Again, continuing my theme of the First War and dying.
I was knitting the back of my Weasley Sweater, thinking of what I wanted to write, and suddenly, the name came to me. I had read it on a list on Wikipedia while I was looking up Emmeline Vance for Remember Me, and I could only remember Caradoc. Then the sentence floated through my mind- No one has seen Caradoc for two weeks. I didn't remember the full name, and after a bit or research, decided to make the most of the Welsh name that I had, and christened him Blaidd. Blaidd means wolf, and Caradoc means beloved. I found out that his name was actually Caradoc Dearborn, and thus began his story.
I haven't cried while writing something in a very long time, but while I wrote about Arabella knitting him sweaters, I remembered the sweater my mum had made for my grandpa. It's cream, with chocolate brown and beige triangles around the collar. And that's what Arabella wears when she's waiting for him.
I don't own Harry Potter. And please, when you read about Arabella, picture her in that sweater.
Empty
No one has seen Caradoc Dearborn for two weeks.
His neighbors aren't suspicious; they just throw a glance at the empty house, and return to their newspapers, muttering "Always the wanderer, that one." The weeds have grown in his garden, and the grass is longer than their own, but they can't be bothered to mow it. Caradoc Dearborn has done nothing to make them want to do him favors.
His co-workers look knowingly at each other, and laugh together about him. "Just one adventure after another, eh?" The papers pile up in his in-tray, sitting alone on the desk that is bereft of ornamentation. His little office remains uninhabited, and the secretary ticks off the total of sick-days that he has. The Department of the Control of Magical Creatures can't be bothered about the man who does the paperwork. There are more of them where he came from. Caradoc Dearborn has done nothing that will make them miss him.
His fellow Order of the Phoenix members are not worried, instead, they count down the days to his return. Fourteen days. They don't huddle together, staring at the door, waiting for the loud, booming footsteps and the hearty laughter that is Caradoc Dearborn, oh no. For they have work to do; people to recruit, information to gather, and he is a big boy. "The lad can take care of himself!" they joke, laughing at the empty seat, second from the left on the left side at the right end of the table, between Mad-Eye Moody and Frank Longbottom. Caradoc Dearborn is brave, strong, cunning, dashing, and he's a big boy.
His dearest friends don't fret; they know where he's gone. Occasionally, they'll look at his chair in the meetings, missing the big, calm mediator. But Albus is there to take that mantle, if only temporarily. They too count the days, glee written across their features as they murmur "Seven days now! Hope he likes his present!" And they show the cloak to everyone, happy with themselves. It is black as night, and big enough to accommodate the big man that he is. They can see him wearing it, his happy smile stretching from one ear to the other. Caradoc Dearborn will wear it all the time, that they know.
His lover isn't concerned; she just smiles lovingly at the moving picture they had taken six months ago, the two of them, as different as night and day, so dizzyingly in love. She counts the days too, ticking them off her calendar, she's so excited for Thursday! Arabella Figg holds out her hands to her Kneazles, telling them that in this many days, they can all see him again. "Only two days, Deer! I can't wait to hold him again." She remembers the sensation of disappearing in his arms, of looking up at him from her five feet and three inches, to his six feet and three inches. Caradoc Dearborn is sorely missed, and will be greatly received.
--
No one has seen Caradoc Dearborn for a month, and three days.
The Order of the Phoenix is worried; he hasn't come back. They are gathered around the table, eyes taking in the yawning hole where Caradoc Dearborn used to sit. Frank Longbottom and Mad-Eye Moody's faces are hardened as they feel the space between them. Normally, the two of them could barely move against his bulk. They whisper in urgent tones, gesticulating forcefully at the vacancy, and at the calendar, which was three days past the circled Thursday. They are quiet, and the halls feel empty without the booming laugh filling them.
Arabella Figg isn't listening to the argument. She is sitting in her own spot, in the exact middle of the table, on the right side. She can't keep her eyes from his empty seat. She's wearing the cloak that they bought for him, and her eyes are too dry to cry anymore. She's empty, and not even the strongest purr from Deer and Monkey can fill her void. Only the laughter that even the halls miss can do that. She's cold all the time, and even his present won't keep her warm. She can only wait, and hope to be held in those arms again.
