Repost of this chapter. Why? Because ffnet says I may not use the chapter
system to have ANs in a separate chapter. From now on, you'll find my ANs
at the end of each chapter.
Chapter 9
The apartment block lay still, its inhabitants fast asleep. Street lamps gave off eerie light but they could never hope to brighten the night. Luna had turned her face away from earth and shadows were hiding in corners, crawling along. Among them the form of gigantic black dog - the Grim, bearer of bad tidings for his appearance proclaimed certain death.
Especially to rats.
Not yet, though. There was a time for death but now wasn't it. Now was the time to heal, to retreat and lick wounds in the company of the only man he could still trust: Uncle Mundi.
Contrary to popular belief Mundungus Fletcher was not as inclined towards pub crawls as many thought him to be. Admittedly, he enjoyed getting good and drunk occasionally, well, yes, even regularly, but he wasn't addicted, he was no alcoholic; and if he had things on his mind - some piece of newly gathered information which deserved his full attention -, he would muse on them not with a glass of Scotch but a cup of tea in his hand.
As often, when such times occurred, Mundungus was found brooding in front of the fireplace, staring at flames cracking merrily without really seeing them, and contemplating his problem late into the night.
Said problem, he knew, was far away from him right now, but it nevertheless wouldn't let him rest. The gloomy atmosphere of its prison had followed him home, when he had visited the day before. As he had yet to discover, however, the atmosphere hadn't been alone.
A soft rap at the door jerked him out of his musings. He rose and looked around. The grandfather clock in the corner told him it was much too late to be awake and much too early to get up again.
Perchance he had imagined the noise?
But the knocking was repeated, louder and more urgent this time.
Who could it be? What might they want?
//Only one way to find out.//
He drew his wand and approached the door.
"Who is this?" He queried in a tone that suggested painful retribution if this didn't turn out to be important.
The only answer he received was the sound of harsh breathing. Mundungus wondered briefly if he was being stalked.
"Uncle Mundi?" A familiar voice rasped.
He started. //Surely it could not be, surely he hadn't... but how?// This was something to be chewed upon later, though.
At this moment it was imperative to let this person in first, take care of him, make him feel welcome.
That he might be in danger since inviting a known mass murderer to one's home could prove to be highly perilous, not to mention lethal, did not even once cross the former Auror's mind. Such was the worry he felt for his favourite godson, so immense it was.
Mundungus opened the door as one would open an eagerly awaited present.
"Siri."
He didn't look better than he did in Azkaban, obviously. He shouldn't have been shocked, he had seen him recently, but that had happened in //that// place; where everyone, prisoners and guards alike, appeared as though they had been to hell - but never back.
He had come back.
Mundi ushered him in. Oh, how tired he was and hungry and exhausted. His nerves were strung taut, his back hurt, his rheumatism was driving him insane. And he had never felt better in all of his life. Mundi, Uncle Mundi, the famous Auror who's suspicious nature rivalled Alastor Moody's, Mundi had let him in, hadn't cursed him senseless, was even now pressing a cup of tea into his hands.
"Sit," he said gruffly, gesturing towards a comfy looking sofa, "you look like hell."
He sat down. Pure heaven! Tea, warmth, cushions, not necessarily in this order. What else did one need to be happy.
Oh, yeah, that.
"Uncle Mu-"
"Whatever it is, it can wait till you've had a good night's sleep. You weren't followed, though, were you?"
He shook his head. Padfoot hadn't been followed, but he couldn't tell this particular secret to his mentor, yet. It was what kept him alive. The smaller the number of people who knew the...
But Moony knew. And Moony believed him to be the traitor. He would tell the authorities and, and, and-
The smell of food stopped his spiralling thoughts. Nothing ever had tasted as delicious as this bowl of soup. To hell with Hogwarts Feasts, they couldn't compare.
He could gladly have answered sleep's sweet call right there and then, his stomach full, his limps heavy and his mind in a clouded state of fuzziness.
Yet, someone wouldn't let him, propelled - no, Levitated - him away from the couch and the warmth. No matter, though, he could rest while floating.
One eyelid opened halfway. Had he slept? Must have. He couldn't remember when his clothes had been removed, for they had been since he was in the nude, and neither could he recall when he had entered a tub. Someone was washing his hair. He leaned back into the touch. Waves of warm water caressed his body. His breathing followed their rhythm and he returned to Morpheus' realm once more.
He'd take the couch. It was old and decrepit and an instrument of torture for everyone who tried to lie on it for more than half an hour but it would have to do. He wanted his godson to rest in a real bed after seven years on hard stone.
It would be a rare luxury. Siri was a man on the run and though Mundungus would like nothing more than for him to remain here, it just couldn't be done. They'd have to find a more permanent - and safer! - hideout.
He pondered this as he Levitated him out of the tub and towards the bedroom. A soft Accio summoned a towel and another some pyjamas. He dried him off and dressed him. No sound of protest or agreement came forth, only a mumble - it sounded like a slurred variant of 'Mundi'.
+++++++++++++++++ 12/06/03
BlackPottergrl: Thank you!
This Parrot Has Ceased To Be: Yeah, I dislike such situations for this very same reason, as well. Another Longbottom flashback... I'm undecided. It's possible but I can't promise anything. Though if I don't then this whole business about the Longbottoms would have been futile, so I should...
