Chapter Text
His room wasn’t as messy as it would’ve been any other time of year. No books scattered around, lying on every available surface, no random receipts used as a bookmark on a library book waiting to be sent to the shelves again. No dirty clothes were thrown in the crevasses of his sanctuary, just longing for the opportunity to be washed and feel the wind as they dried in the crisp summer air. No semi-filled sketchbooks peeking just underneath his twin-size bed. No ice skates sprawled somewhere out of the walkway.
No nothing, actually. The room was completely bare. There were little remnants that remain to indicate someone ever lived there. A couple of clues were present. An expensive matching set of suitcases lingered by the door, stuffed to the brim of his belongings. His bed was perfectly made, even though he couldn’t fathom a reason to make a bed he was going to use hours later, except to avoid his grandmother’s scolding.
The outfit he was wearing the following day was hung up nicely on a a single rack, one of the two things present in his otherwise empty closet. The pajamas he wore that night were folded perfectly over his desk chair, now in a wrinkly bundle on top of the surface. He would prefer to wear the latter on the train (one that would make up for the long journey to his school in France), but appearances matter, and it would be an absolute shame to have an ounce of comfort for once.
The window was open, blowing a slight breeze, and the scent of the Mediterranean flowed with. Sitting in the chair he previously moved, his elbows rested on the window seal, one arm propping up his head. He let the wind take over his senses, tuning everything out but his mind, to fill his last thoughts with home, to carry the feeling with him through 10 months of repetitive and otherwise unnecessary work. He went to this school for success, but all they gave him was lessons on how to be a fancy, egotistical brat half of the children there already were.
A knock on his door haltered his recollection of school, which was something he was insanely grateful for. He dreaded every moment he kept his mind on that education when he was supposed to be living in the present.
“Come in,” he said, not bothering to look at the door or whoever came through it.
“You are already packed, I see.”
A curt tone, disinterested and distant. Strangely, it was in English. As much as it was a language which the lack of tasteful sounds bore him to death, its complexity was an interest to him; he could never seem to take up a challenge. What surprised him was who it came from.
His grandmother couldn’t hate English more than anyone else in their household with her strong hold on his Italian bloodline, even though her family was originally from France. It seems she has a deep interest in Italian culture and adopted a persona around it, that mixed with her Frenchness, English seemed to be a hated language.
As far as he knows, his grandmother couldn’t be bothered with his existence and keeps him around for the money that comes along with the various awards he’s won.
For the rest of his family, his siblings soak up most of the attention. His sister is adored like a prized china doll, she was a pretty gaze and a sight to see; his brother was a potential worthy heir to whatever family they supposedly had. How all hell would break loose when his sister would start seeing she had no chance for the wealth they carried and start acting out as he had. It worried him how their brother would react. He'd either prove their grandmother in the conceited ways she raised him to be, or he would stick by their sister's side and defy their grandmother such as he has. He just hoped that being raised by their grandmother would give his sister more chances for love than he ever had, and his brother a sense of mercy for if he chose to go down the path he did. He hoped that the resilience he had wasn’t a trait that was passed down, but from stories he heard when their grandmother had a glass too much at night, their father was just as obstinate as he and his brother. It’s been proven the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, he just hopes it doesn’t penalize either of them.
“What’s with the English?” He replied in Italian, his mother tongue. He always liked Italian, mainly because it was based on Latin which was also one of his favorite languages, even if it’s considered as dead as a doornail.
She disregarded the comment, instead walking around the blank slate of a room. Her finger ran along every surface, looking to catch some dust and start her criticisms. He watched her from his peripheral as she ran along the dresser, along the frame of his bed, along his desk, and along his forever-empty bookcases. He never bothered putting books back after school. Even as he noticed a speck on her pointer after running over the bookcases, she merely dismissed it, rubbing it along her other fingers until the remains were sprinkled along the floor, unseen. The click of her heels echoed as he turned his head back towards the sea. It was a constant ring and he was trying to tune her out, savoring the last few hours he had here before she stopped abruptly.
