CHAPTER 38: ESCAPE PLAN
"I'm through playing games! Either help Holly, or I'll do the Cruciatus on your daughter!"
O'Bannon gripped the back of the little girl's nightdress, his wand inches from her head. His eyes locked on the frightened form of her father.
"For Merlin's sake!" Healer Bronski cried out. "She's just a little girl!"
"You think I'm joking? You've got to the count of five! One!"
"Please, I'm begging you!' Bronski appeared ready to fall to his knees.
O'Bannon counted to two . . . three . . . four.
Can I really do this?
He glanced over at Holly. A shiver went through him when he noticed how pale she'd become. How much longer did she have?
"Five!"
Bronski still refused to help Holly.
O'Bannon closed his eyes. I can't let her die.
"Crucio!"
The healer's young daughter screamed in agony and writhed in his grip.
O'Bannon bolted upright. He gasped, his entire body shaking. His head snapped back and forth. It was dark, too dark to see a thing. Where was he?
He felt something soft under him. He took a couple more deep breaths before he realized . . .
I'm in bed.
His breathing settled down, as did his heartbeat. He leaned against the headboard, grimacing at the cold sweat that drenched his pajamas and skin.
It was just a dream. Just a dream.
No. He couldn't call that a dream. That was a nightmare. Another damn one. He hadn't used a Torture Curse on Healer Bronski's daughter in the real world, but in the dream . . .
O'Bannon drew his legs to his chest, still shivering, and closed his eyes. The little girl's screams echoed in his brain.
It was just a dream. You didn't really do that.
A new thought crossed his mind. The little girl he'd threatened . . . pretended to threaten, Olivia. Did she have nightmares from that night? Did she wake up screaming? What about her parents? Had he traumatized them as well?
I just wanted to help Holly. I would never have hurt them.
Do you think they know that?
O'Bannon threw the blankets off him and padded to the bathroom. He peeled off his sweat-soaked pajamas and took a long shower. When he finished, and laid back down in bed, he just stared up at the ceiling. He knew he'd never fall back to sleep. Instead he relived that night the setagotha attacked and injured Holly. He couldn't remember ever being so scared in his life as when he thought that little seven-year-old girl would die.
And he never felt so disgusted with himself as when he threatened Healer Bronski's daughter with a Cruciatus Curse.
But I would never have actually used it.
That didn't make him feel any better.
He remained awake as the sun began to rise. Eyes burning, he dragged himself out of bed and began his morning exercises. Every push-up and sit-up and jumping jack required effort. He felt lethargic during his entire morning run.
And his brain bombarded him with images of the nightmare, and images of what really happened in that healer's house in Filfylum over a year-and-a-half ago. Then he thought about the medal ceremony in December. A Haldus Cross and an Order of Merlin for a guy who threatened a little girl. If he had any decency, he'd give the damn medals back. Actually, he was surprised Bronski and his family hadn't come forward and told the world what he'd done that night. Even a tiny wizarding community like Filfylum had to get The All-Seeing Eye or the Wizard Broadcast Network. They would have heard all about the "heroic" tales of Jimmy O'Bannon. You'd think they'd say something about how he threatened little Olivia. Part of him wished they would, just so the world could finally know the truth.
O'Bannon slowed up and came to a halt, slumping against a street lamp. He took deep breaths and gazed around him. The store fronts and apartments on this stretch of Haypippil Square momentarily vanished, replaced by images from his mind's eye. Him yelling about using a Cruciatus Curse. Olivia crying. Her parents pleading with him.
I wouldn't have done it. I swear I wouldn't have done it.
He wished he could make the Bronskis understand that.
Why can't I? He straightened up, working his jaw back and forth. Would they believe him? Hell, they might call the Aurors Bureau the moment he showed up at their doorstep.
He shook his head. He had to do this. Even if Bronski and his wife yelled and screamed at him, or even hexed him, he had to do it. Hell, after what he had done, he deserved to be hexed.
O'Bannon headed back to his apartment, showered again, and wrote a note to his boss, Mr. Tubberwall, saying he was sick and wouldn't be coming into work at the YWWAAA today. He stuck the parchment in an envelope and gave it to his new owl, Nomar, named after the Boston Red Sox All-Star shortstop Nomar Garciaparra. Minutes after the brown and white Northern Hawk Owl flew off, O'Bannon went outside and Apparated.
