House: Ravenclaw | Year: 1 | Category: Standard | Prompt: [Event] Meeting long lost family member | Word Count: 1983
A knock on the door surprised Dean early one morning. He, Harry and Ron were renting a small townhouse in London, since they had always cohabitated reasonably well at Hogwarts, and all three of them had significant others that they weren't quite ready to live with yet (they were only 18, after all). Somehow, Dean had drawn the short straw, and gotten the bedroom on the lower floor, which meant that while he could hear the present pounding on their front door, Harry and Ron were probably still blissfully asleep.
With a deep groan, Dean pushed himself out of bed, stretching and cracking his joints as he stood, his fingertips grazing the ceiling. He rubbed at the back of his neck as he padded downstairs barefoot, somewhat sore from sleeping in a weird position all night. He still had so many aches and pains from his year on the run, new quirks of his body that he thought might never go away. It was another benefit to living with Harry and Ron - they understood some of the...aftereffects that year had left them with. Their house was full of plain food, and they'd made very sure that there was a bathroom for each of them, plus a downstairs half-bath for guests.
Dean scrubbed his hand across his face, feeling the stubble that graced his chin. He really needed to shave today. Sighing, he undid the deadbolts on their door, waving his wand to disengage the enchantments protecting them (they all slept better at night with extra precautions), and threw open the door.
On the other side of their threshold stood a man who looked so much like Dean that he couldn't help but gasp in surprise. It was like a spell was showing him exactly what he would look like thirty years from now, some kind of weird mirror reflecting the future. The same long neck, the same thin, pointed nose (maybe a little more flared than his own at the base). His features were a bit sharper, jaw more pronounced, and his lips a touch fuller, but the differences were subtle.
"I'm looking for Dean Thomas," the man said when Dean didn't say anything, although Dean had assumed as much - it would have been a hell of a coincidence otherwise.
"Yeah, that's me," Dean answered once he got his vocal chords working again. "Who the hell are you?"
(He had a guess.)
"My name is Adrian Wells, and… I… was wondering if we could get some coffee?" he asked, looking a little bit nervous and almost disappointed in himself.
"Sure…" Dean answered, feeling very suspicious, and a bit overwhelmed. "Gimme a mo'."
He rushed back up the stairs to his bedroom, throwing on clothes as quickly as possible. Dean honestly had no idea how he felt. He didn't know for sure, but he had a pretty good idea who the stranger might be, and if he was correct, well, then he had a lot of feelings indeed. Anger, mostly. But Dean, ever sensible, determined to at least hear the man out, willing to concede that he could, conceivably, be wrong. He hurried back down the stairs again, grabbing his denim jacket from its hook in the hallway, and closing the door behind him, flicking his wand to reinstate all their protective enchantments.
"You keep the place very secure," Wells remarked, nodding toward the front door absently, as if just to make small talk.
"Yeah, well, being kidnapped and tortured in the middle of a war will do that to you," Dean replied, a bit gruffer than was strictly necessary, perhaps.
"I can understand that," he said, quietly and directed mostly at the ground.
"There's a little cafe just a few blocks over that has good coffee," Dean said after a long moment, and he set off in the right direction, not turning to see if Wells was following him or not.
They walked in silence for the three blocks until they reached the cafe that Dean had spoken of, a little muggle place, very quiet and quaint. They ordered their coffees, Wells offering to pay, although Dean declined, and then sat at a table. It was fairly awkward. Dean wasn't sure what to say and really felt that it wasn't his job to say anything. The man had sought him out, and now it was time to share why. But across from him, Wells sat fidgeting with his coffee and barely taking a sip. He seemed nervous, which Dean could understand, but also agitated and uncomfortable.
"I'd like to tell you the whole story," Wells said at last. "Start to finish, and then you can ask me any questions you want. It's… it's easier if I just get it out in one go."
"Fine," Dean agreed, motioning with his hand for the man to begin whenever he was ready.
"I knew that I would be targeted in the first war," he began, with a deep sigh. He suddenly seemed much older, more haggard, than he had when he stood on their doorstep. "I was young then, but I was skilled, and I would have been a rather valuable… acquisition. For the Death Eaters. But I had a girlfriend, fiancee I suppose, and she was expecting a baby, and in those days… when the Death Eaters came, they took what was valuable, who was valuable, and they destroyed everything else."
"So you ran away?" Dean hissed, unable to keep himself from interrupting. He was right - this man was a coward, and deserved nothing from him.
