Amaryllis

10

The next weekend, quite suddenly, he decides to get on a train to Holmes Chapel. He's apprehensive and shaky as he buys his ticket, and tells himself he doesn't know why, but he's lying, really. He knows full well what's got him going, why after yet another phone call with his mum that had her sounding worried, he's dragging himself onto an overstuffed train on a Friday afternoon with nothing but his phone and wallet.

He's finally got Liam's phone number, and he sends off a sorry :( after Liam says it's a shame Harry can't make film night. He'd only been once, but Harry thinks it's a shame, too.

He brings the conversation to a close soon, trying not to glare at the spotty teen that keeps looking at the screen of Harry's phone over his shoulder. He chews gum and listens to Snow Patrol the entire three hours it takes for the train to stop in Holmes Chapel.

Through the empty square and streets with sturdy brick houses, Harry walks home slowly, subconsciously trying to delay the conversation he knows he's going to have to have. He thinks of the last time he'd been here, happy to find out he feels different now; better. At the house, he stops and gives himself a moment to take it in the way it is now – he refuses to admit it to himself, but there's doubt forcing itself into his thoughts, eating away at his calm arguments and rational explanations. He knows there's no way his mum will be anything but sympathetic, but…but.

"Harry? What are you doing standing out there, love?" his mum asks suddenly, looking at him shrewdly through the open kitchen window. Harry blushes, runs a hand through his hair and jogs down the garden path in a familiar dance, avoiding the flowerpots. She meets him at the front door.

In a movement that's eerily reminiscent of two weeks ago, Harry dramatically falls into her arms. He's not near tears this time, at least, but he's shaking with nerves, with apprehension, with anticipation.

"Come on in," she tells him, patting his cheek fondly. She doesn't ask why he's home so soon, and Harry knew she wouldn't – she knows that sometimes, he gets a little overwhelmed, and needs to be with his family. Her and Gemma tease him about it sometimes, too, but he knows they love it.

Wordlessly, mum hands him a cup of tea, made just how he likes it, and sits him down at the kitchen table.

Harry swirls his spoon in the dark liquid and ponders. He should probably get this over with now, before he has an aneurysm. If only he knew how to start this conversation. How in the world is he supposed to say I'm a werewolf to his mum. With a straight face.

"Baby," Anne says gently, touches his face with just her fingertips from where she's sitting opposite him. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Harry splutters, too-hot tea burning down his throat. "What."

"I've been a little worried," she admits, looking at him softly. "You seemed a little on edge the last time you were here, but I didn't want to ask—"

"No, you're right," he interrupts, figuring this is as good an opener as any. "I…wasn't myself."

"Okay. What's wrong?” There's a slight frown creasing her forehead now, a stiff set to her jaw, no doubt determined to find out what it is that Harry's been hiding from her.

"Um. You know how I didn't come home after I'd gone to Cranage?" he asks, uselessly.

"Yes?"


Harry closes his eyes and sucks in a breath. This might the most difficult thing to say, really, even worse than admitting to his furry problem. "I lied."

"Darling," Anne says, eyes full of sympathy, "I already knew that. I'm your mum."

And Harry's figured, really. "Why weren't you mad?"