Rating:
PG
House:
The Dark Arts
Genres:
General Drama
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Order of the Phoenix
Stats:
Published: 09/24/2004
Updated: 09/24/2004
Words: 3,840
Chapters: 1
Hits: 398

Itsy-bitsy Spider

bruno

Story Summary:
Eight-year-old Mundungus wants a pet, and one day he finds one...

Posted:
09/24/2004
Hits:
398
Author's Note:
This is the first Dung-fic I ever wrote, and it was originally meant to be just a small part of a longer fic. Well, the long story never saw the light of day, but I sort of like this little piece...so, I'm posting it as a one shot. Hope you like it.


Itsy-bitsy Spider

Someone had broken into the Spider Shop!

The Hit-wizards had been there to talk with the owner, an elderly man with mean beady eyes, wringing his hands and suspiciously glaring at everyone through his thick glasses. None of the children in Knockturn Alley liked the spiderman and their sympathy for him as a victim was minimal; they couldn't deny the entertainment value, though - they played Hit-wizards for the rest of the week. The children collected spiders all over the Alley and put them into a cracked old cauldron someone had thrown away. With horrified joy and delightful squeals of disgust, they watched as the spiders attacked each other; obviously, spiders don't like to be crammed up in groups of fifty inside a slippery cauldron. But eventually, the children tired of it and went back to play make-believe Quidditch.

*

Eight-year-old Dung Fletcher was a busy young man these days. He spent most of his time helping out his new friend Jack in the pub across the street. He had just delivered a note from Jack to the brewery, ordering ale and more of Madam Ogden's, when he saw a cat carrying a kitten in her mouth. The cat trotted quickly down the narrow passage to the Spider Shop's backyard with a very secretive and smug expression on her face, scarcely looking at him as he followed her with his eyes.

Dung's curiosity took hold of him, and he followed her into the eerie backyard. He looked over his shoulder to see if the owner was there, but the shop seemed deserted. The cat had disappeared in between two loose bricks in the wall; he moved one of them so he could see her and the litter. She hissed and scratched his hand when he reached inside, but he got hold of one of the kittens and pulled it out.

The kitten was black and white, and he could see it was a little boy. "'Sup, kitty?" he muttered, and petted it gently. It couldn't be more than three or four weeks old, but it still struggled in his arms and tried to get away. "I'm not dangerous," he told it, but unfortunately the kitten didn't speak English. Disappointed, he returned it to its mother. He'd always wanted a pet and a kitten would have been perfect, but his uncle didn't like animals, so that would never happen.

Resigned, he stood up to walk away, the dream of a pet would remain a dream. Then, he saw something on the ground; it looked like a rather large matchbox, but there was no sign on top of it - just a plain, dull brown cover. He picked it up and shook it, but there was no sound. He shook it again, harder this time, and could almost feel something moving inside it. Opening it, he saw a small black spider curled up. Maybe it was dead; it certainly looked that way. Then it moved one of its many legs, carefully and slow, as if it was sniffing the air to find out whether or not the coast was clear.

Dung pushed it close again. Perhaps the thieves had dropped this spider? Should he return it to the proprietor? No. He had found it, so it was his spider now - finders keepers. Surely uncle Edgar wouldn't mind a teeny spider; it could live inside the matchbox, and he could catch flies for it to eat. He stuffed the matchbox inside his pocket, and walked back to Jack with the receipt he had got at the brewery.

Jack's pub was stuck in between the older buildings down the Alley, and even though it hadn't been open for more than a month, it had become a popular watering hole for the people. Even now, half an hour after opening hours, it was packed with people. Dung found Jack behind the bar, arguing with a customer. "No credit - what do you take me for?" Jack barked at the red-nosed man. "I have bills to pay, mate; you wanna drink on the tick, go to the Cauldron."

Dung pulled his arm to get his attention, and Jack pushed him into the back room, then followed. "You have the receipt, Dung? Thank you..."

With an eager face, Dung showed the contents of the box to Jack. The barman frowned slightly, picked out a little glass jar from behind the bar and carefully tipped the spider into it to take a closer look.

"No, doesn't look like the average Alley spider," he muttered with a frown as he held the jar up against the light by the window. He turned to Dung with a serious expression on his face. "See that marking on its belly? Like an hourglass? That hourglass means that it's poisonous. They're used as potion ingredients, if I recall correctly; that never was my favourite subject... What do you want with this thing?"

"It's my pet," Dung tried to explain, and frowned in irritation when Jack laughed.

