Disclaimer: HP is the property of JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic
Books and Warner Brothers. No money is being made and no copyright or
trademark infringement is intended. Jack is mine, though.
Thanks to Scarlet and Pandora for betaing.
The house Jack built
Prologue. The Alley.
He had lived the last fifteen years in New York, and had made a reasonably good life for himself over there. After the Great Muggle War, New York had become a wizarding Metropolis, with refugees and scoundrels from the whole of Europe coming in.
Then he had received an owl. One day it had stood on his windowsill, like a bird of ill omen. The letter had been from one of the solicitors in Diagon Alley, bringing him the news of his parents' death. The shop had burned, killing both his parents and leaving nothing more than a burnt out heap of wood and bricks. But, a building site in Diagon Alley was valuable, even if it was placed in the infamous Knockturn Alley, and the solicitor offered to sell it for him.
Jack had politely declined the offer, even though he could not explain to himself why. Still, he waited ten months before he went, making up excuses to himself as the time went by. On May 5, 1960, he finally resigned from his job and did his duty.
When he first saw the burned out pile of his parent's shop, he had a sinking feeling of despair in his stomach. This had once been his childhood home, back in the days when the Alley still was a place decent people could visit during the daytime.
He looked over his shoulder, and saw the Alley behind him. The tired faces of the women, the ragged cloaks and hard faces of the men. Children playing in the street, dirty clothes and without shoes. A swamp of filth and trash, and rats scurrying around among the people. When had this happened? Had it always been like this? He could not remember. Knockturn Alley had always had an atmosphere of melancholy, but not like this. Now poverty and sadness seemed to seep out from the walls.
He walked around the site, kicking away the rotting planks in the hope of finding something among them. Anything to remind him of what he had known back then -something familiar. He found nothing, nor had he expected to; the inhabitants of this slum had stripped the site of anything valuable. Even most of the bricks had been removed; the usable ones had probably been given a good price on the market. He felt no anger towards the thieves. He just hoped the items had given then some pleasure or a hot meal on the table.
He sighed, and pulled up the sleeves of his cloak. With nothing more than his wand and his hands he started to clear the site.
He slept in a room he rented from an old witch up Diagon Alley, and early in the morning he went back. He caught the interest of the ragged people, who saw his feeble attempts as good entertainment. They would stop in their daily chores and look at him. Some laughed, and others shook their heads.
Many of the faces were familiar to him, but still they were strangers. He sensed hostility from them sometimes, something he was forced to accept. He'd had the chance to escape the desolation, but had chosen to come back. This was a thing they could not comprehend. He knew that now. They carried a grudge towards everyone who managed to leave, and hated themselves for not being able to do the same.
On the second day a boy showed up and started to help him. Nothing big, of course, but he picked up small planks and rocks, and got himself even dirtier in the process. Jack observed how the boy would single out every nail he found, and put them all in a heap by their own. Mostly he got in the way, but he gave Jack a good feeling.
On the fifth day they had finished cleaning out the mess, and sat down on a plank lain between two rocks. Jack sighed, and reached into his bag to take out his bottle of firewhisky. Then he caught the eyes of the boy sitting next to him. He knew many of the children in Knockturn Alley were given alcohol, but that was not something Jack condoned. He took out two Knuts from his pocket, and gave them to the boy.
"Here. Go up to the Cauldron and buy us a couple of Butterbeers."
The boy's eyes were big, and he took the money with an expression of awe. He looked up at Jack with uncertainty written on his face, as if asking him whether he truly meant it.
"Go on!" Jack said, a little gruffly. "I haven't got all day!"
The boy turned on his heels and ran like he had a pack of wolves after him. I'll never see that money again, Jack thought, and resumed looking out on the open square in front of him. He still didn't have any plans for it. He had quit his job in New York, though, and nobody was waiting for him. He was in no hurry. Perhaps he should build the house up again, as some kind of tribute to his mother. Then again, why should he? There was a reason why he'd left, after all.
