A/N: This story was written for The Houses Competition, Year 3, Round 1.
House: Gryffindor
Year: Head Girl
Category: Short
Prompts: 8. [Word] Helpful
Word count: 2957 words (written on Google docs)
Betas: Thank you to Shiba (Shibalyfe), Lynne (silently-at-night), and Aurora (Aurora-Star-Merry-Harry-Ricci) for beta'ing! Xx
I had more to say but so tired lol. I apologise for the accents now; I tried to do Cockney as Stan is said to be, but it felt too forced so I stuck with the basics (eg dropping the 'g' in some words) and tried to be consistent with the family. I always tried to imagine his family life, so I hope you like this take. Every second scene, too, is a flashback, but I didn't want to overkill with italics :)
I'm Going to be Helpful
He was finally going to be helpful.
With the cream letter clutched in his hand and his nose pressed to the cold glass, Stan waited at the front window for his mother to come home. She had only been gone for an hour or so, but ever since the owl had arrived, it felt more like days.
Unfortunately, the street outside was just as quiet as it had been all morning, save for the barking of the Munson's dog every now and again. Sighing, Stan turned back to the living room, allowing his pale blue eyes to wander over everything, ensuring it was still in order.
He was positive his mother would be impressed by the way the pile of clothes that had been sitting on the sofa were now put away, the washing that had been in the sink was now drying in the rack, and his toys were stored safely in his bedroom.
Two years earlier...
"No, Lila, you can't touch. Broooooooom, broooooom, Reeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrr!"
Crawling away from his younger sister, the nine-year-old expertly guided his toy car across the carpet. There were a few coffee stains in the thick shag, and Stan swerved his car around them, pretending they were stop signs and trees. Picking up his toy bus with his other hand, he then proceeded to make the two toys 'crash.'
"Will you stop 'uffing? I'm tryin' to read."
Stan looked up at his father. The man was hidden behind his favourite newspaper, giving no indication of who he was referring to. He was sure that he hadn't been making too much noise with his cars. Slowly pushing the toy bus forward, he waited to see if his father would yell again.
"Beginnin' to lose me patience…"
"And so am I!"
Stan jumped as his mother slammed her palm against the ironing table. He had all but forgotten that she was there; the sound of the iron letting out steam had soon faded into the background of the noises he thought his toys would make.
He sat back on his knees and watched as his mother glared at his father.
"I'm slavin' away 'ere, tryin' to iron, while you're sitting there doin' nothink," she said.
His father turned the page of the newspaper. "And what do you think I do all day?"
His mother clenched her fists. She didn't reply for a moment and instead picked up a wrinkly shirt. "I'm just sayin', I wouldn't mind some help around here. Can't you get one of those… those… those green creatures to come and do the washin'? Or keep the house clean?"
His father snorted. "Ha! You mean a house-elf? Forget it! The Ministry don't pay me nearly enough to afford one of those, do they?"
She didn't say anything more, and soon he went back to his toys.
"Lila, I said don't touch!" Stan said, swatting his sister's hand away from his favourite toy.
His sister reached out for the bus, but he crawled over to the other side of the room. There was no way he was going to let her play with it; they were his only toys. The last time he had shared with her, it had resulted in the wheels coming off one of the cars.
It didn't seem that she got the hint, however, and she followed him across the room. His heart raced as she backed him against the coffee table, reaching for the bus. Looking around, he placed the bus on the carpet and, doing the only thing he could think of, gave it a hard push.
He watched as it zoomed towards the safety of the sofa, away from his sister. Then—
"Did you see that?" Stan leapt up, pointing at his bus.
The little toy was still moving along the carpet, but now it was commanding itself. It turned around the leg of the coffee table, veering out of danger of crashing, and manoeuvred around the room.
"Look! It's moving by itself, innit?" Stan cried, looking from his mother, to his father, and back to the toy.
His father finally put down his newspaper and followed where he was pointing. A smile rose upon his face, and as the bus did a few laps of the rug, he slapped his knee.
"Well, there you have it, your first act of accidental magic. I knew you were a wizard, boy, I just knew it!" his father said.
Stan's cheeks hurt from smiling, and he turned to his mother.
The woman sighed and picked up one of the piles of ironing. She barely glanced at the bus as she headed for the dining table. Perhaps if she had looked, she would've seen the bus hurtling towards her feet.
His smile slipped as his mother fell forward, catching herself on the edge of the sofa at the last minute. The pile of clothes flew across the room, unfolding in the process.
When she recovered enough to turn around, Stan saw that the same fierce glare she had given his father earlier was now focused on him. "Great, another useless wizard in the house."
Stan nodded in satisfaction. Everything was definitely in order, and ready for his mother's return. She had been looking more and more tired lately, and he knew she would be even more tired upon returning from grocery shopping—after all, it was one of the most boring chores he could ever imagine. At least now she wouldn't have to come back to a messy house; in fact, now she could return to two big surprises.
