Disclaimer: HP is the property of JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic
Books and Warner Brothers. I own nothing, and make no money from this.
Thanks to Scarlet and Pandora for betaing.
The house Jack built
Chapter six. Lydia
They called her crazy. They did not know better, the poor children. She would speak to them, and they would shy away like frightened birds. They did not know she had been placed there to look after them, to be the shepherd that led them through this mortal coil that was life.
Sometimes she would give them money; not much, a couple of Knuts, she couldn't afford more than that. But they would listen then, if not for more than a few minutes, and perhaps -just maybe- some of her words reached one or two of them.
They were only little children. But their eyes were wary, and they had seen many things that should have been kept hidden from them. They fought, they stole, and they did not respect their elders. Some of them were beaten and neglected, and none of them knew God.
'Blessed are those whose hearts are pure, for they shall see God.' She cried for them sometimes, were their hearts pure? Or had the evil they had witnessed tainted their souls, closed their hearts for that which was good? She could not believe that.
She had first stepped into the Alley ten years ago, an unknown territory for a middle-aged Muggle woman who's only experience of the wizarding world had been short trips into Diagon Alley to buy the schoolbooks for her Muggleborn son. It had been like walking into a novel by Charles Dickens, and the place had filled her with great sadness. Not only because the loss of her son, but because of the empty small hands that had been stretched out to her, begging for a spare Knut.
Had God forsaken these people? No, he had given her life a meaning. 'I have shown you in every way by labouring like this, that you must support the weak. And remembering the words of the Lord Jesus, that he said, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.'
She was alone then, so she sold her house in Devon and moved into the Alley. She had given up everything she knew, her church, her Muggle clothes, her china and her lifestyle. The people had been sceptic towards her for a long time, before accepting her as they would the stray mongrel. But when she spoke from the Scripture, they lowered their heads and would not listen.
She despaired in those moments, asked herself and God if she had made the right decision. But then God would speak to her, giving her the strength she needed to carry on.
After five lonely years a young woman had knocked on her door. She had stood outside in the rain with a small child on her arm, not speaking a word. But Lydia had seen it in the young mother's eyes, and she had held her door open for her. The woman had wept in Lydia's arms while the little one slept in the spare bed in the guestroom. They had no place to live, so Lydia took her in. Once again her small flat was filled with the sounds of laughing children, and Lydia felt something close to happiness. The emptiness had been overwhelming when they left.
For five more years she had preached before a man stood on her doorstep, seeking shelter. She had spoken with him before, so he was no stranger to her. He had always been kind and treated her with great respect, one of the few who had listened to her words. Though he had admitted with regret in his voice that he did not believe.
"The words are beautiful," he had said to her then, looking slightly embarrassed. He had a cultivated voice, giving away the fact that he was from a privileged family. "There's something inside me that wants to, but the things I see outside my door tells me it's only a dream. Nothing wrong about dreams, but dreams is for the contented people, those who have time to nurture them. The people in the Alley have no place for God, Lydia."
She had not agreed with him, and she had continued her mission.
Now he stood by her doorstep. She had not seen him for almost two months, and no one had been able to explain why. The landlord had sold his possessions to cover for the rent, and one of his employees had moved into Ray's old rooms. The rumours had been few; the boy had only lived in the Alley for six months and did not have many acquaintances, and even fewer that cared enough to ask. The most favoured rumour had been his arrest for the murder of Angie Flint.
He was very young, barely a child, she thought. But his eyes were empty, lifeless holes in his skull. What he had been through she had no idea, but she let him in. Like a sleepwalker he had made his way into her living room, and she had followed him. The Smith's daughter Queenie had been visiting her, and the girl looked at the newcomer with big eyes.
"Perhaps it's time you went home, Queenie dear," Lydia said quietly.
The girl stood up, and Lydia walked her to the door. Back in her living room she took a closer look at the young man sitting in the chair by the fireplace, staring at a spot on the wall while he rubbed his cheek with his right hand.
"How are you, Rayner?" she asked softly.
"I'm so tired," he whispered, not taking his eyes off the wall.
Quietly she stood up and made the bed for him in her guestroom, then she carefully helped him off with the cloak, and led him inside. With clumsy movements he sat down on the bed, looking at her questioningly with those sore eyes of his. She picked up a sleeping potion from the shelf in the bathroom, and poured him a solid dose. He did not complain when she gave it to him. When he lay down, she had stretched out next to him, holding her arm around him.
