Dogs of War

The boy ducked through the crowded throng of shoppers and sellers alike, keeping his eyes firmly locked on the dingy cobblestone walk beneath his feet as he moved towards his destination. His fingers were locked around the handle of a basket painfully, still aching from this morning and being slammed between a door and its frame, and his breathing was strained from the pain of it as he carried the filled basket with two hands and hurried through the streets.

It wouldn't do for a young boy to be caught dawdling in the far reaches of Knockturn Alley, even in broad daylight, without a wand.

It was days like this that he missed Italy. They had more money there, not much, but enough that they had *two* bedrooms and Blaise never had to worry about being kidnapped or hurt as he walked down the street. But he knew that Italy was best forgotten, along with the better times, because they weren't going back. They'd been gone for years and now he had this. This was good enough.

It had to be good enough and as he struggled through the street, avoiding the eyes of begging children and leering solicitors and customers alike, he knew that in some ways he was fortunate. He had a roof over his head and enough food that he didn't starve and a family. He didn't have to beg or steal or sell himself. He was lucky.

That's what he reminded himself of as he walked the familiar path back to the building his flat was in. And he had magic. Soon he would have his wand, which meant he'd never be treated as poorly as Knockturn Alley's Squibs were.

Blaise bit his lip and shifted the basket in his hands, ignoring the surge of pain in his fingers. He was almost home; he could see the building from where he was, and then he'd be able to put his hand in ice or maybe even ask Mrs. Sutherby to do a Healing Charm for him when he delivered the groceries he had picked up for her.

When a hand landed on his shoulder he startled, swirling around, and nearly dropped the basket even as he tried to pull it closer. He found himself face-to-face with a woman that was maybe his mother's age, with dingy hair and sallowed skin, leering at him suggestively in her too bright make-up and shook his head.

Why did they think he'd want that?

He backed up quickly and shook his head again. The woman scowled at him and kicked at his rear as he moved away. Ignoring the pain that brought, he hurried towards the relative safe haven of his home, and managed to get there without running into anyone else, though his hand protested horribly.

By the time he was on the third floor, at Mrs. Sutherby's door, his fingers were throbbing in pain and he set the basket down while waiting for her to answer to suck his knuckles into his mouth in hopes of stopping some of the throbbing.

The door slid open and she stood there, looking down at him. "Well, boy, it took you long enough. Bring it inside."

Mrs. Sutherby was old, older than even his grandmother back in Italy, and didn't like to go out much any more. She had a sharp tongue, he knew, but he didn't mind that so much, not like the other boy's in the building. That's why she liked to use him for errands. And she always paid well. It was worth it.

He dragged the basket inside, careful not to scrap it or bang it on anything, and set it on the kitchen table at her instructions, sighing in relief when he could unclench his hand again.

She stood in the doorway, watching him carefully, and pointed at the basket. "Put the groceries away and I'll heal your hand, boy. What did you do to it now?" She clucked. Mrs. Sutherby believed that he was the clumsiest boy in existence.

"I b-banged it in the d-door," he stuttered out, unpacking the groceries quickly with one hand. He knew how to do everything one-handed and quick, when he had to.

"Of course you did, boy. I should leave you to your bruises and let them teach you to watch where you're going." She sat down at the single chair in the kitchen.

His hopes dropped and he nodded, moving to put the perishables in the cold cupboard.

"Oh, don't look like that, boy. I said should. Not will." She clucked her tongue again and leaned back in the chair, tapping it with her wand. It changed to a rocking chair that creaked every time she rocked.

"T-thank you," Blaise whispered, grateful that his hand would soon stop hurting. He knew that his father wouldn't heal it and his mother was working late tonight, so that if Mrs. Sutherby didn't then he was out of luck until the next day or later.

He hurried up with the food, listening to the creak of the rocking chair. When he was finished, Mrs. Sutherby called him over. "Here, boy." She handed him three sickles and said a healing spell over his hand.

His uninjured hand pocketed the sickles quickly, out of habit, and he gave her a small smile as he pulled his fixed hand back. "An-nyth-thing else?"

She looked around the tiny flat briefly. "No, now scat."

He nodded, picking the basket back up as it was from home, and fled towards the door. Mrs. Sutherby's cat Jingles hissed at him on his way out. He liked cats. Except Jingles. Jingles was mean to everyone, except for Mrs. Sutherby.

He hurried up to the door to their flat and stopped. He didn't want to be at home. What if his father was in? Sometimes his father was, and sometimes he wasn't, because he worked odd hours. They were rarely the same so Blaise couldn't know when he'd be there and when he wouldn't. But if he were there, he'd probably be wondering where Blaise was and delaying the inevitable would only make things worse.