A cluster of log cabins greeted him. His stomach lurched as memories of that night overwhelmed him. Paralysis gripped his legs. He wanted to Apparate right back the Washington. How could he face that family after what he had done to their daughter?
Be a man, dammit.
He proceeded down the dirt road, passing a few wizards and witches along the way. Some gave him curious looks. He figured this little town didn't get many visitors. Or maybe they recognized him as "The Famous Jimmy O'Bannon."
He groaned at the thought as he neared the healer's house. His pace slowed and his heart hammered against his chest. Icy needles of dread pierced every inch of his body.
C'mon, man. Gryffindor up and do it.
Fists clenched, and took a deep breath and walked the rest of the way to Healer Bronski's house. After a moment's hesitation, he knocked on the door.
He stiffened when the door opened.
"Yes? Can I help you?"
O'Bannon's brow furrowed. A portly witch in her late twenties with her brown hair tied in a bun greeted him.
"Um, hi. This is the town healer's place, right?"
"Yes, that's right." She flashed him a smile. "I'm Healer McGregor."
His face twisted in puzzlement. "McGregor? But, what happened to Healer Bronski?"
"Oh." McGregor's gaze fell to the floor. Her shoulders slumped.
"Is something wrong?" O'Bannon asked.
She looked back up at him and sighed. "I'm sorry, but Healer Bronski's dead."
His chest tightened. His legs turned to jelly. It took all his concentration to remain standing. "What? He's . . . He's dead?"
"I'm afraid so."
O'Bannon's mouth hung open silently for several seconds. "H-How? When?"
"It was during the war. I wasn't around then, but some of the townsfolk filled me in when I got here. Apparently, the Death Eaters learned he'd been helping wizards and witches opposed to Lord Voldemort. So they came here and killed him and his family." A crest-fallen look came over McGregor's face. "I heard he had a little girl. Seven-years-old, I think. What kind of monsters would hurt a little girl?"
O'Bannon's head spun. He took a couple steps back, nearly falling. Bronski dead? His whole family dead? No. No way could that be true.
"Helping wizards and witches opposed to Lord Voldemort."
A hot blade twisted in his stomach. His breathing shortened. Oh my God. Oh my God. She means . . . me.
I killed them. Oh, God forgive me, I killed them.
"Are you all right?"
He turned away from Healer McGregor, tears blurring his vision. He walked with unsteady steps, ignoring her questions of concern. He bit his tongue, wanting to scream that he wasn't okay, but he didn't trust his voice.
I just wanted to help Holly. I never meant for them to die.
He wandered Filfylum aimlessly, guilt eating away at him. The question racked his mind. Was one little girl's life worth that of an entire family?
I can't answer that. I don't want to answer it.
He stopped when a carved wooden sign over the door of a three story log cabin caught his eye. GRESCAMP'S TAVERN. Face tightening, he marched up to the door and pushed it open.
About a dozen witches and wizards were inside. All of them looked up when he walked in. O'Bannon ignored their stares and, in some cases, stunned whispers, and plopped into the first empty seat he saw. A middle-aged yet buxom witch with long, curly brown hair sidled up to his table.
"Hi there, hon. Hey! Aren't you Jimmy O'Bannon? I read about you in The All-Seeing Eye. The Wizarding World is certainly blessed to have someone like you. You're a real hero."
O'Bannon scowled at her.
The witch took a step back, shock plastered on her face. "Um, so, can I get you anything?"
"Yeah. Any kind of ale you have. And keep it coming."
"Isn't it a little early to be drinking?"
"Yeah. So?"
The witch bit her lower lip for a moment. "Okay then. Ale it is."
A couple minutes later the witch returned with a frothy mug. O'Bannon drank it down, and kept on drinking until the pain went away.
XXXXX
O'Bannon skated along the edge of the ice inside one of the gymnasiums at the YWWAAA, keeping an eye on the kids as they entered the neutral zone. Crea Cardwell passed to Willie Zobrist, who then passed it on to Brendan Heinz. A quick smile crossed O'Bannon's lips. Those were good, crisp passes. Damn, but those three had improved so much since they first started taking his hockey class. Whatever rust they had since coming back from the Appalachians had long since vanished.