"These things make lousy pets, Dungie." He screwed the lid back on the jar, and made a few breathing holes in the lid with his pocket-knife.

Annoyed, Dung reached out to grab it, but the older man grabbed his wrist. "Promise me you'll return it. And you'll do it right now; otherwise I won't let you have it." He gave Dung a stern stare.

"All right," Dung muttered unwillingly, keeping his eyes on the floor.

I'll never have a pet, he thought. He kept the jar half hidden in his arms as he slowly walked back to the spider shop. It looked awfully dark inside though. Hesitating for a few seconds, he knocked on the door, and waited while listening for the spiderman's shuffling footsteps inside. Five minutes passed without hearing anything, and he knocked once more, more firmly this time. Then he realised that the proprietor was not inside; he would have opened the door by now if he was.

Dung scratched his head as he gazed up at the empty dark window on the first floor. What should he do? He couldn't leave the tiny creature out here on the steps - it was autumn and the nights grew colder with each passing day; it would freeze to death. It was already evening and the fog was sneaking into the Alley, encapsulating everything and everyone in its cold and wet grasp.

He closed his eyes to the fact that the spider had already survived for more than a week.

Without haste, he walked up to the flat he shared with Uncle Edgar, telling himself he would return it first thing tomorrow morning. He could hear his uncle talking through the kitchen door, and swore quietly to himself. Why couldn't he have been out, or in bed?

He opened the door and went inside. He found his uncle alone by the table. Edgar was pressing a wet piece of cloth to his left eye, and his lower lip was a bloody mess. "What happened to you?" Dung asked, horrified. His uncle wasn't exactly a popular man, but he rarely got into fistfights, and it was a long time since Dung had seen him in this miserable state.

It didn't seem like Edgar had noticed him, though; he kept on ranting into the cloth. "I just told him what everybody knew anyway, what's the point in taking it out on me? He should be taking it out on that bloody slut! Closing the door in my face like that. Thinks she's too good, eh? Thinks she's a fine lady? Poor Edgar, just the messenger."

The man was so drunk it was hard to understand what he was saying. Dung walked closer and wondered for a second whether or not to put his hand on his uncle's arm. He decided not to. "'Sup, uncle?"

Edgar lowered the cloth and looked at the boy with a horrible, bloody face. "What you've got there?" he asked with a rough voice.

Dung realised that this was not a good moment to introduce Edgar to a new eight-legged member of the family, so he tried to hide the jar behind his back - something that only increased the grown man's anger.

"Show me!"

Hesitantly, Dung took a step back and showed Edgar the jar. "I know you don't like cats and dogs, but I thought perhaps... You know, no hairs lying 'round, and it's quiet..."

Edgar stared at Dung as if he had gone mad. "A spider! Lost your marbles, have ya?"

"I'll catch flies for it to eat..."

"Flies?" Edgar threw his head back and roared with laughter, something that seemed to cause him pain. With a whimper he returned his gaze to the boy. "If I see that...thing again I swear I'll squash it to jelly. Now get OUT!"

Dung ran down the narrow stairway with angry tears in his eyes. It was dark outside, and the fog came seeping down the Alley. In one of the flats on the ground floor he could hear a couple arguing.

Dung didn't like it here when it got dark. It was all right in the daylight when all the Alley's inhabitants were outside; it was filled with life then, with the safety of numbers. But at night, the parents locked the doors and counted their children, because that was when the strangers came out, people who would hurt you just because they liked it. They didn't care if you were five or fifty. Dung didn't know where they lived or who they were, but they came with the darkness. In his head they were connected, and when the night fell over the Alley it was almost as if he could hear their footsteps as well. He always made sure he was somewhere safe by that time.

Quickly, he ran into the warm pub across the alleyway. It was crowded, and he caught a glimpse of Jack on the other end of the bar. He pressed the jar close to his chest. He had sworn to Jack, and he would keep his promise. Jack trusted him, and that was important to Dung. He just had to wait a few more hours, that was all.

He slipped behind the counter and ascended the stairs. He had to hide the jar until tomorrow, somewhere Jack wouldn't find it; one of the spare rooms would be fine. They hadn't been used for weeks. Firmly he closed the door after him and sat down on the bed. The lamp above the bed started to glow, and soon bathed the little room in a warm light.

Startled, he saw that the spider looked dead. Perhaps the lid was too tight? The breathing holes were awfully small; maybe it had suffocated? Anxiously, he unscrewed it and shook the jar carefully. He sighed in relief when it stretched out one of its legs.