So, swallowing, he slid his key into the lock and entered the flat slowly, cautiously, straining to hear the sounds of another person. He closed his eyes and hoped.

"Blaise! Stop sneaking around and get in here!"

Taking a sharp breath in, he hurried towards the kitchen to put the basket away where it belonged, and then joined his father in the living room.

Faust Zabini was sitting in front of a boiling cauldron, stirring it. He didn't seem concerned that he was getting ashes on the couch or that the fire embers might light something on fire. "What were you doing?"

Blaise knew that he would be the one cleaning the couch by hand later and he started mentally cataloguing what he'd need as he answered, "Er-rrands for Mrs. S-Sutherby, s-sir."

Faust looked up from his potion and scowled. "I needed you here." He pointed to the coffee table where Blaise noticed some potions ingredients laid out and badly chopped. "And stop speaking English."

He switched to Italian quickly and whispered, "M-mother s-says I need to pr-practice." At his father's cowering look he winced and tugged the sickles Mrs. Sutherby had given to him out of his pocket. He had wanted to use them to maybe buy a little something to eat or a used book from the bargain place, but he wanted his father not to be angry more, so he offered them up. "I r-run er-rrands for her somet-times," he managed to get out as he kneeled next to the table and went to work fixing the chopping job, setting the sickles out.

"You do need practice." Faust examined the sickles and put them away. "But not here. Here, we speak Italian. All of us." Blaise knew that his father meant his mother with that, who was French and knew all three languages.

He gave one last longing look to the sickles and then decided, tentatively, to ask if he might buy a new book, please. His father seemed in a good enough mood that maybe he would allow it.

"What do you need another book for?"

Or perhaps not. He swallowed. "I f-finished my last o-one."

In truth, he'd finished them all. A lot of times. To the point that most of them had broken binding and loose pages. It was hardly as if he had much to do in this place other than clean and read. He longed to go to school, but knew that that was impossible until Hogwarts, which was still four months away.

"You don't need another book. I'll give the money to your mother, where it'll do some good." He snorted and stretched out before going back to stirring. "Give me the newt's tails now."

Blaise nodded and handed the newt's tail to his father, focusing on the chopping he was doing to the rest. Carefully, he used a self-cleaning towel to wipe the knife between ingredients, because who knew what would happen if they mixed, and tried not to wish for anything. What had he expected anyway?

"Maybe with this money, we can eat something that isn't broth or bread around here," Faust explained. Blaise looked at him in surprise; his father rarely explained anything.

He smiled and nodded. "Y-yes, s-sir." Biting his lip, he concentrated on his task for a long moment before telling his father that he was glad to help out.

Faust grunted, concentrating on his potion. It was starting to turn purple. Blaise knew that eventually, the potion would be set out to dry and turn into a powder. He'd seen his father make this one often enough, in Italy and now here in Britain, to know. He wasn't certain what it did, but he'd long since learned that it was better not to ask questions about his father's potions, and so he didn't think about it as he did the things instructed.

Chop this, slice that, crush this.

While he worked he thought of Hogwarts. *They* had a library. He could read as much as he wanted to there. And eat as well. Three meals a day until his stomach was full.

Not that he wasn't grateful. He swallowed and glanced up at his father. He was. He was.

"I see your hand is healed."

"Mrs. S-Sutherby d-d-did it when I put her g-groceries away," Blaise told him.

"And what does Mrs. Sutherby think about your hand being injured?"

Blaise swallowed again and felt his heart pick up. "S-she knows-s I'm cl-clumsy and h-have accidents."

"Does she?" He could feel his father's hard eyes on him, trying to decide if he was lying. "Good."

"Th-that's what th-they are. Acc-ccidents. Right?" He knew that Faust didn't *mean* to hurt him. He just was angry sometimes.

"Of course, Blaise. Bad accidents."

He smiled. His father would never hurt him on purpose.

Finally, the potion was finished enough that Faust dowsed the fire and took the cauldron off, setting it in the window to dry out in the sun. "You can clean up."

Nodding, he started to quickly put the untouched items away in their proper jars, closing those tightly, and then went to get the cleaning ingredients. Cleaning the table wasn't too difficult, with the spray his mother had bought, and because this time his dad had remembered the protective spell, but the couch was more of a challenge. The best he could do was sweep the ash off and on to the floor. He didn't have anything to clean the cushions with.

Once the ash was clean, he decided to ask his father to do a cleaning charm, as that would clean the cushions. Else, he'd have to try soap and water.

Faust, who was sitting in the kitchen, smoking, stared at him. "What did you say?"