Scenes flashed through his mind's eye. Darkened woods. A setagotha leaping into their encampment. Crea, Willie, Brendan and the other children running and screaming. And Holly. A chill went up his spine as he recalled Holly lying unconscious before him.
His pace slowed as he thought of Olivia Bronski, how she cried as he threatened her with a Cruciatus Curse.
They killed her. The Death Eaters killed her and her entire family. All because of me.
Cheers echoed through the gym. He blinked and noticed Crea, Willie, Brendan and their two teammates grouped around the net, hugging one another.
They scored?
"Excuse me, Coach Jimmy?"
"Huh? What?" He shook his head, trying to regain his senses. That's when he noticed Jillian Cubbage in front of him.
"Um, I think Willie was offsides. Didn't he cross the blue line before Crea gave him the puck?"
"What? Oh. Oh, um. I guess . . . I'm sorry, I must not have seen it."
Jillian tilted her head, her face scrunched up. "Are you okay, Coach Jimmy?"
He swallowed. Anger flickered inside him, anger at himself for that lapse in concentration.
Get it together, O'Bannon.
The war may be over, but these kids still saw him as their leader. That meant he had to act like everything was under control.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, Jillian. Let's go, everyone. Back to center ice."
O'Bannon led both teams to the center face-off circle, trying to push the memories of that night out of his mind, to focus on the task at hand. To not look weak in front of these kids, especially the ones who'd been with him in the Appalachians.
I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm strong. Just gotta stay focused.
Once at center ice, he skated up to the two opposing forwards, both of whom had their sticks hovering just above the ice. He held the puck between both players, took quick glances at them, and –
"O'Bannon!"
He whipped around toward the door. A frown formed on his face when he noticed the tall, skinny wizard with glasses and receding brown hair standing in the doorway.
"Yeah?" He didn't even try to keep the annoyance out of his voice when he replied to Julius Gumwibben, the YWWAAA's Director of Special Sporting Programs.
"What are you still doing here?"
"Playing hockey. What does it look like?" You moron. He was so tempted to add those words. It grated on his nerves to still have this wanker as his supervisor. Every time he saw him, he thought back to the day the Death Eaters attacked this building, and how Gumwibben cowered under his desk when O'Bannon asked for his help.
Some leader.
Frustration settled over Gumwibben's face. "Don't you know we have a Junior Gobstones tournament scheduled in here a half-hour from know? You should know it as the schedule for use of this gymnasium is posted in your office."
"We've got a couple more minutes left in the period, then we'll be done."
"I need to get this gymnasium ready now! Now melt this ice, pack up your gear and go!"
O'Bannon's face twisted in anger. Where the hell did this friggin' coward get off yelling at him?
He skated away from the children, picking up speed as he crossed the blue line. When he neared the edge of the ice, he made a sharp turn and stopped, throwing up a cloud of ice particles. Gumwibben jumped back into the hallway as the mini ice storm washed over the floor.
"I said we'll be done in a couple minutes. Okay?"
He turned around and skated back to the kids without waiting for Gumwibben's reply. Crea and Willie stared at him with shocked expressions when he got back to center ice.
"Cool," he heard Brendan utter.
"Okay, guys. C'mon. Face-off time. Let's go."
O'Bannon stood at center ice, puck in hand. He looked back at the doorway. No sign of Gumwibben. He shook his head. How the hell did a guy with no balls like him get into a position of leadership?
Five minutes later, the game ended. O'Bannon melted the ice and evaporated the resulting water with his wand, collected the equipment and bid the kids farewell. When he got back to his office, he found a note on his desk.
Jimmy,
My office. Now.
Mr. Tubberwall.
"What now?" he groaned. Crumpling the letter and chucking it in his Boston Celtics trash can, he headed upstairs to the director's office. When he reached it, he knocked on the door.
"Come in," Tubberwall said.
O'Bannon opened the door and strode inside. "You wanted to see me, Mister Tubberwall?"
The tall, muscular wizard looked up at him from his desk. "Close the door," he said curtly. "Sit."
He did as instructed.
Tubberwall stared at him, unsmiling. "Mister Gumwibben came to see me a few minutes ago."
O'Bannon scowled. It didn't surprise him that his supervisor would whine to Mr. Tubberwall. God forbid the man actually handled something on his own.
