Leaving Green Sleeves

Chapter nine

In which a story is told and a deal done

When Dung woke up he was alone. For a minute he presumed it had been a dream, a fever-induced fantasy and nothing more, but then his eyes fell on the other pillow. A hair lay gently against the white surface of the linen, and with a stiff right arm he reached out and picked it up and curled it around his finger. It could not be one of his - it was too fair, almost white in the streak of sunlight peering inside the room through the window.

Once more he closed his eyes and tried to drift back to sleep, but his body did not find rest this time. After a mere minute his eyelids fluttered open, and as he let out a deep sigh it struck him how utterly boring it was to be a convalescent. Add to that being in the wrong place at the wrong time, forty-five years wrong...

Staring into the ceiling, he started humming. "I am aitch ay pee pee why. I know I am, I'm sure I am, I am aitch ay pee pee why..."

Careful, but determined, he turned around in bed and swung his feet out on the floor, and somehow managed to get the rest of his body to follow the movement. But the pain was fading as well, he could use his arms now, albeit with some caution. After plundering for a long time he got into his trousers and the faded black T-shirt. His shoes were well used and more or less slipped onto his feet. Maybe it was about time to take a look around this place, see what had changed and what remained the same throughout the decades? The remaining Sickles jingled in his pocket as he staggered out of his room, leaving the overcoat behind.

The day was warm on the outside, and with a yawn he took a closer look down the alleyway. Still quiet, a few wizards and witches passed him without looking up, without giving any signals of having seen him at all. With a frown he turned towards the Diagon and walked out into the bustling street. Deciding to go down to The Cauldron to see Ben, he quickened his pace and kept his eyes firmly at his goal, way down the Diagon. But his feet soon got weary from walking; he still wasn't strong enough to go wandering off like this, and the pub seemed as far away as it had done five minutes ago. Little did he care - he would've lost his mind if he were to stay inside much longer.

The Cauldron wasn't as crowded as it had been the last time he visited. When had that been? Sunday, two days ago. It felt like twenty. He bought a pint in the bar; only one, he told himself, one for the road. Merlin knew he deserved it.

Ben was sitting by himself near the entrance out to Muggle London, leafing through the pub's copy of the Daily Prophet while holding his lit wand up in front of him to give his eyes the necessary light. With a glimpse of recognition in his eyes he looked up at Dung as he approached the table. "Nice to see you," he said. "We thought perhaps you'd left, considering we haven't seen you for a few days. Mundungus, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. I've been ill," Dung muttered in reply and sat down by the table, feeling almost dizzy from the exhausting walk. "Still haven't recovered completely."

"I trust it's nothing too serious?" Seemingly calmed by Dung's headshake he returned to the paper, making a comment on the Ministry's employment policies.

Again Dung found it difficult to come up with anything to say; he wanted to say so much, but it was not the words of grown men meeting each other in pubs. "Can you tell me more about Wilkes?" he asked, just to get the conversation started. He'd heard the story before, of course, dozens of times, but he wanted to hear it again; told in the other man's deep, calm voice. He called out to the barman to bring Ben a fresh pint, and said good-bye to his last Sickle.

Ben gave him a quizzical look, but nodded and started his story. "It was in the last days of the first Muggle war," he began, gazing into the foam on the pint that had been placed before him. "A whole generation of Muggles had been slaughtered on the killing fields, leaving Muggle London open for the dark wizards. Knockturn Alley was a serpent's den in those days, feared over the whole of Britain and justifiably so in my mind. No one entered the Alley unless forced to; and at night creatures and beings came up from the Alley and entered the Diagon. The People of Diagon Alley barricaded their doors at night and sat up, listening to the sounds from the street.

"It was a nightmare, those days. I had a room above Borgin and Burke's then, and remember it clearly. I too was sitting in my room with my bottles, trying to drown the cries from the street, telling myself that it was not my business what went on outside my door." Ben's lip curled up in a gesture of disdain, whether it was aimed at himself or the things that had happened Dung could not tell for sure. "People fled from Diagon Alley - all those who had the means to do so moved away and took their families with them, leaving only the people who had nowhere else to go. People like me.