And shame to those who thought sinful thoughts about it.
****
He slept for two days. He woke up to use the toilet, and sometimes she managed to get him to eat a little, a bottle of soup or some bread.
On the third day he came out in the living room, and sat down in the chair beside the fire. She was knitting a warm sweater for Queenie, and looked up at him when he entered the room.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Better," he muttered. His husky voice sounded strangely alien in the little room. He didn't look much better, though, he still had that haunted look on his face and he was skinnier than ever. He stared into the fire for a long time, before he turned to her with eyes dark from worrying. His mouth opened, but it was like he had to force the words out.
"I...I want to thank you. For letting me stay." He stopped there, and seemed to ponder what he was going to say. "I know I've been an inconvenience for you, and you did it anyway."
"Where have you been all this time, Rayner?" she asked, and gave words to the question that had troubled her so long. She steeled herself for the answer, but it was not what she had expected.
"St. Mungo's. Detox. Yes, I'm clean now." He gave her a smile that did not reach his eyes, and then returned his gaze to the fire. "They let me out two weeks ago."
"But that's wonderful news!" She beamed at him, and put her knitting aside. "That's a cause for celebration, that is. I think I'll make a cake later." She winked at him. "Where have you been since, then? Not to pry, of course! You don't have to tell me."
"No, it's all right. I roamed the streets of Muggle London, just...walked, with no place to go. And I saw things, Lydia, it was no better than the Alley." He shuddered as he spoke. "Like every kindness had to be paid for. For a time I thought Muggles were like you. And everywhere I went I kept seeing her face." He paused.
"Angie?"
"I stopped by the Hit-wizards, you know. They haven't caught the man who did that to her. And I promised myself that I'd come back, to find him." He looked at her, pleading for understanding.
Her brows furrowed. "Vengeance is mine, says the Lord," she recited.
There was a flash of something in his eyes, but then his face shut down to a cold mask and he turned away from her. "I didn't expect you to understand, how can you. I'll grab my cloak and get out of your way."
He stood up from his chair, but she rose and grabbed his arm. "You are in no condition to go anywhere," she said firmly. "And don't think I don't understand, I've lost my son, remember? I told you that. But I didn't give in to the hate, Rayner, because that would have given me nothing but grief." She let go of his arm. "You are welcome to stay as long as you wish. I want you to stay."
He opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again. He looked exhausted, and turned back to his room. "I think I'll lie down for a while," he muttered.
****
She found it impossible to sleep that night. She tossed and turned in her bed, trying to chase away the memories in her head. This spring it had been ten years since her Robert died, he would have turned thirty in June. Had it been her fault? Had she driven him away?
'She brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling cloths.'
Everything she had done she had done out of love, but sometimes love just isn't enough. They had drifted apart, so slowly that she hadn't been able to tell when it had happened. After he had started Hogwarts, that's for sure. He had loved school, every second of it. But she had hated it, fiercely, for taking her son away from her.
Then she had tried to take him out of school after his third year, when he came home for the summer holiday. When he found out he had screamed awful things at her, he had even hit her, his own mother. Since then they had been like strangers. They had been polite to each other, but the closeness between them was gone. As an adult, it had been her responsibility to make the first step, but she had never taken it. And then he was gone, and it had been too late.
'Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven- for she loved much.'
But the Scripture offered her little consolation this night.
****
Every day she would speak to him, telling him the words of her Lord. How love prevailed, if only he would let it. He rarely responded to her preaching, just stared into the fire or made vague sounds. But when she mentioned Angie in Heaven he had snorted in badly hidden antipathy.
"You didn't know her," he cut her off. "She was one tough cookie, Angie. Sitting meekly on a fluffy cloud..." His voice trailed off.
"She would not have wanted you to ruin your own life, Ray," Lydia said tiredly.
He looked out the tiny window; the snowflakes fell gently and clearly visible against the background of the grey building across the alley. "I have been thinking," he said slowly. "And this is my conclusion; there is nothing." He turned to her. "Nothing. When you die, you are gone, and that's the end. The void is just that, a void. And it doesn't really matter what I do, whether I leave the Alley and never come back or whether I do as I have planned. I'm not going to do this for her, Lydia. I'm doing it for myself."
