Disclaimer: HP is the property of JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic
Books and Warner Brothers. I own nothing, and make no money from this.
A/N: Thanks to Scarlet and Pandora for betaing.
Chapter two. The spider
There had been thieves in the Spider Shop!
The Hit-wizards had been there talking with the owner, an elderly man with mean beady eyes, now wringing his hands and suspiciously glaring at everyone through his thick glasses. None of the children in Knockturn Alley liked the Spider-man and their compassion for him as a victim was nil, though they couldn't deny the entertainment value -they played Hit- wizards for the rest of the week. Collecting spiders all over the Alley, the children put them into a cracked old cauldron someone had thrown away. With horrified joy and delightful squeals of disgust they watched as the spiders attacked each other; obviously spiders doesn't like to be crammed up in groups of fifty inside a slippery cauldron. But eventually the children tired of it, and went back to play make-believe Quidditch.
****
Dung was a busy young man these days, helping out his new friend Jack in the pub. He had just delivered a note from Jack to the brewery, ordering ale and more of Madam Ogden's, when he saw a cat carrying a kitten in her mouth. The cat trotted fast and firmly in the narrow passage to the Spider Shop's backyard with a very secretive and smug expression on her face, scarcely looking at him as he followed her with his eyes.
Dung's curiosity took hold of him, and he followed her into the eerie backyard. He looked over his shoulder to see if the owner was there, but the shop seemed deserted. The cat had disappeared in between two loose bricks in the wall, and when he moved one of them he could see her and the litter. She hissed and scratched his hand when he reached inside, but he got hold of one of the kittens and pulled it out.
The kitten was black and white, and he could see it was a little boy. "'Sup, kitty?" he muttered, and petted it gently. It couldn't be more than three or four weeks old, but still it struggled a little in his arms. "I'm not dangerous," he told it, but the kitten didn't speak English. Disappointed, he returned it to its mother; he had always wanted a pet, and a kitten would be perfect. But his uncle didn't like animals, so that would never happen.
Resigned, he stood up to walk away when he saw something on the ground. It looked like a rather large matchbox, but there was no sign on top of it –just dull brown. He picked it up and shook it, but there was no sound. He shook it again, harder this time, and even though there was no sound he could almost feel something inside it. Opening it, he saw a black spider curled up. Maybe it was dead; it certainly looked that way. Then it moved one of its many legs, carefully and slow, like it was sniffing the air to find out whether or not the coast was clear.
He pushed it close again. Perhaps the thieves had dropped this one spider? Should he return it to the Evil Proprietor?
No. He had found it, so it was his spider now –finders keepers. Surely Edgar wouldn't mind a teeny spider; it could live inside the matchbox and he could catch flies for it to eat. He stuffed the matchbox inside his pocket, and walked back to Jack with the receipt he had got at the brewery.
With an eager face he showed the contents of the box to Jack. The barman frowned slightly, picked out a little glass jar from behind the bar and carefully tipped the spider into it to take a closer look.
"No, doesn't look like the average Alley spider," he muttered with a frown as he held the jar up against the light by the window. He turned to Dung with a serious mien. "See that marking on its belly? Like an hourglass? That hourglass means that it might be poisonous. They're used as potion ingredients, if I recall correctly, that never was my favourite subject..."
He screwed the lid back on the jar, and made a few breathing holes in the lid with his pocketknife. Jack took a hold of Dung's hand as the boy reached out to grab it. "Promise me you'll return it. And you'll do it right now, otherwise I won't let you have it." He gave Dung a stern stare.
"All right," Dung muttered unwillingly, keeping his eyes on the floor.
I'll never have a pet, he thought sulkily. He kept the jar half hidden in his arms as he slowly walked back to the spider shop. It looked awfully dark inside, though. Hesitantly he knocked at the door, and waited while listening for the spider man's shuffling footsteps inside. After five minutes passed without hearing anything he knocked once more, more firmly this time, before realising that the proprietor was not inside. He would have opened the door by now if he were.