The secretary has called his home, and informed him that the Department of the Control of the Control of Magical Creatures are firing him. His in-tray is naked, and his desk has been gone through by someone looking for his things. They have found nothing to send back to him.
His house misses him. His mailbox is swollen with letters, and junk mail. The copies of the Daily Prophet lie inside, stacking up in the chute where the owls have dropped them. The lawn is up to the postman's knees, and he marvels at the amount of letters that he hasn't delivered. If anyone had bothered to fight their way through the grass to look at the flowerbed, they would've found a few bedraggled roses in his once carefully pruned garden, now choked with weeds. The floors are layered with dust, and there's something rotting in the cupboard, but there's no one to smell it, no one to sweep away the dust.
His friends huddle together in the Leaky Cauldron, saying no words. They instead clutch each other, and watch helplessly as Arabella Figg sobs quietly in the comfort of the cloak he never wore. They say that it has been two weeks since he was supposed to come back, and they wonder if he ever will.
--
No one has seen Caradoc Dearborn for a year.
His house is clean, and overrun by Kneazles of Deer and Monkey's make. The furniture and fixings are the same, with a little feminine touch here and there. The mailbox is empty, but the letters sit untouched in a box under his bed. The newspapers have been moved, read, and articles have been clipped. The articles are talking to the letters in the box upstairs, whispering their stories.
Arabella Figg loves and hates the house; Number Seven, Privet Drive, Little Winging, Surrey. She hasn't emptied his cupboards in his bedroom, nor has she gone through his things, because she's clinging onto a shred of hope that Caradoc Dearborn will come back again. She dusts his room, and sleeps in the one that he had told her would be hers. She goes to work like normal, but when she's home, she sits in his room, on the big green chair and knits sweaters for him, knowing that it's stupid, but doing it anyway.
The Department of the Control of Magical Creatures doesn't even remember who he was. They have another person sitting in his chair at his desk, doing the work that he was supposed to do. But sometimes the secretary looks up as everyone comes in, and waits for the giant to come in, and say "Good morning."
The Order of the Phoenix meets in the secret house, and none of them are able to look at the space where Caradoc Dearborn used to sit, and make them laugh. Their meetings are more and more serious, and they wish for the gentle giant to return, to tell them information taken from the mouths of the enemy, and shown to them the way a child shows their mother the pretty drawing they did.
His friends sit in the Leaky Cauldron, downing drink after drink. They're drunk, but they don't laugh uproariously, they don't sing bawdy songs about the wizard's wand. Their faces are haggard, their eyes lost, and the tear-tracks on their faces aren't enough of a tribute for their best friend. They drink to remember, but they drink to forget.
Monkey and Deer know that something's wrong. Arabella had told them this many days, and on the promised day, the giant hadn't come to hold them gently, and stroke them the way he always did. Deer licks her kitten-swollen belly, and mews sadly, wishing that the big hand that always made the kicking feet stop could scratch it. Monkey sits and waits with Arabella to see the big figure silhouetted in the moonlight strolling up the lane, smiling at the light flickering in his window.
--
No one has seen Caradoc Dearborn for two years.
His house is inhabited by Kneazles, and a wraith who calls herself Arabella Figg. She holds a little Kneazle that she has named Caradoc, and waits at the window, wearing one of his sweaters, and his cloak that he will never wear.
The secretary is dead, killed because of the blood in her veins. They've found another to replace her, one who doesn't look for the happy "Good morning."
His friends are sober, but the remember the giant who brought them together, and loved them unconditionally.
The Order of the Phoenix arranges a funeral, even though there's no body to bury. They know he's not coming back.
Arabella can't cry at the funeral. She's too empty, far emptier than she had been three days after. She can only hold her little Caradoc, and wish that he was the real one.
--
No one has seen Caradoc Dearborn for five years.
Arabella Figg will never stop her vigil, and will never be full again.