~ Harry Potter and the Nineteen Lost Years ~
~ Chapter One - Some Unexpected Visitors ~
Monica Wilkins bent down for what seemed like the hundredth time today and scooped up a handful of brightly coloured pegs from the little sackcloth bag at her feet. Pausing in her actions, she wiped a browned hand across her sweating forehead before reaching up to clip the folded sheet onto the line that bisected the little garden. She swatted an insect that buzzed around her face, flapping at it with her free hand, but it persisted and finally she batted at it with both hands, sending the collection of pegs in her fingers tumbling to earth. Swearing loudly in frustration, she bent once more to pick them up.
"Wendell?" she called over her shoulder. Distantly within the house she heard the dim echoes of her husband's response. "Can you fill the watering can for me, please? The flowers are dying in this heat."
She didn't wait to hear Wendell's reply but smiled inwardly, resuming her actions. Wendell was a good man; he tried in his own way to help her out with the chores, as much as he grumbled whilst he did so. Ordinarily she wouldn't have asked him, but today felt different in a way Monica couldn't quite put her finger on. The air around her seemed to hum with expectancy, and she found herself constantly glancing absent-mindedly at the little gate to the back garden, as if there were something there that she could sense but couldn't quite see. It was the strangest sensation, but she felt as though she were being watched.
Shrugging off the odd feeling, Monica reached up once more, straining to clip the crumpled T-shirt to the line. As she did so her shirt, loose in the thick orange heat of midday, rode up slightly, so that the smooth curve of her stomach was displayed in its entirety, right down to the quicksilver line that cupped its base, a split seam right in the middle of her. For as long as she could remember, that line had been there, though she had no idea how she came to be scarred there.
Today she ignored it. It was a blisteringly hot day; the buttery sun was high in the sky, a disc of pure gold so bright it seemed to diffuse any cloud that might have gathered there. Monica hummed to herself distractedly, a melody whose words she lost long ago. It had taken them a few years to get enough money together, but last year she and Wendell finally were in a position to move here, to Perth. The money they raised from selling their little maisonette in England had been enough, put with their savings, to buy them a smaller house, with only one bedroom. Wendell had been right, she thought now, though she had protested at the time. What on earth was the point of having an extra bedroom when they had no children and would never now have any, at their age? It was a waste of space.
If Monica was honest, it wasn't the house she particularly loved so much as the garden. Naturally green-fingered, she relished the opportunity to cultivate a patch of land far larger than had been their little garden at home, and in a much more hospitable climate than the rain-strummed streets and cloud-swirled skies of England. Wendell continued to practice dentistry here, finding a little clinic only twenty minutes drive from their new home, but Monica abstained, choosing instead to make their house and garden beautiful. "I'll find work when we need me to," she told Wendell whenever the subject presented itself, and he always grudgingly agreed.
She had to admit that moving here had done them both good. She, at least, felt healthier, now that her skin had regular access to pure sunlight rather than the artificial light she had been accustomed to at home when frequent bad weather drove her inside. The hot climate meant that she didn't want to cook big stews and stodgy meals, so that nowadays she was far happier nibbling on salad and soup, and as a result her waist seemed more refined of late. Even Wendell's slightly swollen belly had shrunken somewhat thanks to their healthier diet. He seemed happier.
She hadn't yet become bored with the novelty of her accent. She still delighted at every double take she caused whenever she spoke to shop assistants. Wendell had become a little tired of explaining where they were from constantly, but then Monica had always found pleasure in ridiculous things. She remembered the day they met with a smile now- she had crashed her trolley in the supermarket into his, quite deliberately. He had apologised profusely, though it had been entirely her fault, because she had been seeing him there for the past three weeks now and had finally resolved to find some way of speaking to him. The milk bottle in her trolley had fallen and cracked; white liquid now dripped all over her suede shoes and, mortified, he had insisted on buying her coffee to make up for it. Not that he had had to insist particularly hard, that is, because if he hadn't she would have taken up his offer anyway, whether he made it or not. He still didn't know it, but it was why Monica laughed a little every time she saw spilt milk. Wendell just thought she was odd.
At a shuffling noise behind her, she turned to see her husband standing in the doorway to the little garden, but as she did so there was a crash as he dropped the heavy watering can. Water spat out from it, splashing down the brick steps and over his sandalled feet. The smile that split her face warped now into a mask of irritation.
"For goodness sake, Wen - !" she started and began to stoop to clear the split water, but then she saw the look of alarm that twisted his own features and she straightened once more. "Wen?" she asked, confused. "What's wrong?"
When he answered her, he did not look at her but kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, staring at the far end of the garden.