Dung scratched his head as he gazed up at the empty dark window on the first floor. What should he do? He couldn't leave the tiny creature out here on the steps –it was autumn and the nights grew colder with each passing day. It would freeze to death. It was already evening and the fog was coming sneaking into the Alley, encapsulating everything and everyone in its cold and wet grasp.
He closed his eyes to the fact that the spider already had survived for more than a week.
Without haste he walked up to the flat he shared with uncle Edgar, telling himself he would return it first thing tomorrow morning. He could hear his uncle talking through the kitchen door, and swore quietly. Why couldn't he have been out, or in bed?
He opened the door and went inside, and found his uncle alone by the table. Edgar was pressing a wet piece of cloth to his left eye, and his lower lip was a bloody mess. "What 'appened to you?" Dung asked horrified. His uncle wasn't exactly a popular man, but he rarely got into fistfights, and it was a long time since Dung had seen him in this miserable state.
It didn't seem like Edgar had noticed him, though. He kept on ranting into the cloth. "I just told 'im what everybody knew anyway, what's the point in taking it out on me? 'E should be taking it out on that bloody slut! Closing the door in my face like that. Thinks she's too good, eh? Thinks she's a fine Lady? Poor Edgar. Just the messenger."
The man was so drunk it was hard to understand what he was saying. Dung walked closer and put his hand on his uncle's arm. "'Sup, uncle?"
Edgar lowered the cloth and looked at the boy with a horrible, bloody face. "What you've got there?" he asked with a rough voice.
Dung realised that this was not a good moment to introduce Edgar to a new eight-legged member of the family, so he tried to hide the jar behind his back, something that only increased the grown man's anger.
"Show me!"
Hesitantly Dung took a step back, and showed Edgar the jar. "I know you don't like cats and dogs, but I thought perhaps... You know, no 'airs lying 'round, and it's quiet..."
Edgar stared at Dung as if he had gone mad. "A spider! Lost your marbles, 'ave ya?"
"I'll catch flies for it to eat..."
"Flies?" Edgar threw his head back and roared with laughter, something that seemed to cause him pain. With a whimper he returned his gaze to the boy. "If I see that...thing again I swear I'll squash it to jelly. Now get OUT!"
Dung ran down the narrow stairway with angry tears in his eyes. It was dark outside, and the fog came seeping down the Alley. In one of the flats on the ground floor he could hear a couple arguing.
Dung didn't like it here when it got dark. It was all right in the daylight when all the Alley's inhabitants were outside, it was filled with life then, and the safety of numbers. But at night the parents locked the doors and counted their children, because that was when the strangers came out. People who would hurt you, just because they liked it. Mean, they were, and they didn't care if you were five or fifty. Dung didn't know where they lived or who they were, but they came with the fog at night. In his head they were connected, and when the thick white fog slowly and silently rolled down the Alley it was almost as if he could hear their footsteps as well. He always made sure he was somewhere safe by that time.
With fast feet he ran into the warm pub across the alleyway. It was crowded, and he got a glimpse of Jack in the other end of the bar. He pressed the jar close to his chest. He had sworn to Jack, and he would keep his oath. Jack trusted him, and that was important for Dung. He just had to wait a few more hours. That was all.
He slipped behind the counter and ascended the stairs. He had to hide the jar until tomorrow, somewhere Jack wouldn't find it; one of the spare rooms would be fine. Jack sometimes let people stay up here if they got too drunk to walk home, but no one had used it for weeks. Firmly he closed the door after him, and sat down on the bed.
Startled, he saw that the spider looked dead. Perhaps the lid was too tight? The breathing holes were awfully small; maybe it had suffocated? Anxiously he unscrewed it, and shook the jar carefully. He sighed in relief when it stretched out one of its legs.
"'Ungry, eh?" He went over to the window, where a fly was busy trying to force its way through the glass. He squashed it unsentimentally with his thumb, and brought it back to his new friend. He sat the jar on the bed, and knelt down beside it with his feet on the floor. But, no, it wasn't hungry. "Perhaps you're sleepy," he muttered and yawned. "I know I am."