"He says you threatened him," Tubberwall continued.
His head drew back in shock. Then, he gave a snorting laugh. "I threatened him? Well he's full of crap."
Tubberwall's eyes narrowed. "Gumwibben says you yelled at him, then sent a shower of ice at him."
O'Bannon shrugged. "Hey, as far as the ice shower goes, I was just coming to a stop. I guess I was going a bit faster than I thought. And as for the yelling . . . Heh! I barely raised my voice at him."
"You aren't supposed to raise your voice to him at all, Jimmy. Julius Gumwibben is your immediate supervisor, and you have to treat him with respect."
"Respect?" O'Bannon slid to the edge of his seat. "You want me to treat him with respect? A guy who hid under his desk while the Death Eaters were blowing this building apart?"
"Do you think he was the only one hiding from the Death Eaters that day? I'm sorry to inform you of this, Jimmy, but not everyone at the YWW-Triple-A is a war hero like you."
"This has nothing to do with being a 'war hero.'" He used both middle and index fingers to form quotation marks. "Gumwibben is a supervisor, a leader. A person in a position of responsibility. And he had a responsibility to protect the people under him. But what did he do instead? He locked himself in his office and blubbered away while his co-workers were being slaughtered."
"Do you really think Gumwibben is capable of fighting Death Eaters?"
"He could have at least levitated the wounded to safety. Or get people out of the building. Something. Anything! But he didn't do a damn thing, except maybe go through a couple boxes of tissues. And you want me to give a wussbag like that my respect?"
"As long as he is your supervisor, that's exactly what you're going to do." Tubberwall stabbed a finger at him. "This isn't the first time you've been disrespectful toward Gumwibben. I've cut you some slack because of what you did for this country during the war. But getting a Haldus Cross and an Order of Merlin does not entitle you to be insubordinate. You may not like Mister Gumwibben. In fact, I don't really care if you personally like him or not. But you will give him the respect he deserves as your supervisor."
"You gotta be kidding me."
"I am not kidding!" Tubberwall slammed his palm on his desk. "This behavior of yours ends here and now! If I hear one more complaint from Gumwibben about you, I don't care how famous you are, you're done here."
Anger lines dug into O'Bannon's face. He clenched the armrests of his chair, glaring at Tubberwall.
"Now get out of here." His boss lowered his head, staring at some piece of parchment on his desk.
O'Bannon continued glowering at Tubberwall, his shoulders rising and falling in slow, angry breaths. After a few seconds, he pushed himself out of the chair, stomped over to the door, yanked it open, and slammed it shut behind him.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" He growled through clenched teeth. This couldn't be possible. He had to show respect to Gumwibben? Show respect to that coward? After being around people like Jared, Rosa, Artimus, Fred, George and Tonks, seeing what they did during the war, how could he give even a shred of respect to Gumwibben? Hell, even a little house elf named Dobby had courage enough to fight Voldemort's forces.
He shut his eyes tight. The faces of Tonks, Fred, Dobby, Lupin, Mrs. Diaz, Rana and so many others floated past his mind's eye. How dare Mr. Tubberwall demand he give his respect to a speck of fly crap like Gumwibben when those people sacrificed their lives to end Voldemort's reign of murder and tyranny?
O'Bannon stomped inside his small office and slammed the door shut. With a roar, he kicked his trash can across the room. It crashed against the wall, scraps of parchment fluttering to the floor. He leaned over his desk and pounded it until his fists throbbed with pain.
O'Bannon placed his palms flat on the desk. Sharp breaths shot out his nose. He stared back up, his eyes scanning several of the framed, moving photographs on his desk, many of which had been tipped over by his pounding. There was the Triad team picture. Another photo showed him, Rosa, Jared and Artimus at their graduation from Salem. Another was of him and Mireet at the Yule Ball. Yet another featured him and his parents in the middle of the Diaz/Infante Clan during a Christmas get together.
He collapsed in his chair, planted his elbows on the desk, and buried his face in his hands. All that stuff didn't even feel like it had really happened. The Triad, the Yule Ball, graduation, visiting the Infantes' and the Diazes' homes. It felt like he'd conjured them all up in some fantasy. In the here and now, the Infantes and the Diazes were a mess. The relationship he'd long desired with Mireet never came about, and never would, and the Triad . . .
