Title: Known
Disclaimer: I own nothing in the Harry Potter universe, and no one pays me to write.
Pairings: None.
Rating: T
Warnings: Oh, nothing. Just your friendly neighbourhood Inferius.
Summary: It didn't matter what other people thought—to her, he was simply the grumpily nice old man dwelling in the abandoned house on the side of the road. (Alternatively, a story about Frank Bryce's new life as an Inferius.)
Word Count: 2,539.
A/N at the end this time.
.x.x.
Known
She rolled her shoulders as she meandered down the road, humming one of her favourite theme songs. After an entire morning of lugging around a rucksack at school, she was glad to have ditched it in her bedroom; she could still feel the ghost of its weight on her shoulders and back.
It was a gorgeous afternoon, with the sun warming her unadorned hair, and she felt relatively safe in the quiet suburban neighbourhood. Still, she kept her eyes and ears open and alert, for Grandpa had trained her well. Even if there were really no predators hiding in other people's rosebushes, there was the occasional car on the road. The annoying thing about living in a neighbourhood full of townhouses was that there was rarely a proper pavement; she just had to make do with walking on the foot-wide cement strip adjacent to the asphalt.
She made her usual right turn at the main road, making sure to walk on the grass out of traffic's way. Across the street she saw dense forest with occasional houses tucked into them; there was also a mailbox standing mysteriously alone at the edge, and she vowed she would check it out one day.
For now, however, her destination was on the right.
The lawn was sparse, sporting only a few clusters of weeds tucked into dry, brittle grass. There might have been a cute little path leading up to the house at one point, but now there was only dirt and the occasional plastic debris from years of careless litterers tossing rubbish out of their car windows.
The house itself was brick, so the years did not do too much damage, but the wooden door was chipped and the handle rusty. Grime and dust coated the glass windows, and not much could be seen inside.
In front of the house was the aforementioned main road, with dozens of cars passing by every day without a second glance, and behind the house was what looked like a dense forest, but she'd never checked.
All in all, the house was an abandoned treasure.
Smiling, she walked up the path to the door and knocked.
As always, it took several moments for anything to happen. She waited patiently; it was not like she was eager to go home and do her homework.
After about the thirtieth time she tapped her foot, the door opened slightly, though still not enough for her to see the inside of the house.
"What do you want?" asked a gruff voice.
Grinning, she quipped, "Is Father Time in today?"
"Father Time is out. I'm only the gardener. Do you have a message for Him?"
"Tell Him that the sun moves too quick across the sky! I only wish to spend a little more time with you."
The door opened wider at this point, admitting entrance. She hurried in, because she knew he did not like to leave the door open for too long; he detested the sun.
"Well. That's enough carrying on for today," he said, once he closed the door behind her. "Tea?"
"No, thank you." She knew he only asked out of habit. When he'd asked her the first time, she'd said yes, which led to some mild embarrassment as he confessed his lack of tea—or biscuits, for that matter.
No, it was really just a matter of habit.
They took their usual seats—he in a dilapidated armchair, and she on a wooden chair facing said armchair.
She observed him from where she sat. His name was Mr Frank Bryce, and he was very old, practically ancient. His figure was skeletal, with ashen skin and coarse hair. His watery blue eyes were dull and tired, as if they'd seen too much of the world and wanted to make no active effort to see more. He also didn't like to move much; he hardly made any motions with his hands when he spoke.
She knew he didn't own the house. If he did, he would have put more effort into its upkeep. As it was, there were always several layers of dust coating every object, and he hardly touched anything.
Following his cue, she didn't touch anything, either, except for the wooden chair, which she didn't mind wiping on occasion.
"Well?" he said, breaking the silence.
"What?"
"Don't you ever get bored, coming here to gawk at a man who doesn't exist?"
She shrugged. "I've got nothing better to do. Besides, you do exist."
"Not to the government, I don't! For all intents and purposes, I am deceased. And quite frankly, I agree with their estimation of me. I'm not exactly alive."
"Now, what makes you say that, Mr Bryce? You're talking to me, aren't you? Could a dead person do that?"
He seemed to ponder this for a moment. "I don't know. Ghosts can talk, I suppose. Maybe I'm a ghost."
He did not say this with any degree of seriousness, but she went up and touched the back of his hand anyway.
"Solid. You can't be a ghost."
He pulled his hand away and crossed his arms, huffing. "Don't touch me, you silly child. It can't be good for you."
