Banish Misfortune

"Jeh neh says pahs."

"Eh?"

"It's all the French I know."

"Oh." She blushed. "Very...very good."

"No. I'm not stupid. I know I'm crap."

"You're not-"

"No. Anyway, I'll be off once I clean up a bit."

"Really, George-" Again the softened 'g's.

"No. I'm enough rubbish without matted hair and a half-arsed beard."

"Have whatever you want from the kitchen, George," said Bill, passing him the razor as they passed in the hall.

"Anything?" smirked George. "Even for a drunk?"

"What?"

"Nothing. Just nothing. I don't eat anymore."

/

dEAR bOy

I see your fAce. do you seemine? I waiT for YOU. do uyo wait for mE?

I know your mother's last woRDS. do you? no, youdon't.

i kNow your father 's last wordsss. do yuo? no, of course not

i willcome for YOU. wait, boy. beagoodboy.

I hear yuro voiceee. I know

you hearmine.

dontdieboy. I willcome. youwillsee.

DEar Boy,

write me a ppeom poem bbbboooy

about yourmother yOurfather

letme seE youRR pain on pAPerrr

i willcome

youwillsee

youwill

die

deaRR byo

iknow yUo. BOY. youwilldie a BOY unlessss

imake you aMan

od you want to be aMan?

yyes bot bor boyy

monkshood is wolfsbane is aconite is drug is aconite is wolfsbane is monkshood is wolfsbane is aconite is drug is aconite is wolfsbane is monlkshoodd is wollfsbane iss aconte is drug is aconite is drug is drug is drug is drug is dead is death is me is now is good is me is boy

is

drug

is

man

is

sebun

se

sebunteen

/

I leave the house clean. I smell like soap, but my coat is still vomit. I don't care. I walk. Not apparate. It is silent. Silent. Silent night? No. No night. No cold. Just quiet.

I walk and I am at her house. Not house. How? Did I know. I don't know. It is hers. He is hers. He is mines. Mine am hers.

I knock. She comes. Hallo. Have you eaten? No. Come in? Yes. Are you all right? Of course. I am dead.

I eat her bread. I ask for wine, but she laughs. Coffee is worse, but I drink it. I am hers.

Her house, her flat, her roof is quiet. Silent. Silent. Sucha quiet. No-one home but us. I am hers.

More toast? No. An egg? No. A kiss? Yes.

Her mouth is warm. I taste blood, cracked lips. Mine or hers? Mine is hers. I feel sick. Will vomit. This is why coat smells. I do. Not on coat. Not on her. Sink. On dishes. Wine glasses I see. Where is wine? I wipe my, her, mouth. Water in and all clean. Kiss again? Yes, please. Mine is hers. I am hers. I am dead. She is dead. Together. On a bed. That smells like air. No air. Where is shit, shirt? No matter.

She is his. He is mines. Hers is mines? Did he? Do I? Too late. Does she know? Does I? Where. What.

Not clean now. Can I shower, can I shave? She asks me why. I am dirty. She is dirty. Hers is mines, dirt and sweat.

Will I stay? I am dead. What? She is dead. She cries. I cries, but do not show. I broke his. His toy? No. His. Broken. Mine broken.

I remember. Hargid, hagrid gone. Woman brings horses but not. What is word? Unicorn. Didn't like me anyway.

I lay in her bath with no water, no shirt, no nothing. The white is cold against my skin. I shiver all over. Silent. Cold. White. Christmas.

The tub is too small. I can-not drown. I get out and find my top, my bottoms. Dressed, I brush my hair, I slap my cheeks. I stick my head in sink and am wet. A towel, I am dry. I am broken. Throw me away. I am dead.

I remember the Aubrey and I am alone. In her bathroom. In her house, flat, roof.

I see grey in the ginger. I am over.

/

Shouldn't seventeen be something more? Small, looking up, it had been wonderful. It had been tall and handsome and clever. But from this side it was the same as always. Same Neville, only closer to death.

He examined himself slowly. A small cut ran for about an inch along his forearm. It was thin and delicate, almost too small to scab, but the the clotted blood was there, a pale line amid paler flesh and sparse, dark, disordered hair. Pink around the edges. Sore when he touched it. But how? He didn't remember. A bruise on his knee as well, yellow and sickly brown. A pale scar on his other arm, next to a mole, below a pinprink freckle. A small scar on his knuckle, he remember there since childhood. But these? Where and when? He couldn't remember. He never remembered.

He didn't want to.