He put the lid back on, but didn't screw it shut. Then he sat the jar near the footboard of the bed, leaning against the wall. "Now you stay 'ere. I'll come and get ya in the morning, 'kay?"
Downstairs, a drunken witch grabbed a hold of him, and showed him up to the other guests sitting by her table. "Dung, darling, won't you sing for me? Look at this boy, isn't he a darling? Sing for me, you know what I like. I'll buy you a Butterbeer if you will."
How can an eight-year-old resist the offer of a Butterbeer? Dung certainly couldn't, so he started to sing an old song his mother had taught him. He hardly remembered her, but he remembered the song; a sad song of lost love. It was Welsh, the witch had told him once; so was she, and she always asked him to sing it. Each time she started to cry, and got him a Butterbeer afterwards.
He dozed off with the bottle in his hand. After an hour Jack woke him up, and followed him across the alleyway to the stairs up to his flat. Edgar had gone to bed. Dung tossed the bloodstained cloth off the turn-up bedstead, and soon he slept like the child he was.
****
"Who do you believe? Your own wife, or that drunkard upstairs?" She was crying now, but he barely noticed her tears.
"Why is Queenie blond?" he snapped back, his eyes wild. He wanted to slap her, but something held him back; he had never been a wife-basher, and had no intention to start. Not even now, when he had been betrayed so deeply that he wanted to tear his heart out and throw it in her face. "I love that girl! And now this!"
"Mark was blond when he was eight," she sobbed.
Two children stood in the doorway and watched them. The older girl held her arms around the little boy, who was crying silently.
John Smith shook his head. "I can't stand it. I can't stand looking at ya." With those words he opened the door into the hall, and closed it with a loud bang.
He walked over to the pub, and sat down by the bar. He had a Sickle in his pocket, and gave it to Jack who had emerged in front of him. "Gimme a bottle of firewhisky," he muttered to him.
Jack raised his eyebrows. "You don't drink whisky," he said, surprised.
"I do now."
The bottle stood before him and he drank, hard and fast, trying to block out the maelstrom of thoughts and feelings that threatened to drown him. People left him alone; he didn't know whether he was thankful or resentful because of it.
His little baby daughter had always been special to him. Of course he loved Mark, Tim and Geoff as well, but there was something special about her. Fragile and tough at the same time. He loved how she would sit on his lap and sing songs to him when he was sad, silly little songs she made up herself. How she would come to him, dragging the neighbourhood kittens with her to show him.
He could not bear the thought of leaving them. Whether they were his children or not, he loved them, plain and simple. He had to come to some sort of agreement with Maude. But not now, he would not let her see him crying and weak.
"You can talk to me about it, you know." Jack's voice. He looked up to see the barman standing in front of him, drying a few wineglasses, and putting them down in their place behind the counter. "That's what I'm here for."
John wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his cloak, and quietly shook his head. "Not now, tomorrow, perhaps. Listen, I need a place to stay, just for tonight. Could I sleep 'ere, on a bench or some'at?"
"Got a few rooms upstairs, if you need one."
"Thanks."
Jack followed him upstairs, and opened the door to the room. "It's not much, but it's better than a bench anyway. Lumos."
John sat down on the bed. "It's fine. Can I ask you a favour? I've gotta get to work tomorrow morning..."
"I wake up early. I'll knock on the door."
Then John was alone. Silently he sat, staring out into the darkness of the room. The dark didn't bother him, it never had. He would go back tomorrow, after work, and try to talk to her. The alcohol had calmed him, and he pulled off his cloak. He stretched out his long body on the bed, and pulled the blanket over him. He felt slightly nauseated and his head had started to ache.
Slowly he dozed off, unused as he was to the charms of Madam Ogden. Half asleep, he turned around in bed to find his ordinary position of sleep when he felt a sting on his stomach, like a pinprick. "You've got bed bugs, Jack," he muttered.
A few hours later he woke up from the cramps in his back. The pain was excruciating, and he sweated so much the sheets were wet. He had problems breathing, and gulped in air like a fish on shore.
Oh Merlin! He had forgot his potion.
