A sea of darkness had gathered at the church to see him off.
More than two hundred individuals in dark robes, cloaks, no-maj attire, hats and more had assembled to wish Jake Henry Newbury a final farewell. The Father, the highly accomplished Auror, the long-time Professor and a shining example of the Son he had been was encompassed in the photographs that lined the wall. They had been chosen by someone, someone had gone through the different stages of his life to pick which moments to highlight, to shine glossier than ever and hang in the large ballroom that was reserved for the mourners today. Azalea didn’t know who had chosen it, and at that moment, she didn’t care.
The ceremony reeked of Alexis Newbury’s design. A church despite not being religious, a whole host of people despite Jake being a very private individual, a sea of black despite the departed being non too fond of black, or mourning, or a show. It didn’t matter though. In her grief, Alexis was doing what she thought of as her final service to her son. It was Alexis’ way of getting closure and Azalea would never be able to bring herself to deny the older woman that.
Alexis Newbury was lucky to have something to do that might, some day, lead her to peace. Azalea had no such luxuries.
”Professor…” Another nameless face walked towards her, expressing the same condolences she had heard dozens of times today. It always started the same. How sorry they were, what a shame it was, if there was anything anyone could do. Azalea had repeated the word “thank you” each time, those being the only words that came from her lips. Robotic as they were in their delivery, detached from everything going on around her, it made people go away with the understanding their obligation with the grieving widow was over. They could go home now, back to their regular lives and their regular jobs and their regular homes.
Victoria stood beside her for most of the service, keeping a firm hand on Azalea despite the witch remaining still as a statue most of the time. The younger Newbury sibling – the only Newbury sibling now – had waited for Azalea to break, to crumble, to cry. And had been disappointed thus far. If it was anyone else, they might have thought it was because Jake’s death hadn’t impacted his wife. Victoria knew better.
Which was why she had flown on Air Force Two the moment she had heard. Leaving all her children behind, the First Lady of the United States had landed on a private airfield closest to Surrey and had made her way to Azalea, having arrived somehow even before the boys had. She had found the house completely open, unwarded because the man who regularly cast the safety charms around the property was no longer alive to power them. She had found Azalea sitting on the front step, cold and still, waiting for a Jake who would never come home again.
“Mom... this is Jenny, we study together,” Andrew’s gentle tones grasped at her attention. Azalea turned to the new person, going through the same motions. Receiving condolences, giving thanks, a quick exchange until the next person appeared.
There was a refreshment table somewhere. Azalea only knew this because Jake’s entire Squad had volunteered to direct people from the door to the widow to the refreshments and then back out the door. With so many people, Amy had seen the benefit of streamlining the process. After so many years, Azalea knew Jake’s colleagues almost like family. Amy dealt with her emotions through organizing things, Rosa through punching things. Both women now stood at each end of the buffet tables, gently guiding people on their way.
Someone had written and delivered a beautiful eulogy, Azalea had heard of it from a faraway place. A place where eulogies mattered. They had spoken of the father he had been to Ivan and Andrew, the son he had been to Henry and Alexis, the brother he had been to Victoria, the uncle to her entire brood. They had spoken of the hearts he had touched as a young Quidditch player, the people he had inspired as a teacher, the lives he had saved as an Auror. Azalea almost wanted to laugh at the description of this larger than life man they had turned into a legend. Jake may have been all those things but he was so much more. And no eulogy in the world could capture that.
“Mrs. Blake, these just arrived,” a discrete word in Victoria’s ear and she was summoning Terry, asking him to guide the giant bouquet to some corner of the room or other. The large arrangement was bigger than she was but Victoria didn’t feel it necessary to convey to her best friend whom it was from. Azalea didn’t care to know. What would flowers do now? What had they ever done in the first place?
Only two people hadn’t followed the rules of the social dance she found herself in. Two out of two hundred. The first had been Henry Newbury himself. While his wife found solace in arranging the best ceremony she could to say goodbye to her only son, Henry had lapsed into stony silence. Never a man of many words to begin with, Henry seemed even more lost now that he knew his son was no longer of this world. He hadn’t come to Azalea like all the others, he hadn’t offered her condolences like the others. But when the casket was brought in, he had taken up space on Azalea’s other side, enveloping her in Newburys. Perhaps like Victoria, he too feared an outburst of some kind. He didn’t know her as well though, and simply stood beside the rigid brunette, watching his son’s body being rolled away, his face as stony and unreadable as his estranged daughter in law’s.
The other person who hadn’t said anything, was Jacques Clement.
Despite being one of the first to arrive, the thirty nine year old French heir had only walked up to her, kissed her on each cheek in greeting and then moved away. Right now, he was with Jake’s squad, helping to guide guests to their cars or making sure all the condolence cards were organised or… something. He was out being useful. Azalea had caught a murmur of apology at Mimosa not being present. Something about the children. Once again, she had not cared. She had watched and heard like an outsider, as Victoria fielded the conversation, repeating the words in kind about Jackson and how he didn’t want his security detail swarming the scene.
The ceremony went on for what seemed like hours, yet when it was over, Azalea found herself once again without a purpose. No one to thank, nowhere to stand.
No home to go to.
“Mom, I’ll bring the car around. You and Aunty Vic can meet me by the door? Ivan’s going to follow in his car with Nanny and Grandpa.”
“Sure Ive, let me just grab all the cards and we’ll meet you there.” Once again, it was Victoria who replied, the tiny witch knowing full well that if she didn’t carry the conversation, no one else would. For over a week now she had been Azalea’s mouthpiece, and Azalea had no wish to change that.
The car ride back to their Surrey home was quiet, silent tears coursing down Victoria’s cheeks as she held Azalea’s hand tenderly. Perhaps she was trying to convey something. Maybe a message about how it was okay to cry. How could Azalea ever tell her that she had nothing left to give, not even tears. The squad car following behind them kept a respectable distance, but its intent clear. The Auror unit intended to see the family of their fallen comrade home safe.
The car came to a stop in their driveway, Andrew getting the door for them both. Victoria bundled the older witch out of the car and guided her into the main living area, helping her sit down in one of the sofas. Azalea did as instructed, remaining where she sat, quietly watching everything unfold around her.
A home where a death had occurred was a busy one, she had peripherally learned over the last week. People to inform, venues to book, flowers to sort, photos to frame, slide shows to prepare, music to choose. Alexis and Henry were staying in the guest bedroom while the boys had returned to their own childhood accommodations. Victoria slept with Azalea, making sure not to leave her alone. And Azalea didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was alone now, no matter how many people she was surrounded by.
She watched as Alexis and Victoria tidied and kept everything away, she heard the small discussion of what to do with the oversized bouquet before deciding to leave it for further consideration. Her hazy brown eyes flickered to Henry who sat in a similar couch opposite her, very much out of it as she was. She didn’t say anything when dinner was suggested, didn’t eat anything when a plate and cutlery was put in front of her and allowed Victoria to meekly guide her to bed when the time came. Another routine that was down pat now. Those close to Azalea knew she didn’t need food anymore, nor did she need sleep. The vines inside her kept her functioning via other sources. And now there was no one for whom she had to take an interest in human life.
“Would you like your potion?” Victoria asked, not really expecting a response. Azalea hadn’t taken her sleep potion ever since the news had reached her. And she wouldn’t take it now. If the world meant for her to sleep, it would return Jake to her.
“Okay, but please close your eyes and try to get some rest anyway,” the First Lady encouraged. “I’ll just clean up downstairs, look in on mom and dad, make sure the boys have everything they need and then I’ll be up too.”
Once again, Azalea didn’t reply. She simply stayed where she was, staring at the ceiling, waiting for an impossibility that could never happen. The brunette who had learned to cheat death in so many ways found herself succumbing to its power now. Because it wasn’t her that death had come for. It was far, far worse. As Victoria left the room, Azalea felt herself leave her body. Or perhaps it was simply wishful thinking. Maybe if she wished hard enough…
The world faded from her mind, leaving her staring blankly into space where she would remain until Victoria returned to the room and laid her down, tucking her into bed like a lost child.
Slowly, hours turned unto days, and days into weeks. The house began to empty. Of flowers, of the food people kept sending, and finally, of people.
Henry and Alexis were the first to leave. Ten days after the wake, Azalea and Victoria came down to breakfast to find their bags packed. They were leaving with at least one more bag than they had arrived with, Azalea noted peripherally but didn’t manage to care. They could take whatever they wanted. It was their home more than it had ever been hers. The two things that had tied her to this modest building in Surrey had been Jake and the kids. And the boys had stopped living here long ago.
“Mom, Dad, are you sure you don’t need a lift?” Victoria asked kindly. “Ive doesn’t mind.” Despite her usual sweetness, the tiny witch sounded tired. They were all tired. Without Jake to ease the tension, to provide the warmth and make jokes, no one knew what to do. The majority of the workload surrounding his death had fallen on his sister. Victoria running interference, managing her parents, managing her nephews, and then managing her own duties on the phone, keeping in touch with her husband and children. Even through her numb detachment of the world, Azalea wondered how the little girl she had once known had grown up to be so solidly dependable.
Managing Azalea of course, was a whole other thing.
“That’s quite alright, darling,” Alexis assured her daughter, coming to give her a hug. “Daddy and I are… we’re going to go slow.” She sounded resigned to her fate, as if there was no hurry in anything anymore.
“Okay, but please do phone us if you need anything.”
Alexis nodded, moving to Azalea next out of observed norm more than anything else. She didn’t quite manage a hug but she did grasp her daughter in law’s shoulder. “Keep in touch, Azalea.” She didn’t get a respond, nor was she expecting one as shown by how she quickly let go, favoring her grandsons with her attention instead.
“Boys, you’re not going to get out of writing to us now that Dad… “ she stopped, catching herself not quite in time. “Well, just write to us okay. We love you very much.” The notion of writing was more pointedly directed at Andrew who did it less. Both because he was studying at s university in the states and because his brother was quite an adept writer. Ivan accepted the hug warmly while Andrew’s stiff frame told another story entirely.
“It was mom who always made us write to you,” he muttered from his grandmother’s embrace. No one acknowledged his comment though. Everyone was aware of how Andrew felt about the slight coldness between his mother and grandmother. He was also the only one to ever acknowledge it, something about not wanting to live a lie in any facet of his life.
It was Henry’s turn next. He gave Victoria and the boys the customary hug, and then moved to Azalea. To her stunted surprise, he wrapped her in his arms just as warmly. “Take care, Azalea,” he whispered, possibly the first words he had spoken to her since his arrival. Also his last. Azalea wished she could thank him. Not the robotic thanks of the wake but a sincere one. She wanted to hug him back too. But nothing in her worked anymore. The same vacant expression remained on her face as Alexis and Henry left the door, Victoria and Ivan waving them off while Azalea and Andrew stood stoically on the doorstep, she in her grief and he in his defiance.
