Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns the Harry Potter series. Rating for language. Many thanks to zero-damage for getting the story on its feet and Annys LeBlanc for getting it a title.
Fallout
It was nine in the morning of the twenty-eighth of July, 1997, in Little Whinging, Surrey, and Laura Wilcott was glancing over her shoulder as she reached into the freezer, withdrew a carton of Molten Fudge Ripple Caramel ice cream, and silently eased the door shut. This was stupid, and she knew it. Ice cream is not a legitimate breakfast choice, and ice cream specially set aside by one's father must be considered taboo. All of this was misguided. What was stupid was that Mr. Wilcott had left the country on business yesterday, heedless of the ice cream's danger, and Laura was home alone, and she was very aware of it, so why was she sneaking?
Not remotely nervous, she plunked the carton on the counter, un-capsized it when it nearly went flying, and swore when she blindly grabbed for silverware and came up with a steak knife. She squeezed her finger, checking for blood, then moved to the light of the window to see better. Her house was on a corner, the kitchen facing its north side, and Laura looked up just in time to see a redheaded guy strolling by. On tiptoe, she leaned over the sink and craned her head around, but he was walking fast, hands jammed in his pockets - she didn't get a good look at him.
Shaking her head, Laura rocked back on her heels and turned to get a bowl. Look, it wasn't like she was in any doubt she was making a poor choice - ice cream wasn't an appropriate breakfast food, she didn't have to be told that, she'd be much better off with toast or cereal, but Dad wouldn't be home for another week and while she wasn't remotely nervous about being home alone for the longest time ever it would be really comforting to have a little ice cream and anyway it was just going to go bad if Dad wasn't around to eat it and she'd buy him more before he got home so it really didn't matter.
Wait. Cereal?
Laura stood irresolute in the kitchen, trying to figure out why that word had stuck in her mind. She was still near the window, and, in her periphery, she noticed a middle-aged red-haired man jogging past, one hand holding his glasses to his face.
Milk, Laura suddenly realized. She'd forgotten to bring it in.
She wasn't irresponsible, bringing the milk in every morning was always Dad's job. There was no reason for her to think of it till now, when the milk had been sitting on her front step for three hours.
She went down the hall and opened the front door. She bent and yanked the milk up, not really wanting to see what state it was in - and overbalanced, and went crashing into the small bush by the doorstep. The bush was dense, so she was able to jerk herself back upright - and something pale tumbled from within the bush, plopping between her feet.
It was an ear.
Laura took a step back. Stared. Shook her head. Carefully lowered the milk to the floor behind her. And dropped to one knee, leaning slightly away from the doorstep.
And blinked again. Not that it helped, but it was something else she had to do before touching the thing.
A right ear. Plastic. Or rubber. Very lifelike, floppy, small painted blood vessels, freckles on the outer lobe. But clearly fake because there wasn't any blood.
No reason to touch it. That is, no reason not to touch it. Because it was fake. Because there wasn't any blood. Right.
Her arm shot forward, then reeled back, fingertips having never come within twenty centimeters of the ear.
She needed to throw it away. The dustbin wasn't far. Nobody should see this thing. It could freak somebody out.
Her hand shot forward again. Her fingertip came into contact with the ear, she felt its clammy smoothness, and then she'd recoiled into the house, rear crashing down close to the milk.
Oh just get a hold of yourself. This is a joke or something.
Barely pausing to think that she couldn't imagine who would've left this, she snatched up the ear before she could lose her nerve.
Almost unwillingly, Laura studied the ear in her hand, gingerly feeling the cold, springy material, then touching her own ear for comparison. Aside from temperature, extremely lifelike. She swallowed, suddenly wanting very much to find a Made in China print somewhere on it. She flipped it over.
No manufacturer's print. Something blackish and flaky drifted to the ground, and her thumbnail lay half on a brownish-red stain. That wasn't dirt. That looked very much like dried -
"...remember seeing that orange convertible as we went over."
"...somewhere around here?"
