Authors note:
This was written for QLFC Season 9, Round 5: We All Have Our Flaws.
My team is the Tutshill Tornados.
Position: Seeker
Prompt: Cowardice - in a character who did not canonically display it
Word Count: 2,891
Trigger Warnings: child abandonment (at a stretch), sentience in inanimate objects
Thank you to gingerdream and justalittlepositivitea for the betas! Any remaining mistakes are my own.
I hope you enjoy it!
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It is common in the Muggle world to think that when you own something for an extended period of time, it begins to develop its own personality. A computer that begins to constantly glitch when doing one specific task. The lights in a house flicker nonstop - but only when it's not storming outside - and any repairman called will say that there's no problem with the wiring. A car begins to shake, but only on specific roads and at a specific speed - no higher and no lower. Those with luck growing plants have a 'green thumb' and many without one claim that 'plants hate them.' Anthropomorphizing non-living beings is seen as a comfort, if occasionally a weakness, in anyone other than very young children.
This is the story of one such item. It began its life in a factory in Dagenham, England, during 1961. It was one of the first of its kind, a Ford Anglia 105E Deluxe, and was painted a beautiful Carribean Turquoise that made onlookers think of weekend get-aways at the seashore.
It spent the majority of its life in England, occasionally crossing into other parts of the United Kingdom. Throughout its life in the Muggle world, it was passed from father to son before being sold two more times. In the intervening years, its color was changed to Rialto Red and it took care of its owners, ferrying them to and from work and stores, and unofficially chaperoning a plethora of dates. The once bright red had faded by the time it was abandoned in a scrapyard in 1990. Its last owners were looking for Newer and Better, and it resigned itself to living out the rest of its days there, becoming an unmoving rust bucket until it was taken by a crane and flattened.
(The car did want those around it to note that it in no way wanted to be flattened and was a bit afraid of what would happen afterwards. It had heard it's riders discussing birth and death, heaven and hell. Was there such a place for faithful cars? As fearful as it was, the Anglia was resigned: whispers of scrapyard heaps had circulated parking lots for years and survivors of them were few and far between.)
That is not, however, what happened. In 1991, an enterprising Muggleborn friend of Bill Weasley came across it. A few galleons were traded for Muggle Pounds, and Bill had the perfect gift for his Muggle-invention loving father.
It is a little known fact in the Wizarding World that when a charm is placed on something, it can affect it long-term. As charms are layered over and under one another over time, they become intertwined together and multiply, they can interact with the personality that the items have obtained through years of use and cause sentience in the charmed item. This is not known as being a good thing, as wizards are famous for refusing to trust things when they cannot see their brains. This would usually, ultimately lead to the destruction of many items.
This phenomenon is most often seen in Wizarding portraits: portrait artists first use charmed canvas and paints; and then, even more charms are used to tie the portraits to the Wizard's life force. When a Wizard dies, the portrait awakens with all of the memories of that Wizard. It is a comfort to those left behind and is often used to help pass family lore down through the generations.
What few rarely see (or acknowledge) is that those portraits are still able to learn. As their families grow, portraits remember names and genealogy and they can remember and relay messages as they pass from frame to frame, location to location.
(Portraits are, truly, one of the great untapped resources in the Wizarding World.)
Items becoming sentient through magic can be seen (and ignored) around the world: wands, weapons bound to a specific bloodline or familial magic, and buildings soaking in the ambient magic are seen and accepted. Quidditch players keep their old brooms because they are 'good luck,' not even thinking that the broom itself has a vested interest in its Wizard winning and therefore continuing to use it. Postal owls and familiars have incorporated the charms cast on them into their very bloodlines, ensuring the continued survival of their species in a world dominated by Wizards.
When the Ford Anglia 105E Deluxe was brought to the fields outside the Burrow, it wasn't sure what to think. For one, it had never been transported from one place to another quite like that. It had always moved under the power of its own engine, its rubber wheels rolling across the asphalt (except for the rare occasions it had needed to be towed for one reason or another.) Two, there were no real roads with other cars anywhere nearby. There was no asphalt or exhaust fumes.
Three, there was a very excited red-headed man, surrounded by a group of other red-heads. As much as the Anglia missed its original color, seeing too much red so close made it regrettably aware of its own faded red paint job that was scratched in places and desperately needed a good wash. The older man circled it, running reverent fingers across its hood and down its sides, poking at headlights and taillights, before opening a creaking door and sliding across cracked leather to sit behind the steering wheel. The man exuded an excitement the car hadn't felt in years (not since the last time a New Driver got to learn with it).
