Laughter in the Dark
The kitchen floor was hard. And cold, when Abraxus Sutch stuck one hand out to see if part of the roll of blankets he slept in had come un-tucked. They hadn't.
So that wasn't what had woken him, then. Neither was it the hardness, or the coldness. They were usual. 'Usual' occurs quickly when you are ten years old. Somehow, the cold and hard and the having only a pile of blankets in front of the kitchen hearth were a relief in their usual-ness. The more usual they were, the further away was Before. And there was nothing left from Before. No Father, no Mother, no bed, no house, no rocking-hippogriff – nothing, except Tiggy. Tiggy – and the person who wasn't Cles any more – and this strange, deep, cold sensation, right inside you. A great, dull, dark hollowness.
It was better to think about 'usual'. It was better not to think about what had gone. And more than anything, it was better not to think that nobody else in the world was sorry about what had gone. Only himself and Tiggy and – nobody, Rax shoved that thought sharply away with the blankets, as he half-rose onto one elbow. The thought of nobody else being sorry made the cold, dark hollowness feel as if it might swallow you up altogeth– No! Not the dark – it was better to think about 'usual' – the right here and now. And in the right here and now, something – something unusual – had woken him.
It wasn't the hard or the cold or the dark; it certainly wasn't morning; it couldn't have been the cuckoo clock because that didn't strike any hours any more. The fire was out, so that hadn't made a noise; and it couldn't be Tiggy up hushing Cles, because she slept on a too-short mattress besides Cles' trundle bed, in a curtained-off corner of the front room. If Cles had been fussing, she would have carried him in here, so he wouldn't disturb Grandfather, who snored all night in the built-in box bed in the front room, but was very easily woken.
Rax wriggled round some more. He lay at the far end of the hearth, with the old wing chair screening him from the rest of the room. It didn't really stop the draught across the floor at all, but Grandfather said it must, and made them move it across every night. Peering under it, Rax could see there was nobody else in the room at all– but that wasn't right.
Night here meant complete blackness, after Grandfather put the lamp out. No firelight, no lamp on low, no night-light – it didn't affect Cles any more, but Rax knew Tiggy had always preferred some light. Here, there was darkness – darkness nearly as black as the Darkness that had used to linger in the hall when one of Father's – visitors – had come at night and shut the door of the dimly lit study behind them...
Except – now – there wasn't.
There was very dim light, like pale star light. But star light, like sunshine and laughter and bright moon light, never seemed to penetrate the tangled rooftops of Knockturn Alley where they now lived. And there was light now. The light grew – black shadows of the kitchen chair legs wavered across the floor – the dividing door creaked back – and Grandfather's wand light shuffled into the kitchen.
Rax lowered himself silently back to floor level. In four months, Grandfather had made it quite clear that Bedtime was Bedtime. Cles' fussing was only excused with the ill grace that 'the brat' couldn't help it – and Tiggy was to shut him up as soon as possible. As Grandfather said: "He wasn't a nursemaid..."
He wasn't sorry about Before, either. His one, much repeated comment was that Father had been a fool, and not minded his own business. Minding your own business was what was important to Grandfather. Rax closed his eyes to the merest slits. It would not do to be awake now. But...?
Grandfather went, muttering, right across the kitchen – not that it was very big, anyway. The entire of these two rooms which made up Grandfather's flat would probably have fitted into their old top-floor playroom. But then, as Grandfather also said, Death Eater's brats could not be picky.
It was true. That didn't mean it didn't hurt. They had nowhere else to go – that shouldn't mean you couldn't occasionally miss your old house and garden and everything in it. Father had been a Death Eater – Rax had known that for what seemed like forever. Maybe it was only a year or two. It seemed like forever. Knowing what the – visitors – who came and went were. Knowing you shouldn't know. Knowing they didn't like children – even the ones who smiled. Rax didn't think they had actually liked Father, either – and he didn't think Father had liked them, really. But he had let them come, with the Darkness they left in the hall. And he had gone out with them, too, into the Darkness. And yet – he was still Father! What he had done shouldn't stop you being sorry he was gone – the first step in the mad cascade of everything being gone, that had led to here.
And here, the darkness had come back. Grandfather had opened the front door and gone out.
Rax opened both eyes wide. He didn't dare sit up, because you couldn't hear anybody coming through that front door, and if Grandfather came in, he would doubtless glance across to see that Rax was still asleep. But where had he gone? Before, there had always been – visitors – coming and going by night. But Grandfather did not do that. That was one of the things that was foolish, and not Minding Your Own Business. And the Death Eaters were gone now – that was what everybody said. No more attacks.
