Reconstruction of a Death Eater

Chapter 21 - Christmas

Roger hated Christmas, hated the artificial cheer, the forced bonhomie, and most of all he hated the round of dutiful family visits he had been forced to endure as a child. In his earliest memories it had been a sparkly, exciting time of laughter and love and wonderful excitement that he couldn't quite catch, but then his Mother had decided she had to be free. For his mother, leaving the family home and taking her own life in hand, living the way a witch of means was supposed to live was probably wonderful. For a small, scared little boy it was terrifying!

Being independently wealthy had a few rather obvious advantages, and Ayalindan Podmore took full advantage of the privilege. She bought a huge old house in Bath and gave parties every couple of weeks, she reverted to her maiden name of Podmore and made sure Roger did the same, although he was too young to realise it at the time. Christmas, like most other holidays, became a time of debauched witches and wizards spending most of Christmas Eve drinking themselves into oblivion, then all of Christmas Day telling him to bugger off while they were ill. He became very adept at fetching the stomach potions and headache brews, sliding buckets under heaving heads and banishing mess with his mother's wand.

That was when his mother decided that Roger Podmore would become the best damned doctor in St Mungo's, the best damned doctor the Wizarding world had ever seen! Of course, her circle of cronies and hangers-on took the suggestion and ran with it. Books on healing spells, books of folk remedies, odd looking Muggle doctor and nurse kits appeared, and on one very memorable occasion a real cadaver for him to practice on. It was sickening.

Only one very sincere and very self-effacing suitor ever saw past the loudly trumpeted hype his mother put out to what Roger really wanted. For that Christmas, when he was eleven, he received a contribution to his educational fund from Ruben Shabatt to impress the crowd. Quietly, under his pillow that night, he found a modest little package containing an electronics kit with wonderful resistors, batteries, wires and connectors and an instructional book that was titled 'A Hundred Things For Boys To Do With Electricity'. He loved that set and spent hours building crystal radios and hand-wound generators until his mother found it and threw it out.

Christmas at Durmstrang hadn't been much better as he'd had to go home on his mother's insistence. For some reason she felt that Durmstrang offered more scope for continental polish than Hogwarts, and so he had dutifully gone there, earned grades as high as he was capable of and eventually been accepted to St Mungo's as a trainee. There he thought he would finally be free of the round of forced gaiety and drinking, but he was wrong - the medical students were even worse if anything!

As it turned out, he was a good doctor, learning early in the training that he was very adept at healing trauma wounds, physical cuts, bruises and broken bones. Oh, he could treat magical maladies as well as the next medi-wizard, but physical wounds seemed to respond better and heal faster if he treated them. Such ability was always recognised and rewarded, other students courting his favour and hoping some of his technique would rub off on them, not that he used any special techniques, just did what he was taught but he did it better than anyone else. If he hadn't been so used to the cronyism that his mother's friends had taught him to recognise early in his life, he could have been overwhelmed by the attention.

He did meet one young woman during his third year, a young Scottish lass who came to St Mungo's to polish her techniques after finishing her training in the Edinburgh Hospital. Poppy Cornet was a paediatric medi-witch with a great deal of skill and native common sense. They became friends after Poppy was assigned to him on her first day to learn his secrets with wounds and breaks. She was fun, lively and seriously dedicated to her art and her fiancé Sam Pomfrey who worked at Ollivander's as a wand technician.

When Sam and Poppy were married, he gave them a reception at the flat his mother had bought for him in the heart of London. They had looked so young and happy as they ran under the rice shower their laughing cheering friends threw up in the air. Even the reception had been a successful event, catered by the best in London and coordinated by a professional who owed both Roger and his mother favours.

Eighteen months later Poppy had turned up in St Mungo's while Roger had been doing a maternity stretch, much to both their embarrassment. Still young Miss Clara Jean Pomfrey was not to be denied entry to the world, certainly not to her mother's convenience, and as Roger was the medi-wizard on duty to him fell the task of ushering her in, all seven pounds of red, wrinkled, adored wails and flailing fists. Both Sam and Poppy thought she was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen and who was he to argue, even though he thought she looked like a little pink piglet.

Not eight months later, he wished to God she still looked like a little pink piglet instead of a pale purpling corpse beside that of her father on a back street near Diagon Alley. As a trauma specialist he had been overworked and underpaid since the Death Eater party had begun its random killing sprees, but these two people were his friends and that made it very personal. It shattered him in a way he had never understood before, and he wondered how Poppy could possibly walk around under the burden of her loss and yet she did. It took a long time but eventually she came to visit him and told him she had been accepted at Hogwarts School as their resident medi-witch. If her own child had been sacrificed, she would do everything in her considerable power to keep other peoples' children safe from harm.

