Carstairs Household, Maida Vale. 2330 hours.


Virgil found himself at his parents' doorstep in the dead of night, without realising his feet had brought him here after the sheer Awfulness in soho[1]. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and fumbled for his wand, casting the specialised unlocking charm that would gain him entrance. The door swung inwards without a sound. Virgil left the quiet darkness of the neighbourhood and stepped into their dimly lit foyer.

Edgar and Cecil were asleep. He could sense them dreaming in the floors above, wild imaginings tickling at the periphery of his own thoughts - phantom butterflies. Ah, but mother, mother was wide awake.

"Angela." Virgil entered the living room, where the thin witch was nestled in a settee beneath a reading lamp. Her hair spilled down her shoulders, a gleaming golden yellow like his own; and her lips carried that same thin and wry smile as she perused a novel. Her nose the same elfin touch. She looked up. "Is it a good story?" he asked.

            "Tense. So, yes, I suppose it is good." His mother smiled and patted the spare space at the end of her seat. "What are you wearing sleepy boy?"

Oh. He glanced down at his outfit, distractedly, and came to sit next to her. "Was out. Soho. May I see?"

They leaned against one another and Virgil tugged the thick tome on to his lap. He liked being here. It was a cosy little room, with a window that overlooked the street in Maida Vale. Plush carpets and heavyset suede furniture gave both the reality and impression of comfort. Only the settee was made of a fine, white silk. It was her favourite place to sit.

"Don't you get tired of murder mysteries?" Virgil muttered, resting his head on her shoulder as he kicked off his shoes. "I bet the butler did it. Or the jealous lover," he flipped through the pages and brought his legs up. "It's always the jealous lover." He felt his mother kiss the crown of his head.

She smelled of jasmine flowers.

            "Sometimes it's nice, knowing how the story is going to end." Angela sighed softly. "Are you staying here tonight?"

"If you haven't turned my room into a hobby space or something else equally depressing." Virgil appreciated her not asking why he had come here instead of his own flat in Diagon. He glanced up at her, only able to catch a glimpse of an amused smile from this angle.

For a moment, he thought of Professor Duerr. And then he realised that his mother was really quite beautiful. Most mothers were. They couldn't hide it beneath signs of stress or age, it simply shone through. He closed the book. "When you were dating Edgar, were you ever jealous? Of other witches or wizards?"

Angela made a thoughtful sound, brushing a hand through his hair.

            "No, not really. Your father was very forward. And persistent," she laughed quietly. "I had to play hard to get."
"But what would you have done if he hadn't been persistent?"
            "Oh, I don't know. Owled him and asked him why he hadn't worked up the nerve yet."

It was Virgil's turn to laugh, and he pushed the mystery novel aside to give her a hug. She was so confident in herself. Nobody else could have equalled Edgar without taking a backseat to the theatre. He released her, kissed her cheek, and got to his feet. Bed. It was better to go to bed and forget The Closet happened.

But his mother held on to his hand, stalling him. "Virgil. It's nice not knowing how the story is going to end, too." Her expression was kind and knowing. Virgil blushed, pulling away.

"Good night Angela," he mumbled shyly.
            "Sweet dreams, sleepy boy."

1.	Fancy Meeting You Here - 1st August