+++
Tell me, if I missed anyone. If I did, know this: it wasn't done on purpose, so, please, forgive me.
++++++++++++++++++
Chapter 9
The apartment block lay still, its inhabitants fast asleep. Street lamps gave off eerie light but they could never hope to brighten the night. Luna had turned her face away from earth and shadows were hiding in corners, crawling along. Among them the form of gigantic black dog - the Grim, bearer of bad tidings for his appearance proclaimed certain death.
Especially to rats.
Not yet, though. There was a time for death but now wasn't it. Now was the time to heal, to retreat and lick wounds in the company of the only man he could still trust: Uncle Mundi.
Contrary to popular belief Mundungus Fletcher was not as inclined towards pub crawls as many thought him to be. Admittedly, he enjoyed getting good and drunk occasionally, well, yes, even regularly, but he wasn't addicted, he was no alcoholic; and if he had things on his mind - some piece of newly gathered information which deserved his full attention -, he would muse on them not with a glass of Scotch but a cup of tea in his hand.
As often, when such times occurred, Mundungus was found brooding in front of the fireplace, staring at flames cracking merrily without really seeing them, and contemplating his problem late into the night.
Said problem, he knew, was far away from him right now, but it nevertheless wouldn't let him rest. The gloomy atmosphere of its prison had followed him home, when he had visited the day before. As he had yet to discover, however, the atmosphere hadn't been alone.
A soft rap at the door jerked him out of his musings. He rose and looked around. The grandfather clock in the corner told him it was much too late to be awake and much too early to get up again.
Perchance he had imagined the noise?
But the knocking was repeated, louder and more urgent this time.
Who could it be? What might they want?
//Only one way to find out.//
He drew his wand and approached the door.
"Who is this?" He queried in a tone that suggested painful retribution if this didn't turn out to be important.
The only answer he received was the sound of harsh breathing. Mundungus wondered briefly if he was being stalked.
"Uncle Mundi?" A familiar voice rasped.
He started. //Surely it could not be, surely he hadn't... but how?// This was something to be chewed upon later, though.
At this moment it was imperative to let this person in first, take care of him, make him feel welcome.
That he might be in danger since inviting a known mass murderer to one's home could prove to be highly perilous, not to mention lethal, did not even once cross the former Auror's mind. Such was the worry he felt for his favourite godson, so immense it was.
Mundungus opened the door as one would open an eagerly awaited present.
"Siri."
He didn't look better than he did in Azkaban, obviously. He shouldn't have been shocked, he had seen him recently, but that had happened in //that// place; where everyone, prisoners and guards alike, appeared as though they had been to hell - but never back.
He had come back.
Mundi ushered him in. Oh, how tired he was and hungry and exhausted. His nerves were strung taut, his back hurt, his rheumatism was driving him insane. And he had never felt better in all of his life. Mundi, Uncle Mundi, the famous Auror who's suspicious nature rivalled Alastor Moody's, Mundi had let him in, hadn't cursed him senseless, was even now pressing a cup of tea into his hands.
"Sit," he said gruffly, gesturing towards a comfy looking sofa, "you look like hell."
He sat down. Pure heaven! Tea, warmth, cushions, not necessarily in this order. What else did one need to be happy.
Oh, yeah, that.
"Uncle Mu-"
"Whatever it is, it can wait till you've had a good night's sleep. You weren't followed, though, were you?"
He shook his head. Padfoot hadn't been followed, but he couldn't tell this particular secret to his mentor, yet. It was what kept him alive. The smaller the number of people who knew the...
But Moony knew. And Moony believed him to be the traitor. He would tell the authorities and, and, and-
The smell of food stopped his spiralling thoughts. Nothing ever had tasted as delicious as this bowl of soup. To hell with Hogwarts Feasts, they couldn't compare.
He could gladly have answered sleep's sweet call right there and then, his stomach full, his limps heavy and his mind in a clouded state of fuzziness.
Yet, someone wouldn't let him, propelled - no, Levitated - him away from the couch and the warmth. No matter, though, he could rest while floating.
One eyelid opened halfway. Had he slept? Must have. He couldn't remember when his clothes had been removed, for they had been since he was in the nude, and neither could he recall when he had entered a tub. Someone was washing his hair. He leaned back into the touch. Waves of warm water caressed his body. His breathing followed their rhythm and he returned to Morpheus' realm once more.
He'd take the couch. It was old and decrepit and an instrument of torture for everyone who tried to lie on it for more than half an hour but it would have to do. He wanted his godson to rest in a real bed after seven years on hard stone.
It would be a rare luxury. Siri was a man on the run and though Mundungus would like nothing more than for him to remain here, it just couldn't be done. They'd have to find a more permanent - and safer! - hideout.
He pondered this as he Levitated him out of the tub and towards the bedroom. A soft Accio summoned a towel and another some pyjamas. He dried him off and dressed him. No sound of protest or agreement came forth, only a mumble - it sounded like a slurred variant of 'Mundi'.
+++++++++++++++++ 12/06/03
BlackPottergrl: Thank you!
This Parrot Has Ceased To Be: Yeah, I dislike such situations for this very same reason, as well. Another Longbottom flashback... I'm undecided. It's possible but I can't promise anything. Though if I don't then this whole business about the Longbottoms would have been futile, so I should...
+++
Tell me, if I missed anyone. If I did, know this: it wasn't done on purpose, so, please, forgive me.
++++++++++++++++++