DISCLAIMER: Don't own the characters, don't own the world.
Fight. Mend. Shelter.
Ted Tonks contemplated his current routine. Between this and massaging some warmth into his wife's feet as they sat in their living room, Ted didn't need much time to decide what he preferred to repeat on daily basis.
Still his mind broke it down into its simplest form, a survival hymn. One he was, unwillingly, chanting several times that week.
He muttered a spell, watching a clean cut above Dean Thomas' knee as it started healing. Once again he thought of Andromeda and her invaluable emergency lessons. By the time she taught him such spells he never expected he'd need to perform them so often.
"That ought to do it. Can you stand?" he asked, offering the young man a hand. Dean, to his credit, didn't wince as he took five crooked steps.
"Good as new. Thanks, Mr.-"
"Dean."
"Right. Thanks, Ted." The boy forced a smile, looking around the empty room. "Where's everyone else?"
"Perimeter. We have to set it all up before nightfall." Ted took a quick look out the window. "We cleared the cabin, but didn't search it thoroughly. If you're up for it –"
"- go help them. I'll look around and see what we can use." Dean efficiently cleared three small jars over a dusty table, conjuring Bluebell Flames and spreading them around with a slight limp. It gave the neglected cabin an almost comforting look.
Ted couldn't help smiling as he patted Dean on the shoulder and went outside. Just a few hours ago, had the boy not pushed Griphook out of the way of a nasty Snatcher spell, their group would be one short by now.
Courage, foolishness; whatever you call it, Dean had it.
Hours later, Dirk's stomach was the first to growl.
"We should have spent more time hunting and fishing," he muttered.
Gornuk mumbled something back in Gobbledegook. Dirk gave him a short, concurring nod. Griphook laughed.
"What was that?" Ted asked him.
"He said it's better to hear your stomach in pain than any other body parts."
Ted side-eyed Gornuk, smiling. "You can't fault his logic."
Of all the possible companies he thought he'd be keeping on the road, Tonks had to admit the current ones wouldn't be his first bet.
Cresswell, technically the most accomplished wizard of the three, had to his credit the ease with which he handled relations with Griphook and Gornuk. But it seemed to Ted that he lacked the notion of struggle. Perhaps, he just grew used to living in peace.
Haven't we all?
And the goblins themselves – considering how the war created a bigger divide between their kind and men, any help from their fearless and cunning side was welcome, even if suspicious at first. Conflict has a way of teaching the value of the ally next to you, regardless of where they come from. Ted hoped, in the deepest corners of his heart, that this would prove to be Voldermort's downfall.
The man – the monster – can't see equals. And if he can't see anyone at his side… perhaps he won't know if the dagger strikes from the back.
"You have that 'wishful thinking' look about you, Ted. Snap out of it."
Ted managed a chuckle in Dirk's general direction. With the goblins on watch, he pulled a worn blanket over himself, ordering his body to rest as much as possible before dawn.
He thought he heard the ruffle of pages just before everything went dark.
All relationships fail until one doesn't, so I might as well make some friends along the way before I find the forever one.
"Tonks."
I have enough friends.
"TONKS."
Lucky to have made it in your circle before the cutoff, then. I think you just haven't needed your friends enough to know if you have the right number or not.
A shove brought him back to reality. Ted aimed the wand right between the eyes of Griphook, a long second informing him that it had all been a dream. He could still smell her perfume.
"Griphook? What…?"
"There's movement outside."
Ted took a deep breath, completely alert.
Fight. Mend. Shelter.
It was a rough couple of days, followed by almost two weeks of relative quietness. The company of five soon found peaceful days to be just as discomforting as those of battle; no one really settled. No one truly slept.
It was the cold day after Christmas, after one of those restless nights that found Ted dreaming of his wife again. Dromeda knew how to calm him even when she wasn't there.
Why didn't you go to the wedding?
The fire crackled nearby.
It was hardly something my sister wanted to celebrate.
Ted woke up slowly, snowflakes dancing around the improvised tent. He whispered the answer he gave her so long ago, smiling.
