blame him for bad plumbing or some student’s nose going…Well, unfortunately ill ““
“Ugly nose at that,” said Seamus weakly. Mrs. Wilkinson, fortunately, did not hear him but Dudley did. He glanced sideways at him and almost managed a smile.
“Mr. Dursley, I’m sorry to say this, but I can’t get past the impression that your son, somehow, brings trouble with him wherever he goes ever since the incident,” said Mrs. Wilkinson.
This was another thing that always played on Dudley’s nerves when it came to Mrs. Wilkinson; she was always referring to his ongoing divorce as ‘the incident’.
“I can assure you that these incidents are completely unrelated to Seamus in any way or form. I find it preposterous that such an educated person as you, who also happens to educate other children, would think that Seamus can somehow cause trouble purely by thinking of it!”At this point, Dudley had his eyebrows raised.
As if in reply, Mrs. Wilkinson had her eyebrows absurdly raised too.
Although Mrs. Wilkinson remained silent for the next five seconds, her silence seemed to imply a fury too severe to be put into words. Promptly closing up Seamus’ file, and brushing her curly hair over her head, she stood up and said, “Very well then Mr. Dursley. I think this meeting has served its purpose.”
Dudley stood up, glad that it was all over so fast and surprised at his own surge of wit. He shook Mrs. Wilkinson’s hand (her grip was firmer than before as she almost crushed his own), tried to force a smile then guided his son outside the office.
“Off you go then” he said to Seamus once the office door was shut behind them.
And then something very rare, in Dudley’s time as a father, happened. Seamus spun around and hugged him. Dudley, who was not used to such shows of affection from Seamus, especially since Sarah left, patted him weakly on the back as Seamus’ arms tightened around his waist. Dudley bent on his knee so that he met his son’s eyes, smiled then muttered in Seamus’ ear, “Happy birthday!” And with a new spring in his step, Seamus smiled back, let go and turned in the direction of his classroom.
Leaving aside anything he had said to Mrs. Wilkinson, Dudley knew the old bat had a point. This was strange. Freakish, as his late mother would have said. Just as he was unlocking his car, he saw an envelope stuck between the windshield wiper and the car. Wondering who on Earth would be delivering advertisements this early in the morning, he picked it up. It was brown and made of something that looked like parchment.
Dudley’s heart skipped a beat; parchment was never exactly his favorite kind of paper for reasons he had never told Seamus (or Sarah, for that matter). He turned it over. His legs almost gave way as he read the address and he had to hold onto his car for support:
The Left-Most Car On the Car Park
St. John’s Junior School
London
The badger, eagle, serpent and lion were glowing scarlet on the fresh seal.
Malfoy Manor had retained its sinister aura. A desolate and lonely place, it towered majestically over the surrounding moors and fields. Among the villagers, it was rumored to be haunted and many daring teenagers stood in front of it every Halloween. Though determined to enter, they somehow always hesitated and turned back at the last moment.
The Malfoys, owners of the manor, were rumored to be of, what the village women called, ‘witch-blood’. Anyone who claimed to have sighted them, however, was immediately labeled either too drunk or insane. Everyone around the village knew all the Malfoys were long dead. According to the local gossip, they had been murdered by a serial killer who was eventually caught in the 70’s.
Draco Malfoy, the true owner (and resident) of Malfoy Manor, liked things just that way. He, his wife Astoria, his mother Narcissa and his son Scorpius were the only ones who knew the true nature of their manor. Beautiful, green and cozy as it was to them, it looked ugly, lonely and unoccupied to strangers and Muggles alike. Astoria’s excellent Muggle-repelling charms kept all curious young Muggles at bay and he never needed to get out of the manor anyway. Apparition from the backyard was usually sufficient for most purposes.
Draco Malfoy did not need intruders; neither Muggles nor of his own kind, especially not today. Today, Draco needed the utmost privacy. He needed to think of the next step which he was not sure of. Everything had happened so suddenly and he had to admit he was not prepared for this sudden change of plans. He sat in his study and passed his hand, absent-mindedly, once more over Fawkes. It flinched at his touch yet seemed to slowly relax under his palm. The beautiful scarlet phoenix had arrived earlier that morning. Clasped in its beak there had been a single piece of parchment bearing only two words written in spluttering, bloody red: