Reality Daydreams

Willa Weasley, the infamous femme fatale feline of Hogsmeade, gave a long, lazy yowl before turning over to sun her fluffy, white belly. Passing a somewhat disgruntled look in her cat’s direction, Victoire Weasley, the mother of the morally bankrupt animal, continued to snip at her rose bushes which lined the white fence that ran around the perimeter of her front garden.

Looking out from underneath the brim of her floppy sunhat, the witch was paying close attention to the powder pink blooms that she had admired since the days before she lived in the cottage, when she was a student and her deepest desire was to live within the quaint whitewashed walls.

The summer was now devoted to making sure that the roses were as beautiful as they had always been. Hogwarts’ break was allowing her to pour her heart into her gardens, which only residents of Hogsmeade seemed to appreciate – and most certainly always from afar.

A few mews preceded the sudden feeling of fur and a little pointed tail whipping about her ankles. She looked down at her sandaled feet and smiled at her little ginger fluffball of a kitten which she knew she ought to name. She was sorely bereft of any creativity, however, and was stubbornly refusing to commit to simply naming the poor creature ‘Ginger.’

She snipped the last bit of thorny branch and leaves off with her cutters and dropped the debris into the wicker basket beside her, committing her shears to the same fall. Then the witch took off her gloves and leaned down to pick up the basket, stepping around the kittens that were wafting around her, meowing for their lunchtime meal.

They had the summer routine down to pat better than even she did and so before long, after putting her basket on the kitchen table, she was squeezing cat food out of sachets and listening for the clamour of claws on her kitchen tiles as a little stampede of fluff re-entered the house, followed languidly by their mother.

Victoire exchanged her basket for her bag and checked inside for her purse and other essentials before closing it and slinging it onto her shoulder. She then bid the cats goodbye – regretting doing so immediately because if the neighbours heard then it would confirm her premature madness – and then hurried out of the house, locking her front door before hopping down the flagstone path. She passed under the rose trellis and unhooked the gate. It shut behind her after she wandered out into the street and then she followed the sloping incline down into Hogsmeade village itself.

The majority of the village’s occupants were in the park, soaking up the sunshine. A few people were shopping and many were outside the café, drinking iced coffees and eating ice cream. The market was in full swing, though, and Victoire quickly became distracted by the fresh fruit and other produce that was on offer to her. The kaleidoscope of colour immediately made her forget about the errands she had to run and she found herself chatting with the green grocer and quickly became wrapped in a conversation about the strawberries and, the most important question of all: when were the pumpkins going to be ready?

Okay. So typically, pumpkins would not have been interesting. Abraham liked carving them at halloween, because it was already a tradition, but that basically meant that the boy got covered up by innards goop, while his father had all the fun with actually making the shapes. Of course, Erik did allow for a bit of drawing on the pumpkin, so long as his boy kept the marker away from his mouth. Or his nose. Neither were really great places for markers to end up, Erik felt.

But, this time, pumpkins were probably the most important part of his day. Not because he was buying them. Not because he even noticed them and stopped to have a look-see. No, he heard someone ask about them as he passed, and happened to look over, and literally dropped the box in his hands. It crashed to the ground, sending up a puff of dust from the road, and he stood stock-still as he stared at the blonde at the side of the street.

It was impossible. This moment wasn't real. It couldn't have been; Erik knew it couldn't be. Because that, as he would say, was just plain mental. He forgot what he had even been carrying. What was in the box, anyway? He would've liked if it was peaches. Maybe it was. Peaches were good.

Here's what Erik actually realized, though: He was in a right bugger's muddle, because this woman wasn't supposed to be alive.

"Are you alright?" a man asked as he passed, only to be completely ignored by Erik to the point where the man stopped and stared at the Hufflepuff. "Mate, you okay?"

Finally, Erik realized how exceedingly awkward he was being. He blinked, and it was as though he was freed. Immediately, he bent down to gather the box into his arms again, muttering to the other man that he was fine, just had a bit of a fright.

A bit of a fright? Merlin, he was out of it. Erik never said that. He sounded like an old woman, didn't he? Ugh.

He wanted to walk away, and pretend that he had never seen her. Surely his parents could explain? But there was one thing that he did not remember about her, and it had been driving him mad for the past year and a half. He shouldn't have remembered anything, but retaining all but one bit was worse than losing the entirety. He had to know.

