Leaving Green Sleeves

Chapter 3

In which Dung finds a Laura Ashley sofa in his living room

Dung woke up from the feeling of nausea, and for a moment he wondered if he was going to be sick. But soon his stomach calmed down and he found to his surprise that he was hungry. He never ate in the mornings. The constant feeling of tiredness that had troubled him for the last few weeks was gone, but the low sun that crept in through the window told him it was still early. Very early - in fact he couldn't have slept more than half an hour. He scratched his head in confusion; the brothers hadn't let him sleep all Sunday, had they? Not a chance, Dung told himself; Pug used Sundays to watch the television set in the corner of the living room, and would have thrown him out by the first snore.

The curtains were different; Tyke must have changed them while he was sleeping. They had let him sleep all Sunday! He grew angry; he'd had a meeting in the Order and now he had to crawl to Dumbledore with a plausible excuse. The list of good excuses had grown thin during this last year, and he had no idea what to tell him. Not the truth, that was for sure, he'd done that before and it had only given him unpleasantness.

There were sounds in the kitchen, the clang of a cauldron or kettle that hit metal, running water, footsteps on the floor. The footsteps were light though, and didn't sound like any of the brothers, who used to trample around like a pair of elephants. It sounded like a woman. But a woman in the Pommeroy house? The idea was strange; the last woman to spend the night inside this house had been their mother.

Dung got up from the sofa and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was staring right into the face of a little girl. For a second he thought his heart was going to stop, but then the girl gave him a friendly smile, displaying a missing front tooth. She must have been around five or six years of age. "Are you one of Daddy's friends?" she asked, curiously.

"Yeah," he answered, nodding hesitantly before continuing. "'Who's your Daddy, then...?"

"Dad, of course!" the little redhead exclaimed merrily, and showed him the two kittens she held in her arms. "Her name's Pandora," she explained to him with a serious expression on her face as she held up a tiny tabby. "She was a lady in a Greek story. And this is Scarlet; that's because she's red."

"Yeah, I see." With raised eyebrows he stared at the ginger kitten she had put in his hands, and scratched it absent-mindedly behind the ear. Then he remembered something. "What day is it?" he asked her.

"It's Sunday," she replied and he sighed with relief. "You coming to church with us? You're hungry," she pointed out when his stomach made a complaining sound.

He nodded faintly. "A little, yeah... Where's your Dad now?"

"He's sleeping. Mum says he's not to be disturbed, because he works so much. You want breakfast?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but froze when the girl ran over to the door and tore it open. "Mum! I found one of Dad's friends sleeping on the sofa! He's very hungry, I think he'll starve to death if he doesn't get something to eat."

"What?" The bewildered face of a skinny, dark-haired woman showed up in the doorway, and looked at him with confusion. "Who are you?"

"I'm...I'm Fletcher," he stuttered and, resisting the urge to run away, decided to go with it and see what happened. "From work."

"Oh." She eyed him sceptically. "I don't think Charles has mentioned you."

"I'm new," he replied and tied his hair back in the usual ponytail. "I sort of...lost my house and Charlie let me stay, just for the night. He's a kind soul, your husband," he finished with a sheepish grin.

She snorted loudly and gestured for him to come into the kitchen. He gave the kitten back to the girl, and got up to follow her on shaky feet. What in the name of Merlin was going on here? Portraits hung on the walls - Muggle photographs with stern, unmoving faces stared back at him, and a crochet work with quotes from the Bible hung on the wall of the kitchen.

She sliced him a piece of bread, and put the slice and a bottle of marmalade on the table. Quietly, he scraped the marmalade onto the bread and ate in silence while the little girl talked about the kittens in her room. Her mother still eyed him sharply, and Dung kept his eyes on the table. He had a sneaking suspicion that Charlie was in for a hell of a time when he finally got out of bed.

"You want tea?"

"Yeah, thanks," he muttered, and started to think of a way to leave this godforsaken kitchen. Where were Pug and Tyke? Who was this woman?

"You have long hair," the girl stated and giggled. "Just like a girl."

"Tilly!" the mother exclaimed.

"Yeah," Dung had to grin. "Think I look like a girl, do you? Should I cut it?"

She giggled so much she almost toppled over in her chair. "No, you don't! And I don't think you should, it's funny."