The next to leave was Victoria.
She had stayed for two weeks after the wake, away from The States and her duties as First Lady for three weeks now. Yet Azalea could feel the guilt coming off of the tiny witch in waves. Victoria had meekly suggested a holiday for Azalea, insisting she could come live with them. (“The White House had a pretty decent rooftop garden to experiment in.”) The lack of any interest or curiosity from Azalea had quickly stemmed that line of thinking thought.
Why Victoria felt so guilty, her sister in law didn’t know. She had done more than anyone else. But then again, she was Victoria. So in addition to her own packing, she had made sure to do enough groceries to last them three months, made enough frozen meals to last them a few weeks besides (“Oh no, I enjoy cooking, I never get to do it anymore!”) and cleaned every surface of the house without being asked. Azalea wished she could appreciate her best friend. To convey somehow the importance of everything Victoria had done. But she couldn’t. Every word she tried to speak sounded pointless in her head. Every breath she took felt pointless to take.
She did manage one better this time around though. She did manage to utter a soft “thank you” when Victoria was leaving. There were no concerns about dropping her off anywhere, the secret service that came with her title took her and her bags away in a discrete black car to the nearest runway from which she could be picked up by an allied plane. Victoria would be back to her normal life within twenty four hours. And Azalea was glad for that.
Which just left her and the boys.
More days passed, some of Victoria’s duties taken over by Ivan. He walked Azalea up to her bedroom, brought her trays of food, laid out fresh clothes for her to change into. But he wasn’t his aunt and he knew it.
Andrew took over other duties. Sitting with his mom, sometimes sleeping in her bed, reminding her to open and shut windows and doors if not doing it for her. Between the two of them and Victoria’s prepped meals, they somehow managed.
In the evenings, the boys took her down to the living room, an area where they had once played, done homework and watched movies with their parents. Andrew started the fire while Ivan settled her on the sofa, draping a blanket over her. The boys talked about many things. Sometimes they talked about their dad.
Those times, Azalea actually listed, albeit without contributing.
For a while, it seemed nothing would bring the Harrington witch back to the world. Not talks of Jake, not plans for the future, not her sons’ company. In the end though, what did surprised even herself.
Azalea had taken to sitting so quiet and still these days, the boys sometimes forgot she was in the same room. This must be what had happened two weeks after Victoria leaving. Huddled away in Jake’s armchair with one of his sweaters wrapped around her slender frame, the witch had her eyes closed. If it wasn’t for the fact that she neither slept nor dreamed, she would have mistaken the raised voices from the kitchen as hallucinations.
“I have a job, Andrew. You know, the things that adults have.”
“Fuck you Ivan, your job is more important than being with mom? The fancy people in the palace don’t understand compassionate leave?”
A pregnant pause, then Andrew spoke again, his tone repulsed. “You want to go back. They aren’t making you, you bloody want to leave her on her own.”
Ivan’s reply was equally furious. “It’s been a month, Andrew. How long as we expected to put our lives on hold? I’m sorry if my job is actually important. I’m sorry if I figured out what I liked doing early in life instead of travelling around the world finding myself.” The accusation in the older brother’s voice was clear. I’m sorry I matter more than you.
“Well, you can just fuck all the way off Mr. Important Job. I’m submitting my deferral form tomorrow. I’m going to take the semester off and stay here with mom.”
“There’s no need for that,” Ivan offered hotly. “I’m taking her back to the palace. They have every amenity in the world and she’s friends with the Lord Heir and his Lady Wife. She’ll be well taken care of.”
“You want to outsource the care of our mother to the Clements?” Andrew sounded incredulous with rage.
With what seemed like a herculean effort, Azalea opened her eyes. The fire danced merrily in her line of vision, making her want to close them again. Getting up, saying things, being someone, it all seemed too much. But there was nothing in the world she wouldn’t do for Jake and their children. In the end, she made herself aware enough to slip the blanket off her, put one foot on the floor then another, slowly getting up on her own since she had found her that the most significant part of her had ceased to exist.
The boys were still arguing, Andrew advocating to take Azalea to the US instead while Ivan angrily emended him that a dorm room wasn’t the best place for a grieving widow. By the time Azalea made it to the kitchen, both boys were glowering angrily at each other.
“No one’s taking me anywhere,” Azalea finally spoke. Her voice was harsh from lack of use, scratchy from lack of proper food and water, and colored in a kind of grief that defied imagination or understanding.
“Mom! Are you okay?” Andrew exclaimed, rushing to her side. Ivan wasn’t far behind. Both boys helped her into a bar stool before she could continue again.
“Ivan, sweetie, go back to work. I’m sure the palace needs you,” she managed, addressing her older son first. “And Andrew, you’re not differing any more semesters. You’re supposed to graduate in six months, and you will.” Her second son looked sullen at this verdict but chose to stay silent on the matter.
“But what about you, mom, where will you stay?”
“I have a job too, I’ll return to Hogwarts. I’m sure the Deputy will appreciate having me back.”
The boys didn’t look convinced, but they would become so over the next few days. Because slowly, Azalea would start making herself human. She would learn to walk on her own, she would say more words without being prompted, she would even take a bite or two of food, all so that her sons could convince themselves that she could live on her own.
They didn’t have to know she was no longer alive. Only she was allowed to die with Jake. Not the boys, they still had whole lives left to live.
Eventually, they left too. Ivan first to resume work with the coming week, then Andrew merely two days before his semester was set to begin. Azalea had offered to take him to the airport but he’d refused, saying he didn’t want to be any trouble. When Azalea reminded him that he had never been any trouble to her or his dad, the boy had hugged her fiercely, finally breaking down and crying against his mother. Azalea had held him as long as time allowed, comforting him as best she could. Then she had watched him walk away in the taxi he had called.
This time, she was the only one at the doorstep, the rest of the house cold and empty behind her.
Once the boys left, the house grew silent. It had already beee quiet despite all the house guests staying in but now, the house was silent. Azalea existed like a ghost between its walls, haunting a path from the bedroom to the kitchen and back again multiple times a day, without any purpose but for somewhere to go in order to keep her limbs working. At fifty, the woman was afraid of her own reflection because she hadn’t changed in appearance for over two decades now. The vines growing inside her had preserved her body in optimal condition, making her easily mistakable for being in her late twenties or early thirties. Jake used to joke that time was greying him and sparing her. As a result, the Headmistress had begun dying strategic locks of her hair silver, both to appease her husband as well as to lend credibility to her role at Hogwarts and as a world renowned Herbologist and Potioneer.
But Jake was gone now, and dying her hair had been the last thing on her mind this past month. Catching a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror had revealed perfectly dark brown hair tumbling over slender shoulders, skin and face unblemished by the grief that consumed her from the inside out. If there was any justice in the world, she would look lined and aged, wearing the sorrow between folds of her flaking skin and shedding hair. Better still, she would be the one beneath the ground while Jake stayed here with the boys. But life was not fair. It had taken from her the one thing she would never have willingly given up.
Despite promising the boys that she would return to Hogwarts, Azalea had taken no such steps to initiate that a full week after Andrew had left. To the school’s credit, no one had called, owled or emailed (not that she had the sense to check) to even ask. Perhaps Grayson had decided she needed more time. Filling in the role of Deputy, the long-time transfiguration professor was more than capable of handling both his and her job on his own.
While she herself was capable of very little these days.
Most days she didn’t sleep, simply lying or sitting in the big, empty bed with her eyes closed. The vial of potion customarily delivered to her by the palace for over some fifteen years now lived quietly in her medicine cabinet - untouched. On days she did feel her consciousness grew weary, she prodded herself awake. If there were indeed multiple worlds out there, Azalea couldn’t think of a single one in which she deserved to sleep.
It was a Tuesday morning – she noted dully on the self-changing calendar in the kitchen that once housed notes and reminders but was now devoid of any personal messages – that brought with it the soft hum of an expensive car stopping outside her gates. Azalea, sat in Jake’s usual chair in the kitchen, a cup of tea long grown cold in front of her, didn’t get up to see who the visitor was. If the Clement sentries posted discretely outside had seen fit to send him in, then who was she to question it.
The bell rang, a shadow looming over the front step as seen through the semi opaque glass design of the front door. When she didn’t get up to open the door, her visitor took that liberty, seeing himself into the house with little difficulty. He didn’t meander, knowing exactly where Azalea was. No footsteps announced his presence; he had always been light on his feet.
“Mother.”
It took some effort to raise her eyes to him. But that was nothing new. Azalea found the sheer burden of existing too much effort these days. She remained mute as her youngest son walked up to her, bending down to place a kiss on her hollow cheekbone before sitting down opposite her without invitation. Ethan Murray had never needed an invite, he walked into every place as if it was his own.
The last time she had seen Ethan was at his graduation party. His batch of Slytherins had been a particularly ferocious lot the Murray heir had joined in as often as he had ignored. An enigma to all, the boy had graduated as Head Boy with a stellar mark sheet and a sterling reputation.
He had always taken care to address her by her station in public, only acknowledging their relationship in private conversations. And even then he hadn’t seemed too interested in getting to know the woman he had been told was his mother. Over the years, the boy had formed if not a friendship than a relationship of mutual respect with Jacques Clement who had once tried to assure Azalea that Ethan was not like his father. But the warmth from the blond had never extended to Azalea herself. Perhaps he too could never forgive being abandoned as he had been, a feeling Azalea was all too familiar with.
Belatedly, she realized the giant bouquet at the wake had been from him. No wonder Victoria didn’t know what to do with it.
Never one to mince words, Ethan looked at her with startlingly chocolate brown eyes, almost an exact replica of her own. “Come home with me.”
“Home.” Azalea echoed, wondering what that word even meant anymore. Her home was no longer here., It was now ash, kept in a small urn by her bedside, awaiting her own ashes to join the ones already within.
“To Wales. Murray Manor is as much your home as it is mine. As it is Father’s.”
Azalea shook her head. There was as much point in having this discussion as there was in Ivan and Andrew’s. This one may be calmer but it was all the same.
“Jake Newbury is dead, Mother,” Ethan sounded as if he was on edge. “We’ve respected your wishes and your privacy while he was alive. But now there is no need for you to remain here. He is gone, his children are independent and established. There’s nothing for you here.”
How could he be so right and so wrong at the same time? “There’s nothing for me in Wales either.”
