This & That

*
Chapter 01
Ash Wednesday

"Rows and rows of disused milk floats stand dying in the dairy yard
And a hundred lonely housewives clutch empty milk bottles to their hearts
Hanging out their old love letters on the line to dry
It's enough to make you stop believing when tears come fast and furious
In a town called malice." 
- The Jam, Town Called Malice

*
4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey - 10:45am GMT, Saturday 8th July, 1995 

Harry Potter, the famous boy who lived, the boy with the lightning shaped scar, sat in one of the living room sofas attempting to block out the scolding from his Aunt Petunia. It was not the first or second time that she had got angry with him that summer. Petunia looked at Harry angrily with her face screwed up in rage. 

“How many times,” she screeched. “Have I told you to not let that thing into this house?”

“But Aunt Petunia, Hedwig only comes into my room,” protested Harry. 

“That owl flies around the house as if it owns the place! Do you realise that the other day, I found vermin under the kitchen table. A rat. Do you have any idea of what sorts of diseases they carry? Our food could have been infected with some sort of germs that could have killed us! I will no longer tolerate having that bird flying in and out of the house as it pleases, dropping all kinds of plague ridden things everywhere,” she looked positively murderous. “And I flat-out refuse to hoover your room! I'm sick and tired of having to sift through all those dead creatures by the window sill and your school books that have all that magic nonsense in them. If you want to sleep in a room with infected corpses that will eventually become the death of you, then that's fine by me. Just don't come running to me, expecting me to pick up after you, I'm not your maid and I'm certainly not a mortician.”

He sighed. “Hedwig wouldn't eat rats with disease. She wouldn’t even peck at them with a ten foot pole. You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he explained slowly. 

Petunia's nostrils flared. “Do you think I like having to clean up all those dead things?”

Harry shook his head slowly. As much as he wanted to say yes, the desire to still have a head stopped him from doing so. 

She glared at him. “Keep that bird under control, Harry,” she warned. “Or else you won’t have one anymore.”

Harry gulped nervously. It may have been only two years since he walked out on the Dursley’s during Aunt Marge's visit, and it may have been barely a year since he stood up to his Uncle Vernon and let the Weasley’s burst through the fireplace, but this was different, his aunt was scary. “Yes Aunt Petunia,” he murmured.

“Now, go into the garden and make yourself useful for a change.” 

He sighed, she may be scary, but he could protest to some things. “But I’ve been doing the garden work ever since I’ve come back from Hogw- I mean, school.” 

“Do I look like I care?” shrieked his aunt. “Just get out there and do something!” 

Harry bit his lip. “What do you want me to do, then? I’ve done practically everything.”

Petunia’s eyes widened angrily, if she could’ve spouted fire from her mouth, she would have. “Just go and prune something,” she said loudly. “Water something, weed something or cut something. I don’t care what you do, just don’t come back in here until dinner!”

“I can do anything?” said Harry, taking in what he had thought he heard. 

His aunt looked at him shrewdly. “Within reason, I don’t want to have to bail you out of prison or anything like that.” 

“You mean I could go into town?” he asked. 

Petunia looked at him as if he were mad, but Harry could tell that she was carefully thinking about this. If she let Harry go into town, then she’d be without him for the entire day - and that would be bliss. But he could also get up to some trouble, and the last thing she needed was for the gossip to be about her delinquent of a nephew. Or even worse, he could have fun. 

“All right,” she said sourly. “As long as you don’t do anything wrong, because I’m warning you, Harry, if you do anything remotely horrible, I’ll kill you.”

Harry looked appraisingly at his aunt, she probably would kill him if he did anything to tarnish her record. “Thanks,” he said uncertainly, backing out towards the front door. “I’ll be back before five.”

She nodded. “Five thirty,” she said. He waved meekly as put his hand on the handle.

“Er, see you later,” he said.

