o. REGRET
chapter two.

It's as he awaits the letter on the steps of his Uncle's cabin that the dreaded topic is brought up.

"We haven't gone shopping for your supplies yet," says Phil, as if only just having realised that Alfie's trunks are still empty of any necessary things for his seventh year.

Alfie squints at his Uncle, the blazing, golden outline of his body from the setting sun blinding him. He doesn't want to go—not until he receives a response from Benedict, at least, but the longer he has to wait, the less likely it seems that the letter will arrive. Regardless, Alfie persists in his attempts to keep them from going.

He yawns. "Must we really go now? I've been feeling very tired recently. I don't think I'll make it through an entire day in London."

"I'm afraid your summer is quickly coming to an end, Alfie. We need to go now if we want to beat the rush." There is a small pause. "Well, not now, now. It's the evening. Nothing would be open."

Phil chuckles quietly to himself for a moment.

While he is occupied with whatever it is that he finds so funny about eh situation, Alfie averts his eyes. They land on a crow perched calmly on one of the many trees littering the property. Idly, he studies it, if only because he has nothing better to do.

The crow is small and black. It's beak opens periodically to caw into the quiet air. It shuffles lightly on the branch, it's feathers fluttering, it's claws dug firmly into the wood beneath them. It stands near the edge of the branch, leaving a considerable space between it and the trunk. Alfie imagines  that it is waiting, hoping for another crow to come and settle next to it.

It looks lonely. 

Alfie's eyes follows the bird as a strong wind rustles the leaves of the tree. He figures the crow has had enough, because without any preamble it takes off from the branch and flies up towards the sky.

He loses sight of it sooner than he would have liked.

He turns back to Phil.

"I understand that, Uncle. I just don't think it's a good idea for me to leave the house."

His Uncle is slow to respond. "You look perfectly fine to me, Alfie. But if this feeling persists, we can postpone the trip for another day or two," he acquiesces, finally.

Alfie is exceptionally happy with this answer. Knowing he wouldn't be able to hide his feelings of victory, he stands up from the stairs and walks back inside, giving Phil a small grin of gratitude on the way.

However, even his elation at his Uncle's decision cannot shake the image of that crow and it's lonely branch.

"Good morning, Uncle," says Alfie as he walks into the kitchen, the smell of Earl Grey greeting him. He doesn't look up at the man as he settles in his chair and pours himself a glass of orange juice.

"Bonjour, Alfie," [ Good morning ] says Phil.

Immediately, he picks up on the word from his mother tongue. It has been a while since he's heard any spoken French that didn't come from his own mouth, so even with the jarring accent, the sound of it still shakes him.

"Quoi?" [ What? ] He asks as he looks up, his eyes focused intently on Phil. He finds his Uncle to already be looking at him—staring, really—with a cheery smile plastered firmly on his face.

"J'ai dit 'bonjour'," [ I said 'good morning' ] repeats Phil, his accent off in a way Alfie finds uncomfortable. "I thought that I would try to speak more French around the house."

"Er, oui. C'est bon à entendre." [ Uh, yes. It's nice to hear. ]

"I'm glad you agree. See, I thought about what you said yesterday evening and, upon further  reflection, I realised that you're feeling homesick. Which is completely normal given the changes made recently in your life. So, I thought that I might try to brush up on my French speaking and cooking," explains Phil, gesturing to the table.

Alfie, confused, looks down. In the middle of table sits a towering stack of crepes, still hot and steaming, and surrounding it are various topping. Jam, lemon and sugar, melted chocolate.

He looks back up at Phil's smiling face and wants to throw up. The back of his throat burns and his eyes water. His hands, wrapped loosely around his glass, falter and the glass falls onto his plate. Alfie jumps up from his chair.

The orange juice floods the empty plate and seeps into the white tablecloth, barely missing the food.

