Lore II
[1]
The building stood at the northwest edge of Madrid just before the rolling hills of the countryside. Like most buildings they used, it was unassuming when viewed from the outside. A passerby would see nothing but a farm house. To the right of the building was a silo. To the left was a stable. There were even cows all over the field supping on grass and replacing it with the thunderous odor of their pies.
On the inside, a one-story, two-bedroom set up. White-painted walls and brown carpeted floors. A living room with an easy chair, a couch, and a flatscreen TV, but one that was basically an antique at 15 years old. Paintings all over the place but no portraits or photos of the "family" together.
It was 8:30 p.m. now, so the father sat in the easy chair. His cover name was Rudolfo Ortiz. The mother reclined on the couch. Her cover name was Valencia. Their wands were concealed behind them. They watched TV, which was playing some direct to video movie neither one of them had ever heard of.
"It sucks ass that we can't be there." the woman said.
"I know." the man said.
"I want to be there."
"I know."
That acknowledgement did nothing to placate the woman, who glanced longingly at the bookshelf in the far corner of the room.
"Don't stare at it." he hissed. "You know better than that."
"I wasn't staring. I was glancing. I can glance, can't I?"
"Don't make me curse you." the man said.
"Love to see you try." she shot back.
They had been assigned to this assigned to this house five years ago. It had been fine at first. They had played plenty of "games" at first, when they were bored, which was often. Within a year, they were bored of each other. It was the small things that did it. The way he farted as loudly as he could. The way she picked her nose even when he was looking. His hairy chest that and pits that he barely ever groomed. Her habit of snapping her fingers when things were just a teensy bit too quiet. The way he shouted when he was angry. The way she closed off when she was angry, sometimes for weeks or even months. How she wouldn't even smile when he joked. The obscene nature of his jokes. The small things. Always the small things. Now, either one could have cheerfully murdered the other.
Behind the bookshelf was a hidden staircase, a passageway so narrow that two people couldn't pass each other if they tried. Some obese members joked about getting stuck in there. One particularly obese member actually had been last year. They'd needed to use an oiling spell on the passage walls. The stairs went down for ten steps. After that, a right-angle bend, and then another ten steps. So on and so forth for another thirty. At the end, a metal door that could only be opened with a password. Going through that door was like emerging from the womb and into the open world. The room beyond was massive in size, a sprawling auditorium that could seat no fewer than five hundred, and lit by floating lights. All of the seats were filled with masked individuals and a low buzz filled the room. Ten fireplaces stood against not only the left and right walls, but the one behind as well. They could only go out, not in.
The stage had a side door, which led to a small room where she sat and read over the diary again. Her speech would be in ten minutes. Perhaps she wouldn't finish in time, but it didn't matter. She wasn't reading it for knowledge. Just for strength.
[2]
His name was Patrick O'Connor and I encountered him in Mist Valley, a Muggle village that had one of my favorite bars. You know how you read books and watch movies about small towns where everybody knows everybody else? Mist Valley wasn't like that. It was big enough that I wondered why it wasn't a city, and much like a city, the people were distant.
The walk to the bar wasn't noteworthy. It was downtown, and people ambled about, not really talking to anyone else. There was a kid walking around by herself, with a pink dress, and short black hair. In hindsight, I should have gone over to her, asked her where her parents were. But things were so different compared to when I was a kid, when the Beatles played on Muggle television and no one knew what a "Lord Voldemort" was. We're in the '90s, ladies and gentleman. A new decade with new terrors, and one of them was the 30-year-old white man being all too pleasant to a kid he didn't know, when her parents weren't around. It was selfish, it was cowardly, but I didn't want to be thought of as a pedophile, not even for one second. Let the police help her.
So I walked on to the bar, which was just called Lenny's. I wasn't in the best mood. I hated being in Records. Terrance Bracken was (and probably still is) the stupidest man in recorded human history. The man never crossed the line into pure-blood supremacy…but he did put his toes on it from time to time. His attitude regarding knowledge wasn't much better. "Knowledge is only for those smart enough to comprehend it. It's a waste of time to teach a fool."
What a damn fool, but here I am, ranting again and getting sidetracked.
I entered the bar and sat down at a table. There weren't many people around, strange for a Friday night. I had a steak sandwich and then ordered what I really came here for. Wizards preferred spirits like firewhiskey and wine and all that trash. I'm a beer bloke. Always have been and always will be, and Lenny's was one of the few places that sold Trappist beer. Trappist beer is made by Christian monks in certain monasteries in Europe. Instead of trying to burn witches at the stake, these people elected to make Einkels, Dubbels and Tripels instead. Lenny's only had Dubbels from Achel. I ordered one. It was full bodied, strong and fruity. And quite alcoholic. I had a terrific buzz going on after just one glass.
Here I am getting sidetracked for the third time, but Muggles are really good at making beer. To anyone reading this, I apologize. I promise we're almost there.