Petunia felt something odd ripple through her and she raised a hand to stop him. “Hang on a moment,” she said. Harry stood frozen on the spot, dreading that she might remember that the house needed painting - he always thought that she enjoyed forcing him to do work that tradespeople should really do. She put her hand in her pocket and took out a ten pound note and handed it to him, Harry noticed her hand was shaking slightly. “This is for you to use,” she said quickly. “Don't buy any drugs or alcohol or, urgh, girls with it. You can do anything else with it though. Consider it fourteen years worth of pocket money.”

He looked at the note in his hand then back at his aunt. Suddenly, Harry got the feeling that his aunt was trying to be, dare he think it, nice to him. “ER, thanks,” he stammered and walked out the door before he could say anything else. He walked down the pavement and breathed deeply. For the first time in Little Whinging, he felt good. 

*

Inside the house, Petunia gazed at the door that had just shut, taking her nephew outside. She fiddled with the locket she had around her neck, thinking hard. She breathed slowly, trying not to let those bothersome tear ducts burst.

“I hate you Lily,” she said through gritted teeth up at the ceiling, as she walked upstairs. “I really do.”

Almost as if in reply, a breeze groaned through the house. Petunia purposely ignored it as she opened the door to Harry’s bedroom. She scanned along the shelving that was littered with broken toys and gifts that had been long forgotten by Dudley.

The old television, a cage that had once held Horatio the Parrot, books that had never been opened, the model aeroplane that only had one wing, more books, Dudley’s first photo album... 

Petunia squinted for the box that she was looking for. It was a Reeboks shoe box, and it had scrawled on the side, “Old Things.” She looked among the piles of boxes, all of which were on the verge of toppling off the shelf. And then she found it, right underneath the small box that once contained a Nintendo Game&Watch that had possessed the game in which there was a building engulfed in flames and the firemen down below waiting to catch the tiny people who were escaping.

Carefully, she took out the box and opened it. She flinched slightly as she saw what it contained; photos of her, her parents and her sister. They weren’t moving, thank goodness for that, unlike some of the photos that Lily had had, but they still looked as if they were alive. Petunia flipped over one of the photos and read the back. It was in her fathers untidy hand, reading, “My three girls - Petunia, Isabel and Lily, Ibiza, June ‘70.” Sighing, she painfully remembered that holiday. It was the last holiday before she began to despise, no, hate her sister.

She sighed loudly as she sifted through the photos. “This is no time for reminiscing,” she muttered to herself. “You just need to find it, take it, put the box back and get out of this room.”

She rummaged through photos of holidays, birthdays and other days. The box seemed to never end, as always. Petunia suspected that her sister had done some sort of bizarre witchcraft spell thing on it to make it store so many photos before she died. After all, she had visited her just a few months (much to Petunias dislike) before she died, while Vernon was visiting Marge with a baby Dudley, and had given her the photos for safekeeping. And the photos came with the box.

At last, Petunia reached what she wanted. It was a smaller box, made of wood, and flowers had been carved all around the edges. Her hands were shaking and she took the box into both her hands. Quickly, she clicked it open and made sure that what was inside it, was inside it. Breathing slowly, she took the locket that was identical to hers out of the box and looked at it hard. It still had that L engraved on it in a curly script. A single tear trickled down her cheek and in one swift movement, she put the locket back in the box and pocketed it in her jacket. She then shut the box with the photographs and put it back on the shelf.

Hastily, she rushed out of Harry’s room and grabbed her bag and her car keys (when Vernon had bought the new car; she had inherited the old one). She scribbled a note to Dudley and Vernon saying that she would be back before dinner (six o’clock at the latest). She then ran outside and into the car, she grabbed the road map from the back seat and scanned it for where she wanted to go. Petunia then revved up the car and backed out onto the road.

She was going for a drive. 