She touched his shoulder defiantly. "I'll only stop if it's bad for you, old man. Don't you worry none about me."
He attempted a sneer, but it wasn't very convincing. She smiled and patted him again before returning to her seat.
"Oh c'mon, Mr Bryce, don't frown. You were probably sillier when you were my age. Isn't that little boy in you somewhere?"
He barked out a laugh. "As if I'd remember! I lived my natural life for over seventy years, and then I've spent several years living this unnatural life. At this point I barely remember my mum's face!"
"So you don't remember anything at all?"
She made sure to pout slightly and widen her eyes, and like clockwork, his grim countenance began to soften.
"Oh, all right. Stop that pouting business. Let's see. When I was a boy, one of my favourite things to do was to root around in the garden for pill bugs, or what you young folk call roly polies."
She cringed. "Really? Not ladybugs or butterflies? Or how about dragonflies?"
He smiled. "No, lass. Every boy in the neighbourhood wanted an army of roly polies. They're small, look like armadillos, and don't bite. What more could you ask for?"
"What do you even do with them?"
"You keep them in a can, of course! A little dirt and grass to make it feel at home, and you're set. Then you can bring them to class or to a friend's house so they can play with them, too. We used to even trade them or have them fight each other—or, well, we pretended they fought. Really, they just stared at each other and tried to crawl away. Some creatures aren't as keen to fight as we humans are."
She pondered this. "You became a gardener when you grew up, right?"
The smiled slipped off his face, and he nodded. "Yes. I was a gardener, all right. Serving the Riddle family for as long as I can remember. Even after they died, I couldn't wash their name off me."
Hastily, she steered the topic away from the Riddles; talking about them only upset him, and she wasn't in the mood to hear sad stories anyway. "Did you find many pill bugs during your gardening job? And did you get to play with them?"
He brightened. "Yes, indeed. Sometimes, when the masters of the house weren't looking, I'd put a couple of them in a jar and bring them home to look at them a bit. I figured I was doing the garden a favour, anyway—pill bugs are usually considered as pests, you know."
"Hm. Why don't you do that now, then?"
He shrugged. "I've never considered it. I'm an old man now; I've been through too much to keep track of it all."
She hesitated, but then she knew she had to ask. "What's the last thing you've been through before getting to this house?"
"A war," he whispered. Then he abruptly stood up. "You know, child, you've given me an idea. Why shouldn't I be able to find some pill bugs right now? Come on. Let's go to the backyard." He went to the kitchen, grabbed an abandoned can, and went out the back.
Unsatisfied with his answer but glad to do something other than sitting around talking, she followed him out. She was being impatient, anyhow. The man would share with her when he was ready.
Out there in the warm afternoon sun, the two of them bent down and inspected the dirt and grass right next to the wall of the house.
"Now, this may require a little careful digging, child. Be very cautious; you don't want to get stung by those nasty little red ants."
She nodded and proceeded carefully, while looking at him from the corner of her eye.
He was smiling, his shoulders relaxed for the first time since she'd met him. His hands seemed to caress the earth as he moved blades of grass and clumps of dirt around, and she got a glimpse of how peaceful he must have been at his former job.
She turned back to her patch and apologetically covered up an earthworm that she had unwittingly disturbed. To be quite honest, she wasn't keen on gathering up any pill bugs or roly polies or whatnot, but she was willing to indulge him. The man rarely disclosed much information about himself.
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "I've found them!"
She moved over, and indeed there was a little swarm of them in the grass.
"Quick, child! Help me gather them up into the can! The dirt and grass can be added later."
Grimacing, she did as he asked, cringing whenever she felt tiny little legs between her fingers. He seemed to like her reaction, though, grinning widely.
"Don't be like that, lass! They mean you no harm!"
"Honestly, this is horrid," she grumbled playfully as she tossed another one in.
By the time they'd finished their collection, the can had half a dozen pill bugs covered in dirt, grass, and leaves. Satisfied, he brought them into the house and set the can on the kitchen counter.
She wrinkled her nose. "Don't you have to make food on that counter at some point?"
"Never. I don't eat, you know."
"Never?"
"Nope. I told you, child, I'm not alive. I never need to eat, I never feel pain, and I barely even breathe."
She scrutinised him. "I don't know…you're not sparkly enough to be a vampire…and you don't have fangs, either."
He chortled. "Back in my day, vampires didn't sparkle, either."
