Branda
"What did you think of that article about Potter in The Quibbler, eh?" Mr Borgin asks.
I rearrange jars of pickled ingredients on the little table he's lent me. The more colorful items draw the eye, so I make certain to place those ingredients nearest to the front.
"I don't know. I only got through half of it before Mr Malfoy swatted me with it!"
Mr Borgin chuckles. He's standing at the threshold to his shop, watching as what wants to be rain scatters the cobbles in paltry, white flakes. A few passersby glance at my table, which is set beside the entrance of Borgin and Burke's. It's not even eight in the morning. If I make a good sale today, it'll be around half-eight or nine, when most everybody scrambles to get to work, even in Knockturn Alley.
"Oi! If you don't buy, I don't eat!"
Gwenyn. She's standing beside me, 'helping.' The poor bugger who stopped to lean over the table scurries off.
Mr Borgin grins, fighting another laugh. "One catches more flies with honey than with vinegar, Miss Gwenyn."
Gwenyn spins around to face him. "Wha's that mean, then? You a fortune-teller all o' sudden, sir?"
"Leave off, Gwenyn," I tell her sharply. She's good entertainment, but I'm trying to make a living here, I am.
"You should hear the things customers have been muttering in my shop." Mr Borgin continues. "Raving, some of them. Seems an article in the bloody Quibbler is more believable to people than the whole of the Daily Prophet!"
"Oh, please!"
"Can I read the ar'icle?" Gwenyn asks suddenly. I usually pounce on any chance to get Gwenyn reading, but where am I going to get a copy of the Quibbler? Not spending a knut on that rubbish, am I? Merlin knows, though, I'd like to read the article—the rest of it, anyway. The day after it came out, Avery walked into the manor with it under his arm. Limped, actually. I wonder what happened to him. He had a very grim look on his face. I walked by him to go outside, and he pressed the magazine into my chest until I took it. Didn't say a thing beyond, "Hallo," to me. I didn't quite finish half of Potter's interview when Mr Malfoy walked past, saw what I was reading, and snatched it from me before rolling it up to smack me about the head with it. "Rubbish! Rubbish! Rubbish! Rubbish!" He snapped, each thwack to my head punctuated by the word.
It's made them act weird, that article about Potter and the Dark Lord. The Malfoys, I mean. A few days ago, I wasn't paying attention and walked in on them arguing in the drawing room. And I mean really arguing.
"Don't you try to blame that on me, Narcissa. I didn't force him into anything he didn't already want to do."
"He was sixteen, Lucius! He didn't understand enough to know what you were suggesting!"
Mrs Malfoy was standing in front of Mr Malfoy, who was sitting down. Her face was all pink, her eyes flashing like blue bolts of lightning. Mr Malfoy was looking up at her with narrowed eyes, and his mouth was set in a grim line. When they saw me, I didn't give them the chance to take whatever the problem was out on me and excused myself immediately. Then too, I've been ordered to take several meals in my room, alone, especially dinners. I've heard people apparating and disapparating outside the manor very late at night. I've walked in on the Malfoys in odd states of silence, as if they've just shushed one another at the sound of my footsteps. Sometimes, when guests like Nott, the Crabbes, the Goyles, Avery, or Macnair see me, it feels like they're doing the same.
I've got to get my hands on that stupid Quibbler!
"I've got a copy inside, somewhere," offers Mr Borgin, as though he's reading my thoughts. "Shall I fetch it?"
"Well, obviously!" exclaims my sister.
"Gwenyn. . ."
I ask Mr Borgin—pleasantly—if he would bring us the magazine. Now, we're huddled around a slightly wrinkled edition of The Quibbler, Harry Potter staring shyly up at as before I turn the page to begin. Oh, I can't wait to see what else is in it! I know Mr Malfoy's name will be mentioned—heard snatches of conversation about the article, I have, but a lot of these gossipers have been really hushed up about it. I don't know why.
"Read on, Gwenyn."
Eira
Some believed the Leap Year brought bad luck. If it did, thought Eira, then she was well and truly fucked, doing what she was, and what she planned to do.
She'd gotten Wright's name from a Werewolf Register she'd had for some years. It was a public document, available upon request from the Ministry, the Daily Prophet Headquarters, or any Wizarding library. Some businesses had them, too. Eira had chosen Wright to contact because—and she'd felt a thrill of some justice at this—he'd been a member of the Werewolf Capture Unit when Nicander was bitten.