*

Town Centre, Corker, Chesire - 11:22am GMT, Saturday 8th July, 1995 

She was a tall, skinny girl, with a Walkman perpetually glued to her hip. She had dark hair and dark eyes and a constant look of claustrophobia clouding her pale face, not so surprising when you found out where she lived. Celia Raddich was a seventeen year old auctioneer in Corker, which was a minute non-magical town on the Welsh border of England. The town was extremely boring and it seemed as if it hadn’t quite exited out of the forties yet - it was the sort of town where everything was in a time warp, excepting the computer that was cooped up in Celia’s room. Celia had only took up the position of town auctioneer as a job to be able to earn money to be able to get the hell out of the place. But, there was usually the problem of there being nothing to auction off. The previous week, though, Celia’s own great uncle Bernie had just died and all it said in his will was that all his possessions were to be auctioned off and the profit to be divided between the family. Among the pieces, there was a fine wooden dining table with six chairs, a pipe and some old volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. The auction was to be held in a few minutes, and probably the whole town would turn out for it - maybe even a few lost tourists if she was lucky.

She gritted her teeth as she tried to lift the auctioneers stand onto the stage, it was extremely heavy. Celia glanced around in an annoyed fashion to see if anyone would come and help her. No such luck, everyone was off either putting a few chairs down or getting some tea and cakes ready for afterwards. 

“Shit,” she muttered, as she lifted the stand to one side then promptly dropped it on her left foot. “Shit, shit, shit,” She kicked the auction stand. “I hate you,” she spat. 

Celia looked around again to see if anyone would come and help her. She tried to catch Nathaniel the carpenter's eye, but no, he had to hammer something. Finally, she sighed loudly in defeat and perched herself on the edge of the stage. After a few minutes, someone finally approached her. It was Remus Lupin - long time resident of a cottage just outside Corker. 

“Need any help with that, Celia?” he asked cheerfully.

Celia’s eyes flickered up to him and nodded. “Oh, hello Mr. Lupin,” she said, motioning to the stand. “Yeah, I need help, thanks.”

“It’s Remus, how many times do I have to tell you that? And I can do that on my own so you don’t have to do anything,” he said.

She smiled. “Thanks.”

Remus Lupin lifted the auctioneers stand with ease and placed it on the stage. “There you go,” he said.

Celia was mildly impressed because he didn't look that strong, and this stand would’ve taken Nathaniel at least a few minutes to lift it and then put it down in a good position. 

She stood up. “Thanks again,” she said. “Now the auction can finally start... you going to bid anything or just sit around and watch?”

He shrugged. “I have my eye on the dining table. But I’m going to make sure I don’t go home empty handed – I like buying things from auctions.”

“Right then, you should take your seat now, the auction’s going to start in a minute... good luck!” said Celia. He wandered off to a seat next to Celia’s mother. Celia then hooked up the microphone to the speakers and took out her auctioneers hammer from her pocket. She banged it a few times to gain the attention of her audiences. Specks of dust scattered up from the stand as the mallet pounded down on it.

“Ladies’ and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls... Welcome to the Corker Auction!” she said into the microphone in a false, happy tone. There was a polite applause from the audience. “Our first auction item is a magnificent silver cutlery set, complete with salad forks,”

Here, there was a small murmur through the crowd. “Salad forks? That must be worth something,” muttered someone to their neighbour. 

“Now, shall we start our first bid at £25? £25? Anyone? Anyone?”

A young woman who was bouncing a gurgling toddler (a cousin) on her lap, raised her number (14) and gave a small nod. 

“Aaaand we have £25 from Karei Cadmus, do we see £30? £30 for this lovely set, it’s even got a case with it. All right then, going once,” she raised her hammer, this was the best part. “Going twice, going three times... Aaaand we have a bid for £30 from David Faulkner! £35 from Karei, £38 from Dave, £40 from Karei, £45 from Dave aaand we have £55 from Karei! Are you going to outbid her, Dave? No? Anyone else for this fine silver cutlery dinner set? Well then, going once, going twice, going three times... sold! to Karei Cadmus for £50.”

