Memory
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, you don't own Harry Potter, so let's just call it even, shall we?
Warning: potential spoilers for Half-Blood Prince
The day, unusual as it started out, got steadily worse as it progressed.
Where to begin…
Mrs. Wazlib went for coffee at around nine thirty and was pelted with owls; all of whom, when she called for help, mysteriously vanished.
Perkins reported that a door to the stairwell was locked and could not be forced; the custodian's key melted in the lock.
Elderly Mrs. Green had come work in quite a state; it seemed many people with outrageous hair and clothing styles had wished her a good day en route to the office and she worried that a new gang had come into the area.
Tom Biddle went into the men's toilet on the fourth floor and had come out white; no one could get him to say what had happened to him.
The rumors spread fast and thick, so much so that by lunchtime a few people swore they saw a man levitating on a broomstick, and young Miss Granner spun tall tales of a man nine feet high with hands like shovels.
They stood in clumps in the hallways and around desks, all speaking in hushed tones and glancing periodically over their shoulders.
"…but then she says, 'it weren't no bird of any kind' she says, 'it were a ruddy great eagle with paws an' a tail', but then I says, 'bird have tails too, Ingrid, an' it could've been you saw four legs on account of all the cooking sherry', I said-"
"Three full-grown men, wearing long, flowing gowns! I never saw-"
"Ai'm quite sure that the nice young man outside the fire exit was 'olding an owl before I got there, but when he saw me, he just tipped his hat and said 'good day, ma'am'." Said elderly Mrs. McDowell.
"Ohhh, that's all well and good for you, Mae, but the young man with this fiery-red hair tips his hat to me, then turns on the spot and vanishes! Had a jacket on, too, made out of some shiny material." Miss Parnika says, fanning herself so that her dark hair caught the lights and twinkled.
"That's nothing, ladies. I go up on the roof for a cig, and there's this great big bloke, hair like butter, I take a step an' he whips around saying 'oi, you from the order?', and I says 'no, but me dad's a Stonemason, an' if we call him, I'm sure–' "
"Is anyone working today? Or is it a public holiday that I haven't yet been informed of?" Everyone scattered at the sight of their supervisor, a lean man graying at the temples.
Scanning the room, he nodded in satisfaction at the flurry of motion. When the last dissenter had sat down to type wildly at her desk, he strode away in his odd, limping gait.
It wasn't that he hadn't seen things as well, no. He was just less inclined to let it get in the way of a hard day's work.
He walked quietly past the big bay window, ignorant or just indifferent to the swarms of owls just outside.
His lips pursed thoughtfully as he made his rounds, clusters of gossipers falling silent and scattering when he chose to pass by. Something about these phenomena touched a nerve in him, he was more on edge than he remembered ever being. Remembered…
He came to a stop by the "cursed" stairwell door. Had he always worked here? It seemed a funny thing to ask, but for the life of him, he couldn't-
"S'been a right nightmare looking for him, that's for true." A voice like rags tearing came from behind the sealed door. He froze, unsure of what to do.
"Amicus reckons 'e sawr 'im downtown in one of those muggle bus's, but 'e's so 'eavy in the bottle since li'le Alecto died I guess 'e ain't too reliable, get me?" A second voice that sent shivers of horror up his spine.
"But still, I mean, it would be funny if 'e were hiding right under our noses, just about. 'im dissapearin' so quickly just before the end."
"Well, if whatever they say happened to 'im really 'appened, he better hope to god it stays that way. 'cause if he wakes up, there'll be more than a few 'ells to pay, eh?" And smoky laughter cut into his spine. He went away as silently as he could, managing a few misses before catching his bad foot on the edge of a metal trashcan. The laughter was quickly cut off, to be replaced by suspicious whispers.
"You think some fiwfy muggle 'eard us?"
He didn't stop running, or in his case a sort of walk-jog, until he hit the ground floor. He took a few deep breaths, trying to assure himself that he was only winded, not frightened of whatever those two gentlemen of the cockney persuasion were talking about. The receptionist, Miss Evers, tried to catch his eye.
"Sir. Sir?" she waved her hand in front of his face. He came out of his reverie, startled.
"Oh…I'm sorry, Lila, what is it?"
"You looked like you've just seen a ghost, is everything alright?" She chuckled.
"I'm quite fine." He snapped, making her flinch. He softened.
"I'm sorry, it's just been a very trying day."
