Silver Blood
Two: The Homecoming
Summary: Devoid of a memory on how she died, someone came back from the dead to find out – only to find that she didn't die at all. Now she discovers that the love of her life is dead, her friends' lives are in danger, and her worst fears came true.
In this chapter, Dorcas comes back to the home she once knew... finding out how much she lost after fifteen years. In the end, however, it seems she gained something after all. LOL.
Disclaimer: Alas, the characters are not in my possession; they belong to J.K Rowling and an assortment of publishers.
Author's Notes: CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur, thank you very much.
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She passed under the wrought-iron archway and walked barefoot on the London sidewalks, hoping to find what she's looking for. Walking in the dark, not knowing which way to go, she put her instincts on the case. Without a wand, she couldn't exactly call the Knight Bus. She had no Muggle money to use so she could go to the London Underground. With a tattered gown she wore on her deathbed, she's not exactly fit to hitchhike.
"One thing I hate about being a witch," she muttered, "is the fact that I'm useless without my wand. It's not like I could disappear and – that's it!"
Concentrating hard on what she wasn't able to do for more than a decade, she tried to disapparate. She screwed up her eyes in a strained expression, struggling to remember what to do, where to go, and how she was going to get there. A faint pop and a second later, she opened her eyes and grinned triumphantly. She was standing on the grimy porch of a small house; most of its paint was peeling off the door, all of the windows were filthy and some were broken, the walls were shabby and scratched, and the lawn surrounding it was full of weeds and unkempt. Nevertheless, a small grin remained plastered in her face as she turned the silver doorknob and pushed the creaking door open and stepped inside.
As she closed the door behind her, a sudden thought made her lose her smile. Seeing that the house looked like it was unpopulated for years didn't bother her at first, but a thought made her realize that there was no one to come home to. Examining the dark drawing room, she noticed that the once-beautiful and welcoming couch was now moth-eaten like the curtains, the fireplace was boarded, the coffee table was broken in half, the carpet had holes, and most of the other furniture lay broken. Moving away from the awful sight, she moved to the kitchen only to find out that it looked almost exactly the same when she last saw it, except that it looked dirty and forgotten. She went back to the living room corridor and climbed up the stairs, through the first door on the right and sighed heavily.
She resignedly walked across the floor and sat on the four-poster bed. She wrapped her arms around her, wishing that she were buried in a dark coffin six feet under once more. "Where are you?" she moaned hopelessly with tears building up in her eyes. She shook her head, forcing back the tears. She felt a surge of anger. 'How could he leave the house like this? That callous asshole! He probably ran off with some trash he calls women after I died,' she thought angrily. Cursing her fate, Dorcas stood up and reached for the side table. She pulled the drawer open and saw her wand, a folded piece of paper, a dagger, and a small silver key. Curiously, she picked up the piece of paper and unfolded it. It wrote:
I daresay you can. If my calculations are accurate, its effect can last for at least two decades. Of course, it does not guard against the Unforgivable Curses. I bid you good luck, my friend. I will send it in a few days' time.
It made no sense whatsoever. So Dorcas put the letter back in the drawer along with the other items and headed for the wardrobe, which was full of cobwebs. She took off the threadbare gown and put on a pair of black pants and a black Muggle shirt and covered it with a long black cloak. There was something about the color that makes her calm, sometimes. She returned to the drawer, and pocketed everything in it: the letter, the key, dagger, and her wand.
Feeling the confidence she lost had come back, she came back to the living room, took out her wand and blasted the boarded fireplace. She picked a pouch containing glittering Floo powder from the floor, stepped into the fireplace, took a large pinch of Floo Powder and dropped it on the stone bricks beneath her. They exploded into emerald green flames.
"KNOCKTURN ALLEY!"
Dorcas' entire body spun around and around the dancing flames, passing through the blurred network of Wizarding fireplaces, and landing with her feet firmly on hard stone inside a dimly-lit shop with a stooping man on the counter.
"Good evening," she said casually.
"Do you need anything?" he asked in an oily voice. "It's a rather perplexing time for business..."
"Information," she replied. "Do you know anything about resurrecting the dead?"
"It's going to cost you," he leered.
"If the only thing I'm about to hear is about that old spell which needs the flesh, blood, and bone, I'm not interested."
"Well that's just too bad, ain't it?" he snapped.
"Yes I suppose it is," Dorcas said coolly, turning on her heels and heading for the exit. Another sudden thought made her stop dead on her tracks. "What year is it?"
"What, you been livin' under a rock?" he mocked. "1996, it is."
"So it is."
Dorcas wasn't exactly a neophyte when it came to handling people in Knockturn Alley. Her family, being one of the oldest Wizarding clans, introduced her to this place since she was a little girl. She even met 'him' here twenty-five years ago. Not that it matters. 'Not that he cares about it anymore,' she thought bitterly.