By the end of the auction, Karei Cadmus had walked away with the cutlery set, two deck chairs with a parasol, a large square of fine China silk and a heavy Britannica Atlas, David Faulkner bought the dining table and chairs and a handy woodworking set, Celia’s mother, Janet, purchased a painting of a dog and a stamp collection, Remus Lupin bought the Encyclopaedia set and the other items were scattered about between various people.

Remus Lupin approached Celia after the auction, grinning. “That was one tough auction,” he said. “But I’m glad I’ve got the Encyclopaedias, it was luck that I got them for just £40.”

She sighed. “Yeah, well, you’re lucky that not many people here want a set of Encyclopaedias, save Karei Cadmus.”

He bit his lip. “Kar’ didn't seem very happy that I got them, maybe I should give her one of the volumes, I dare say the final one, M-Z should be enough.”

Celia shook her head. “Not that volume. Livvy drew in it, it’s priceless,” she bent down to the pile and pulled out the final volume. She flicked it open to where she had her drawing and handed it to him. “See? The graffiti on that wolf picture is mine. Liv’s a bit odd, isn’t she? Notice the sun that she drew has sunglasses. And the wolf has sunglasses as well,” she squinted. “Wait, it's not a wolf, it's a werewolf… silly me.”

Remus paled slightly. “Werewolves?” he said quietly. “They have werewolves in the Encyclopaedia?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well of course they do. They even have vampires and demons. It’s all a part of ancient folklore and such... anyway don’t bother about giving Karei the volume, she’s already bought enough.”

He pushed the book back into her. “So they have loads of information on things like that?” 

“Like what?”

“Werewolves.”

“Yeah... why? You into that sort of spooky shite??”

“Not really,” he said hastily. “It’s just that I used to be afraid of werewolves when I was younger, and I’ve always wanted to know about them, to you know, overcome my fear.”

She grinned. “I'll read it to you,” she said. Celia cleared her throat. “Werewolves in European folklore; a man who turns into a wolf at night and devours animals, people, or corpses but returns to human form by day.”

Remus shuddered involuntarily, Celia didn’t seem to notice. 

“Some werewolves change shape at will; others, in whom the condition is hereditary or acquired by having been bitten by a werewolf, can change shape involuntarily, under the influence of a full moon,” she continued. “If he is wounded in wolf form, the wounds will show in his human form and may lead to his detection. Belief in werewolves is found throughout the world. The psychiatric condition in which a person believes he is a wolf is called lycanthropy.” 

Remus looked at Celia. “Some werewolves can change at will?” he said.

She shrugged. “Seems so,” she sighed. “Anyway... In countries in which wolves are not common, the monster may assume the form of another dangerous animal, such as the bear, tiger, or hyena. In French folklore, the werewolf is called loup-garou. France was particularly afflicted with reports of them in the 16th century, and there were many notable convictions and executions of loups-garous. As a subject for 20th-century horror films, the werewolf tradition is second only to the vampire tradition in popularity. Werewolves are believed to turn into vampires after death,” she closed the book. “Interesting, isn’t it? A bit like that film, what’s it called? An American Werewolf in London.”

Remus smiled weakly. “Yes, I suppose so,” he glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d better go.”

Celia nodded. “Do you need any help with the books?”

He shook his head quickly. “I’ll be fine, thanks,” he turned to leave. “Bye, Celia. See you!”

“Wouldn’t count on it,” she called in reply, there was a tinge of sarcasm in her voice. “Corker is such a big place, it may be months before you see me again.”

He grinned as he strolled down the path to his cottage that was on the outskirts of the town, heaving the volumes. 

“He looks a bit ill,” she muttered to herself. “I wonder what’s wrong...” she sighed and shrugged, brushing the thought off, and walked off to find her five year old sister, Olivia, who had been demanding to be pushed on the swings. 