He suddenly decided to rebuild the house. Not as a tribute to anyone best forgotten, but for himself.
Then he would sell it.
He had put aside some money. Not a very impressive sum, but combined with the Galleons his parents had left him... It was perhaps enough if he did most of the job himself, and lived economically. When the house was more or less up, he could give up the room he rented and sleep on the floor. The room cost him five Knuts a day, and cut deep into his wallet.
He was interrupted by eager footsteps from behind him and turned to see the boy show up, with two bottles of Butterbeer in his sweaty hands. He handed them over to Jack, who was surprised to see him. There was still that uncertain look on the boy's face, as if he waited for Jack to yell at him.
With firm hands Jack opened one of the bottles and gave it to the child, who hesitantly accepted it. He sniffed at its content, before carefully taking a sip. For a while they sat on the plank, Jack looking over the site, and the boy looking at Jack with eyes filled with wonder.
"What's your name, boy?" Jack asked.
"Dung."
"That's a funny name. Well, Dung, I'm going to build a house. Will you help me?"
Jack turned to the boy and smiled. Dung seemed to be pondering the question, while he sipped the Butterbeer. The ginger brown hair got in the way of his eyes, and he pulled a tuft of hair behind his ear. He raised a sincere face to Jack, and shrugged.
"All right."
****
Slowly a house grew up from the ashes. Jack worked like an animal to get it done before the autumn rains started to fall. He got up in the morning before the sun rose, and collapsed into bed in the evenings when it got dark. But every morning the boy was there before him, and he didn't leave before Jack did. No one ever came looking for him, so Jack let him stay for as long as he wanted. The boy had talent as a carpenter, Jack observed; he had strong and steady hands.
Jack could not afford to hire Goblins, like most other wizards did when they built a house. There was just so much you could do with a wand, so parts of the house were therefore built the Muggle way. Jack didn't mind, as it gave him a sense of purpose, something he had not felt for years. This was his own. Still, he thanked Merlin for his wand.
After a while he moved in, and slept on the floor. It saved him money, and he could pay better attention to the building material and the equipment. Sometimes Dung stayed the night as well, and he was a fierce guard dog against the thieves who came in the dark.
As the building rose, the people changed their attitude towards him. He could not say when it happened, but one day a stranger walked up to him and gave him a trowel. After that, some of the drunkards in Knockturn Alley occasionally came over and lent them a helping hand, or offered a piece of advice. Sometimes one of the women would drop by with a kettle of steaming hot tea, heavily sweetened with sugar and milk. They would take a break then, and watch as the untiring trowels raised the walls of Jack's house.
During these pauses people would sit down with Jack and the boy, sharing their tales and lifestories with him. Horrible stories, peculiar stories, funny stories, all kinds of tales of what life could bring. He heard with sadness the story of his childhood best friend's death, five years ago. His old friend had been a squib, and had not attended Hogwarts.
Jack's life in New York seemed further away than ever.
The boy always sat next to him, watching the others with wary eyes, like he was afraid they would take Jack away from him. Jack felt somewhat worried about this.
"How old are you, Dung?"
"Eight."
"You'll be starting at Hogwarts in a few years, then!"
The boy simply nodded and walked away to pick up more tiles for the floor.
****
When autumn came the house was finished. Not big, not impressive, but it was a house. The ground floor contained three rooms: one large room, suitable for a shop, and two smaller ones in the back. The first floor contained a flat and three minor rooms. Jack was very satisfied.
"Now, what do I do with it?" he asked while painting the wall in the large room downstairs.
"You could live 'ere," a voice said behind him.
Jack had thought himself alone, and was taken aback by Dung's answer. The boy entered the room with a bucket of paint in his hand.
"Why don't you use your wand?" Dung asked.
"Because I like doing it this way," Jack replied.