“There is someone- Oh for Merlin’s sake Alessio, look at me while I’m talking!” She suddenly yelled, reverting to her natural language rather than the one she despises.
He slowly turned, his body now facing the town below only halfway, the other half at his grandmother. His eyes looked at the woman who stood in front of him with disinterest, only seeking not to be yelled at again, his head lolling in his hand propped up on the back of his chair.
Ursula Black held herself up high. Her pitch black hair was back in a bun which she wore in her childhood, a hairstyle she did on the daily to perfection as if something could be halfway done by her. She wore an off-white blouse to let in some air from the hot Italian summer. A dark green skirt that goes below the knees, contrary to the current raging fashion, paired with. And her black heels, the most scandalous and modern part of her entire outfit, just able to be seen under the fabric.
It disgusted him how much they looked alike. Their black hair, their pale complexion, their sickly frames, even though they had enough food to feed the entire village (as much as he wanted to, his grandmother refused). He preferred his mother’s features, green eyes, freckles, a strong nose, and (the only part he didn’t pay as much respect to), his wonky vision. He found them all very endearing, connecting to someone he could only remember with photographs, while he had his dad’s side raising him, as much as he hated it.
“There is someone waiting downstairs for you. He would like to speak to you,” she said again, back in English. What is it with her? She never spoke English, despised it, and suddenly she would speak it in the comfort of her home.
He stood up from his chair, dragging it back to his desk, slotting it in its place clumsily and with little effort. He didn’t bother closing his window, he’d need the air in the night unless he wanted to sleep practically naked, thanks to the temperatures of southern Italy.
He shuffled past his grandmother, neither of them paying each other any mind. She stood there, still as a statue, as if she was scared stiff. His hand hovered over the doorknob leading him out of the room he was placed in, pondering over if he should say something. She seemed different, but he couldn’t put a mark on what. He was never good at comforting people; friends he had when he was younger said he was better at cracking a joke than anything else, but that disappeared when his grandmother came. The squeak was irritating as much as every other time he opened it, the hinges being neglected every time he suggested putting some oil on it. The room was silent again after the close of the door, the blow of the wind circulating the lady looking to see nothing but emptiness.
⥢ ✩ ⥤
The front door wasn’t crowded by his siblings, but rather he could see his sister trying to peek behind a large plant into the kitchen from his spot on the stairs.
She looked more like their mother than anyone else. She adopted her blonde, thick hair, the freckles that marked all three of the siblings, and the nose that she and Alessio shared. What set her apart was the blue eyes, ones that ran in the Black family. Her personality was akin to his, bound to be what he and his brother are, but an air of childishness still surrounded her. As much as he’d like to keep that, he knows it’ll only be a short amount of time before it’s gone.
He could hear the clatter of china from there, his brother was more than likely trying to make tea for the stranger in their house. Hospitality wasn’t a trait any of them had, and it was uncommon to grant someone the right to have tea in their home unless it was a close friend and Alessio couldn’t think of any close friends in this country, other than his siblings, but they liked to go over to their friend's house, not their own.
“Eve…” he whispered. He caught her attention, her head of braided hair swinging around as she was now facing him. He coaxed her forward with his hand, calling her to him. She gave a quick look back, scrunching up her face before quietly running to Alessio.
“He looks old,” she said instantly, “and weird. Really weird.”
A smile was brought to his face. As much as he could see that this was rude and disrespectful, he loved how honest children are and the innocent nature behind it.
“It’s alright, he’ll be out in a moment,” he said, patting his sister's head, “go get Nonna, she’s upstairs in my room. Go play with her while I deal with the guy.”
An eager nod came from her, dashing past her brother, the stairs creaking after every step. He watched as she turned the corner, on a very vital mission. He only had a couple of hours left with her until Christmas break, he should be playing with her, not talking to a man he has no idea of.