"Well, don't let it get you down, sir. I know you're one of the most resiliant people on the planet. What I wouldn't give for a little look at that brain of yours." She sighed.
He smiled bashfully at her, freezing when he looked at her eyes. She had green eyes.
Green of summer, green of spring, green of jealousy, green of temptation. He had known another with eyes like those, but where? What had happened to the woman who answered to those green eyes? Was she gone or just forgotten? Had she ever even existed?
She stirred uncomfortably under his gaze. "Sir?"
He snapped out of it, gazing at her in mild horror.
"Am I– have I been– I'm sorry." He muttered, flushing crimson.
"It's nothing, really. Perhaps you've been working too hard sir? Maybe some fresh air will do you a little good."
He glanced hastily out the glass front of the building, where small groups were milling about not unlike his co-workers, all in fantastical states of dress.
"Um, no, Miss Evers. I think I'll be fine until the end of the day."
"Oh, well that's all right then. You can relax then. What do you do when work is over?"
The question echoed in his head.
"Nothing, I suppose." He answered after a long while.
He smiled wanly at her and tromped back up the stairs, careful to avoid the floor with the sealed door, until he got to the roof exit. But even as he approached, he could tell that this place was no different from everywhere else as he heard an ongoing conversation between two individuals. He would get no privacy today, that was for sure.
"I only wish I could be there to see the look on his face when he opens that stupid thing." One voice said wistfully.
"Merlin, Harry. It's over and that's all you can think about? Hermione's planned seven different parties, all while crying constantly. She may be the light of my life, but she's still mental, that one."
He pressed himself against the wall, now fearful of something he couldn't give name to. He had never heard of those people before, none of this applied to him. But then why was he afraid that at any minute, the door would open and he would be caught like a rat between the stairwell and door?
The first voice, sounding like a mature young man, became thoughtful.
"I wonder if it's true, if he really is here. I mean, not that I really want to disturb him, if he's past all of this, but…"
"Blimey, Harry, do you reckon he'd even speak to us? After all that we called him, what happened with Grayback, and let's not forget that whole shrieking shack incident? We'd be lucky if the man doesn't hex us right there and then, and be done with it!"
"But if the rumors are true, maybe he's alone. He could want help, or at least a little congratulations. Hell, I'd pat him on the back myself."
"Harry, the man spent a good portion of his life hating your guts and-"
"But it wasn't specifically my guts, was it? And he came through in the end. I'll be the last to defend his actions, but I think the end result was well worth it."
"Tooting your own horn a bit, eh mate? I bet if we even find him, he's going to pretend not to know us."
"Why, Ron?"
"Bit of an embarrassment, us knowing him, eh? Him going back on a grudge must be like a Dementor going back on a kiss of death."
He edged slowly away, petrified for no reason he could name. It was as if the first voice struck a chord in his abdomen, he wanted to keel over and lay on the floor for hours. That voice dredged up a feeling he couldn't even place. Anger? Guilt? Nostalgia? Sorrow? Fear?
It pulled up a memory of a woman with fine misty green eyes, and a laugh like water running over a stone. He made his way laboriously down the stairs, clutching his chest.
He felt like laughing and crying at the same time. He disappeared into the men's lavatory two floors below, panting anxiously. It was mercifully empty, and so he was alone with his memories.
In them, a woman who was only partially there had her mouth next to his ear, asking him questions as cool as a winter breeze. They repeated over and over, blending in with each other, bouncing around in his head until there was only a cacophony. But at last they diminished to one question alone, which she asked in that soothing voice of hers.
"Where will you go after it's all over? Where will you go and what will you do? Who will you be with? Who will you be when you don't have to worry about those three any more? Where will you go? What will you do?"
His back hit the wall and he slid down, inch by inch.
"I don't know."
His voice echoed metallically, bouncing here and there, small and sounding smaller with each refraction.
Later, he made his way out of the bathroom, straightening his tie and rubbing his eyes suspiciously. He walked right by Mr. Porter and old Mrs. McDowell talking, but didn't even bat an eye. He didn't stop until he got to his office; stopping only for a moment to review his sallow, hook-nosed reflection in the office window, growing steadily older. He gave no sign of recognition and went in his office, closing the door.
Author's Note: Aiyaaa, sad isn't it? No, I'm not suggesting a Severily pairing, but it seemed like there was a little more to it than hate in OotP. Cockney is hard to write in. I did the best I could, though, and it still sucked. I may write one taking place during their school sojourn, but it's been done so much! We'll see.