So he crossed the dirt to stand next to her. He probably looked as though he had seen a ghost, which was fair because he was not convinced that she wasn't one. Did she remember him? He didn't know how she couldn't. But how did you go about addressing someone who, though you think they're dead, you haven't a name for? Erik just stood there for a breath, then put the box down on the ground again.

"Hello," he offered, extending a hand. His eyebrows pulled together, his uncertainty showing on his face. "I don't know... that is, ... Um." He lifted his spare hand to his hair, scratching at it a bit as his features scrunched up even further. "You look just like someone, but if you're her, you shouldn't be here. I just... I'm Erik. Sorry I'm being so odd. I'm just amazed is all."

The pumpkins weren’t meant to be in the market until the autumn. The green grocer was intent on getting them fat, ready for Halloween, though he would have some early ones by September. Victoire deflated a little bit at that and confessed that she had been hoping to make some fresh pumpkin juice in the summer. He apologised profusely, having grown fond of the solitary blonde witch from Gillywig Road, and offered her a selection of fruits, rattling off a recipe that he said his wife used which made the best juice that he had ever tasted.

Victoire exchanged some gold for the green grocer’s produce and couldn’t quite find it within herself to regret getting side-tracked. Now she had fresh eggs amongst lots of seasonal fruit and veg which meant. What this ultimately meant was that she would be able to make a quiche sometime in the week – a courgette one, hopefully, if she didn’t get waylaid by another recipe she had found. No doubt she would end up in Dufftown’s homeless shelter, donating leftovers because though she cooked like Molly Weasley, she sorely lacked people to feed.

As she was sorting herself out, doubling up the brown paper bags in case they broke, she felt someone sidle up beside her. As she was rearranging the punnets of raspberries she had bought so that they didn’t get crushed, the person beside her spoke. Victoire instantly lifted her head and her lips curved into a bright smile for the person who was speaking to her. She felt a little bubble of excitement pip-pop within her and she turned to devote her attention to this new person. Eagerly, she shook his hand, her grasp warm and perhaps a touch too fierce.

The witch deflated a little as he went on and she dropped her gaze, her teeth coming to bite at the inside of her cheek as she willed herself to stay buoyant. Her hands linked together behind her back for a few moments before her arms dropped aimlessly back to her sides. She tried her best to find a spot to look at and as she ducked her head her face became hidden by the brim of her hat. When she finally lifted her head again, the smile was gone, replaced instead with a totally visible lack of confidence.

“A-are you … are you looking for my sister?” She asked tentatively. “It’s easy to get us messed up. I’m not really … I don’t know you, Erik, I’m sorry. So maybe … do you know Dominique?” She raised an eyebrow, her lips fluttering at a smile but it wasn’t strong enough. “I’m Victoire,” she added belatedly, waiting for him to admit that he was looking for her sister or for the mention of their names to trigger his memory and see him have a eureka moment as he realised he needed another Weasley. It couldn’t possibly be her, after all said and done.

For a moment, Erik thought she must have remembered him. She was beaming at him, and something in his chest swelled to think that while the potion his parents gave him nearly worked on him, it hadn't been entirely right. She wasn't dead, she was right in front of him! How thrilled Abraham would be to have a mother. But if she remembered, why hadn't she come to look for him? What had he done to make her avoid him so thoroughly or make her want to convince him she was lost forever?

But then she looked down and she pulled her hand away, frightening away the excited expression that was threatening to stretch his cheeks.

Victoire. It definitely didn't sound familiar. But it suited her somehow, even though Erik couldn't explain it, really. He felt like she belonged in a village like this one, except perhaps a bit more French. But she was here, and that was utterly astounding, and he had no idea what to do with himself.

"No," he replied firmly, shaking his head. "No, I wouldn't forget your face. It's just... I thought you were dead. My father, he gave me a potion meant to help me forget what happened, but it didn't work. All I lost was your name. But... you don't remember me, either," he conceded, his shoulders sinking. Was this some side effect of the potion, or did his head just ache like mad because he had been attacked by dust from the road?

"I sound insane. I- ... This is crazy. I know it is. And you have every right to ignore me and walk away. But I've got these memories of you. Really, really good ones. Some bad, mind, given that I thought you'd died. But they're there, and I don't know why. All I know is that something really terrible must have happened if someone went to the trouble to mess with us like this."