"The Ministry was at a loss. It was after this period they started to train Aurors, you see, we didn't have them back then. Squads of hit-wizards walked the street; many were killed, others lost their minds or were bitten by vampires and wolves.

"And then, out of the blue came a man walking. No one knew who he was or where he came from, one day he was just there. Some said he'd come through the passages of time. Others said he was an Alley boy who'd come back from a journey that had taken him his whole life to complete and now he was ready to come home. It didn't matter; what mattered was that he did what none other dared to - he left the safety of his rooms and entered the dark nightmare outside his windows.

"He walked among the vampires and spoke to them in their own language. He killed the werewolves and cast the dark creatures out of Knockturn Alley, drove the shadows and the ghosts back and closed them within the stone walls. You can still feel their eyes on your back when you enter the Alley, can't you?"

"Yeah," Dung muttered breathlessly while Ben emptied half of his pint. He was hardly aware of the room around him anymore, all he could see was the face of the man before him, those dark eyes that were now veiled by remembrance.

"He gathered the people of the Alley and made us all work together. United, we stood up against the dark wizards, reclaimed the neighbourhood from the forces that stole it from us..."

"May I join you?"

A voice cut into Ben's tale and startled, Dung looked up and stared into the face of a young wizard. He was certain he'd never seen him before, but somehow he still looked strangely familiar. He shot a quick glance at Ben, and saw to his surprise that the Muggleborn wizard's face had turned blank, as if he was pushing all emotions aside. Ben usually had an open and lively face, never afraid to show feelings - now, his face was polite and closed, and Dung immediately decided to pull up his guard.

"Of course, Leo," Ben offered the chair next to him. "We were just talking about your father."

"Yes, it's such a terrible loss for us all," the man said as he sat down on the chair, but the words sounded hollow coming from his lips. "I gather you will come to the wake? You are welcome as well, of course," he added and sent Dung a quizzical gaze, measuring him. Dung was apparently found to be uninteresting, because the man turned his attention back to Ben.

"I will," Ben replied with a polite nod. Leo watched the older wizard with a friendly smile that didn't reach his eyes, a patronising smile, a gesture of intimacy that became mocking in its insincerity. This young man had learned that the subordinates of Knockturn Alley should be treated with respect, but he had no respect to give them other than this cold little grin. It was so obvious it made Dung feel embarrassed on the wizard's behalf. The incongruency between the words and the body language grew to a void between them and the conversation faded and died.

"I've just seen to the arrangements with the barman," Leo continued, seemingly oblivious to the silence surrounding him. "It will take place here at the Cauldron, tomorrow." He stared at the deep red liquid of the wineglass in his hand, apparently absorbed in his own thoughts.

Dung waited, with more patience than he'd known he had in him, slowly letting his eyes scan the room in search of every little change that might manifest itself before him. The pictures behind the bar, the clothes of the guests around him, every tiny detail. He could spot none whatsoever, as though the only change were the guests' faces. Even old Tom looked different; his hair thick and brown and when he laughed he displayed a set of shining white teeth, so unlike the wrinkled, toothless face he was familiar with. What had happened to him to cause this drastic change?

Dung could only imagine, and given his knowledge of what awaited these people in the years to come, it made him shudder. He felt ill, the smell of beer made his stomach churn and the sounds in the room seemed to come from far away.

"You all right?" Ben was eyeing him. "You look a bit pale."

"Maybe some fresh air..." Suddenly, he got afraid he might pass out. The wizard next to Ben looked at him with a mix of curiosity and distaste.

"You need some air, mate. Come on." Giving young Wilkes a polite nod, he reached out his arm.

Dung accepted with a muttered 'thank you' and staggered out, leaning against Ben's solid shoulder. He stopped by the entrance to Muggle London for a moment and leaned against the wall, retching, but managed to keep everything down. "Sorry about that," Dung muttered as he stepped back into Diagon Alley where Ben waited for him.

"Ah, no bother, I wanted out anyway."