The boy didn't answer, and walked out to get the other bucket they had prepared. But his comment stuck in Jack's mind. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go, not really. Go back to New York? That had been his plan, yes. Try to get his old job back in the pub he had worked in for the last four years, seek out old acquaintances. But they were people who were busy going on with their lives, getting married and having children. And the old crowd... Did they miss him? He hadn't got many owls from them, and when he did the letters usually contained nothing but gossip. Did he really care? He found to his surprise that he did not.
Dung walked in with more paint, the expression on his face unreadable. Jack looked at him with concern. What was the boy to him? Or perhaps more important, what was he to the boy?
"Where are your parents?" he asked bluntly.
Dung shrugged. "Gone."
"What do you mean, gone? Where do you live?"
"With my uncle," the boy pointed with a paint-stained finger to the building on the other side of the road.
"Okay. And that's all right, is it?"
Dung shrugged again, and Jack decided to let the subject rest for a while.
"Well, Dung, what do you think I should do with this big house, then?"
"You could live 'ere," the boy repeated. "You could start a shop or some'at." He waved his hand vaguely towards the walls of the room, but there was something strained about his indifference, like he was trying hard not to let his feeling show.
"I don't know anything about running shops," Jack laughed. "I know a little about bars, though."
Dung turned to him. "Why don't you open a pub?"
Jack made a vague sound. "I'll think about it."
The more he thought about it, the more appealing the idea got. Why should he beg on his knees to get his old job back, when he could be his own boss right here? If it didn't work out he could always sell the place and move on. Suddenly he realised he had been painting the same spot for over five minutes, and feeling a little embarrassed he moved further down the wall.
He felt the boy's eyes on his back. The little devil worked harder than ever, without making a sound, constantly gazing towards him as if he expected him to walk out.
Dung cleared his throat. "I 'ave a good name for it too."
"Oh? What?"
"Since your last name is Bullstrode, what about the Wand and the Bull? Or you could call it the Phoenix; it rising from the ashes and all."
Jack turned towards him, surprised. The boy blushed fiercely, and looked like he wanted to sink through the floor. "If you don't like it..." he stuttered.
"No! No, I like it. It's good. But I would need a little help. Think you could give me a hand from time to time?"
Dung gave him a smile right from the heart, turned back to the wall, and started painting again. "I can do that," he answered.
The house Jack built
Prologue. The Alley.
He had lived the last fifteen years in New York, and had made a reasonably good life for himself over there. After the Great Muggle War, New York had become a wizarding Metropolis, with refugees and scoundrels from the whole of Europe coming in.
Then he had received an owl. One day it had stood on his windowsill, like a bird of ill omen. The letter had been from one of the solicitors in Diagon Alley, bringing him the news of his parents' death. The shop had burned, killing both his parents and leaving nothing more than a burnt out heap of wood and bricks. But, a building site in Diagon Alley was valuable, even if it was placed in the infamous Knockturn Alley, and the solicitor offered to sell it for him.
Jack had politely declined the offer, even though he could not explain to himself why. Still, he waited ten months before he went, making up excuses to himself as the time went by. On May 5, 1960, he finally resigned from his job and did his duty.
When he first saw the burned out pile of his parent's shop, he had a sinking feeling of despair in his stomach. This had once been his childhood home, back in the days when the Alley still was a place decent people could visit during the daytime.
He looked over his shoulder, and saw the Alley behind him. The tired faces of the women, the ragged cloaks and hard faces of the men. Children playing in the street, dirty clothes and without shoes. A swamp of filth and trash, and rats scurrying around among the people. When had this happened? Had it always been like this? He could not remember. Knockturn Alley had always had an atmosphere of melancholy, but not like this. Now poverty and sadness seemed to seep out from the walls.
He walked around the site, kicking away the rotting planks in the hope of finding something among them. Anything to remind him of what he had known back then -something familiar. He found nothing, nor had he expected to; the inhabitants of this slum had stripped the site of anything valuable. Even most of the bricks had been removed; the usable ones had probably been given a good price on the market. He felt no anger towards the thieves. He just hoped the items had given then some pleasure or a hot meal on the table.
He sighed, and pulled up the sleeves of his cloak. With nothing more than his wand and his hands he started to clear the site.
