Leaving Green Sleeves

Dung woke up around noon. For a long time he just lay there in bed, unsuccessfully trying to drift back to sleep, and in the end he got up. Feeling stiff and awkward, he approached the mirror by the wall. A razor was lying on the chest of drawers, next to a bowl of water and a bar of soap. Looking at himself in the mirror and letting his hand follow his week-old stubble, he decided to get a shave.

He had a wake to attend. He couldn't exactly claim to like the idea, but people would notice it if he didn't show up, and right now he needed all the good-will he could find. Besides, he had to be there to make sure his friends were all right. Confused, he shook his head - they would be fine, otherwise he would've known about it already. Irritated with himself, he started shaving, and stopped the mirror with a curt "shut up" when he noticed it preparing a line. It simply snorted and refrained from speaking, for which he was thankful. In silence, he found the black robes Borgin had given him, neatly stacked away in the wardrobe.

Borgin was sitting in his living room, next to the fireplace. The fire was always lit, no matter what season; Borgin's house was one of those that always seemed cold and the fire was the only thing that chased the shadows away and gave an illusion of warmth. Dung carefully sat down in the opposite chair. Borgin poured him a glass of wine, and sent him a calculating glance. "Your hair, Mr Fletcher."

"What about my hair?" Dung replied.

"It's long. Take off the robes, and I'll get the scissors."

Life is absurd, Dung thought to himself as he sat with a towel over his shoulders, feeling the cold steel touching the skin of his temple. Sipping the wine, he heard the dry sound of the scissors and saw locks of ginger hair falling down onto the towel. "Not too much," he muttered, and got a vague hum in reply.

Afterwards, Borgin collected all the hair and flung it into the fire. "Wouldn't want it to fall into the wrong hands, would we?"

*

Borgin excused himself, and Dung walked off to the Cauldron alone. The air seemed to stand still; the sky was heavy and deep grey - promising rain, perhaps even thunder and lightning. The perfect dramatic background for this evening's entertainment, Dung thought, frowning at the sky.

He met others along the way, wizards and witches dressed in their finest garments, off to pay Wilkes their last respects. They were people of all sorts: wealthy wizards with ermine-trimmed robes, working girls with white cloaks hiding their short skirts, dark wizards shrouded in long black cloaks that dragged along the ground and hoods to hide their faces. The richest and the poorest formed a solemn procession down Diagon Alley, and on the side of the street others stood with their hats in their hands, watching them without a word.

Never before had Diagon Alley been so quiet.

The queue started right inside the door and Dung let out an impatient sigh as he waited for the people to move further inside the house. From where he was standing it looked as though the pub had been split down the middle by a wall erected for this special occasion, dividing the room in two halves. On the right side, a small group of people was drinking their gillywaters and pints, doing what travellers always do in their inn; the left side swarmed with people, carrying their hats in their hands as their eyes were turned toward the centre of the room. There an open coffin stood, though from this angle Dung couldn't see the man inside.

The queue moved slow but steady toward the coffin and the four people beside it, a middle-aged woman sitting on a chair, holding a handkerchief to her face as if she was crying. Next to her Leo stood with his hand on his mother's shoulder for comfort, and on her other side a teenage boy stood, about fourteen or fifteen years old, looking at the crowd with an expression resembling fear on his face. But it was the man on Leo's other side that caught Dung's attention - he remembered this face.

It was the man in his foeglass.

Dung stared, but in the heat and the crowd no one noticed, least of all Marius Wilkes, who now shook the hand of a plump, little witch. Dung kept his head down, and slowly he approached the Wilkes family in the queue. Finally he stood in front of them. Marius, his alleged enemy, just send a brief glance in his direction before turning his attention to the next in line, a wizard who owned one of the little shops in the far end of Diagon Alley. In stead it was his brother Leo who shook Dung's hand.

"Condolences," he muttered and got a stiff "Thank you" back. Dung sent the boy a little smile as he passed, but the boy kept his eyes on the floor and didn't raise his head to look at him.

With a sigh of relief, Dung walked past the coffin and took a peek at the man inside. He'd never liked the sight of dead bodies and so far he'd been spared to see them that often, but this time his curiosity made him do it. Old Wilkes looked like a mannequin where he lay, like a modelled head over a body filled with straw. For a brief second he thought he saw a motion in the man's face, and an irrational fear filled him - what if the man suddenly sat up, grinning, reaching out for him...? Dung shuddered.

In a corner he found Ben, who'd been there since the pub opened and now was completely plastered. With much pathos he told the stories of Wilkes' great deeds to those who would buy him a beer, and they were many this day. Ben didn't appear to have seen him, so Dung simply conjured a chair and sat next to him.