Ethan’s calm persona wavered but for a moment, his cold, undisturbed features slipping away to reveal a deep hurt within his eyes. She would have missed the infinitesimal shift had she not been so used to his father’s micro expressions for over decades now.
“Father’s there, as am I.” The rest of his statement remained unsaid, though it rang louder than the words he had actually spoken. But we were never enough for you, were we?
Watching her son plead for her affection broke something inside her. She had never intended for this to happen. Azalea had cared for each of her children equally. It was fate that had ripped her away from two of them while keeping her close to the middle two. She had never wanted to create another abandoned child, one who was left wondering why he weren’t wanted. But that was what had happened. The idea of Ethan struggling with not being wanted sent shards of fresh pain into her chest.
Once again, calling upon the energy she didn’t have, the American witch rose to her feet. It took some doing, but she took slow steps towards the nineteen year old sitting perfectly still at the kitchen counter, an Adonis carved out of stone. Reaching him, she laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I always wanted to tell you… how proud I am of you,” she began, finding words difficult but trying anyway. “Both Jake and I are. He never bore you any ill will, he only ever saw you as my son. He cheered for you at Quidditch matches, helped me buy Christmas and birthday presents for you, he even wanted us to file an appeal when I was denied custody.” The tong drawn out legal battle between Azalea and the Murrays had ended on a bittersweet note. She had gotten her identity and agency back but the courts had ruled Ethan would remain with his father as his sole heir. The Clement lawyers had convinced her this was the best deal they were going to get and so all parties involved had submitted agreements signed by their legal representatives.
“If I could do everything over… I would try so much harder to keep you in my life. But if the last month has taught me anything, it’s that there are no do overs.” She paused, her hand moving to his silky blond hair, stroking the strands softly. “So for now, you must accept my deepest apologies. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me…. I’m sorry it’s too late now… But if affections count for anything… then mine for you exceeds all the Murray wealth. You are my son, and nothing in this world can change how proud I am of you.”
For a moment, it looked like Ethan was about to say something. An image of a toddler running towards her flashed behind her eyes. But the next instant, it was gone, along with any emotion Ethan was considering to display. “Versailles, then. The palace is more than equipped to look after you. You and the Clements are… family.”
Azalea moved away from the blond, trying to locate the tin of tea bags she had used earlier to make the tea Ethan had not asked for. “The Heir Clement is my unacknowledged son in law,” she answered simply. “I can’t move in with him any more than I can with Jake’s parents. My place is here.”
“All alone?” Ethan asked, his eyes challenging her to justify her stance. “You can’t, Mother. It’s not feasible.”
Locating the tin, she took her time extracting a tea bag and placing it carefully in Ivan’s favorite cup. Filling the electric kettle, she put the water on to boil before turning to the young man again. “I’m not alone, Jake is all around me here,” she answered, a sad smile touching her features. “If you looked through my eyes, you would see him everywhere. In the photographs, in the folds of his clothes, in the threadbare parts of the rugs. Every part of him is in this house. So how can I be alone here?”
Ethan stood up just as the kettle whistled, indicating the water boiled. “It seems you’ve made your decision… again.” Azalea moved to hug him goodbye but he easily side stepped her, turning to the door instead. She watched him leave as the steam curled up from the kettle, all hope of reconciliation evaporating like the wisps when they met cold air.
“I swear, Azalea, we were not this much trouble when we were younger,” Victoria’s exasperated voice rang through the phone. Azalea merely hummed, choosing not to remind the young witch what she had been up to at fourteen. Not just so that the other witch could make her point but because it would require energy the older woman did not have.
Victoria called religiously every three days since she had left, and Azalea didn’t doubt for a minute the calls would have been a daily occurrence if it wasn’t for the First Lady’s busy schedule. How she found time every seventy two hours was a mystery to the Herbologist but of course Victoria did it, cheerfully and without complaint, just like she did everything else.
“Honestly, mono? And the boy can’t even claim to be unhygienic because he’s the star of his swim team, Azalea. Holden’s all out of excuses, as is the White House. You know how vicious the media is here. Fox is going to be running Holden’s rap sheet twenty four seven for just being a teenager.” Victoria’s voice grew tinny when she was angry, something that didn’t happen a lot but when it did, it was a great source of amusement for her brother as well as her husband.
Well, it used to be for her brother.
“Azalea, are you there?” the younger witch asked, concern edging into her tone. These calls were not just mere catch up sessions, they were the proof of life Victoria required every couple days. To assure herself that her brother’s widow was, if not fine, at least able to communicate. For the most part, Azalea had learned to “Hmm” and “yeah” her way through them, the most common word used in these calls being “hello” and “take care”. Some days she spoke a bit more, some days not.
“I’m here,” the brunette managed with some effort, trying not to sound as tired as she felt. Vic might misinterpret the fatigue as stemming from the conversation, and that wasn’t true. Azalea’s exhaustion was an emotional one. The sheer tiredness of living without Jake everyday. Of no longer having a purpose or anything to look forwards to. “What about the other kids, how are they handling it?”
“Thank heavens most of them are too young to understand what mono is,” Victoria continued, relieved. Tessa might have known but she’s away in Michigan as per usual. We’ll only see her at Christmas. And they don’t let the kids watch a lot of TV at the training facilities. With any luck, she might miss this whole fiasco. Good for her, she and Scott just need to focus on their game this year. They’re flying to Canada for a junior championship in January, which reminds me, would you like to come watch them skate? We can make a holiday of it. Christmas at the White House can be really pretty.”
And there it was, the subtle invitation yet again. It was only September and Victoria was already worried about Christmas. Most likely she knew her own schedule would not allow her to travel to the UK so she was attempting to bring Azalea to her. “I don’t know Vic, the boys-“
“Oh but that’s the best part,” Victoria interrupted brightly. “Andrew is already here and Ivan works on Christmas anyway. That fancy Clement Christmas ball. We’ll just have the secret service pick up Andrew and Ivan can join us here after Boxing Day. We can go cheer Tessa and Scott on as a whole group. I’m sure that would be enough incentive for them to do well.” Azalea didn’t have the heart to tell Victoria that her daughter would probably get even more anxious if her entire extended family showed up to the event. Tessa Blake was a supremely talented young ice dancer but with the loss of her twin sister, her confidence had also taken a hit. Her grief had been bundled in with the rest of her siblings until she had asked Victoria one day why her sister had to go and what she herself had done to deserve to live on. The Blakes had started sending their second child to therapy then, and now the guilt merely surfaced as anxiety and a diminished self-esteem.
“I’ll check with Ivan,” Azalea promised insincerely. In truth, Christmas was always a busy time for the twenty six year old historian who still lived in awe of his job and the people he worked for. After graduating Hogwarts and dropping the not too surprising bomb that he wanted to study history, the boy had finished his first Baccalaureate in Magical History in eighteen months while securing an internship at the Palace of Versailles. His Masters had been devoted solely to the role of the Clements in the history of France, completed in the same amount of time. By twenty one, he was a full time employee at the place of his dreams and he had never looked back. For from feeling like she had lost her son - as Jake was want to do sometimes - Azalea was nothing but happy for Ivan. His father and brother however, were prone to grumbles on occasion. “He was over last weekend.”
This topic carried the two women through another ten minutes before Victoria had to hang up to put the younger ones to bed. As busy as she was with travel and engagements in her capacity as First Lady of the United States, when she was back home, she put the kids to bed herself, or at least the ones little enough to not complain about it.
The brunette listened as Victoria hung up, not moving from Jake’s armchair where she had sat down to take the call. In a way, she preferred phone conversations to talking to anyone in person. Through calls, only her voice had to pretend. With someone else here, the effort that went into pretending with her whole body left the witch drained.
Time passed, as it always did. The fire she had started hours ago had dimmed to mere embers. The decision to stay here, wrapped in Jake’s old sweater and curled up in his armchair, or get up, climb the stairs and get into the empty, cold bed was one that proved too complicated for her right now and Azalea’s glazed chocolate eyes fluttered shut. At the back of her mind, she knew she couldn’t fall asleep. Her potion was still safely in the medicine cabinet, untouched, and on the one occasion she had given into the weariness of her subconscious, it had been in this very chair. She had woken up to find herself in the bedroom with no explanation.
She felt a similar pull on her mind today, lulling her to sleep.
“How long are you going to live in my garden?” No response came, though Azalea was sure he had heard her. Why else would he be here if not to listen to the few scant words she spoke every three days. Azalea didn’t open her eyes when she felt the breeze on her face. The door opening and shutting achieved the same result. She felt him move to one of the sofas before disregarding it and coming to stand in front of her instead.
“Sorry,” Jacques Clement apologized softly, kneeling by the armchair. She felt his soft hand on hers, trying to coax her back to a sense of clarity. “So much for thinking I was being discrete.”
He was. Even Azalea’s vines hadn’t managed to detect him really. The only thing that had given his presence away to the witch from day one was her mind suddenly turning groggy. There were few people in the world she could fall asleep naturally with. One was in Wales, another knelt in front of her now and the third was buried in a cemetery, waiting for her to join him.
Both Azalea and Jacques had found out she was able to sleep in his presence by sheer accident. It was while she was working on her second breakthrough in the field of Herbology and Potions that she had realized the need for a space that wasn’t Hogwarts. Teaching there, living there, it had all lent itself to a stressed out Deputy Headmistress and Jacques had offered Azalea her pick of apartments around the world he happened to own. The American academician had chosen one in New York because it reminded her of home. Jacques had pretty much given her the run of the place, allowing her to convert a significant portion of the loft into a laboratory, working there at any time of the day she felt inspired and even hanging out with her there when time and circumstances allowed. It was on one of those occasions that he had shown up, hungry and tired and Azalea had made him a sandwich (she had taken up the offer of an apartment but firmly refused all staff that came with the place). Not realizing how tired she herself had been at the time, the brunette had merely closed her eyes on the sofa as the Frenchman showered and woke up hours later to find herself safely in his bed, covered in warm blankets, the scent of fresh Starbucks coffee wafting into the room.
“How’s Mimosa?” she asked, not acknowledging the apology because it wasn’t necessary. Despite being peripherally aware of his presence the last few weeks, it took actually hearing him to put the pieces together. Why no one from Hogwarts was bothering her. Why Victoria’s meals had not run out. Why the house always remained in good shape despite Azalea not lifting a finger to do so. Jacques had been taking care of her all these weeks without saying a word.
