Stolen Time

little_bird

Story Summary:
A series of short fics following the HP-verse into the afterlife.

Chapter 08 - Part VIII

Posted:
04/10/2011
Hits:
654


Fathers and Sons

Anthony took the list from his wife, Olivia, and tucked it into his pocket. He kissed her and opened the door, promising he'd be back in a few minutes. He walked out of the small flat in West Ham and darted into an alley to Disapparate and purchase the nappies in another part of London. He'd disappeared from the wizarding world a year and half ago, when he'd married Olivia. It was for her protection - she was a Muggle and Anthony hadn't told his wife what he was. He supposed in a couple of years, maybe, when Dean started displaying magical ability. Or maybe when You-Know-Who was finally defeated. Anthony prayed it would be soon, and he could owl his mother with news of his marriage and his son.

It started to rain, and Anthony zipped up his jacket, jamming his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the drizzle. Normally, he was more aware of his surroundings, more careful about whom he made eye contact with, but tonight, he bent his head against the cold mist that crept into the opening of his jacket.

Anthony darted into a Tesco and emerged with a package of nappies and a bottle of talcum powder ten minutes later. He turned into an alley, so he could Apparate back to West Ham. The feel of a wand in his back made him squeak in surprise and drop the nappies. A hand clamped over his mouth and Anthony Disapparated with a large man in a black cloak, with a skull for a face.

xxxxxx

Dean began to cry fretfully, and Olivia counted the number of nappies that were left. Certainly, they had enough to wait until Anthony returned, but he'd never been gone this long before. Not when he just went for nappies or something. She swiftly changed Dean and began to pace around the small flat. Waiting.

xxxxxx

Anthony lay on the floor, panting, aching in every inch of his body. Macnair and Mulciber were enjoying this far too much. Using the Cruciatus curse to try and convince him to join them. Every time they lifted the curse, they repeated their question: Are you going to join us? And every time the answer was an emphatic "no". At least it was while he could still speak. He wasn't even able to form words now, his teeth were chattering too hard. He was reduced to shaking his head in reply to their sneering questions.

'He's not goin' to join us,' Macnair muttered to Mulciber.

Mulciber shook his head. 'No.' He raised his wand. 'If he's not going to join us...'

Anthony froze when he saw the green jet of light fly toward him. Time seemed to slow to a crawl and his thoughts were full of his wife and son.

The spell hit, and he lay still and unmoving on the dirty floor of the abandoned flat.

'Transfigure him into some rubbish,' Mulciber grunted. 'Throw him in a bin somewhere. Barty says they'll never find him that way.'

xxxxxx

Mothers

She remembered. Not in a way others would recognize, but she remembered.

She remembered her baby. His round cheeks and gurgling laugh. There was a corner of her mind that always knew it was him.

Small things stayed with her, inside her ruined mind. That he had gotten Drooble's Best Blowing Gum stuck in his hair when he was small. That's when she pestered the Healers, in her own way, for as many pieces of the stuff as they could give her. Every time they visited, she would press a piece of gum into his hands. Eventually, the Healers just gave her the wrappers, but she could still remember it had been something he liked. She would run after him, if they left before she could give him the wrapper. Or at least it had felt like running...

She could hear the... What...? What ever it was, it sounded angry and huffy. She didn't remember the other one's face, but he... He always took them and tucked them into a pocket with a murmur and a small smile.

She didn't know how else to tell him she remembered. She knew what she wanted to say. But her mouth didn't seem to work anymore.

She remembered, even when his face lost some of its baby roundness. When his voice changed from the high-pitched laughter of childhood to the baritone it finally settled into... When...? She wasn't sure. It seemed like one day, he was the little boy she cradled in her arms and the next day he was... Completely unfamiliar. But she still knew it was him.

After all, how could a mother forget her son?

xxxxxx

Socks

At first, Dobby thought he had died and gone to heaven. Not literally of course, that was laughable. Harry had been there. Harry wouldn't let him really die.

A pillow on his small bed was a shirt that had been stuffed and sewn shut. Every drawer in the tiny bureau held clothes - small trousers and shirts, socks, hats. Plus, a coat hanging on a hook in the wall and gloves tucked into the pockets.

The walls were painted a cheerful yellow with a border of coats, scarves, and mittens that danced around the middle of the wall. Even the lampshade was shaped like a sock.

In the beginning, he spent days arranging and rearranging his things to his liking, pleased to have something he could call his own. He didn't stop to wonder why nobody had called him to do anything.

In the beginning he thought perhaps Harry had made this room for him. That the knife Bellatrix had thrown didn't kill him. That the room was a place for him to convalesce until he was better, and Harry would return to Hogwarts where Dobby could once again look after him.

He didn't realize where he was exactly until he finally ventured from his room.

The first person he saw was the boy that had died in the Triwizard tournament. The one to which Harry had been clinging.

Then he saw a pair of twins that reminded him of Harry's Wheezy. He was certain he'd seen a photograph of them somewhere at Hogwarts and heard Harry talk about making them proud.

Then that grizzled man who had taught at Hogwarts that one year... The one with the magical eye. He had been killed on the trip to fetch Harry from his relatives.

Dobby felt his feet grow cold in his new socks. He timidly approached a tall man who resembled Harry and cleared his throat. It sounded like a mouse squeaking.

'Is I dead?' he asked faintly.

xxxxxx

Unsettled Questions

Ariana approached the tall, thin man with flowing silver hair and a beard to match. 'Albus!' she said delightedly. She ran with coltish grace to her elder brother and threw her arms around him. 'Oh, Albus...'

Albus looked down at her, his fingers tracing over the lines of her face. The light in her eyes was what it had been before... Before she had been attacked by those boys. 'Ariana...' he breathed.

Ariana's fingers traced over the ridges and furrows of her brother's lined face. 'Have you a life on your conscience?' she asked, almost playfully.

'A great many,' he told her, capturing her wrists in his hands. 'Yours, first and foremost.'

Childlike, Ariana snuggled against Albus. 'I don't even know whose spell it was,' she told him. 'You ought not to blame yourself.'

Albus tucked a strand of hair away from Ariana's eyes. 'But I do. If I hadn't...'

Ariana shook her head. 'I was glad it happened,' she insisted. 'It was a terrible way to live.' She leaned against Albus, her head resting on his shoulder. 'I had no control of my magic and no desire to use it at all. I was miserable. It was a relief when it was over.' She rose on her toes and kissed Albus' cheek. 'Did you ever think about it like that?'

'No.'

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and snorted derisively. 'Of course you didn't.' She started to walk away. 'You always did think about yourself first, Albus.'


A/N: Anthony Quinn is sort of an OC, but not really. The character is canon, but the name is mine.