The Bermuda Trap

When I woke up, the events of yesterday slapped me in the face as I felt a warm, small body snuggle next to me. James. Harry. The truth about his father.

Not wanting to wake my son, I stayed in bed, contemplating what I was to do next. It was like some ridiculous game of chess; I was playing for two. Playing for two is senseless. Not only senseless, but unreasonable. When you play for two, you keep beating yourself. And it's never fun winning over yourself, because in the end you're still a loser. Sad, victorious, hopeless, distraught, caught in the middle, but still a loser. And what were you going for in the first place? You're still a loser. Loser. Hopelessly banging your head against a mirror. Reflecting your inabilities, your mistakes, your losing battle, your endless fight against impossible triumph . . .

After I had collapsed in the sandbox, Draco had taken James, fed him supper, and put him to bed. He hadn't wanted to agitate my already shaken state, so I cried in the sandbox for half an hour. When James was safely tucked in bed, Draco pulled me out of my anguish and got me into the house, and then I sent him home. He had to work the next day, and I didn't want him staying with me just because I was being emotional. I refused to be thought of as someone too frail to handle a job by myself. Co-dependency. That's the word. I didn't want to depend on anyone. Anyone. Anyone. Other than Harry, that is.

"If I'm having a hard time, I'll call Ginny," I told Draco, trying to get him out of the house.

"Or Ron," he reminded, a slight scowl crossing his face. Draco still wasn't overly friendly with Ron. They had a rather brusque relationship.

"Or Ron," I repeated, giving a stiff smile. My eyes were extremely puffy and red; tears had left streaks down my face, and my eyelashes were glued together. It sort of made it hard to blink. It also made my eyes twitchy. And Draco already thought I was unstable without the twitchiness.

"You sure you're okay?" asked Draco once again, too bloody concerned that it made me want to tear his pretty hair out and tell him that he needed to get his own life and that I needed to get my own life and that I had to grow up and move on and get past Harry . . . but I couldn't. "I could get someone else to stay the night-"

My tongue was thick. "No. I'll be fine by myself," I answered stoutly, placing my hands on my hips. "I've got to deal with this with James by myself. You've got your own problems to manage."

"Name one."

I studied my feet. I had taken my shoes off before I came to push Draco out. His shoes were new; Adidas, or something like that. Reebok. Strange to see Draco in Muggle clothes. His jeans were new too. They had that worn-in look, but you could tell they hung with a strange crispness off his rather angled frame. Same with his sweater. Black. Preppy-like diamonds interlaced across the front. They were grey. His face, however, was . . . indescribable. "Your father."

"Right. Okay, name one that counts," he answered, putting his weight on one leg and rubbing his forehead.

I rolled my eyes. "Go home. I'll look after my son." He had turned to stroll down the front walk when I called out again. "Draco," I said softly, leaning against the doorjamb.

"Hmm?" His expression was hard to discern in the fading light. The flowers surrounding the front door were oozing fragrance, beckoning to be adored. Harry had never liked strong scents. This would have been to strong for him. Too much. Too intense. Too much competition . . .

"Could you . . . could you go down to the Ministry tomorrow? Just to see if there's anything new, or . . . any word on . . . ." I trailed off, looking upward, swallowing hard. I took a deep breath and finished, "--survivors."

He gave me a curt nod and turned a final time and left. I watched him fade out of sight and shut and bolted the door. There wasn't a chance, but I would take it anyway.

James moved away from me in his sleep, seizing another innocent pillow and sighing. He smiled as he found a new comfort with the cool pillow, and hugged his teddy bear tighter. I slipped out of bed, tucking the white duvet cover back into a manageable semblance. Padding into the kitchen, I flipped on the kitchen lights and turned on the kettle, pulling my mug and teabag out of the cupboard.

Leaning against the stove, I ran my right index finger over the fourth one on my left hand. I had put away my wedding band on our third anniversary. May third. Six years ago. And six years tomorrow from his disappearance.

Six years I thought. Six years. James is entering kindergarten this fall. Harry won't be here to see it. Ron and Ginny and Draco and Mum and Dad--they will all see it . . . but . . . but . . .

. . . not Harry.

I jumped as the kettle clicked; it had finished boiling. After steeping thrice used, no longer bleeding, herbal teabag, I stirred it and blew over the surface. It rippled.