I wouldn’t forget your face

Me, Victoire thought as her eyes snapped back up to the large expressive orbs in the man’s face that seemed to sparkle with every emotion he felt within him. She smiled a little bit, feeling her heart lighten in her chest, but she felt an overwhelming surge of sorrow as he went on and she wished desperately that there was something she could do to lift his shoulders and make him smile again, too. She didn’t want him to be sad – but how could she not help but make him so? She didn’t truly think that she was the woman that he was looking for. She wasn’t the sort of woman, in her mind, that anyone looked for, that anyone desired. To be on the, albeit misplaced, receiving end was the strangest thing to have happened to her in a long, long time indeed.

“You do?” Victoire asked. Good memories – she wondered what they involved. The bad ones were self-evident if he was telling the truth. There was a suspicious part of her that wondered if he was a Death Eater for a second but then as she looked at him she sincerely doubted he was – or if he was then he was a really clever one. She glanced down at his left arm and rolled her shoulders a little bit, wondering whether it would be brash to ask if she could see his forearm. That would mean that she was acting mad, too. He was sounding a little bit insane but, at the same time, he had piqued her curiosity now. Where had these memories come from, for heaven’s sake? Had she really forgotten this man? Was it even possible?

“You’re quite certain about this, aren’t you?” She inquired, her hand finding the strap of her bag as she thought about what she was going to do next. She had to check. “You aren’t a Death Eater, are you?” She asked before she could stop herself and then she babbled on like the flounder fish that she was. “I’m in the Order. Errr, well. Affiliated with. Sort of. Helping. I’m … I’m in the Order and I … I mean, you seem really nice and I want to help and it would be really unfortunate if I had to hex you if you were a Death Eater because it’s a really nice day and I don’t want to have to run away because these shoes aren’t great for running – no ankle support, you see, so …”

Shut up, Vic, a voice clanged in her head that sounded mysteriously like her cousin’s and Victoire cringed.

“Sorry,” she glanced at the floor, glaring at a speck of dirt on the pumps she wore. No ankle support, indeed, and also prone to getting mucky. She hated how much she loved those shoes. “I … I babble. Remember that?” She cast a wry eyebrow upwards as the sides of her lips turned down in dismay and she took a deep breath, reaching up to fiddle with the long necklace she wore. She rubbed the beads between her thumb and forefinger and wished that she could have inherited different genes from her parents, ones that actually allowed her to function in social situations a little bit better. She loved people, she was a people pleaser, but, on the spot like this, she was a hair’s breadth away from a panic attack more than anything else.

“The green grocer gave me a recipe for some juice,” she began, looking up from her shoes to meet his gaze. “I don’t know if …” she took a breath again and rubbed her lips together, forcing herself to focus and speak now before her nervousness robbed away her breath entirely. “I was going to go back and try some if you’d like to come too? I can make lunch and, um … I would like to hear about … about what you remember about me. Um. Me and you?” She winced, guessing that she was probably being presumptuous about this.

She picked her bags up and gestured for him to walk down the lane and off of the High Street with her. They made their way down Boomslang Gardens and then up the small hill – which many discerning children after the end of a school day compared to a mountain due to its steepness, though really it was more of an incline – onto Gillywig Road. The rose bushes came into view and so too did her little cottage. She smiled at Erik before stepping under the trellis. She bumped the gate open with her hip and wandered with him down the path to the door where she paused and looked at her bags, pouting a little bit when she realised she didn’t have the hands to open the front door.

“Do you reckon you could get my keys?” She asked, turning around a bit so that her bag was facing him. “It’s the little gold one with a plastic mushroom cap on it. A little bit … I … yeah.” She didn’t let people handle her keys usually so the keyrings and cute little adornments on each key to signify what it went to weren’t usually scrutinised, either. She was suddenly very much aware of how silly she might seem just through her choice in key caps. Worse, Erik apparently knew her. She hoped he had a memory of her keys. At least he might not laugh if he remembered.