John had a weak heart, and ever since he was a boy he had had to take a spoonful each night of that vile potion the Healers kept feeding him. But the vial stood in the kitchen of his home, just a few yards away. It could just as well have been on the other side of town; John was in no position to go wandering about. He struggled to breathe, and his attempts to call out only resulted in harsh little moans.
The cramps in his back had spread to his legs. He did not understand; a heart attack wouldn't give him leg cramps, would it?
Merlin, I don't wanna die!
He threw up on the floor beside the bed, his whole body was shaking and the sweat ran down into his eyes, blinded him. His head hurt so much he started crying.
I don't wanna leave my children.
He saw Queenie's face before him, her eyes serious and contemplating. She stretched out her hand to him, like she wanted to stroke his cheek. Her mouth did not move, but he could hear her voice inside his head. "Are you leaving now?" she was asking.
He wanted to touch her, but his hands wouldn't work anymore. I don't want to, baby, he thought. I love you.
"I know," the child answered, and all he could see were those big brown eyes.
****
Dung woke up at noon. Edgar wasn't up yet, neither had he expected him to be. After putting on his clothes, he jumped down the stair and out into the alleyway. The pub was open, and he sneaked inside. Jack was busy talking with two strangers by one of the tables, his face grave and tired. Silently Dung walked up to the first floor, and found the door to the spare room open. The empty jar stood on a chair by the little window.
Dung froze. Had Jack discovered the spider? But it was probably just Mrs. Walker, the cleaning witch, or at least he hoped so. But where was the spider?
He grabbed the jar, and started looking for it. After half an hour of desperate search he found it, spinning a web under the bed.
"There ya are," he sighed. "Come on, let's leave."
The spider had no desire to be captured again, but had to surrender when he tipped her into the jar with a nail he had in his pocket. The lid he found under the bed. Carefully he walked down the stairs again, and scurried out while Jack wasn't watching.
Once more he stood outside the spider shop. It was still closed, and no one answered when he knocked on the back door. He was getting tired of this.
On the way out of the backyard he met a tall impressive man, with robes that revealed the fact that this was a man of wealth. Dung did what the children of the Alley always did when such a person walked by; he stuck out his hand.
"Could ya spare a Knut, Sir?"
The man eyed him with badly hidden contempt. He waved his walking stick at the spider shop. "Tell me, boy, is this shop closed permanently?"
Dung shrugged, and looked closer at the stick. It was very beautiful, with a handle shaped like a snake's head. "Don't know, Sir. Wouldn't mind talking to the spider man myself. I found this."
The man looked closer at the spider in the jar. "She's beautiful," he muttered.
Dung looked bewildered. "She? It's a girl? 'Ow can you tell?"
The man gave him a scornful glare, and took out a purse. "I'll give you a Gallon for it," he said, and reached out one big gold coin to the boy. Dung silently accepted the coin, and gave the man the jar. He'd never had that much money between his fingers before.
The man turned around and left.
What does one do with so much money?
Butterbeer! He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, out into Diagon Alley and down to the Leaky Cauldron. There he bought six bottles of Butterbeer, and sat down beside the Owl Emporium and drank while he watched the people. Sometimes he burped loudly, to the entertainment of the passers by.
An hour later he walked back into the Alley, his belly filled to bursting. The coins in his pocket jingled merrily as he moved. So this was what it felt like to be a man of wealth. It felt good.
Queenie was sitting outside on the stairs, yawning openly. She looked sad, Dung noticed, and he sat down beside her. "'Sup, Queenie?"
She turned her head up to him; she had been crying. "My father died," she said quietly.
"No? When?"
"Last night."
They sat in silence for a while. He didn't really want more Butterbeer, so he let her have the last bottle. She accepted it with a little 'thanks'.
"You know, 'e was a nice man, your dad. I remember 'im buying sweets for us when Geoff was born."
"Yeah." She seemed to be thinking hard. "'E came to me."
"What?"
"'E came to me, in my thoughts. I was up all night, crying, 'cause I knew 'e was gone."
"Like a ghost, you mean?"
She shook her head. "No, it wasn't like that."