Laura swallowed and yelped, and the next thing she knew, she was clutching the ear to her tee shirt, scooting backwards into the front hall, and hooking her left foot around the knob to slam the door shut.
Was there - was there a murder victim - the police - what if they thought -
- no way could she murder someone they wouldn't think it she was only a seventeen year old girl -
- argument wouldn't hold any water she was holding the ear they'd think she was -
- if there was an ear there had to be other parts too where was it all -
- probably policemen everywhere policemen with dogs they'd sniff right up to her house -
- crazed murderer on the loose he'd find out she had the evidence he'd hunt her down and -
- probably hidden all around the house probably the rest of the body was in the garden and -
- Dad wasn't going to be back for days and here she was -
- the ear had to be fake it had to be there was no way -
She'd dropped the phone six times, halfway dialing 999 twice. If she called the police, would they protect her from those other police, the ones that were going to jump on her for holding the remains of - what had to be - a murder victim? Or would they cooperate with each other? Being policemen and all? No, they weren't policemen out there, they were just coincidences, that was all.
Oh damn.
Laura dropped the phone a seventh time and used that hand to clutch her forehead. Her other hand clenched in response, and, glancing, she saw that she'd folded the ear over like an envelope. With something that was more like a gargle than a shriek, she threw it across the room. It bounced off the television screen, rolled once on the carpet, and lay still.
It was already silent in the house, but her mind shut up just then as she stared at the ear. She was breathing too loudly.
From outside, she could hear faint voices.
"No matter what you theenk, I saw something." A woman's voice. Thick French accent.
"It's nothing, just a Muggle." A man's voice. "Let's see if Dad's found anything." After a moment, she heard nothing else. They'd moved off.
French accent?
International espionage? That ear, was it the mortal remains of some spy? Some very unlucky spy?
Why on earth would spies be meeting in Little Whinging?
It's, she told herself, fake. It's. A. Fake. Ear.
"Dammit, Bill!" another male voice shouted from outside. It dropped in volume but not in vehemence. "We are not leaving until...casualty of war!"
Laura blinked. The sitting room was looking very gray-splotchy, and her brain seemed to be on the incorrect frequency. It was full of static, and the only words she could think were war, ear, and no.
More muttering, then the first male voice: "Cadavera revelio!" Laura shivered, and the static in her head crackled to a roar - then died completely, and she was blinking, something sparkling in the corners of her eyes.
"...told you it wouldn't work," came the same voice. " It's for finding corpses, it's not going to pick up an ear."
Laura squeezed her fists at her sides, wishing she could rewind five seconds, back to when the voices outside were definitely just coincidences and definitely not looking for the ear that was definitely fake.
"...wish I'd got a good shot at the Death Eater." The second male voice. "...kill him if I get the chance."
Murderous voices.
No question. She needed the police.
"Why not search ze gardens? Eet probably fell among ze 'ouses."
Swallowing, lips tight together, Laura reached for the phone again - it had tumbled under the coffee table - then thought, no, she needed to get the ear, it was evidence. (Though there was a very insistent voice rattling around her skull, saying forget the evidence, let the spies have it, go ahead and obstruct justice.)
Someone stepped up to the door.
Laura lunged forward, mind shooting back to the phone. She grabbed. However, she'd been facing the television, so what she grabbed was the ear, but she couldn't really process that because she was too busy tearing towards the kitchen and the house's back door.
The front door opened and three people leaned into the hall, glancing around, up the small staircase.
"You sure you people saw something?" one asked, the short one.
"Maybe not," another one said after a moment, the one with the ponytail. "Muggles wouldn't let us just walk in." And, glancing at the floor: "There's some milk."
"Een any case, eet's not 'ere," said the third one, the French one. She sighed. "Can we get zis over weeth? George eez fine, zis eez entirely unnecessary, and I 'ave a wedding to plan, you know."
"Why did you come?" the first one asked.
The French one tilted her chin diffidently. "Bill came."
"So glad you care," the first one said, then quietly shut the door.
