Three Animagi and a Werewolf

Three Animagi and a Werewolf, Chapter 4: Prongs

Bridget's Escape

Bridget pushed open the door and peered out anxiously into the hallway. She listened intently, her ears picking up every tiniest sound and enlarging it, until it became a threatening noise in her mind. Yet she was sure - as sure as she could be - that there was no one in the house except her at this moment. He had gone out as planned.

She picked up her rose-patterned hold-all and placed a hand to her middle. Here rested the only good that had ever come of her relationship with that ... that odious man. Sometimes she wondered how she had ever been able to let herself be blinded by someone so evil. Why hadn't she seen what he was before she married him? Surely, his choice of best man should have shown her ... Perhaps her father and her friends had been right, after all. Maybe she was too young to know what was good for her.

Well, she had made her bed, but she was resolved not to remain lying on it any longer. She hated breaking the solemn vow she had made in church, but no way could she let her child grow up with such a father. She had to keep it safe, away from this monster. Luckily, she hadn't been forced to let him know yet that she was pregnant, it wasn't that obvious yet, otherwise ...

No, it didn't bear thinking about. She had to get away, and quickly, before he came back.

One rainy evening about two months later, Mrs. Hilda Hammersmith of Cheapside, London, was startled to find the slumped figure of a young girl dressed in a shabby-looking cloak on her doorstep when she came home from a very pleasant visit to her friend Maureen Dodd, who lived just around the corner.

"Really," she thought, automatically jumping to the conclusion that the girl must have had too much to drink, "young people nowadays have no decorum."

"Excuse me," she said out loud in a haughty voice.

The girl jumped and struggled to her feet, holding her stomach and clutching a large bag to her. The light from a street lamp fell on her face, pale and beaded with sweat. Her brown curls hung limp with rainwater, sticking to her hollow cheeks, and a pair of large brown eyes turned away. She stumbled on the steps, and Mrs. Hammersmith's heart immediately went out to her.

Disapprove of these young girls who had no sense of dress, nor seemingly of survival, she may - they drank like men in a pub on Saturday nights, and even took drugs, so she'd heard. But she liked to think of herself as a good Christian, and therefore considered it her solemn duty to aid those in need. And never since the War had she seen a young person in as much need as this girl. She was obviously pregnant, and all alone in the world on a wet and windy night in London. Why, she hadn't even an umbrella!

"Steady there," she said, taking the girl's arm and guiding her back under the roof of the building.

"You shouldn't be walking out there in the rain alone like this. Let me call you a cab."

"No," the girl answered in a weak voice, staggering back against the wall. "Thank you."

"But - then at least let me ring your husband for you, so he can fetch you home."

"No!"

The young girl seemed to come to her senses for a moment.

"No, not that," she begged, with a hard grip on the old lady's arm.

"Please, you mustn't tell him where I am," she insisted, a wild look in her eyes. "He mustn't find me, or the child. You - you won't tell him where I am, will you?"

"Very well," Mrs. Hammersmith agreed reluctantly. "But there must be someone else. Your parents, friends ..."

The girl hesitated a moment. Her father. There was her father. But no, she decided. He had renounced her when she had chosen to marry the man, against his advice. Relaxing a little and leaning once more against the wall, she answered resignedly,

"No. No parents. No friends. No one." She gave a subdued sob. "I had better go."

"Oh no, you don't," Mrs. Hammersmith objected, catching hold of her arm and unlocking the front door.

"You're coming indoors with me, until we can find a place to put you. You're wet and feverish, you shouldn't go walking out in this rain in your condition. Come on."

Too weak to protest, the girl allowed herself to be dragged indoors and up to a flat on the fifth floor. She would remember little of the rest of that night, or the days that followed. By the time she opened her eyes and became aware of her surroundings, it was the following Saturday.

Bridget blinked. A ray of sunlight was shining onto the bed through a rain-splattered window. She looked around her at the unfamiliar room. A small clock stood ticking on the bedside table. It was 9 a.m. Where was she? She could hardly remember anything since she had left her husband's house. It had been an endless stream of days slipping into one another, one as full of worry as the next, always turning, always looking over her shoulder, half-expecting him to be standing there, come to take her back, and make her pay for trying to leave him. Oh, and how he would make her pay, if ever he found her!