Still clutching his letter, Stan ran back to the window and peered out it. By now, there were a few cars zooming up and down the street. He strained his rather large ears to hear if any of them were slowing down, but each car continued past the small terrace house.
"What are you doing?"
Stan turned his head to see his sister watching him. He turned back to the window, eyes trained for any sign of the brown Volvo his mother drove.
"Waitin'."
"Oh. For what?"
A brown car turned the corner, and Stan sat up straighter. When it passed, however, he saw that it was driven by an old man.
"Mum. Go find somethink to do," he said, sighing and turning back to Lila.
The girl continued to stare up at him with her big, blue eyes. "I'm bored. Can't you come play?"
Stan puffed his chest out and shook his head. "I'm too old to play now. I have responsibilities."
Lila's lips trembled, and she tugged on the hem of her dress. Looking back up at him, she gave him a small smile. "Tell me a story? Please?"
Glancing back out the window to see if any more cars were coming, he sighed again and faced the seven-year-old.
"Fine, but only a short one."
One year earlier...
"The ground is lava! The ground is lava!"
"I didn't touch it!"
"Yes you did!"
Stan laughed as he jumped from the sofa to the top of the coffee table to a pillow, Lila on his tail. They were both supposed to be getting ready for bed, but Stan wanted to wait up until his father got home, and playing with his toys wasn't all that appealing.
"Tha' pillow is base!"
"Since when?" Lila asked, trying to jump to the pillow. She misjudged the distance from the sofa, however, and went sliding across the carpet in her socks. "Argh! I've been burnt!"
"Quiet!"
Stan hopped off the sofa and Lila quickly stood up, the smile on her face vanishing. Their mother was glaring over at them from the kitchen table, and she pointed towards the stairs.
"Bed. Now."
The siblings didn't need to be told twice. Stan grabbed Lila's hand and dragged her up towards her bedroom. Shutting the door behind them, he guided her over to her bed and helped her underneath the covers.
He had seen that look in his mother's eyes all too often, and although he wanted to wait for his father, he had vowed to be as helpful as possible.
"I'm not even tired," Lila whined, even as she pulled the sheets up to her neck.
Stan rolled his eyes. "Doesn' matter. Look, I'll tell you a story if you want."
Lila nodded, settling against her pillow. Below, he could hear the roar of the fireplace as his father returned home, followed by the muffled voice of his mother. Although it was too soft to hear, he could just tell that she wasn't any happier with his father than she was with them.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he wracked his brain for a story. He'd already read all of their books—which wasn't too difficult, considering there were only five—but none of them really appealed to him. He was sure his imagination was much better, anyway.
"Okay, here we go. Once 'pon a time, a li'l princess named Lila—"
"Make it a witch. I want to be a witch one day."
His parents' voices grew louder from downstairs, confirming his mother wasn't happy. "Is it because she's one of your lot? Did she wave her wand at you and you went runnin'? Tha's it, innit?"
"'kay, a witch it is," Stan said, ignoring them. "Anyways, this witch lived in a magical castle that was one hundred—no, one thousand metres tall. Oh, and she had a brother that was the mos' popular wizard in the school."
Lila giggled as he continued on with the story. He felt quite proud of himself for being able to make her smile, and he became more animated.
"Then, suddenly, there was a dragon!" he yelled, waving his arms about.
"WELL SORRY I CAN' KEEP MESELF BEAUTIFUL BY MAKIN' POTIONS LIKE SHE CAN."
"ALL THE POTIONS IN THE WORLD WOULDN' MAKE YOU MORE LOVEABLE, DON' YOU WORRY ABOUT THAT!"
As his voice rose, however, so did his parents'. Lila's lips trembled, and Stan quickly pretended to wave a wand. "But Lila knew the dragon wasn't a match for her bravery. With a smile, she took out her wand!"
The sound of the fireplace roaring again floated up the stairs, as did their mother's voice. "Go! Be a coward and use the fireplace so I can't follow you. MONGREL!"
"And then the dragon flew up to the high ceilin', craning its neck back to blow some fire. Green fire!" Stan jumped about the room as his mother's footsteps thudded up the stairs. "Luckily, Stan the Man came runnin' in, brandishin' his wand. With the best aim any wizard had seen, he pointed it at the drag—"
Stan wheeled back as something sharp hit his bottom. Turning around, he saw his mother standing in the doorway, her hand raised and her own cheeks as red as his felt.
"I thought I told you to go to bed," she said, storming into the room.
The corners of his eyes stung as he stepped away from his sister's bed towards the doorway. "I-I was. I was j-just tryin' to be helpful and get L-Lila to sl-sleep."
He watched as his mother tucked his sister's sheets underneath the mattress and pressed a kiss to her forehead. When she turned around, he saw that her eyes were slightly watery.
"Don' go fillin' your sister's head with such nonsense. Tha' world is not magical."
