Chapter Text
Saturday, 11 July 1891
Eleazar Fig’s back garden
Ominis Gaunt sat on a thick, woven blanket on the grass of Professor Fig’s back garden. He held a book. It was something Arran had read and shoved into his hand earlier that day. Ominis tapped the book with the tip of his wand, spoke the read-aloud charm, and laid back on the blanket. Then, he yawned and stretched his hands past his head, bringing one back to rest underneath. With the other, he positioned the tip of the wand near his ear, in order to hear its quiet reading. His eyelids closed slowly.
Arran looked over to his friend, from his seat on the garden bench, where he had been reading an old magical theory article written by Fig. Ominis usually drifted into a nap in the afternoon, if he wasn’t at work. A blanket on the shaded grass was one of his favorite spots for such a thing. And today, they were both at home, or at least, the home they shared with Fig for the summer. It was more of a real home than Arran had ever had in his known memory. And he was at risk of dozing off himself on that overly warm day.
Arran didn’t want to nap, though, so he stood up and walked to the back door of the terraced house instead. He went into the kitchen for a glass of lemonade, and as he drank it, he watched an enchanted drawing, set in a frame on the kitchen wall. It was a pencil sketch of a cat that moved from one place in its little drawn room, to another, laying down for only a moment before moving on to the next spot. Never sitting still for long. Restless.
The undisclosed hero of Hogwarts was having a well-earned teenage summer. It was a change of pace from his tumultuous fifth year. Nice in some ways, surely. He finally had the time to enjoy himself, instead of all that fighting, and killing. He’d been practicing his fiddle playing daily, and had a job with a friend of Fig’s, helping the elderly wizard organize decades of research into manageable collections. There were always books to read. He’d testified against Harlow at his trial at the Ministry.
He saw his girlfriend and met her Gran when they had come to London. Of course, Poppy wasn’t his girlfriend anymore. Gran told Poppy that she’d have to wait until seventh year to do anything official with a boy. They could write, study together, and be friends as they had been. But there would be no more visits that summer. And the one kiss on the train was all there would be of that, for a while. His honour, in Gran’s eyes, was on the line, so he would obey.
He had a harmless summer job, a few hobbies, and pined for a faraway girl. It seemed so normal. And he’d never had a normal life. He wasn’t going to complain about it, but it was an adjustment to slow down like that.
He drummed his fingers on the worktop as he finished his lemonade. Maybe he’d go up to his bedroom and practice his music. He headed along the hallway toward the front stairs, and swung himself around the newel post at the bottom, before taking the steps two at a time.
“Arran? Is that you out there?” Professor Fig’s voice halted Arran at about halfway up. He turned around and returned to the lower level, where he stuck his head through the door of the professor’s study.
“Aye, dad,” he greeted him, with a grin. Arran had started calling him that. It was a lighthearted, but genuine, application of the word. And Fig didn’t seem to mind.
“Ah, Arran, are you busy at the moment?” Fig asked.
“I’m not.”
“Will you come and join me, then? I’ve got something here for you.” Fig was sitting at his crowded desk on the far end of the room, among tables and shelves of academics’ materials. Fig had given Arran an open invitation to use the room, but he hadn’t taken him up on it. Miriam’s desk was still there, untouched. The room seemed to hold a personal atmosphere that Arran wasn’t ready to disturb. It had obviously been a place that they had shared for many years. It was theirs. So he walked inside with a gentle step.
“What is it?” He asked, as he approached Fig’s desk.
“It is a story, of sorts. But before I hand it to you, I’d like to ask you to fetch something for me. From the attic.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Something small.”
“Something small?” Arran waited for more.
“Yes… uh, it is something that only you can find for me. Can you do that?”
“Of course, but what am I to look for?” It wasn’t like Fig to be so vague.
“Why don’t you just go up and have a look around.”
Arran stared at Fig, trying to make sense of his assignment. “Is that it?” He asked.
“Think of it as a little treasure hunt, Arran, for something only you can find.”