Maybe you will fall in love and marry someone you can be happy with.
He stood up, intent on relieving Dean from his watch a little early – the boy looked like he needed some shuteye the day before. As Ted got near the tree Dean was leaning against, the sound of soft snow under his feet was replaced by the same ruffling he heard the other day. Dean was carefully flipping pages of what looked like a diary.
He looked rattled by Ted's approach.
"Easy, son, it's just me." He sat down next to Dean, his knees aching a little. When did I get old again?
"What do you have there?" he pointed at the young man's hands. Sheepishly, Dean looked down at the worn leather cover.
"Remember that cabin we used as a hideout the other day?"
"Of course."
"A family of wizards had been there earlier." He handed Ted the small item. "I found this there. Some were French, some American, from what I could pick up. This is Emily's", he added, his voice a little lower. "She's one of the daughters. I think."
Silence. Ted saw in Dean's eyes that he was waiting to be reprimanded for reading someone's memories without permission. Luckily enough, years of parenthood tend to stick with you. He, instead, directed his attention to the diary.
"From your tone, she sounds special."
"She is," Dean managed, a hint of cheer returning. "She likes football, like I do! Not many girls like it – I certainly don't remember any that care for it enough to write about it!" Dean looked away, then back at Ted. "It's really a shame that America doesn't support it quite like Europe does, not yet. Did you know it's the second year of their Major League?"
"I did not." He held Emily's diary up. "Is she supporting any team in particular?"
"The Los Angeles Galaxy – has a nice ring to it, right? They started the season 1-7, and ended up 16-16. 16 out of 1-7! That's tough – you don't come back from those numbers if you're not tough." Dean watched as the snow picked up. "Damn shame they were out early in the playo…"
"Something wrong, Dean?"
"Sir – Ted – do you know a lot about football?" he asked tentatively. Dean finally figured his enthusiasm got the best of him.
"Some, not a lot," he admitted, smiling. "My Muggle family never cared much for sports – unless you count card games. Which is probably why I tried to embrace Quidditch so strongly when I got to Hogwarts. But judging by your – and Emily's – opinion, I've been missing out."
"Sir, you have no idea."
Ted smiled, refusing to stop the energetic Thomas in his explanation of the game, the best matches he got to see since he was a child and why Ted should start supporting West Ham United right away. It was only when Dean was going over the finer points of why Upton Park was the best ground in the world that he paused.
"Something wrong?"
"No, it's nothing. Well, it's been an up-and-down season for us, from the results I get to see when we scavenge a newspaper." He pulled a piece of parchment with dates scribbled on it. "Three home games in December – we picked Crystal Palace clean early in the month, and beat Sheffield tight just the other day."
Dean looked down at the dates. Ted's sight was still good enough to see a clear "26" next to "C.C."
He didn't need decades of parenthood to know where that was going.
"West Ham's playing home today."
Dean nodded. "Against Coventry City." He quietly folded the parchment back, suddenly appearing much older. War made youth age fast. Too fast. Ted Tonks hated that.
The man looked once towards the hill to their right, then back to the pocket watch he always carried with him.
"She is."
"Beg your pardon?"
"You said she is, and not she was. Emily."
"Well, nothing in there indicates they're... dead." Dean had to pause before that last, dreadful word. "The cabin was messy, but that could be because they left in a hurry. No blood. There's a chance she simply had to bolt and couldn't get all her things before that," he resumed, quietly watching the snow.
Hope springs eternal, Dean. Hope springs eternal.
"How well do you remember Upton Park?"
"I could probably tell which seats have been replaced in the last year," Dean chuckled. "Why?"
"Is there a place there you're confident you could Apparate to without alarming people? If not, I know of a restaurant in East London that has been closed for a year – I took my wife and daughter there a few times. Bit of a gamble, but better than nothing."