A dog-eared copy of a book in his hands, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. The name inside the cover was no longer his. There it was large and round and crooked. Now his handwriting was tight, tentative, straight. Her was stretched and scrawling. No, not her. Don't remember.

He looked up things he knew by heart. It was comforting. They never changed. Wolfsbane, monkshood, aconite. The same since the very first day.

He heard a roar from out the window. Someone had scored. Gryffindor. They all cheered for Gryffindor, but only Slytherin cheered for Slytherin. Gryffindor would win. Gryffindor always wins. Good over evil, but not. She was evil, but must not think.

He could go, he thought, and see the end. But would anyone miss him? Yes, perhaps. But he didn't care anymore.

In his trunk there was a box. A box with special things, a special box. Cheap metal, bent into a treasure chest, painted blue and red and gold. Paint chipping though, the tin showing through. He had found it in the room that was always closed. It was his treasure now.

He took it out and opened it. Each thing was precious. A twig of a tree. A popped balloon. A broken pin. Tiny bits of paper. Trash, but not. A plastic gem. A dried up pen. A book on ancient Greece, green binding dissolving. Now the dog-eared book was back on top. His special things, his special box. Back in the trunk, wrapped in old robes, sealed with tired dreams.

He could go, he thought again. There was still time. But no.

Now he took his pocket money, birthday money, Christmas money and dumped it onto his bed. He counted it exactly and slid it all into a pouch and then into his pocket. But first he held the cool metal until it turned warm with his touch and made his fingers smell of metallic age. He hated that smell when he was small, when his fingers were always to his face, middle and forefinger between his lips. He hated it still. He washed his hands with soap and then boiling water to take away the smell of the soap. Sensitive to smells, even though his nose was nearly always clogged with allergies or cold. Soil smelled good, of life and growth, but this metal smell was sick filth. Sick filth. Vomit and death.

/

"Get off your arse, you prat!" called a voice banging on a door. Where? "I'll blow the hinges off!"

He grunted.

"Open up! I know you're there!"

"Shut it, sonofabitch. Be a pal and let me wallow."

"I'm not leaving."

"Fine." He grunted again and pulled himself off the floor. A old friend peered through the window, and he let him in.

"It's nearly noon."

"I know."

"Then why were you still sleeping? Don't tell me you went out again...."

"I heard about you, bloody snitch."

"Yeah, I told your mum, but only 'cause I'm afraid you'll end up in a ditch somewhere. Besides, you know how she is."

"Yeah. Still."

"Where were you then. I came around last night."

"My brother's."

"Which one?"

"Bill, you ass. Slept on his couch."

"Then why were you passed out on the floor a minute ago."

George snorted. "I was not passed out. I was thinking."

"Yeah? About what?"

"About trying to bum a fiver off you when you decided to show up."

"I'm not your mother."

"Yeah. You just come around every day 'cause I'm such lovely company."

"I come around because I'm worried about you because I'm your friend."

He snorted again.

"You're such a git, George. But you're my friend. And I miss him too."

"Shut it about him. We're not on speaking terms anymore."

Lee picked up a bundle laying on the ground. "Your coat smells like shit."

"No. Vomit, not shit."

"Whatever. You need to clean this."

"I've grown attached to the smell."

"You would." He tossed the coat across the room. "Bill married the French girl, right?"

"Yeah. They've got a kid now. Named Aubrey Ebenezer."

"What the hell?"

"Bill's idea, but I made it permanent apparently."

"Nice job. The kid'll hate you for life."

"So? I hate myself. At least I'll have company."

"You're such a bastard sometimes."

He was silent for a moment, thinking, but then, "I saw her this morning."

"Who?"

"Angelina. She came round the other day, and I went to see her."

"And?"

"And I think I'll kill myself."

"George-"

"No. I'm serious. I'm so tired and so sick of it. I'm sick of myself."

"How is she?"

"Fine." He turned to the window. "No. Not fine."

"Taking it badly?"

"I killed her, Lee. I killed her too."

"Stop screwing around."

"I can't. I didn't mean to. I did."

"Did what?"

"No. Never mind. Go home Lee."

"No. You'll just go out again."

"I can't. No money, see?" He turned out the pockets of his slacks. "Unless you lend me a fiver."

"You'll find a way."

"Fine. You're right. I will. But a fiver'd make it easier."

"Damn you." He fumbled in his pocket. "Where'd you get 'fiver' anyway? The don't make wizard fivers."

"Harry, I think. It sounded nice."

"If you die, Molly'll kill me." He handed over some coins.

"Good. More company then."

/