"Hungry, eh?" He went over to the window, where a fly was busy trying to force its way through the glass. He squashed it unsentimentally with his thumb, and brought it back to his new friend. He sat the jar on the bed, and knelt down beside it with his feet on the floor. But no, it wasn't hungry. "Perhaps you're sleepy," he muttered and yawned. "I know I am."

He put the lid back on, but didn't screw it shut. Then he placed the jar near the footboard of the bed, leaning against the wall. "Now you stay here. I'll come and get ya in the morning, all right?"

Downstairs, a drunken witch grabbed a hold of him, and showed him up to the other guests sitting by her table. "Mundungus, darling, won't you sing for me? Look at this boy, isn't he a darling? Sing for me, you know what I like. I'll buy you a Butterbeer if you will."

How can an eight-year-old resist the offer of a Butterbeer? Dung certainly couldn't, so he started to sing an old song his mother had taught him. He hardly remembered her, but he remembered the song; a sad song of lost love. It was Welsh, the witch had told him once; so was she, and she always asked him to sing it. Each time she started to cry, and got him a Butterbeer afterwards.

Later, he dozed off with the bottle in his hand. After an hour, Jack woke him up, and followed him across the alleyway to the stairs up to his flat. Edgar had gone to bed, and everything was quiet. Dung tossed the bloodstained cloth off the turn-up bedstead, and soon he slept like the child he was.

*

"Who do you believe? Your own wife, or that drunkard upstairs?" She was crying now, but he barely noticed her tears.

"Why is Queenie blond?" he snapped back, his eyes wild. He wanted to slap her, to hurt her, but something held him back - he had never been a wife-beater, and had no intention to start. Not even now, when he had been betrayed so deeply that he wanted to tear her heart out and throw it in her face. "I love that girl. And now this."

"Mark was also blond when he was a kid," she sobbed.

Then he noticed the two children standing in the doorway, watching them. The older girl held her arms around the little boy, who was crying silently. Jonathan stared at them, and felt his anger die down only to be replaced by a sadness so heavy it almost broke him. "Look at them," he said to his wife and shook his head. "I can't stand it. I can't stand looking at you." With those words he opened the door into the hall and closed it with a loud bang.

He walked over to the pub and sat down by the bar. He had a Sickle in his pocket, which he gave to Jack who had showed up in front of him. "Give me a bottle of Firewhisky," he muttered to him.

Jack raised his eyebrows. "You don't drink whisky," he said, surprised.

"I do now."

The bottle stood before him and he drank hard and fast, trying to block out the maelstrom of thoughts and feelings that threatened to drown him. People left him alone - he didn't know whether to be thankful or resentful because of it.

His little baby daughter had always been special to him. Of course he loved Mark, Tim and Geoff as well, but there was something special about her. She was fragile and tough at the same time, like a dandelion. He loved how she would sit on his lap and sing songs to him when he was down, silly little songs she made up herself. How she would come to him, dragging the neighbourhood kittens with her to show him.

He could not bear the thought of leaving them. Whether they were his children or not, he loved them, plain and simple. He had to come to some sort of agreement with Maude. But not now, he would not let her see him crying and weak. He still had some pride left.

"You can talk to me about it, you know," came Jack's voice. He looked up to see the barman standing in front of him, drying a few wineglasses and putting them down in their place behind the counter. "That's what I'm here for. You wouldn't believe some of the stories I've heard."

Jonathan wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his cloak and quietly shook his head. "Not now, I don't want to talk about it. Listen, I need a place to stay, just for tonight. Could I sleep here, on a bench or...?"

"Got a few rooms upstairs, if you need one."

"Thanks."

Sometime later, Jack followed him upstairs and opened the door to the room. "It's not much, but it's better than a bench anyway."

Jonathan sat down on the bed. "It's fine. Can I ask you a favour? I've gotta get to work tomorrow morning..."

"I wake up early. I'll knock on the door."

Then Jonathan was alone. He sat in silence after ordering the light to fade out, staring out into the darkness of the room. The dark didn't bother him, it never had. He would go back tomorrow, after work, and try to talk to her. The alcohol had calmed him, and he pulled off his cloak. He stretched out his long body on the bed, and pulled the blanket over him. He felt slightly nauseated and his head had started to ache. Slowly he dozed off, unused as he was to the charms of Madam Ogden.

Half asleep, he turned around in bed to find his ordinary position of sleep when he felt a sting on his stomach, like a pinprick. "You've got bed bugs, Jack," he muttered.

*

A few hours later he woke up from the cramps in his back. The pain was excruciating, and he sweated so much the sheets were wet. He had problems breathing and gulped in air that didn't seem to find the way to his lungs.

