Paradise Found

"Dear," he said. "You wouldn't believe who I saw at the pub today."

Paradise Found

"I think that'll be the last patient for the day," said the silver-bearded man sitting behind the desk, as Dennis closed the door after Mrs. McNook. He nodded, and turned the sign from 'Open' to 'Closed.'

It was chilly, this time of the year up north, but the good doctor had a hearty fire going. 'For the patients,' he protested, but Dennis knew the doctor warmed his old body surreptitiously when he thought his assistant wasn't watching. He himself was glad for the fire, to banish the early darkness and bitter cold so unlike his home, and too much like Hogwarts.

Slowly, he started going about the windows, pulling down the blinds. Already dark, he noted with slight surprise. Behind him he could hear the old doctor moving about, probably returning the various medicines the day had forced from storage to the cabinet behind him. From the distinct tingle of glass on glass, and the clatter of bottles spinning perilously on the wooden shelves, he knew the old doctor with his shaky hands and poorer eyesight was probably making a bigger mess than not.

Turning towards the cabinet, he stood for a moment and watched, a smile unconsciously gracing his lips. She called this one 'wistfully happy, darling' when she was in a good mood. Of course, the same smile had evolved through a number of names throughout their history together. None of them flattering, most of them critical and a few downright cruel, until she'd finally settled on this one. And like most of her latest decisions, Dennis was in wholehearted agreement with her.

Gathering his thoughts - 'Don't go woolgathering so much, dear. It makes you look absent-minded' - he stepped up beside the old man, and gently lifted the bottles away from those withered hands. "There, sir, I'll deal with them, please."

"Why, you youngsters don't think an old man is good for anything, humph!" the good doctor berated him, but sank down in his chair anyway, blowing a sigh of relief through his beard. Gone were the days when Dennis Creevey was the shortest child around, standing on his seat to see the Goblet of Fire, marked with reckless courage of small children who are never afraid to tempt the fire again.

Perhaps higher education hadn't been all that bad, Dennis thought, as he easily reached into the topmost panel and started reorganizing the bottles of multiple shape and hue, containing inside their dark and bright liquid secrets. Poisonroot next to Oldman's Grass, Mandrake juice next to fermented Hemlock. In this tiny, ancient village, where parents taught children to read and write along with magic, the hospital was also the apothecary, and the doctor also the pharmacist. So a Hogwarts educated assistant, even if the school had closed down at fifth year never to reopen, was a respected member of society. But some of the potions and plants here were new to him; others called by names never taught by Professor Sprout or Professor Snape. Still he diligently labored and remembered them as they were called here.

Hogwarts Castle, after all, is far, far away.

"So," said the doctor, breaking him out of his reverie. "How is the dear Mrs. Creevey?"

"She's doing fine, sir," Dennis answered, the thought of her bringing a more proper smile to his face. "The morning sickness has gone away almost completely."

"Good, good. Had me worried there for a little while. Then again, I'm an old man who worries too much. All the same, be sure to bring the missus in for a checkup next week, you hear? I won't leave her to your tender mercies, no sirree. Not after what the poor wee little thing went through the last time."

Hiding his smile, Dennis watched the old man bustling about, gathering his cloak and the thick wool scarf that the old lady would never let her 'dear John' go without in this weather. Less than a year ago, if anyone else had suggested that his would-be wife was a 'poor wee little thing,' he would have burst his guts with laughter while she turned the unlucky commentator inside out without even denting her impeccable coiffure. And of course, no bloodstains on her clothes.

"So, shall we go for a pint at Big Little's?"

Every evening the question was always the same, and Dennis sometimes wondered whether it was a ritual that each doctor handed down to his assistant in this sleepy little village. Would the day come, when he too, would ask his assistant to a pint at Big Little's?

"You go ahead, sir. I'll just organize today's charts and close the shop."

"Good, good." The old man moved to the door, slowly but with the sure steps of one who bore his years well. "You be right there, young man. All this work'll be waiting when we come back tomorrow morning, you hear?"

"I do, sir. And I'll be right there, I promise."

"Still, I'll have Little have a pint waiting for you, just in case. My treat, and don't you say no."

"Why, thank you Dr. McDaker."

"Humph. Soon, I tell you."

The door opened and shut, allowing a breeze to come swirling inside the tiny office, lifting the papers gently from the desk then back down. And with a soft sigh of content, Dennis Creevey set to closing up.

* * *

Big Little's, proudly handed over the generations 'from fader tew son since forteen ninety two,' was the only place to have a decent beer and a game of gobstones or exploding snaps for miles around. Little, closer to seven feet than six and the thirteenth of his name, served his prized beer to friends with equal largess as his burly fist was served to anyone who suggested that the family had a faint strain of giant's blood.

So it was natural that in the evenings, when the sun went down and the cold rose from the ground, all the men of this little village he'd come to call home would gather for a pint to end the day. It was warm and comfy, with a low buzz of voices and interspaced with the gentle magical crackling of games played and murmurs of appreciation at a particularly good move. The final stamp of normalcy he'd so desperately searched for the past two decades.

Which was why it was impossible to not notice the difference in the air at Big Little's today. The warmth was there, in the press of bodies and the crackling of breaking logs on the massive fireplace. As was the chatter of voices, lounging at tables or gathered around the gamers to the far end, the occasional murmur not enough to break the concentration of the attentive gamers. But the familiar comfort was replaced with something sharper, focused to a knife edge.

For a moment he stood at the doorway in surprise, even as he automatically took his cloak off and slung it over one arm. He looked around the pub, running his eyes over the rows of familiar figures, marked by the absence of the doctor and the mayor. Until finally - because it was the last place he'd thought to look - he noticed that his seat was taken.