Queenie started crying again, and Dung awkwardly put his arm around her shoulder. On the other side of the alleyway Jack looked at them. Then he shook his head and went back inside.
Chapter two. The spider
There had been thieves in the Spider Shop!
The Hit-wizards had been there talking with the owner, an elderly man with mean beady eyes, now wringing his hands and suspiciously glaring at everyone through his thick glasses. None of the children in Knockturn Alley liked the Spider-man and their compassion for him as a victim was nil, though they couldn't deny the entertainment value -they played Hit- wizards for the rest of the week. Collecting spiders all over the Alley, the children put them into a cracked old cauldron someone had thrown away. With horrified joy and delightful squeals of disgust they watched as the spiders attacked each other; obviously spiders doesn't like to be crammed up in groups of fifty inside a slippery cauldron. But eventually the children tired of it, and went back to play make-believe Quidditch.
****
Dung was a busy young man these days, helping out his new friend Jack in the pub. He had just delivered a note from Jack to the brewery, ordering ale and more of Madam Ogden's, when he saw a cat carrying a kitten in her mouth. The cat trotted fast and firmly in the narrow passage to the Spider Shop's backyard with a very secretive and smug expression on her face, scarcely looking at him as he followed her with his eyes.
Dung's curiosity took hold of him, and he followed her into the eerie backyard. He looked over his shoulder to see if the owner was there, but the shop seemed deserted. The cat had disappeared in between two loose bricks in the wall, and when he moved one of them he could see her and the litter. She hissed and scratched his hand when he reached inside, but he got hold of one of the kittens and pulled it out.
The kitten was black and white, and he could see it was a little boy. "'Sup, kitty?" he muttered, and petted it gently. It couldn't be more than three or four weeks old, but still it struggled a little in his arms. "I'm not dangerous," he told it, but the kitten didn't speak English. Disappointed, he returned it to its mother; he had always wanted a pet, and a kitten would be perfect. But his uncle didn't like animals, so that would never happen.
Resigned, he stood up to walk away when he saw something on the ground. It looked like a rather large matchbox, but there was no sign on top of it –just dull brown. He picked it up and shook it, but there was no sound. He shook it again, harder this time, and even though there was no sound he could almost feel something inside it. Opening it, he saw a black spider curled up. Maybe it was dead; it certainly looked that way. Then it moved one of its many legs, carefully and slow, like it was sniffing the air to find out whether or not the coast was clear.
He pushed it close again. Perhaps the thieves had dropped this one spider? Should he return it to the Evil Proprietor?
No. He had found it, so it was his spider now –finders keepers. Surely Edgar wouldn't mind a teeny spider; it could live inside the matchbox and he could catch flies for it to eat. He stuffed the matchbox inside his pocket, and walked back to Jack with the receipt he had got at the brewery.
With an eager face he showed the contents of the box to Jack. The barman frowned slightly, picked out a little glass jar from behind the bar and carefully tipped the spider into it to take a closer look.
"No, doesn't look like the average Alley spider," he muttered with a frown as he held the jar up against the light by the window. He turned to Dung with a serious mien. "See that marking on its belly? Like an hourglass? That hourglass means that it might be poisonous. They're used as potion ingredients, if I recall correctly, that never was my favourite subject..."
He screwed the lid back on the jar, and made a few breathing holes in the lid with his pocketknife. Jack took a hold of Dung's hand as the boy reached out to grab it. "Promise me you'll return it. And you'll do it right now, otherwise I won't let you have it." He gave Dung a stern stare.
"All right," Dung muttered unwillingly, keeping his eyes on the floor.
I'll never have a pet, he thought sulkily. He kept the jar half hidden in his arms as he slowly walked back to the spider shop. It looked awfully dark inside, though. Hesitantly he knocked at the door, and waited while listening for the spider man's shuffling footsteps inside. After five minutes passed without hearing anything he knocked once more, more firmly this time, before realising that the proprietor was not inside. He would have opened the door by now if he were.
Dung scratched his head as he gazed up at the empty dark window on the first floor. What should he do? He couldn't leave the tiny creature out here on the steps –it was autumn and the nights grew colder with each passing day. It would freeze to death. It was already evening and the fog was coming sneaking into the Alley, encapsulating everything and everyone in its cold and wet grasp.
