Chapter 9

Ziad lay in his bed in the hospital wing and thought. Not about anything in particular, because at this moment he happened to be tripping balls on painkillers.

Apparently Dumbledore's "ingenious" spell that blocked Voldie's killing curse had some side effects, like negating any form of magical healing. So, as the wizarding world was a bit out of date when it came to muggle technology, they had clumsily given him quite a bit of morphine and assorted other drugs.

"Heeehhhhhh... Whoaaaaaaa." moaned Ziad, as he opened his eyes to a bright new morning.

Ron and Hermione were surrounded by Harry and assorted other people who were lamenting the scars on Ron's arms from the belligerent brains and Hermione's multitude of maladies.

"He's the 'Boy Who Lived' now, is he? Not such a deluded show-off any more, eh?" said Ron. Ziad would have provided the requisite affirmation if he hadn't been busy staring intently at a speck of dust on his nose.

"It's going to kill me!" he hissed.

Madam Pomfrey sighed and said grudgingly, "We may have overdone it. A bit."

Parvati scoffed and replied, "Your powers of observation are truly exceptional."

The year came to an end, and Ziad was released from the Hospital Wing after recently being cured of an addiction to morphine. Fortunately, magic was remarkably useful when it came to curing such addictions.

He returned to his now-vacant dormitory and packed his bag. Everyone else had trunks, Ziad had a U.S. Marine Corps duffel, just one part of the tons of detritus the Marines left in Lebanon after their foray to Beirut in the '80s. The bag earned him some odd looks, but he didn't mind. He was sure that affluent Americans would be using and wearing such military apparel (and paying large sums for it) in a decade or so, probably in some ironic sense. Ziad was comfortable in being ahead of the trend by about a decade.

On the Hogwarts Express back to London, Ziad shared a compartment with Parvati and Padma Patil. It was rather uncomfortable at first, as Parvati didn't really know how to deal with the fact that she was currently sharing a compartment with a killer. Admittedly, that was somewhat alleviated by the fact that he was still feeling a little loopy from all the morphine.

"I told you... It was almost an accident. I mean, I grabbed the rock and ran at her but my arm just sort of swung itself."

Parvati sighed, and nodded. "I understand, Ziad. It's just... I don't know how to deal with all this. First we break into the ministry, people die, and then all of a sudden You-Know-Who's back and we're thrust back into a state of terror. It's all too much for me to handle."

Ziad stared out the window, "And to me it seems like make believe, and glory hallelujah when you walk the night... Hope and faith and sometimes superstition leads me on, through all kinds of weather... I hope that you will think of me when I am gone..."

"... What?"

Ziad shook himself and shot a little water at his face out of his wand, "Sorry, I'm still feeling pretty messed up. Apparently there's still some morphine in my system, somehow. It's all very complicated and probably has something to do with quantum."

"You're absolutely insane, you know that?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

Water dripped off his face and onto the carpet.

The train pulled up to the station, right on time, and Ziad hefted his bag and exited the train with Parvati. As they walked down the station, Ziad noticed that the parents of the students were picking them up. He was left somewhat despondent, as he had no money for a train to get him to Newham in East London, where his Uncle lived. In addition, he wasn't sure his Uncle remembered he existed, and he also didn't know if his Uncle lived there anymore.

"Um, Parvati..."

"Yeah?"

"I hate to bother you, but could I borrow a few pounds to take a train home?"

Parvati frowned, "I don't have any money on me. Padma?"

"No, sorry."

"Dad probably has some," said Parvati.

"Thanks."

They pushed and shoved their way through the crowd.

"So where do you live, anyway?" asked Ziad.

"Out in Essex. In a town called Finchingfield."

"Mmm."

Eventually the twins found their parents, and they embraced and exchanged the usual greetings.

Padma whispered into her mother's ear, and they both glanced at Ziad. Mrs. Patil looked him up and down, and whispered back to Padma. They seemed to be speaking Marathi, from what Ziad knew of Indo-Aryan langauges (he'd read a book on it once during a black-out in Beirut).

Parvati was speaking to her father.

"Dad, this is Ziad." They shook hands. Mr. Patil was also looking perhaps a little more closely than usual at Ziad, sizing him up or something.

"A pleasure to meet you." said Ziad.

"Hmm." said Mr. Patil.

"Dad, do you have a few pounds spare that Ziad could borrow? He doesn't have any money to get home."

"I promise to pay you back when I obtain the necessary funds."

Mr. Patil sighed and rummaged through his pockets. He did indeed have some money and grudgingly handed the worn banknotes to Ziad.

"Thank you."

And then they were gone. Ziad stood in King's Cross and watched her... them... leave. He swallowed, and left the wizarding world behind him.

Two hours later, Ziad found himself outside the dingy apartment building in Newham. He had only been here a week before he was bundled off to Hogwarts. He'd barely left an impression on his pillow. Ziad had spent more time on the boat from Lebanon than he had in London.