Once the door was open, Victoire smiled and stepped inside, hurrying down the hall and into the kitchen where she immediately set her things down on the canary yellow wooden table in there. She took off her bag and hung it up on the hook by the kitchen door and then leaned down to take her shoes off which she returned to the hallway to stow away in the rack under the stairs. The witch also finally removed her hat, which she sent with a bit of magic to perch on the banister.

“Come in, come in!” She encouraged, taking the keys from the door before shutting it behind them. She recognised just how ridiculous she sounded, too. But then, having someone in her house was such a rarity – someone who actually wanted to speak to her – that she didn’t want to waste a moment even if he was an utter stranger professing to have memories of her that she couldn’t remember – and what on earth was that about a potion? She really should have known better than to invite him in and the sensible side of her was lamenting the impulsive side. But then, the impulsive side won out because the impulsive side got to make drinks.

“Would you like some biscuits?” Victoire fussed, taking the tin off of the side and placing it on the end of the kitchen table that wasn’t covered in brown bags. She didn’t eat biscuits often but she always made sure she had fresh ones just in case of a visitor. As a result she was forever making cheesecakes because otherwise a lot of biscuits would go to waste. She was glad that they were going to be used now, though, and she took the lid off before focusing on her groceries, whipping out fruit and veg and goodness only knows what to put away.

“Oh!” She popped up from where she had been bent down, putting things in the salad drawer. “I haven’t watered the herbs!” The witch shot up, hitting her leg on the fridge door in the process and she gave the accompanying “ow!” before reaching for her pale green watering can and beginning to douse the plants growing lusciously in pots on her windowsill in their customary drink of the day. “Sorry,” she went on, putting the watering can down. “Um. What … what fruit do you like?” She asked, beginning to fold up the bags now that everything had been put away.

“I think I basically bought everything,” she admitted, looking at the array now sat on her kitchen counter. She was going to regret it come her next dentist appointment, she knew it. She’d even bought blood oranges for reasons that she doubted would become clear. She picked up one of the oranges and pouted at it before putting it down, deciding to busy herself with finding a jug for the juice. “The grocer’s wife used quite acid-y fruits so … I’m not sure. Did I … was I meant …” She sighed, willing herself to focus. She stopped and turned round, the jug in her hands, so that she could face him when she asked her question.

“These memories of me and … and of you. Are they … really good? Like … I … I dunno. I mean … am I meant …” she bit her lip and decided to keep it simple. “Who am I to you?”

He nodded fervently at her surprised question, unable to put it into words. In truth, the memories felt more like dreams, but he didn’t know how to explain it. When she asked if he was a Death Eater, however, Erik drew back a bit in surprise. “No,” he said again, this time shaking his head. When she trailed off, though, he realized she might not have heard him. “I’m not a Death Eater. But I’m not in the Order, either. I’ve got enough trouble with my work and my family. It really isn’t worth the extra drama, in my opinion. But I think it’s brave of you to help,” he concluded, an almost fond smile appearing.

Erik didn’t want to presume anything, but for a moment there, when he first greeted her, she had looked so hopeful. What had she been hoping for? The question nagged at him until she looked up at him again, at which point he blinked in pure shock. He didn’t understand why she would trust him; she had not been given a very good excuse to do so, had she? Mind, as a Hufflepuff, he was the sort – much to his parents’ distaste – to just want to trust someone. To be friendly. What house had Victoire been? he wondered.

“I- Are you sure?” he asked, his eyebrows lifted. He had always been a little bit obvious with his feelings, even if he should have kept some of them to himself. “I mean, I would gladly explain, but…”

It seemed, though, that she was quite set on it. So he picked up his box – yep, peaches. – and followed her down the road and down into her yard. It was genuinely picturesque. As someone who tended to pick up Muggle classics when at a loss as to what to read, he immediately equated her home to what Marianne would have wanted for her cottage. Erik wasn’t sure if that made him kind of lame, given the novel was meant for a female audience, but he also wasn’t sure he really cared. For once, though, he kept it to himself. Telling Victoire that her place was the perfect image of a cottage in the Sensibility era would probably make him sound insane. He could have at least referenced Gothic works instead, right? That was more… masculine, sort of. Right? Maybe not. Oh well.

Speaking of feminine: Victoire’s key. He smiled at it when his fingers pulled it from her bag, and he balanced his box on one hip as he turned the key and pushed the door open so she could head in. He hesitated, but she took the keys out and called for him to follow her.