*

Little Whinging Shopping Centre, Little Whinging, Surrey - Midday, Saturday 8th July, 1995 

Harry glanced around the bustling shopping centre, unsure about what to do. He had been there loads of times before with his aunt and Dudley, and he vaguely remembered pushing around a shopping trolley at Tesco for Mrs. Figg, but that was it. Now, he had a choice about what to do and he had money to do it. But that was the problem, he had no idea about what he wanted to do. Sighing, he wandered passed the shops, looking at the contents in the windows. He fingered the note absentmindedly in his pocket, trying to remember what he had wanted to do here when he was younger. Nothing came up. 

One pastry later, Harry decided to go into a harmless looking shop that went by the name of Price & Wilkinson. A rusty bell rang as he pushed open the dark door leading into the shop. He coughed a bit as he squinted at the contents of the shop in the very bad light. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw a hat with a stuffed vulture on top, but when he craned his head to get a closer look, it was just a top hat with a scarf resting on it. He sidled down one of the sides of the shop, gazing at the shelves that were littered with things; an alarm clock, a piggy bank and books. It was deadly quiet in this shop, so he jumped when he heard voices. 

“I’ve all ready told you, Arabella, the Kneazle food shipment doesn’t come in until next week,” said an exasperated voice. 

“Well I need it now! My animals are wasting away on that rubbish that they sell at these local, muggle places. They may be part-cat, but they need their vitamins! Poor Tibbles is ill! He threw up the other day all over my carpet!” snapped a reply from an irritated sounding woman, Arabella most likely.

“I’m terribly sorry, Arabella...” stammered the first voice, a terrified sounding man. 

“Don’t you ‘terribly sorry’ me, Nigel,” warned Arabella. “I’m going to give you one more day to get that Kneazle food in, I don’t want to have to hold you responsible for putting Tibbles in his grave.”

Nigel made a chirping sort of sound. “Yes Arabella, I’ll try my best.”

Arabella stamped her foot on the floor. “Trying isn’t enough!” she said. “If my husband were still alive, you would have had that shipment in an age ago... don’t you dare think that you can take advantage of me because of my age, Nigel Price, or else I’ll hex you from here to damn New Zealand!”

Harry pushed a small book out of the way so he could see the two bickering people a bit better, they must be wizards as they talked about things like Kneazles and hexing, and Harry was desperate to get a glimpse of the people who shared the same town and heritage. The book toppled off the shelf and landed on the floor with a dull thud.

“Who’s there?” barked Arabella. 

“Just a customer, Arabella, I heard the bell,” said Nigel gently. “Hello? Can I help you?” he called out.

Harry took a deep breath and stepped around the bookcase. “ER, hello,” he said awkwardly, looking at his shoes. 

Arabella seemed to wheeze for a moment. “Potter,” she muttered quietly. “Tea,” she walked around the counter and into the back room. 

Nigel looked at Harry for a while. “Can I help you?” he said cheerfully. 

Harry glanced up at Nigel. “ER,” he stammered. “I’m fine, thanks... just browsing,”

Nigel continued smiling and held out his hand. “I’m Nigel Price, the Price in Price & Wilkinson. My father co-founded this shop with his best friend, who’s the Wilkinson in the title. Who’re you?”

Harry looked incredulously at him. He seemed to not know who he was, which was unusual these days. “Harry,” he said, shaking Nigel’s hand. “Harry Potter.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” he snorted. “Arabella! Come out here! Apparently Harry Potter’s here!”

“Of course he is,” yelled Arabella from the back room. “I know Harry when I see him!” she returned to the shop holding a tray that had three cups of tea on it. She smiled at Harry. “Haven’t seen you in a very long time, have I?” she said, surveying him. “My, you haven’t grown that much, have you? When’s that growth spurt supposed to come?”

Harry looked soundlessly at Arabella. She was Mrs. Figg. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. He did this process several times. 

“Shut your mouth, Harry,” she said. “You look like a fish when you do that.”

“Mrs. Figg,” he said finally. His mouth felt a bit dry. “Is that you?”

She rolled her eyes. “I should hope so, Harry. Did you think I had expired in my old age?”