"I've not seen him." Wright's accent was crisp. Eira and her family only had to deal with him once—maybe twice—back then, but his toffee-nosed manners and his clear surprise at how other people lived had stayed with Eira. He'd been a nob, yes, but a polite, chivalrous nob.
"Aye. He'd probably bite you himself just for kicks." It was hard not to smirk at him.
Wright glared at Eira over his tea. "What kind of revenge would that be, then? I've already been bitten."
"Second time's a charm, I suppose."
"Third time. Third time's a charm." Wright corrected. Eira snorted. Wright looked about the tavern, eyeing the other patrons of The Stake, scarce at such an early hour. It was a tiny bar, squeezed in between better-appointed establishments near Knockturn Alley's shadiest end. The proprietor was known for locking his door at three in the morning. Known for it because he locked in whoever had passed out in the bar. The good news was that his wife rose and put coffee and tea on at half-past six every morning without fail. Waiting for Wright, Eira had fallen asleep by the fire, then been woken by the baleful old bitch's cursing as she fumbled about cleaning the mess left from the night before. Eira washed a little with her wand in the cramped toilet, dissolved the stale pipe smoke and beer stink from her clothes and hair, then left the tavern to send a second message to Wright to meet her. Or else.
"Mrs Burke—"
"Cadwallader. I an't a fucking housewife."
Wright gave Eira a withering look but continued. "Forgive me—Madame Cadwallader. But listen, I don't know where your husb—you're . . . partner . . . is. Truly, I don't."
Eira sneered. "Yeah, your rich fucking family probably cozied you up after your fuck-up during work, didn't they. I bet you haven't talked to another werewolf since."
Wright leaned back in his chair, placing both palms on the table surface. Every word he spoke was even and measured. "I am fortunate to have relatives who are understanding of my condition."
"Ie. So did Nicander."
Wright stared at Eira. A corner of his mouth twitched. Was it guilt that shadowed his face, suddenly? Eira couldn't imagine any of the righteous cunts of the Werewolf Capture Unit having ever experienced guilt.
"I was—we were—misguided, I think. But you must look at it through our eyes, Ma'am—"
Eira could have slapped him. "You pathetic shit! You fucking werewolf hunter apologist prick!"
"We are not werewolf hunters, Ma'am—"
"Don't call me Ma'am. I'm not your damned mother." Eira snarled. "And stop talking as if you're still a part of your old gang. I know they forget you after you've been bitten. And don't fucking tell me they're not werewolf hunters. That's what everyone calls them, don't you know? Or have you all got your heads so far up your arses that you can't hear what the rest of the world says about you lot?"
She took a swig from the early morning tot of firewhisky she'd ordered with her coffee, never taking her eyes from Wright. "'Course, I suppose you're lucky they don't kill ya after the fact."
Wright didn't move. Eira knew she'd gotten to him. He'd thought he was a champion—a quiet hero of the wizarding world against werewolves, no matter the moon's cycle. A veritable English Perseus.
Ha!
"Look—Eira—I'm sorry for what I participated in against your husb—against Mr Burke. But I swear to you, I don't know where he is. I know that many werewolves move south during the winter. Maybe he's there. He might also have been to St Mungo's since his incident." (That was how many werewolves referred to being bitten—their 'incident.') "It's easy to be injured out in the country. They become ill often, too." (They, Eira noticed he said. Not we. Separating himself from his own kind even now.) "The hospital receives werewolves as patients more than you might think. The Healers will have kept records of his visits—if he's been there, that is. That's where I would start if I were in your position."
Eira left the The Stake feeling disappointed. Wright had been a waste of time; too sheltered, him. She could not go to the hospital in search of a werewolf, nor their records. Unless you were some sort of Official or errand-boy for the Ministry, it just looked suspicious.
She passed shop after tavern after warehouse and flat before reaching the section that led towards Diagon Alley. Eira passed The Bull and the butcher's stall next to it. The butcher nodded to her. She sold to him sometimes. Just ingredients. Not herself. She passed Donius's apothecary as though it did not exist. But she couldn't pass Borgin and Burke's. A throb like a festering wound took hold of her heart at the sight of her firstborn, there at the side of the street, selling what looked like ingredients preserved in jars.