It was through Poppy that Roger learned of the Order of the Phoenix. He had agreed to go and visit her in her Scottish castle once Voldemort was vanquished and his services were no longer in constant demand. Escorting her to one of the school functions was not an onerous task, he assured her with a laughing bow. He headed out for the village for the whole weekend when he was both officially and unofficially off duty. Poppy introduced him to her headmaster, who was called Albus Dumbledore and very much involved in the fight to defeat Voldemort. Both men got on quite well together although they did not have a great deal of time to make small talk. While Roger agreed with the cause, he was more interested in saving lives than fighting the fight and never actually joined the Order in the first war.

After Voldemort's death, Roger had done the unthinkable and applied to a Muggle hospital to be trained in the Muggle way of medicine. He felt it complimented his current knowledge and was correct in his assumption. Trauma surgery in a Muggle hospital was bloody, complicated and very hard work, but it was totally fascinating! For a number of years he remained at the Muggle hospital as well as serving at St Mungo's, keeping a foot in both camps, so to speak, as he perfected his ability to merge the two types of medicine into a seamless whole.

By chance he ran into a fellow called Arthur Weasley, not a week after Poppy alerted him to Voldemort's return, who had been attacked by a magical snake or some such creature that left him torn and bleeding. The wounds did not respond to magical treatment and so Roger was brought in to use his unusual knowledge of Muggle medicine to actually stitch the wounds together in an attempt to stop Arthur bleeding to death*. Fortunately it worked and Arthur got better. He was so pleased with the results of his treatment, he introduced Roger to his equally grateful wife and family, and so a new and very strong friendship was born.

Through Arthur and Molly, he had been saved when the Death Eater attacks began again and he was caught up in a raid on St Mungo's. Arthur, good friend that he was, had risked a lot to get Roger out of the hospital while under fire and had brought him to 12 Grimmauld Place for treatment at his old friend Poppy's hands, and so began Roger's involvement with the Order of the Phoenix and the fight against You-Know-Who. A very personal fight it turned out to be as the war ground on and the numbers of his friends and companions dwindled as more and more people were killed by the fanatics in the white masks.

Albus Dumbledore always treated him with friendly respect and a good humour, listening to his contributions and ideas with a grave air of interest. They grew to respect each other's ideas, and a friendship of sorts sprang up between them. Sometimes he felt as if he should know Albus or that he had met him before but couldn't think where or when. He would have forgotten about his odd reaction if his mother had not exploded when he mentioned the Dumbledore name. As it was, she paled, turned bright scarlet, paled again then let loose with a string of curses and vilification that was enough to blister paint at ten yards. She even forbade him to ever mention the man's name in her house ever again, or else he was not to darken the doors until he disassociated himself from the devil incarnate!

When Roger mentioned his mother's reaction to Albus in a laughing aside, he was quite shocked when the older man turned pale also. "I think," Albus said hesitantly, almost in terror, "that I might be your father." It was a shocking revelation and one neither could confirm without his mother's acknowledgement, but she refused to speak to either man on the subject.

By judicious inquiry and a dinner date or two with the records clerk, Roger managed to infiltrate the St Mungo's birth records and discovered he was indeed the son of Albus and Ayalindan Dumbledore, it said so in black and white. He could hardly believe that he had known Albus for more than ten years and had never felt more for him that any other casual acquaintance, no instant recognition of family, no up-welling of finer feelings.

Albus had been equally startled by the news, but when Roger demanded to know why he had never made a move to find his son, Albus had sighed deeply. "Your mother had made it very clear that she would Obliviate you if I tried to find you or made any move to reclaim you. Your mother is a stubborn witch as you very well know, and she would have carried out her threat with never a qualm. Then, as the years passed, the ache faded, the pains dulled and gradually passed until - and please forgive me for saying this - I forgot I ever had a child for long stretches at a time. I had a school full of children to care for and they helped, yes, they helped fill the gap left by your absence. Time does heal all wounds and forty-five years is a lot of time, Roger, a lifetime almost."

It had taken some time to accept the sadly spoken words, but eventually the two men had managed to rebuild their friendship although they were never very close. When Roger heard that Dumbledore had been killed he was shocked and saddened but certainly not devastated by the loss. Oddly enough, his mother had taken the blow much harder than he had, sobbing her heart out and wailing miserably in a dramatic outpouring of grief. All Roger was thankful for was that the Daily Prophet, in its complete and overblown coverage of the event, had not managed to get hold of his mother for an interview. They had not discovered his relationship to the dead man and therefore he was spared the indignity of having to publicly acknowledge that he was the son of a Great and Wonderful Man, when he knew Albus Dumbledore was a very human and fallible man, but he did miss his friend.