“She’s good, mostly busy with Aurore and the twins.” As always, Jacques was extremely kind toward his wife. In truth, the little Clements were looked after by Septas and Maesters and Nannies of the highest pedigree. Aurore was now old enough to begin lessons with Ivan, the boy chosen not for his seniority at the palace but his genteel nature and his ability to connect with the young heir to be.
“And the children?”
She felt his fingers press lightly into her skin. “You need to sleep, Azalea.”
The brunette wanted to respond, but there was neither energy nor words left in her. What would she even say anyway? That she didn’t want to sleep? That she couldn’t sleep? That the bed felt so empty, it would have been a grave but the idea of Jake’s grave was far more comforting than the starched bed sheets and untouched pillow beside her. In the weeks after the wake, at least Victoria had slept with her. Andrew had resumed that duty inconsistently afterword and once he too had left, she had tried crumpling up the pillow herself to provide some false sense of assurance. It hadn’t worked, making her feel emptier than ever before.
Dimly, she felt herself being lifted from the chair, her brittle limbs hanging off her frail body. Never a challenge to lift to begin with, Azalea imagined she weighed nothing more than his first borne child now. The indication of being put down came with the sensation of something soft underneath her. And by the time the blankets were pulled up over her body, she was asleep.
Azalea remained asleep for the whole night only waking up to sunlight streaming through a small gap in the dark curtains. He must have stayed all night for her to sleep through it.
Posts : 664 Birthday : 1993-08-13 Join date : 2018-01-11 Location : Hogwarts or Surrey mostly Job/hobbies : Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts
Subject: Re: Azalea's NaNoWriMo - 2022 Sat Nov 05, 2022 3:45 pm
Chapter Five Before and After
Spring, 2031
“Guys,” Jake called out lazily, the warning more out of habit than an actual attempt to stop the argument between his two sons. As expected, it did nothing to quell the passionate plea Ivan was making for the Clements of France and the boundless good they had done for not just France but the parts of the world that the country had so easily annexed. Andrew, being Andrew, was mocking his brother by welcoming him to the cult of the Clements. Jake closed his eyes momentarily, opening them when the light turned green. He focused on driving for the next ten minutes as the boys continued to argue.
“Oh come on, those places now have all the infrastructural benefits they could ever want. Education, healthcare, freedom of expression-“
“Unless you exercise your freedom of expression to bitch about the Clements, then you’re found dead in an English tunnel,” Andrew interjected cruelly, referring to the former Quidditch star Kiranjeet Kaur, who had mysteriously died in an accident seventy two hours before she was to appear in an interview with alleged details of why her relationship with the heir presumptuous had ended.
“We’re here,” Jake’s voice cut through the heated debate as they pulled into the parking lot of the steak joint they were patronizing that day. When the Auror had come home that evening and declared a father sons night out, both Andrew and Ivan had been taken by surprise. Azalea was gone for a week, touring South American nations defending her latest discovery to the academic world which had made every dinner that week a father sons dinner, so why the need to go out this particular night? However, Andrew had not been raised to look a free steak in the mouth so the decision had been made.
Though Ivan had insisted he would have the chicken.
The three males entered the restaurant and were shown to a table, telling the boys that their dad had actually called ahead to make a reservation. For the first time, the disgruntlement between the two cooled as they shot each other concerned looks. Once seated, Andrew was the first to speak.
“Uh… Dad, you aren’t dying or anything right?” Jake shook his head. Something was clearly wrong.
“Is everything okay?” Ivan asked, his breathing growing shallower where he sat. Always prone to anxiety, the older Newbury son would be the first one to panic should something be wrong. “Should we call mom?”
“No,” Jake rushed to calm his son. “It’s just… it’s nothing like that. I just wanted both your opinion on something.”
Andrew looked visibly relieved but it would take a moment for Ivan’s heart to stop pounding. And the boy would only be completely calm once he knew what his father was thinking and what he required of them. Luckily, their waitress approached then, dressed in a too short skirt and a top that revealed far too much of her cleavage. Andrew grinned while Ivan looked away in distaste. Their orders were taken (two steaks, medium rare and one chicken caesar salad) and when the waitress was gone, the boys turned to their father once more, expectantly.
“It’s… about your mom,” Jake began, quickly adding. “She’s fine, I promise,” when it looked like Ivan was going to start hyperventilating. “I just… well, this may sound stupid but… But I’m going to ask her to marry me. If that is, you guys are okay with it.”
To his surprise, both his sons began yelling at him, for once on the same page.
“The fuck, dad! This is what you wanted to ask us?”
“Seriously dad, you almost gave me a heart attack, what is wrong with you?”
“Okay, okay,” Jake pacified the two, holding his hands up in front of him defensively. “I didn’t mean to worry you guys, I just… I guess I made it a bigger deal then I had to. I take it you’re okay with my decision?”
“Okay? Aunty Vic has a betting pool going for years now. Uncle Jackson is going to lose so much money, He bet five hundred dollars on ‘never’,” Andrew chuckled before adding. “Of course we don’t mind. Besides, what’s marriage going to change anyway, she’s already our mom.”
Ivan was slower to answer but he too had no objections. “I think it’s a great idea, dad. In fact, I don’t know why you guys didn’t do it sooner. You’re both crazy about each other and we love her to pieces.”
“Yeah well… I still have PTSD from asking her the first time,” Jake offered simply. “But I think I’m ready now. Do you think she’ll say yes?”
“Of course,” both boys echoed with a grin, almost as if they had practiced it with their aunt Victoria, the most persistent champion for Jake and Azalea’s wedding till date. Jake smiled for the first time that evening, a smile of genuine relief. The idea of finally asking Azalea to marry him was a go.
“About time too,” Andrew murmured as their food arrived. “If you don’t ask her, I bet a tenner Jacques Clement will.” The dig was more at Ivan than his father, and Jake understood this, laughing the comment off. Ivan, bless him, did not tolerate jokes at the Clements’ expense.
“You’re a right prick, Andrew,” his brother informed him irately. “You know very well the Heir Apparent is engaged to Lady Mimosa. How can you be so crass?”
“Oh, Heir Apparent,” Andrew made a face. “He has a name Ive-“ And the debate continued throughout dinner. Jake didn’t mind though, for nothing could keep the soft smile of victory from his features that night.
***
As many pictures as Alexis Newbury had taken with her when she had left after her son’s wake, a lot more still remained. Framed photographs lined the shelves in the living room and kitchen, portraits hung by the stairs and along the hallway in all sizes and still more pictures lived in the spare room that had been converted into Azalea’s office a long time ago. Her favorites took place of pride on her own desk, starting with a family portrait of herself, Jake, Ivan and Andrew when he was still Adrienne, followed by a picture of Jake and Azalea on their wedding day, Jake red faced from all the vodka shots while Azalea glowing in her bridal finery, a caricature of the boys done at Disneyland not too long after that and then a picture of the entire extended family on their tenth wedding anniversary, the most recent one of the bunch. With Victoria, Jackson and their Quidditch team (plus Scott Harrington) in attendance, Alexis and Henry flown in for the occasion and even Jacques and Mimosa Clement present (sans children), the camera had to be hovered from a high enough angle to capture the two dozen people in its frame.
Azalea picked up the wedding photograph, studying Jake’s drunk features like she had never studied them before. He had been on top of the world that day and on top of her, that night. Unbidden, a slow tear rolled down her cheek as she remembered what it felt like to be held by him. Her first tear in two months.
Jake had been the person she revolved her whole life around. At fifty, she had counted many more years with him than without. What was she supposed to do now? With him gone? How could she navigate this world without his reassuring smile, his secure arms around her, his quiet, solid presence in her atmosphere? How was she expected to go on living without the warmth of his body on hers, without his touch that reminded her she too was alive and human?
Azalea sank down in her chair, more tears streaming down her face as she clutched the photograph to her chest. With no one to see her, no one to worry, she could finally break down and cry. And cry she did, the silent tears turning into great choking sobs that hurt as they were gasped out into the world. The pain of losing Jake could never be encapsulated by crying alone. But the anger at losing him could. And Azalea punished her body that evening by means of swollen eyes, a red nose and a throat so scratchy and raw, it felt like it was on fire. Yet she didn’t stop, crying through the night curled up in her office chair, holding the photograph like a drowning woman clutching desperately to a lifeline.
But her lifeline was gone. Jake was gone. He had promised never to leave her but he had. In the stupidest way possible, at that. Her husband had survived a war with accolades and then died in a stupid road accident. What a selfish son of a bitch he was, leaving her to fend for herself in this world without him when he knew she couldn’t do it. He had always known that no matter how strong she was to the rest of the world, she needed him by her side. It was the only things Azalea had ever needed.
And Jake had needed her. He had needed her just as desperately. Without ever being told, he had understood all her demons and pacified them at every step. With him gone, no one would ever need her again. Even her demons were gone with Jake, leaving Azalea hollow, alone, cold, empty.
Unwanted.
The witch wondered what it would feel like to instruct her vines right now to initiate extinction protocol. To make them stop keeping her alive, breathing, gathering nutrients. It would be a struggle at first because the plants were programmed to protect their host but she doubted she would lose. She was the master after all, not them. They might have dominion over here physical body but her psyche was still very much her own.
Almost as if in practice, she stared at her arm, watching a slash appear. Her skin began to heal automatically before the first droplet of blood even had the chance to fall. The witch closed her eyes and tried again, feeling the wound reopen only for the skin cells to rush closer to each other again, healing it.
The next cut was directed at the vein, slashing it open. This time, the spurt of blood that shot out couldn’t be reclaimed in time as the healing cells tried to prioritize between two injuries. Then three, then four.
“AZALEA!”
Then five, then six. A sizable puddle of blood now gathered in her lap.
“PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!”
She felt her body go numb, unable to move despite her efforts. She tried to break the curse using her vines but to no affect. They were too busy healing her numerous cuts. She gave up, still as a statue where she sat, clutching the photograph now drowning in her own blood.
As Jacques Clement recited urgent healing incantations on her body in a tone so furious, she had only heard him use it once before.
The day he had announced his intentions to marry her daughter.
Posts : 664 Birthday : 1993-08-13 Join date : 2018-01-11 Location : Hogwarts or Surrey mostly Job/hobbies : Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts
Subject: Re: Azalea's NaNoWriMo - 2022 Sun Nov 06, 2022 2:47 pm
Chapter Six Azalea and Mimosa
Winter, 2031
Her phone buzzed quietly, jolting the Deputy Headmistress awake. Despite the silent feature on the device being turned on, Azalea had long learned to wake herself up at the slightest provocation by the small phone that charged on her bedside table while she slept. Seeing a familiar name, she took the phone and padded softly out of the bedroom so as not to wake Jake. It had been a minute since Jacques had called her at such a late (or early) hour but she had learned the routine well from the times of Kiranjeet Kaur. Even if the reason for his cold calls was no longer a broken heart, she would still be there for the French heir.