She heard footsteps outside the room, and presently the door was pushed open slowly, and an elderly woman came in, dressed in a tweed suit, with round, horn-rimmed glasses on her straight nose and a dab of grey hair on her head.

"Good morning," said the strange woman.

"G-good morning," Bridget stammered.

"I am Mrs. Hammersmith," the lady went on, sitting on the edge of the bed. "And you?" she asked, smiling.

"My name is Bridget," came the hesitant reply. "Bridget Potter."

Yes, that was the name she would use. Her mother's maiden name. Surely he wouldn't think of her using that. She had left her husband and his name behind her, though she suspected that the old lady guessed she was not being entirely forthright.

"And how are you this morning?"

"Much better, thank you. I am sure I am greatly indebted to you, though I must confess I have no memory of how I got here."

"I should think not," Hilda Hammersmith chuckled. "You have been in a fever for several days.

"A fever? Oh no, I ..."

She stared helplessly, but the old lady, seeming to guess her fears, smiled reassuringly.

"Don't worry. The doctor says the baby is quite well."

Bridget sighed with relief, and at last gave a small smile herself.

"I am even more deeply indebted to you than I realised, Mrs. Hammersmith. I wish I knew how I could repay you. I fear I haven't a penny to my name."

"I never thought you would have, my dear," Mrs. Hammersmith replied. "Now don't fret. You've been very ill this past week, and you must regain your strength. You can stay here for the time being. I have always regretted leaving this room empty. Spare bedrooms are so rarely needed in a London flat, and as I never had any children of my own ... Well, you're welcome to stay, if you want."

"Thank you," said Bridget. "That is very kind of you."

Friday's Child

Bridget stayed living with Mrs. Hammersmith for quite some time. She had nowhere else to go, and could hardly go job-seeking in the muggle world with a fatherless child on the way. But living with the old lady had its own dangers, for Bridget was determined that on no account must she discover anything unusual about her tenant.

Her baby boy was born one Friday late in June. Mrs. Hammersmith took to the child uncommonly. Her enthusiasm for his tiny fingers and the little gurgling noises he made was, however, nothing like what Bridget felt.

Often she would sit cradling him in her arms, just watching his face while he slept peacefully, secure and unaware of any dangers in the world around him. In his mother's eyes, he was the most gorgeous thing that ever breathed, and as he grew to a toddler and then a young boy, she found that while he had inherited his father's thick black hair, he thankfully bore far more of a resemblance to her own father in his nature.

When her son was a year old, Bridget decided it was time to move out. She had intruded too long on the kind hospitality of Mrs. Hammersmith, and she feared that a growing wizard might have strange accidents about the place that could not be explained away. So, when a flat became vacant on a higher floor of the same building, she and the little one moved there, and a very happy flat it became, for the boy loved his mother just as much as she loved him, and he gave friendship and good humour to everyone he met. He was affectionate and good, in his heart if not always in his actions, for there was nothing he loved better than to play pranks on their fellow tenants.

On many such occasions, Mrs. Hammersmith was his victim, but she only laughed with him at the childish tricks he played on her.

"You have a fine boy there, my dear," she said once to Bridget, "and a good man he'll be when he grows up. Friday's child, he is for sure, and you know what they say, don't you?"

Bridget turned a politely enquiring face to her.

"Friday's child is loving and giving," said Mrs. Hammersmith.

Bridget smiled proudly. Yes, that described her boy.

Off to School

James Potter ran down the stairs of the inconspicuous block of London flats and came to an abrupt halt just before he collided with Mrs. Hammersmith, coming up the stairs from the fourth floor.

"Oh, sorry," he panted.

The old lady chuckled.

"That's all right, my lad. I wonder what can have got into you though? You look like there's someone after you."

James shoved his glasses back up his nose and grinned.