Running through the house and escaping via the back had seemed like a handy plan, but by the time Laura crashed into the garden and slammed the door behind her, she realized that there was still plenty thinking to do. For one thing, given her present rate of velocity, she'd be across the garden in fewer than two seconds and smacking into the brick back of her neighbor's house. She chewed her lip, glancing at the street – empty, both of help and hiding places – then at the next garden on the right. Soupy, the next-door Dachshund, was fast asleep under his tree, legs twitching.
Laura wavered, glancing right to left, worrying the earlobe between her thumb and forefinger. She had a choice – run for it or bash into the next house over and scream for help – she just needed a moment to figure out what needed doing.
This all became moot when she heard voices approaching from around the side of the house.
For the third time that morning, the Wilcotts' front door swung open. A man leaned in, the light from the windows reflecting off his glasses and the bald patch on his head. His gaze tracked slowly around – and he leaned further in, his lips twitching a bit as he took in the sitting room and front hall.
"Goodness me," he murmured under his breath. "Milk right here." Then he blinked. Wait, no. These were Muggles, they didn't leave milk lying about. Had those fridgadators, didn't they? Of course. Someone must have just forgotten about it. Left the place in a hurry. Probably no one home at all.
Most likely there was a fridgadator right here in the house.
Among many other things.
Muggle things.
The man shook his head quickly, as if clearing it. No. No, they had a task. Finding the ear. No time for anything else.
Well! Very likely the ear had fallen into the house. Through a window. Or down the chimney. Damned probable.
No!
The man caught himself with one foot in the hall. No. He knew very well what he was doing – making up excuse after excuse to enter the Muggles' home with no other purpose than to fiddle with things. Fridgadator. Televizzun. Fellytone. Elkletic Vegetable Processor. All would be in here.
Televizzun remotes. Classette tapes. Maybe somewhere a compupter. A compupter with a screen. And batteries. Batteries of many sizes.
Squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his jaw, the man leaned his forehead against the door post. The ear. He had to focus on that. The ear was the only reason they were here and not at home catching up with Harry.
About then it occurred to him that they'd been searching all over Little Whinging for the ear for three hours. No sign of it outside. Therefore, the ear was most likely inside.
Besides, the milk shouldn't be left out like that.
The man stepped into the house and quietly closed the door behind him.
Moving silently as a cat – a cat who had trained as a ninja – a cat who had trained as a ninja while wearing thick socks – Laura eased herself around the side of the house, checking over her shoulder as she went. She could still hear the voices, one of those men and the French female – quick, sharp-edged. Arguing. Reaching for their guns? She picked up her pace, jaw tight, fingers clamped around the ear. It was no longer clammy, warmed by the contact of her skin. Not really that comforting, she had to think.
As she slipped around the corner of her house, she glanced back again, just to be sure they wouldn't come on her suddenly – and thudded into something hard that, after a moment, swore. Laura jerked backwards, crossing her arms in front of her head. At first all she saw were jeans, the back of a tee shirt, and a long red ponytail. Then the man pivoted, crouching, holding a stick out in his left hand. And she saw his face.
And started screaming.
And then remembered to run.
Whipping around, she barreled back the way she'd come, around the side of the house, through the back garden, tearing towards the street, willing to jump into any stranger's house, squeeze through the letter-box if necessary, just to get away from the –
Another figure rounded the other corner of the house, almost right in her line of flight. A tall and shimmery figure who, seeing her, swore in French. But Laura didn't really pay attention to her until the woman drew her right hand back and there was suddenly a large red fireball writhing over her palm.
If Laura had been on a bicycle, she would have furiously backpedaled in an attempt to brake. As it was, she still sort of backpedaled, heels gouging the turf, throwing herself to the side, towards her own back door. It led to the kitchen. There were chairs in the kitchen. There were deranged possessed foreign people out here. If she was fast enough, she could barricade the door with those lovely chairs and possibly have time to call the police – no reason to be afraid of the police, even if she still had that damned ear that everyone in the whole damned world wanted and maybe she should just throw it to them give them what they came for so they'd leave her alone and –
By the time she had that idea, she was already in the house, had wedged a chair against the doorknob, and was running for the phone.