She worked her way out of the dodgy Knockturn Alley in no time. Now she was facing a hoary white building. She made her way up the white flight of steps and through shimmering bronze doors. She walked in and passed through another pair of doors – silver this time. Inside were a hundred or so goblins, working busily with their banking business.
"Good evening," Dorcas said casually yet again. "I'd like to make a withdrawal from vault seven hundred and ele – twelve." She handed him the silver key.
"Very well," said the goblin. "Ragnok!"
Ragnok, another goblin, stepped forward and led Dorcas to a narrow stone passageway. A small cart was already there, so she climbed in with Ragnok and plunged into the deep channel. The air became colder as they rattled over an underground ravine.
"Vault seven hundred and twelve," announced Ragnok.
Dorcas stepped out of the cart and stood beside Ragnok as he unlocked the door. Green smoke bulged out, revealing knolls of Galleons, heaps of Sickles, and mounds of Knuts. Dorcas grabbed some of each and left.
Outside Gringgots, she toured around Diagon Alley to see the differences and progress it has made. Only to discover that nothing much seemed to change at all – except for a shiny and inviting shop, The Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. She walked past the bustling people, taking glances around the shops as she went. She walked under a brick archway and landed in a shabby, grubby-looking pub. The Leaky Cauldron.
She walked to the bar and took a seat; the bartender Tom, who was old, bald and lost most of his teeth, peered at her from behind the bar. "Have we met?" he asked, his eyebrows forming a straight line, looking as if he was struggling hard to remember something.
"I don't think so," Dorcas lied, trying to sound as cool as she can. In fact, she did know Tom. Maybe he was even in her funeral. But this time, company was the least thing she wanted. She'd have a hard time explaining how she woke up from the dead, too. "Can I have a glass of firewhisky? Ill have it extra strong, if possible."
"Er – yes, of course."
Dorcas turned around and observed the place. She had a habit of doing that. There were only a few people in the Leaky Cauldron: three men sitting in a corner discussing something in hushed voices, a bald man like Tom, a blonde witch who looked vaguely familiar, and a man who looked like he was wearing rags patched together.
"Firewhisky, extra strong." Tom had returned. He placed the glass of firewhisky in front of Dorcas and turned around again.
"Hullo, love," said a voice behind her. Dorcas turned around; it was the man wearing a cloak that looked like rags. He had bloodshot eyes, ginger hair, and he smelled like burning socks. "Tad late for someone like ye ter be 'ere, eh?"
'Damn, this is going to be a looooong night', she thought.
____________________________________________
Don't forget to review!
Summary: Devoid of a memory on how she died, someone came back from the dead to find out – only to find that she didn't die at all. Now she discovers that the love of her life is dead, her friends' lives are in danger, and her worst fears came true.
In this chapter, Dorcas comes back to the home she once knew... finding out how much she lost after fifteen years. In the end, however, it seems she gained something after all. LOL.
Disclaimer: Alas, the characters are not in my possession; they belong to J.K Rowling and an assortment of publishers.
Author's Notes: CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur, thank you very much.
____________________________________________
She passed under the wrought-iron archway and walked barefoot on the London sidewalks, hoping to find what she's looking for. Walking in the dark, not knowing which way to go, she put her instincts on the case. Without a wand, she couldn't exactly call the Knight Bus. She had no Muggle money to use so she could go to the London Underground. With a tattered gown she wore on her deathbed, she's not exactly fit to hitchhike.
"One thing I hate about being a witch," she muttered, "is the fact that I'm useless without my wand. It's not like I could disappear and – that's it!"
Concentrating hard on what she wasn't able to do for more than a decade, she tried to disapparate. She screwed up her eyes in a strained expression, struggling to remember what to do, where to go, and how she was going to get there. A faint pop and a second later, she opened her eyes and grinned triumphantly. She was standing on the grimy porch of a small house; most of its paint was peeling off the door, all of the windows were filthy and some were broken, the walls were shabby and scratched, and the lawn surrounding it was full of weeds and unkempt. Nevertheless, a small grin remained plastered in her face as she turned the silver doorknob and pushed the creaking door open and stepped inside.
As she closed the door behind her, a sudden thought made her lose her smile. Seeing that the house looked like it was unpopulated for years didn't bother her at first, but a thought made her realize that there was no one to come home to. Examining the dark drawing room, she noticed that the once-beautiful and welcoming couch was now moth-eaten like the curtains, the fireplace was boarded, the coffee table was broken in half, the carpet had holes, and most of the other furniture lay broken. Moving away from the awful sight, she moved to the kitchen only to find out that it looked almost exactly the same when she last saw it, except that it looked dirty and forgotten. She went back to the living room corridor and climbed up the stairs, through the first door on the right and sighed heavily.