“Is everyone okay?” she whispered, dispensing with greetings as she stepped into the kitchen, effectively the further spot from her bedroom in the modest but comfortable living space Hogwarts had provided for Azalea and her little family. If Jacques was calling at this time, something was wrong.
“I’m outside,” his reply came crisp, emotionless. “Can we meet?” It never occurred to her to say no. Why would it? It was Jacques asking.
“Sure, let me just grab a coat and I’ll meet you in the courtyard,” she reassured the man. In response, the call was cut off. Whatever the French Auror wanted to say to her would have to wait until she saw him in person.
Walking over to the coat hanger, the witch grabbed the first thick woolen garment her hands touched. Jake’s coat, as it would turn out later when she donned it over the night slip she had worn to bed that day. Cinching the belt around her waist extra tight, she grabbed a pair of winter boots and headed out. There had been a snow warning that day but no snow had fallen. Instead, biting cold winds greeted the American woman as she cleared the front door of the castle and tried to make out where her impromptu visitor was. She didn’t have to wait for long, her brown eyes seeking out a shadow leaning against the courtyard wall, one leg jutting out as the feet at the end of it rested against the wall. The same cold that was making her shiver despite her coat and boots seem to have no effect on the Frenchman, judging by the ensemble of jeans, a t shirt and the plain jacket he sported.
Azalea made her way to him, concern written clear on every line of her features. At nearly forty, the only lines that appeared on her face were temporary, whether they be of joy, sorrow or worry. After perfecting her final discovery, Azalea’s vines had rendered her ageless in all but name. “Is everyone okay?” she repeated her question from earlier. Jacques shook his head.
“Nothing is okay,” the Clement heir spoke through gritted teeth, turning to look at her. In his own brown gaze, Azalea saw an emotion she rarely ever associated with him: Fury.
“Is anyone hurt?” she rephrased the question, trying not to show any sign of fear before she was given a reason to. She may not know why Jacques was here but she did know that if someone was hurt, he would be with them and not battling the frigid winds in his casual wear.
“Do I count?” he asked, his voice straining to remain level. Even in such a condition, the young man reached for his wand, creating a warmth bubble around them both. He may not have noticed the cold on himself but even through his anger, he had noticed her lips turning blue.
“Of course you do, sweetie,” Azalea answered, reaching out for him. Normally very receptive to her hugs and cuddles, this time the future Lord Clement remained still as she hugged him, as if only accepting the gesture out of politeness and nothing else. “You count as much as anybody else.”
“Then why am I being tested in this way?” he spat out once they had broken apart. His words may have been fueled by rage but his eyes only showed sorrow. “Why am I in this… putain de situation?” Azalea would never claim to be fluent in French, but she knew enough to recognize a swear word. She also knew how bad things had to be for Jacques to swear. One of their frequent private jokes was that the man wasn’t fit for the army given his clean mouth.
“What happened, Jacques?” the brunette asked seriously, eyes trained on his form. Even the jacket couldn’t hide the Frenchman’s well-built physique. She and Victoria often joked about who was more of a gym freak, Jackson or the heir to the seat of House Clement.
“I found Mimosa.” He replied flatly. Of course, “found” was a bit of a stretch. Mimosa’s travel plans after leaving Hogwarts were… chaotic to say the least. She had never really gone missing; the Clement security was too good for that. But the slew of poor decisions she was making had everyone worried.
“Where is she?”
“Ibiza,” Jacques replied shortly. For a moment, it seemed like that was all he was going to say on the matter. Then more words came out of his mouth, each reeking of rage and disappointment. “With a needle in her arm and in the bed of the man who probably gave it to her.” His entire body shook at the admission, and it wasn’t from the cold. “I got her out of there,” he continued before she could ask. “But she is as stubborn as… She’ll probably be back there. Or in another situation like it. Because she refuses to accept reality.”
Azalea nodded, ignoring the deep ache in her heart at her daughter’s self-destructive ways. Growing up, it had been no secret that Mimosa worshiped her Jacques. When that affection had turned into possessiveness, obsession, entitlement, nobody could understand. Everyone had tried talking to the teenager. Jacques, Azalea, even Jake, but Mimosa refused to change her mind. Either Jacques would accept her terms or watch her slowly self-destruct. A by-product of never having been denied anything her whole life, Mimosa now could not live without getting everything she asked for.
“Jacques…” Azalea began carefully, unable to believe what she was lobbying for merely a year after she had almost strangled him to death when Mimosa’s wishes had come out. Back then, the news had been particularly jarring, delivered by a grown man about a child’s attraction to him. Everyone had blamed Jacques, and no one had faulted him harder than he had faulted himself. But that was a year ago. Things were very different now. Hell bent on getting her way, Mimosa was punishing everyone by punishing herself. “Maybe you should…”
“No,” he cut her off uncharacteristically. “It’s not possible.”
“When you’re a parent, you have to make the impossible, possible,” she admitted sadly. This was not an ideal situation in any sense of the word. But words were not up for discussion here, Mimosa’s life was.
“And I would do anything for her as a parent. But I cannot make her my wife.”
Azalea flinched at the words. Despite how long it had been, the idea of Mimosa being anyone’s wife, let alone Jacques’ made her physically ill.
“You flinch at the mere thought of it. Imagine how I must feel,” the Frenchman growled. “Or are you not aware of what happens between man and wife?”
“And what’s happening to her now, Jacques?” Azalea asked desperately. “Better with you than some junkie or rapist. At least you have her best interests at heart. She will be happy with you.” Of this much there was absolutely no doubt. Mimosa would be nothing but happy for the rest of her life if wedded to Jacques Clement. Having spent her whole life at the palace, there was no doubt that she was fated into the role of the next Lady Clement.
“So I don’t count then?” Jacques answered his own question from earlier, looking at her with eyes so full of sorrow, it cut deep in her soul. Because they both knew the truth of his words. Yes, if it was a choice between him and Mimosa, then both he and Azalea would choose Mimosa every single time.
Azalea merely moved to hug him again, unable to contradict the truth he’d spoken. None of them mattered when it came to Mimosa.
“Unless…” This time, the young heir didn’t receive her hug stiffly,. This time, he wrapped his arms fully around her, placing his chin on top of her head, almost hiding her in the crook between his neck and shoulder. She could feel his body sag against her, as if giving up. “We try another way…”
Azalea didn’t let go, both needing the comfort and wanting to provide it to the heartbroken man in her grasp. “Which is?”
She felt him take a deep breath, as if preparing for an attack. “What if her mother was to become the next Lady Clement?”
It took a minute for Azalea to process the suggestion, but when it did register, her hands moved to his chest, pushing him away on no uncertain terms. She didn’t have to push long. He separated from her almost immediately, moving two feet further away than he had originally been and – Azalea realized belatedly – out of the heat bubble he had created for the two.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she spoke coldly.
Jacques stamped his foot against the wall, as if trying to kick it down with brute strength alone. “C'est ce que tout le monde fait depuis un an, putain de faire semblant” he seethed, eyes looking everywhere but at her. “I pretend she will snap out of it. Mimosa pretends to be a grown up, you pretend there is nothing between us, Jake portends I’m the monster trying to steal his daughter, Maman pretends the Gods will somehow solve this and Papa pretends this is a good idea. I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired… of watching my family fall apart.” His voice quivered at the final sentence, ultimately taking the blame for everything that had happened in the last year.
All the coldness that had temporarily taken over her system melted at the sight of him almost breaking. None of what was happening was his fault, but she also knew nothing in the world would ever convince Jacques of that. It was why they connected on such a deep level, because both of them inherently felt the great responsibility of the people they cared about.
“Accepting Mimosa… will put your family back together,” she managed softly. It hurt to say it. This outcome was not her preferred one. But the ship on an ideal outcome has sailed a long time ago. Jacques didn’t reply, because he too could not deny the truth of the words she had spoken.
“I can’t…” he pleaded brokenly, his eyes finding hers and beseeching them to understand. He had never denied her anything she had asked of him, in fact, he had treated her just like he had treated Mimosa, albeit for a shorter amount of time. In that moment, it was easy to see how Mimosa’s whole world began and ended with Jacques.
Because how could it not?
“Please…. Bring my daughter home, safe. I beg of you…” she answered, her own chocolate eyes equally desperate.
For a moment, Azalea was worried he would vanish on the spot. The usual rules of apparition within school grounds didn’t seem to apply to him. But Jacques Clement was nothing if not a brave man, and he stood his ground. As hard as it was, he lifted his head only an inch, the smallest nod he could manage.
He had never denied her anything. And he didn’t start that day. A month later, he brought her daughter home safe and sound. And their engagement was announced in the media.
Her eyes blinked open, vision swimming from tears, sweat, sorrow, weakness, it could be any or all those things. The ceiling of her bedroom seem to be a blur, the finer details eluding the woman as she attempted to bring things into focus.
“You’ve lost some blood,” a terse, familiar voice spoke from her right. “It’ll be an hour before it’s fully replenished.”
The Herbologist didn’t reply, still trying to make the ceiling come into focus. Something was wrong. If someone was sitting to her right then… She was on the wrong side of the bed. That was Jake’s side. Azalea attempted to move but her body felt too heavy, too burdened, like so much dead weight all around her.
“Azalea,” there was a marked attempt to not sound so stern this time. “Just rest for now, please.”
She didn’t want to. This was Jake’s side of the bed. She slept on the other side. What if he came back and saw her here? He probably wouldn’t mind but what if he wanted to lie down too? He couldn’t sleep on her side. With a start, she realized that Jake wasn’t coming back, and she closed her eyes. There was no point in bringing anything into focus now.
“I hope you realize how stupid that was,” her visitor scolded, albeit more gently than before. “What if it wasn’t me who saw you like that? What if it was one of the boys?”
The brunette didn’t reply, she didn’t want to apologize for what had happened. Neither was she ashamed of it. The shame would come eventually, but right now there was no room for any emotion other than the deep grief that colored her soul bloodier than her intentions could ever cover her body.
She also didn’t feel like acknowledging how he had set himself apart from the boys. As if Jacques Clement finding her in such a state would be less heart-breaking than Ivan or Andrew finding her in such a state. But then again, Jacques had been doing this for a long time, setting himself apart from the things and people that mattered.