Dean was intrigued by the question. Then his eyes shone. "Well, 'course I know a place like that, but you're not suggesting –"
"I certainly am. But I don't suppose Griphook and Gornuk would like to come – and I know for a fact Dirk likes rugby and rugby alone. I'll wake him and say I thought of a place in London we could try and scavenge – two man job, we'll return in a few hours."
Dean looked at him in awe. "Are you serious, sir?"
"Just Ted, son," he laughed. "And it's Boxing Day already, so consider it a Christmas gift, shipping got delayed," he said, offering Dean a hand up. "One condition, though."
"Anything!"
Ted had never seen Dean smile this wide.
"Anything? Well, then, I'll tell you when we're coming back from West Ham's victory."
"Still the best deal I've been offered in a while."
Right, lad. NOW, I get it.
Twenty-four thousand people. Twenty-four thousand strangers.
And yet, seventeen minutes into the game, Paul Kitson, West Ham's striker, put the Hammers up on the scoreboard and suddenly no one was a stranger anymore.
Two men next to Ted and Dean embraced them like long lost brothers, screaming their lungs out. And Dean… he was jumping up and down, so much happiness in his face that he appeared a decade younger.
And the chanting. The chanting.
I'm forever blowing bubbles,
Pretty bubbles in the air,
They fly so high,
Nearly reach the sky,
Then like my dreams,
They fade and die.
Fortune's always hiding,
I've looked everywhere,
I'm forever blowing bubbles,
Pretty bubbles in the air.
UNITED! UNITED!
Thousands of people. One song. One soul.
Except for the twenty-two men on the pitch, no one was at war. No one was grieving. No one was in pain. Well, Coventry City was, but it'd be brief.
Ted let Dean teach him the words, sang along, and told himself to take his daughter and her child to more Quidditch games, initiate them on football games, same as Dean had done with him.
They were even going to teach the little one to curse once or twice and get lectured by Dromeda as soon as they were home.
Later that day, back at their improvised camp, Ted and Dean had a hard time explaining why they looked so happy even if the scavenging mission had been a bust.
"It's just good to be back in the real world sometimes," they summed up, shrugging.
Supply-wise, Dirk's and the goblins' day had been more successful, and the company enjoyed a true feast, like the holidays asked for.
Dean was almost falling asleep, when he remembered something. He walked up to Ted.
"So what's the condition?"
Ted smiled, his mind several hundred miles away, somewhere inside his home. He put his hand forth, Emily's diary on it.
"Keep it. And when this is all over, find a way to return it to her."
Dean carefully took the item, opening and closing his mouth several times. Ted understood.
"It won't be easy. Most things in life aren't, son. But it'll be worth it. I promise you."
The young man thought of Emily. He thought of their day at Upton Park. Then he looked at Ted and saw that strange conviction he liked so much about the man, as if he really knew they were going to win, that he'd survive and be able to keep his promise.
He would find this girl or die trying.
"I did say anything," he said, nodding.
Ted laughed. "You did. Now sleep, Dean. You're not supposed to be on watch for a few hours."
"I will. And – thank you, sir. For everything."
"Thank you, Dean. Thank you. Have a good night, son."
Dromeda, my Andromeda. My wife, the love of my life, the mother of my child. Please don't make this harder than it is. Tell me to 'go away, Mudblood.' You've done it often enough. Just once more, for me?
She searched his blue eyes, silently pleading, and when she couldn't find the answer she wanted, she surged forward, pressing her lips to his with so much passion it nearly consumed her. The kiss seemed infinite, but then they were parting and he was shouldering his rucksack and he was at the door.
"Goodbye, Dromeda. I love you."
"I love you, too, Theodore."
2002. It was a little past mid-October in Massachusetts.
A girl ran past the Gilette Stadium gates with absolute glee, joined by two friends in equal ecstasy.
Extra time. The largest attendance of any MLS Cup. Carlos Ruiz, you beautiful, beautiful bastard, you got us here! The Los Angeles Galaxy is the MLS Champion, FINALLY!
She picked up her phone and called her father, talking in rapid French. She could hear her mother clapping in the background.
They were just as excited as she was.
