A box lay on his desk. Doctor Klein Thomas woke up before three in the morning to get his head on straight. This happened on the weekends, too, for he couldn't switch off the internal clock. He got trained at St. George's Hospital. He married a woman, had a kid, had another kid, and followed this with three more kids. He stepped into fatherhood before he ever placed a ring on Annalise's finger or popped the question. The people at the hospital said he saved Annalise and her boy, Dean, but they had it wrong. They saved him.
Klein turned into a family man after he walked away from his world renowned cardiothoracic surgeon dream. He left after the birth of his second daughter; he had five of those in twelve years. He worked for a successful practice in London now, and he got home in time for dinner. Really, the traffic murdered him and he barely made it home before the end of the meal, but Dean always waited for him in the summer.
Klein opened the box. Thinking it was an anniversary present from his wife, he debated on whether or not he should wait. A handkerchief lay the surface with other folded pocket squares littered around it. They were all International Klein Blue, the color he was named for. He remembered standing in a public restroom and positioning the pocket square in Dean's suit, and he'd told the boy presentation meant everything. There were things scattered throughout the box: football tickets, a model of a Death Star crafted out of Legos, cinema ticket stubs, and scattered sixpences.
The framed oil painting made him drop to his knees. It wasn't large, although it was larger than the photograph on Klein's desk. He carried a copy of this very photo in his wallet. The painting and the photograph showed Klein and Dean, dressed in grey suits, staring each other down and making eye contact in a perfect moment. The photographer, a nobody who didn't have a memorable name, had managed to trap a moment in time. The most telling wedding photograph did not capture the bride nor her happiness. In the oil based painting, the smallest details, including the pocket square peeking out in Dean's jacket, got thrown into a new light.
The note was a simple one:
The day you married her, you became my father and my friend. I love you.
"I did it with magic," said a voice.
Dean sat in an armchair and studied Klein's face in the darkness. He always had an artistic hand, and this made him fit in nicely with the Thomas family without even trying. Klein's mother, an arts professor at the University of Birmingham, would've been speechless. Klein gathered himself, yet it took a long minute. His hand trembled on his lips and he waved Dean over with his free hand before he sobbed onto his shoulder.
"What the hell am I supposed to say to that?" Klein took a deep breath and snatched one of the handkerchiefs from the box. "Where'd you find these?"
"I didn't. Like this." Dean took out his wand and tapped the cloth. "Germinio."
He held out two identical cloths. He'd come home for the summer and claimed he wanted to take a class with his grandmother. Klein's mother taught whenever she wanted these days to stay away from boredom. Dean opened Klein's drawer and lifted out a canvas. This, too, mirrored the wedding photograph. Dean explained he did this one by hand in his grandmother's studio flat in downtown London. A true artist never signed his work: Klein's mother lived by this philosophy.
"Gamma is a cool old person," said Dean, grinning from ear to ear. "We drank cognac."
"Oh, no!" Klein had told his children their grandmother lived as a free spirit with no boundaries because she forever lived in the moment. She'd raised Klein alone. And she would've loved the fact that witches and wizards pushed the age of majority up a year. Klein, jealous, walked over to the decanter his mother had given him on his wedding day and found the shot glasses. He poured two drinks. "Your mother doesn't get to hear this story."
"Whoo!" Dean threw up his arms in excitement and accepted the glass. It was five in the morning, and Klein knew he'd probably pay for this later. Klein instructed him on the proper technique to take a shot. Klein had learned during his university days, though he wasn't going to walk down memory road. Klein flipped his glass upside down and smiled when Dean's voice sounded huskier than usual. "Gamma stole your moment, eh?"
"Robbed. It was mine!" Klein might've done this on Dean's seventeenth birthday back in January, but the thought hadn't occurred to him. Dean said he'd write off the whole grandma thing and rambled on about something, but Klein noticed the rucksacks on the floor. He dropped all niceties and addressed his son by his first name. "Jasper."
"And that's the end of that," said Dean, perching himself on top of his dad's desk.
Dean was born Jasper Dean Weiss on January 14, 1980. Annalise, a dedicated matron, had worked until she dropped in the middle of a blackout and unknowingly met her future husband when he delivered her first child in a lift. Dean found this story an embarrassing one, especially whenever Klein thanked him for introducing him to his wife. When they married, Klein had left the decision of whether Dean wished to change his name or not up to a five year old.