There was something even more charming about the inside of the home than the outside, though Erik chided himself for noticing that as well. He didn’t remember this place. He supposed that made sense, though, given who his mind thought she was. Particularly given Abraham, it would have been strange for her to live in a home he didn’t recognize. His brow furrowed a bit, but he tried to cover it when she offered the treats, and he paused, taking off his shoes to set them by the front door next to his box. In his own home, he wouldn’t have cared, as it was a hell of a mess on any given day. It seemed rude to dirty the floors of the woman he felt was the… mother of his child.

F*cking hell, he was actually insane, wasn’t he?

“Um, yeah, sure,” he agreed amiably, determined to keep his tone pleasant. Unsure what to do with himself, he sank into one of the chairs at her table before realizing that he probably should have waited for her to ask him to do so.

Erik truly felt guilty about the whole thing. He was excited, in a sick sort of way, because he would know who she was. He would know why she had – well, not died. But he sort of wished he could have sent out a storm warning in her direction before he saw her, because she was about to be in the thick of this, too, and he didn’t think that was very fair. It felt like he was coming in and uprooting all of her herbs, despite her watering them in front of him, merely leaving a cloud of confusion over his features. He hated that he had caused it, mostly. That cloud, that is. He did not pull up her herbs. That would have been incredibly rude.

But she seemed too nice to ruin like he apparently was going to. For a moment, he almost said he was on break from a mental institute and was expected back for bingo and snacks at the hour, so he really should just head out. But she was asking him questions and he just… he had to know the whys.

“Well,” he began, gesturing back to his box. “I have peaches if you want one. Otherwise, I’m actually not that picky.” Erik wasn’t sure if that was true. He hated kiwis. But he would eat them if those were all she had. Whatever it took to make it easier for her, basically, would be just fine.

His eyebrows pulled together slightly in question when she started tripping over her words, and he nearly held up a hand to say that she didn’t have to talk about it if she didn’t want to. But she got out the question just before he moved to do so, and he faltered. If she didn’t know, how did he go about explaining?

“I- I mean… You’re…” the mother of my son, I think? And, y’know, someone who refused to marry me because she knew she was too ill to be around very long. “Everything,” he concluded, the word almost a sigh, as though it felt amazing to finally say it. And, really, it was a relief to wrap it all up in something so straightforward and serious.

“Here’s the deal, right?” he began finally, leaning forward and allowing the words to come tumbling out of him like salt would’ve done from the shaker sat nearby on her table if he had knocked it over. “I don’t see how you are still here. A year and a half ago, I woke up one morning, and something was wrong. I knew it wasn’t right but I didn’t know why. So I asked my parents, and they said that I had gone through heartbreak and they had given me a potion to help forget it. But they supposed it must not have worked if I still saw these images of you.

“And, they were so odd. Like, you know in a dream when you just know stuff? Like, you don’t have to have someone tell you to know who somebody is? They were like that, except I was awake part of the time when I thought about it, so I know it isn’t just a dream. And, really, my parents have never been all that fond of me, so at first I thought they had done it on purpose. Made me forget your name and little pieces here and there. Like how we met or our first date or-“ his eyes fell, completely shocked with himself for almost mentioning something so intimate when she didn’t even remember him.

Of course, it came to mind because he certainly didn’t remember Abraham being born, nor any incident that could have brought him about. That had always been the odd hink when he tried to tell people about his son. He had been told his own son’s birthday, because he hadn’t known it.

“You know,” he saved himself, “other important things. But I don’t know anymore. It seems like they really did try to help. Went to a master potion maker, and they said he had done his best. But I just don’t see how or why they would have done that if you’re still alive. Particularly if you aren’t even aware of the fact that there’s a little boy named Abraham who, … according to these memories… is supposed to be partly yours.”

Erik blinked up at her with wide eyes, though his chin was turned away in an obvious show of just how unsure and uncomfortable he was about mentioning it. “I’m assuming you don’t remember ever having a son?” he tacked on, grimacing. His hand came up to rub at his features, and then shook his head. “This doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make any sense.” Oddly, for someone so typically fully of energy, Erik felt exhausted. It was like his mind was rebelling now that he was trying to remember little things about her.

Why was it so difficult?

