Itwasn’tuntilterthatherealizeditwastheDarkLordtheywereafraidof.
Draofollowedher.Andthen,whenhismotherinsistedthattheyallturnthemselvesin,onsquenesbedamnedandhisfatherfoughtagainsther,hefollowedherthen,too,allthewaytotheministry,wherehehandedoverhiswandandsatintheinterrogationroom,waitingforsomeonetotakehimtoAzkaban.
Intheend,though,hisfatherwastheonlyonewhogotsenttoAzkaban.Hismotherwasgivenaheavyfineandhadtodoommunityservie,trytopayreparationtothefamilieswholostlovedones.Draogotprobation.
Hehasn’tseenhismothersine.
It’sHarrythattalkshimintoit.“IfIhadamother,”Hehadsaid,eyesintenseandvoiequiet.“Nothingwouldstopmefromseeingher.”
Draohadwantedtosreamathim.Tosaythathewaswrong,thatheouldn’tkeepsayingthingslikethisandthinkingitwasfair.Thatthistime,hedidn’tknowwhatitwaslike.ButDraostillfoundhimselfvisitingheranyways.
ShelivesinaftinParis,rentingfromsomemugglewomanwhowastryingtobeapainterbutwasn’tquitemakingitthere.Thewholethingsmellslikepaintfumesandsentedandles,andthestepsaresotwistedandnarrowthatheisn’tsurehowshemakesitupthem,butitsstillaniepe,justasomfortableandexpensivelookingasthemanor.
Shehadaertainwayoflife,hismother,andshewasn’tgoingtoletalittlethinglikeawarstandinginthewayofhowshewantstolive.
“Drao.”Hismotherbreathesouthisname,andthensheishugginghim,rushinghim.Theguiltthreatenstoswallowhimwhenhethinksofallthelettershedidnotanswer,butevennowthisistoomuh,toosoon.“I’msogdtoseeyou.”
“Metoo.”Beausehewas.Helovedthiswoman,evenifshewaswrong,evenifsheonlydidtherightthingbeauseoftheneedforthefamilynametosurvive.“I’msorryittookmesolong.”
Shedoesnottellhimthatitisalright,orthatshefiveshim.Hedoubtsverymuhthateitherofthesethingsweretrue.Shedoes,however,moveasideandlethimomein,tothishousewithitstoomanyandlesandstrangepaintings.Draoletshergivehimthetour,lookingatthepitureframesshowingtheimageofafamilyheannotremembereverbeingandthemisshapenpotteryonthemantle.
“Doyoulikeit?”Hervoiehasaforedbrightnessaboutit,andhedoesnotknowifitisbeauseofhimorifshesimplydoesnothavethesameenergythatsheusedto.“Itookuppottery.Abigailtalkedmeintoit.”
Abigailwasthegirldownstairs,theonewithpaintstukunderhernailsandoloredsarfshangingfromarakinherkithen.Hehadtowalkthroughherfttogettohismother’s.
Hismother,though,wasnotsomeoneheknew.Thewomanherememberedwouldnotbeseentakingapotteryss,andwouldnotdispythemoutwhereanyoneanseethem.Itwasstrangetoknowhowfastthingsan
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