"Don't say anything, Mon, just come inside slowly."
His voice resonated with forced calm, and Monica frowned in puzzlement. "What? Why?"
Wendell grabbed her arm and pulled her gently but firmly towards him, his face knitted with concern.
"Because there are people in the garden," he said, finally tearing his gaze from the edge of the garden to look her meaningfully in the eyes. "And they've been watching you for a while now."
~ OoOoO ~
Fourteen cups of tea later, the intruders were still outside in the garden. Wendell knew this because from time to time he twitched the lace at the windows and he could see them there. By now night had settled over Perth, so that the intruders cast long distorted shadows across the neatly clipped lawns, so that they seemed huge, menacing figures. Monica was frantic.
"What do they want, Wendell?" Her eyes widened with fear. "Do you think they'll try to hurt us?" She lifted a hand to her heart, feeling it fluttering weakly there, a reminder that she was, after all, still living, breathing. They had not harmed her. Yet.
"I don't know, Mon," Wendell replied honestly. "But I'm not waiting around to find out."
Monica looked at her husband, frightened. He was normally such a gentle man, but tonight his soft brown eyes seemed harder somehow, solidified amber, as if at any moment they might set off sparks. The folds of his brow were ruffled slightly in grim determination; his jaw was tightly laced, as if he is steeling himself.
"What are you going to do?" she asked. "If you think you're going outside to face them –!" she continued hotly, but he silenced her by raising his left hand slightly.
"Don't be ridiculous, Mon, do you think I'm stupid?" He fixed her with a stare so intense that she blushed slightly. "No, I'm calling the police. They're breaking and entering, that's illegal. It's trespassing."
Monica fluttered over to the window, securely barred and locked. Brushing aside the curtains as her husband had repeatedly done today, she looked fearfully into the little garden. She could see them at the very end. There were three of them, two boys and a girl, nestled around a jar that seems to sparkle bright blue. She squinted, trying to see, and then –
"You can't call the police, Wen, they're only children!" she cried.
Wendell stared at her, the phone nestled in his hand.
"What difference does that make?" he cried, incredulous. "If they're going to try to rob us, what does it matter if they're eight or eighty?"
"How do you know they want to rob us, Wen?" Monica asked, surprising herself with the calmness she had somehow managed to inject into her voice, surprising herself that she even possessed this idea, let alone could give it voice. "How do you know they aren't just needing help?"
"You are not going out there to ask them, Mon!" Wendell said forcefully, though Monica noted that he had replaced the receiver into its cradle.
"Well, we have to do something, Wendell," she replied coolly. "I refuse to be a prisoner in my own home."
"So what do you intend on doing, exactly, Monica?" Wendell's voice was light, almost casual, but now it grew heavy with the weight of his sarcasm. "Offer them some apple pie? Give them some of our money? Or perhaps you'd like to invite them all in to sleep in our bed, so they can murder us while we're asleep on the sofa? Much easier to do it then!"
He huffed into the kitchen, annoyed at his wife's apparent stupidity. She had always had a good heart – too good, really, and look where it might land them now. Cold, six feet under and missing some of their vital organs. Like their heads, for example.
"As long as you're in there," Monica's voice, irritatingly casual, floated through the open door. "Put the kettle on, won't you?"
Wendell muttered under his breath, slamming the thick red mugs down on the smooth counter-top and darkly thinking of all the ways they might be murdered tonight.
~ oOoOo ~
Dawn arrived early the next morning, rosy-cheeked and staining the skin of the sky a deep pink. Wendell was already awake; he had been up for two hours now, after an uneasy sleep, watching their new and unexpected guests in the garden.
"Bloody cheek," he muttered irritably. "They're taking liberties now."
He heard a shuffling noise behind him; spinning around, he saw his wife shuffle sleepily into the room, fat with the enormous pink robe she had wrapped around her slender frame. A yawn engulfed her face so that he could see every one of her fillings.
"Well," she said, in the kind of breathy voice that only exists in the very early morning. "We're still alive, aren't we? I don't feel particularly dead, do you?" When he only looked at her irritably she smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Why don't you just talk to them? Clearly they don't want to hurt us or rob us, or they'd have done it already."
"They look like beggars," Wendell replied. "One of the boys has scruffy black hair – looks like he hasn't combed it in weeks."
"Well, then they obviously do need help, don't they, if they're beggars?" Monica said, slipping her arm around him, but Wendell soon changed tack.
"No, they're probably con artists," he said, and at this new display of paranoia Monica actually laughed.
"Oh, for goodness sake, Wen, this isn't some stupid TV show! They're kids!" she added pointedly.