“If something had happened to you, what would I have said to Ivan and Andrew? To Victoria? To Mimosa and Papa?” Well aware that she wouldn’t reply, either because she couldn’t or didn’t want to, Jacques was now speaking for his own benefit. “You think you can just leave us too? What a selfish thought, Azalea. That’s what you are, selfish.”
The slender woman lying semi-conscious in bed, struggled to open her eyes again, managing only a slit of vision that made the ceiling appear once again, a little clearer this time.
“You don’t get to ordain my life and then decide to end yours.” The accusation was meant to be scathing, but it only came out broken.
But he wasn’t wrong, she reflected as she stared at nothing from behind hazy dark brown eyes. She had never meant to control his life. No one had. If Jacques was made of the same self-serving material as his sister, he would have long detached himself from the family in pursuit of personal happiness. But he wasn’t. Somewhere along the line, the young heir had taken responsibility for everyone’s happiness at the cost of his own.
Including hers, apparently.
Why was he here? Why had he been here since day one? Out in the shadows, never really introducing himself but just there. One would think the future heir to the unofficial throne of France would have better things to do than hang from her trees but clearly not. And why she minded that so much at the minute was also a mystery. Though perhaps one more easily solved.
Azalea was drowning right now. Every breath, every waking moment felt like another tired push against the sweet relief of just letting herself sink. But drowning objects didn’t just sink alone. They created suctions around themes, pulling under anything in their field.
Jacques Clement could not be in her field right now. He was not allowed to drown with her.
“I bet you’re thinking something stupid right now,” the future Lord Clement proposed matter of Fact-ly. “Don’t bother. I’ve thought enough stupid things for the both us in the last ten years.” One again, the rebuke he meant to direct towards her sounded as if he was just berating himself. “The luxury of my situation gives me a lot of time to think.”
Her eyes began to open fully now, blurry shadows gaining a more solid finish. She moved her head slightly to the right to see the chair in which her visitor had placed himself. The same chair she sometimes curled herself up in to read when waiting for Jake, or rushing a last minute review. Laziness was not a word she had ever been associated with, the closest Azalea ever coming to the notion being working from her bedroom chair rather than her office downstairs.
Her movement didn’t go amiss, Azalea hearing the soft sound of a glass of water being placed by her bedside for whenever she was ready.
“What would you have done if I hadn’t stopped you?” This time, his tone was neither angry nor reproachful. It was frightened. In the time she had known the French Auror, she had never heard him scared before. Unhappy yes, angry, sometimes, heartbroken, more often than she would have liked but frightened… She wished she could care more. He certainly deserved it. But that was beyond her powers now. For Azalea, the outside world was growing steadily estranged, harder to care about with no real connection to it.
“You would have just kept on going,” he answered himself quietly. “It’s… harder when the truth finally sinks in, isn’t it?” Again, silence was her only acknowledgement, thought Azalea wouldn’t have spoken even if she could have. Because Jacques was finally saying things he should have a long time ago.
“For me… it was six months after Mimosa and I… after the wedding. As much as I thought I was prepared, it shifted my centre of gravity, my entire belief system.” He paused, and Azalea could almost hear him mentally omit some details, whether to spare her or because he was ashamed of them, she didn’t care.
“But if I didn’t give up, you aren’t allowed to either,” he added resolutely. “You hear me, Azalea. You are not allowed to.”
The brunette was only dimly aware of his words, trying to search her mind for a time when Jacques had been in a similar position to hers, as he had just claimed,. The only time she remembered him being in a life threatening situation without her – mostly caused by her, she acknowledged guiltily – was… half a year into his marriage. Azalea had woken up to the news of the young heir apparent’s car careening off a highway, the dark purple Pagani plunging into the icy waters of the river below. Luckily, Jacques himself had walked away unscathed in what was then hailed as a miracle but was probably magic.
Or, as he now admitted, a rash decision immediately followed by a penitence.
“I’m… sorry…” she uttered, the sound not quite making it past her lips but getting lost in the quiver of them. She wasn’t sorry for what she had done. She was sorry for what he had to go through. Azalea wanted to tell him this wasn’t how it was meant to happen. But she had no alternative either. Life had thrown them a choice and they had both chosen what they thought was best.
And despite everything, she knew they would do it all over again if given the chance.
She felt him move, felt the bed dip as he sat down by her side, felt him lift the glass of water to her lips. When she tried to raise her head to meet him halfway, her body failed her again, leading to one of his hands gently slipping her under head, raising her up to take a drink. “Don’t be sorry, just promise me you will never do it again.”
The witch drank a sip, feeling the tepid liquid slide down her parched throat. It should have felt good, but it felt like nothing at all. The woman also did not reply to his request. She could not make promises she couldn’t keep. He thought they were talking about Azalea hurting herself, and she supposed he would have been glad to know she didn’t plan to do it again. But she had bene talking about prioritizing other’s happiness over her dear friend’s. And she could not promise to stop doing that.
Because his happiness rested on a scale against that of her daughter’s.
Slowly, life returned to her limbs, metaphorically speaking. When trying to sit up failed her, Jacques had to help her once again, moving the frail brunette into a sitting position against her pillows. Unbidden, he fetched the blanket, wrapping it around her before retaking his seat on her chair. From his resolute stance, it didn’t seem like he was leaving anytime soon. It mattered little she supposed, if he was going to hang around here, he might as well be indoors in the warmth rather than outside in the late summer showers.
They sat in the quiet for an age, neither one saying a word and yet the other understanding everything that went without saying. They had always communicated instinctively in the past, but now it seemed they were hyper aware, both of each other and the smothering atmosphere in the room that no amount of open windows would alleviate. Guilt, grief, fear, anger, sorrow, loneliness, the mix of emotions pressed down upon the two individuals sitting in each other’s company, more alone than they had ever been in their lives.
Until she broke the silence.
“Will you ever be able to forgive me... for what I made you do?”
Jacques looked back at her with bloodshot eyes, proof that he had been getting as much sleep as she had been lately. Contemplating her pale, hollow features for a moment, he shook his head. “I forgave you a long time ago, Azalea,” he confessed, averting his gaze from her. “But I doubt I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.”
She nodded; she understood that sentiment very well. Because she knew she too would never be able to forgive herself for what she had done.
He stayed all night. Of course he did. She wouldn’t have expected anything less of him.
Despite the lack of time they had been spending together after his wedding, she hadn’t forgotten him. And he certainly hadn’t forgotten her.
Most of the night was spent in silence. There were words now and then, but they were mostly perfunctory. She hadn’t slept, and neither had he. She had moved now and then, shifting to her side of the bed, getting up to eventually get herself another glass of water. Azalea had made minimal effort at least to make this seem like a normal social situation. Jacques had done no such thing; turned to stone on the chair he had been occupying unless asked a question or, even more rarely, speaking unprompted. They had mostly spent the night watching each other. Or rather, she had watched him for a time before looking away while he had continued to watch her through intense brown eyes. Had she noticed before that his brown eyes were almost the exact shade of hers? If she had, she didn’t remember.
Not too long ago, they would have never been this formal, this uncomfortable in each other’s company. No matter what they were doing, they would have been happy, joking, teasing, touching, relying on each other. When had that stopped? Had it stopped when he had married Mimosa? Had it stopped with the birth of their first child? Or had it stopped even after that? Somewhere in the last decade, they had found themselves going down separate paths in life that only occasionally connected on formal events. The last one of which being Jake and Azalea’s tenth anniversary party.
Eventually, sunlight streamed through the gaps in the curtains, reminding them that the night was over. Azalea didn’t move and neither did he. It must have been uncomfortable; sitting on a wooden chair for going on ten hours, Azalea thought but didn’t say out loud. She had no better alternative for him, and apparently he didn’t think going back to his palace where every creature comfort was his a better alternative.
Eventually, she did make it out of bed. Moving slower than usual though that was just how she moved these days. After a trip to the bathroom, she charted a slow, dreamlike course to the kitchen where she made two cups of tea, bringing them up the stairs again to find Jacques still in hier chair. She set a cup down in front of him wordlessly.
“You don’t drink coffee anymore?” He spoke for the first time, contemplating the steaming cup as if it held more answers than Azalea could give. In fairness, he may have been right on that count. The brunette on her part hadn’t noticed. But now that she was forced to think about it, she supposed there was some truth to what the Frenchman said. Ever since Jake’s death, she had only ever reached for the tin of tea, probably trying to convince her mind that there was still someone to drink it here.
“I guess so,” she replied noncommittally. It was better than explaining all the ways in which her body pretended that Jake was still around.
More silence as they drank their hot beverage noiselessly. As least the need for unnecessary words had not manifested as a result of all their time apart from each other. They could still be quiet with each other like they used to be.
“You know, I used to envy you and Jake, more than I cared to ever admit,” he eventually spoke, not looking at her but at the cup of tea that must have been empty by now. “Elenore and I… we grew up seeing Maman and Papa. And you cannot imagine what that was like.”
Whatever had prompted him to speak, he was more than welcome. Because as he spoke, Azalea realized how much she had actually missed him. Short visits during social events, a chat on the phone now and then, none of that compared to being with him as she had been before assuming her role as the Headmistress of Hogwarts. At thirty nine, Azalea Harrington-Newbury had been named the youngest headmistress the school had ever seen. It had been timed almost too perfectly to justify the separation. Not a year after, Jacques and Mimosa had said their marriage vows and both the Frenchman and Azalea could pretend their distance was a result of leading busy, productive lives.
Not bothering to address that before, no matter how busy they were, they had always made time for each other.
“It comes across to even strangers how perfect Maman and Papa are for each other. To their own children, it became an expectation. Elenore was convinced she would find that same dynamic somewhere, and she left us for it. I made my peace with her leaving by believing she was happy.” Azalea tried to listen for a contradiction in his tone at this point. After all, Elenore Clement’s happiness relied very heavily on Kit Harrington, and her father knew that better than anyone. No accusation came however, and the brunette was subtly glad. Her father’s marriage to a girl younger than her and of Clement stock had not been an optimistic occasion for most of the people in attendance. But over a decade and five children later, even its harshest critics had to allow for some form of revision in their estimates.
“When I met Kiran… I knew it wouldn’t last. And I fell in love with her anyway, trying to convince myself that we may not have what Maman and Papa had, but we could have something different, something just as good.”
Azalea tried not to flinch as she recalled the night Kiranjeet had died. The distance between her and Jacques had not solidified as much then, leading to the man showing up drunk and out of his mind at her doorway in the early hours of the morning. He had said much and more that night as Azalea had lead him to the sofa and sat with him, holding him close to her. She had also never repeated what she had heard though, because she knew when daylight and sobriety dawned, he would be ashamed.