"Why would you do this to your mother? To Annalise?" Klein fought for his wife first because they acted as a team. Sixteen years ago, Annalise's husband, Shiloh Weiss, had left in the middle of the night and never returned, but Klein never dwelled too long on Shiloh. He'd raised Dean as his own son and never regretted making this choice. "To your sisters?"
Dean was raised not to think of his sisters as half-siblings because family was family. Klein understood he placed a lot of responsibility on his boy's shoulders, and Klein did this because he grew up in the projects with almost nothing in survival mode. In fact, Dean had helped in raising his youngest sister, Posey. Posey was two and a half going on twenty; she'd been a surprise. Dean got up and headed towards the door after he grabbed his things.
"Jasper," said Klein, sighing when Dean rested his hand on the door handle.
"I'm not leaving you," said Dean, insisting it wasn't the same thing, his voice shaking with unexpected emotion. He recited his sisters' names and turned his hand, revealing his palm: Amorette, Versailles, Ruth, Norah, and Posey. "They're coming for me. If they show up here and take the girls…"
"They won't," said Klein. What could he do against wizards? He was a wealthy physician, especially for a physician in the employ of the NHS, but Klein couldn't hide his son. He found his wallet and emptied the billfold. "Take it."
"No."
"Dean. I am your father." Klein relaxed when Dean strode back, took the money, folded it over and shoved it in his jeans pocket. He said thanks. "If you need anything, anything at all, you find me. The girls aren't … you all mean everything to me. I would lay down my life for you, but I will never tell you to leave home. Do you understand me?"
Dean embraced him and held him for a long time without saying anything. Klein walked with him to the end of the street and stripped off his expensive Piaget watch. It had been gift from a colleague from St. George's Hospital. Klein didn't understand a lot about the magical community where Dean lived. Annalise had explained seventeen year olds got watches as they left childhood behind. Dean put it on, hugged him one last time, turned on his heel, and disappeared.
Months passed without word. Klein supposed he deserved it when Annalise struck him when he returned home late that morning. Dean knew how to send a letter by post, and he knew better than anyone how crazy Annalise got over her children. Klein might have fathered five daughters, but Annalise managed the family and made the magic happen. She still worked at St. George's, though she took time off here and there. On a Tuesday morning, Annalise served Klein burnt coffee and told him to find her son, or he could spend the night on a friend's couch.
Klein didn't go into work that day. He didn't go to work for the rest of the week; he didn't go home either because he rather feared his wife, but he carted his trusty medical bag everywhere. He went back to the ghetto on the East End and wandered in a faded t-shirt and jeans. Posey and Versailles kept asking about their brother, and Amorette, age twelve, wanted to go with him and pitched a spoiled girl tantrum when he said no. Annalise put an end to this nonsense.
Klein stepped into a red telephone box and listened to his wife crying on the other end. "Annie."
She said nothing.
"Annalise, come on." Klein wound the phone cord through his fingers. He used a practiced, reassuring tone with his patients and knew it wouldn't work on a seasoned, hardened matron. She sobbed into the receiver.
"What if he …? What if he gets killed? Klein, he's a boy." Annalise cupped the receiver and spoke away from it. She came back a minute later. "Incoming trauma. Five minutes out."
"He's not a boy, Annalise, you know this. Take a deep breath and get yourself together. You've got this." He listened to her on the other side. "I will find him. Trust me. Page me on downtime. You're an extraordinary person."
"You should see my husband," she said. He heard the smile in her voice.
"Really? Get his number." Klein snorted through her last minute insults and mingled laughter and a hurried goodbye. He said he loved her and reminded her to wash Posey's lovey before the line went dead. He hung up.
A simple solution hit him as he walked out of the box. Where would a kid go if he ran away after a spat with the parents? Dean had run to save his skin without leaving a forwarding address, but was it really so different when Dean's first sister came home from the hospital and he "ran away" to Klein's mum's? He'd packed a toothbrush, his Chewbacca lovey, and some sweets after he declared he didn't want to be a big brother. Dean was a lot older than five now, of course, yet it all dwindled down to the same thing.
Klein opened his little black address book and searched for the name Finnigan. When Dean had gone off with Mrs. Finnigan and her son to attend an event called the Quidditch World Cup a few years ago, Klein had jotted down their contact information and said they should meet. He checked the phone book in the booth and found a Giles Finnigan, but this was for London and it's surrounding areas. The addresses didn't match, yet it was possible they had moved. Klein didn't want to drop any lead, even though he knew this was a long shot, so he rang when he found an attorney's listing for an attorney's office in Galway. The long distance charges ate up his pocket money.