"Tilly Jackson! You behave yourself right now, or I'll really be really angry!" the mother said. "Take those kittens outside and play." With a moping expression Tilly slipped off the chair and took the kittens in her arms.

"Sorry about that, Mr Fletcher," the young mother muttered when the child had left. "She's so outspoken sometimes that I don't know what to do with her."

Dung was taken aback by her definition of outspoken; had Tilly been anything like himself at that age she would have told her mother to go bugger herself. "No problem," he replied. "She's a sweet lass."

He could hear a soft creak from the room upstairs and turned pale; he'd better get out of here fast before this bloke came down and called the game off. "What time is it?"

"Nine o' clock. Now, what department did you say you were in?" She looked curiously at him, and he started to sweat under her calculating eyes.

"Accounting," he muttered and found his pipe in the pocket of his cloak. "I'm a creative accountant. Mind if I...?"

"No, not at all. Accounting sounds interesting; tell me more," she smiled and flashed her eyelashes at him.

The absurd look made him cough on his tea, but soon his pipe was filled and he enjoyed the first smoke for what seemed like ages. "Well, it's not that interesting, really, but you know. Gets you out in the open air..." He waved his hand in a vague gesture.

She looked bewildered. "I though accountants sat behind their desks-?"

"Not the creative ones." He had to leave, now. "I hate to break up this nice breakfast, but I have to go. Tell Eddie I said hello, won't you?"

"Eddie?" Her suspicious mien came back. "You don't want to stay and talk to him?"

"Beg pardon, I'm an accountant ya know; we're lousy with names," he grinned. "Just numbers with us blokes. Numbers, numbers, numbers, got to love 'em." He got up from his seat and checked his pocket to make sure the wand was in place, and walked to the door. "Tell him I'm really grateful and all." Then he remembered his foeglass and looked around the kitchen without finding anything.

"G'day."

With swift feet he walked out, and found himself in a meticulously kept garden he faintly recognised. The girl walked up to him, one kitten in her arms and the other following in her footsteps. "You're leaving? I thought you'd come with us to church." She seemed disappointed, and he reached out his hand and ruffled her hair.

"Take care, sweetie," he said and continued down the road.

He passed the place where the annoying old bat that had called him a walking flea market lived, and the house was not there. It was as if a giant had turned up in the dead of night and taken the house with him, garden and all, leaving nothing but a gigantic field sprinkled with black and white cows. They turned their dull heads to him without ever stop chewing, and he stared back with a sinking feeling of desperation.

"Finally, Dung, you've lost your marbles," he said to himself. "You knew it was going to happen sooner or later; you just assumed it would be later..."

One of the cows lowed at him. "Don't talk to me with food in your mouth," he shouted at it, but the cow only stared back. "Watch it or I'll eat ya," he muttered, and started trotting down the road.

The sun shone down upon him and made him sweat, so he took off the overcoat he'd been wearing. A red robin flew down on the ground and tipped around him, cocking its head at him as if to ask him where he was going. It was a good thing it didn't ask, because Dung had no idea what to answer...and he had no tobacco left. Swearing, he found a pack of Pug's cigarettes in one of his pockets and lit one with his wand.

A car was driving toward him and he stood with the coat over his arm, quietly smoking and waiting until it passed and disappeared over the ridge. Carefully, he looked around to see if any Muggles were nearby, but found to his satisfaction that he was alone once again. Then he Apparated to his flat in Soho.

*

It was his flat, yet it was not. All the furniture was gone, replaced by old-fashioned, tasteful and boring things patterned with flowers and sprinkled with pillows and a collection of fluffy items. "It looks like one of Tyke's Laura Ashley-catalogues," he muttered, repulsed by the heavy weight of conventionalism that had sneaked into his beloved nest. The whole flat reeked of petty bourgeoisie, and he stared around incredulously. This was Soho, damn it! This was his home!

His records! They were gone. He almost started crying when he saw the naked wall behind him, only decorated by a reprint by some long-dead artist he'd never known and never cared about. All of them gone: rare collectibles, special editions, first editions; all of them with a unique history of their own, memories from the last thirty years. He sank down in the hideously tasteful sofa, and covered his eyes with his hands.

Was this some kind of joke? Some sick prank pulled on him by Warty Harris? He could not believe the Pommeroy brothers would agree to play along in such a scheme; they hated Warty and Warty hated them. Anger flared inside him. "Fuck with me, but not with my records," he sneered into the thin air, and decided to go talk with Warty himself.