But twice, they had been wrong. The Longbottoms – and Father, and Cles...
Thrice? The darkness in the corner seemed very dark. And silent. Even breathing sounded as if it must echo around the kitchen. Grandfather had shut the dividing door between the kitchen and work room too, so the sound of the cuckoo clock ticking, or any noise from Cles and Tiggy, did not come through. Dark, and silent, and no Grandfather – darkness and silence that seemed as terrible as that which had filled their house Before – and the front door opened.
A pool of wand light dazzling after the dark. Grandfather's shadow; Grandfather's feet visible under the chair.
"You young fool," Grandfather growled. "Coming alone at this hour. Don't you know the sort of things that wander about Knockturn Alley at night?"
And another shadow. Another man's feet. And another voice, laughing.
"Yes," said the other man cheerily. "Nasty things like Aurors." He laughed again, a bright, ringing laugh that sounded rather like Father's had used to a long time ago. Father had started to sound so weary when he laughed, just Before: as if he laughed because he thought he ought to, and never because he felt like it.
But this man was laughing as if he just felt like it all the time: "Artaxerxes, when I became big enough to be an Auror, I decided I was too big to be afraid of the Dark."
An Auror? The darkness in the corner suddenly seemed very dark indeed. Aurors were angry, and Aurors took people away – but this Auror?
This Auror held his lit wand in one hand, and swung his hat merrily in the other. "I seemed to be the cause of the consternation up Knockturn tonight: I frightened a whole batch of your neighbours coming out of the 'Dragon & Warlock' just by walking past – I didn't even speak to them!"
A pause, and then this Auror did a very strange thing. This Auror put his hand gently on Grandfather's arm.
"Artaxerxes, I am very sorry about your son and daughter-in-law."
"Humph." Grandfather shrugged. "As my son was fool enough to become a Death Eater and try and kill the lot of you, I don't imagine you're sorry about his death."
The Auror didn't move his hand. "He is actually the one I am most sorry about. It doesn't matter what he had done – he was in our custody, and yet we couldn't or didn't keep the Dark side from murdering him. That should never have happened. An official apology would be as untrue as it is unlikely, but I hope you will accept mine."
Grandfather let out a wordless grumble – the sort of noise Rax knew meant Grandfather didn't know quite what to say – and then shook the hand off his arm. "And if it had been the other way round?" he retorted sharply.
"Oui..." The Auror sighed. "It is a tangled web, when more than one weaves it..." And then he chuckled. "And that is Maman's proverb that I quote back at her when she wants to know why I'm not married yet. I can get into quite enough mischief by myself!"
Grandfather must have reached up to light the oil lamp, for a very dim glow, paler than the wand light, sent fresh shadows scurrying across the floor to hide in the corners. "You haven't changed from when you were six years old, Philippe Faringdon – laughing at everything."
It was said like a criticism, yet the Auror still just laughed; kindly, not like Father's – visitors – had occasionally laughed. "Artaxerxes, sometimes things are so serious that you just have to laugh. Admittedly," he waved his hat in a conceding gesture, "that is something Maman says. And she also said she would stop worrying about me when the war was over, but I haven't persuaded her to do that, yet..."
A chair on the far side of the table drew out, and Grandfather sat down with a dismissive grunt. "So how are they, then? Your parents?"
"Delighted that we've heard from you again." The Auror called Philippe – whoever he was – perched himself on the corner of the table and swung one leg in and out of Rax's immediate line of vision. "Dad said he was beginning to think you had completely forgotten your old House-mate, and the expedition to find the muggle village. He's thinking he'll be able to retire now – since St. Mungo's have stopped having to drag the Oculist Healers down to deal with the main casualty rush everyday. And they're going to stay in Hidcote: they did move there just to get away from the war, and they are the only magical household, but they both like it there. All the muggle neighbours just think they're a bit odd because Maman's from Paris... She says its always been a marvellous excuse..."
He laughed again, and this time there was the strangest noise of a reluctant, gruff half-chuckle out of Grandfather. "Have a chair, you irrepressible kid – swinging your legs on my kitchen table at the dead of night..."
Was it that comment that made the Auror stop, and twist round? Or – Rax didn't think he'd made a noise, but he knew he'd lifted his head slightly. He froze. It was frightfully uncomfortable, holding his head an inch above the floor, but he didn't dare risk another noise putting it down. Between the unspoken rule of avoiding – visitors – and the much spoken rule of Minding Your Own Business, now was not the time to be caught awake...
"I'll always be six years old in your eyes, Artaxerxes," the Auror remarked with amusement. He drew out a chair, and flopped into it – Rax dropped his head back to the floor in aching relief. He could only see feet and chair legs under the wing chair now, but at least that left him unnoticed.