Ripples. Just like what Harry left. Ripples in the lives of everyone he knew, everyone he didn't know. Ripples that tore and left gaping holes and sort of ripped the fabric that wove our lives together and shredded the emotional balance that held his friends and family so tightly rigid, so straight in our belief that he would come home . . .

. . . safe . . .

But they're only ripples in water. WATER. It doesn't mean anything, it's not supposed to mean anything, it's not supposed to mean anything, it's not SUPPOSED TO MEAN ANYTHING . . .

I sat at the kitchen table, soaking the warmth of the mug into my hands. The weeds were starting to take over. I'd have to rid the garden of them this morning. And in the afternoon, I'd take James to see Dean (whom he had developed a strange attachment to) and see George about that position he offered me before. I could manage the business. But that was for later.

As I drew up a griddle in mid-air with my wand, a soft whine slid around the corner, followed by James, dragging a teddy bear and a tattered blanket.

"Sleep well?" I asked, watching him rub his eyes.

"S-s-sorta," he yawned, pulling himself and his entourage up onto the chair.

"Pancakes okay?"

"Mhmm."

"Mummy's got to work outside in the garden this morning. Is that okay?"

"Okay. Can I play in the yard?"

"Sure thing, sweetie," I answered as two pancakes floated over to his plate and doused themselves in syrup and butter.

We ate in a sort of stuffy silence; it was neither tense nor comfortable. The clock on the mantle hissed a mocking tick, tock, tick, tock in an endless rhythm. It was a wedding present from . . . my aunt. We decided to leave it as a Muggle clock - neither of us wanted to change it to a wizard one such as the Weasley's had. Lord only knows where Harry would be right now. Speaking of the Weasley's, what had they given us for a wedding present? For the life of me, I couldn't remember. Something practical, of course, and obviously magical . . . oh! the self-cleaning silverware. Wonderful stuff. Finds its own place in the drawer too. Finally, James broke the silence.

"Mum," he said, looking at his empty plate, which I promptly filled again.

"Yes?"

"Daddy was born in July, right?"

Tick.

"Yes he was. July 31^st."

"And . . . what happened to his Mum and Dad?"

Tick.

"You know that evil man I told you about?"

He nodded. "Vold -, Volme -, Volup-" struggled James, trying to recall his name.

I cut him off. "Voldemort. They were murdered by Voldemort. That's how your Dad got his scar. The one on his forehead?"

"Oh yeah! The one I saw in the picture? On your table?"

"Yes sweetie. You should know this, too, though. He tried to kill your dad, too, when he was just a baby. But he didn't succeed."

James tilted his head onto his left shoulder. "What does succeed mean?"

I observed his query with mild interest. "Succeed means to win or achieve - achieve means get, honey - something you've been working towards or something you wanted."

"Then Voldemort - was that right?" asked James, and I nodded "Voldemort wanted Daddy dead?"

Tick.

"Yes Jamie."

"But why?"

Tick.

"I don't know, Jamie."

Tick, Tick.

"So Volde-me-mort's gone forever?"

TickTick.

"Yes."

TickTickTickTick.

Jamie's lip quivered. "And he won't come after me?"

Tick, tick, tick, tickticktockticktock-

"No James. I will never let anyone hurt you. Especially not Voldemort because he is not coming back."

"Good."

"Any other questions?"

TICK.

"Can we go to the park today?"

I smiled, relief gushing with the expression. "I believe that can be arranged."

***

My rose garden had turned out rather spectacularly this year. Garden was the wrong word; hedge was more like it. Yes, my rose hedge was very impressive. We had no back fence, the roses blocked out the backyard of the neighbour behind us.

James was trying to construct a tunnel within a mound of sand he had piled in one corner. A few toy figurines were scattered about the wooden box, and one swing was wrapped around a support post. The plastic yellow slide was covered in damp sand and decorated with a skipping rope, Frisbee, and football.

I watched my son try to build his tunnel, smiling at the lopsided structure, bound for catastrophe. Right now, his 'sand castle' resembled somewhat of a muddy snow hill. He was going to start school in September. I'd be alone. My little boy was growing up. Our little boy was growing up.

"Mum," he called out, exasperated, flopping his arms back down into the sand, "I need help."

Glancing around, making sure no one was looking, I hurried over and cast a quick spell onto the mound of sand. Instantly, it shifted itself into a magnificent sand castle, complete with turrets, tunnels, a moat, drawbridge and moving figurines.

"Mummy!" he shrieked. "It's perfect!" He threw his arms around my neck, pressing his face into my shoulder.

"Glad you like it," I whispered back.