She resignedly walked across the floor and sat on the four-poster bed. She wrapped her arms around her, wishing that she were buried in a dark coffin six feet under once more. "Where are you?" she moaned hopelessly with tears building up in her eyes. She shook her head, forcing back the tears. She felt a surge of anger. 'How could he leave the house like this? That callous asshole! He probably ran off with some trash he calls women after I died,' she thought angrily. Cursing her fate, Dorcas stood up and reached for the side table. She pulled the drawer open and saw her wand, a folded piece of paper, a dagger, and a small silver key. Curiously, she picked up the piece of paper and unfolded it. It wrote:
I daresay you can. If my calculations are accurate, its effect can last for at least two decades. Of course, it does not guard against the Unforgivable Curses. I bid you good luck, my friend. I will send it in a few days' time.
It made no sense whatsoever. So Dorcas put the letter back in the drawer along with the other items and headed for the wardrobe, which was full of cobwebs. She took off the threadbare gown and put on a pair of black pants and a black Muggle shirt and covered it with a long black cloak. There was something about the color that makes her calm, sometimes. She returned to the drawer, and pocketed everything in it: the letter, the key, dagger, and her wand.
Feeling the confidence she lost had come back, she came back to the living room, took out her wand and blasted the boarded fireplace. She picked a pouch containing glittering Floo powder from the floor, stepped into the fireplace, took a large pinch of Floo Powder and dropped it on the stone bricks beneath her. They exploded into emerald green flames.
"KNOCKTURN ALLEY!"
Dorcas' entire body spun around and around the dancing flames, passing through the blurred network of Wizarding fireplaces, and landing with her feet firmly on hard stone inside a dimly-lit shop with a stooping man on the counter.
"Good evening," she said casually.
"Do you need anything?" he asked in an oily voice. "It's a rather perplexing time for business..."
"Information," she replied. "Do you know anything about resurrecting the dead?"
"It's going to cost you," he leered.
"If the only thing I'm about to hear is about that old spell which needs the flesh, blood, and bone, I'm not interested."
"Well that's just too bad, ain't it?" he snapped.
"Yes I suppose it is," Dorcas said coolly, turning on her heels and heading for the exit. Another sudden thought made her stop dead on her tracks. "What year is it?"
"What, you been livin' under a rock?" he mocked. "1996, it is."
"So it is."
Dorcas wasn't exactly a neophyte when it came to handling people in Knockturn Alley. Her family, being one of the oldest Wizarding clans, introduced her to this place since she was a little girl. She even met 'him' here twenty-five years ago. Not that it matters. 'Not that he cares about it anymore,' she thought bitterly.
She worked her way out of the dodgy Knockturn Alley in no time. Now she was facing a hoary white building. She made her way up the white flight of steps and through shimmering bronze doors. She walked in and passed through another pair of doors – silver this time. Inside were a hundred or so goblins, working busily with their banking business.
"Good evening," Dorcas said casually yet again. "I'd like to make a withdrawal from vault seven hundred and ele – twelve." She handed him the silver key.
"Very well," said the goblin. "Ragnok!"
Ragnok, another goblin, stepped forward and led Dorcas to a narrow stone passageway. A small cart was already there, so she climbed in with Ragnok and plunged into the deep channel. The air became colder as they rattled over an underground ravine.
"Vault seven hundred and twelve," announced Ragnok.
Dorcas stepped out of the cart and stood beside Ragnok as he unlocked the door. Green smoke bulged out, revealing knolls of Galleons, heaps of Sickles, and mounds of Knuts. Dorcas grabbed some of each and left.
Outside Gringgots, she toured around Diagon Alley to see the differences and progress it has made. Only to discover that nothing much seemed to change at all – except for a shiny and inviting shop, The Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. She walked past the bustling people, taking glances around the shops as she went. She walked under a brick archway and landed in a shabby, grubby-looking pub. The Leaky Cauldron.
She walked to the bar and took a seat; the bartender Tom, who was old, bald and lost most of his teeth, peered at her from behind the bar. "Have we met?" he asked, his eyebrows forming a straight line, looking as if he was struggling hard to remember something.
"I don't think so," Dorcas lied, trying to sound as cool as she can. In fact, she did know Tom. Maybe he was even in her funeral. But this time, company was the least thing she wanted. She'd have a hard time explaining how she woke up from the dead, too. "Can I have a glass of firewhisky? Ill have it extra strong, if possible."
"Er – yes, of course."
Dorcas turned around and observed the place. She had a habit of doing that. There were only a few people in the Leaky Cauldron: three men sitting in a corner discussing something in hushed voices, a bald man like Tom, a blonde witch who looked vaguely familiar, and a man who looked like he was wearing rags patched together.
"Firewhisky, extra strong." Tom had returned. He placed the glass of firewhisky in front of Dorcas and turned around again.
"Hullo, love," said a voice behind her. Dorcas turned around; it was the man wearing a cloak that looked like rags. He had bloodshot eyes, ginger hair, and he smelled like burning socks. "Tad late for someone like ye ter be 'ere, eh?"
'Damn, this is going to be a looooong night', she thought.
____________________________________________
Don't forget to review!