He bit his lip. What had he done wrong? "I-I-I s-said th-that couch need-ds a cleaning ch-charm, s-sir."

Faust stood up, sticking the cigarette -- fags, they were called fags here, weren't they? -- between his lips. "Move." Blaise got out of his way as his father strode into the living room and cast the charm. "There. Next time do it yourself."

"I d-don't have a w-wand yet. You p-promised I could h-have one in J-June," Blaise whispered. He'd have done the cleaning charm himself if he could. He didn't want to interrupt his father's... anything.

"If we have money for it. Wands are expensive." Faust looked him up and down. "You should find work and pay your own way."

"I n-need a wand for H-Hogwarts."

"Do you need a wand more than you need to eat?" Faust smacked him in the back of the head.

Blaise reached up rub the back of his head. "Y-you p-p-promised."

"Promises don't mean much when it's a choice of eating, boy. Use your brain." Faust was glaring at him now. "If you like running errands so much, hire out to more people. Earn the money for your wand yourself."

"I-I-I t-try. N-not a l-lot of people n-need s-someone who c-can't do m-magic."

His father sighed in exasperation. "You can talk to my boss; perhaps you can run errands for him."

"Y-yes, s-sir." Blaise looked down. If he couldn't get a wand, he couldn't go to Hogwarts. If he didn't go to Hogwarts, he wasn't better than the Squibs of Knockturn and everyone knew what happened to them. His stomach flipped. "Anyth-thing, s-sir." He had to go to Hogwarts. He had to.

"Good." His father ruffled his hair. "I'm done with you, Blaise. Go play."

"C-can I g-go out-t?"

"Yes, you can go out."

He nodded quickly and bolted towards his things. He'd get a book and go out until his father left or something. He didn't want to bother Faust. Blaise grabbed a book at random, wincing as the cover fell off, and headed for the door. He could always go into Diagon Alley and sit in the ice cream shop. Even though he couldn't afford anything there, it was safe and the owner never seemed to mind that he didn't order food. Sometimes, on hot days, he even gave Blaise a small scoop for free when he noticed him.

His father called out a goodbye from the kitchen when Blaise opened the door to the flat. He said goodbye as well before shutting the door behind him and then tried to decide what to do. He really didn't want to brave another trip through Knockturn. Finally, he sat down outside the door and opened the book he'd brought with him. It was safe near the flat.

This wasn't so bad, if you curled up so you were out of people's way. And it was quiet. It'd be less so when school term ended and there were a bunch of little kids around during the day, but Blaise knew he'd have a chance to make a little extra by watching the babies, so it was worth the exchange. Especially if his father wasn't -- No, he'd promised. His dad wouldn't break a promise. Blaise would get his wand and go to Hogwarts and it would all work out all right. It would. And if he had to work for it, well, that was fair, wasn't it?

Nodding to himself, he settled down to read, focusing on the long-memorised words as he did. He was so engrossed in the book that he jumped and scrambled across the hall when the door next to him thudded open loudly and his father walked out.

"What are you doing lurking out here?"

"R-reading," he held up the book in front of him.

"I thought I told you to go play? I've got people coming." As usual, a cigarette was jutting out from between his lips. Blaise watched the flame at the tip bob up and down as he talked.

"I s-s-shan't b-bother anyone."

"Good. None of these people like children very much."

"I'm s-scared to go downs-stairs. It's not s-safe," he said quietly. "It's s-safe here. Near y-you."

"All right." His father ruffled his hair again. "But stay outside and don't make a lot of noise when they get here. If you do, you'll regret it."

Blaise smiled. "Yes, s-sir." He could be quiet. They'd not even know he was here.

"If you need anything," Faust nodded back toward the flat, "get it now."

He didn't, he thought. "H-how long?"

"About an hour."

No. He wouldn't need anything before then. Blaise nodded. "I'll b-be here."

Faust disappeared back inside, leaving the door open.

He settled against the other side of the hallway so that he wouldn't be in the way or noticeable and tried to go back to reading. Maybe if these people were part of the place his father worked at, he could ask for an errand job now. But only if his father indicated that was all right. Because he wasn't supposed to make a nuisance of himself. Maybe he should ask right now, before they got here?

After a moment, he pushed himself up and walked over to the door, peeking in. His father was in the kitchen with some papers. "S-sir?"

Faust looked up. "What?"

"Are the p-people c-coming over the p-eople I sh-should ask about er-rrand running?"

He looked momentarily surprised. "Why not? It wouldn't hurt."

Blaise nodded. "I w-want to help out-t."

"All right, Blaise. You can ask when we're done with our business. I'll call you in."