There was a tingle in the air, an electrical current that frissoned across its metal body and leather upholstery. Immediately, the sense of grime and grit was gone. The man let himself out and stood next to it, brushing fingertips very lightly over the now-clean windshield, before reaching out and embracing a younger man. With a murmured promise of research, the family made their way inside a house that was leaning to one side dangerously - in a way the Anglia had never before seen a house lean. Just what research was needed, the Anglia was unsure: its owner's manual was still in the glove compartment, abandoned. Furthermore, it had been years since anyone had bothered to look at the paperwork, the Anglia was in no way a modern car with bells and whistles that needed to be learnt.
Two days later, the stars shining obscenely bright each night (devoid of the light pollution so common in cities), the excitable man returned, with an older woman by his side. He brandished a stick, the Anglia was unable to move but still wanted to shift away from the possible threat (it had quite a few memories of having its paint job scratched by unintentional brushes against shrubs and trees regardless of season). There was a quick movement from the man and the Anglia felt… stretched. Its outside hadn't changed at all, but its insides felt larger than could be contained in its metal body.
The pair settled in on its front bench seat and the Anglia was uncomfortably aware that the stretched feeling was because it was actually stretched out. Those two bodies didn't feel like they took up nearly as much room as they should. If the back seat was anything like the front… a feeling of importance washed over it. It had worried that there was no way to transport that entire family it had seen, something which had led to it being replaced in the past. If this red-headed man could change the Anglia's insides so it was able to hold them all, it wouldn't need to be replaced in the future!
A button was added to its dash and stuck there somehow. A whispered phrase and the Anglia changed once more, this time feeling as if it had faded from the world. Everything could still be seen through the glass windows, but it was a feeling that nothing could actually see it or its passengers.
"See, Mollywobbles? No one will be able to see us!" This had confirmed the Anglia's suspicions that it was now somehow see-through. It also now had a name for one of its owners, though apparently not the primary one, given the excitement of the man.
"I still don't think it's a good idea, Arthur. You work in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department. You having a flying car is a misuse!" There was the name for the man: Arthur. The Anglia felt satisfaction at that, before something else pinged in the engine block.
Flying?
"It'll be fine, Mollywobbles!" The Anglia's dash was patted. "I think I'll name it Christine."
"Christine?"
"Remember those Muggleborn friends of Bill and Charlie when they were in Hogwarts - the ones on the Quidditch team? They used to explain Muggle moo-vys to the boys. I remember one of them mentioning one called Christine, about a Muggle car. It's perfect!"
The Anglia's leather shifted beneath her weight as Mollywobbles sighed and leaned back against the upholstery. She pulled out her own stick and waved it, the leather once again in pristine condition. "I suppose," she sighed, as Arthur turned the key and then began poking different buttons and dials on the dash, flipping the switches for the windshield wipers and causing the hazard lights to begin blinking.
The item stuck on the newly christened Christine's dash became burning hot with another wave of Arthur's stick. It felt almost like it was overheating, the engine running too hot and lacking water. It was immediately doused by a wave of coldness. Arthur's foot tapped the gas pedal gingerly and Christine began moving forward. One hand left the steering wheel to tap the stuck item and Christine's tires left the earth.
Christine's tires left the earth. Nope. No way. That was wrong on so many levels that Christine didn't even know where to start. Christine is a car and their wheels were supposed to stay on the ground. It had heard of aeroplanes and the like and flying was perfectly okay for them but not for it. Rubber tires met asphalt (or dirt and grass) for life. Or, it would be true if there was some way to communicate that with Arthur and Mollywobbles.
Once the initial panic and fear subsided, Christine began to calm. This was rather freeing, it decided. No, cars weren't supposed to fly but there was no traffic around. There were no asphalt roads to guide Christine's tires and driver along their way, but there were also no other obstacles in their way that might put a dent in Christine's newly fixed exterior. No trees or trash cans, no sharp curves to wear on rubber, not even any concrete curbs to accidentally grind against.
They landed (ha! landed - once more their tires were on the ground where they belonged) and both redheads climbed out. Arthur gave Christine's front grille a pet, thumb wiping away a stray bug splatter. If it could, Christine would have stood up straighter at Mollywobble's appraising glance towards it. Christine still wasn't sure about this whole flying thing, but the not being able to be seen thing was pretty cool - vernacular from its last owner - and the possibility of holding such a large family made its cylinders quiver with pride (if they could quiver.)
"You'll need to charm the paint job." Mollywobbles finally stated.