He shook his head quickly. Mrs. Figg set the tray down on the table and clapped her hand on his shoulder. “Nigel, this is Harry. Harry, this is Nigel. I used to look after Harry a bit when he was little, and Nigel here is supposed to give me Kneazle food.”

“Kneazle food?” said Harry weakly. 

Mrs Figg nodded. “Don’t you know what a Kneazle is? Don’t they teach you anything at Hogwarts anymore? Children these days...” 

Nigel looked soundlessly at Harry. “Harry Potter,” he said quietly, looking totally amazed. “In my shop...” 

“Stop being so damn shocked, Nigel,” barked Mrs Figg. “It’s only Harry Potter, not some dead person. He goes to the toilet like everyone else, you know, it’s not like he’s from another world.”

He blinked out of his daze. “Oh, right... can I help you, Mr Potter?” 

Harry opened his mouth to reply but was quickly cut off by Mrs Figg. “None of that ‘Mr Potter’ nonsense, Nige. He’s just a boy, call him Harry… anyway, I’m sure he’s sick of being called Mr Potter at school and such,”

“Now, really Arabella,” sighed Nigel. “I don’t think I can call the boy who lived, just plain Harry.” 

“Of course you can,” she snapped. “Say it with me... Harr-eee. It’s perfectly simple. I don’t think it’s right to call a child Mr Potter, do you Harry, at the young age of what, fifteen?”

Harry nodded carefully. “I’m only turning fifteen, actually,” he croaked. “At the end of the month.”

She slapped him on the back in a friendly way. “See Nige? He’s turning fifteen. In about five years, he’ll be a whopping twenty, then you can call him Mr Potter... but now, you’re going to call him Harry, understand?”

Nigel nodded slowly. “Yes Arabella.” 

“Mrs. Figg,” began Harry. 

She whirled around at him. “And you,” she said. “No more of that ‘Mrs Figg’ hickory-pockery. It makes me feel my age, which I can tell you now isn’t young. Call me Arabella. That’s my given name and I like it much more than Mrs. Figg – it rolls off the tongue better as well.” 

Harry gulped and nodded. “ER, Mrs. Fi- I mean, Arabella. Are you a - a - a - a...” he stuttered. 

“Witch, dear?” she supplied kindly. He nodded. “Yes, I am. Class of ‘27 at Hogwarts, Hufflepuff house,” she said proudly. 

“Oh,” he said, a little dazed. He turned to Nigel. “ER, what exactly do you sell?”

Nigel’s middle-aged face split into a large grin, making him look a bit like a pumpkin. “Anything and everything,” he chortled. “This is a brique-a-braque, you know... anything you fancy in particular?” 

Harry shrugged. “ER, do you have any magazines?”

Nigel grinned even wider, which Harry thought before wouldn’t be possible. “Why ever would we not? What sort of magazine are you looking for?”

“Do you have any Quidditch magazines?” Harry asked hopefully.

“Oh, yes! I’ve got ‘Which Broomstick?’, ‘Q - The Official Quidditch Magazine’, ‘Wing It - The Magazine That’s Unofficial and Ten Times Better than Q’ and of course, ‘Flying Today’... which one rocks your boat?”

Harry blinked. “ER, can I have the Official Magazine?”

Arabella tutted into her tea. “‘Q’’s a horrid magazine, it doesn’t give you any good details on the games, I suggest you take ‘Wing It’ because it is really ten times better.”

“Right... then I’ll take ‘Wing It’, please.”

Nigel took the glossy magazine off a shelf and placed it in a paper bag with the shop's logo printed on it. “Anything else?” 

Harry shrugged. “D’you want to recommend anything?” 

Nigel shook his head. “I’m not sure, what do you like?”

Arabella chose that moment to cough loudly. “Harry likes marbles, don’t you Harry?”

He blinked. “Marbles, miss?”