For a moment the surprise - the shock, really - swayed him on his feet, until taking a deep breath, he remembered the last time he'd felt this mood at Big Little's. Back then, he hadn't noticed the tension at all; too wound up to feel such a trivial thing. But tonight, there was no doctor to dispel the unease.

Tonight, there was only the doctor's assistant.

Squaring his shoulders, he made his way through the crowd, blindly smiling here, nodding there, until he reached the row of aged wooden stools that were Little's pride and joy; painstakingly hand-carved from great logs of a forest that no longer stood. Where a stranger sat in exactly the same stool that he'd sat on, next to the one she'd sat on, the first time they'd entered Big Little's, worn and battered from a journey neither thought they'd survive.

Gathering his thoughts, he stood there, looking at the man from behind. His clothes were obviously muggle, but a fine wizard's cloak lay on the stool to the left, though it had seen better days. His hair was black, peppered with grey and white that was premature on a man so unmistakably young. But it didn't take the familiar broom leaning against the counter, or the ruby-studded sword that hung perfectly naturally against the jean covered hips, to know who this man was.

He was sorely tempted to turn and go away, but something in him, perhaps the same thing that made him jump in the lake during his first-year trip across the lake, the same thing that made him take on an entire squad of Death Eaters standing over the broken body of a muggle girl, made him take the empty stool on the right. Little himself placed the pint of bitter - his best, Dennis realized with surprise - before him. And sitting next to the familiar stranger, he said the only thing he could.

"You're sitting in my seat, Harry."

The head turned slowly, and twin emeralds flashed briefly, taking him in, before closing languidly.

Dennis had always laughed when he found his wife - the utter pureblood she was - doing some of the most superstitious little things around him, but tonight he had to clamp his fist to not ward against the Evil Eye. He could feel the coldness passing through his body, from the top of his head to the end of his toes, giving him a rush of adrenaline that was too not unpleasant for his liking.

"Dennis Creevey," Harry said with his eyes closed, as if drawing the name from somewhere deep down the well of memory, forgotten with the passage of time and only just remembered. The eyes flickered open - Dennis shivered to see the haunting emptiness within again - and focused on him. "They all thought you were dead."

"Maybe," Dennis replied. For some reason, he found himself calm, not at all anxious sitting beside the man who wore death and destruction around him like a cloak. Who by his own admission had killed both of the women he'd loved, along with numerous friends and foes, with the blade he still carried. But come what may, this was now home, and there was nowhere else to run to. "I hadn't lived, before."

They sat there for a while, going at their drinks. The background chatter rose and fell, and Dennis could feel the eyes flickering in their direction from time to time. They knew who he was, of course. Who didn't know about the Boy Who Lived, On and On? 'More lives than all the cats in Britain put together,' the rumors whispered. But the villagers were too polite - and too wary of outsiders - to interfere, or even openly stare. So their little corner was all to themselves, Little himself changing their mugs when they ran empty.

"This seems like a quiet place," Harry broke in suddenly.

Dennis nodded, then added for good measure: "It is."

"How are you?" Harry continued, his words casual, as if they were old friends running into each other at a pub, instead of a fugitive and the man who should have the most reason to give the chase.

"I'm fine. I got married."

"To her?" The voice was unsurprised, as if it had been the only logical conclusion to the entire illogical affair. Perhaps it was - it certainly hadn't occurred to him, back then in the chaos and confusion.

"Yes," he found himself replying. "We're expecting a child soon." Even though our firstborn should have been born a year ago.

"Congratulations."

The familiar voice caught him by surprise, sparking a train of memories, of the compliments the same voice had conveyed to him. Back, so long ago in the past, when it had meant so much to him to hear that voice say those words. Before the blood and pain had washed away the brighter colors of life.

Congratulations, you've just joined Dumbledore's Army. Congratulations, you've made it to the Order of the Phoenix. Congratulations, you've just earned the lasting enmity of the most powerful evil wizard alive. Congratulations, your brother is dead, and his body is scattered over an entire acre. Congratulations, you've fallen in love with a Death Eater. Congratulations, your life is a smoking wreck, and it's going to get even better. Congratulations, you fucking bastard, your wife has just miscarried.

Shaking the bitter thoughts away, he turned back to the present. He was happy now, far, far away from the war gone so horribly wrong, the blood and death and wanton destruction that left him knowing that mankind was truly a blight upon this earth.

"So, what brings you here?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I didn't expect to find a wizard village here, so far up north. It doesn't even show on the maps," Harry replied dryly, draining his mug. When Little approached, he shook his head and reach into a pocket. Little caught the gold galleon without even blinking.

"Well, the people here like to keep to themselves."

"So I've noticed."

"So where are you going now?"

"Farther north."

"There's nothing to the north of here. This is Land's End."

The man he'd worshipped as a child and admired as a boy and hated as a man turned and smiled, for the first time alive. "That," he said, "is the whole point."

* * *

Dennis rang the doorbell, staring sightlessly at the panel of his door. The wind whipped at his cloak, but it didn't seem to able to touch him inside, a strange mixture of warmth and coldness twirling inside.

Then the door opened, and she stood there, with her crooked smile and gleaming eyes, and he bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek, before ushering her inside, away from the cold.

"Have a good day?"

"Yes. How about you?"

He allowed her to take his cloak away and hang it on a peg, but that was as far as she could get, after which he ensconced her in the armchair before the fireplace, and served her tea.

Then he sat before the fire and laid his head in her lap, hearing the clicking of the knitting needles above his ear, content. There was precious little he wanted, now that he had so much.

"Pansy?"

"Hmmm?"

"Dear," he said. "You wouldn't believe who I saw at the pub today."

The End.