She promised to come home soon and turned to her friends, almost bumping into a tall young man exiting the stadium as well.
"Oof – I'm so sorry, are you okay?"
"Nothing to worry about," he smiled calmly. Her friends started to laugh.
"Bit away from home, aren't you?"
Her eyes travelled away from his face to focus on his shirt. It had the West Ham United logo.
"Football's good for the soul, wherever you are," he explained, shrugging. He's just so calm. "Congratulations on your title, by the way. It was a nail-biter. Now, if you'll excuse, me, I have a four-year old friend in England that expects gifts from my trip to the US. Including a football."
And just like that, he smiled and moved past the trio.
"Weird."
"He likes football. Can't be that bad."
"Hey, Emily, what's that?"
"What's what?"
"That," and Tracy pointed at a book sticking out of her friend's left jacket pocket.
She caught it absent-mindedly. "Now that's weird, I didn't buy any –"
Her eyes opened wide when she spotted the old leather cover.
"What the –"
"Emily? What's wrong?"
She instinctively turned around to look for the tall man, but he was nowhere to be found. So quickly she turned that a single sheet of paper escaped the diary.
My diary. But HOW?
With trembling hands, she picked the paper up. The calligraphy was beautiful, as if there was extreme care with the choice of words.
Miss Emily,
Perhaps you know where this was lost. Perhaps, you don't.
I found it in an old cabin, during a time I believe none of us wishes to relive.
It may be hard for you to understand, but finding your diary helped me in more ways than I could possibly explain. And making sure it was returned to you helped me even more.
It gave me a purpose. A job. A place in the world.
These days, I find things that were lost for a living. Making sure you'd have your diary returned was my first, and longest case. It comes full circle now, and I can't tell you how much this means to me.
I hope you never stopped writing – you're good at it. I apologize for having read it without consent, but I also hope that knowing how much it meant to someone else, gives you the drive to continue. Only one other person in the world knew I had it, and he was the most honorable man I ever met. Whatever secrets your younger self deemed worth keeping, I assure you that they're safe with me.
I wish you a long and happy life, hopefully full of Galaxy finals and titles. Just stick to the Americas, yeah? Hammers are about to take over Europe. Any day now.
Once more, I thank you. With only the best of wishes,
Dean Thomas
AUTHOR NOTE: this story began with the following prompt from my friend respitechristopher (read ALL his work, but start with "Forever Blowing Bubbles" if you can):
Christmas, 1997. Dean Thomas, Ted Tonks, Griphook, Dirk Cresswell, and Gornuk were on the run from Death Eaters. They manage to scrape together a bit of merriment in the midst of that horror.
We're both football enthusiasts, so naturally I went and researched West Ham's history in 1997 to the best of my abilities to see how I could insert that into the plot. I was fortunate enough to have them win a home game, Boxing Day, which was close enough. Dude, I hope this is at least a little close to what you wanted.
I started writing this story two days ago.
Yesterday, a plane crashed in Colombia. There were over seventy casualties, including most of the Associação Chapecoense de Futebol, a Brazilian team on their way to the Sudamericana finals.
I wrote the rest of it last night in tears, watching the news and the interviews. I just couldn't help it. Their lives, their dreams, their families. They had an entire country behind them.
It's not just a game for me. It's not. And unless you've been to one, I can't explain it any better than I tried to in this story. You have to see it. You have to feel it. Some journeys are just too personal to describe.
That being said…
1. All of Ted's dream sequences come from extraordinary authors (I didn't ask permission, but I will ask forgiveness). Check their work as well. Give them some love. They are:
Rose of the West - /s/5642120/1/The-Life-and-Times-of-Perseus
Cordelia McGonagall - /s/11715604/1/Yellow-Tulips
TLX Queen's Loyal Subjects - /s/8836769/1/Stay
2. Happy birthday, Loz. *aims confetti cannon*
3. Don't wait for the holidays, reader. Give everyone you can a hug. I mean it, this is my serious face. Bruise some ribs out there. Tell people how much they mean to you.
Don't.
Wait.