Change its paint? Christine had spent years getting used to Rialto Red! The Anglia didn't want to have its paint changed again!
"Even with the invisibility booster, the red too obviously shows that it belonged to Weasley." When it seemed like Arthur was going to argue, she continued: "Plus Ginny won't ride in a car that color. She'll say it clashes with her hair."
Ginny must have been the only young female in the group of redheads. It had become obvious that any similar concerns often came from females. A few minutes later, Christine felt the tap of a wooden stick on its hood. "Restituere originem." Christine felt like it went through a car wash in winter, a rush of cold flowing over it before dissipating. Any remaining dents popped out, both its grille and head-and-tail lights sparkled in the weak English sun. The Rialto Red disappeared, leaving the original Caribbean Blue paint it had rolled out of the factory with.
The remaining summer months were spent with Christine being driven (and flown, much to its discomfort) around the area, which it learned was Ottery St Catchpole. Christine was still unsure how it got from a scrapheap in Essex to Devon.
The red-heads, Weasleys, it learned, also flew on wooden sticks with bristles that Christine had transported before but never learned the name of. It wasn't until later, as the nights became slightly longer and the days shorter, that Christine was flown without Arthur or Mollywobbles. Instead, two of the older males that resided in the leaning house took it from its resting place while it was dark. After a long (and slightly harrowing) flight, they were outside a house very similar to its neighbors, a neighborhood similar to others Christine had resided in prior to its abandonment.
They braked outside a window covered in metal, which opened to reveal another young boy, this one with dark hair and bright green eyes. A rope was tied to the back of Christine, the rope's other end was wrapped around the metal window, and the driver urged Christine forward. It strained against the weight before the metal finally broke free. The dark-haired boy passed a trunk and then a cage, making Christine glad for the enlarging charm Arthur had performed in it.
It was quite exciting, Christine decided. It had never been part of a heist - or a kidnapping? It had also never been stolen before, now that it thought about it.
A few weeks later, Christine was stolen again, this time by the two younger boys on a quest to get to a place called Hogwarts. The flying went smoothly for the most part, at least, until the end. It was them that something off happened, something affecting the flight capabilities given by Arthur. The addition to the dash heated up once again and Christine began to swerve in the air. Unable to steer correctly, or brake, all three of them almost crashed into a giant castle before they did crash into a tree. Not into the trunk of the tree, like Christine had always worried about, but the top of a tree.
To make matters even crazier, the tree began to hit Christine back. First a dented hood, a cracked windshield, a broken back window. Then it was hit from behind, its boot getting smashed by a club again and again until Christine fell to the ground. Finally, whatever had affected Christine's engine wore off, allowing the boys to drive forward right before the ground shook beneath its tires. The tree impacted where Christine had been moments before.
Christine had put up with a lot. It put up with the unnaturalness of flying. It put up with being stolen. It put up being out-flown by wooden sticks with bristles. It put up with being completely ignored by the younger contingent of Weasleys.
This was the last straw. Christine was well used to the possibilities of crashes, although it had thought it wasn't quite the problem in the air as it was on the ground. The very fact that Christine had survived the impact with the large tree relatively unscathed and then the tree came alive and began to beat it, causing damage to both the inside and the outside of the vintage Ford Anglia was just too much.
It had thought its days of fearing crashes were over. It was wrong.
Christine had often wondered at the possibility of doing things without the help of Arthur or Mollywobbles. Nothing else had moved without help of one of the red-heads, though, so the Anglia was never entirely sure it was capable of moving without them.
If a tree could do it, so could a car.
A quick thought and Christine's doors opened. The boys were tossed out on the cold ground. Another moment and the boot opened, its entire contents being tossed in the grass. Then came the cages, both animals flying to the one who had placed them inside the enlarged space.
It was time for Christine to high tail it out of there. Through the stone columns, down a long outdoor hallway and then past a small wooden house. It was headed towards a forest. There were lots of trees there, trees that may hit back, but at least Christine would be in control of its own movements.
Leaving the boys - and the family of red-heads - might be a fear reaction - and an overreaction. Maybe it might be self-preservation. Quite possibly it was cowardice had been built into its frame (its top speed had never been more than 117 kph, in no way the fastest car on the road. It had also always been a bit leery of crashes when there was a new driver, young or old).
It could be any combination of those.
To Christine, it didn't matter. No matter what, it was living in the forest from now on. Where it would be safe from being driven by people with no permit or license.
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I hope you enjoyed it!
Any feedback is appreciated!