Branda was no taller now than she was at fifteen, but her baby-fat was disappearing, her jawline less round, her cheekbones more cutting. Had the line of her mouth always been so hard? Sunlight weak from the season and shrouded by clouds glinted faintly on hair grown darker, like Nicander's. But Branda's wind-burned, red cheeks and droopy, hooded eyes were the same as they'd always been—features that showed the world who Branda's parents were.
Gwenyn was there, too. Eira stared at her third-born as one does at a photograph of themself when they were a child. Gwenyn's hair and nose and eyes were as Eira's had been at nine. Had she looked as ready to eat the world, as well?
Eira hid behind the wall of the shop across the street from her children and old Borgin. The shopkeep was speaking to the girls from the doorway of his establishment. Eira saw him disappear, then return with a magazine which he and the girls huddled around.
Rather than walk past her daughters, Eira disapparated to the entrance between Knockturn Alley and Diagon Alley.
She stopped at The Terrace for something to eat, ignoring the furtive glances other patrons gave her scars. The ancient proprietress didn't care, probably recognized Eira from the old days when The Terrace had a different name and only opened in the evenings. She was cutting into the last of her crepes when a shadow fell over her table.
"Good morning, Eira! Can I buy your breakfast?"
"Hello, Walden."
Macnair sat across from her and called for a coffee. Eira knew he would have already eaten: Macnair woke early and hit the ground running.
"I haven't seen you." Macnair said.
"I've been busy."
"You still getting run off your own property?"
"Well, if I'm getting run off, it isn't exactly my own property, is it?" said Eira, not looking up from her plate as she spoke.
"You're coming to my house then? I mean it, you know. I'll help you pack and everything. It's the weekend; might as well do it while I'm free."
Three more days. Then Eira would be forced to leave Ty'n-y-Cwm. But first, she had something to do.
"I'm not packing up today, Wal."
"What? Why not? I know you haven't very long."
"I'm going to talk to my family." Eira lied smoothly.
Macnair raised an eyebrow. "Think you'll change someone's mind, or what?"
Eira shrugged and wiped her mouth with her napkin. "Could happen. Can't just take it laying down, can I?"
Macnair paid for them both and they exited The Terrace. "You coming over later?" He asked.
Eira stared across the street. Sunlight streaked through a crack it had found in the clouds, throwing pale shades of yellow over the street. Eira breathed deeply in, resolute.
"I'll be gone a couple of days."
Macnair frowned. From the corner of her eye, Eira saw him searching her face.
"There's just stuff I've got to do, Wal."
"Could be you'll need help, whatever it is." Macnair ventured. His eyes searched Eira's face.
"Na, it's personal. So, stop asking me."
She wasn't looking at Macnair still, felt him lean back at the coldness in her tone, even felt his eyes staring down at her. "All right. . ."
Eira looked up at him. "You could do me a favor . . . if you like."
Afon was playing in the street outside the apothecary, using a stick to prod through the innards of a dead rat a neighbor had thrown out after failing to divine anything from them. Nearly four, Afon already saw the differences between a rat's insides and those of a goat—or a chicken, or a toad, or a snake.
Heavy, grown-up footsteps echoed hurriedly over the cobbles. Afon looked up to see a man—familiar, big, with a black mustache—walking towards him.
"Lad, what are you doing?"
The big man was crouching over Afon now, reminding him of a fully grown great grey owl, face as wide as a dinner plate, that he'd once seen in a pet shop window. It had perched heavily on a wooden stand and looked down at Afon as though unsure if he were a meal or potential owner.
Afon said nothing, felt no urge to. Wasn't the big man already talking, anyway?
"Why don't you put that stick down and come with me, eh?" The man stretched out a hand to Afon. "Come on, you can help me. I'll buy you an ice cream or something later. Come on. . ."
Afon was used to being asked to help with work by his biggest sister, Branda, and by his other sisters. And he liked ice cream. He recognized the big man from his visits to the apothecary. Still, Afon chewed his lip. Where would the big man take him?
"Come on," the man said again, taking Afon by the hand this time and pulling him up from the pavement. "Come with me; you'll be all right. Let's go. . ."