He hefted his bag, pushed open the door, and began hiking up the dirty steps to the eighth floor. Upon reaching the aforementioned floor, he made his way to apartment number 814. He stood outside the navy-blue door, steeled himself, and knocked. He heard talking inside.

The door opened to reveal the face of a thirty-something African woman who looked at him questioningly.

"Excuse me, but is this the home of Ayman Mohammed?"

"Who?"

"Ayman Mohammed, I think he lived here about eight months ago?"

"Oh him! No, sorry. He's dead. Got hit by a bus in the City."

"Oh. Um... Thanks. Have a nice day."

The door closed.

"Crap."

Ziad left the apartment complex and sat down on his bag. He still had a few pounds left, and was starting to feel hungry. He debated spending it on food versus spending it on transportation to- well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

He bought some food and ate it. He still had a bit of change left over.

He bought a bit more food and ate that too. He had no change left.

"Damn. I'm pretty dumb aren't I."

"Yup!"

"Shut up, Homeless Joe! Nobody likes you!"

"Yup!"

He sighed, picked up his bag, and began walking. No particular destination, no particular goal. He just needed to think and he didn't like being in one place too long. He could get kidnapped, shot, robbed, mugged, bombed, or eaten by creatures emanating from the Dungeon Dimensions if he did that.

He walked. He thought about the last time he was in London. He'd killed somebody, then. She had been trying to kill somebody Ziad kind of liked, which was bad. But he probably didn't have to hit her so hard. Or simply distracted her and allowed Harry to stun her. But none of those were certain to have solved the problem, which was a very angry and very crazy magical person. Ziad concluded that the most reasonable response had been the one he had taken. But he didn't like it, either way.

He walked.

It was late. He'd been walking for hours. His whole body ached from lugging his bag all over London. Ziad sighed. He hailed a cab.

"Where are you going, laddie?"

Well, that was a surprise. A Scottish cabbie.

Ziad thought about where it was he even could go. He said the first place that came to mind.

"Essex."

"That's a big place, son." The cabbie glanced at Ziad in the rear-view-mirror. "Anywhere more specific?"

"Finchingfield."

"That's... Quite a long distance away."

"I can pay."

The Scotsman looked sceptically at Ziad's decade-old olive-drab duffel bag, his worn clothes, and his general downtrodden look.

"Can you prove it?"

Ziad pulled his wand out and flicked it and muttered, "Confundo."

That was the only spell he'd become competent with that was any actual use in the real world.

"Right you are, lad. Finchingfield, here we come!"

Ziad slumped in his seat and dozed off.

At apartment 814, the Nigerian woman was lying asleep next to her husband. She awoke to a tinkle of glass. She shook her husband awake.

"Who's there?" he said, an edge of panic in his voice.

Faint scratching sounds were emanating from the kitchen area. Her husband picked up his cricket bat and crept out.

A flurry of movement caused him to scream and swing his bat before he tripped over and landed heavily on his back.

"Are you OK, baby?"

"Yeah."

"Was there anyone there?"

"I'm not sure. I hit something with my bat. It's got... It's got blood on it."

They looked.

An owl lay in a small pool of blood on the kitchen table, a thick letter tied to its leg.

"What in the name of..."

Ziad was shaken awake by the cabbie.

"Hey, son, we're in Finchingfield."

Ziad yawned and looked outside. It was the dead of night, and now that he was here he realized he had no earthly idea where in or around Finchingfield he was going. He decided that it still looked a lot more of a safe place to hobo-it-up than London.

"Thanks. You know, I feel really sorry about this, because I really don't have any money."

"It's no problem. I was in a similar situation myself when I was your age." The cabbie sighed. "I was just a lad and decided to live in the United States. New Orleans sounded exotic and exciting, but I was in New York. I can't deny that I stole a few cab-rides on my way down south. So this one's on me. If you need a ride anywhere, don't hesitate to give me a call, but I'll expect payment next time."

Ziad was bowled over by what was perhaps the most clichéd thing that had ever happened to him. Seriously? A wise world-weary old Scottish cabbie who was willing to whisk him away to who-knew-where free-of-charge?

"Good job with the alliteration there, brain."

"What?"

"Just thinking out loud."

Not that he was complaining about it, of course.

"I... I don't know how to repay you, but if the opportunity ever arises, I'll figure out a way."

The cabbie shook his hand.

"Good luck, laddie."

With a tip of his hat (you know the kind), he climbed back in the cab and drove off, leaving Ziad standing in the middle of a town he'd never been to in a country of which he wasn't a citizen, holding a wand and carrying with him several rather strange books about magic.

For lack of anything better to do, Ziad walked. He thought about where the Patil family might place its humble (or extravagant, he didn't know) abode. Perhaps they were more domicile type people. Ziad doubted they were crash-pad or pied-à-terre types. Of course, he was completely overlooking the possibility that they were purists, and called their house a house.

Nom-de-maison aside, Ziad needed a way to figure out where they lived, so he could maybe rely a little more on the milk of human kindness before he died of exposure or starvation. But before then, Ziad decided he needed to get some sleep, so he pulled up a nice bit of dirt, lay down, and did just that.