“Alright,” he said, not entirely sure what he had agreed to. But Fig wasn’t someone who regularly sent him on false errands. He’d never been in the attic before, but he would see what he could find.
Arran left the study and began the ascent up to the third floor. Once at the top landing, he met the raised panel door that was the attic room. A turn of the knob opened the door, and it swung in. Two small windows gave some light to the dim, unpainted room. There was a wardrobe, a dresser, a pile of chairs, stacks of boxes and several chests. There were paintings leaned along the wall and a large swath of cobwebs in one corner.
“Alright, dad… what is it that you want?” Arran said, to himself. “Something small…” He began to peruse over the goods. The boxes contained more of what already crowded the study downstairs. One of the chests contained some kind of dress. Another, several books and more papers. The wardrobe—more clothing. Nothing seemed to stand out as the possible object of Fig’s request.
Arran ran his fingertip over the dusty top of the oak dresser, before flicking the small dust wad into the air. The first drawer he opened did contain some small items. Then he pulled open the drawer next to it. There were also small things in that one. A silver box, some old combs and brushes, an old pair of gloves. He was about to push the drawer closed again, when a wisp of light flicked around the silver box. It caught his eye, and within a few seconds, he saw another brief silvery-blue trace emerge. Arran chuckled, as it was surely something only he could find. It was the familiar trace of ancient magic—the kind only he could see.
He lifted out the silver box and placed it on the dresser top. Fig knew it was up there and had sent Arran to find it. That was interesting. Arran tipped open the lid of the box. Inside was a rolled up piece of something fabricy. It was a long, narrow strip of blue, and all through it ran the wispy traces of ancient magic. He hadn’t seen any magical traces like that since June, when he’d last been at Hogwarts—other than those that rarely flicked out of his own body, or his wand. At school, there were enchanted soldiers, and chambers, pensieve artefacts, and tainted repositories, in all of which he could see the traces. But this house had been free of anything like that. Until this little errand was given. He closed the lid and carried the box down the flights of stairs until he was back in the study.
“I have found a rather curious object in your attic.” Arran crossed the room and placed the silver box on Fig’s desk.
Eleazar sat back in his chair and smiled at the offered object. “So you have. That didn’t take you long at all.”
“It was obvious,” Arran replied, with a smirk.
“Do the traces in that band appear the same as the other traces of ancient magic that you have seen?” Fig asked.
“They do.”
Fig laughed lightly. “Indeed.” His small laugh grew into a real chuckle, as he thought of some unshared humour.
“What is that thing?” Arran asked. “And why was it in your attic?”
“What it is… well, you’ll read about it. And why it was in the attic? Miriam put it there. She couldn’t keep it down here. That was probably twenty years ago now.” His face changed to a small, introspective smile, and Fig opened the box to peer inside. He removed the wound up wool band and held it in his hand. “There are objects like this in the world. You’ve seen some already. The soldiers, for instance. The map marking the restricted section. Other enchanted objects. All enchanted by people who can wield your magic. But there are others scattered around. They’re mostly relics from ancient times—from when your kind of magic was more common. Miriam found several over her years of searching. This band is one of them, and the only one that she ever brought home.”
“What is the enchantment for?”
“I don’t know, Arran. I was curious if it would be apparent to you, in some way.” Fig handed the wool band to Arran, who carefully took it and unrolled it a little. It was dark blue with thin, brown lines running back and forth over the length. Fig asked, “Does it react to you in any way?”
Arran examined it, turned it, and ran his hand along to the tassels at the end. “I feel nothing from it. I only see faint traces come out occasionally. Where did Miriam get it?”
“Miriam was given it by a relative of a woman who found it. She found it because she, too, could see the traces of magic in it.”
Arran’s mouth parted a little at that. “There was someone else like me?”
“There was. Several, in fact. But you can read about all of it here.” Eleazar’s fingers tapped down on a stack of several journals on his desk. “These are Miriam’s journals, Arran. They are her lifetime of research and knowledge of ancient magic.”