"Not yet, Mrs. Hammersmith. But I reckon there will be if I don't hurry up and get outside. Mum's going to be furious with me if I make us late."

"Well, better run along then, boy. You start your new school tomorrow, don't you? Where was it you're going again?" she asked slyly.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hammersmith," he said evasively. "I really must dash."

As he hurried down the last flights of stairs, trying but failing as usual to make his straggly black hair lay flat in the process, James secretly thanked his lucky stars that he had managed, once again, to avoid telling the old lady what school he was going to this summer without appearing too impolite.

And he really couldn't tell her, though she was a nice old lady, and he had known her all his life and was very fond of her. But she was still a muggle, and that meant you couldn't casually answer her with "I'm going to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry". He felt like shouting for joy just thinking about it. Hogwarts! He had been thrilled when his letter had arrived. His mother had glowed with pride, and now they were off to Diagon Alley to buy his things: two sets of black robes, a cauldron, books - and his very own wand. He raced out into the street with a broad grin fixed on his face.

"Ah, there you are," his mother said. "I thought you were never coming."

"You're joking, Mum!" he laughed.

His mother hailed a cab, and soon they were crawling along in the London traffic, headed for a place the driver didn't even know existed.

The Leaky Cauldron. James had been here before, but it still fascinated him every time. Having spent all his life living in a muggle-style flat with his mother, he found it a rare treat to see so many un-muggle people assembled in one place. As usual, it was crowded with wizards and witches of all sizes and descriptions. Wizards with tall hats, witches with ribboned bonnets. Wizards with bowlers, witches with tall pointed affairs on their heads. There was even the odd hag and goblin about today.

James and his mother walked right through and out the back door. They found themselves in a small backyard, and his mother took out her wand and tapped the bricks. The wall gave way, and the next instant they were in Diagon Alley.

It was like something out of an old Dickens tale. Houses of all shapes and sizes stood crammed side by side into a narrow street, and there were people everywhere, chattering and nattering, bustling to and fro, pushing and jostling to peer into shop windows. There was a screeching of owls and a humming of birds, not to mention a strange kind of music in the air. James's mother took hold of his arm, and they made their way through the crowds to a tall, white building on the corner - about the only building that didn't look completely crooked. Gringotts, the wizard bank.

James stared up at the goblins behind the long counter. He wondered briefly why such small creatures insisted on having such high desks, but when he and his mother approached one of them, and a hook-nosed, shrivelled face peered over the top of it sternly, James understood that it was probably to make them appear more awe-inspiring and mean. Not that they needed it, in his opinion. Ugly little blighters.

His mother named the vault they wanted, and soon they were leaving the bank again, the knuts and sickles and galleons tinkling in their pockets and James's stomach feeling a bit like he'd been eating too many ice-creams. Really, those carts that took you down to the vaults were much too fast.

"Well, dear," his mother said, drawing him aside and lifting his hand palm upwards to place some coins in it. "This should be enough for your robes. Madam Malkin's is right over there."

She pointed.

"Now, I'll go and buy your books for you. You go and get your robes. Just tell them you're for Hogwarts, they'll know what you need. I'll meet you in there. All right?"

"Sure, Mum."

James stuffed the money in the pocket of his jeans and strolled along the alley, feeling completely content.

He entered Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions with a light step and was immediately greeted by a friendly witch with bright cheeks and a full figure.

"Good morning, dear. Hogwarts, is it?" she said.

James nodded.

"This way, please."

She led him to the back of the shop. There was another boy there, taller than James, with black hair and a devious look in his bright eyes. The assistant stood James on a small pedestal.

"Hi," the boy said.

"Hello," said James.

"Come for your Hogwarts robes?" the other asked him.

"Yes. Is this your first year at Hogwarts too?"

"Yep. I'm Sirius. Sirius Black."

The other boy grinned broadly. It was an open, inviting smile, full of mischief, but also very charming.

"James Potter."

"Well, James," said Sirius, paying the witch who had served him, "Got to go and get my books now. See you tomorrow, on the Hogwarts Express?"

"Sure," James answered, feeling somehow that he'd found a friend already. "Bye."