O'Bannon stared at a drawing he'd stuck to the wall above his desk, a jet black marble monument with a photo of a redheaded young man in a hockey jersey, holding a stick.
Fred Weasley's monument, as designed by his fellow Gryffindor and former Triad teammate Dean Thomas.
He sighed. In two months he'd be back in England, back at Hogwarts, for the dedication of Fred's monument.
I can't believe that's how I'm returning to England. O'Bannon couldn't count how many nights in the Appalachians he'd dreamt of returning to England. Usually he was at the Weasley's house, or the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, sharing drinks and stories and laughs with his British friends.
How the hell would he be able to do that for real? How could he talk about pranks and late-night forays to the kitchens and the Triad/Slytherin game when everyone would be thinking about how Fred shouldn't be dead?
This world is totally messed up.
O'Bannon sat at his desk for the next hour, not doing a damn lick of work. When 4:30 rolled around he left his office and headed for the exit, ignoring the "good-byes" from several of his co-workers. Instead of Apparating directly home, he went to a tavern in Haypippil Square around the corner from his apartment. He sat at the bar and ordered an ale . . . then another one. By the time he halfway finished his third ale the frustration of today had ebbed, somewhat.
He needed to get away from this world for a bit. Maybe go to his parents' this weekend. No, he couldn't do that. The YWWAAA had sign-up and demonstration events for its summer programs Saturday and Sunday, and he had to be there on both days.
Crap. He didn't want to wait another week to go to his parents', wander the Muggle World, and leave behind all the crap of Wizarding World.
As he raised the mug to his lips, he remembered something. The first round of the NHL's Stanley Cup Playoffs had began, and the Boston Bruins were facing the Washington Capitals. One of those games had to be taking place in Washington sometime this week. Maybe he could get a ticket to it. He briefly considered inviting Rosa and Artimus and Mireet, but no. He didn't want any reminders of the Wizarding World around him. Besides, Rosa had auror training, Artimus would probably be doing something with Jenna, and Mireet . . .
Yeah, well . . .
O'Bannon finished his ale and walked back to his apartment. When he got inside, he strode over to his desk and used the charm to make his computer work in the Wizarding World. He then logged on to the Boston Bruins web site to find out when they'd be in Washington for the playoffs. It would mean having to cheer for his team in enemy territory, but after attacking Helghorst Island, he could handle 15,000 crazed Caps fans.
When the site finished downloading, he scanned it for the schedule icon.
That's when something else caught his eye.
O'Bannon leaned closer and read the advertisement.
DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BE A BRUIN?
THE BOSTON BRUINS WILL HOLD AN OPEN TRYOUT JUNE 29TH, 9 a.m. TO 3 p.m. AT THE FLEET CENTER.
EVALUATIONS CONDUCTED BY . . .
MIKE SULLIVAN, HEAD COACH, AHL'S PROVIDENCE BRUINS
EVAN LETREN, BRUINS ASST. DIRECTOR OF SCOUTING
FORMER BRUINS BRIAN CURRAN (DEF); CRAIG JANNEY (CTR); PETE PEETERS (G)
SERIOUS HOCKEY PLAYERS ONLY.
"No way." A smile grew on his face. Open tryouts. That meant anyone could show up.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, imagining himself in a black and gold Bruins uniform. Seventeen thousand fans packing The Fleet Center and cheering for him as he fired a puck past some top-notch goalie like Martin Brodeur or Patrick Roy.
Reality set in. Even if he did well at the tryout, he doubted they'd immediately put him on the Bruins roster. More likely they'd send him to some minor league team and see if he could work his way up to the big club.
So? I'd still be playing pro hockey. How many people actually get to do that?
O'Bannon gazed at the advertisement. My God, he had an actual chance of doing something he'd dreamed of since he was about five. He could really become a professional hockey player. He would be working someplace where he didn't have to give his respect to a coward. Nobody would call him a war hero. He wouldn't have to watch the family of his two best friends deteriorate further. He'd be in a world that didn't have constant reminders of dead friends and girlfriends and families he'd forced to help him. Maybe he could even stop thinking about a certain French witch he could never have.
Most importantly, he could actually have a normal life.
He drew a long breath and clicked on the advertisement for the open tryouts.
I think I just found my ticket out of here.
TO BE CONTINUED