"Why do you cry at night?" My wife sometimes asks. "What is the
matter? Are you not happy?"
"Yes I'm happy." I say. "Happier than I've ever been in my life." Which is true, because in my life I have never been happy.
"What happened to your arm?" My daughter sometimes asks.
"Nothing." I say. I no longer wear shirts without long sleeves.
I stand awkwardly in my security guard outfit, reminding myself that if I had stayed behind, there would have only been prison.
"Why don't you go back to school and get a degree?" My wife says, when I cannot offer a plausible answer for my lack of anything beyond year five education.
"Because." I reply shortly. She no longer asks.
But today, as I patrol the halls, grateful for the silence of the night shift, something in the corner catches my eye. I make my way slowly over. "Turn around slowly." I say, easing up.
"Malfoy! Long time no see. Not since you killed your father." My hand drops instinctively to my gun. I bristle at the sound of my long ago last name.
"Who are you?" I ask tentatively.
"Seamus Finnigan. Remember me? I stayed behind and cleaned up the mess when you ran off."
"What are you doing here Finnigan?" I ask, wincing when he speaks the truth.
"I came to find you." He says. Do I hear bitterness?
"Why?" I have lowered my gun, but I'm still on the ready.
"Because your mother is dying. Your wife said I could find you here."
"How did you find my wife?" I ask. I made sure that no one would be able to find me. Ever. I moved to America. To Florida, the only wizardless state. I married an immigrant from the Ukraine. The country with the sparsest amount of wizards.
"Malfoy. I'm a hit-wizard. For god's sakes, I know everything. Besides, that goddam tatoo on your arm makes tracking you down as easy as finding a needle in Coutney Love." He grins. I can see he is proud of his knowledge of Muggle drug addicts.
"I don't know how to tell you this, but I'm not coming back."
"Uh, yeah you are."
"No, I am not. I have a wife, a daughter."
"Yeah? I have a kid and no wife, and here I am, in the one country I hate, retreiving the one man I hate. Go figure."
"Look," I say, lowering my voice. "It's not that I don't want to come back. It's that I can't."
"Look," Seamus says, lowering his voice as well. "It isn't that I want you to come back, it's that you have to. Besides," he says, smiling. "Your wife has been waiting for you for five years. Oh sorry," he says, smiling innocently when he sees my face darken. "Is Hermione and your other children a touchy subject?"
The gun in my hand clatters to the floor. I did not know I had other children. I do not want to admit this to Seamus Finnigan, but it appears he already knows. He leans down and picks up the fallen gun. "Twins." He says. "Emily and Christian. They're six and a half. The same age as Harry's and Ron's. Same age as mine, actually. But I suppose you didn't know about them either."
"How do I tell Jessica and Marta?" I ask, knowing that I have to return.
"Oh you don't." Seamus says nonchalantly.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we're leaving now Malfoy. There's no going back." And we Disapparate.
"Yes I'm happy." I say. "Happier than I've ever been in my life." Which is true, because in my life I have never been happy.
"What happened to your arm?" My daughter sometimes asks.
"Nothing." I say. I no longer wear shirts without long sleeves.
I stand awkwardly in my security guard outfit, reminding myself that if I had stayed behind, there would have only been prison.
"Why don't you go back to school and get a degree?" My wife says, when I cannot offer a plausible answer for my lack of anything beyond year five education.
"Because." I reply shortly. She no longer asks.
But today, as I patrol the halls, grateful for the silence of the night shift, something in the corner catches my eye. I make my way slowly over. "Turn around slowly." I say, easing up.
"Malfoy! Long time no see. Not since you killed your father." My hand drops instinctively to my gun. I bristle at the sound of my long ago last name.
"Who are you?" I ask tentatively.
"Seamus Finnigan. Remember me? I stayed behind and cleaned up the mess when you ran off."
"What are you doing here Finnigan?" I ask, wincing when he speaks the truth.
"I came to find you." He says. Do I hear bitterness?
"Why?" I have lowered my gun, but I'm still on the ready.
"Because your mother is dying. Your wife said I could find you here."
"How did you find my wife?" I ask. I made sure that no one would be able to find me. Ever. I moved to America. To Florida, the only wizardless state. I married an immigrant from the Ukraine. The country with the sparsest amount of wizards.
"Malfoy. I'm a hit-wizard. For god's sakes, I know everything. Besides, that goddam tatoo on your arm makes tracking you down as easy as finding a needle in Coutney Love." He grins. I can see he is proud of his knowledge of Muggle drug addicts.
"I don't know how to tell you this, but I'm not coming back."
"Uh, yeah you are."
"No, I am not. I have a wife, a daughter."
"Yeah? I have a kid and no wife, and here I am, in the one country I hate, retreiving the one man I hate. Go figure."
"Look," I say, lowering my voice. "It's not that I don't want to come back. It's that I can't."
"Look," Seamus says, lowering his voice as well. "It isn't that I want you to come back, it's that you have to. Besides," he says, smiling. "Your wife has been waiting for you for five years. Oh sorry," he says, smiling innocently when he sees my face darken. "Is Hermione and your other children a touchy subject?"
The gun in my hand clatters to the floor. I did not know I had other children. I do not want to admit this to Seamus Finnigan, but it appears he already knows. He leans down and picks up the fallen gun. "Twins." He says. "Emily and Christian. They're six and a half. The same age as Harry's and Ron's. Same age as mine, actually. But I suppose you didn't know about them either."
"How do I tell Jessica and Marta?" I ask, knowing that I have to return.
"Oh you don't." Seamus says nonchalantly.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we're leaving now Malfoy. There's no going back." And we Disapparate.