Afon was so much smaller than Macnair that he began lifting the boy by the hand every few steps, his tiny feet kicking in the air until he was lowered again to walk the cobbled street. The usually (rather, unusually) silent little boy giggled at the motion, the sound exiting his lips in breathy puffs. They continued in that manner until some old besom across the street shouted at Macnair, saying he was going to rip the boy's arm from his shoulder. Macnair scowled at the woman but did stop swinging Afon the way he was, somehow knowing she was probably right. Well, jogging was healthy, wasn't it? Hadn't the boy had a problem with his legs last summer? Some Muggle disease that softened children's bones, wasn't it?
Afon all but ran beside Macnair until they exited the Leakey Cauldron to the Muggle side of London, where Macnair hauled Afon up to carry him. He noted the boy's sudden wonder, small eyes widening as they followed buses and lorries as they were driven past. He stared too at the Muggles, their different clothes and hairstyles. Macnair had to lean his head away at times as Afon's own kept swiveling about to take these things in. Macnair wondered if the boy understood these people to be different from the two of them, from his family and his neighbors in Knockturn Alley. He supposed the earlier wizarding children were taught to notice the difference, the better.
Eira
She stalked through the public library looking for an updated Werewolf Register. She finally found one in a rack that held Magazines, pamphlets, and newspapers. It was nestled between a publication on the history of magical crime and another that featured page upon page of the Wizarding world's current list of most-wanted witches and wizards.
The Register was a simple sheet, the information printed out in simple font. Name. Date of birth. Date bitten. The name of the werewolf who bit you (many of these sections were left blank). Physical description. List of addresses. Other relevant information, such as a criminal record or jobs held. Of course, the names were listed alphabetically by surname, meaning Eira felt a sickening swoop in her stomach every time she picked up a Register. Burke, Nicander would always be at the front, always near the top. A few names were recent additions, but no one stood out to Eira until she reached the second half of the Register: Lupin, Remus. Not a recent addition—an old one, actually. She'd seen his name before, she knew, hadn't given it much thought. She'd heard all about his tenure as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, two or three years ago. It was an extra jolt of shock to realize that she remembered Lupin from Hogwarts.
She'd been a couple of years ahead of Lupin and the gang he ran with—that Potter, Black, and pitiful Pettigrew. It hadn't mattered that she was above them in years, and in a different House; back then, everyone at Hogwarts knew about that particular group of Gryffindors. One generally despised Black and Potter—attention-seeking and arrogant—ignored Pettigrew—a hanger-on with no effect of his own—and tolerated Lupin—quiet, sickly, and egoless. Eira hadn't interacted with any of them at school, nor had Nicander, but as the war dragged on and they all outgrew Hogwarts, Eira would hear Death Eaters cursing Black and Potter's names, usually with an Evans, as well. That must have been Lily Potter's surname. They were good fighters, Eira heard—clever fighters, and the Death Eaters truly hated them, for both Black and Potter were blood traitors. Evans was a Mudblood. Then the war ended and there was that whole Black-killing-Pettigrew-and-a-bunch-of-Muggles affair, which Eira now realized was probably a load of shit, though Macnair was skint on the details. Macnair had barely told her anything after she'd confronted him about the article in The Quibbler.
Lupin. . . Lupin. . . Lupin. . . Had he done anything during the war? And had his mates ever learned that he was a werewolf? Eira couldn't imagine so—werewolves were seen strictly in the darkest sense of their name—cursed and animalistic—by nearly everyone in their society. Why would Black and Potter—righteous cunts—have been any different? And Pettigrew . . . well, Eira knew next to nothing about what Pettigrew might have done about it.
Eira tucked the updated Werewolf Register into her robe, exited the library, and disapparated directly from the street outside.
Blood spattered the ground around them.
"Hold it."
Afon took the foot of the lamb so that Macnair could better separate the skin from its hock. Already, he'd slit its throat and removed its head. Next, he would hang it from the steel gambrel he'd set up behind Nott's house. Firstly, he needed to score a hole through the Achilles tendon on each hind leg, which would require flaying the skin from its legs.
"There we are. . ." Macnair muttered to himself. Suddenly, the membranes that held the lamb's hide to its muscles fell lax.
