Okay, here's my latest (second) attempt at a fanfiction. I feel that I should warn you that the first chapter begins fairly bleakly, despite this, I hope you enjoy it. Please R&R!
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter
In the the small English village of Quigley's Grove, there is a house on the hill. It's an old, gothic-looking building. It was undoubtedly a fine place once but thanks to poor funds or simply a lack of care, it has begun to slowly give into the ravages of time. The children of the village love the place and love to tell ghost stories where some poor, Victorian girl was murdered in a jealous rage and has been doomed to wander the house's many hallways ever since, wailing and covered in blood. Utter poppycock, of course. Anyone in the know would be able to tell you that ghosts have far better things to do with their time and the ghosts themselves would undoubtedly launch into a great speech about fighting against stereotypes and such. But that's another story for another time.
The house in question, is owned by an elderly German gentleman called Christoph Eichenwald. He's something of a recluse, preferring his own company and that of books to the village residents. Now, Christoph's life would be fascinating to say the least. He was something of an explorer in his youth and he somehow managed to survive two of the darkest periods of wizarding history to ever grace the history books. But no one in the village would ever know this. Quigley's Grove would only ever see him as the grouchy, eccentric clock maker who lived on the hill, which brings us swiftly to the beginning of our story.
The clocks.
The house is filled with them. Pendulum clocks, grandfather clocks, cuckoo clocks - if you can name it, then it will no doubt be hidden away in the house, and they've all been made by Christoph. Yes, in between exploring and surviving devastating wars, he was also an expert clockmaker. You see what I mean about fascinating? But anyway, the clocks had always been a great source of pride for Christoph, their cogs were always gleaming and well-oiled, the faces were polished and without a single scratch, it was a truly brilliant sight to behold; the large, impressive hallway, silent but for the ticking of the beautifully-crafted clocks that seemed to cover near every surface.
But that was some years ago and the tick tock of the clocks has long since stopped. And Christoph never spares the poor things a passing glance. So they sit on the tables and hang on the walls, dusty and cracked and broken. There's a reason behind this, you know. His hands remained as steady as ever and his memory didn't fail him and force him to give up on the timepieces, he grew - suddenly, forcefully and wholly - to hate the damned things. For a very long while, before that silly, marvellous child who had her mother's smile came to stay, they were he and Matilda's only company. The tick-tock, tick-tock would comfort them when the silence of the far too large and empty house became to much to bear and when they broke down, they gave him something to do. A comfort in a way.
But now, as he neared the end of his life, alone and disillusioned, he could only feel bitterness towards them. They had mocked him, as much as an inanimate object could, with their quiet, steady sound, reminding him of the too brief years when he could hear music and off-key singing coming from the first floor. He remembered thumping the ceiling with a broomstick shouting at her to "Turn that infernal racket down!" while Matilda looked over her glasses and chuckled at her husband's antics. The calming sound of the clocks ticking had hit him hardest when he remembered it and eventually he could bear it no more. Call it madness if you will, but he painstakingly made sure that each and every clock would never tick again. He still had them up though - a small, rather unpleasant part of him enjoying watching as the damned things fell further and further into disrepair. So perhaps the village was right, perhaps he was truly mad. But he could no longer bring himself to care.
He often thought that perhaps this was a cruel side effect from living too long - when you watched the people you love die and the world keep on changing until you can no longer recognise it. Yes, he thought, apathy and madness simply couldn't been avoided once you had realised the terrible truth of it all. He thought of it nearly every day because there was nothing else to think of. No one to worry about, or scold. It was just him. And sometimes the thought of it drew tears to his eyes.
1987
Quentin was dead. The ne'er-do-well husband of his eldest niece was dead. Christoph wasn't entirely sure how Matilda wanted him to react to the news. He felt little to no remorse, he was sure Matilda didn't either, but she would be too kind to say so. Christoph on the other hand...
"What would you like me to do?" He asked irritably, fiddling around with the inner-workings of a pocket watch.
"A little bit of kindness wouldn't go amiss." Matilda said tartly as she set the tea tray on his working desk, taking care not to crush any of the delicate bits and bobs that lay scattered on it.
Christoph snorted as he lifted the cup and saucer off the tray, "The same kindness he showed my niece? The man was a brute, you know this."
"I never said he was anything but," Matilda said sternly, "Besides, it's not him I think of. It's the child."
Seven years ago, Aggie, as she was fondly referred to by her family, had given birth to a little girl. But less than a year after she was born, the child's mother had been murdered. There was a war on, after all. So the child had been brought up by her father, who point blank refused to give her up. No one in the Eichenwald family had heard of them for several years, not a Christmas card or letter asking for money, until now.
Quentin Oswald had been found dead. The drunken fool had managed to get himself run over by one of those muggle automobiles, leaving the child an orphan.
Christoph took a sip of tea before setting the cup down. He stared at his wife warily, "Is that so?"