"Bugger." Klein took the plunge and dialed the number. It rang three times and directed him to an operator, so he followed the prompts. He got through. A receptionist answered and told him he'd reached Howe, Connelly, Fischer & Finnigan, Attorneys at Law. "Giles Finnigan."
"Case?" she asked.
"Yeah, I haven't got one," he said, his voice faltering slightly. He rolled his eyes when she fired questions at him and tried to answer patiently. "I'm Dr. Klein Thomas. No, I'm not a medical examiner. Look, I can't tell you. I'm affiliated with St. George's Hospital, London."
Annoyed, he slammed the receiver on the cradle to jar the receptionist. "Miss."
"One moment." The receptionist sounded as though she pulled away from the receiver and spoke in a hurried tone. The apparatus changed hands.
"Giles Finnigan," said a voice with a thick brogue. This man dripped Irish from his pores.
"Please don't hang up on me. I'm broke. I'm Doctor Klein Thomas."
Klein sighed, relieved when the man on the other end took a sharp breath and cursed fluently. He told Klein to wait and ordered the secretary to patch him through to another line. Klein waited. He listened to Mr. Finnigan's labored breathing and wondered why he wasn't placed on hold. Mr. Finnigan came back on the line.
"Savvy, listen. Dr. Thomas, I'm placing you on speaker so my wife, Savvy, can hear this. It's a secure line." Giles set the phone down. The voice sounded different on the other end. Giles's wife introduced her as Siobhan Finnigan, but she told him to call her Savvy.
"This is …" Klein's voice shook as an automated voice came onto the line to remind him he had a minute left. Please insert more change. "I haven't… I haven't got anymore money. I…"
"Hang on. We'll meet you. Where are you?" Savvy's commanding tone overrode her husband's patient murmuring. Klein read the streets off an intersection sign. He said he was by Ploughman's Pub before the line went dead. Angry, Klein slammed the phone against the glass pane and fell into a quiet rage; he screamed without sound. A moment later, a dark-haired woman in a black dress and a long knitted coat tapped on the door. Klein went out. She stood with a man in an expensive suit. "I'm Savvy. I've been looking forward to meeting you."
"Giles." The lawyer offered his hand and steadied himself a little. "Side-Along Apparition. Still can't get used to it after twenty years. Fancy a pint? I took off the rest of the afternoon."
Klein, embarrassed, gave a rushed apology and said they didn't have to put their lives on hold. Savvy cut across him and said this was pure nonsense. If the brass scales were tipped, and it was their son in danger, Savvy insisted she'd bang on their door at o'dark thirty in the morning to get word go her boy with no apologies whatsoever. That's for damn sure. Giles nodded vigorously, confirming this whole-heartedly, and opened the pub door to invite them in. They sat at a table.
"What do you know about me?" Klein guessed they knew he was a physician because Giles hadn't questioned the name.
"You're a cardiac surgeon. That's useful. I had a heart murmur when I was born." Giles smiled when Klein said those happened all the time and he corrected these often. Have you ever testified in court as an expert witness?"
Savvy told him to drop the lawyer talk and walk away from the office for a moment. She said she worked for the Ministry of Magic as a magical version of a court reporter, or a stenographer, though she was not affiliated with the Daily Prophet.
"You need someone to testify?" The sides of Klein's mouth twitched.
"You need me far more than I need you at the moment," said Mr. Finnigan sadly. After he took off his coat, he reached out for his hand, seemed to second-guess himself and cupped his hands around his stout tankard. Klein passed a hand over his tired eyes and took a sharp, shaky breath. Klein rarely lost control of his emotions because he hid behind a mask, yet his composure shattered. The waiter set the food, sandwiches and chips, on the wooden table before she fled the scene.
"He's not my son," said Klein, wiping his face with his sleeve, "but that boy has been mine, and I can't stop worrying about him because I messed up."
"No, no," said Savvy. Savvy pulled a straight face and searched around desperately for another topic. She looked angry, which is how Klein guessed she usually acted, and helped herself to her husband's tankard of Guinness. She snapped her fingers. "Why did it take us seven years to meet? And don't feed me some doctor and lawyer nonsense. I like you, and I don't even know you."