The shimmery figure ran lightly across the back garden. "Bill?" She caught the ponytailed man by the elbows. "Bien-aimé! What 'appened, I 'eard you scream." As the ponytailed man opened his mouth to answer, the shimmery one went on: "She can't – she can't 'ave 'urt you." Whirling on the house, eyes narrowing: "She startled me and I almost attacked. Per'aps I was right ze first time!" And her hands lit with fire.
The ponytailed man cleared his throat, and by the time the shimmery one had cut her fire and turned back to him, he was grimacing and rubbing the back of his neck. "Er...I – I think she was a bit put off when she saw me. All of a sudden."
The shimmery one's face worked for a moment, shifting from anger to sadness to indignation. Then she firmed her jaw and lifted her chin. "Idiote. What eez zere for 'er to fear? All I see eez ze face of a brave and honest man."
"Maybe so," the man said, still wincing a bit. He scratched his cheek, mindful of the half dozen long, red scars that crisscrossed his face, then cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. "Well, that was a mess. Let's see if Dad's found anything."
"We should just geev up and go," the shimmery one muttered.
"Fred's not going to do that." He took her hand and led her back around the side of the house. (His right hand taking her left, because both of them were carrying sticks and neither seemed to want to put them away.) "He's serious about giving it a proper funeral."
The shimmery one sighed and said something unrepeatable in French.
Breath rocketing through her chest, Laura crashed into the sitting room, slid to a halt, and turned towards the phone on the table by the couch.
She saw the couch. She saw the table. She did not see the phone.
Where is – I had it just a second ago, I was going to call the – I must've knocked it over –
She threw herself down, squirming under the coffee table, sweeping her arm under the couch.
Nothing but dust bunnies.
On the floor, Laura stared, heart beating too hard against the carpet. The back of her neck was chilly with sweat, and she'd nearly crushed the ear in her right palm. No phone. No help from the police.
She heard a chair scrape, the kitchen door open, and someone step onto the linoleum.
She was halfway to hiding. Licking her lips, Laura tried to wriggle all the way under the coffee table. And then didn't. She tightened her right hand, the ear folding neatly.
No. They would find her anyway.
She swallowed. And then, not because she felt courageous but because she didn't want to be cornered into a hiding place, Laura slunk out from under the coffee table and climbed to her feet.
The footsteps, which had been moving through the kitchen, stopped.
Amazingly, her voice did not come out on a squeak. "Hold on. I-I'll be with you in a moment." Not exactly unconcerned, but not too bad.
I mean, she thought as she walked slowly back towards the kitchen, trying to steady her breathing, legs wavering, if I'm going to die, might as well sound good.
When she walked in, she found a guy waiting for her – a redheaded guy – the redheaded guy she'd seen earlier that morning when life had been pleasant. He was standing by the sink, hand in one pocket, a stick in the other hand, shoulders braced, eyeing her closely.
Laura swallowed a few more times, then shot out her right hand. "This. Here. You're here for it." The guy stared at her hand. Belatedly, Laura opened her fist, letting the ear blossom out.
The guy's eyes rounded and he exhaled suddenly. "Merlin's toe fungus, that's where you got! Thought you'd spend some time with the Muggles, eh?" He lifted his eyes to her, and his stance shifted, arms crossing on his chest. "Mind handing it over? That's my brother's ear you've got."
"Oh. Yes – s-sure." She didn't want to get too close to him, but tossing the ear seemed disrespectful. Holding it by the tips of her fingers, she passed it to his outstretched hand.
"Thanks." The guy's mouth spread in a gratified smile. He gave the ear a wink, then tucked it into his pocket. "So where was it?" When Laura didn't immediately answer, he went on, "Been searching all morning for it."
"Er...in front of my house. Caught in a bush."