"She's alone, Christoph. She needs somewhere to live." Matilda put her hands on her waist and stared down at her husband.
"No, absolutely not." Christoph sighed, pushed his chair back and stood up. This was not a conversation he wanted to have.
"There is no one else to take her in. If we do not, then she'll be put in a home, a muggle one."
Christoph raised an eyebrow, "I would never have thought of you as prejudiced, my dear."
Oh, the glare she sent him! It would have sent You-Know-Who himself running for the hills.
"Don't be ridiculous, Christoph! But the muggles won't know what she is, how to handle her. She'll grow up an outcast, separated from the other children by something they don't understand."
Christoph sighed, "My dear, we are in our Winter years. It would be unfair on the child."
Matilda scoffed, "I don't know about you, but there's still plenty of life left in this old mare yet!" Her stare turned more stern and Christoph suddenly felt the need to busy himself elsewhere. Funny how she could do that, make a grown man feel like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It was a great talent, Christoph decided.
"I don't debate that, my dear." He scratched the side of his nose and sighed, aware that he was fast losing the argument, "Perhaps, perhaps, we should meet the child first."
Matilda beamed at him, her face lit up entirely - she knew that he knew that she had won but was absolutely unwilling to say it, "Of course, meine liebe."
OoOoOoOoO
She was a tiny, little thing. Far too small for seven. Brown pigtails, freckles and a pair of big, blue eyes that never lifted their gaze from the ground. She didn't speak at first, only nod or shook her head at the appropriate intervals.
But Matilda had always been marvellous with children and the small, scrawny one that had sat opposite them was no different.
"Ah, that's much better." Matilda had announced at seeing the toothy little grin, "Such a shame to have such a nice smile go to waste."
The smile grew a bit bigger and the cheeks turned a little pink in embarrassment.
"Now that we're all friends," Christoph spoke up and lent forward on his walking stick, "Perhaps we could have the pleasure of knowing your name?"
She stuck her tiny hand out for him to shake, "It's Peyton, sir. Peyton Oswald."
OoOoOoOoO
When they brought her to the house for the first time, she had looked at the clocks with an awed expression on her face.
"Why do you need so many?" She had asked Christoph with wide eyes.
"So we'll always know the time." He said curtly.
"But one clock would tell you the time, right?"
He looked down at her thoughtfully and leaned on his walking stick, "Yes, yes it would. But what if it breaks, hm?" He waved his arm at the clocks that surrounded them, "This way, you can never lose track of time."
Peyton had the look of a child who had just been told the meaning of life; sure that she had just been told something important, unsure exactly what it was.
"Oh." She looked at the grandfather clock that stood by the stairs, "Where did you get them?"
"I made them."
Peyton's eyes had widened to the size of saucers by this point, "Wow. Can you teach me how?"
Christoph dithered, he didn't want to disappoint the child but he didn't much fancy trying to explain the intricate, delicate procedure that was required to bring the clock to life.
Luckily, Matilda bustled out from the kitchen at that moment, her apron on and her grey hair tied back in a flyaway bun, "Come along, children," She called, getting a dirty look from Christoph, "I've made cake."
Christoph, although he tried to retain his dignity, was in the kitchen nearly as quickly as Peyton.
OoOoOoOoO
The first time Peyton gave any sign of being even slightly magical to Christoph or Matilda (in front of them, at least) was five months and an exact week after she had first came to live with them. She was out in the house's grounds, running about and pretending that she was an intergalactic explorer if her mutterings were anything to go by. She had came across a "dangerous alien" (a rather confused looking frog) and was talking to her team-mates about it.
"It's growing, it's going to destroy us!" She exclaimed. Matilda, who had came out to tell Peyton it was dinner time, smiled indulgently before she realised that frog was indeed growing. Larger and larger until it was the size of a small dog. Peyton had grown silent and watched the frog with wide, frightened eyes.
"Reducio." Matilda, ever a sensible woman had plucked her wand out of her pocket and cast a quick shrinking charm. She looked back at Peyton who was gazing guiltily at the frog, "Sorry." She muttered, both to the frog and Matilda.
"I think that we need to have a talk." Matilda said seriously. Peyton nodded and followed her great-aunt into the house.
The talk lasted for ten minutes and consisted largely about how although a great gift, magic was also dangerous and historically, not something muggles reacted well to. So, for that reason, Peyton would have to keep a tighter leash on it and not use it in public.
"I didn't mean to." Peyton said quickly, "It just sort of slipped out. I'm usually really, really good with it but I wasn't paying attention and I was imagining the frog turning into a giant frog and then it...did. Sorry." She hung her head.
Christoph nodded and smiled almost reminiscently, "I remember when I was a young boy. I was playing with my brother and he broke my yo-yo. The next thing he knows, he is hanging onto a tree branch." Christoph chuckled and shook his head, "He never did forgive me for that."