"And as I opened the door, the blood actually trickled over the doorstep and ran inside the room," Ben said, his eyes shiny as he recalled the events of a long gone morning. " I would've fallen on the slippery stairs if I hadn't been holding the banister. I had to bow down as I left the building - the carcasses hung across the doorway. I always thought werewolves changed back - most of them do, but not all."

"Perhaps it depends on how they're killed," a young woman replied after taking a sip of her mulled wine. "If you kill them with silver they change back, everybody knows that."

"This one was strung up to bleed to death," Ben continued, "And it didn't change back. It was pretty nasty, I can tell you. Five of them were taken that night - Carnage Night they called it, for years to come. He took their skins, of course - he told me once that each full moon the furs changed their colour, from matted grey and black to almost silver. He also wore a tooth around his neck, and had to take it off during the full moon, because it scratched him." He gave a repulsed snort.

"Why would anyone want to wear something like that?" the witch responded. "He did have a mean streak, old Wilkes...but I suppose you have to, living in a place like that. No offence, Ben."

"None taken. But you kids, you don't know what it was like back then. It was madness." Ben shook his head. "My glass is empty. Could any of you...?"

Dung turned his head to the door, and saw Borgin entering the pub. It was easier to breathe in here now, as many of the visitors had taken off after saying their respects, but Borgin seemed extremely uncomfortable in his well-pressed robes of velvet and silk. He shook hands with both Marius and Leo, and offered a few words of comfort to the widow who took his hand in hers and held it tight. Then, after bowing to the coffin, he walked over to one of the tables. The two men who sat there took their drinks and left the table, nodding to Borgin while doing so. Borgin sat down and continued to look slightly repulsed by the crowd as he let his eyes search through it.

Dung picked up a pint and a glass of red wine, and sat down by Borgin's table. "'I won't stay long," Borgin muttered to him as he reached for the glass. "I never was too fond of crowds."

"I know."

A frown appeared on Borgin's face. "Yes, I suppose you do. Is there anything you don't know?" His voice had taken on a sharp edge to it, and the dark eyes scrutinised him. Then Borgin appeared to try and pull himself together, and as he watched the crying widow he added in a lighter tone, "It feels quite uncomfortable not knowing how you perceive me, that's all."

"I'm sitting here, aren't I?" Dung shot back. "Relax, Stu, for Merlin's sake." His voice was tired, and he let his index finger trace a swirling pattern on the condensed water on the glass of his pint. From the corner of his eye he saw Borgin looking back at him, opening his mouth to speak but then closing it again, as though embarrassed from his little outburst.

"I think we should..." Borgin started, hesitating, but was cut off when Dung let out a gasp. "What's the matter? Are you ill?"

"It's him!" Dung rose from the table so fast that his pint spilled all over the table.

Swearing, Borgin lifted his arm from the tabletop and looked at his wet sleeve with distaste. "Do you know what these cost me...?" Then he too saw the tall wizard dressed in robes of deep purple, shaking hands with Wilkes' widow, and his mouth drew into a thin line. "So, it's like that, is it?"

Dung didn't have time for Borgin's feelings right now; muttering a brief excuse to his landlord he left the table and set course against the mourning family. The tall wizard with the auburn hair - now heavily sprinkled with silver - walked toward the exit and was gone. "Albus!" he yelled, and immediately five dozen pair of eyes were on him. Marius Wilkes gave him a stare that made Dung's stomach churn, but bowing his head he pushed his way toward the exit. This could be his way out, his ticket home...

"Albus!"

The cool evening breeze played with his unfamiliar short hair as he stood in the doorway, looking out. It was still quiet outside, only a few people going about their business as usual. No sign of any purple robes. "Dumbledore!" Dung yelled of all his might across Diagon Alley. "I want to talk to you!"

The people turned and stared; a young girl laughed somewhere in the distance, but no Albus. Sighing deeply, Dung sat down outside the pub and rested his head against the wall. "Fuck..."

For a long time he just sat there with his eyes closed, cursing and promising himself to Apparate to Hogwarts as soon as possible - already the next morning, if he didn't have a too bad hangover. "Albus, you miserable old fart. Why do you always have to be so friggin' busy...?"

The sun was sinking down in the west. The last warm rays of sun warmed his cheek and inside the pub someone started singing, a slow song, low, but somehow loud enough to fill the whole inn. It was peaceful, and it lulled him into a contented

"What are you doing?"

The voice was soft, as though she didn't want to interrupt the delicate song from inside. Drowsy, he opened his eyes and saw his young nameless friend from the previous nights. Her long blonde hair was tied back and she wore a dark green dress that looked brand new. Blushing, she looked down on the ground as she smoothened out an imaginary wrinkle in her dress.