"That close? Damn." The guy made a sweeping gesture to the ceiling. "We were fighting here last night, over the neighborhood. Ear was blasted clean off by the ugliest little Severing charm you ever saw. George is fine now, and Mum just wanted to leave things be, but it didn't feel right, you know?"
"I guess not," Laura said faintly. And then, because he was watching her, "Poor George."
The guy nodded. "What's your name?"
"Laura," Laura said, before she could wonder if telling him was a smart move.
The guy reached forward and took her hand, looking her squarely in the eye, mouth firm and solemn. "Thank you, Laura, for what you have done for me and my family." Then he released her, raised the hand with the stick in it, and said a brisk "Obliviate!"
Laura blinked once and fell backwards to the floor.
The redheaded guy met the ponytailed man and the shimmery one on the pavement at the front of the house. He waved the ear once before returning it to his pocket. "That's all! Thanks ever so much for your unwavering support."
"Great." The ponytailed man gave the redheaded guy a light clap on the shoulder, then looked up and down the street. "So all we need is Dad and we can –"
"Right here!" And a tall balding man bustled up, stuffing something into the pocket of his long dingy green robe. "Got the ear all right?" After a flurry of nods, the man rubbed his hands together. "Well then, shall we be off?"
The ponytailed man and the redheaded guy stared at him.
"Dad, did you –" the ponytailed man started.
"Come along," the man said, a line appearing between his eyebrows. "Don't want to keep Mum waiting. And Harry! It's about time we caught up with him, don't you think?"
"Dad, you shouldn't-" the ponytailed man started.
"Lay off, Bill," the redheaded guy said. "It's no worse than what you do."
"What I do," the ponytailed man said, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, "is recover artifacts from the tombs of long-dead individuals who need their gold and gems like they need their brains pulled out through their noses and stuffed in a jar. What Dad does-"
"They'll never miss it," the man said quickly, shoving something deeper into his pocket. "They're Muggles, they have tons of the things, I'm sure they'll never-"
"What'd you take?" the redheaded guy asked, shouldering the ponytailed man out of the way.
The man's eyes lit behind his glasses. "A fellytone! A real Muggle fellytone! Just saw it lying there, unwanted, put a Shrinking charm on it, and there you go!" He caught the ponytailed man's eye and quickly added, "As an object of study, naturally, so that we might – er – research its ways and uses, and – ah – better come to understand our Muggle neighbors." And then, thrusting the attention away from himself: "So, are we ready to go? Got the ear? No Muggles spotted us?"
"There was one-" the ponytailed man started while the shimmery one sort of snorted and said, "Une idiote!" and the redheaded guy broke in with, "Took care of her." As the others turned to him, he smiled and shook his head. "Really sweet girl too, kept the ear nice and safe. We should've invited her to the funeral."
"Oh, so there was a Muggle in that house," the man said. "Well, I'm glad I thought to put the milk away. I'd hate to think it got spoilt." He smiled at the shimmery one. "The fridgadator was a bit hard to find, but I've been trained to know what to look for."
The ponytailed man was still focused on the redheaded guy, returning that smile with a skeptical narrowing of his eyes. "You Obliviated her?" The redheaded guy nodded. "You sure? Your Memory charms are kind of iffy, you know that, Fred. If you do them bad, and the Muggle gets a big shock, all the memories just return. I could always go back and make sure – "
With an eyeroll, the redheaded guy told the ponytailed man where he could go back to, the shimmery one tossed her hair, and, in a moment, they all vanished.
Laura woke up with a smarting headache on the kitchen floor. She must've hit her head, but she couldn't think how. Also, the ice cream was out and melting badly.
Her mind wobbled all day. She found it difficult to focus, and she had the nagging sense that there was something vital she'd forgotten. She also couldn't find the phone. She called her father from a friend's house and nearly got her ear bitten off as a result. Dad wasn't inclined to think it had just disappeared, but that was exactly how things looked to Laura.
Nevertheless, he came home, they bought a new phone, Laura's head settled and became comfortable again, and life continued on.
Two years later, she discovered milk in the back of her closet.