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“He’s at it again,” says Julia Campbell (née Cook)—age 35, doctoral candidate in history, part-time shop-clerk, newly married—looking out the window.
“—oo wha’?” which is her husband’s—Francis’—way of calling out who’s doing what with a mouthful of toothpaste.
“He’s doing it again,” says Julia, and gestures with her cup of tea. It is nine in the morning, a beautiful, sunny day in mid-June, and coming from across the courtyard, through the third-floor window of the apartment down the hall from theirs, are several intermittent but incredibly bright flashes of light, sometimes accompanied by a thud loud enough to rattle the dishes in the cupboard.
“Actually, d’you know,” says Francis, rubbing his face with a towel as he comes down the hall. “The other day? I ran into him at the bins and he asked me what a lightbulb was?”
Julia stares at him, openmouthed, until there is another flash of light, and they both startle, slightly. “God, d’you think he’s touched? What is he doing in there?”
Francis shrugs.
She frowns at the window. “Do you think I should say something?”
“Not very English,” Francis mutters. “Is it. Saying something.”
“But,” Julia gestures, helplessly. “What if he’s, I don’t know, making an atom bomb, or something?”
“Sure he’s harmless, love,” he kisses her cheek. “I’m off – shall I pick up milk on m’way home?”
“Yes please,” murmurs Julia, distractedly, pulling back the curtains and craning her head slightly to try and get a closer look. “God, we never should have had him over for tea.”
—
“They’re so weird,” Sirius mutters, head bent, eyes narrowed, wand outstretched and waving vaguely in the air. “I mean, god.”
“Who is?” Remus, perched on the windowsill, watching Sirius move with a poorly concealed suspicion.
“The neighbours,” says Sirius, turning in place, before seeing something out of the corner of his eye and pouncing on it, “Aha — Incendio!”
The corner of Sirius’s kitchen bursts into a small, bright blue flame, with a tremendously loud pop, and something fizzles out of existence as the flame dies down.
“Sorry, what?” says Peter, looking in from the other room. “Have you just lit your kitchen floor on fire?”
Remus looks at Peter as though perhaps this is not the first time this has happened.
“The ones in 3A. They’re utterly bizarre,” Sirius insists, ignoring everything, including Remus reaching out with a foot to stamp out the smoldering remains in the corner with the toe of his boot. “They’re old, but not, I don’t know. Old-old. They do weird things. They have weird stuff in their flat.”
“They’re absolutely one-hundred percent normal people,” says Remus, and Peter sends him a look over Sirius’s bobbing head that says oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. “They’re just – normal Muggles.”
“No, they’re not,” Sirius insists, jabbing again with his wand, then frowning at it and shaking it when nothing happens. “They’re weird, even for Muggles. D’you know what she does? She reads books. For a living. Incendio!”
This time, the top of the fridge rattles with the force of the tiny explosion, settling into a gentle shower of blue sparks, which Peter ducks.
“I’m sorry—just, why are you doing this again?”
“Doing what?”
“Setting your flat on fire?”
“I’m not!” Sirius protests, ducking under the kitchen table with a triumphant noise. “I’ve got fucking doxy nests! I’m doing ‘em in.”
“They’re not doxies, mate,” Peter says, slowly. “Those’re dust bunnies.”
Sirius stares at him from where he is crouched under the table, eyebrows drawn together, incredibly displeased on being called out on anything, and especially by Wormy. “Yeah, well, fuck it, I don’t care, this is an incredibly effective and enjoyable way of getting rid of whatever the fuck it is that they think they are. Incendio!”
“WHAT IS HAPPENING IN THERE,” bellows James, from the loo.
“Nothing!” calls Peter.
“Everything,” mutters Remus.
“Muggles!” snaps Sirius, viciously, and jabs his wand at another ball of dust, engulfing it in flame.