"Oi! Hold it, you!" Macnair shook the limp hoof at Afon. The boy's attention had wandered already.
"Fuckin' hold it and pull! Oi!"
The other men in the yard chuckled. Old Nott and Lucius stood nearest the kill spot. They'd been watching the proceedings with several other Death Eaters nearby, all ready to start drinking on a cold Saturday before noon had fully passed. In a corner, two house elves waited to begin butchering and cooking the meat for tonight's supper.
"Why don't you have them do all of that?" A Death Eater had asked when Macnair began to wrestle the first lamb to the ground. Both Lucius and Nott replied in tandem, their knowing of the reason the same: they would rather pay Macnair to do part of it than hand the whole bloody business over to house elves for free, for this was one of the ways Macnair made extra money, by procuring and slaughtering meat for wealthy wizards' tables. The elves could do the domestic part.
The kid was new, though.
"Isn't he retarded?" Avery asked, walking over to watch Macnair work.
"Why on earth—well, he doesn't talk much, true." Lucius said. He looked at Afon holding the lamb's other leg now as Macnair deftly notched the tendon to hook the gambrel through.
"They say boys grow slower than do girls," rasped Nott. He snapped his fingers and a house elf appeared with a drink for him. "This boy had too many sisters before him, if you ask me."
Macnair and Lucius shared a bemused look. Sometimes, old Nott was just that: old.
The lamb was now hung from the gambrel. Macnair stepped around it as he worked, expertly separating hide from flesh with the tip of his knife, then with his fist, pressing it down as he pulled at the skin with his other hand. Now the hide dangled off the severed neck, inside out like a thick, white jacket.
"Pull. Pull hard!" Macnair encouraged Afon as the little boy yanked and yanked, face screwed up and flushed as he tried to remove the final inch of skin from neck. Macnair made more cuts with his knife, gripped the carcass to give Afon less resistance. The boy fell on his butt from the effort, and Macnair removed the rest of the hide, setting it aside for later use. Ignoring Afon now, he opened the carcass from anus to sternum, cut and popped out internal organs, which he dropped into a bucket he'd placed beneath it.
The waiting elves removed the carcass from the yard, ready to prepare it to instruction. Tonight, Nott would provide a fine dinner for the Death Eaters who had escaped Azkaban last month. They would eat at the Riddle House, not at Halstor Place.
Macnair turned to find Afon prodding the bulbous innards, making the stomach jiggle and slosh. The cold in the yard had turned the surfaces of the guts sticky and dry, like an octopus left out of water too long.
"Oi! Leave it alone."
Afon withdrew his hand.
Macnair wrestled the second lamb to the ground, pulled out his knife to slit its throat. While he worked, the others talked with him.
"Why did you bring the boy, anyway?" Avery asked.
Nott laughed at Macnair's answer. "Securing your place in the mother's knickers, eh boy?"
Lucius was surprised. "Since when does Eira think about any of her children?"
Macnair ignored their jibes with a shrug. "She asked me to keep an eye on him."
Another Death Eater, hearing the conversation, joined them. "I didn't even know you liked kids, Macnair." The Death Eater smirked. "Good way to get pussy, though. Women love it when a man has a kid—gets them into the procreating mood."
"I can get my women in a procreating mood all right without a kid." Macnair distractedly replied to a chorus of sniggers; he was ready to skin the second lamb now, already slaughtered, already finished bleeding.
Afon stood up from where he'd sat crouched beside the bucket of offal and walked over as Macnair began preparing the second one. "Here." Macnair held a foreleg out to the boy, who took it with small hands that barely met around the hoof. Recognizing Macnair needed help, Lucius, deciding to be nice, removed his robe, rolled up his sleeves, and crouched beside the dead lamb to hold it taught by the other hock. Macnair repeated the process he'd begun with the first lamb, hanging it upside down on the gambrel and skinning it. Then he began to clean it, making Lucius heave and gag as the fumes reached him, giving the others a right laugh at his expense. He told them to fuck off.
Lucius adjusted to the fouled air around them and talked to Afon, teasing the little boy, trying to get him to respond. Lucius once thought the boy might be deaf, but he'd soon realized Afon responded to even the barest of noises. When Afon looked at him, his eyes were clear, his expression no less absorbent than Draco's had been when he was Afon's age. But the boy was so damned quiet!