"Think about it, Mon," Wendell said, staring thoughtfully into the garden. "Two boys and a girl – probably they're planning on using the girl to get our sympathy, our trust, and then once they've got it those two'll come in and take what's ours. They look quite strong, the pair of them. Bit weedy, the dark-haired one, but if you're hungry enough and desperate enough it's surprising what you're capable of."
"Oh, yes, Wendell, brilliant plan," Monica drawled sarcastically, irked by her husband's ridiculousness. "Yes, they're gaining our trust by doing nothing other than camp in our garden looking a bit scruffy; they really must be master criminals! Wait a moment while I grab my torch and pitchfork, just to be sure! Or shall I skip that and phone the Australian version of MI6? I'm sure they'll be thrilled to hear we've got three slightly scruffy teenagers doing nothing whatsoever in our back garden!"
Wendell didn't say anything, but threw her an extremely dirty look. "I'm still not going out there, Mon."
"Fine," Monica replied hotly. "Then I am." And before Wendell had time to protest she had tightened the cord of her robe and padded softly towards the back door, pausing as she did so to pick up an unopened packet of cakes from the kitchen counter. They were Wendell's, bought to combat his recently-diagnosed diabetes for when he had low blood sugar, but she reasoned that there were plenty of other sweet things in the house should that happen. Ironic, isn't it? she had said to him at the time. You spend so much time telling kids not to eat sugary food, and now it turns out you actually need to sometimes!
The grass was crisp beneath her slippers; she could feel it crunching as she crossed the lawn towards the little band of teenagers. They had set up a little tent at the edge of the garden, and Monica wondered at their poverty – the tent looked hardly big enough for one of them, let alone three. They were seated outside it in a little circle, drinking from large off-white mugs, and they looked up expectantly as she stopped in front of them.
She hesitated now, her bravado dissipating slightly now that she was here. Fumbling for words, she held out the packet of cakes to the nearest, a tall red-headed boy, who took them eagerly. He moved to rip the packet open but a dark look from the girl stayed his hand. She turned now to look up at Monica, tipping her face towards her so that it was in plain view for the first time, and Monica felt the blood slow in her veins.
She has Wendell's eyes, she thought. Those are Wendell's eyes, and nose. But that was ridiculous. Neither she nor Wendell had any children, or even any siblings. But this girl looked so much like Wendell it is frightening.
"May I ask what you three are doing in our garden?" Monica asked softly in her best telephone voice, directing her question at the girl simply because she could not take her eyes from her. It was the scruffy-haired boy who answered her.
"We've come to see you and your husband," he said gently, and Monica did not know what was more surprising; the vibrant leafy shade of his green eyes or the fact that he was speaking in an English accent, rather than an Australian one.
"You're English?" she asked. "All of you?"
The three of them nodded; the red-head muttered, "Yeah" thickly through a mouthful of the cakes, ignoring the girl's looks.
"And you've travelled all this way to see me and my husband?" Monica continued, puzzled. She could feel Wendell's wary eyes on the back of her neck, though she told herself it was merely the imprint of the sun's strengthening rays. "But why?"
No one said anything; the girl pulled herself slowly to her feet. She looked straight into Monica's eyes, and for a moment Monica was lost, because they were Wendell's eyes and she was remembering the first time she ever looked into them, the way her heart seemed to slip in her chest so that her pulse seemed fragmented, racing.
"Because -" began the girl, falteringly, and the red-headed boy reached for her hand.
"Go on," he said reassuringly, and he squeezed her hand gently, lacing his fingers tightly through her own as if to relinquish his hold on her would be to lose her forever. "It's okay."
She blushed a little, and finally, in a voice as clear and as bright as ice, she spoke.
"I didn't want – I don't want to do it this way," she said, her eyes staring directly at the spot above Monica's shoulder. "I wanted to just reverse everything, so that I wouldn't need to do this, but that's not an option anymore. I tried, at first, but it hasn't worked, so this is the only way."
Monica had no idea what the strange, thin girl was talking about, but something about the urgency in her words made her wait for the rest of the explanation. It felt as though the words needed to be said.
"I'm here," the girl said, her voice high and quivering a little from the apparent stress of her efforts. "Because I'm your daughter."
Author's Note:
After a long period of indecision, I eventually decided to clean up Righting Wrongs. By 'clean up' I mean the following:
- lengthening certain chapters by combining shorter ones, so there's less to flick through and it flows more succinctly
- revising the storytelling itself, so that there are no discrepancies.
There will, therefore, be no updates until I have completed what will be a difficult and lengthy process.