"Who but my lady greensleeves," Dung muttered with a smile.

"It was a gift from a friend," she replied with a shrug. "Why are you sitting out here? You're ruining your robes."

"Just keeping the birds company." With less grace than he could have wished for he got on his feet and brushed off the dusty robes. "What about you, then?"

"I've come to see the old man off." Once more she let her hand straighten out a fold that wasn't there and she sent a glance at the door, looking uncertain of whether she should enter or not. "How do I look?"

"You look fine. Want me to go in with you?"

"No." She shook her head. "I'll go first. You don't mind?" Her voice was polite and friendly, but unyielding - she would go first, and that would be the end of the discussion.

He stuffed his pipe instead, and smoked as he watched the sun set. Then he too entered the pub once more. Borgin was nowhere to be seen so Dung assumed he'd Apparated back to his flat, and Nameless too had mysteriously disappeared. In his corner Ben rested his head against his arms and snored lightly while the crowd kept on talking around him, not minding the drunken man at all. The voices were louder now that people had finished many rounds of alcohol, and there were no chairs available, so Dung quietly went behind the wall and into the right section of the room.

This room too had become rather crowded now, as many of the guests from the wake had slipped over to the other side for a bite of food and a quiet discussion. Dung sat down by the bar and ordered toast and a cup of tea from Tom, who looked tired and worn out after a long day's work.

Dung couldn't free himself from the unease. Ever since he'd been a boy he'd heard stories about the disaster of Wilkes' wake, although he'd never quite understood what really happened. It seemed to him sometimes that no one really knew what had actually happened that night. This night. Some said it had been Grindelwald, risen from the dead to avenge his miserable demise five years earlier. Others claimed it had been a dragon, crawled out from the walls of Knockturn Alley where Wilkes were said to have imprisoned it half a decade before - now that the old man was dead, it had forced its way through spells and stone, hungry for the blood of the man who'd placed it there.

No matter what it was, it had left Diagon Alley in shock and horror. A wake was something holy; not even in times of war had anyone dared to break the peace of the wake. It was old wizard custom, held in higher esteem than even a wizard's debt. And now he was waiting, watching the clock on the other side of the bar, seeing the pointers move slowly toward midnight, toward destruction.

Although he knew he'd be relatively safe on this side of the wall he found himself sweating; he took off the uncomfortable robes and hung them over the back of his stool. As he stared into the liquid inside the cup, all voices around him seemed to fade to be replaced by a soft murmur, rising and falling like a wave.

It's pretty hard to prepare yourself when you don't know what's coming. He couldn't put his finger on it at first - it was as if the pressure in the air dropped, and for a second he felt light-headed and dizzy. Rubbing his eyes he pulled himself together and turned around on the stool to look at the other guests. The murmur of voices had stopped. People were staring out into the air, their expressions confused or irritated.

One elderly man rose from his chair, scratching his throat frantically and gasping for air. "Help me, I can't breathe!" he hissed in a strange, choked voice...but no one reached out to him. Dung too watched him in a sort of mesmerised haze, unable to move.

The air turned alive around him. He couldn't explain it any other way - it vibrated, it twisted and turned as if it tried to escape some unseen presence in the room. The vibrations changed and grew deeper until it felt like his head was about to cave in. The pain was sharp, like being cut with a razor, and he pressed his hands against his ears, trying to shut it out. He screamed, or at least thought he did...he couldn't hear his own voice anymore, just this insane booming sound in his head.

Then the whole world shook, and Dung fought to keep his balance on the tall stool but fell on his back between the bar and the other stools. Shielding his head with his arms, he curled up on the floor. This was it; he was going to die here, alone and miserable on the dusty floor.

With a strong feeling of deja vu, Dung Fletcher resigned to his fate for the second time in four days.

The piercing sound faded out, to be replaced by a ringing tone in his left ear. There was nothing but silence around him for a long time. He dared to open his eyes, slow, hesitant, not knowing what to expect. There were other people on the floor, staring at each other in fear. The opening into the other room was dark, and dust - or was it ashes? - poured into the room and stung in Dung's eyes. The crackling sound of flames was heard.

A loud wail rose from the room behind the wall, and a tall man stumbled out of the opening and leaned heavily against the wall, bending over and coughing as though he was sick. The man stood up again and spit on the floor, swearing loudly.

"What the hell?" Dung burst out as he took a hold of one of the stools and pulled himself up.

Pug Pommeroy turned his face toward him and stared at him with his mouth open. Then he wiped the dust off his face with his sleeve and coughed. "'Lo, Dung," he muttered. "We've come to take you home."