A sound reached him - a low snore from his bedroom. He quickly got up from the sofa and walked over to the door, wanting to tear it down and scream at the person inside. The sight of a sleeping woman, half covered by her blankets, met him and his anger subsided for a second. She lay with his back towards him, the cloth revealing a little of her buttocks. "Hmm," he said scratching his chin, and took in the scenery for a little while longer than strictly necessary. "I guess I could wait another hour..."

He stepped out in the kitchen to make himself a cup but found nothing more than a collection of teabags, surprisingly cheap tea as well. "Doesn't go well with the furniture, dear," he muttered under his breath. Then his eyes fell on the calendar on the wall.

1950.

For a minute he just stared, then he chuckled softly. "Good job, Warty." Shaking his head, he put three lumps of sugar in his tea and stepped over to the pantry to get some milk. After taking a look inside it, he closed the door and his eyes returned to the calendar. Frowning, he opened the door again and fished out a bottle of milk from a bucket of cold water. These were exactly the kind of bottles they'd had when he was a child, though he wasn't sure he remembered them correctly.

Why would Warty go through all this trouble just to get back for a little prank? It wasn't logical...

With a final bewildered glance at the bedroom door, he Apparated to Knockturn Alley.

*******************

It was Sunday after all. The Diagon and the quarter that was the Alley were always quiet on Sundays, and it was still early, not yet noon. But it was such a desolate, eerie atmosphere that met him - the grey walls seemed closed to him, as if he suddenly didn't belong here anymore. The rubbish-filled street was empty and deserted.

Where were they all? The children, the drunks, the housewives, all those people that had made the Alley alive when he was a boy; all of them were gone. From the corner of his eye he could see movements in a window, a curtain shivering and then pulling close. He looked closer at the house - there should be a pub there, crowded with people even at this early hour.

But the pub was gone; instead there stood an old wooden house with a shop on the ground floor. His old friend Jack was still in New York. No one was here, all the familiarity had disappeared like mist in the morning sun. He turned and looked up the Alley; the sign outside the Pawn was gone as well.

He heard footsteps from within the Alley and walked further in, looking around the curve made by the ancient building on his left, he saw an old man walking toward him. Dung stared at the man's stern face but could not recognise him. The man raised his head to look at him but did not say anything or slow down; quietly he lowered his head the way people did when they met strangers in the Alley, as not to provoke with a direct stare.

"Excuse me," Dung broke the silence, and the man slowed his steps. "What's happened? Why is it so quiet?"

"Wilkes has died," the old man muttered, and turned away from him again. "We mourn him." The old one continued to drag his feet up through the Alley, and Dung stared after him.

Wilkes, whom everybody talked about with awe in their voices, he who had tamed the vampires and soothed the wolves. He had died before Dung was born, leaving the Alley in a state of chaos and despair as the creatures of the night crept back to the foggy semidarkness.

He had died in 1950. Hastily, Dung turned and walked over to Borgin and Burkes. He knew he would find it open. His hand reached into his pocket, clasping and clenching the trinket with a sweaty hand, not wanting to keep it and not daring to let it go. The hinges of the shop door made a soft creak as he entered, and the familiar smell hit him in the face - parchment dust, formalin and leather.

Old Borgin behind the counter was not so old anymore when he appeared from the back room and came towards Dung with a slick smile on his face. After a scrutinising stare at Dung's ragged clothes his smile faded. "May I help you, Sir?"

"Drop that superior attitude with me, Stu," Dung snapped back. "I know you. And yeah, I think you may." He grabbed the object in his pocket, and carefully placed it on the counter. "I want to know more 'bout this thing."

Stuart Borgin flinched when his first name was spoken, and regarded the man before him with wary eyes. His name was not known by more than a few well-chosen trustees, and Dung could see his brain working frantically, trying to place him. Then he turned his attention to the item before him, and his eyes widened in surprise. He took a handkerchief out from his pocket and used it to pick up the little thing. "Such a fine specimen..." he muttered.

"Is this one of those Time Turners?" Dung asked, staring at the piece with disbelief.

"It most definitely is," Borgin replied, and cast a glance at him. "From the markings I'd say it's an original work of Regina Ivanova, early nineteenth century. Where did you get it?" A discrete smile played in the corner of his mouth. "Are you lost in time, Mister...?"