"Wilkes' son, eh?" Dung wiped sweat off his face with his hand. "Which one?"

"One of the twins," Ben replied, giving him another curious glance. "Leo and Marius; that was Leo as I'm sure you gathered. Cold fish."

"And the wake is tomorrow." They had finally reached Borgin and Burke's, and Dung's mind was working frantically. "Promise me something, Ben. Tomorrow, at the wake... Promise me you'll leave when night falls." The other man stared at him in astonishment. "Don't ask, just promise me. Leave when I tell you to."

*

Standing alone staring up the stairs, Dung realised he wouldn't make it up there by himself. Slowly he walked back into the Alley, and in the main entrance to the shop. Borgin emerged from inside a small room behind the counter, rubbing his hands with a stiff smile on his lips.

"Oh, it's you." The smile was dropped, and his usual frown came back. With a wave of his hand he invited Dung inside the room. Dung entered an office, neatly arranged like everything else in Borgin's flat. Shelves filled with dark magical items and books lined the walls, and his eyes lingered long by a glass jar; a human foetus, long progressed, swam in a light green liquid. For a second he was convinced the foetus moved to look at him, and considering the nature of the objects on the shelves that was not unlikely. Once more he could feel his stomach churn, and he averted his eyes. He sat down in the chair Borgin offered him, and tried to calm his body.

"A cup of tea, perhaps?"

"No, thanks. I don't...feel well."

"No, you look a bit pale." Borgin watched him, scrutinising, and then he decided to get to the point. "Have you thought about what you're going to do?"

"Not really." Dung moved restlessly in his chair, not wanting to think about his situation and not affording not to; he was cornered, and he hated the feeling. He took a deep breath before answering, to regain the control of his voice. "Dunno if contacting the Ministry would be a smart move, you know. I don't like people prying into my business."

They would ask questions. They would use Veritaserum. He knew these people. They would drag all he knew out of him; Voldemort, the Order, Dumbledore, Harry Potter - they would turn the whole world on its head, and he was not convinced that was a good idea. Then toss him aside when he was of no more use. Maybe even lock him up.

Dung had no illusions left when it came to Aurors, Hit-wizards and Ministry workers.

"Perhaps not be the best solution, no." Borgin got up from his seat and retrieved the timeturner from a drawer in his desk, carefully placing it on top of some papers decorating his desk. It had lain there since the attack, and Dung had unwillingly agreed. Borgin might be fiddling with dark magic, but he was no thief.

"But how could I travel in time?" Dung muttered, his voice sounding disheartened. "I don't understand..."

"It is an interesting issue," Borgin replied, eagerly leaning forward in his chair and pointing at Dung with his quill. "As I've come to understand it, time and place exists side by side, as France exists beside Britain. Time is but another dimension, nothing else. And it can do strange things to our perception of simultaneity; what events happens simultaneously are depending on one's velocity. Events that to you seems to happen in the past and in the future may seem to be happening simultaneously to me, because I see them from another velocity."

"What are you saying? That time doesn't exist?" Dung rubbed his temples; he was starting to get a headache.

"Of course time exists!" Borgin snapped back at him with an expression of impatience. "But the terms 'past' and 'future' are simply human inventions - all that exists is a constant present. Time is a distance that can be crossed, with the right remedy to do so. Like this little piece you have carried around in your pocket..."

"But why are the regulations on timetraveling so hard, then?"

"Bureaucracy," Borgin shrugged indifferently. "The Ministry wants to keep track of its citizens. Before the regulations, many dark wizards travelled through time in order to escape the law. Besides, I knew someone who went back to the fourteenth century and placed one Galleon in a vault in Gringotts, only to travel back and pick up a fortune in interests. How she managed to get back though, is beyond me," he added when he saw the light of hope flickering in Dung's eyes.

"You couldn't ask her?"

Borgin shook his head firmly. "She's dead. Basically, what has happened has happened, all the consequences of your actions have already taken place, and we will never know because it will neatly fall into its rightful place in what we know as continuity. See what I mean?"