Klein and Giles slipped into a casual conversation and swapped corny professional jokes for the next fifteen minutes or so and pinged off each other as they giggled like schoolgirls. Savvy called them idiots and ordered another round of drinks. Giles was a talker, and by a talker, he talked circles round people and obviously enjoyed it. They stopped at Margaret Thatcher, though neither of them knew how she got invited into the conversation.
"Idiots." Savvy paid the tab and promised Klein they'd do whatever they could to get the word out. She explained there was a radio program called Potterwatch, and she'd find answers one way or another. She took Klein's business card and a blue handkerchief. The card carried the logo of a man's hand holding a human heart. They'd rebranded the St. George's Cardiology Group as One Heart to save the practice last year. "One Heart? Interesting."
"Who's your graphic designer?" asked Giles, pulling his coat off the back of the chair and pulling it on.
"My son. That's my hand," said Klein proudly. Although he'd left the hospital years ago, Klein and a handful of the other physicians held privileges there. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw what was going to happen before it took place. This happened sometimes, often within the confines of the hospital, where the next steps played out. He got up and grabbed his medical bag. "Call an ambulance!"
The small black boy sitting opposite with an old lady and slammed onto the floor. Savvy screamed, and she wasn't the only one. Klein told the old lady to back off as he checked for airway, a faint pulse, and circulation. The pulse disappeared altogether. The boy wasn't breathing! And he lay in the remains of his lunch. As he started compressions, Klein shouted at a couple of young waitresses to call an ambulance. Now meant a minute ago. He concentrated on the boy, his patient, and momentarily forgot about this madness called the Muggleborn Registration Committee.
"He needs a proper doctor," said a waitress.
"Are you blind? He's got one. You think I do this for kicks?" Klein swore as he broke the little boy's ribs with his applied pressure asked he interviewed the old lady. He breathed easier and smiled when the boy opened his eyes and the ambulance approached minutes later. "Welcome back. What's your name?"
"Colby," said the boy.
"Like the cheese? Nice to meet you, Colby. I've got a little boy like you. Well, he's not that little. No worries, Colby. I've got your back. You hear me?"
Colby acted terrified as his eyes darted everywhere. "Yeah."
Klein hung his stethoscope around his neck and grinned at the Finnigans who stood nearby. Klein chatted with the medical transport as they prepared the patient. He clapped a hand on Savvy's shoulder as he raced with the team. He told the woman, the boy's grandmother, to meet them at St. George's, and jumped in the back of the rig with one of the emergency medical personnel. They slammed the doors shut and the vehicle raced through the streets.
Klein got lost in the medicine. Annalise caved after a week because she was ready to murder Norah and Versailles. When Klein pointed out the problem was an excess of estrogen because there were too many women in the house, Annalise advised him not to push it. On the third of May, he showed up at King's Cross in his scrubs and his medical bag.
He didn't know how Annalise did this. He hung out in Platform Ten. Dean came out with an arm around a Irish kid, and they were laughing their heads off. Going by the brogue and the hyperactivity, Klein guessed this was Seamus. He started to approach the young man and readied himself for an introduction. Both Seamus and Dean had minor bruises and cuts, and he stopped halfway and left this luggage with Seamus and Savvy. After he wiped his blue handkerchief in the air like a white flag, Dean collided with Klein like a brick wall and ran him down at top speed. Klein felt air rush out of his lungs as they hit the ground.
"You missed me," said Dean triumphantly. Seamus howled with laughter. "You're getting old."
"Are you sure I missed you? Because you don't call me, or send a letter or an owl." Klein took Dean's offered hand and got to his feet. He layered the guilt on thick.
"Come on. Tell me I'm your favorite." Dean said goodbye to his friends and did a double take when Klein saluted Savvy. Dean pushed his trolley towards the black Mercedes and caught the keys when Klein tossed them in the air. Dean got his license last year and rarely got to drive the good car in the city. Klein put the Hogwarts trunk in the back and got in the passenger seat. "You aren't going to believe any of this."
"We're not moving. If you think your friends are going to give you cool points for this ride, you ought to have thought about Posey's car seat." Klein rolled his eyes and recited the magic words. "You're the favorite. Are we happy now?"
"Yep." Dean reeved the engine and joined the queue as he turned down the wireless. "You are not allowed to tell any of this to Mum, but it's one hell of a story."