Arran’s eyes widened at the offered books. He knew Miriam must’ve had some knowledge of ancient magic from her decades of work on it. He knew she’d found and sent off the portkey that started everything for him. But he’d never had the gall to ask Fig questions. It was hard to gauge how much he could ask about her, without stirring up needless sadness, so he hadn’t.
Fig continued, “I hesitated to give you this earlier, because you’ve been through so much this year. And as much as you may wish to learn all you can about your magic, there are also things in these journals that might cause further stress to you. I wished for you to have some modicum of rest from it all. But I’ve thought for some time that you should be able to read them. Read them, if you wish.” He looked down at the journals, his fingers pushing each one just barely off of the one below. “These top two are quite academic, the third might be more personal to you—to your history.”
“Personal… to my history?”
“Yes. There are references to you. It is only a small section, but yes,” Fig said. “And there are some blank journals and parchment rolls around here, somewhere, if you wish to write out copies. Just take care. This top one is over fifty years old.”
Fig lifted the journals in his hands and handed them to Arran, who reached out and took a hold of them carefully. He passed the band back to Fig, who replaced it in the box.
“If you have any questions about what you read, I’ll do my best to answer them. I was alongside that lovely woman for many of her discoveries, and can offer my own perspective.”
Arran looked down on the bound journals. “Thank you,” he said, excited at the unexpected pile of knowledge he’d just been handed. “I’ll be very careful with them. I’ll go now and start right away.”
“I thought you might,” Fig said, with a half grin. “And thank you for retrieving this band. I wished to see it again, but didn’t feel inclined to climbing up there myself.”
Arran slipped out of the study and up to his room on the first floor. It was the room that had once been a guest room, and where he had slept on his first night at the professor’s house almost a year ago. It was now a proper room for an almost seventeen year old. Or was he already seventeen? He didn’t know. He’d hung a Ravenclaw House pendant on the wall. Upon the desk sat a few letters from Poppy, one from Anne, and one from Amit. The empty fiddle case leaned against the wall in one corner. The fiddle itself sat on the upper shelf of the desk, along with the bow and a piece of fabric-wrapped rosin.
He placed the journals on the desk and contemplated where to start. Sure, some hint of something personal to him in the third one was intriguing. But it seemed right to start at the beginning. Jumping ahead could put things out of context. So he pulled the top journal in front of him, and opened it to the first page. The binding creaked, and as gentle as he tried to be, the joint cracked slightly. He sucked in through his teeth.
The ink writing was still legible, and the first entry was from 1835. Miriam was at Hogwarts then, the personal notes indicated. A Ravenclaw, too. She wrote about her mother, and about Professor Binns, and conversations with ghosts in the depths of the castle. It was from Professor Binns that she first learned the term ‘ancient magic.’ She found an object in the history department, that was labeled as an ancient magic object, and placed there by Percival Rackham during his lifetime.
There were extra pages attached onto the journal pages with some old, yellowed glue. Arran took extra care as he turned those pages. They contained an illustrated list, in Fig’s handwriting, with a muggle history connection. In addition to providing her with that list, Fig seemed intertwined in her research in numerous other ways, both intentional and unintentional. Miriam had expounded on all the ideas and questions that she could think of, and had written it all down in detail.
The first journal wrapped up with Miriam’s early work, as an adult, and her discovery of other ancient magic objects. Most of the second book was filled with lists of crossed out names, with their possible locations and relationships to other names in the book. They were genealogies.
The third journal continued on in a similar vein. She was searching for people like him. Her interest in the objects faded as he read through the years of entries. Their enchantments meant that she could detect the magic inside them, with her magic cloak, but could do nothing with them. But her concern for folk like Arran grew over the pages. She wished to protect them.
Arran was fully absorbed when the little bell in his room dinged. He jumped in his seat at the surprise of it. It was the dinner bell. He thought to just finish the paragraph he was on, but had read several more pages, when Fig called up from the bottom of the stairs, asking if he’d be joining them.
“I…uh, I’d like to keep reading, for now. I’ll get something for myself later, if that is alright,” he called back.
“The roast beef will make a fine cold sandwich,” Fig said, and went to have his own dinner.