Lucius gave up and talked with Macnair. When he finished removing all the lamb's innards, they crouched down to begin sorting and washing them. Another Death Eater came over to do the same. Lucius thought it a truly disgusting job, but even so, it wasn't much different from preparing some potions ingredients, which he still did himself to some degree.
In the middle of the conversation, Lucius drew a forearm across his brow, then paused to look at the blood drying on the back of his hand. He looked up to find Afon watching him; the boy's face scrunched into a playful grin as he pointed to the eviscerated lamb. "Ych a fi!"
Lucius and Macnair laughed, agreeing with Afon. "'Yech' is right!" Lucius extended his arm as though to touch Afon's face with his bloody finger, causing him to squeal and lurch.
The next five minutes passed with the two men laughing as they teased and goaded Afon. Lucius couldn't remember if he'd ever heard the boy laugh. Well, he was doing so now—heartily—flashing tiny baby teeth. The noise drew in other Death Eaters who added their own mirthful comments to the scene. The resultant piss-taking—about Lucius crouched in the dirt washing intestines, about Macnair's sudden turn as a babysitter—soon had all in a joyful mood. Far more joyful than several had felt in a while, for some of these were Death Eaters who had escaped Azkaban.
"He doesn't want you picking him up, man!" Macnair shouted at Jugson, though a smile split his face as he did. Everyone laughed as Afon scampered away from Jugson's outstretched arms. The other escapees watched the little boy with fondness. When was the last time a single one of them had seen a baby? Touched or held one? Listened to the trills and screeches as it laughed in pure amusement, totally innocent? Even the men whom Lucius knew had never cared much for children were trying to get the boy's attention.
Afon ran from another Death Eater; he stopped when he reached Lucius, stood just behind him. Lucius craned his neck over his shoulder to peer at the boy. Afon looked back at him with a hand pressed against his mouth, hiding a grin and tucking his chin into his chest, suddenly shy at his coming to Lucius for security when he never had before.
"What are you doing, eh? Since when d'you want me?" He cooed to Afon, who shied away even more, now with a grin that seemed to hide something secret and mischievous. It was the same look Draco bore when he was a toddler and had realized the adults wanted his attention.
"Ach! Go to him!" Lucius gestured to Macnair. "He's the one who's meant to be watching you, eh? Ugh, you smell like . . . sheep! Here . . ."
Lucius reached for an empty bowl and poured it full of water from a nearby jug. "Now come here. . ."
What was meant to be a simple handwashing turned into Lucius chasing Afon around the yard to get even a drop on the boy, giving everyone, including Lucius, a good laugh. In the end, he surmised that the best way to keep little Afon out of the way was to fill a metal basin with steaming water, give Afon a toy to play with, and leave him in the water until Macnair was finished. But firstly, the Death Eaters, howling with laughter, stripped Afon naked and squeezed him into a tin pail until most of its water sloshed onto the ground so that only the boy's flushed, giggle-split face was visible. They maneuvered him in the pail so that the second lamb carcass, skinned and cleaned of viscera, hung suspended in the background of the photo they took.
Eira
At the cottage, she showered and changed her clothes, teetered back and forth between robes for visiting and robes for moving around in, ones good for collecting frost and sweat between hikes. She decided she preferred robes for moving in. No need to try much for where she was going, Eira thought. It wasn't any tea party she was hoping for.
She stepped into her front garden and looked around. She saw, as if for the first time, the whitewash that had faded from years of wind and wet without retouch since her parents' deaths, the gray-brown stones making their truth known. She saw how the scarlet paint had peeled and stripped from the jambs and sills of the windows, from the door as well. Only the skull of the horse, hung sure on the gnarled crabapple tree, unmoved since the decade it had been placed there, looked unmarred. Empty sockets gaped like caverns, black and seeing, taking in all that went on in the garden; bone bleached white still shone stark as a phantom. And the tree, too—standing twisty and reaching as any old tree was the same, even though it had changed as it aged and grew with the rest of them.
Three days.
Three more days. Then she would be out.
Eira wondered if she would ever see the house again.
Eira stepped away from her front door—didn't bother to lock it, barely saw the point now.
She had thought to start with werewolves: Wright had got her to thinking that bit could wait. She would start over on the moors, today.