You can forgive Victoire for getting hinged awkwardly on one particular bit of what Erik had to say. She had been flitting around the kitchen, pulling out the blender and getting other bits and pieces ready so that she could chop the fruit and start to make the drinks for them. She’d even rifled around for her notebook into which she’d jotted down the grocer’s wife’s recipe. Though she kept busy, determined to make him feel welcome, she listened intently and her eyes only strayed from him when she absolutely had to watch what she was doing – like when she reached up into the cupboard to take two tall glasses down from the shelf.

The glasses hit the pale green tiles with a deafening SMASH! Victoire jumped and looked from the glass shards now covering her floor to Erik and back again as his words bulldozed into her. Her hands found the counter behind and she grabbed on tight, her knuckles immediately turning a frightening shade of off-white with the force. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, leaving her looking like a fish mortally out of water. Her mind was repeating his words on a reel, making her feel sick and faint. None of it, absolutely none of it, could be true. That didn’t stop the overwhelming tide of guilt and sorrow that immediately swallowed Victoire up, consuming her whole.

You’re everything.

The words fluttered through her mind again, momentarily drowning out her frantic considerations of the little boy he’d spoken of. She put on hold the panicked tracking back, the mad search for missing memories that might lend some credence to his tale, and she absorbed those two words, jauntily delivered but no less meaningful. What am I to you? You’re everything. A shaky breath rippled through Victoire’s lips, one that, if you didn’t know any better, would have said sounded more like a sob – but Victoire wouldn’t cry, would she? She wasn’t a crier. Things like this … they didn’t actually matter, did they? She had vainer pursuits to worry about, surely? Besides, she could get anyone!

On the contrary, this was exactly what she had always been waiting for. It was hardly the dramatic declaration of love that she had been dreaming of since she was little, watching movies with her mother. She had long abandoned that naïve pipe dream though, along with all of the hopes that someone would want her and cherish her for who she was. She had been let down too many times for it to be sensible to continue carrying that torch. No, she was committed to the fact that her role was to be a background one. She was to quietly toil and be appreciated only by her family who did so to the same shallow extent they had always done. This didn’t happen to someone like her, did it?

Let's face it.

She wasn’t anything. To anyone.

If she was, it was only because they wanted something.

She was a plug to fill whatever hole there was in their hearts. She wasn’t someone worthy of returning to but she was expected to always be there: the ever constant Victoire Weasley.

“This is some sort of joke, isn’t it?” She asked, taking her words slowly as she tried desperately to keep her voice together. “I don’t know you. I must have had some of that potion too because I have never met you before today, Erik. I’ve never even had a relationship with anyone that was committed enough to even consider children, let alone have one! So trying to convince me otherwise is … it’s … it’s a really cruel trick.”

“Do you even have a son?” She pressed, looking up from the glass splayed around her feet. “Or is he just the fake icing on this giant, unpleasant cake of lies?”

Erik hadn't truly expected her to believe it. Not when he himself found it so completely impossible. Surely he was dreaming. Maybe he was. That would be so much more helpful, he decided. So much more sensible. But Erik, poor thing, was not going to get the sensible route today, because he wasn't totally sure about it, but it definitely sounded like this woman was going to cry at him. He shouldn't have asked at all, he shouldn't have walked over. He shouldn't have even so much as glanced in her direction, because now he had hurt her, and that made him feel completely terrible.

He probably should have said he was lying. As much as it would hurt her - clearly, given the almost dangerously upset look in her eyes - it would have saved her the trouble of dealing with him. Of trying to understand - Why her? why now? But there was a part of him that felt desperate. He wanted to save her feelings just as much as he wanted a chance to make up for offending her.

The thing he didn't want to admit, though, was that it genuinely broke his heart to know that she thought he would use her like that. Not that she knew him, or that he knew her, apparently. But this was supposed to be the woman he had loved more than anything. She was supposed to trust him, as people in relationships had to. She really was meant to be his everything.

But it wasn't real.

Now, Erik had never been one to cry, either, but some part of him wished he was, because it was a way to relieve stress and release pain, even if it really only made a person's throat hurt a bit from the strain of it, and didn't truly get rid of the ache. But it was meant to help with that terrible feeling he had just then, and he couldn't do it. As open as he was with his emotions, that had never been part of it. Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek in a lame attempt at distracting himself from how much his chest hurt by creating pain elsewhere.