The Auror's chair moved slightly. "Well, I've the whole night off; young Shacklebolt's covering for me, but I don't need to be keeping your household disturbed. So – have you got this book?"
"Sadly," Grandfather growled. He rose, and shuffled slowly off into the work room. Rax held his breath in the silence. Book? Why did an Auror – even one who seemed to know Grandfather – come for a book? The Aurors who had come Before hadn't cared about books – every book in Father's study had been flung down and smashed upon the floor in their search.
And what book? They had very few books here – old school books, and a couple of cookery books, and few old story books of Grandmother Sutch's, that now belonged to Tiggy. Rax had read them too, but they weren't terribly interesting – certainly not to an Auror?
Grandfather's feet came back into view; the dividing door shut again with a soft click; and then there was a heavier 'clunk' of something being set down on the table. A creak like fine hinges opening.
"Ah-ha!" The Auror got to his feet. "'Brewes of Lyfe' – so what is that?"
'The big white book at the end of the row of books on the shelf over the mantelpiece in Father's study,' Rax's mind filled in automatically. The shelf Mother said we were never, ever to touch anything on...
"Death," said Grandfather.
The Auror chuckled. "Probably right. Let's see... Mobilicorpus... and Specialis revealio... Oh-ho!"
The lamp light suddenly seemed dim. Strange lights flickered across the floor – orange and blue that came and went, and the shadows crept out of the corners, as if closer and closer to the book – Father's book – that was Death...
Thump! Bright white light again – breaking out across the kitchen to make Rax screw up his eyes, and Grandfather exclaim – and laughter.
"Sorry!" The wand light dimmed as the Auror spoke. "Somebody didn't like that book," he remarked cheerily. "One or two very nasty curses, but..." – two sharp flashes of red light – "...not too well stuck on. It should be fairly harmless now. I can't vouch for the contents, of course," he added with another laugh, and the sound of softly flicking pages. "There's no sign of any fireproofing charm, so it must simply be dragon-hide parchment that means you can't get it to burn. You're never going to. That probably makes it valuable in – certain circles. It's up to you, whether you want it in the house, but it will do less harm with you than if it goes out into the world."
He sounded serious, now – Grandfather merely grunted again. "Put it back in the box."
Another creak of hinges, and Grandfather's feet once again vanished through the dividing door. The Auror paced gently across to the hearth, his bright wand light casting him into full height silhouette from Rax's view. His hat in his non-wand hand swung gently to and fro, to and fro, with matching flicker of light and shadow, until Grandfather came back.
"I must be off, then, Artaxerxes; go and give all of Knockturn something to gossip about – once they've got out from hiding under their beds...!"
"Auror raid on confirmed Death Eater's family."
The hat stopped swinging. "Do they know?" He sounded surprised, even bothered.
"How could they not?" Grandfather's voice was as bitter as when Mother had first died – when he had said Rax and Tiggy and 'the brat' were nothing but three extra mouths to feed. "It was all over the Prophet."
There was silence. And then the Auror shook his head. "Crouch was wrong. We didn't need information badly enough to sink to using Unforgivables to get it. Nor to..." He put his hand briefly on Grandfather's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Artaxerxes. Is there anything else I can do?"
There was... Rax thought frantically behind the wing chair – and the Auror did it. Ringing laughter, even as Grandfather opened the door to block the wand-light and send darkness back across the kitchen. "Scrimgeour was right, the other day... he said if I keep on at this rate, I'll turn into Dumbledore, not Mad-Eye. I told he's welcome to lose bits of his nose, I'm attached to mine!"
"No wonder your mother worries," Grandfather retorted shortly.
"Oui..." The Auror behind the door chuckled. "Keep in touch, Artaxerxes. They'll be waiting to hear from you again. And you don't need to traipse down all these stairs again – I can let myself out at the bottom. And – take care."
Grandfather shut the door, and vanished back into the other room. The kitchen was dark again. And cold. Rax rubbed a cold nose where it had been sticking out of the blanket roll. Very cold, but somehow – not as cold. It wasn't the blankets. It was the cold from Before.
The great, dark, cold hollowness seemed a little, just a little, less. An official apology would be as untrue as it is unlikely, but I hope you will accept mine...
One other person – one other person in the whole world apart from himself and Tiggy, was sorry that Father was dead.
Rax squirmed to roll himself more tightly into his blankets.
It was all the nicer because they laughed like Father.
~:~:~
A/N: With many thanks to all those patiently wondering what I've done with 'Adelaide Fenwick,' or 'Pericles,' or 'Blood Status' – I will be getting on with them now!