~~*~~

Christmas morning dawned cold and dark, a wind-driven sleet lashing the city and driving damp coldness into every unprotected nook and cranny. A record number of Muggles perished that Christmas from cold and inadequate clothing or lack of heating, more than even a Dark Lord could chalk up in all his wickedness. Charity groups prepared a record number of meals and housed a record number of homeless for the Christmas season.

However, at Grimmauld Place, there was turkey and goose to roast and vegetables to boil and bake, all pre-prepared by Molly the night before but her heart was not in it as she stumped down to the kitchen and stoked the fire in the hearth. The bread was risen, the pastry rested, but the thought of making mince pies and Christmas gingerbread made her cry sad tears, no joy to be had this year.

Arthur enfolded her in a heart-easing hug when he found her weeping into her apron at the scrubbed table.

"I want my boys back, Arthur; I want them young enough to believe in Santa and play silly pranks on each other and look up in wonder at the twinkling of the Christmas tree lights. I want to turn back time and hold those days close and fresh again."

"Ah, Lass, you're breaking my heart," Arthur murmured into her hair, holding her close and trying to muffle her words against his shoulder. "If I could do it for you, you know I would," he told her miserably.

"Yes, I know, I know, I'm just being silly, love. I have a gift for you, just a little thing," she murmured, wiping her eyes and half laughing at her own silliness. "There now, I'm all better again," she assured him as she fished in her pocket and pulled out the parcel wrapped in a colourful Christmas print paper.

Arthur studied the three new plugs with a happy smile, knowing his Molly did not approve of his collection but she still bought him new things to add to it. She seemed delighted in the new knitting organiser he had bought for her, with its many compartments and handy pockets. Gifts exchanged, they shared a cup of tea, then Arthur offered his services as kitchen hand as Molly decided perhaps she could face cooking a Christmas feast after all.

~~*~~

The Christmas dinner was enormous, more food than the table could hold. Even Arthur seemed astonished by the amount of dishes his wife had produced, and he had seen her cook on more occasions than he liked to think about. He was wondering seriously what he was going to do with so much bounty when the door creaked open and Remus appeared a sheepish smile on his face. He was quickly followed by Tonks and Shacklebolt with his young wife and small daughter in tow. Then Moody and Evantine and one by one all the members of the Order assembled at the table Molly had laid, their joint experience and shared hopes lifting the mood to something approaching jolly as the evening progressed. Roger had never had such a meaningful Christmas in all his life, no false bonhomie, but a genuine caring and sharing, comrades-at-arms driving off the Darkness in their shared celebration of life.

Finally, when the groaning tables had been reduced to groaning diners, Arthur rose and lifted his glass of port, an expectant silence falling over the table as all turned to listen to his words. "I'm not much for speeches, just an ordinary sort of wizard, but I would like to say this: We, Molly and I, were dreading this day when those we had lost would be so sorely missed. Again and again we have all lost people, friends, relatives, loved ones and comrades, again and again we wonder why we do it, but then I look around this table and I see so many reasons to keep on fighting and trying and, by Merlin, winning this stupid, stupid war. Thank you for coming and thank you for being our friends and offering the support we all so desperately needed this day. To you all, our friends."

"To friends," the assembly chorused back, raising their glasses although there were many damp eyes and surreptitious sniffles. To lighten the mood, Tonks turned the radio to the Wizarding Wireless Service and picked up some music that set feet tapping. A wave of wands sent the dishes to take care of themselves and the leftovers to the cupboard, and Arthur bowed to his wife, leading her out onto the floor. Kingsley bowed to his wife and twirled her into a waltz, while Tonks bowed to Remus and they too took to the dance, Tonks giggling and laughing when she tripped and all that stood between her and disaster was Remus' hold on her waist.

Sadness dispelled, they were all thoroughly enjoying the evening when the front door creaked open and a cloaked and hooded figure came in, in a flurry of cold sleet and wind. Instantly, wands were out, curses at the ready as the figure came further into the light and carefully eased the wet, snowy hood from his head.

"Merry Christmas everyone," he said with a wry smile then laughed infectiously as Molly threw herself forward with a cry of sheer delight.

"Charlie! Oh, Charlie, you came! Why didn't you tell me you were coming? Have you eaten? Your hands are freezing! Oh Charlie, oh..." Laughing and crying, Molly drew her second oldest child into a tight, thankful hug and hurried him over to the fire to get warm.

Charlie grinned over her head and offered a hand to his father, the same happy smile carving both faces. "A very merry Christmas indeed," Arthur agreed thankfully.

* In canon, this is Augustus Pye