He took a sip of his tea. "I hear her sometimes, in my head. I'm not stupid, I know it isn't her, it's just my mind playing tricks on me. But I have to do this to get her out of my head. You see; I've always been a coward. Sometimes it's just easier to run away, and I've been running all my life." He walked over to the window and looked out on the freshly fallen snow.
"She hated the cold," he muttered. "It could never get warm enough for her. Sometimes she would curl up to the fire so close I was afraid she'd get burned. And I guess that's exactly what happened." He cleared his throat, and continued. "Your book says that those who die without believing in Him will perish. There's no place for Angie in Heaven, nor for me."
"'In my father's house are many mansions.'" Lydia's voice was soft, but he recoiled from her words as if she had hit him.
He stared at her, and his face was no longer friendly. "Please, don't give me that. I told you a long time ago that the people in the Alley had no place for God. I cannot speak for everyone else, but I can speak for myself. I have no place for God, Lydia. I do not want him, do you understand?"
He calmed down, and dropped his gaze to the floor. "I thank you for the kindness you have shown me. But I think it's time for me to take my leave. If I have hurt you I am sorry, that was never my intention."
"But, Rayner, where will you go?"
"I don't know."
Without any more words he took his cloak from the stand by the door, and left. She stood up from her chair and followed him, but didn't try to stop him.
"You are welcome back if you need it," she said quietly as he walked through the door.
He did not respond, and she stood and watched him as he walked down to the pub. Halfway down the alley he slipped on the icy surface, but managed to stay on his feet. Then he disappeared through the door of the Wand and the Bull. She closed her eyes then, struggling to keep the tears back. The snowflakes fell down and melted on the arms she had crossed over her chest, but she barely noticed.
Then she heard a little voice. "Are you sad, Lydia?"
She opened her eyes again and saw Queenie standing in front of her, with a runny nose and a concerned expression on her face. She smiled to the child. "No, I'm all right," she mumbled. "You wanna come in?"
Queenie came inside, and sat by the table in the living room. Lydia found paper and crayons for her, and the girl made a drawing Lydia hung up on the wall in the small kitchen. A nice drawing of a witch and a wizard and four children, standing outside a cottage in a garden filled with flowers. Lydia had to swallow when she saw it. Two of the children were big boys with dark hair, the third a girl with long blonde hair holding her arms around a little boy.
'Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me; for such is the kingdom of Heaven.'
The house Jack built
Chapter six. Lydia
They called her crazy. They did not know better, the poor children. She would speak to them, and they would shy away like frightened birds. They did not know she had been placed there to look after them, to be the shepherd that led them through this mortal coil that was life.
Sometimes she would give them money; not much, a couple of Knuts, she couldn't afford more than that. But they would listen then, if not for more than a few minutes, and perhaps -just maybe- some of her words reached one or two of them.
They were only little children. But their eyes were wary, and they had seen many things that should have been kept hidden from them. They fought, they stole, and they did not respect their elders. Some of them were beaten and neglected, and none of them knew God.
'Blessed are those whose hearts are pure, for they shall see God.' She cried for them sometimes, were their hearts pure? Or had the evil they had witnessed tainted their souls, closed their hearts for that which was good? She could not believe that.
She had first stepped into the Alley ten years ago, an unknown territory for a middle-aged Muggle woman who's only experience of the wizarding world had been short trips into Diagon Alley to buy the schoolbooks for her Muggleborn son. It had been like walking into a novel by Charles Dickens, and the place had filled her with great sadness. Not only because the loss of her son, but because of the empty small hands that had been stretched out to her, begging for a spare Knut.
Had God forsaken these people? No, he had given her life a meaning. 'I have shown you in every way by labouring like this, that you must support the weak. And remembering the words of the Lord Jesus, that he said, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.'
She was alone then, so she sold her house in Devon and moved into the Alley. She had given up everything she knew, her church, her Muggle clothes, her china and her lifestyle. The people had been sceptic towards her for a long time, before accepting her as they would the stray mongrel. But when she spoke from the Scripture, they lowered their heads and would not listen.
She despaired in those moments, asked herself and God if she had made the right decision. But then God would speak to her, giving her the strength she needed to carry on.
After five lonely years a young woman had knocked on her door. She had stood outside in the rain with a small child on her arm, not speaking a word. But Lydia had seen it in the young mother's eyes, and she had held her door open for her. The woman had wept in Lydia's arms while the little one slept in the spare bed in the guestroom. They had no place to live, so Lydia took her in. Once again her small flat was filled with the sounds of laughing children, and Lydia felt something close to happiness. The emptiness had been overwhelming when they left.