She scratched her nose. “Oh, you don’t remember do you… when you were a bairn you loved marbles. You were great at playing them,”

Nigel let out a happy cluck. “I’ve got a nice set of marbles somewhere,” he murmured. “In a beautiful leather pouch as well…” and with that, he wandered over to one shelf at the other side of the shop, muttering to himself about marbles and whether he’d lost them.

“Don’t you remember, Harry? Not even the time I practically saved you from choking on one of those big ones? Why, your mother was both furious and jovial with me that day…”

“Mother?” Harry cut in. “You knew my mother?”

Arabella suddenly took enormous interest in a patch of wall at the back of the room. She sniffed loudly and turned to Nigel. “Do you have a copy of Villette by Charlotte Brontë anywhere?” she asked hastily.

Nigel nodded. “Yes’m. A good magical copy as well… nothing like those muggle copies you get,”

She smiled. “Do you think I could borrow it for some light reading? Mr Paws ruined my copy,”

He coughed and nodded. “Just let me get it…” he murmured, shuffling off to a shelf.

Arabella sighed loudly and checked her purse for coins.

“Mrs Figg – I mean – Arabella, you knew my mother?” said Harry.

She looked at him, a few tears struggling to keep from leaking out. “Of course I knew her,” she crackled. “She was the best friend of my granddaughter, your Godmother,”

Harry looked at Arabella is surprise. “I have a Godmother?” he said eagerly. “When can I meet her?”

Arabella turned away from him. “She’s dead, Harry,” she said softly. “She died when you were about three,”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to bring up such a hard topic…” he trailed off.

She straightened up and blew her nose. “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she said weakly. “You deserve to know things,”

He shifted uncomfortably. “ER, thanks…”

She blinked down at him. “Carly moved to Beaconsfield in Australia about two years after she left school, she wanted… she wanted to become a teacher there…” she trailed off.

Harry began to feel very awkward listening to Arabella say things about this Carly and her death. He’d had enough of death. He’d already seen it on Cedric Diggory, and he didn’t particularly want to hear about it from this frail woman speaking about his Godmother. But it seemed that Arabella – Mrs. Figg – wanted to get it out.

“When Lily and James… when they died, Carly wanted to take you to down to Australia to live with her – but she wasn’t allowed to because you’re safest with your blood relatives… and – and you weren’t allowed out of the country for safety,” Arabella hastily wiped her eye. “Then, when you were about two and half, in… in… February 1983, there was this really large wildfire or bushfire or something… all around Carly’s area… and Carly, she… she… was protecting her house… and this huge fireball came up out of… out of…” she was now crying freely.

Harry put his hand on her elbow in strained sympathy. “It came out of nowhere,” she sobbed. “And it went smack into her house… and it took her with it…” her voice suddenly came very high. “And then she just, just, died,”

He winced despite himself. “It’s all right, Mrs. Fi- Arabella,” he said slowly. “Don’t worry,”

She smiled gratefully and blew her nose loudly into her lace handkerchief again. “Thank you, Harry,”

He returned her smile forcibly. “I think I’m going to go now,” he said.

She nodded. “Of course, Harry, you do that…”

Harry shrugged and shuffled backwards. “Harry,” chirped Nigel, poking his head around one of the shelves. “D’you still want your marbles?”

Harry sniffed and nodded. “Oh, all right Nigel,” he walked towards him tiredly.

Nigel beamed and produced a small leather pouch. “I found it in the back,” he said proudly, holding it out to Harry with his brown, wrinkled hands.

Harry blinked. “So?”

“So?” repeated Nigel. “It was yours when you were younger!”

He didn’t react. Arabella coughed loudly, making the tension in the room rise up a notch or three. “You had a set that you left at my house,” she said. “You were only about eighteen months, then – just a wee bairn. But yes, you loved marbles. You used to play with them until you turned six when you came over to my house when your aunt and uncle needed someone to look after you. But I gave them to Nigel after Pumpkin threatened to eat them, bless his heart,”

Harry looked incredulously at his shoes. “Those are my marbles?”

Nigel nodded happily. “Aren’t you glad I kept them?”

