Rated M for references to mature themes of sex/abuse.
Stardust Theatre. 1100 hours.


"Edgar?"

The wizard in question looked up from his desk, where he had been going over costs for the theatre’s most recent production: Charlie & the Chocolate Factory. He and his son were in his office at Stardust - a large room that held a working space in one corner, and a sort of living area in another. Many nights had been spent here, working until the wee hours until it was better to simply crash on the pull-out bed than to disturb those sleeping at home. Edgar loved bringing his children here. It gave them a good idea of what he did for a living. And with Virgil, it meant the discovery of a new passion. Acting! Dancing! Music!

There was nothing wrong with books but a six year old child should do more than bury his head in them all day long.

“Yes, Virgil?” he leaned back in his chair, watching the boy shut the office door solemnly and come straight up to him behind the desk.
            "I have a question," Virgil stood on his tiptoes and whispered in his ear. "Am I a…"

Edgar startled, thinking he’d heard wrong, and jerked away to stare. “I beg your pardon?” but Virgil, with eyes too blue and skin too pale, appeared unperturbed. "Am I?"

“Where in Merlin’s name did you learn that word?” he asked, colour draining from his face as he carefully lowered his quill and tried to keep his voice light.
            "One of the stagehands. He was thinking it. He was thinking that I’m going to grow up to be a bloody fa—"

“That’s not a good word Virgil, stop saying it.” Edgar cut in sharply. His son met him in the eye with a hurt expression. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. What were you doing when he… when he thought this? And why were you trying to read him?”

They knew he couldn’t actively read minds unless he tried very very hard; he was much too inexperienced at Legilimency outside of wandering into people’s dreams. 

Virgil blinked. "I wasn’t reading him. He just thought it really loudly. I was trying on Veruca’s costume, from the play. Sarah isn’t here to be measured for it but we’re both the same height anyway so…" he trailed off, and Edgar realised that something in his own countenance looked rather foreboding. Cautiously, the older wizard patted the table.

“Come here. I think we need to have a talk.”

He used his most quiet and serious voice, which was how his children always knew they couldn’t mouth off. Virgil sighed tiredly and climbed on to the desk, where he sat in front of his father with his legs crossed. They looked at each other in silence for a moment, giving Edgar time to consider his exact words.

“When I was a young man, I used to… kiss other people who weren’t your mother,” he began uncertainly. “Sometimes I kissed wizards and sometimes I kissed witches. When people are being mean, they use that word. For wizards who kiss other wizards.”

All the while, Virgil frowned at his father like he was giving a lot of thought to what was being said.

“There’s nothing wrong with kissing whoever you want. But some people think it’s wrong, that boys shouldn’t kiss other boys, shouldn’t wear dresses, shouldn’t cry. They don’t like it. In fact, they can be very violent about not liking it, and that word you learned is full of violence. Do you understand?” Edgar continued, hoping he wasn’t accidentally traumatising his already quite-traumatised son. “Promise me you’ll never use it.”

Virgil looked down at his hands, then back up with a sulky expression. "I understand. I promise."

“Good. Now, if a wizard likes other wizards instead of witches, the word is gay. That also means—“
            "Happy," the young boy interrupted. "I know. I read it in a book. I know what sex is, too, remember? You don’t have to say kissing."

Yes I do! thought Edgar and sighed wearily, reaching up to tousle Virgil’s golden hair. He often forgot that the poor boy had been forced to grow up faster than a child should; it seemed unfair that anyone was raised in a world like this. And yet Virgil seemed to process the world in an eerily discriminating manner, like he was chewing on every bad thing with a vengeance.

“I remember,” he assured him. “Now, tell me who was thinking that word about you.”

They really ought to find another Legilimens tutor. Edgar wasn’t sure how many more of these conversations he could prematurely have before Virgil started asking for answers he wasn’t old enough to hear.

“I fired Robert.”

Edgar didn’t look up from the piano as he spoke, having spied his wife in the corner of his eye - she was just off work and had come to join him for tea, as was their habit when home alone. Adelaide had taken Virgil out to the bookshop. He ceased his rendition of In a Sentimental Mood and looked up at Angela with a grim smile. Her silk robes hung loosely around her shoulders but stretched a bit taut at the swell of her expecting stomach. Any day now, their third child would be welcomed into the family.

            “Fired him? Didn’t you like Robert?” she approached the grand piano, where a tea tray rested on the glossy top.
He explained the events of this morning, succinctly.

Angela looked at her husband, then at the pot. She picked it up and poured two cups but her hands were shaking, “I shall murder Robert,” her voice was not. Edgar let her pass him his drink, and then moved aside on the bench to give her ample space. The witch sat down, a hard edge in her startling blue eyes - Virgil’s eyes, really - and a grim press to her lips. It went unsaid that he had talked with their son about the incident. That sort of thing was normal by now.

They had been woefully blasé two years ago[1], upon discovering their son’s unusually sensitive proclivity for Legilimency. The years wore them down: beginning with the first tutor, who had taken advantage of poor Virgil, and continuing with an endless stream of alarming questions about other people’s thoughts.

Angela drank, and then put her cup down. She leaned against Edgar, taking his arm.

            “Is it terrible of me to hope the next one won’t be anything like Virgil?” she whispered.
“No,” he turned his head and kissed her hair, “No, it isn’t.”

Every parent wanted an easier life for their child. Not that Virgil was expressive. He was changed, of course. The shy and tearful boy of early childhood was now thoughtful, sullen. Most of all, he was terrifyingly candid. It was not unusual for him to simply say I don’t want to talk about it because you won’t understand.

Merlin bless Adelaide, who handled those moods quite well.

“I have found someone to teach him.” Edgar said after a beat, “Someone we can trust. We’ll be careful this time.” This, he promised himself feverishly. Angela found his hand and took it into hers while they both stared at the piano keys instead of each other.

            “I suppose that’s for the best,” she sounded subdued. “I don’t think I can keep this up, Edgar. This not knowing whether he is or isn’t in other people’s heads. I don’t know what he hears or if he tells us everything or if he’s in pain. I just…” her words trailed off into a heated exhale.

He knew she was trying not to cry, which she was apt to do in her pregnancy. “I can’t stand it,” she finished. Edgar drew an arm across her shoulders and pressed her closer to him. His wife smelled of old parchment and honey and a sweet, rosey perfume that softened her sharp edges.

“Virgil will learn,” he reassured her, “and we have to trust he’ll come to us for help when he needs it.”

The front door downstairs creaked open. It was a creaky door but they left it like that, because it helped to know when someone had come home. Edgar and Angela listened to the riotous laughter of their two children. Adelaide was delighting in Virgil’s recitation of a Wodehouse character, complete with pretentious upperclass accent and awful braying. The couple smiled, each to themselves.

1.	I Should Have Known - 1997