For five more years she had preached before a man stood on her doorstep, seeking shelter. She had spoken with him before, so he was no stranger to her. He had always been kind and treated her with great respect, one of the few who had listened to her words. Though he had admitted with regret in his voice that he did not believe.
"The words are beautiful," he had said to her then, looking slightly embarrassed. He had a cultivated voice, giving away the fact that he was from a privileged family. "There's something inside me that wants to, but the things I see outside my door tells me it's only a dream. Nothing wrong about dreams, but dreams is for the contented people, those who have time to nurture them. The people in the Alley have no place for God, Lydia."
She had not agreed with him, and she had continued her mission.
Now he stood by her doorstep. She had not seen him for almost two months, and no one had been able to explain why. The landlord had sold his possessions to cover for the rent, and one of his employees had moved into Ray's old rooms. The rumours had been few; the boy had only lived in the Alley for six months and did not have many acquaintances, and even fewer that cared enough to ask. The most favoured rumour had been his arrest for the murder of Angie Flint.
He was very young, barely a child, she thought. But his eyes were empty, lifeless holes in his skull. What he had been through she had no idea, but she let him in. Like a sleepwalker he had made his way into her living room, and she had followed him. The Smith's daughter Queenie had been visiting her, and the girl looked at the newcomer with big eyes.
"Perhaps it's time you went home, Queenie dear," Lydia said quietly.
The girl stood up, and Lydia walked her to the door. Back in her living room she took a closer look at the young man sitting in the chair by the fireplace, staring at a spot on the wall while he rubbed his cheek with his right hand.
"How are you, Rayner?" she asked softly.
"I'm so tired," he whispered, not taking his eyes off the wall.
Quietly she stood up and made the bed for him in her guestroom, then she carefully helped him off with the cloak, and led him inside. With clumsy movements he sat down on the bed, looking at her questioningly with those sore eyes of his. She picked up a sleeping potion from the shelf in the bathroom, and poured him a solid dose. He did not complain when she gave it to him. When he lay down, she had stretched out next to him, holding her arm around him.
And shame to those who thought sinful thoughts about it.
****
He slept for two days. He woke up to use the toilet, and sometimes she managed to get him to eat a little, a bottle of soup or some bread.
On the third day he came out in the living room, and sat down in the chair beside the fire. She was knitting a warm sweater for Queenie, and looked up at him when he entered the room.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Better," he muttered. His husky voice sounded strangely alien in the little room. He didn't look much better, though, he still had that haunted look on his face and he was skinnier than ever. He stared into the fire for a long time, before he turned to her with eyes dark from worrying. His mouth opened, but it was like he had to force the words out.
"I...I want to thank you. For letting me stay." He stopped there, and seemed to ponder what he was going to say. "I know I've been an inconvenience for you, and you did it anyway."
"Where have you been all this time, Rayner?" she asked, and gave words to the question that had troubled her so long. She steeled herself for the answer, but it was not what she had expected.
"St. Mungo's. Detox. Yes, I'm clean now." He gave her a smile that did not reach his eyes, and then returned his gaze to the fire. "They let me out two weeks ago."
"But that's wonderful news!" She beamed at him, and put her knitting aside. "That's a cause for celebration, that is. I think I'll make a cake later." She winked at him. "Where have you been since, then? Not to pry, of course! You don't have to tell me."
"No, it's all right. I roamed the streets of Muggle London, just...walked, with no place to go. And I saw things, Lydia, it was no better than the Alley." He shuddered as he spoke. "Like every kindness had to be paid for. For a time I thought Muggles were like you. And everywhere I went I kept seeing her face." He paused.
"Angie?"
"I stopped by the Hit-wizards, you know. They haven't caught the man who did that to her. And I promised myself that I'd come back, to find him." He looked at her, pleading for understanding.
Her brows furrowed. "Vengeance is mine, says the Lord," she recited.
There was a flash of something in his eyes, but then his face shut down to a cold mask and he turned away from her. "I didn't expect you to understand, how can you. I'll grab my cloak and get out of your way."
He stood up from his chair, but she rose and grabbed his arm. "You are in no condition to go anywhere," she said firmly. "And don't think I don't understand, I've lost my son, remember? I told you that. But I didn't give in to the hate, Rayner, because that would have given me nothing but grief." She let go of his arm. "You are welcome to stay as long as you wish. I want you to stay."
He opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again. He looked exhausted, and turned back to his room. "I think I'll lie down for a while," he muttered.
****
She found it impossible to sleep that night. She tossed and turned in her bed, trying to chase away the memories in her head. This spring it had been ten years since her Robert died, he would have turned thirty in June. Had it been her fault? Had she driven him away?
'She brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling cloths.'
Everything she had done she had done out of love, but sometimes love just isn't enough. They had drifted apart, so slowly that she hadn't been able to tell when it had happened. After he had started Hogwarts, that's for sure. He had loved school, every second of it. But she had hated it, fiercely, for taking her son away from her.
Then she had tried to take him out of school after his third year, when he came home for the summer holiday. When he found out he had screamed awful things at her, he had even hit her, his own mother. Since then they had been like strangers. They had been polite to each other, but the closeness between them was gone. As an adult, it had been her responsibility to make the first step, but she had never taken it. And then he was gone, and it had been too late.
'Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven- for she loved much.'
But the Scripture offered her little consolation this night.
****
Every day she would speak to him, telling him the words of her Lord. How love prevailed, if only he would let it. He rarely responded to her preaching, just stared into the fire or made vague sounds. But when she mentioned Angie in Heaven he had snorted in badly hidden antipathy.
"You didn't know her," he cut her off. "She was one tough cookie, Angie. Sitting meekly on a fluffy cloud..." His voice trailed off.
"She would not have wanted you to ruin your own life, Ray," Lydia said tiredly.
He looked out the tiny window; the snowflakes fell gently and clearly visible against the background of the grey building across the alley. "I have been thinking," he said slowly. "And this is my conclusion; there is nothing." He turned to her. "Nothing. When you die, you are gone, and that's the end. The void is just that, a void. And it doesn't really matter what I do, whether I leave the Alley and never come back or whether I do as I have planned. I'm not going to do this for her, Lydia. I'm doing it for myself."
He took a sip of his tea. "I hear her sometimes, in my head. I'm not stupid, I know it isn't her, it's just my mind playing tricks on me. But I have to do this to get her out of my head. You see; I've always been a coward. Sometimes it's just easier to run away, and I've been running all my life." He walked over to the window and looked out on the freshly fallen snow.
"She hated the cold," he muttered. "It could never get warm enough for her. Sometimes she would curl up to the fire so close I was afraid she'd get burned. And I guess that's exactly what happened." He cleared his throat, and continued. "Your book says that those who die without believing in Him will perish. There's no place for Angie in Heaven, nor for me."
"'In my father's house are many mansions.'" Lydia's voice was soft, but he recoiled from her words as if she had hit him.
He stared at her, and his face was no longer friendly. "Please, don't give me that. I told you a long time ago that the people in the Alley had no place for God. I cannot speak for everyone else, but I can speak for myself. I have no place for God, Lydia. I do not want him, do you understand?"
He calmed down, and dropped his gaze to the floor. "I thank you for the kindness you have shown me. But I think it's time for me to take my leave. If I have hurt you I am sorry, that was never my intention."
"But, Rayner, where will you go?"
"I don't know."
Without any more words he took his cloak from the stand by the door, and left. She stood up from her chair and followed him, but didn't try to stop him.
"You are welcome back if you need it," she said quietly as he walked through the door.
He did not respond, and she stood and watched him as he walked down to the pub. Halfway down the alley he slipped on the icy surface, but managed to stay on his feet. Then he disappeared through the door of the Wand and the Bull. She closed her eyes then, struggling to keep the tears back. The snowflakes fell down and melted on the arms she had crossed over her chest, but she barely noticed.
Then she heard a little voice. "Are you sad, Lydia?"
She opened her eyes again and saw Queenie standing in front of her, with a runny nose and a concerned expression on her face. She smiled to the child. "No, I'm all right," she mumbled. "You wanna come in?"
Queenie came inside, and sat by the table in the living room. Lydia found paper and crayons for her, and the girl made a drawing Lydia hung up on the wall in the small kitchen. A nice drawing of a witch and a wizard and four children, standing outside a cottage in a garden filled with flowers. Lydia had to swallow when she saw it. Two of the children were big boys with dark hair, the third a girl with long blonde hair holding her arms around a little boy.
'Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me; for such is the kingdom of Heaven.'