Whimsical {James Potter}

Chapter 8: Cracks in the Mirror

Chapter 8: Cracks in the Mirror

Mr Potter fixes his suit in the mirror in the hallway leading to the front of the house, while Mrs Potter darts about the house after James who is searching wildly for something.

"We are going to be late," Fleamont calls out to his family. Cressida pays little heed to him, twirling a wand around in her fingers as she lazes on the couch. They are about to go visit Fleamont's sister, Liza who is throwing a lunch tea party, and Cressida and Sirius have been given a pass. Though she's sure no one in the Potter family truly wants to go, they are of course feeling much obliged to.

"Tell that to your son!" Euphemia calls back from another room.

"Your son is looking for his wand!" James cries.

Cressida snorts. Then pauses and looks at the wand in her hand. "Oh," she mutters. She'd stolen it early that morning to muck around with and had honestly forgotten that it wasn't even her own.

"You can't even use it, James!" Fleamont shouts back.

Snapping up straight, Cressida spies her surroundings over the edge of the couch's back. With no one around, nor the sound of any footsteps nearby, she leaps over the back, barely stopping herself from collapsing onto the soft carpet. Swiftly tip-toeing to the nearest room which is the kitchen, she lays it gently on the bench where he usually sits with his morning tea. Running back to the other room, she yells down the hallway, "Have you tried the kitchen?"

"Yes," James drawls back just as loudly. Nevertheless, his stomping feet come thundering back down just as Cressida jumps back onto the lounge. There is a three-second pause in the sound before it comes again in much closer proximity to her position. She tucks herself close to the cushioning, her childish smile broadening as James' face peeks over the back. He doesn't even say anything, only reaching down to her with clawed hands and squeezes her side. Cressida erupts into laughter, squirming away from the ticklish feeling. "Rascal," he hisses, then leaves at his father's final call.

The manor becomes silent once more after a quick 'swoosh' as they apparate altogether. They hadn't told her how long they would be gone, only to make themselves at home if they're hungry. Deciding that she's hungry now, Cressida saunters towards the kitchen, plucking an apple out of the basket on the bench away from the sun.

Her only choice of companion for the day has locked himself up in his room, which she knows better than to try and weasel her way into – though she will check in on him around lunchtime at least. She expects it to be the most mundane type of day. Maybe she'll find a book, or try and play something on the piano. Perhaps write a letter to Marlene.

The letter sounds likes a good idea.

Tossing the chewed apple core into the compost bin that Euphemia keeps for her gardening, Cressida saunters back upstairs to her room, pulling out some ink and parchment. At first, the quill tip hovers as no words come to mind. She hasn't exactly written to Marlene before. But soon enough, they flow out of her smoothly. There are quite a few things she does have to censor or omit completely so instead she uses that space to ask Marlen how her Summer is going. She, Lily, and Mary had talked about travelling down to London together.

Just as she begins to sign off her name in her neatest cursive writing, there is a deafening sound of glass shattering and a scream. In an instant, her letter is forgotten and the scene of her bedroom disappears without even recalling herself first moving. "Sirius?!" An invisible hand clenches at her intestines when there is no response. It wasn't a scream of fright or terror; it was of pain.

Cressida nearly rams herself into his door, half expecting it to be locked but it clicks open easily even under her clammy grip. Sirius' room is a mess; his bedsheets scrunched up near the end, his things strewn about and his wand lays on the floor near his dresser. Sirius' himself isn't in the room, but there is no need to guess as she can hear his laboured breaths coming from his small ensuite. The door is cracked open, but she can't see him yet.