Oh Merlin! He had forgot his potion.

Jonathan had a weak heart, and ever since he was a boy he had had to take a spoonful each night of that vile potion the Healers kept feeding him. But the vial stood in the kitchen of his home, just a few yards away. It could just as well have been on the other side of the country; John was in no position to go wandering about. He struggled to breathe, and his attempts to call out only resulted in harsh little moans.

The cramps in his back had spread to his legs. He did not understand; a heart attack wouldn't give him leg cramps, would it? Merlin, I don't wanna die!

He threw up on the floor beside the bed. His whole body was shaking and the sweat ran down into his eyes, blinding him. His head hurt so much he started crying.

I don't wanna leave my children.

He saw Queenie's face before him, her eyes serious and contemplating. She stretched out her hand to him, like she wanted to stroke his cheek. Her mouth did not move, but he could hear her voice inside his head. "Are you leaving now?" she was asking.

He wanted to touch her, but his hands wouldn't work anymore. I don't want to, baby, he thought. I love you.

"I know," the child answered, and all he could see were those big brown eyes.

*

Dung woke up at noon. Edgar wasn't up yet, neither had he expected him to be. After putting on his clothes, he jumped down the stair and out into the alleyway. The pub was open. He sneaked inside while Jack was busy talking with two strangers by one of the tables, his face grave and tired. Careful not to make any sound, Dung walked up to the first floor and found the door to the spare room open. The empty jar stood on a chair by the little window.

Dung froze. Had Jack discovered the spider? He grabbed the jar and started looking for it. After half an hour of desperate searching he found it, spinning a web under the bed.

"There ya are," he sighed. "Come on, let's leave."

The spider had no desire to be captured again, but had to surrender when he tipped her into the jar with a nail he had in his pocket. He found the lid under the bed. Carefully he walked down the stairs again, and scurried out while Jack wasn't watching.

He made his way through the people, hiding the jar in his arms. Once more he stood outside the spider shop and knocked on the door. The windows were still empty and dark, and no one answered. He sighed of impatience; it's not easy to keep one's promises under such conditions. He was getting tired of this.

On the way out of the backyard he met a tall, impressive man, and his robes revealed the fact that this was a man of wealth. Dung did what the children of the Alley always did when such a person walked by - he stuck out his hand.

"Could you spare a Knut, sir?"

The man eyed him with badly hidden contempt before turning his attention back to the spider shop. He waved his walking stick at the house. "Tell me, boy, is this shop closed permanently?"

Dung shrugged, and looked closer at the stick. It was very beautiful, with a handle shaped like a snake's head. "Don't know, sir. Wouldn't mind talking to the spiderman myself. I found this."

The man took a closer look at the spider in the jar. "She's beautiful," he muttered.

Dung looked bewildered at him. "She? It's a girl? How can you tell?"

The man gave him a scornful glare and took out a purse. "I'll give you a Galleon for it," he said, and reached out one big gold coin to the boy. Dung silently accepted the coin and gave the man the jar. He'd never had that much money between his fingers before.

The man turned around and left.

What does one do with so much money?

Butterbeer! He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, out into Diagon Alley and down to the Leaky Cauldron where he bought six bottles of Butterbeer. He sat down beside the Owl Emporium and drank while watching the wizards and witches scurrying about their business. Sometimes he burped loudly, to the entertainment of the passers by.

An hour later he walked back into the Alley, his belly filled to bursting. The coins in his pocket jingled merrily as he moved, and he carried the last bottle under his arm. So this was what it felt like to be a man of wealth. It felt good.

Queenie was sitting outside on the stairs, yawning openly. She looked sad, Dung noticed, and he sat down beside her. "'Sup, Queenie?"

She turned her head up to him; she had been crying. "My father died," she said quietly.

Dung stared at her. "No...when?"

"Last night."

They sat in silence for a while. He didn't really want more Butterbeer, so he opened it and let her have the last bottle. She accepted it with a little 'thanks'. Dung felt he had to say something. "You know, he was a nice man, your dad. I remember him buying sweets for us when Geoff was born."

"Yeah." She seemed to be thinking hard. "He came to me."

"What?" He turned to look at her. "Like a ghost, you mean?"

She shook her head. "No, it wasn't like that. He came to me, in my thoughts. I was up all night, crying, because I knew he was gone." Queenie started crying again, and Dung awkwardly put his arm around her shoulder.

Jack watched them from the entrance of the pub. Then he shook his head and went back inside.