He closed his eyes to the fact that the spider already had survived for more than a week.
Without haste he walked up to the flat he shared with uncle Edgar, telling himself he would return it first thing tomorrow morning. He could hear his uncle talking through the kitchen door, and swore quietly. Why couldn't he have been out, or in bed?
He opened the door and went inside, and found his uncle alone by the table. Edgar was pressing a wet piece of cloth to his left eye, and his lower lip was a bloody mess. "What 'appened to you?" Dung asked horrified. His uncle wasn't exactly a popular man, but he rarely got into fistfights, and it was a long time since Dung had seen him in this miserable state.
It didn't seem like Edgar had noticed him, though. He kept on ranting into the cloth. "I just told 'im what everybody knew anyway, what's the point in taking it out on me? 'E should be taking it out on that bloody slut! Closing the door in my face like that. Thinks she's too good, eh? Thinks she's a fine Lady? Poor Edgar. Just the messenger."
The man was so drunk it was hard to understand what he was saying. Dung walked closer and put his hand on his uncle's arm. "'Sup, uncle?"
Edgar lowered the cloth and looked at the boy with a horrible, bloody face. "What you've got there?" he asked with a rough voice.
Dung realised that this was not a good moment to introduce Edgar to a new eight-legged member of the family, so he tried to hide the jar behind his back, something that only increased the grown man's anger.
"Show me!"
Hesitantly Dung took a step back, and showed Edgar the jar. "I know you don't like cats and dogs, but I thought perhaps... You know, no 'airs lying 'round, and it's quiet..."
Edgar stared at Dung as if he had gone mad. "A spider! Lost your marbles, 'ave ya?"
"I'll catch flies for it to eat..."
"Flies?" Edgar threw his head back and roared with laughter, something that seemed to cause him pain. With a whimper he returned his gaze to the boy. "If I see that...thing again I swear I'll squash it to jelly. Now get OUT!"
Dung ran down the narrow stairway with angry tears in his eyes. It was dark outside, and the fog came seeping down the Alley. In one of the flats on the ground floor he could hear a couple arguing.
Dung didn't like it here when it got dark. It was all right in the daylight when all the Alley's inhabitants were outside, it was filled with life then, and the safety of numbers. But at night the parents locked the doors and counted their children, because that was when the strangers came out. People who would hurt you, just because they liked it. Mean, they were, and they didn't care if you were five or fifty. Dung didn't know where they lived or who they were, but they came with the fog at night. In his head they were connected, and when the thick white fog slowly and silently rolled down the Alley it was almost as if he could hear their footsteps as well. He always made sure he was somewhere safe by that time.
With fast feet he ran into the warm pub across the alleyway. It was crowded, and he got a glimpse of Jack in the other end of the bar. He pressed the jar close to his chest. He had sworn to Jack, and he would keep his oath. Jack trusted him, and that was important for Dung. He just had to wait a few more hours. That was all.
He slipped behind the counter and ascended the stairs. He had to hide the jar until tomorrow, somewhere Jack wouldn't find it; one of the spare rooms would be fine. Jack sometimes let people stay up here if they got too drunk to walk home, but no one had used it for weeks. Firmly he closed the door after him, and sat down on the bed.
Startled, he saw that the spider looked dead. Perhaps the lid was too tight? The breathing holes were awfully small; maybe it had suffocated? Anxiously he unscrewed it, and shook the jar carefully. He sighed in relief when it stretched out one of its legs.
"'Ungry, eh?" He went over to the window, where a fly was busy trying to force its way through the glass. He squashed it unsentimentally with his thumb, and brought it back to his new friend. He sat the jar on the bed, and knelt down beside it with his feet on the floor. But, no, it wasn't hungry. "Perhaps you're sleepy," he muttered and yawned. "I know I am."
He put the lid back on, but didn't screw it shut. Then he sat the jar near the footboard of the bed, leaning against the wall. "Now you stay 'ere. I'll come and get ya in the morning, 'kay?"