His gaze fell to the floor, and he let her say her piece, as much as each syllable made him cringe. It was her final line of inquiry that really struck at him, though, forcing him into action. He stood, his sock-clad feet pulling him around to tuck the chair under the table even though he stayed on the far side of it to create a barrier between them. That would probably help her feel less like she was being attacked, right? He wasn't sure. Usually he was much better about situations like this.

When he properly reacted to her reply, though, he gave a near-laugh, the sound escaping through his nose while he worked his jaw to ensure that he thought through his answer before opening his mouth to speak. With a shake of his head, Erik finally turned his gaze back to Victoire, sure that his disappointment and misery must have mirrored hers almost perfectly.

"It's not a joke," he replied, his tone too flat to really be devoid of feeling. It was clearly forced, and while he knew it was obvious, he couldn't help it. "I just, uh... I guess I was hoping you would have some of the answers. Clearly that's not the case.

"But, yes. I do have a son. He's two. Blond, huge brown eyes. Talks all the time, though most of it doesn't make a lot of sense. He likes to color," he went on, not entirely sure why any of mattered. Some part of him felt like he had to defend his boy, though, if people thought he wasn't real. Not that it would make a difference, though, eh? "He's just shy, sometimes. I thought, if he knew who his mother was, maybe-," Erik faltered, turning his head away. He brought his chin back, however, flashing a disparaging, closed-lipped smile. "But... I was wrong. So."

Erik patted the top of the chair he'd been resting his hands on, nodding pointlessly. "I'm just... I should leave you be."

So he released the chair, reaching a hand up to his hair without thinking about it, and turned to look over his shoulder and find where he had left his shoes. There was no point in reopening old wounds if she thought he was having a go at her. In fact, it just made him feel sick.

The cogs in the witch’s mind were twirling at an unprecedented rate as it searched tirelessly, madly, for answers. But he wanted answers, too. He genuinely seemed as confused as she was, and as deeply hurt. Both realisations made Victoire’s stomach turn. So they were in the same boat, then? But did that make any of it even true? It had been a funny few years, some of it a blur for good reason. Could it even be possible? No, surely not? Someone would remember, even if they did not. Someone had to. So it couldn’t be.

And yet, the boy was real. Her traitorous heart conjured an image of the boy with enormous, expressive eyes like his father’s, his hair ruffling in a light breeze and a contented smile on his face, a crayon in hand. She could even imagine his concentration face as he tried his hardest to stay within the lines of the scene he was colouring. To add to the daytime torment, she imagined herself helping, showing him how to draw the only thing she was half decent at (aside from technical drawings for work): fish! And maybe they’d both laugh because even the fish were no good, she couldn’t draw cartoons.  But she wasn’t his mother. She wasn’t even a stranger.

And she had more questions than ever.

Stepping forward, Victoire felt the glass crunch underfoot and she winced at the sound, shivering a little before calling her wand to her. It flew from her bag and with a flourish she sent the glass onto the counter, restoring the shards to the former glory, ready to have juice poured into them. Two glasses. One for each person. Which meant she couldn’t let Erik go, not yet, if only because she couldn’t bear to have the house fall silent again. She would have to go out, move towards the hustle and bustle of the village again and sit in the Three Broomsticks around others, albeit alone, for the sake of company. She couldn’t spend another evening like that, though. Not again.

“Please, Erik,” Victoire called, catching herself on the doorframe that separated the kitchen from the hallway. “Please don’t … I … you … you didn’t get anything to drink,” she finished lamely, briefly closing her eyes, mentally kicking herself. “I just d-don’t …” Victoire stopped herself and took a breath, trying to steel herself and jeer herself into believing that she could speak plainly and not stammer and trip over her words as though she was eight again, trying to get the attention of her grandmother while she was flying around the Burrow, paying attention to anyone but Victoire.

“I just don’t see why I could possibly be this person,” she managed to get out. “I am not anybody’s dream girl or anybody’s mother. I’m just me. I doubt I’m the person you really expected.” She looked down at her feet and sighed. “You …” she lifted her head again. “You had better get back to your son, hadn’t you? I should let you go. You probably … you probably want to go.”

