Keeper of the Keys

A train whistle cut through the collective murmur and bustle. He opened his eyes.

There were people around him, some looks of disgust, some pity. Many of them simply stepped over him and went on their way. What time was it? A woman, a thick lady carrying a small child in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other, frantically tried to cover her small son's eyes.

"Hey...hey, wha...what's goin' on?" Phil tried to ask, not really sure if he had only thought the words in his head or if they had left his mouth. He made an effort to stand, but the strain knocked him out completely. He realized something was missing. His arms and legs were gone. He spotted them, scattered several feet apart from each other.

Phil wiggled his body strenuously towards one arm. A passerby mindlessly kicked it, until it lay on the border of the walk area and train tracks. He struggled like a worm, inching with his abdomen on the cold concrete until he was near enough to grab the arm with his mouth as best he could. He tossed his head back towards the walk area, but as soon as he did, his mouth tired, and then the arm slipped. It fell into the train tracks with a padded thud.

He turned on his side and thought, well at least no blood. Half an hour later, the station management finally noticed Phil's right leg hanging off the sign marked "11 2/3". The ministry district.

"Not having the best day are we now?" said a stout little man in a uniform of neon and bright violet. The man, a hospital worker that management had called in approximately 8 hours and 23 minutes after discovering Phil lying there, propped his chubby hands on his own knees and bent over Phil to study him. Years after the incident, Phil would always remember the perfect view he had of this man's nostrils. "Well, here we go then, friend." With a neat little motion of his wand, the worker lifted Phil and his limbs onto a floating stretcher that appeared at his side. Producing a small flask from his uniform, the little man asked, "Would you like something to numb you for a little while?" Phil nodded yes, and leaned his head back on the stretcher more. The man quickly administered some dark, bitter fluid to him. It trickled messily down the corners of Phil's outstretched mouth. Then, the man swigged some himself, sighing deeply at the unpleasant aftertaste. "Nowadays, friend, we could all use a little of this." But Phil was asleep.

Phil woke up in the hospital, bothered by body smells and constant crying. To his left, there was a woman at the bedside of what looked to be a giant mushroom. She wrung her hands anxiously and took out a white handkerchief to wipe what would have been the mushroom's brow. On his other side, there was a man missing a head. Upon seeing Phil (but with what?), the body gave an agreeable little nod with its neck stump. The numbness of the dark fluid had almost completely fled Phil's body, but it had been replaced with an incessant nagging feeling. Then he remembered.

"MY SON! MY SON! HAS ANYONE SEEN MY BABY? MY BOY!" he yelled out. His voice reached the ceiling and there it mingled with the other din. "HEY! MY SON!" Someone near him yelled back, "SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" Phil tried to get out of the bed, pulling himself up with his arms and twisting his body, falling out of the bed. This was when he noticed that his arms weren't the right size. He struggled to get up, but lay on the floor like a worm. Not again. "What the HELL is this?" he asked, motioning to his baby-sized arms when the nurse finally came to pick him up.

"I'm sorry sir, we at St. Mungo's have been very busy during our nation's hardship," she replied summarily. "If you would like to file a complaint, we suggest that you fill out a form to the department of service and patient inquiry. We hope that your stay at the hospital has been to your satisfaction. Good day."

"HELLO?" Phi waved his baby hand in front of the nurse's face, hoping for some sort of reaction. Not a blink. "What the hell kind of hospital can't even fix my splinching?" She walked away from him.

"Hey! I'm talking to you!"

She turned on her heel abruptly. "Look sir, we are in a war. Which means no one gives a shit about your stupid baby arms, not when we have cruciated soldiers waiting for us in the other rooms. We - are - trying - our- best. I put in 14 hours a day, I never get to see my children anymore, and I can't be sure whether my husband is alive or dead at the moment. Our staff is currently very low, and we will try to get to you as soon as possible. But for the moment, I suggest you grow some balls." And with that, she was gone.