He slept in a room he rented from an old witch up Diagon Alley, and early in the morning he went back. He caught the interest of the ragged people, who saw his feeble attempts as good entertainment. They would stop in their daily chores and look at him. Some laughed, and others shook their heads.
Many of the faces were familiar to him, but still they were strangers. He sensed hostility from them sometimes, something he was forced to accept. He'd had the chance to escape the desolation, but had chosen to come back. This was a thing they could not comprehend. He knew that now. They carried a grudge towards everyone who managed to leave, and hated themselves for not being able to do the same.
On the second day a boy showed up and started to help him. Nothing big, of course, but he picked up small planks and rocks, and got himself even dirtier in the process. Jack observed how the boy would single out every nail he found, and put them all in a heap by their own. Mostly he got in the way, but he gave Jack a good feeling.
On the fifth day they had finished cleaning out the mess, and sat down on a plank lain between two rocks. Jack sighed, and reached into his bag to take out his bottle of firewhisky. Then he caught the eyes of the boy sitting next to him. He knew many of the children in Knockturn Alley were given alcohol, but that was not something Jack condoned. He took out two Knuts from his pocket, and gave them to the boy.
"Here. Go up to the Cauldron and buy us a couple of Butterbeers."
The boy's eyes were big, and he took the money with an expression of awe. He looked up at Jack with uncertainty written on his face, as if asking him whether he truly meant it.
"Go on!" Jack said, a little gruffly. "I haven't got all day!"
The boy turned on his heels and ran like he had a pack of wolves after him. I'll never see that money again, Jack thought, and resumed looking out on the open square in front of him. He still didn't have any plans for it. He had quit his job in New York, though, and nobody was waiting for him. He was in no hurry. Perhaps he should build the house up again, as some kind of tribute to his mother. Then again, why should he? There was a reason why he'd left, after all.
He suddenly decided to rebuild the house. Not as a tribute to anyone best forgotten, but for himself.
Then he would sell it.
He had put aside some money. Not a very impressive sum, but combined with the Galleons his parents had left him... It was perhaps enough if he did most of the job himself, and lived economically. When the house was more or less up, he could give up the room he rented and sleep on the floor. The room cost him five Knuts a day, and cut deep into his wallet.
He was interrupted by eager footsteps from behind him and turned to see the boy show up, with two bottles of Butterbeer in his sweaty hands. He handed them over to Jack, who was surprised to see him. There was still that uncertain look on the boy's face, as if he waited for Jack to yell at him.
With firm hands Jack opened one of the bottles and gave it to the child, who hesitantly accepted it. He sniffed at its content, before carefully taking a sip. For a while they sat on the plank, Jack looking over the site, and the boy looking at Jack with eyes filled with wonder.
"What's your name, boy?" Jack asked.
"Dung."
"That's a funny name. Well, Dung, I'm going to build a house. Will you help me?"
Jack turned to the boy and smiled. Dung seemed to be pondering the question, while he sipped the Butterbeer. The ginger brown hair got in the way of his eyes, and he pulled a tuft of hair behind his ear. He raised a sincere face to Jack, and shrugged.
"All right."
****
Slowly a house grew up from the ashes. Jack worked like an animal to get it done before the autumn rains started to fall. He got up in the morning before the sun rose, and collapsed into bed in the evenings when it got dark. But every morning the boy was there before him, and he didn't leave before Jack did. No one ever came looking for him, so Jack let him stay for as long as he wanted. The boy had talent as a carpenter, Jack observed; he had strong and steady hands.
Jack could not afford to hire Goblins, like most other wizards did when they built a house. There was just so much you could do with a wand, so parts of the house were therefore built the Muggle way. Jack didn't mind, as it gave him a sense of purpose, something he had not felt for years. This was his own. Still, he thanked Merlin for his wand.
After a while he moved in, and slept on the floor. It saved him money, and he could pay better attention to the building material and the equipment. Sometimes Dung stayed the night as well, and he was a fierce guard dog against the thieves who came in the dark.
