Chapter IV: Encounter
An:/ I'll put this warning here that this chapter deals with some homophobia in Arthur's past. If any of that troubles you feel free to skip it, but it's important to his charecter.
Alfred woke up the next morning in a bed he doesn't know with a stranger pressed against his back. He stiffens and the stranger grumbles, pressing tighter against him. He forces himself to slowly take a deep breath and relax. As soon as he does memories of the previous day come floating back to him.
He loosens slightly, if his recollections are correct than that must mean that the stranger curled around him must be Arthur. This thought instantly makes him freeze, if the wizard found them in this position he'd probably jynx Alfred. Then there was the other matter that this was Arthur pressed against him.
He takes a deep breath, before carefully manoeuvring himself so he can pry Arthur's arms off of him. In doing so, Arthur suddenly snaps awake with a yelp and before Alfred can react he's on top of him with a wand at his throat, he's panting and his eyes are wide with panic. Alfred freezed like a stiff board underneath and it takes Arthur another moment to realize that it's Alfred and the wand slowly lowers. Although the look of panic is replaced by one of regret, one that he can tell must run much deeper than whatever just happened.
Arthur pulled himself awkwardly off the bed, his back too Alfred. Alfred watched him sigh and run a hand over his face and through his hair. His hand still wrapped tightly around his wooden wand.
Arthur pulled some clothes out of a dresser and left the room, leaving Alfred to ponder what the heck had just happened.
In the short time that he'd known him, Alfred had been able to draw the conclusion that Arthur was rather defensive, quickly. But what had just happened seemed more than that. His defensiveness had obviously spared from some point in his life, perhaps he hadn't had the easiest childhood. Alfred had no idea how wizards raised their children, and perhaps that was normal behavior for one. However, watching how Arthur had reacted once he'd realized what he'd just done made him think otherwise.
Alfred pulled on his clothes from yesterday back over his head, sighing slightly at the familiarity of his own shirt on himself. He left the room, his feet still dragging along Arthur's floors, albeit a bit clumsily with morning grogginess.
He found Arthur heating up the kettle again and looking determined not to talk about whatever had just happen. Alfred decided that it was probably beyond personal boundaries to ask why.
They stood in silence in the green kitchen, Arthur pretending to be busy while muttering enchantments as food swirled around the kitchen. Alfred watched, wide-eyed as the food began to cook itself and the kettle began to whistle, a stream of steam running out and wafting into the air..
What would have taken Alfred ages to make was ready within minutes. The food sat itself neatly on white plates and cutlery flew out from a drawer and landed neatly next to the plates. Unfortunately, Alfred wasn't entirely sure just what sort of food it was supposed to be. It looked like someone had given him the scraps at the bottom of their oven.
"It's not my best." Arthur admitted, sinking onto a chair across from Alfred with a hopeful expression on his face, "But it'll do. We should try to get an early start if we can."
"Er," Alfred said, poking at the blackened eggs. How does one even burn scrambled eggs? "Right, yeah." Arthur's buoyant expression never faltered so Alfred carefully took a bite of what was supposed to be eggs, barely managing not to gag as he grabbed the tea to get it down.
"How is it?" Arthur asked.
"It's wonderful, thanks." he croaked.
The way Arthur's face lit up proudly made it almost worth it. Almost.
The morning was crisp and foggy, the cold biting at Arthur as he sunk lower into his black peacoat. The pavement was still wet from the previous night's storm, and it shone under the street lamps that hadn't been turned off yet. The fog doubled as it rolled off the Thames, a few early morning boats maneuvering serenely down the grey river. A bus honked a few blocks away.
"It's kinda cool getting to see the city wake up." Alfred said suddenly. "I'm never out this early."
Arthur dug his hands deeper into his pockets. "Don't be daft. London never sleeps."
"Nah." Alfred replied, kicking a stone. "That's New York."
"Oh." Arthur said, watching a few muggle cars roll by. "Have you ever been there?"
They took a right, following the path of the river. The rails along the large sidewalk still dripped slightly with moisture as Alfred ran his hand over it. "New York? Oh yeah. Now that's an interesting city. I once saw a man with a cat on his head and a woman walking her son and her dog. Her son had a leash."
Arthur coughed, laughing a bit at the image. Muggles really were quite funny. Perhaps he should spend more time observing them than he did, maybe then he wouldn't feel as though he was so incessantly alone.
"Huh."