He nodded again and slipped out, just as two men came walking down the hallway towards their flat. One was wearing wizard robes, plain black wizard robes. There were ashes on the bottom, as if he spent time around fires. If these men worked with potions like my dad, it would explain that. The other was dressed as a Muggle, wearing plain brown trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. His hands were in the trouser pockets and he had his long hair pulled back into a ponytail.

Neither seemed very friendly as they looked at me while they walked past, into the flat. The one dressed in Muggle clothes slammed the door behind him, nearly slamming my fingers again. No wonder Faust was so angry if he had to work with men like these all the time.

Blaise sighed and settled down again, near the door so that he could hear his father calling when it came time. It didn't matter. He'd help out. He picked up his book again and started to read.

It seemed like a long time -- but he supposed an hour was a long time -- before his father called him into the flat loudly and he went, clutching his book at his side. The two men were staring at him as Blaise approached Faust, who was leaning against the wall across from the couch.

He walked all the way up, stopping nearby, and said, "S-sir?" quietly. Perhaps his father would ask for him?

"Go on, ask." Faust pointed at the meaner looking man, the one in Muggle clothing.

Blaise swallowed. "My f-father says I might d-do errands for you to m-make extra money for Hogwarts supplies, s-sir?"

"What do you think a pipsqueak like you could do?"

"I can c-carry things places or..." He bit his lip. "I'm g-good with numbers?"

"Numbers?" The second man asked, looking interested now, though his narrowed eyes made Blaise uneasy. "That true, Faust?"

"Yeah." Faust was digging through the pockets of his robe. He didn't have one in his mouth so Blaise was certain he was looking for his cigarettes.

The man nodded and started rattling off numbers, with decimal points, wanting Blaise to add them. He focused on the sounds, putting them all together so that he could picture what was being said, and added them up in his head as quickly as he could, watching the ceiling as he did. It was easier not to look at people when he did this. Numbers were easier than people. "Four-one-two-point-six-eight."

"Do you always stutter, pipsqueak?"

"S-sorry."

"He does. No matter what you do with him." Faust looked down at him in disgust and he flinched. He didn't mean to, really.

"Does your brain stutter?" The second man, the one in robes, asked. Blaise hesitated and shook his head. He didn't think it did. He never had any problems understanding or thinking about things. "Quiet, too. Three days a week, you can come be a clerk in my office. I'll pay you fifteen sickles a week."

He did that math in his head too. Fifteen sickles a week would mean nearly a galleon. The average wand was seven galleons. So, eight weeks and he'd have enough for a wand all by himself. He nodded quickly.

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow. Faust will bring you."

"It should be done drying out by then."

"You should have started on the new batch earlier than this," the first man grumbled.

"It-t's May," Blaise pointed out very quietly. "Is-s this for th-the whole summer?" That'd be four months or about sixteen weeks.

"If you're good at it and learn quickly."

He nodded again quickly. He would be. And by the end of the summer he'd have fourteen galleons. Which would be more than he could even picture all together having seen.

Both men stood up and nodded at Faust.

"See you tomorrow, pipsqueak."

When they were gone, he let out a breath of relief, and looked up at his father. Since he'd have some left over, maybe he could use that for a few things for himself? Nothing too stupid, just... He'd want this one book, but it was too expensive and he didn't know if Hogwarts would have it.

"Good job, Blaise." His father smiled down on him. "It'll be hard work."

"I d-don't mind-d." It'd be nice leaving the flat.

Faust nodded. "I'm going out."

"C-can I g-g-go?" he tried quietly. He hadn't gone out with his father alone in so long. Almost since they'd moved.

Faust shook his head. "No. I'm going out to Muggle London."

"I h-have Muggle c-clothes." He wondered what his dad had to go to Muggle London for.

"I know. You still can't come. I'll try and pick you up a book on the way home."

"R-really?"

Faust gave him a hard look. "I'll try."

"Y-yes, s-sir." He smiled at his father brightly.

"Go find something useful to do. And don't expect me back by dinner."

That meant Blaise'd have to find something for himself to eat. There was bread in the cupboard. He bit his lip and nodded. "B-bye."

"Be good. Maybe your mother will bring home some food tonight."

"I w-was going to h-have br-bread."

"There isn't anything else?"

He thought about it for a long moment. There was, of course, but he was fine with bread. "I d-don't w-want to w-waste food."

"I'll tell your mother to go shopping tomorrow," he said finally.

"T-there's food," Blaise said, shaking his head. "I just d-d-don't w-want to waste any. I'm all r-right with br-bread."

Faust shrugged and started for the door. He hoped that his father wasn't angry with his mum. She was doing the best she could. They were all doing the best they could.