As the building rose, the people changed their attitude towards him. He could not say when it happened, but one day a stranger walked up to him and gave him a trowel. After that, some of the drunkards in Knockturn Alley occasionally came over and lent them a helping hand, or offered a piece of advice. Sometimes one of the women would drop by with a kettle of steaming hot tea, heavily sweetened with sugar and milk. They would take a break then, and watch as the untiring trowels raised the walls of Jack's house.
During these pauses people would sit down with Jack and the boy, sharing their tales and lifestories with him. Horrible stories, peculiar stories, funny stories, all kinds of tales of what life could bring. He heard with sadness the story of his childhood best friend's death, five years ago. His old friend had been a squib, and had not attended Hogwarts.
Jack's life in New York seemed further away than ever.
The boy always sat next to him, watching the others with wary eyes, like he was afraid they would take Jack away from him. Jack felt somewhat worried about this.
"How old are you, Dung?"
"Eight."
"You'll be starting at Hogwarts in a few years, then!"
The boy simply nodded and walked away to pick up more tiles for the floor.
****
When autumn came the house was finished. Not big, not impressive, but it was a house. The ground floor contained three rooms: one large room, suitable for a shop, and two smaller ones in the back. The first floor contained a flat and three minor rooms. Jack was very satisfied.
"Now, what do I do with it?" he asked while painting the wall in the large room downstairs.
"You could live 'ere," a voice said behind him.
Jack had thought himself alone, and was taken aback by Dung's answer. The boy entered the room with a bucket of paint in his hand.
"Why don't you use your wand?" Dung asked.
"Because I like doing it this way," Jack replied.
The boy didn't answer, and walked out to get the other bucket they had prepared. But his comment stuck in Jack's mind. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go, not really. Go back to New York? That had been his plan, yes. Try to get his old job back in the pub he had worked in for the last four years, seek out old acquaintances. But they were people who were busy going on with their lives, getting married and having children. And the old crowd... Did they miss him? He hadn't got many owls from them, and when he did the letters usually contained nothing but gossip. Did he really care? He found to his surprise that he did not.
Dung walked in with more paint, the expression on his face unreadable. Jack looked at him with concern. What was the boy to him? Or perhaps more important, what was he to the boy?
"Where are your parents?" he asked bluntly.
Dung shrugged. "Gone."
"What do you mean, gone? Where do you live?"
"With my uncle," the boy pointed with a paint-stained finger to the building on the other side of the road.
"Okay. And that's all right, is it?"
Dung shrugged again, and Jack decided to let the subject rest for a while.
"Well, Dung, what do you think I should do with this big house, then?"
"You could live 'ere," the boy repeated. "You could start a shop or some'at." He waved his hand vaguely towards the walls of the room, but there was something strained about his indifference, like he was trying hard not to let his feeling show.
"I don't know anything about running shops," Jack laughed. "I know a little about bars, though."
Dung turned to him. "Why don't you open a pub?"
Jack made a vague sound. "I'll think about it."
The more he thought about it, the more appealing the idea got. Why should he beg on his knees to get his old job back, when he could be his own boss right here? If it didn't work out he could always sell the place and move on. Suddenly he realised he had been painting the same spot for over five minutes, and feeling a little embarrassed he moved further down the wall.
He felt the boy's eyes on his back. The little devil worked harder than ever, without making a sound, constantly gazing towards him as if he expected him to walk out.
Dung cleared his throat. "I 'ave a good name for it too."
"Oh? What?"
"Since your last name is Bullstrode, what about the Wand and the Bull? Or you could call it the Phoenix; it rising from the ashes and all."
Jack turned towards him, surprised. The boy blushed fiercely, and looked like he wanted to sink through the floor. "If you don't like it..." he stuttered.
"No! No, I like it. It's good. But I would need a little help. Think you could give me a hand from time to time?"
Dung gave him a smile right from the heart, turned back to the wall, and started painting again. "I can do that," he answered.