"No, well, not exactly," Wells stammered, shrinking back from Dean's anger. "I knew they would come, and I wanted to protect my family as much as possible. I delayed getting married, I told Mabel to give the baby her name. That way, if I had to leave, they might still be safe. You might be safe. I didn't intend to leave, I didn't want to, but I wanted to make sure that if it came time, that I could keep my family as safe as possible."
He dragged his hands across his face, echoing Dean's motion from earlier this morning and giving him a weird sense of deja vu.
"But then it wasn't just the Death Eaters looking for me anymore, it was Vol - him. And I knew I couldn't stay." Wells shook his head, and he looked like he wanted to pull his hair out, like he was having to make the decision to stay or leave all over again. "I couldn't tell Mabel, she didn't know about the war, and she would have insisted that we could weather the storm. She was always so brave. I intended to go into hiding but… he had so many men. They were everywhere, all around the world. They found me in Spain, trying to get to Morocco. I was kept, locked up and tortured, as they tried to get some use out of me. And then he fell, and the war ended. They had to get rid of me somehow, couldn't have me waltzing back into London and informing the Ministry about all of them. I was sent, wholly unwillingly, to Egypt first, then Belarus, then Pakistan."
Dean felt all the anger seeping out of him as he listened to his father's story. Maybe not all the anger; Wells had still left them. But it had been for a good reason, he supposed, not just because he was a deadbeat like Dean had always assumed. And, in a sense, he had been right to go - Dean and his mother had been safe, had been happy. He supposed he'd made the exact same choice when he'd gone on the run, to save his own life and to get as far from his family as possible, so they could be okay.
"I'm sorry Dean, I don't think I can talk about what happened, but it was…"
"It's okay, you don't have to tell me," Dean answered kindly, reaching out and laying his hand across his father's, giving it a small squeeze.
"I found myself entirely free," his father continued, smiling gratefully as he skipped over the years in between, "about two years ago. And as much as I wanted to come back, I couldn't."
"Because Voldemort was back by then," Dean stated, thinking he understood his father, the fear that if he returned to England again, he would only be going through the same tribulation once more. He couldn't fault his father for that.
"Yes, but also…" He seemed to struggle to find the right words, shaking his head and knotting his fingers in his hair, a pained expression on his face. "I was a broken man after everything, I wasn't fit to be around people at all, much less to meet you for the very first time. I imagine you grew up thinking me to be the worst kind of father, but if you had seen me in those days, I would have surpassed everything you could have ever imagined. Trust me, there are much worse things a father can do than leave."
"I know," Dean said, thinking of Claire Foley, who always showed up at the castle with bruises up and down her arms, but never seemed to acquire any when she was on her own at school.
His father nodded, but, his tale now being complete, he seemed unsure of what else to say. Dean supposed it was his turn to take a step, either forward or back, and he tried to gauge how he felt quickly, to know which direction to go.
"This is pretty complicated," he sighed, scratching through his scruff with his fingertips. "Mum moved on, eventually, and I had a dad - I have a dad. Sisters as well. But I understand what you did, and why you did it. I'd like to get to know you better, over time, and see what kind of relationship we might be able to have."
His father's eyes lit up at his words, and it made Dean smile to see the happiness he had brought. He had no idea how all of this would work out, but he was willing to give things a try.
"I dunno about Mum though, she won't be happy," Dean continued, sobering up after a long moment of idle grins.
"That's okay, I don't expect her to forgive me," Wells answered, trying to shrug off Dean's words as nonchalantly as possible. "But you, my son… I had to try with you, I couldn't live with myself if I didn't."
Dean nodded and glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised to see that so much time had passed.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to spoil the moment," Dean said, pushing back his chair a little, "but I do have to work today, unfortunately. But maybe we can do lunch on Saturday? I don't think Seamus and I have plans."
"Who's Seamus?" his father inquired, looking lost.
"Sorry, he's my boyfriend," Dean explained, smiling just at the thought of his partner.
"Maybe I'll get to meet him too, in due time, of course," Wells answered, his smile a mirror of his son's. "But yes, lunch on Saturday would be nice."
"Right, excellent," Dean said as he stood, and his father stood with him.
"Dean?" he asked tentatively. "Could I… could I perhaps give you a hug?"
"Yeah, okay."
Dean allowed his father to wrap his arms around him, and returned the motion, resting his chin on the other man's shoulder. Something about it felt right, as if a last bit of himself clicked into place. There was a ways to go before they even really knew each other, but it was a start. His father. He shook his head incredulously as he set off through the London streets, making his way to the studio where he worked. His father was alive, he was here.