Philander sank his head into his pillow and breathed deeply. Try to collect your thoughts. Plan of action. Right. He stared at the ceiling. "AAAAARGH!" He thrashed inside his sheets.

"Now, is that any way for a man to speak when his own language is perfectly good? Or perhaps you could be more creative with your frustration. How about : blurg or fapapapy or skooooj!"

Phil turned to his left, where there stood a tall, thin man in robes of spring green. "AAH! Who are you?"

"I am Professor Albus Dumbledore," said the man, offering his thin-fingered hand to Phil. Phil eyed the man warily, then took the index finger with his whole baby hand. The man shook his hand with extreme grace and propriety, as if he had been practicing to shake with irregularly-sized hands in his spare time. "Philander Hagrid," returned Phil grudgingly.

"Oh, wait," said Albus reaching for his long auburn beard and holding up one finger. "Just a second." He parted his beard with both hands, like a curtain, revealing baby Rubeus soundly asleep. "My son!"

"Shh...you'll wake him up." He gently removed the baby's clutching hands from his hair strands. He took Rubeus out from his straps and handed him over to lie beside his dad.

"Show me your hands." Phil raised them obediently. With a flick of his wand, Albus magicked the baby hands into adult ones. "Thank you. Now lets get the hell out of here," Phil said picking up Rubeus. "Oof -he's getting heavy." Albus nodded, rubbing his back from the strain of baby Rubeus. "Thank you so much for finding Rubeus. Where was he? Can buy you a beer or something? As a thank you?"

"I'll tell you over cake, because you insisted. Lemon custard is my favorite," Albus said, smiling brightly. They walked in an awkward silence, which was broken only by Albus' occasional humming. They reached a grubby, little café that served mostly people who worked near the hospital. The Mournful Swine. Albus ordered lemon custard cake; for Phil, the hot chocolate and some warm milk for the baby asleep in his arms. "I was - going to the train to meet - someone - and I saw a perfectly - good baby lying there. So - I tracked down who had last been with - baby - and I found - you," Albus told him between mouthfuls of cake. "Thanks. I'm glad someone cared. Nobody called for help. People stepped over me. What is wrong with people these days?" Albus looked him steadily in the eye. "What's wrong is there's a war going on."

Phil lifted Rubeus up a little. "A war? That's right. Hm. I've been out for a while then." Phil spoke more to himself than to Albus. A waiter came and flashed a smile in hopes of a tip. Albus was reaching for the money sack at his waist, but Phil held up a hand. "I want to get this. Waiter, I know the owner so he'll be okay with this. Can you just put this on my tab?" The waiter frowned. "Sir - the owner died half a year ago. Now his daughter owns the café and she will almost certainly not be pleased." "Well, all right then," Phil said, reaching into his empty pockets in embarrassment. Astutely, Albus produced a handful of coins. "This cake was delicious - but most unusual! What is the reason for this?" Albus asked the waiter. The man shrugged nonchalantly, "Flour is expensive, so we replaced it with rutabaga starch." Phil made Rubeus drink some of the milk, before Rubeus fell back asleep. "I really wanted to foot the bill. I just got out of the hospital, but I can definitely pay you back once I get home. How much was it?"

"Oh, around 20 galleons." Albus scraped the remaining custard of the plate and licked his fork with great relish.

"Oh. 20 galleons. Well, okay, listen, I can get it to you eventually, so..."

"Don't worry about it. I've got this one. I'll let you get the next one."

"Gee, thanks. I don't remember when cake got so expensive! Oh. Right, the war." At this, Albus seemed distracted. The two men finished up the food and walked back outside. Phil slid Rubeus up again, shifting himself to accommodate baby Rubeus' weight.

"I've got to go now, but take my card in case you need to contact me again. I wish you luck in keeping your son by you in the future." He held a small plastic figurine of a blue duck in one hand, and handed Phil his card with the other.

He winked out of sight, his voice trailing behind him, "And I would suggest not long-distance apparating again!"