“But you and Jake though, you two were always… right there. Maybe not like Maman and Papa but not very unlike them either. You kept finding your way to each other and I used to think why I wasn’t blessed with such a miracle. Where was I lacking? Why had Maman’s Gods, in their wisdom, chosen to leave me bereft of such a bond?”
Azalea finally spoke up, quietly but firmly. “Mimosa worships you.”
“Mimosa is perfect,” he agreed dejectedly. “She is everything a man would ever want in a wife and a partner.” He didn’t finish that sentence but the implication was clear. Somehow, despite it being no fault of his young wife, Jacques Clement could not make himself care for her the way he imagined people in romantic relationships cared for each other. Though Azalea knew without being told that he tried. He tried with his heart and soul.
“I will swear by everyone I care for on how much I cherish my wife,” the Clement heir continued, almost as if justifying it to himself more than Azalea. “I have cherished her since the moment she walked into our lives. I tried to do my best by her, I protected her from harm and gave her all she asked for. I didn’t differentiate between right and wrong when it came to fulfilling her wishes, no one at the palace ever did.” That much Azalea knew. It was the sole reason she had never insisted on trying to gain custody of her daughter. Both Azalea and Jake had seen with their own eyes how happy and well taken care of their first borne was in the ward-ship of the Clements. It hadn’t made it easier for them to not be a part of her life but it had stayed them just enough to prioritize Mimosa’s happiness above all else.
Everyone had always put Mimosa’s happiness above all else, and they still did so to this day. Till date, the future Lady Clement remained oblivious to what so many had given up for her - and that was how it was always going to be.
“Yet even now, I cannot make myself love her the way she deserves a husband’s love,” he admitted, putting down the cup. Azalea noticed his fingers trembling, either with anger or defeat, as he finally admitted the words he hadn’t been able to say for a long time. “Even after all her care, devotion, obedience and ability, I fail her in trying to be what she rightly deserves. I would die for her in a heartbeat, but that is the best I will ever be able to do for her, and it’s the curse I must live with.”
Azalea surveyed the Frenchman through slightly blurred eyes, somewhere along the line; a tear or two had shed without her knowledge.
This was why they had maintained a cool distance after the future Lord and Lady Clement’s heavily public wedding. So that they could both remain willfully oblivious of what they had done. Jacques could try to forget who he had married and Azalea could allow to dim into memory how she had convinced him to do just that. The defense mechanism had worked for a time. They had both extended their lives more to make up for the emptiness of having betrayed a friend. But with Jake gone, all the other walls he had supported were crumbling too.
Moving from the bed, she took the few steps necessary to approach the man sitting in her chair. Azalea placed a soft hand on his shoulder, her apology and remorse clear in the touch. Jacques looked up at her, startled, as if he had been lost in another wold entirely. Noting her tear washed eyes, he pulled her close, ignoring the height difference between the two as he remained seated while she stood.
His arms circled her waist tightly as he buried his head somewhere in her stomach, finally letting out the moisture he had been keeping bottled up for heavens only knew how long. As he clung to her, Jacques Clement cried like a small child, a child who was hopelessly lost with no way back to what he knew. And Azalea let him.
Because when all was said and done, she was equally as responsible for his predicament as he was. Because when all was all said and done, it was the least she could do.
He stayed over the next night too. And the next night. And the next. And the one after that.
Eventually Azalea found herself forced to conform to the social norms of having a house guest. Even one who looked far more at home here than she did, though that wasn’t saying much. Her empty, ghost like existence wasn’t made more full by his presences, rather his grief augmented hers in a different way. They didn’t live under one roof so much as existed surrounded by its walls. She had no idea where he slept, when he slept and if he slept. Jacques on the other hand, was simply content watching her most of the time.
There was little conversation in these days. Never ones to force words even when they had been close, it was as if the duo had simply agreed to communicate without words when communication was indeed necessary. Which, it had to be admitted, it wasn’t these days. Quiet cups of tea, a plate of food, a softly murmured sorry or thank you, that was all it took to exist with him. It was… easy. If nothing else, at least it was easy. He let her mourn without encroaching on her process. She let him sit in the kind of silence she imagined he never got at his home.
Still, as the days went by, Azalea found herself doing for him the things she wouldn’t have bothered to do for herself. Keeping track of meals being one. On her own, breakfasts and dinners had all melded into one prompted by the rare occasion in which she put some food in her mouth. Now she had to observe the meal schedule because he didn’t deserve to live in that kind of derelict. Laundry and cleaning of the house followed a little later, when she realized he probably didn’t deserve to live in a dust filled home either.
Maybe he knew that his stay would prompt her back into some version of her past self? The woman who had spent her life taking care of others couldn’t sit idle with another person here to look after her. More than once she had wanted to ask the man if that was his plan. More than once she had wanted to ask him when he would go home. But she had stopped herself, afraid that he really would go home.
And so it continued, them somehow existing together in this space out of time, making each other observe some human habits while discounting others, not talking, not moving, not afraid to be in the same space for the first time in over a decade.
Until one day, his phone buzzed.
It was odd really; his phone must have buzzed a hundred times with a hundred different threads of information in the last week. Given who he was, Jacques couldn’t afford to alienate himself from the world, from his family and from his duty. Yet she had never heard an intrusion into their created quiet up until now. Perhaps the fates knew this call was important?
Jacques received the call with a quiet “Ooi”, listening stony faced to whatever was said on the other end. He hung up two minutes later. Azalea hadn’t looked at him the whole time, seated in Jake’s armchair by the fire, wrapped in a shawl despite the warm weather.
“Azalea?” the brunette didn’t look up, sure that nothing he had to say was important enough to sway her attention from her current line of thought.
“It’s your father… Kit’s had a heart attack fifteen minutes ago. They’re prepping him for surgery.”
With great effort, she let go of her the numbness surrounding her brain. Thoughts floated to the surface with great resistance. “Dad?” she asked, as if needing confirmation that it was her father they were talking about.
“I can have a plane here in an hour… Would you like to go with me? Or I can drop you off at the palace with Ivan.”
Both options registered slowly, heavily. She didn’t want to make decisions now. She just wanted to stay here. She had never been a very good daughter to begin with. What would it matter if she disappointed him one last time?
“Is Elenore okay?” As much as she wanted to not care, it slipped out. Azalea couldn’t exist without caring for those around her. This time, she was looking at his face when she spoke, her hazy brown eyes trying to identify emotions and response. The pain on his features was clear when he answered.
“I don’t know,” he answered, making her realize it wasn’t his sister who had called. He had gotten the news of his brother in law’s poor health from a stranger, probably one of the Clement watchers or a medical professional. In her time of need, it hadn’t occurred to Elenore to call the man who would always put her first.
His small confession made her mind up for her. “I’ll go with you.” Jacques nodded, getting up from his chair and disappearing into the kitchen to make the calls necessary. He had said an hour and from what she recalled, he was good with time. Azalea slowly rose to her feet and made her way to the bedroom. Bringing out a small weekend bag enchanted to hold more than it should have been able to, she began to pack on autopilot. A few of her dresses, a few of Jake’s things in case he needed them, toiletries, a black dress went in last. Forty five minutes later, the brunette was downstairs, dressed send packed. Jacques hadn’t changed.
A car was waiting for them outside, they left without locking the doors. Someone else would take care of it. If the car had been driven here by someone, that someone must have been relieved because Jacques opened the passenger door for her and then took the driver’s seat himself. They sped off to the nearest hanger in silence. Azalea spied the small jet taxiing into the runway as they approached the area. They had to wait a further ten minutes for the engines to cool before boarding the familiar plain. She remembered it from the old days, one of Jacques’ favorites.
They were an hour into the flight when the first significant words were exchanged between the two of them.
“Any news on-“
“Still in surgery,” Jacques replied, tapping the phone in front of him to indicate he was receiving timely updates. “The boys were at school, they have been informed. They’re being brought home. Elenore is with him.”
“Scott… And Lynnette?”
“Uninformed, and with a nanny, respectively,” he answered, confirming her suspicion. Scott hadn’t been informed for fear of unfounded scenarios complicating his training. And little Lynnette was only three.
Azalea didn’t ask about Elenore. The grim set of his mouth told her without words that almost three hours in, his sister had not reached out. It had always been like that with the Clement siblings. Elenore continued to hurt her brother and he continued to be hurt by her, as he believed was his duty.
If she closed her eyes, Azalea could still remember the day Elenore had announced plans to marry Kit Harrington, plans that had taken everyone aback. At twenty two, the freshly graduated Julliard protege was deciding to join her life to a man older than her father. A man who, for his whole life prior to meeting the French heiress, had never believed in monogamy or marriage. How those two had found each other was a mystery, but Azalea suspected her current companion knew some of it. Not much escaped people of his station and for whatever reason; the wedding had been allowed to move forward. Jacques had been her date to the event (Jake being occupied elsewhere for those two days) and seeing her father’s new bride had felt almost as strange to her as Jacques had felt seeing his baby sister in the arms of someone like Kit Harrington.
Clara had not been in attendance, and neither had Klaus. Why two of Kit’s oldest friends had missed his wedding, was anyone’s guess. Though Azalea had a good one.
“We’re flying to the nearest safest apparition point, and apperating from there,” Jacques spoke up again. Azalea dragged her mind back to the present, away from the elegant ceremony and fanfare that was clearly by Elenore’s design. The wedding had had no mark of her dad that she could see. “Would you like to fly all the way to LA? I know you don’t care for apparition.”
Yes, once upon a time she had cared and not cared for this or that. That time was gone now. “I’ll apperate.”
The cabin lapsed into silence again, Jacques taking the opportunity to disappear into the bathroom and emerge a few minutes later showered and changed. Of course he had a change of clothes on board. The familiar scent of spiced cologne hit her senses, subtle as it had always been and only familiar to her for how close she had once been to him. Nothing could be done about the tiredness around his eyes, the weariness on his brow.
She wondered if she looked the same. Minus the looks.
They arrived at their desired apparition point nearly seven hours into the flight. Eventually, they had both fallen asleep at some point though not for long. Still, what was it people said? A two hour nap was better than no nap at all? Neither of them felt better though, as Jacques moved carefully towards her, giving her a hand to stand up. The brunette took it, rising to her feet and waiting for his protective arms to wrap around her in the best apparition pose possible, keeping both their feet planted firmly on the ground.
The feeling of claustrophobia, of the world being pressed down on her and compressing her from all sides that Azalea found so objectionable about apparition didn’t materialized. Dimly, she felt the tug of being pulled out of time and space but it was an apathetic feeling, as if it was happening to someone else and she was merely observing it through a proxy. Held firmly in the French heir’s embrace, she felt the world spin and then right itself once more, the duo landing with a hard step on a shady street in Los Angeles.