They walked awhile longer, the fog eventually began to lessen up, and even the grey clouds lightened slightly as a hint of morning sunshine poked through. It danced off the churning waters of the river, reflecting back almost painfully. Arthur blinked away the spots, once they cleared he stilled, there was a figure coming towards them.
It was cloaked in a long black shawl that covered the person's face. They walked with a hunch, and quick erotic steps. Shoes ominously clicking against the sidewalk.
Arthur grabbed Alfred's arm and pulled him to a stop as the figure approached, his hand slipped protectively to where his wand lay in his coat pocket. He felt Alfred stiffen beside him.
Arthur realized the figure was a witch, and not a moment later did he realize it was the witch. The one with dangerous purple eyes and silvery hair.
"It's her." Hissed Alfred. Arthur nodded heavily. Yet, there was something different about her, the way she carried herself and how she moved lowly over the pavement. When she looked up from under the black cloak Arthur withheld a gasp, her eyes held a thin film of milkiness, as though she wasn't truly there.
An arm snakes out from under the thick cloak and grabs Arthur's arm before he can react, yanking it away from his wand. He begins to pull back harshly and Alfred yells something from his left. The witch moves in, until she's all Arthur sees and she whispers, her accent sends knives through him, and her voice is low and cutting.
"Come with me."
The voice isn't hers.
"Arthur-" Alfred says, the edges of his name decorated with panic.
"Come with me." She squeezes harder, nails biting into Arthur's skin. "Master wants you."
"No." He replies firmly, trying to pull his arm away, but the woman's got him in a death grip, and Alfred is clutching onto him just the same, as though afraid she'll snatch Arthur away.
"Come with me." she says again, more desperately, more forcefully.
"Who is your master?" Arthur demands, his voice rising in a shaking volume. Alfred tugs on him again, stronger this time.
Her closed off violet eyes peer into his, and it hits him as though a brick had fallen onto his head. The imperious curse.
"Look to your past and come with me."
Before Arthur can pull away, scream, curse her into tomorrow, the grey water of the Thames and the brown buildings blur away. Arthur feels as if he's been pulled down rather sharply, and stumbles into his own memory.
The colors pull and twist until he's back at his childhood home, his brothers watching with wide eyes well another bold, rebellious, reckless and younger Arthur stood up to his father, who was purple in anger. The distaste radiating off him was palpable, permeating the room like a thick gas.
"No son of my mine will be some bloody queer!" He shouted, grabbing at Arthur's collar. His brothers stepped out, but were thrown back with a simple wave of his father's wand.
"Father," Arthur was shocked by the voice of his younger self. He remembers every detail of this memory, as it had been seared hot into his brain, in one unforgettable moment of pain and hate. So much hate.
"This is who I am." he said "You're going to have to accept it as such."
"I will not." His father screamed, dropping Arthur, who scrambled back to his feet, backing away from the shaking man. "You can leave! Get out of this house! I will not have such filth tainting our bloodline as this!"
He hears his brothers protests from the other side of the kitchen, but he watches himself give his father one last gesture before once again the colors were shifting like pulled taffy, and he was spinning into a new memory…
He knows this place, how could he ever forget? Hogwarts had always been more of a home to him than his own house, where his older brothers would torment him relentlessly and he'd hide from his father's disapproving glare.
But how is he back? He was in London only moments ago, with an odd witch and Alfred tugging on his sleeve in a frenzied panic.
A voice pulls him away, a terribly familiar, haunting voice. One he'd hoped never to hear again.
Cautiously, Arthur rounds the corner and stops when he sees a much younger version of himself. He looks to be about fifteen, he's short yet still looks long and lanky and horribly thin. There's an ink smudge on his nose, and his head is buried inside a potions book, his eyes so close he'll surely need glasses if he strains them in such a way.
A group of boys passes right through him, as though Arthur is a ghost, however they too stop when they see younger Arthur completely oblivious to the world around. He feels an uncomfortable twist in his stomach all over again when he sees Braginsky's cronies began to leer, pulling wands out of the pockets of their robes.
"Oi, Kirkland!" One of them calls, and Arthur is suddenly so horribly aware of the memory that he's reliving. It's one of the worst.
Younger Arthur stills, slowly pulling the book away from his face. If he's scared (which Arthur knows he is) he doesn't show it. Instead he tucks the book into his bag, and gives a kurt, nearly polite nod and continues.
"Aye, aye!" Another shouts. "Don't be like that!" Arthur ignores them, picking up his pace, he turns back around the corner and the others simply watch. He can see himself relax slightly, thinking they'd leave him alone. The fight would never happen. But Arthur knew better, he shouldn't have called it a fight when he knew it was a war.