"I-I'm so-sorry. I was just tryin'—"
"To be helpful. Just like your father, I'm sure."
"And when the owl came, the boy was so happy—Mum's home! Sorry, I'll finish later."
Stan's heart rose as he heard his mother's car pull into the driveway, and he watched her get out. She walked to the back seat of the car and took out two brown paper bags, before shutting the door and heading towards the house.
He couldn't help notice that there were even fewer bags than the week before. Each week, they seemed to be getting less and less food, with his mother rarely cooking any meals. He didn't particularly mind eating baked beans—they were his favourite—but he did miss getting to have crisps.
Looking down at the parchment in his hands, he smiled. If he did well and worked hard, he knew he'd be able to help out his mother a lot more, and they'd have enough money and time to have all the crisps they could ever want.
One week earlier…
"Do you want me to add in the carrotts now?" Stan asked, leaning over the bubbling pot.
His mother shook her head, gently moving his hand away from the lit stove. "No, we have to wait until your father gets home and brings the other shoppin'. There's a certain order to it."
Stan sighed and looked at his mother. He hated waiting for things, and it seemed she did too. Although she was stirring the stew, he noticed that her eyes continued to wander up to the clock on the wall.
He realised that she was wearing her hair in a funny new way and that her lips were bright red.
"Why are you dressed up so nice?" he asked when she turned back to him.
She gave him a small smile and continued stirring the pot. "I just thought it would be nice to do somethink different. Here, try a bit of this and tell me if it tastes the same as you remember it."
Stan took the spoon his mother offered and blew on it several times. Popping it into his mouth, he savoured the taste of the stew.
"Mmmm. Mm hmm mmm hm hm mmm."
"Don't talk with your mouth full," she said, taking back the spoon.
Stan swallowed the hot liquid. "I said, 'this is me favourite.'"
His mother nodded and glanced at the clock again. "Your father's too."
Standing on his toes, Stan peered into the pot.
"Can I do that?" he asked, nodding at the spoon. "I like pretendin' I'm stirrin' a cauldron, like Da—" He quickly shut his mouth and looked up at his mother with wide eyes, realising what he had said. His mother seemed to get upset every time he mentioned magic, and sometimes, she got really angry.
However, his mother handed him the spoon again. "I used to pretend when I was li'l, too. Back before I met your—well, it was fun. Gently, now, don' spill it over the rim."
His mother gently guided his hand as he stirred the mixture about. "Okay, now we just need to—No, not in the kitchen!"
Swivelling around, he saw that she was looking at a barn owl that had just landed on the kitchen table. Lila was sitting at it with her drawing, and she giggled as the owl nipped at her finger.
"Mus' be from your father," his mother said, walking over and snatching up the scroll of paper attached to the owl's leg.
Stan replaced the wooden spoon in the pot and wiped his hands on his jeans. He turned around in time to see his mother dropping the letter to the table and taking her apron off.
"Are we finished already?"
"Be helpful and turn the stove off," his mother simply said, heading out of the kitchen.
He listened to her walking back up the stairs before switching off the gas and heading over to the table. Picking up the letter before his sister could use it as something to draw on, his eyes scanned the writing.
Can't afford anything on the list. Going to the Leaky. —Ben
Stan shook his head. He had never understood why his father didn't simply use his wand to make money. When he became a proper wizard, Stan knew he'd do all sorts of things with his magic, like conjure all the food he could ever want and buy his mother a house-elf. He'd be the greatest wizard anyone would ever see.
Going back over to the stove, Stan relit the fire and smiled to himself. Yes, he would be the most helpful wizard he could be, as soon as he learnt proper magic.
Stan rushed to the door as his mother opened it. Grabbing the parcels off her, he ran them over to the kitchen table.
"I have somethink to show you!" he said, waving the letter about.
His mother didn't glance at it as she headed over to the sink. Picking up the kettle, she filled it with water and switched on the stove.
"Can it wait? I need a cup of tea. I don't s'pose your father is home from work, is he?"
Stan rolled his eyes and waited as she placed a teabag in her mug. As soon as she turned back to him, he shoved the letter into her hands. "No, he said he'd be out with his work friends. Anyway, read that!"
His mother pursed her lips as she took the letter and scanned it. It was all he could do to not bounce around the kitchen or clap or cheer.
He was finally going to be going to Hogwarts! Hogwarts, where they taught magic! His father had been taught at the same school, but Stan knew he'd actually sit down and listen to what the professors had to say. He would learn whatever he needed to do good magic and help his mother.
He waited for her to sigh with relief, knowing all her troubles would be over. However, with a snort, she dropped the letter to the table and turned back to her tea.
"Great, there's no denying it now; you really are your father's son."
Stan looked from his mother to his letter, his heart plummeting. Why wasn't she happy?
"But that means I can be more helpful…"
His mother snorted again. "Magic has never helped me."