Downstairs, a drunken witch grabbed a hold of him, and showed him up to the other guests sitting by her table. "Dung, darling, won't you sing for me? Look at this boy, isn't he a darling? Sing for me, you know what I like. I'll buy you a Butterbeer if you will."
How can an eight-year-old resist the offer of a Butterbeer? Dung certainly couldn't, so he started to sing an old song his mother had taught him. He hardly remembered her, but he remembered the song; a sad song of lost love. It was Welsh, the witch had told him once; so was she, and she always asked him to sing it. Each time she started to cry, and got him a Butterbeer afterwards.
He dozed off with the bottle in his hand. After an hour Jack woke him up, and followed him across the alleyway to the stairs up to his flat. Edgar had gone to bed. Dung tossed the bloodstained cloth off the turn-up bedstead, and soon he slept like the child he was.
****
"Who do you believe? Your own wife, or that drunkard upstairs?" She was crying now, but he barely noticed her tears.
"Why is Queenie blond?" he snapped back, his eyes wild. He wanted to slap her, but something held him back; he had never been a wife-basher, and had no intention to start. Not even now, when he had been betrayed so deeply that he wanted to tear his heart out and throw it in her face. "I love that girl! And now this!"
"Mark was blond when he was eight," she sobbed.
Two children stood in the doorway and watched them. The older girl held her arms around the little boy, who was crying silently.
John Smith shook his head. "I can't stand it. I can't stand looking at ya." With those words he opened the door into the hall, and closed it with a loud bang.
He walked over to the pub, and sat down by the bar. He had a Sickle in his pocket, and gave it to Jack who had emerged in front of him. "Gimme a bottle of firewhisky," he muttered to him.
Jack raised his eyebrows. "You don't drink whisky," he said, surprised.
"I do now."
The bottle stood before him and he drank, hard and fast, trying to block out the maelstrom of thoughts and feelings that threatened to drown him. People left him alone; he didn't know whether he was thankful or resentful because of it.
His little baby daughter had always been special to him. Of course he loved Mark, Tim and Geoff as well, but there was something special about her. Fragile and tough at the same time. He loved how she would sit on his lap and sing songs to him when he was sad, silly little songs she made up herself. How she would come to him, dragging the neighbourhood kittens with her to show him.
He could not bear the thought of leaving them. Whether they were his children or not, he loved them, plain and simple. He had to come to some sort of agreement with Maude. But not now, he would not let her see him crying and weak.
"You can talk to me about it, you know." Jack's voice. He looked up to see the barman standing in front of him, drying a few wineglasses, and putting them down in their place behind the counter. "That's what I'm here for."
John wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his cloak, and quietly shook his head. "Not now, tomorrow, perhaps. Listen, I need a place to stay, just for tonight. Could I sleep 'ere, on a bench or some'at?"
"Got a few rooms upstairs, if you need one."
"Thanks."
Jack followed him upstairs, and opened the door to the room. "It's not much, but it's better than a bench anyway. Lumos."
John sat down on the bed. "It's fine. Can I ask you a favour? I've gotta get to work tomorrow morning..."
"I wake up early. I'll knock on the door."
Then John was alone. Silently he sat, staring out into the darkness of the room. The dark didn't bother him, it never had. He would go back tomorrow, after work, and try to talk to her. The alcohol had calmed him, and he pulled off his cloak. He stretched out his long body on the bed, and pulled the blanket over him. He felt slightly nauseated and his head had started to ache.
Slowly he dozed off, unused as he was to the charms of Madam Ogden. Half asleep, he turned around in bed to find his ordinary position of sleep when he felt a sting on his stomach, like a pinprick. "You've got bed bugs, Jack," he muttered.
A few hours later he woke up from the cramps in his back. The pain was excruciating, and he sweated so much the sheets were wet. He had problems breathing, and gulped in air like a fish on shore.
Oh Merlin! He had forgot his potion.
John had a weak heart, and ever since he was a boy he had had to take a spoonful each night of that vile potion the Healers kept feeding him. But the vial stood in the kitchen of his home, just a few yards away. It could just as well have been on the other side of town; John was in no position to go wandering about. He struggled to breathe, and his attempts to call out only resulted in harsh little moans.