I sat at a table in the middle of the place. In front of me, and a little bit to the left, there was another table where a man and woman sat. My blood ran cold. The man would tell me later, in the basement, that his name was Patrick O'Connor…but for a moment, I thought it was Richard Nelson. Dear old Dick, as the kids, had called him had been a particularly nasty bully at Hogwarts, and I was one of his victims. I got stunned from behind once and nearly fell into the lake. He pulled my pants down one time in class. He shook me down for my allowance at least twenty times, pushed me countless times and sucker punched me at least once.
Dear Old Dick was dear old dead by the time I was 25. Drug overdose with Red Ice. I'll admit, I wasn't too saddened by the news. But if he hadn't died, I feel he would look so much like this man sitting at the table. The man had a strong chin, a full beard, a bald head and massive arms. He might have been handsome in a jovial bear/lumberjack kind of way, but the frown on his face was horrible. The woman wore heavy mascara and lipstick and an artificial-looking tan. Far too dark. She might have been pretty underneath all that. I don't know.
Whatever they were talking about, it wasn't pleasant. First it was in hissed voices, drawing little attention from the bartender and the people across the room. Then the conversation eased up, and they seemed okay again. The Patrick caught me staring and glared back. The woman didn't notice. She said something sweet to him. He didn't smile back, but his frown lessened, which was probably a rough equivalent. She kissed him on the cheek then stood up and went to the bathroom.
I thought about another Dubbel, then decided against it, not just with reluctance but real misery. The work day had been that much of a headache. I've been drunk before but never smashed off my gourd. I wanted to keep it that way. I'd go outside instead and have a brief smoke before heading home. Beatrice wanted me to get off the habit for good, but we were still working on that, ladies and gentleman.
Outside, I didn't even manage to put the lighter to the fag before there was a shove at my back. I stumbled forward a few steps, dropping both items. I turned around, thinking that someone just bumped into me by accident. In front of me was the angry lumberjack. Patrick O'Connor was easily a full head taller than me. His ugly frown was back, and he looked fucked off with me.
"Oi!" he shouted.
"Hi." I said.
You lookin' at my girl, mate?" he said.
"Huh? No, I wasn't."
"I saw you lookin' at her."
I opened my mouth to say something, but then the man seized me by the collar.
"Stop!" I said. "Hold on!"
The man had no interest in either stopping or holding on. He had a firm hold of my neck with one arm and grabbed my hand with the other. He dragged me into the alleyway behind the bar and shoved me hard. I went hard into the brick wall of the adjacent building.
"I deal with wankers like you every day." Patrick said. "Lookin' at my girl like I won't notice. Like I'm some dipshit."
I tried again. "Hold on, bud. Wait a second."
He didn't feel like waiting for a second either. He slugged me in the gut. The air went out of me, and I crumpled to the ground.
It was my second year all over again, face down on the ground in front of me. Getting hurt, when it just wasn't fault. The pain.
The humiliation.
And the laugh.
Whenever Richard Nelson beat me up, he would bray like an ass. Not a snicker or a giggle or anything like that. No, it was a belly laugh, troll-like and with bad breath, just like this idiot was laughing now. And when you told him that his breath stank, he would get up in your face even more. He'd wear a nasty grin, and you could see his bad teeth. The kid really thought he was hot shit, and he was really just the latter. I hated him so much, just like I hated this man.
I stood up slowly.
The man said: "You want a piece o' me fuckstain. Huh? Is that it?"
I pulled out my wand.
He thought it was a gun, and said, "I'm strapped too, bitch. You think I'm not?"
I had no idea if he was or wasn't. He wasn't reaching for anything when I cursed him or even making a move towards me. Maybe he really thought I wouldn't fire, if I did have a gun. We were, after all, in the middle of town. Lots of people would hear it, and there was really nowhere to run after the fact.
But I stunned him right into the brick wall of the bar. He made a grunting sound and sat down hard. The man didn't move, and I thought that was the end of it. I turned around to leave the alley.
Another grunting sound made me turn back around. The man was rising to a stand. His lip was bleeding, and he was redder and darker than a beet. His eyes were so narrow they might have been closed.
"You…son of…" he muttered.
I withdrew my wand again, ready for the charge.
"You son of a BITCH!" the man screamed.
He raised both hands and fire erupted from his fingertips.
[3]
"Mom?" came a small voice. She actually jumped a little. She had been that absorbed in the diary. She turned to see her little girl in the doorway, with her red uniform and featureless white mask.
"You know better than that, Two." she said quietly.
"S-sorry. One."
"Yes?"
"Everything is ready."
The woman stood up and put on her mask.
"You're shaking." Two observed.
"I know." One said and sighed. "I've done this so many times before, but I still don't care for public speaking, really."
"You'll do great. You always do."
One hugged her. Two returned it, looking up at her mother. One felt a stab of pure fear. What was that mask hiding? If she was to take that mask off, what would she see staring up at her? Not hatred, not in any measure. Instead, she might see the complete opposite…and that would be so much worse.
One pulled away, perhaps a bit too forcefully. "Let's go." she said.