Dung didn't respond, just crossed his arms, turned away and took a few steps out into the shop. For a while he stared at a jar filled with hanged men's fingers, trying to collect his thoughts. Then he turned back, opening his mouth to speak but closing it again the second after.

Borgin looked at him with curiosity. "Well, it has happened before, and it will certainly happen again. In that case you have a serious problem; I have no idea how to get you back. That is, if you wish to go back... Which is, of course, none of my business," he added hastily when he saw Dung's startled face. "But I will give you a good price for it."

"But I have to get back!" Dung complained. "I have a...a job to take care of."

"Then you should contact the Ministry," Borgin replied. "This little thing can't take you back home - it has done its duty now, as far as you're concerned. But even if you do contact the Ministry, it will take some time before they can help you - if at all. Perhaps you're in need of a place to stay?"

Dung stared at him incredulously. Stu was offering to help? But of course, he was interested in the Time Turner; that was why. Borgin had never done anything for anyone without getting something back for it, a trait Stu had passed on to himself.

"May I ask when you come from?" Borgin inquired with a soft voice, looking quizzically at him from the corner of his eye while pretending to examine the Time Turner.

Information. Of course, Dung should have known. The Alley was in a time of change, and with the right information one could make a nice profit in the process. It was good to see that certain things never changed. "1995," he replied, and couldn't hold back a grin.

Borgin gave him a big, satisfied smile. "I hear you are a local man, Mr...?"

"Fletcher. Just call me Fletcher."

"Well, Mr. Fletcher, I have a room upstairs if you are in need of lodging. A humble room, I'm afraid, but with the necessities needed." Borgin gave him a smile that was so sincere it would have fooled anyone else, and Dung had to laugh. Borgin frowned slightly, as though he wanted to protest his innocent intentions.

"You're such an altruist, Stu," Dung replied dryly. "I accept, and tomorrow I'm off to the Ministry, see if I can talk some sense into 'em."

Rubbing his hands, Borgin walked over to the counter, and found a set of keys beneath it. He looked over them with a frown, before taking one of them off and handing it over. "It's the red room," he said. "You go up the stairs and..."

"Second door on the right, I know," Dung took the key out of the other man's hand.

Borgin stared at him with a peculiar expression, curious and yet reserved. "Do I know you? Or perhaps rather: will I?"

"Just give me a few years," Dung replied as he walked out. "You'll know me when I get here."

"I don't doubt it," Borgin answered. "Dinner's at eight."

Dung walked through the narrow passage to the backside of the building. The courtyard looked the same as it always had - the shed with the spider-infested pit privies stood in the darkest corner, and Dung shuddered from the memories. The dark stairway up to first floor was creaky and old, just as he remembered it. The smell was the same too, dust, cabbage and cat. Not the most charming perfume, but it was good to have something to hold on to, something familiar.

The room also looked the same as when he'd stayed there in his teens: the patterned wall paper with the red dragons that gave the room its name, the armchair next to the four poster bed. He'd also lived there for a period five years earlier. Or should that be forty years later? This was all getting confusing, and feeling slightly dizzy he stretched out on the bed to try to collect his thoughts. It was no use, though - the only thing that helped in situations like this was a trip to the local pub. Now, where was that? Jack's pub hadn't opened yet, and wouldn't for another ten years.

The Leaky Cauldron, perhaps.

A few Galleons and Sickles shingled in his pockets, enough to last him through a couple of days. What he would do after that... Well, he just had to take things as they came, didn't he? He'd done that before and survived without too many scars. No use crying about it.

"Don't drink too much, now," the mirror said in a cheery voice as he left.

Who listens to mirrors, anyway?

*

The Alley was still deserted and quiet as he left for the Diagon. Looking back, he shuddered involuntarily without understanding his own reaction. He was at home, but the home didn't recognise him; he knew every cornerstone, every hiding place, but still he was an alien to the Alley itself. It was a strange feeling.

The Diagon was livelier, and it was with a feeling of relief he entered it. Everywhere he saw faces that seemed vaguely familiar, and he amused himself by imagining who was related to whom. He could swear he saw the Snape-nose at least three times, and one witch had such a stunning resemblance to his old mate Sirius that he had to stop and stare. The witch sent him a disdainful glare as she passed him - she smelled faintly of something he recognised as almonds.