"Christoph!"
He started and tried to look serious, "Of course, that wasn't very nice of me and I've regretted it everyday since."
Matilda nodded but as soon as her back was turned Christoph looked at Peyton and mouthed, "It was hilarious."
Peyton couldn't help the giggle that burst out of her mouth. For such an old - or worldly, as Christoph preferred - man, her uncle could be pretty childish.
OoOoOoOoO
When she was nine, Peyton met her first bully and her best friend all on the same day.
It was Summer and the sun beat down on everyone, making the grown-ups grumpier and lazier, the children more excitable. She had strolled over to the park, hoping to find some of the children that played with her last week. One of the downsides of secretly being magic and living on the scary house on the hill with two "eccentrics" was that people tended to think of you as weird, which made it difficult to make new friends. So, if someone so much as offered her a game of hopscotch, then by darn, she would take it.
The park in question was absolutely empty; the swings swung slightly in the wind and the climbing frames and slide remained untouched. Peyton sighed and slouched over to a sling and plopped herself down on it. She was a pitiful sight, all alone with her shoulders slouched, even her pigtails seemed to be drooping, although that may have been the heat. She swung back and forth slightly, scuffing the toes of her shoes on the dusty ground.
"Hey!"
Peyton looked up at the source of the voice and found herself staring at another girl. She was terrifying - tall and menacing and scowly, she looked like she could've punched Peyton's lights out with one swing. But the girl's attention wasn't directed at her, thankfully, instead she was looking at a boy. He was around Peyton's age with hair that looked like it hadn't been combed for weeks. Whoever he was, he was steadily backing away from the tall girl as she hulked ever nearer to him.
"Weirdo." The girl snarled down at the nervous boy and then, quick as lightening, pushed him down roughly. Peyton's eyes widened and she jumped off the swing and ran to the gate. That just wasn't fair. Peyton hovered between action and running away until the girl raised her hand to hit the boy and then, before she even realised what she doing or what she was going to do, she was moving.
She ran through the gate and over to the two children, at which point she shoved the butch girl away from the boy. Only to immediately regret it.
The bully seemed to swell up like a frog, Peyton just about managed not to run away, she still had to rescue the boy after all.
"Leave him alone." Peyton's voice sounded ridiculously squeaky next to the booming tones of the bully.
The girl smirked down at her, unimpressed, "Or what, you little whelp?"
"Or...or I'm gonna tell!"
The weak threat fell on deaf ears as the bully stepped towards her and with the same deadly, unusually precise aim for a child, she had used on the boy, she brought her fist down on Peyton's arm.
Peyton stood there for a few seconds, struck dumb, before she started to wail and good grief, was it a wail. It was the sort of thing that caused birds to fly away from their nests in trees, that caused ear drums to burst and bullies to panic about being caught. The girl looked around her for any adults before she ran away from the scene, leaving Peyton and her damsel in distress alone.
After the bully was out of sight, Peyton stopped wailing abruptly and spun around to face the boy who had been on the ground, dumbstruck the entire time. He gaped at the odd looking girl who had just stuck her hand out for him to take. He didn't. Instead, humiliated and upset, he scrambled up to his feet, dusting off his knees as he did so.
"What did you do that for?" He asked with a bite in his voice.
Peyton's friendly expression faltered and she let her hand fall back to her side, "Well, you looked like you might need help. So-"
"I didn't," He snapped, his face flushing, "I would've beaten her up if you hadn't ruined everything."
Peyton's eyes flashed and her face twisted into a scowl, "Oh, don't be stupid. If I hadn't helped you, then she would've beaten you up."
"I don't need help from a-a girl." He spat the word out like it was some kind of filthy swear.
Peyton almost looked hurt before her eyes took on a steely quality and she sneered at him "Fine then. If you're going to be rude, then I'm going to leave. And next time, I think you need help, I'll leave you to it, I promise." With that, she turned on her heel and stomped away from the dork.
He watched her for a few seconds before an uncomfortable, guilty feeling made him run after her, "Hey, wait!" Thankfully she stopped and waited for him but she was still scowling at him like he was some kind of disgusting amphibian, "What?" Her voice was like battery acid.
The poor boy stared at her awkwardly for a few seconds before he looked down at the ground, "I'm sorry." He muttered, "I didn't mean to be rude, even if you stopped me from beating her up..." He trailed off at the look on her face, "Look, I'm just sorry, alright?"
Peyton considered him for a moment before she nodded slowly and extended her hand again, "Okay. I'm Peyton, in case you were wondering."
The boy grinned, partially in relief and took her hand, "I'm Archie. Archie Melbourne."
And there you have it, Chapter One. I hope you enjoyed it, just a bit of background story, things will begin to pick up in the next chapter. I know I've already mentioned it, but please R&R, it would mean the world to me.