"Hey, fag? Where you going?"
Arthur's veins still chill at the call. He sees his younger self stop. Only his back is visible, but he remembers the feeling of shock, then hurt, and finally anger that passes through him as fast as flipping through a photo. He whips around, wand out. "What did you just call me?"
"Everyone knows you'd suck me off if I let you." Another jeered, and the others howled with laughter. Adding their own creative insults.
"And to how do you owe me that honor?" Came his younger self's swift reply, Arthur still shone a bit as he watched the boys instantly stop pushing one another and fall silent.
"What did you just say?" Braginsky asked, his voice was childishly calm, sending an uncomfortable shiver down his spine.
"Would you like for me to dumb it down, Braginsky?" Arthur replied, although he knew full well Ivan was just as smart as him, if now more. He takes a reckless step forward and then another, until he is nearly nose to nose with Ivan, who towers over him.
"Because I'm not sure you're brain cells are capable of understanding what it means to suck you off." he paused, the sneer growing. Arthur had nearly forgotten just how cocky he could be. "I bet you'd enjoy that, Braginsky."
It was spoken barely above a whisper, yet he saw something click inside Ivan, a cold fury that hadn't been there before, it blazed like a light flame angry and sparking. Ivan's wand was out in a second and Arthur was flown so far back that he slammed into a stone wall, a few of the portraits gasped, and Ivan's gang howled with laughter behind him.
The sound of his own body hitting the wall is replaced by a whipping wind and more shifting colors. Arthur feels as if he's about to throw up the way his stomach pulls and drops violently. There is a sudden throbbing in his head.
However, this was no memory. Arthur had no recollection of this cold, black, uncomfortable room. There is no other Arthur. There is just him in a freezing, blackened room.
He turns around, and there's lies a file on a wooden desk, it is the only piece of furniture in the room. The manilla folder is labeled "Ministry Code 013. Private" in thick red ink.
Arthur feels an irking, the need to open the folder, see what's inside. No, he has to see what's inside, although he shouldn't. His pale arm reaches out for it and a door from behind him prompt slams open, a furious Gawain Robards runs in with his face red, followed by a disgruntled Kingsley Shacklebolt and more aurors. They're all Arthur's coworkers.
In that moment the room is not so foreign, he has been here before. He's felt that darkness, that coldness and whatever was in that file he wasn't supposed to have seen.
"Arthur!" A tug on his arm and the world comes flooding back in. Once again he can feel the cold nipping at him, hear the running Thames, and he more knows than feels that the warm hand pulling dangerously at him is Alfred's.
His eyes snap to the witch from earlier, whose eyes seemed to have returned to their normal purple hue. She smirks.
"Master will be pleased." The smile deepens. "Yes, he will be very happy with Natalia."
"It's Ivan." Arthur says with a grimace, pulling his arm away sharply. "It's Braginsky." The moment he says it he know it's the truth and the way the witch's eyes widen and then smirk slightly before she disappears is the only answer he needed.
The hand on his other arm pulls him so strongly back he feels as if another stunning spell has fired him backwards. The two crumble to the street, Alfred wraps a protective arm around Arthur. He's breathing hard, and the hold on him tightens.
"Fuck Arthur." he says, pressing him even closer. "She did some odd thing with her wand and then you blacked out for a moment and I thought she'd killed you! I panicked and was about to call for help when you snapped back and just god, Arthur! I thought you were gone. I was terrified that you were gone and I just-"
"Alfred, hush." He said, spinning to face the muggle. He looked near to tears, and Arthur is stained with that familiar feeling of self-loathing and hideous guilt. Alfred should never have a reason to be so distressed. "It's alright. I'm here. Everything's fine. It's alright." he continued to mutter odd words of reassurance, ignoring the odd glances from pedestrians until he began to feel Alfred's grip on him loosen and his shoulders begin to still.
The two stood up, relieved to be off the cold sidewalk once more. Arthur dusted off his robes and begin to hurry along the sidewalk a new pep in his stride, Alfred at his side.
"What are we supposed to do now?" He asked after they'd left the Thames behind and started to meander aimlessly through the crowded streets, now heavy with commuters.
"Well, I have an idea what." He said.
"Arthur, how on earth are we supposed to win this fight? You seem very talented, but even you can only do so much."
He stopped, and turned to face Alfred a sharp wind blowing both their hair, reminiscing old words, an old argument, an old thought. "Don't call this a fight, when you know it's war."
