Chapter 3: Memories

The next morning, Mallory arrived at eleven, and made his way directly to the coffee. Mr Wesley looked on in amusement as the young guest downed three cups in succession, without bothering with milk or sugar.

Smiling slightly, he asked, "Rough night?"

Mallory rolled his eyes in response. "I never get up before midday. Never. And I need my beauty sleep," he said, wryly indicating his slightly flyaway hair, though Mr Wesley couldn't see anything wrong with his appearance. But then, Mr Wesley had never been very worried about appearance, as indicated by his slightly baggy track-pants.

"Not before midday?" Mr Wesley asked with a raised eyebrow. "But I thought you were a teacher?"

"Well," Mallory sighed, "I unfortunately have to wake earlier during the term, it's true, though living at the school makes it easier. But this is my holiday!"

Mr Wesley laughed. "I guess I see your point. I've been rising with the sun for the past decade, so I can hardly imagine the idea of sleeping so late. My body clock would probably still wake me at seven, no matter what I did."

Mallory frowned. "So you never have holidays? That seems a bit… hard."

Mr Wesley smiled warmly, and gazed affectionately at his busy kitchen and several customers. "Why would I want a holiday? I love to cook, and I love the people here. I don't think I could be any more content."

Unable to understand, Mallory merely shrugged. Having been raised in luxury, it didn't make sense to him to work that much. As he was about to say as much, though, the timer on the oven went off, and Mr Wesley turned away. "You'd better finish that coffee before it gets cold, Mallory."

Taking a sip, Mallory crinkled his nose in disgust at the now-cold drink, before grabbing a croissant and taking a chair in the corner, slightly apart from the other villagers.

Mr Wesley was a puzzle to him. The man seemed to have no concern for money, never seeming to ask for payment for his generosity, though he got the impression the villagers gave him whatever they could afford. It was like he didn't care if they paid him at all, would be willing to keep working for free.

But why? If he could survive that way, Mr Wesley must have plenty of money, in which case he could surely just spend his time having fun, even if his idea of fun was something typically old like going for long rambling walks or looking after his garden. And instead, he decides to slave away from sunrise til sunset, before going to bed before midnight.

And Mr Wesley claimed to be happy. But even Mallory, who had never been one for closeness and caring, knew that everyone needed friends, and Mr Wesley never seemed to speak to anyone. It was like his life had moved on, leaving him behind. It was completely and utterly bewildering.

Nibbling on Mr Wesley's beautiful pastries – of a skill level that could get him employed as a professional, respected chef, so why didn't he leave? – Mallory resigned himself to several weeks of puzzlement. He just didn't understand him, and Mallory couldn't put up with that.

Mr Wesley spared Mallory a few more minutes throughout the day, but with the presence of new guests (a couple of young women who appeared to be hitchhiking through Europe) and his daily jobs in kitchen and building he had few opportunities to continue his conversation with the young stranger.

To his surprise, as Mr Wesley weeded his roses in the fading light, he found himself pondering the question of Mallory Blanc. He said he was a teacher, but his whole attitude didn't seem to entail someone who found anything rewarding in teaching children, and his casual acceptance of laziness and holidays indicated the presence of some wealth. But then, Mr Wesley had had his own share of teachers with no desire to teach...

And why the garb? The Mallory Mr Wesley had talked to was someone suave and sophisticated, the type of person who would have made a young Blake feel awkward and uncomfortable. It was almost like someone had told him what to wear and where to go, but why would a twenty-something man have someone telling him what to do?

As darkness fell, Mr Wesley realised that he had seriously neglected his roses, and smiled wryly. It had been several years since a person had interested him so, but this Mallory Blanc seemed to be very interesting.

But not interesting enough. Mr Wesley would befriend this young man for his few weeks here, then Mallory would be gone, and Mr Wesley would return to his daily routine with little but the occasional fond thought for another of his temporary friendships. There was no point in letting him get too close – Mr Wesley knew by now that friendships don't last.

Sighing at his own distraction, Mr Wesley subtly checked the wards, before making his way back into the old building. The guests had returned from their meal, probably at the Old Buck, but maybe with some of the families in the village, and were now sitting in front of the fireplace in companionable silence. Looking in, Mr Wesley saw that the kids were well under control, and there was no real threat of rowdiness, so he retired to his own quarters.

Bypassing bedroom and study, he made his way to a locked door on the far side of the sitting room. Withdrawing his battered holly wand from the inner pocket of his trousers, he softly muttered "Alohamora" and turned the brass knob before sidling into the darkened room.

There was no light-switch in this room, but a dozen old-fashioned torches, which he lit with a quick wave of his wand. The flickering shadows on the walls created a sense of age, and sadness, and nostalgia for bygone days.

The room was mostly empty, bar an old broom leaning in a corner and a battered trunk bearing the initials "H. J. P," which he opened with an old golden key that sat on the sill of a small window which showed a scene of forests which was quite incongruous with the rolling fields that one would expect to see. As he lifted a tattered grey cloak of strange hue from a leather-bound album, a coughing sound caused him to spin.

"So you're back again, then? It's been so long that I thought you weren't going to come back this time," a seemingly disembodied voice stated in annoyance, as not a human stood in the room.

Sighing, Mr Wesley stood and eyed the old portrait opposite the window. In front of an old castle, stood four figures in their early twenties, just a short while before two of them would be lost for good. A man with long black hair and impish blue eyes was grinning at Mr Wesley, while the amber-eyed young man next to him began to scold him for his rudeness. Next to them, another young man with Mr Wesley's hazel eyes, but incredibly messy dark hair, had his arms around a frowning redhead, who plaintively asked Mr Wesley, "Why aren't you coming to see us anymore? We get so lonely in here."

"Yeah," added the first man in annoyance, "You know none of us have any other portraits, and so we never know what's going on. You must have left us for almost a year, this time!"

"Sirius!" exclaimed his sandy-haired companion, "Don't be so rude. We all know he's busy."

"He never used to be too busy for us, though," the other brunette quietly pointed out to the two squabbling friends.

Mr Wesley sighed and looked away. No matter how he tried, he couldn't really escape his past, could never really forget and let go. And so, despite all his intentions for sleep and blissful forgetfulness, he sat down resignedly on his trunk. Because he couldn't bring himself to let these deceased heroes die, even only in memory. After all they'd meant to him, it wouldn't be fair.

"Well…"