She stepped forward, moving into the hallway properly in order to see him off. She couldn’t rescue the situation now, really, could she? She glanced distractedly into the living room and caught sight of one of the kittens jumping off of the sofa.

“Would you…” Victoire glanced at Erik and smiled a little before opening the living room door. She leaned down and scooped up the grey and white kitten that had reached her. “Would you like a pet for your little one?” She asked. “This one, he’s a bit of a rascal,” she admitted, tickling the kitten’s belly. “And he’s not quite ready to leave his mum yet but … maybe … I mean … they’re really docile. Curious little things but they’ve got my cat’s temperament so … Willa she’s … she’s as calm as anything and her babies are too. So … I mean, he doesn’t have a name or anything so maybe … maybe … Abraham would … y’know … uh, like to name him?”

She had been waiting for something to happen as a result of saying the boy’s name, hoping it was some sort of trigger or something to jog her memory. But there was nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Victoire found herself saying. “I’m sorry for what happened to you and to your son. I … I don’t want to be your person, Erik. I’m not good enough for a start but what makes it worse is that if I am then we both have to square with the idea that something was strong enough to make me leave you and our child and that … that can’t be because that isn’t me. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t have the reasons why. I don’t have any answers. I can’t even conceive how it is possible. How could I not know? I …” Victoire sighed and lowered the now wriggling kitten back to the floor.  

“You’re welcome back,” she ventured finally as the kitten wandered forward to sniff curiously at Erik. “And Abraham will want to meet his kitten, right? So …” Victoire bit her lip. “I’m sorry I wasn’t who I was meant to be. But perhaps … perhaps we could be friends, maybe? You know … anyway? Despite this. You seem really nice and I … don’t think this slightly dodgy first impression of each other should be it, y’know? So, um. It really was lovely meeting you, funny though it sounds to say. For the second time, that is.”

She was... asking him to stay? Why? He had done nothing but offend her and make her dislike him. She should have kicked him out on his arse, instead.

She spoke again and his eyebrows pulled together immediately. That wasn't right. That just couldn't be right. The woman standing in front of him, she wasn't meant to look this sad, and she sure as well wasn't supposed to think so poorly of herself. Erik actually hated the fact that she did, and although he would never have said anything about it out loud, or at least not to her, anyway, he desperately hoped she was proven wrong. Probably not by him, mind, since she continued on to say she had no interest in being Her. He understood, of course, why she would be so against it. But it wasn't fun to hear those words come out of the person that his mind had told him was the only one for him. It truly sucked to hear those words, when he was so sure she had once said she loved him instead.

Then again, he wasn't so sure anymore. He wasn't sure of anything, really. What was he supposed to do when he went home and saw Abraham and-? Erik couldn't even begin to imagine.

If Victoire had given the blond a dose of Veritaserum, she might have discovered the additionally sad truth of the matter, which was this: The moment he saw her, Erik had started twisting together a story in his mind. The sort where they were separated and put at odds, only to realize that, yes, this is who they had been looking for. But this wasn't a fairytale, because fairytales didn't use means this cruel to bring people together. And, besides-

She didn't want this. And why should she?

That stupid pain in his chest was back, and as much as he wanted to blame her, Erik knew this wasn't brought on because of something she had done. Someone else had the answers they were now both seeking, but he wasn't really sure who that someone was. Whoever they were, they must have really hated him if they had done something so evil.

Her question had surprised him, and he was still paused in the hallway, unsure if he was being sentenced to leave or if he was meant to stay. But the suggestion that he needed to get back to his son had the assumption set firmly in his mind that he was being sent away. But still - a cat? He didn't even know if Abraham liked cats. He opened his mouth, saying as much once she finished speaking. "I don't think he's got much experience with them, really. I- That is, if he wanted one, I couldn't say no, but-..."

He shrugged, tension pulling at his shoulders as he tried to stuff his feet back into his shoes without leaning down to help them on with his fingers. Erik, reasonably, didn't understand why she was at all set on having him back after everything he had said and caused. But it felt all the more rude to refuse her, when she was being charitable and kind and wanted to be kind to his boy even though she had nothing to do with him.

"I... Yeah, of course. He would really like that. I guess, just... Send me a note, maybe, when you have time to have people over? I wouldn't want to... intrude again. I'm sorry to have interrupted your day, but I suppose I'm glad that I know, though."