"No. But...if I kept this thing, continued to play with it, I could go back to the time of the founders of Hogwarts? Or even further back, to the cavemen and dinosaurs?" He grinned from the idea - the possibilities were endless!

"Theoretically, yes," Borgin gave him a scrutinising gaze. "Why on earth you'd want to do that is beyond me, though."

"Oh, I have no such ideas, believe you me," Dung muttered, the smile disappearing from his face. He carefully placed the tiny object on the table before him, not wanting to touch it anymore. The mere sight of the innocent-looking item made him shudder. "I have a life, Stu. It's not much, but it's mine...it's all I've bloody got. And I want it back."

"I understand," Borgin muttered with an expression of unease, seemingly uncertain of how to put his thoughts into words. "Travelling with a Time Turner is not a complete journey, though...as it can't take you back. I am sorry, Fletcher. I truly am."

Dung turned his face away, not wanting to listen to the other man's condolences; somehow they made everything worse, ripping away the little hope he had managed to muster during the last days. He didn't want to know, didn't need to hear. But it was the truth; he could hear it in Borgin's voice

He had half expected someone to turn up by now, Dumbledore, anybody... They must have noticed his disappearance by now. Surely a powerful and magnificent wizard like Dumbledore would know the way out of this mess? Was he completely lost in time, with no means to contact anybody, or had they simply decided they could do without him? He could not believe that, the others perhaps, but not Dumbledore.

If he sought his old friend out... Dumbledore would be at Hogwarts now, as the Transfiguration teacher. Dung recalled him with fondness from his own days at the School of witchcraft and wizardry way back, or, as the case was, way ahead of him. Dumbledore would know what to do. The thought comforted him, and thankfully he grasped the straw he had been offered.

"But as the case stands," Borgin continued and broke the silence. "You no longer have any need for the Time Turner, and it's no secret to you that I wish to buy it. I gather you're in need of money? As I said, I'm not an unfair man, I'll give you a good price."

"I accept." Dung met his eyes calmly, and frowned when he saw the hungry look on Borgin's face. "You give me half the sum, and I deposit the rest here. I got to make a little trip, when I return it's yours. How much?"

Borgin's eyes narrowed, but obviously he decided not to make any objections now that he had the desired item within his reach. "Three hundred," he replied, his voice suddenly professional.

Dung snorted loudly. "You'll sell it for five times that much! Six."

To Borgin's dismay, Dung was a tough haggler; after twenty minutes they had landed on five hundred Galleons and a bottle of Firewhisky. "And I get to keep the room for as long as I need it. And there is something else."

"What?" Borgin's voice was short and irritated now. "You're pushing it, Fletcher..."

"We make a deal. I give you a tip, and you do me a favour."

Borgin gave him a wry smile. "You already know what I'm going to answer, don't you? That's why you're asking in the first place. Well, since I'm going to anyway, I might just agree straight ahead and save us both a lot of time."

"There's a lady who's going to come knocking at your door next summer, pregnant and lonely. She's going to need a place to live, and you'll give it to her. Her name's Tabitha Fletcher."

Comprehension dawned in Borgin's eyes; he nodded slowly and rested his head against the palm of his hand, watching Dung with an unreadable expression. "And in exchange...?"

Dung rubbed his eyes, feeling insecure about what he was doing. But it was fate, he told himself. It was the way it was supposed to be, if any of Borgin's words had been true. "Tomorrow, there's a wake in the Cauldron."

"I already know that," Borgin replied sharply.

"Go there and pay your respects. As soon as it gets dark, you leave. You got that? Don't even stop to tie your shoelaces on the way, go straight home." Borgin nodded. "The morning after you seek out Wilkes' widow. First thing in the morning - don't eat breakfast, don't read the Prophet, just go. When you see her, tell her you'll buy the block of flats, right above the bookshop. You know which one I mean?"

"Yes." There was a greedy expression on the other man's face that almost had Dung convinced he'd made a big mistake. But if it weren't Borgin, then it would be someone worse. It was fate, and who was he to challenge destiny?