Arabella coughed again. “Of course he is, aren’t you Harry?”

Harry smiled weakly and took the soft leather pouch from Nigel. “Thank you, Nigel,” he said. “How much do I need to pay?”

“Oh, well, four knuts for the magazine and the marbles are free – after all, they were yours to begin with,” he winked.

“Thanks,” said Harry distantly. He was thinking. Images of fire, a woman he couldn’t remember and Cedric Diggory flashed through his brain. 

Arabella placed her hand on his shoulder softly as she said something to Nigel, who made a note of agreement. “Come on, poppet,” she said kindly. “Let’s take you home,”

*

The phone rang loudly in a building in Blackpool. It just sat there, remaining black, letting out it’s shrill ring every two seconds. The building surrounding the telephone was a small, Victorian-style residence, with the number 17 plastered next to the front door. It was a friendly looking, yet grubby home looking onto the sea, though a little worn at the edges.

Eventually, at about the twenty-first ring, the woman who was calling from a telephone booth in Walton on the Hill, was about to hang up.

“Hullo,” croaked someone from the end of the receiver in Blackpool. “What do you effing well want with me at this time in the morning?”

“It’s the afternoon, Jack,” she replied impatiently. “I need a favour,” 

“Who in God’s name is this?” he spat savagely into the phone.

“You know very well who it is,”

There was a pause. “Christ. Pezzo, I haven’t heard from you in a bloody long time,”

“Yes, well then, as I was saying, I need a favour,”

“That’s bloody well out of the question, isn’t it Pez?” he snapped. “You leave without a trace and then you call from wherever you damn well are to ask for a favour. No fucking way.”

She sniffed and pulled her jacket closer around her in the tiny booth. “Use of profanity will never get you anywhere, Jack,” she said calmly. “You should already know that,”

“Fuck off, Pez. I don’t know why the fuck I’m still holding this fucking phone… oh, you know what? I’m fucking well hanging up on you. See how you fucking well like it for a change, eh?” he said.

“Jack,” she said, a trifle impatiently. “I’m just calling you about Evans,”

Another pause. “You’ve got some nerve, Pez,” he yelled into the phone. “You’ve got some nerve mentioning a bloody dead person!”

“Jack,” she said urgently. “It’s about Harry,”

There was the sound of shuffling. “Harry? Who on this side of the channel is flipping Harry?”

“Her child, Jack,”

“FUCK!” he exclaimed. “She had a bloody kid!”

“Yes, they did,” she said. “Now then, will you listen to me?”

Jack coughed loudly. “Fine, he said grumpily. “You damn well owe me. I don’t know why I haven’t hung up on you yet… but since this is about fucking Evans, then I’ll fucking well shut up and let you bleeding well order me about one last time,”

Pezzo grinned smugly to herself. “I need you to send me the photos, of you know, when we were young and carefree,”

“Merde, I knew I should’ve hung up,”

“Shush,” she snapped. “I need the photos from the old days,”

“Excuse me? There’s no way you’re going to get your dirty hands on my damn childhood memories just to fucking well rip them to shreds,”

“I’m not going to rip them to shreds… I’m going to show them to the boy,”

There was a very pregnant pause. “Hello?” she said.

“Oh Hell, Pezzo, I want to see him,”

She bit her lip. “No, Jack,”

“I damn well want to see Lily’s sprog! I’m like a fucking uncle to him!”

“No,” she said quietly. “You’re not,”

He swore loudly. “I’ll send down the damn photos,” he said coldly. “But I don’t know the address, do I?”

“Send it to the old address,” she said simply. “They will be returned to you as soon as possible,”

“Bleh,” he groaned. “D’you want the negs as well?”

“Yes, thanks, that’d be wonderful,”

Jack made a face that she would never see. “Pez,” he said suddenly. “How the fuck did you get my phone number?”

And there was no reply but the dull beeps that signaled that she had hung up on him. “Bugger,” he said angrily, slamming the phone down. “Damn,”