"J-je suis désolé, Oncle! C'était un accident, je voulais pas," [ I-I'm sorry, Uncle! It was an accident, I didn't mean it ] cries Alfie as Phil stands from his chair. He can't see his face, but he can imagine the anger, the shouting.

He shakes at the thought.

It doesn't take his Uncle very long to turn around and face him. Alfie is in the same spot he stood up in, his red eyes leaking tears like a broken faucet, arms wrapped tightly around himself. He doesn't want to see the look of Phil's face. He wants to crawl into a ball, or bash his head in, or something—anything to make the feeling in his chest go away. He doesn't like it, he doesn't want it.

He doesn't want to see the disappointed look of his Uncle's face.

"Alfie," says Phil.

He can barely hear him.

"Alfie," says Phil again, louder this time.

He still does not look up. A shadow falls over him.

"Alfie."

He looks up.

At first, he's  shocked. Phil doesn't look angry or disappointed. His eyes are soft and his forehead is smooth of any angry rifts. Then, he's relieved. His Uncle isn't angry with him, he doesn't hate him. And Finally, he's disgusted with himself.

"I truly—am sorry, Uncle."

"I know, kiddo, but you don't need to be. It was an accident. Accidents happen all of the time."

"I know that," says Alfie quickly. "I just didn't expect the breakfast."

"Fair enough. I shouldn't have sprung it all up on you so fast."

"No, no," he says, insistent. "I liked it. It just..."

"It was too soon, then?"

Alfie nods his head.

"Listen, if you don't want to go to Diagon Alley today, I understand. We can go tomorrow, or the next day, or any other day. Just don't pressure yourself to say yes, alright?"

Feeling the need to repent, Alfie speaks up in disagreement, his guilt outweighing whatever ambitions of going to Beauxbatons he had before. He is sure that he will regret the decision later, but in this moment, he would do just about anything to disperse the remorse that laid heavy in his stomach.

"No. I want to go today," he protests, wiping the tears from his face.

"Are you sure? What happened looked quite serious, and if you want to talk about it—"

"I'm sure. And no, I don't. If we don't go today, we'll never get out of this house."

His Uncle stares at him, suspicious. He looks as if he wants to argue, maybe put the trip off for another day, when, surprisingly, he mutters an agreement. It seemed like his whole being sags as he says it.

It does nothing to help loosen the ball in Alfie's chest.

The rest of the day follows in the same vein. He spends the rest of his day in his room, staring at the four walls and scrubbing his eyes, hoping to live down the embarrassment that was breakfast. Phil delivers dinner to his door that night with a quiet promise that he has nothing to be embarrassed about—Alfie begs to differ—and leaves. 

He settles down to read after dinner is eaten, and, before he knows it, he is waking up the next morning with his duvet wrapped rightly around him and his plate gone.

Phil pops his head in through the door.

"You're sure that you want to go?"

Figuring he can't get out of it, Alfie nods his head and rips the duvet off himself, standing up and heading to the small bathroom attached to his room. 

Phil is waiting downstairs for him as he packs a few things for their outing. A book, a small amount of galleons, and his wand. He cannot use it legally yet, but when he considers the political turmoil of Britain, he thinks it better to be safe than sorry.

On his way out of the door, he passes by his window. It gives him a perfect view of the front yard. For a moment, he imagines Narine waiting on the mailbox nailed firmly into the ground, patiently, her black eyes peering up at him through the thin glass pane, a letter clutched in her claws.

He wonders what would be inked onto its pages. Would it tell him that Benedict has found a loophole in his parents' will? Would it say that he can return home and attend Beauxbatons like he so desperately wishes. Or would it say that Benedict is unable to do any of that, and Alfie will be left stranded in this foreign country?

Then Alfie blinks, and Narine is gone.

He was right. He does regret what he said.

•

ayy chapter two! hope you enjoyed!

also, tell me what you think about the brackets and if you think it helps or hinders the reading experience. and if not, offer me some suggestions! i really rely on your feedback for things like this!