The cramps in his back had spread to his legs. He did not understand; a heart attack wouldn't give him leg cramps, would it?
Merlin, I don't wanna die!
He threw up on the floor beside the bed, his whole body was shaking and the sweat ran down into his eyes, blinded him. His head hurt so much he started crying.
I don't wanna leave my children.
He saw Queenie's face before him, her eyes serious and contemplating. She stretched out her hand to him, like she wanted to stroke his cheek. Her mouth did not move, but he could hear her voice inside his head. "Are you leaving now?" she was asking.
He wanted to touch her, but his hands wouldn't work anymore. I don't want to, baby, he thought. I love you.
"I know," the child answered, and all he could see were those big brown eyes.
****
Dung woke up at noon. Edgar wasn't up yet, neither had he expected him to be. After putting on his clothes, he jumped down the stair and out into the alleyway. The pub was open, and he sneaked inside. Jack was busy talking with two strangers by one of the tables, his face grave and tired. Silently Dung walked up to the first floor, and found the door to the spare room open. The empty jar stood on a chair by the little window.
Dung froze. Had Jack discovered the spider? But it was probably just Mrs. Walker, the cleaning witch, or at least he hoped so. But where was the spider?
He grabbed the jar, and started looking for it. After half an hour of desperate search he found it, spinning a web under the bed.
"There ya are," he sighed. "Come on, let's leave."
The spider had no desire to be captured again, but had to surrender when he tipped her into the jar with a nail he had in his pocket. The lid he found under the bed. Carefully he walked down the stairs again, and scurried out while Jack wasn't watching.
Once more he stood outside the spider shop. It was still closed, and no one answered when he knocked on the back door. He was getting tired of this.
On the way out of the backyard he met a tall impressive man, with robes that revealed the fact that this was a man of wealth. Dung did what the children of the Alley always did when such a person walked by; he stuck out his hand.
"Could ya spare a Knut, Sir?"
The man eyed him with badly hidden contempt. He waved his walking stick at the spider shop. "Tell me, boy, is this shop closed permanently?"
Dung shrugged, and looked closer at the stick. It was very beautiful, with a handle shaped like a snake's head. "Don't know, Sir. Wouldn't mind talking to the spider man myself. I found this."
The man looked closer at the spider in the jar. "She's beautiful," he muttered.
Dung looked bewildered. "She? It's a girl? 'Ow can you tell?"
The man gave him a scornful glare, and took out a purse. "I'll give you a Gallon for it," he said, and reached out one big gold coin to the boy. Dung silently accepted the coin, and gave the man the jar. He'd never had that much money between his fingers before.
The man turned around and left.
What does one do with so much money?
Butterbeer! He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, out into Diagon Alley and down to the Leaky Cauldron. There he bought six bottles of Butterbeer, and sat down beside the Owl Emporium and drank while he watched the people. Sometimes he burped loudly, to the entertainment of the passers by.
An hour later he walked back into the Alley, his belly filled to bursting. The coins in his pocket jingled merrily as he moved. So this was what it felt like to be a man of wealth. It felt good.
Queenie was sitting outside on the stairs, yawning openly. She looked sad, Dung noticed, and he sat down beside her. "'Sup, Queenie?"
She turned her head up to him; she had been crying. "My father died," she said quietly.
"No? When?"
"Last night."
They sat in silence for a while. He didn't really want more Butterbeer, so he let her have the last bottle. She accepted it with a little 'thanks'.
"You know, 'e was a nice man, your dad. I remember 'im buying sweets for us when Geoff was born."
"Yeah." She seemed to be thinking hard. "'E came to me."
"What?"
"'E came to me, in my thoughts. I was up all night, crying, 'cause I knew 'e was gone."
"Like a ghost, you mean?"
She shook her head. "No, it wasn't like that."
Queenie started crying again, and Dung awkwardly put his arm around her shoulder. On the other side of the alleyway Jack looked at them. Then he shook his head and went back inside.