James was, in fact, in a distracted, charm-induced daze until dinner that evening in the grand dining room of Blackbrier Quoit. As the formal dinner of Christmas Eve night, the event was the most ceremonious private affair that James had ever attended. Fortunately, Millie’s brother Benton rescued James from the embarrassment of his dress robes by raiding the mansion’s expansive attic, tracking down one of his own old wardrobes, and providing from it a much better, if moth-ball scented, set of robes. James was glad to make the switch and arrived at the dinner table much improved in both mood and appearance.
“You’ll sit between me and Grandmother Eunice,” Millie whispered to him as they filed into the room, herself changed into a mermaid-shaped emerald green dress and a triple string of pearls. “And you’ll be expected to make conversation with her at certain intervals.”
“What do you mean, ‘at certain intervals’?” he whispered back, a note of urgent worry edging into his voice. “And what am I supposed to talk about?”
Millie gave a bland, brief shrug. “She’ll decide that. Just play along. And answer honestly, whatever you do. Grandma Eunice can smell a lie a mile away.”
“But how will I know when I’m supposed to do what?”
Millie frowned and blinked at him, and James was reminded that, to her, this was just a traditional holiday dinner. “Just watch everyone else. It’s easy.”
“Merry Christmas, one and all!” called the booming, jovial voice of Millie’s father as he reached the head of the table, his own formal robes resplendent with a high white collar and matching bow tie. He raised both arms grandly, gesturing at the lines of tall chairs, the glittering crystal glasses and goblets, glinting ranks of silver laid atop neatly folded napkins, and glowing, moon-like plates, saucers and platters. “Do be seated, and let us be merry!”
James tugged out his chair and sidled onto it, watching as the dozen guests sank into their own seats, descending into easy, polite laughter and murmured conversation. The young cousins, Ariadne, Nigel, and Edmund, flanked their mother and father, Susan and Otto, across from Mrs. Vandergriff. Facing James over the white table and candelabra, Millie’s elder sister Mathilda settled in, measuring him with her overly made-up eyes and thin smile.
Beneath James, the seat cushion was deep, covered in purple velvet, but the back of the chair was very high and mercilessly straight, forcing him to sit upright. He put his elbows on the table, saw that no one else was doing so, and immediately pulled them back again, dropping his hands onto his lap.
Muggle servants in black tuxedoes and white ties stood around the perimeter of the room. James counted four of them, including Topham, who stood near the outer door, and Blake, who began to circle the table, discreetly pouring ruby wine for the adults from a large crystal decanter. No house elves were in sight, of course, but James knew that they had to be around somewhere, performing whatever meager roles that were still assigned to them.
Soon enough, as the conversation progressed and the soup course was served (cream of asparagus with gillyweed croutons), James began to understand the protocol of the formal table. Mr. Vandergriff led the discussion, usually with a question directed at someone else at the table—“What think you of Bragdon Wand’s Swivenhodge chances this year, Susan?”, or “Otto, how is your mother faring in Turkey with her trading business?”, or “Have you seen much of Briny and the old crew since leaving University, Benton?”—and the called upon guest would answer for the benefit of the entire table, always in a practiced, articulate voice. Unlike dinners at Marble Arch or the Burrow, no one interrupted anyone, and if there was laughter, it was unfailingly polite and brief.
After the initial answer, the conversation would descend for a time into smaller, related banters around the table. James watched to see which direction to turn when this happened. Just when he thought it was his turn to interact with Millie, Lady Vandergriff spoke up next to him.
“How does your father manage to care for the Black Manor at Grimmauld Place while attending to his prodigious professional duties?” she asked primly, dabbing the corner of her wrinkled mouth with a napkin and ignoring the established table topic.
James turned to look at the old woman, but she merely raised her chin and lowered her eyes to the wine goblet as she raised it in her hand, studying its prism of crimson light.
“Oh, he um…” James began, treading as carefully as possible.
The answer, of course, was that Dad didn’t actually care for the old place, as such. He sent Kreacher on occasion, just to give it a once over and assure that it was all still secure. Kreacher was always content to go, of course, since he alone seemed to harbor a sort of stubborn affection for the musty, imposing mansion. “He has help. Our house elf makes sure it’s in good shape, more or less, for whenever we go there.”
“House elf,” the old woman sighed to herself wistfully, ticking her chin a notch higher, still staring into her wine. “And how often do you go there, in fact?”
James shrugged. “A few times a year, I guess. Mum and dad prefer the house in Marble Arch, I think. It feels a little less… you know,” he reached for his own glass, which was filled with sparkling water, “old and dank. Erm. If you know what I mean.” He realized that this was unlikely to be the sort of answer that the Countess preferred, and quickly took a gulp of water to keep from saying any more.
Lady Eunice sighed briskly and set down her own wine glass without taking a sip. “The magical aristocracy is not like the Muggle variety, young master James. I cannot blame your father for not knowing this. He was not given the proper education in the responsibilities of his position, although one expects that he might have done some research in the years since. “ She turned an eye on James now, studying him before going on. “The threads of magical nobility are fewer and more tenuous with every passing generation. And yet, that only makes their remaining significance all the greater. The Black Manor is not merely an empty house, ‘old and dank’, as you have observed. Your father’s title—which you shall inherit, unless he wills it to someone else, as his godfather did—is not simply a name and a document. Magical nobility is quite different from the Muggles in that way. Your title is a responsibility, because it is one that comes with a great and secret power.”
James felt momentarily captured by the woman’s penetrating gaze. “Power, Ma’am?”
She nodded, still studying him severely. “Power, indeed. But not the power of property, nor position, nor land. The Black manor itself is a mere symbol. No, when we of magical nobility speak of power, we mean it in the truest and most primeval sense. We are guardians, Master James. Our entitlement is the charge of certain deeply elemental forces. But they have not all been maintained. Some have been lost entirely, neglected to the point of impotence, and forgotten to history.”
She sighed deeply, resignedly.