He could hear his brother curse in their language as clattering followed. His feet moved quickly into the kitchen. The tea set was set out, two cups with saucers underneath across from each other, both at the ends of the table. A kettle filled with water over a stove that had yet to be heated.
He found his brother fiddling through one of their cabinets standing on a step stool they kept if Eve wanted to watch Alessio and their grandmother cook. A light tap on his brother’s shoulder almost made him topple over, quickly steading him before he could hit the tiled floor.
“He doesn’t like chamomile, can you believe that?” His brother, Henri, gasped with disbelief in his tone. He didn’t bother trying to whisper, apparently convinced that the stranger couldn’t understand their language.
“Don’t be rude,” Alessio first said, in English. Then in their native language, “Be rude where he can't hear you, and seriously, I cannot.” Who couldn’t like chamomile?
“That’s what I’m saying. He asked for this weird tea that sounded German or something.” Henri lowered his voice more this time, taking in Alessio’s comment slightly, glancing at the man. He quickly looked back, his eyes now facing the floor,” he’s been asking weird questions about us,” he paused, “and you.”
“Weird?” He was intrigued, but something else seemed a bit off, but not dangerous or something to be exceptionally cautious about, “like what weird?”
His brother tensed up, looking around the room, then at the archway leading out, “can we talk out there?”
“Absolutely,” he nodded. “Let me get the water going first, I’ll meet you out there.” Henri understood, making a beeline out of the area. Alessio picked up the kettle from the stove, quickly turning the dial to start the oven. Filling up the kettle, a voice momentarily made him still.
“I am sorry to interrupt,” the man said, in a crisp English accent. He stood up from his place at the table, suddenly much taller than Alessio originally anticipated.
Purely gray hair sat upon his head, groomed back and seemingly holding its place without the use of gel. He had bushy eyebrows, swollen eyes, and lusciously dense sideburns.
Ugh.
He wore clothes he didn’t see much, something uncommon and showy. He didn’t dress for the weather, his arms covered in heavyweight sleeves from his coat and even a matching scarf on top of it all. He didn’t seem to even know where he was going, or the climate of the place, like he just appeared here from somewhere completely different.
“I am Eleazar Fig, but you’ll call me Professor Fig. You are Alessio, yes?”
“Yes,” he dragged out his response, placing the pot on a burner, “I am.”
He moved away from the oven, and as far away from the strange man as he could, which was right in front of the sink. There was something about him that set alarms off in his head, now that he was facing him head-on. His original statement about that man being off, but not dangerous was now revoked. Curiosity deepened as it always had with a chance of a thrill, but he had others to think about rather than just himself. He was not going to be a cat today, not yet.
“Then I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Black. Now, these circumstances are very rare and virtually unheard of but-” the ‘professor’ started off, now being cut off.
“I’m sorry, are you a new teacher at my school or am I being transferred to somewhere else? And if so, why am I just getting word of this now? It’s highly unprofessional.”
The old man didn’t seem to get much back talk, his jaw on the floor and his eyebrows in a tight scowl, “I am in no such way as new, and I too wished to have you transferred much earlier. But events lead to this as our meeting, and I can say I am not so happy about it either-“
The bicker continued between the two, “What events? Could you have not sent a letter of sorts? Or just something warning me just a week or two in advance, but no! A day before I have to leave! The one day I’m supposed to be spending time with my family, not having this,” Alessio threw his hand around, “this lousy conversation with you.”
“Your family is the reason you haven’t heard a word of us until today,” Fig sharply. He took a deep breath before continuing, “I have never seen disrespect such as this. You view your family so highly when really they’re nothing but pigs -“
A high pitch screeching could be heard, steam drifting from the kettle. But Alessio didn’t pay it mind, he was too focused on trying to keep his mouth shut before he said things that would make him earn a punishment he wouldn’t look forward to. As much as he wanted to say those things, to defend his family, his grandmother wouldn’t take kindly to being humiliated in front of someone even semi-professional. He opted for glaring daggers at the old man, hoping his words were conveyed through his expression.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” The old man said, pointing his head towards the dramatic pot of boiled water. He was still too heated to do anything but glare. The kettle started to shake on the stove. That caught his attention.