He shook his head and continued down to the Cauldron. It was buzzing with voices, and the heat from the room was almost unpleasant compared to the gentle breeze outside. He got himself a pint, and sat down by the bar to watch the life around him. He didn't recognise anyone, but he slowly started to feel at home again. No matter where on earth you are you will always find company in a pub. People are the same, from the shabby drunks to the prim and proper businessmen with their briefcases and expensive robes.

He nearly choked on his beer when he recognised old Ben; a drunkard that had always been around during Dung's childhood. He didn't seem much younger though, still as haggard and rough as he had been back then. But you could see the kindness in his eyes if you just bothered to look close enough.

Awkwardly, Dung slipped off the barstool and approached the old man, slowly and with a casual expression. Ben had a little party by his table, two men that he recognised as Greengrass and Moby, and they seemed to be having a serious conversation - probably about the dead Wilkes.

"Let's sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings," Dung smiled as he sat down in a chair beside Ben, and the Muggleborn wizard's eyes shone in a glimpse of acknowledgement. Then again, Dung knew they would - Ben himself had taught him this line when he was nothing but a guttersnipe. The other two stared back at him as though he were a madman. Dung paid them no mind, but turned back to the elderly man by his side. "'Sup, Ben?"

He could see Ben's brain working frantically, trying to place him. Was he perhaps someone he'd got drunk with once? A big spender perhaps? A quick glance at Dung's appearance would tell him that this was not likely, but one never knew; the most tattered overcoat could hide a well-filled wallet.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure...?"

His voice was cultivated and pleasant, and the sound of the man's baritone made Dung's eyes water. Embarrassed with himself, he wiped the tears away and gave Ben his hand, and got back a strong, warm hand with a firm shake. " Mundungus," he croaked.

"Ben Davies."

"I know." Dung started stuttering under the older man's gaze. "I...I mean, you know, I was told..." He swallowed and shrugged while casting a casual glance over at the bar. "'S a long story."

Ben nodded slowly but his eyes still lingered questioningly on him, and Dung suddenly felt like a complete idiot. So he asked the question that always makes up for embarrassing moments. "Could I get you one?"

****

At seven thirty he stumbled out into Diagon Alley with his old friend. Ben was half carried, half dragged to his room above the Spider shop, Dung holding him up on one side and one of the men on the other. Ben was happily humming one of his songs and Dung chimed in, receiving a tired look from Moby on the other side. "C'mon now, Moby, sing with us!"

"I think both of you should shut up," Moby muttered.

"I agree," the last of the party said, the scrawny little man by the name Greengrass. "We're entering the Alley. This ain't the best time to go about singing."

He was right; walking in the entrance to the Alley was like entering another world. The thick grey walls seemed to absorb their merry noise, like the Alley itself found their gayness inappropriate at this time. Ben too sensed it. " Within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king keeps Death his court," he muttered and started crying.

It was a time-consuming event, getting the big man up the steep stairs to his tiny room on second floor. Dung's ragged breath was almost painful when they finally could put Ben down on his worn-out sofa. Dung took in the sight of the books that covered the whole wall in the end of the room. As Moby pulled the blanket over the sleeping Ben, Dung walked over and let his fingers brush the spine of one of them.

He had learned to read from this book. For hours on end, he and Ben had been sitting in that same sofa, going over the alphabet over and over again, until Dung had managed to find meaning behind the markings on the pages. Then he had been allowed to take the book home. Carefully he took the book out of the shelf and opened it, and to the sound of dry paper rustling he opened one certain page. There should have been a tear in the paper, but there was none. Of course, the paper had not yet been through the challenge of an eager child's hands. This same book now stood on a shelf in his living room, ragged and worn-out from being read many times.

He turned to see the man stretched out on the sofa, and Moby and Greengrass standing in the doorway, watching Dung with stern faces.

"I think we should leave now," Moby muttered when Ben started snoring. Reluctantly, Dung followed them. On his way out he stopped by the sofa to look at his old friend. He so much wanted to wake him up, to tell him who he was and what Ben had meant to him all those years ago, how sorry he was that he never got to say good bye. But he couldn't.

The others gave him a strange eye. Dung didn't care, and brushed past them with a swift 'G'bye'. He was not in the mood to answer questions right now.

When he got out, the Alley had begun to darken and slowly he started walking toward Borgin and Burkes. Now, old Stu had spoken of dinner.