Archer's Martch Martch 24

It was Archer's sixth year of life when he had learnt the idiom: skeletons in the closet. He would run to his father's study to pepper him with the meaning, then listen to him weave stories out of his imagination about such a phrase. But it was not enough, imagination was never enough. So the boy would seek his mother, and she would tell him one single story, but one single story was enough.

'It was the day I was to be married to a man I absolutely detested,' she would begin.

'Oh, but if you detested him, why would you marry him?' Archer would ask, eyes wide with curiosity and watery with childhood innocence.

But his mother would just smile and patiently continue. 'I was forced to marry him, unfortunately, because Hélène, that's my mere¹ and your grand-mere², thought it would be best for the family. So, I was required to dance with him at the day of my wedding. Instead of him leading me in a slow dance as I was instructed, I pulled him into a dance so fast, swirling around in circle after circle until he begged me to stop.' Archer's mother would now pause to share a laugh with her intently listening son, before she continued. 'He was weak of body, I knew, but I had physical calibre, and I had enjoyed every moment of it, though it be a little mean.'

'What happened next?' Archer would interject to ask, even when he was hearing the story for the seemingly thousandth time.

'Then,' the lad's mother would say with a glint in her hazel eyes she shared with her child, 'He dislodged his dinner all over his extravagant loafers.' Then the duo would laugh again, and Archer would feel as if he was there, in the crowd, watching, a hand over his uncontrollably smiling mouth.

'And? And? Was that embarrassing? Did you keep it a secret?' Archer would press.

'I thought it must've be at that time. You see, I was still very much of a prim lady,' she said, feigning lifting her pinkie as she drank an imaginary cup of tea. 'I didn't tell anyone of it, not for a year, it was the skeleton in my closet, that ruined most of my reputation, though my siblings were there to make up for whatever face the household had lost. But, a year later, my mere had suggested for me to marry yet another young man I had no taste for. So I told her, "There's no way I would do that by Merlin's beard!". And you have to remember I was already twenty then. I was free to follow my own path.'

'And that's how you met Papa!' Archer filled in.

Marguerite smiled at his child, 'Indeed. I had to elope with him. But I love Atticus, and I'm sure I'll never make him vomit on his shoes.'

Archer smiled slightly, 'I'll tell him that.'

1: mother
2: grandmother

Scout, the family coonhound adopted as a pup on Archer’s eighth birthday, was a slim dog, with eyes, a deep dark hue of chocolate brown and a white coat, adorned with patches of beige and brunet, as well as floppy tree-brown ears and ebony spots at his snout, tearing the black top of his nose, his athletic body ending at a trim white tail, which always wagged whenever he found himself enjoyed. He is Archer’s best companion, always by his side wherever he was, be it the library, the dining table, the forests, or the Scottish mountains, who is always hopeful for a cuddle or a game of fetch, whatever Archer was in the mood for and incredibly despaired when Archer had to depart for Hogwarts.

An "adventure", Maman had said.

It hadn't felt like one when Archer had cried into her arms.

A "marvel", Papa had said.

It hadn't felt like one when Archer had smelt his scene one more time.

Archer halted as the train whistled, a shrill, urgent sound, that pierced sharply through the air, hot with the crowd of bustling students, an absolute menagerie of teenagers, of every demeanour from carrying themselves with a commanding authority to recoiling back into their own quiet shyness. He felt the reassuring hand of Maman on his shoulder, squeezing gently, her other hand running over Archer's face, still not quite void of tears, with a handkerchief. He heard the heavy footfalls of Papa behind him, his hand proudly laying on Archer's other shoulder.

Turning to face his parents, Archer straightened his shoulders, 'I'll miss you, Maman, Papa.'

Papa nodded, 'We will miss you too, my son.'

Maman fixed his Archer's collar, a bittersweet smile playing at the edges of her lips, 'Write will you?' she asked, even though she knew perfectly well he would. After being reassured with a firm nod from his son, she let go her hands as the train tooted once more. She took a few steps backwards, her delicate pianist hands reaching into her jacket's pocket, gently pulling out a petite leather-bound notebook. 'Here is the commonplace book I've kept with all of your favourite poems.' Flipping back a few pages, she continued, 'There are still some blank pages. I hope you can fill them out.'

Archer nodded, tentatively reaching out his hands for the book, fingering the frayed pages. Gathering his breath, he read out loud, 'That dead men rise up never,
That no life lives forever,
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.' They were his favourite lines from the Garden of Proserpine, and Archer could almost imagine the unforgiving Scottish rain patting on the windows as Maman read from a book of Muggle poetry.

Still fingering the pages, Archer finally stepped into the Hogwarts Express, ending his previous life with his parents. But all endings are new beginnings.