She shrugged. "This still doesn't bring us any closer to what you are."
To her surprise, he actually reached out and patted her back. "What I am does not really matter. I'm your friend, aren't I?"
She pretended to consider this for a long time. "Perhaps."
"Then that's all you need to know. Why bring up categories and labels? Why ask about my past? All I know is that one moment I was in a madman's army, and the next I was free. No more voice in my head, no more compulsions. I died, was partially resurrected, and now I'm fully resurrected."
She grinned wryly. "That sounds like a lot of fuss and bother. Even Jesus didn't have to deal with being half-resurrected."
He nodded in mock solemnity. "Well, maybe only Jesus is allowed to be on the express lane."
"So you were in an army, though? Before the house?" she blurted out, before he could make any more musings on the Lord. She'd had enough of that at church, thank you very much.
He shrugged noncommittally. "Yes. Wasn't an army of my choosing. I must have been conscripted after death, though I don't remember nothing. I did recognise my leader, though, the one with the grating self-important voice. He killed the whole Riddle family, he did. Good riddance, I say. And good riddance to that madman, too, eventually. Can't say what really happened there, but I do know I was in the middle of a field when I found my freedom."
"And what did freedom look like when you found it, Mr Bryce? Was it a shining light?"
"No, certainly not." He moved over to the armchair, and she followed him. "Freedom is a cool spring breeze, and you walk toward it, seeking for more. It feels nice, you know, after you've spent your life in an oven."
"An oven," she repeated.
"That's right."
She considered this. "Maybe you're a zombie, Mr Bryce."
He let out a surprised laugh. "Maybe I am. Though you needn't worry about me eating your brains; you've got a long way to go before you've earned any worth eating."
She pouted, but he only laughed more, and in the end she joined him in the laughing. A zombie! Well, it was as good a theory as any.
"You know, child, I've always wondered why you've never been afraid of me. Not even on day one. Why is that?"
She looked into his eyes, which now glowed with the soft light of laughter.
"The way I see it, Mr Bryce, people are only scared of the unknown. But you—you're just an old man with stories. If there's anything I've ever known, it's old men like you."
He nodded slowly and heavily, as if she had imparted the greatest wisdom the universe had to offer.
"Well, child, speaking of old men…isn't it about time you came home to your grandfather? Playtime is over."
She got up and stretched. "All right. I know better than to argue, Mr Bryce. I'll come see you again tomorrow, okay?"
He got up, too, and held up his hand. "Wait a moment, child." He walked away for a few moments and then came back, can in hand. "Take this with you."
She looked in the can doubtfully as he held it. "Now, what am I going to do with a bunch of roly polies?"
"Show them to your grandpa and see if he has any roly poly stories. Everyone's got one."
"You sure about that?" Grandpa didn't seem like the type to play with insects.
He nodded. "Just try it. It'll be a good icebreaker."
"All right, Mr Bryce. Whatever you say." She took the can. "I'll see you tomorrow!"
"You take care now."
As she walked out the front door, holding the can, she hummed another jaunty tune to herself. Boy, Grandpa will throw a fit when he sees all these bugs! She looked forward to his grumbling.
Behind her, Frank Bryce closed the door, shutting out the excessive sunlight.
No, he really didn't know what he was or why he was somewhat alive now.
Yet it didn't really matter, anyway. As long as he had someone to talk to and something to do, it wasn't so bad to exist.
He went out the back door. There was always work to be done, no matter whose garden it was.
.x.x.
Author's Note: This was written for Round 8 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Season 2.
In case you've forgotten, dear Frank Bryce here was the gardener for Voldemort's father and paternal grandparents. He was the one who was blamed for said father's and grandparents' deaths, and then Voldemort offed him when he accidentally overheard his plot to kill Harry Potter. A sad bio overall, which is why I've decided to give him a nice retirement.
As was pointed out by a reviewer, canonically Inferi are only "alive" because they are controlled by a necromancer. Behind the scenes, I had Frank be part of Voldemort's Inferi army during the second war, which is what he's alluding to. That was his "half-resurrection," so to speak.
The reason why I labelled this story as supernatural is because Frank here didn't cease being animated after Voldemort's death. For some reason, he continues to move, except now he has a mind of his own. Hence the voice being gone. That was his full resurrection.
Why? Who knows. Let's call it a miracle.
How long will he continue to "live"? That's for you to decide, reader. This was only a snapshot, and it shall stay like that.