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Godfried Gibbon's Worst Memory
Godfried couldn't remember not being ill. To some degree that was a blessing: He had no idyllic visions of rolling around in freshly cut grass or rough-and-tumble games with friends to pain him as he lay shut up in his room, tucked beneath four layers of blankets and coverlets.
The room, at least, was a child's wonderland, filled with very nearly every toy that had been on the market during Godfried's eight years among the living - and quite a few that had just preceded him. The most treasured of these was a rather worn stuffed bear, tucked beneath the covers so only its head peeked out next to him, called Bartleby. The name was one his mother had given the bear. Godfried would have much rather called it Caligula or Tiberius or Fluffy, but understandably respected the bear's given name for sentimental reasons.
His mother had died when he was only three. Godfried had very few memories of her, and nothing worthy of pretty prose: a kiss here, a hug there, an approving nod, a disapproving arched brow. She had been beautiful, and she had been the love of his father's life, though 17 years his junior. But she had also been a Muggleborn, and that was one offense, as the years passed and Godfried remained frail, for which his father could not find a way to forgive her.
On this particular evening, Rowland Gibbon, whose radical, anti-Muggle beliefs had grown exponentially, was hosting a dinner party for the pureblood elite. They were gathered in one of the downstairs rooms, standing about or lounging on the lush furniture, socializing over cocktails and amuse-bouches. In his bedroom upstairs, Godfried could hear the warm hum of their conversation, and he longed to join them.
Miss Morgan, his current nursemaid and nanny, was asleep in one of the overstuffed, floral chairs. Godfried slowly pulled back the covers and touched his feet to the carpet. He tucked Bartleby back in, whispering that it was safer for him to stay there lest he catch his death. Then he tip-toed across the room and opened the door.
He sneezed on the landing, but she didn't stir. He crept down the stairs until he peeked round the corner and beheld the guests. They all appeared so tall, so striking, so strong. His eyes widened as he took it all in - their laughter, their haughtiness, their smirks.
Godfried was startled by a sharp pain, like someone had flicked his head. "Ouch!" he said softly.
"Another brandy," said a gentleman with dark hair in his mid-40s, thrusting an empty glass at Godfried without appearing to even see him.
Initially, he was confused. Then panicky. The blunder was not unwarranted. At eight years old, Godfried looked more like six. He was spindly, pale, and barefoot. His hair was a mess after too many hours in bed, he was hunched with fear, and his one article of clothing was a brown silk robe. His eyes were large, moist and questioning, and his ears stuck out. Which is all to say that it was not so very great an error to mistake young Godfried for the house-elf.
"Quickly!" said the man.
Godfried went to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of brandy, then returned it to the man. He did it because he couldn't think of something better. In a few more minutes, he'd refilled another drink and fluffed a cushion. He was just returning with a glass of champagne to an exceedingly well-dressed blonde woman when he caught his father's eye.
Rowland stood frozen and speechless. Godfried had seen many looks from his father before - anger, sorrow, love - but what he saw in his eyes now was something altogether new. Humiliation.
Godfried froze where he was too. He expected his father to scream, to run forward and lift him into his arms, to spirit him away as quickly as possible. Instead, he did something arguably more remarkable: He did nothing. After collecting himself, he returned to the conversation with his nearby guests.
Godfried hung his head and went back upstairs. His father bought him a talking plush elephant and a brand-new chessboard the next afternoon; he ruffled his hair and smiled down on him like nothing was amiss. Miss Morgan was fired. An outer lock was added to Godfried's bedroom door. But they never spoke of the incident, not once.
Godfried couldn't remember not being ill. To some degree that was a blessing: He had no idyllic visions of rolling around in freshly cut grass or rough-and-tumble games with friends to pain him as he lay shut up in his room, tucked beneath four layers of blankets and coverlets.
The room, at least, was a child's wonderland, filled with very nearly every toy that had been on the market during Godfried's eight years among the living - and quite a few that had just preceded him. The most treasured of these was a rather worn stuffed bear, tucked beneath the covers so only its head peeked out next to him, called Bartleby. The name was one his mother had given the bear. Godfried would have much rather called it Caligula or Tiberius or Fluffy, but understandably respected the bear's given name for sentimental reasons.
His mother had died when he was only three. Godfried had very few memories of her, and nothing worthy of pretty prose: a kiss here, a hug there, an approving nod, a disapproving arched brow. She had been beautiful, and she had been the love of his father's life, though 17 years his junior. But she had also been a Muggleborn, and that was one offense, as the years passed and Godfried remained frail, for which his father could not find a way to forgive her.
On this particular evening, Rowland Gibbon, whose radical, anti-Muggle beliefs had grown exponentially, was hosting a dinner party for the pureblood elite. They were gathered in one of the downstairs rooms, standing about or lounging on the lush furniture, socializing over cocktails and amuse-bouches. In his bedroom upstairs, Godfried could hear the warm hum of their conversation, and he longed to join them.
Miss Morgan, his current nursemaid and nanny, was asleep in one of the overstuffed, floral chairs. Godfried slowly pulled back the covers and touched his feet to the carpet. He tucked Bartleby back in, whispering that it was safer for him to stay there lest he catch his death. Then he tip-toed across the room and opened the door.
He sneezed on the landing, but she didn't stir. He crept down the stairs until he peeked round the corner and beheld the guests. They all appeared so tall, so striking, so strong. His eyes widened as he took it all in - their laughter, their haughtiness, their smirks.
Godfried was startled by a sharp pain, like someone had flicked his head. "Ouch!" he said softly.
"Another brandy," said a gentleman with dark hair in his mid-40s, thrusting an empty glass at Godfried without appearing to even see him.
Initially, he was confused. Then panicky. The blunder was not unwarranted. At eight years old, Godfried looked more like six. He was spindly, pale, and barefoot. His hair was a mess after too many hours in bed, he was hunched with fear, and his one article of clothing was a brown silk robe. His eyes were large, moist and questioning, and his ears stuck out. Which is all to say that it was not so very great an error to mistake young Godfried for the house-elf.
"Quickly!" said the man.
Godfried went to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of brandy, then returned it to the man. He did it because he couldn't think of something better. In a few more minutes, he'd refilled another drink and fluffed a cushion. He was just returning with a glass of champagne to an exceedingly well-dressed blonde woman when he caught his father's eye.
Rowland stood frozen and speechless. Godfried had seen many looks from his father before - anger, sorrow, love - but what he saw in his eyes now was something altogether new. Humiliation.
Godfried froze where he was too. He expected his father to scream, to run forward and lift him into his arms, to spirit him away as quickly as possible. Instead, he did something arguably more remarkable: He did nothing. After collecting himself, he returned to the conversation with his nearby guests.
Godfried hung his head and went back upstairs. His father bought him a talking plush elephant and a brand-new chessboard the next afternoon; he ruffled his hair and smiled down on him like nothing was amiss. Miss Morgan was fired. An outer lock was added to Godfried's bedroom door. But they never spoke of the incident, not once.