Now knocked out of his anger, he ran over to the stove, grabbing a thick towel on his way there. He tried to grab the handle, but the pot wouldn’t stop. His original feeling was replaced with panic now. This hasn’t happened before, what does he do? His punishment wouldn't end until Hell froze over if he broke anything in here.
“Oh for Merlin's-” the older man said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a rather intricate stick, and as he swished his wand, a blue light started to form as he recited a word, “ Levioso .”
The kettle started to float in mid-air, still shaking. Fig turned to the younger boy, a softer look in his eyes, “Please calm down. You’re making the kettle shake.”
He’s making the kettle shake? Absolutely not, he could never. He tumbled to the floor, looking at the levitating pot in awe, but a feeling lingered deeper. He’s going insane, isn’t he? Of course, he is! Magic- or whatever he was witnessing- wasn’t real. It’s something you read in childhood books or novels banned from the library, it's not something you watch in your kitchen.
“ You’re making it float! Who’s to say I’m making it shake!” He shrieked. He must be experiencing some kind of psychosis. He needs to be put into an asylum if he’s seeing things such as this. It was only a matter of time. He's been seeing and hearing strange things from before he could remember. He always thought it was his mind deciphering messages from the breeze when he heard a whisper that wasn't there. He always thought he was just seeing things out of the corner of his eye, something he could brush off, but never something as explicit as this.
“Oh my goodness!” Henri yells in Italian, now looking at the floating pot too after hearing the commotion, “You’re making it fly!”
“Don’t tell me you see it too!” Alessio squawked back in the same language. This has to be some kind of shared delusion. He wouldn’t care if he was the only one being set off, but now his brother?
“Dear lad, please help your brother come to his senses,” The oldest man gasped, “If he calms down, I’d have a better time keeping control over this thing. And currently, I don’t have much of a grasp.”
Henri ran over to his brother and did the first thing that came to his mind to snap his brother out of whatever he was in. The noise of the slap echoed throughout the room. It took everybody by surprise, and it definitely took Alessio by surprise too. In turn with the smack, the kettle stopped aggressively trembling, the whistling ceased.
“What the hell was that for Henri!” He yelled flabbergasted. His brother replied in the same fashion as Alessio, “I didn’t know what else to do!”
“Boys!” Fig shouted. They both looked at him, shock still plastered on their faces. Neither of them made a sound or spoke a word, dead silent. He glanced between the two boys, unsure what to do next, then a voice he didn’t wish to hear again appeared.
“What in Merlin’s name happened down here,” their grandmother regarded the men in a cold tone, Eve cupped in one of her arms, supported by her waist like a fragile baby. The youngest looked around the area, her eyes glued to the magic on display. Their grandmother took note of everything. Her grandsons were both on the floor, Alessio desperately grasping the sink’s edge, his younger brother standing over top of him, his hand turning the same color of crimson forming on Alessio’s cheek. Fig with his wand out hovering their kettle on display. She could see the eldest of her grandchildren looking anxiously between her and the afloat pot, looking like a madman.
She never seemed to display her ‘affection’ towards him as she had with the rest of her younger kin. Maybe it was because he resembled her son too much, maybe it was because he had muggle blood in him, or maybe it was because of how she just despised him, and how she had no excuse not to loathe the rest of her son and that filthy muggle’s byproducts they would’ve called children as she hated Alessio. As much as she dislikes why she kept him around, she couldn’t deny there was something about him that made her think he’d be great somewhere, whether it be for her House of Black, the Ministry of Magic, or all the wizarding people as a whole. She couldn’t abandon enormous power just like that, even if he couldn’t abide by their family motto.
“I guess it is time for you to know,” She said in English, looking down at her eldest grandson with something that could only be described as senseless pity.