“This is the closest the wards will let us get,” Jacques explained, letting go of her. Once again, the pained expression was back on his brow. Of course Elenore had not exempted her brother from the blood magic guarding her home, despite the fact that he was literally her blood. Azalea reached out to take his hand as they walked; unable to understand why her father’s wife chose to alienate herself from those who cared about her with all their being. She had seen the Lord Clement yearn for his daughter the same way Jacques pined or his sister now, and she knew both these men waited in vain.
“Do your mom and dad know?”
He nodded. “Probably. But they will not arrive unless…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence. While it had never been explicitly stated that the Lord and Lady Clement were not welcomed at the sprawling ranch Elenore had chosen as her marital home, it had never been denied either.
“My apologies,” he continued as they neared the gates, attracting the attention of the sentries posted therein. “Of course Kit will be fine...” He squeezed her hand gently in reassurance. “Everything will be okay.”
Azalea wasn’t so sure. Of course she wanted her dad to be well. She didn’t want anyone to be hurt. She even wanted Elenore to give up her quest for what could only be labelled as petty, childish, vengeance, but she couldn’t be sure of any of that happening. The only thing she knew for certain, was that no matter what happened to her dad or anyone else, nothing would ever be okay again.
Posts : 664 Birthday : 1993-08-13 Join date : 2018-01-11 Location : Hogwarts or Surrey mostly Job/hobbies : Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts
Subject: Re: Azalea's NaNoWriMo - 2022 Sat Nov 12, 2022 5:25 pm
Chapter Ten The Pitter-Patter of Tiny Feet
Their welcome into the Harrington Household was cool, to say the least.
They had been granted entry through the gate after being identified, only to be escorted to the guest wing of the large mansion her father’s wife had converted into a cross between a luxury farmhouse and a rustic palatial structure that somehow resembled the design of her girlhood home. Gone were the days of modern glass and steel, the furnishings here resembled more of what would have been found inside the palace of Versailles. Azalea remembered her father offering their Carmel home to Clara. She remembered Clara storming out. She didn’t remember if they had ever made up after that.
Whatever the staff had assumed, Azalea hadn’t presumed to correct them. Neither had Jacques really as they were shown into a large bedroom clearly meant for guests. When the man had asked for Elenore, he had been told she was busy with her husband. When he had insisted on being there with her, he had been told they would ask the Lady of the House first.
They were right in that at least, Elenore Harrington was the Lady of the House here. Nothing in this vast home reminded Azalea of her father.
They waited for over an hour before someone came for them with a message. Her Ladyship was ready to see someone now. When they both got to their feet, they were politely reminded there was only room for one. “You should go,” Jacques murmured, making to sit down again but Azalea reached out and touched his hand softly. No words were spoken but he understood her as he followed the staffer out the door. Azalea sank down in her chair again.
She knew she should be worried, she should be afraid and sad and a whole host of emotions daughters feel when confronted with the potential death of their fathers. But Jake’s death had severely dulled the edge of the knife that was this world. Every emotion was felt as if from far away, as if it wasn’t her own, not really.
She wouldn’t be able to help Kit and Elenore. All the progress she had made in the field of science couldn’t fix a suddenly malfunctioning heart. Whether Elenore knew it or not, she needed her brother with her right now. And not just for his expertise but because Jacques Clement made for a model greed companion, as she had learned over the last week.
More to keep her hands busy than anything else, the brunette slowly began to unpack. The wardrobes provided were more than ample for her few clothes. The black dress she left in her bag, not wanting to tempt the universe in any way. Not that her small actions could presume to sway the universe in any direction whatsoever. But she wouldn’t be Azalea if she didn’t try.
It was as she was hanging up a pair of Jake’s shirt and trousers when she heard the door to the guest bedroom open. Turning around, she saw nothing in her eye line, until she lowered it, a soft smile barely touching her features as she stared at the child standing as straight as her age would allow. Dressed in a deep purple frock with her brown dark chocolate tresses reaching almost to her mid back, the little girl stared right back at her with familiar grey eyes,
Even at three, she was a stunning image of her grandmother in Versailles.
“Bonjour,” her musical voice lilted softly over to Azalea, whose small smile grew a little more. “Je m'appelle Lynnette ‘Arrington. Bienvenue chez nous.”
“Bonjour, petite chérie,” Azalea managed, cobbling together the greeting she had learned upon Aurore’s birth. She had never imagined being a grandmother, and Jake had felt even older. At least for the first few moments. Then they had preoccupied themselves with something grandparents most certainly did not do.
The child seemed to understand her conundrum, switching to English flawlessly when she spoke next. “Are you my Tante Clement?” Her accent must have been bad enough of even little Lynnette to realize French was not her first language. Or even her fourth. She had heard Jacques and the Lord Clement speak of Elenore’s gift of language. Clearly it had passed on to her children as well.
“No actually,” Azalea replied, closing the wardrobe door softly and moving towards the child. Lynnette didn’t seem scared, watching Azalea curiously with those familiar grey eyes. “I’m actually your sister.”
This information puzzled the child, making her look on with even more curiosity. “I only have brothers,” she corrected after having a think over it. “Scott, Dominic, Pierre and Anton,” she confirmed, nodding. Apparently her mother had not told her about a half-sister. Perhaps Azalea should have been hurt by this, but she wasn’t. Elenore had never pretended to want to have a relationship with Kit’s other family, and her father had clearly made no objections to it. As much as he cared for Mimosa and Azalea, his priorities in the last twenty years had skewed towards his young wife.
“I suppose that’s right,” she conceded, reaching the small child and kneeling down to her height. “You can call me Azalea then,” she offered in lieu of a settlement. “Just Azalea.”
This seem to sit well with little Lynnette. “Okay, Just Azalea,” she giggled, her infectious laugh making the older woman’s smile wide. “Do you want to come meet my dolls? They were just about to have tea.”
“That sounds great,” Azalea agreed and the little girl reached out a tiny hand. Almost reverently, Azalea took it, standing back up. Hand in hand, the two Harrington daughters walked out of the room and into the direction of the main house.
As they walked, Azalea had the opportunity to truly appreciate that she had never been to her father’s marital home before, not really. When they had gotten married nearly fifteen years ago, Kit and Elenore had hosted the reception in the extensive gardens outside. While the actual ceremony had been grand enough to befit the Clements, it had been held in the states and not at the palace as was tradition. The reception following it had been a lot more intimate but still full of people Azalea had not known. She had been seated with family, sharing a table with Jacques and his parents for the first time ever. But at the bride’s request it was her deceased grandmother who had been celebrated more at the wedding than her living mother. The Lady Clement had sat quietly through it all, her hand firmly in her husband’s, looking so unearthly beautiful as if she was an angel’s sorrow come to life in human form.
At the time, everyone had been politely told that the house was still under construction so please be careful and stay out within the grounds, no exceptions. After seeing his parents off, Jacques and Azalea had driven back to their hotel where the young heir’s anger and sadness had battled furiously with each other at the display of humiliation directed towards the Clements, forcing Azalea to hold him close until he finally fell asleep – or some version of it. They had left the next day and Azalea had never been back to this house.
Until now.
“And then there’s Gabriella, she is an…. Equestrian,” Lynnette was in the middle of describing her dolls. “But don’t call her Gabby, she doesn’t like that. We had a nanny who called me Lyn. I didn’t like it and she didn’t come back,” the child added, continuing to lead Azalea down a lavish hallway decorated with accolades galore. Azalea saw at least three Oscars alongside a two Tonies and even a sole Grammy, all for Elenore’s illustrious musical work. The French-American’s prestigious awards were tastefully mixed in with her children’s. Azalea spied a few spelling bee medals, two junior-junior pair skating prizes for Scott, knowing them from the identical trophies Victoria and Jackson displayed, to even a few photography awards including an Emmy. Lynnette caught her line of vision and nodded. “Those are all Maman’s. She gets them for playing her piano. Papa says she is almost an… an… a goat?”
“An EGOT,” Azalea corrected gently as they turned right to a second hallway leading off into the more private suites. “It means having an Emmy, a Grammy, an Oscar and a Tony.”
Lynnette nodded, pushing open a door painted tastefully pink. “This is my suite,” she informed Azalea, letting go of the older woman’s hand to walk much too gracefully towards an elaborately set up tea table. Azalea guessed she must also have begun dancing at her young age because the child’s grace belied the shaky steps of normal toddlers. “And these are the dolls. Pauline, Harriet, Gabrielle, say bonjour to Azalea.”
“Bonjour Azalea,” three pre-recorded, three cheery voices rang out through the nursery, startling the brunette. These were apparently talking dolls.
“Umm, hi,” she greeted them, walking over to the table and taking her place on one of the chairs. “How do you do?” Thankfully the dolls didn’t rush to answer, Lynnette answering for them instead. Azalea listened carefully as she drank pretend tea and ate pretend cakes. The child must have played this game a lot because she was a very efficient hostess. She even managed to softly break a fight between two dolls who were making catty remarks about each other’s hats.
“So, which one is your favorite,” Azalea asked an hour into the game. She had drunk enough pretend tea to satisfy all her companions at this point. Lynnette looked up at her startled, and then she grew quiet, almost as if debating something with herself. Azalea let the girl think, a personal fan of letting that trait grow in little girls and young women alike. Finally, Lynnette seem to come to a decision.
“I will tell you, but it’s a secret, so you can’t tell anyone else,” she muttered, climbing off her little chair and motioning for Azalea to follow her. The Herbologist did as instructed, following Lynnette out of the main nursery and through to a tiny withdrawing room, then into what was clearly the little girl’s bedroom. A small pink four poster took center stage in this space, complete with princess curtains all around it. There was no question Lynnette’s mother had exquisite taste.
The girl moved toward the bed, lifting her brightly coloured blanket softly and reaching for something that lay underneath. Eventually, she pulled out a more battered looking doll, this one she clearly slept with. Unlike the obviously customized dolls outside, this one was a more traditional Barbie. A Barbie that was dressed in white and black, her once fine brown locks now straggly from use and her grey eyes glossy. Like the model Mattel had based her on in this limited edition line they had produced on her sixtieth birthday, the Barbie’s smile was not full but merely a hint at one. It was a collector’s item the child now held in her hands as delicately as if she was handling a new born.
“Her name is Vanessa,” the young Harrington spoke almost reverently. “And she is my Grandmere. She lives in a palace in France.”
by 