Back in the journal, there were many more names. The Figs really had travelled the world in search of living people like him—ancient magic users—with no success. But they seemed to have had a good time doing it. She came into possession of that wool band in the silver box, and then she ended up in Edinburgh.
Arran stopped when he read that. His gut tightened a little. It always did when he thought of that place. Every kind of bad feeling was tied up in that place. It was where he had spent the first fifteen years of his life, presumably. He tried to not think about Edinburgh ever. Not that trying to not think about something made a person not think about that thing.
Miriam had gone to that city, just as she had gone to a hundred places. She had a name that she followed until she could confirm or deny the presence of ancient magic in that person, and up until then, it was always denied. The name was Iain Lindsay. That name stared back at him from the old page. It was hard to move his eyes away. Now that he saw it written out, Arran had some recollection of his father’s name. And there, beside Iain’s, was his wife’s name—Jessie. She was maw. He supposed he had heard her name before, but it was only maw that jumped into his mind then.
Miriam had gone to their old flat, in 1883. Arran remembered that flat, vaguely. He remembered that awful night when his parents were killed. Miriam had talked to a neighbor who told her about that night. 1883 was merely a year after that night. Arran inhaled a deep breath then. He found his heart was pounding, but he couldn’t stop reading. Miriam didn’t leave the city when she’d learned of Iain and Jessie’s murders. She searched for their missing child. She bumped into him briefly, in a busy market, before losing him again.
That was enough for Arran to need to get away. He stood up and took a few steps back from the desk. His breaths were heavy, and he tried in vain to settle them as he wandered to the window that overlooked the back garden. He had run into Miriam in the Grassmarket. He’d done a lot of running through crowds back then. Being small was a benefit when weaving through such places with stolen money. What a good thief he had become, even after only a year with McTyre’s gang.
Miriam had been there. She had been within his reach. The thought was a sudden, terrible realisation. He needed to get out of that room. Arran bounded down the staircase, and yelled toward the dining room, “I’m stepping out for a bit!” Before he heard any response, his hand had unlatched the front door and he was outside.
It was an ordinary summer evening outside. He stepped onto the pavement and walked.
The words ‘if only,’ came into his mind. If only they had found each other in that crowd. If only he could’ve gone with her, and left that place. If only he could’ve come to London back then. Of course, even if they’d somehow met, he wouldn’t have known who she was or why he should trust her. He didn’t know of his own magic then, and wouldn’t have a reason to believe what she told him. He didn’t trust anyone back then. But even as angry and miserable as he was, had he truly known about her, he would’ve been so glad to get away with her. Years of suffering could’ve been avoided. Fionnuala might not have been killed, either, if he hadn’t been around.
The unfairness and wretchedness of it all swelled up a balloon of old anger inside him. He had tried to let go of a lot of those feelings that tortured him before. And he had done pretty well, considering. He had learned a few techniques for dealing with them, when they did come. Some had come from Fig’s good advice, and others, from his own experience. Walking was one of them. He would walk himself into exhaustion before going back home. He didn’t want to risk taking his frustration out on people he loved. He wanted to be the sort of man that didn’t do that. He wanted to be like Fig, and Professor Sharp, and even Ominis. That is the one thing he learned more than any other, during his year at Hogwarts.
Arran walked and walked. Neighborhoods changed. He had an idea of where he was compared to his home, but had wandered into an unfamiliar area. It was more crowded with muggles and the buildings were closer. It was a Saturday evening, and the folk in that part of town were looking for entertainment. He passed by a pub with music drifting out, and then a busy theatre. He had no muggle money for a ticket or a snack, or anything, so he kept walking. His pockets were also missing his wand. It was at home on his desk.
Down another street, Arran saw a lot of folk going in and out of an open door of a warehouse. They appeared in generally good spirits, and he was curious, so he made his way down to the door. Peeking through the entrance, he saw a crowd gathered around a central ring, where men were fighting. It was some kind of boxing or fighting club. He raised up onto his toes to try to get a better look.
“Thruppence to come inside, lad. Six for an eat-and-drink ticket,” a man at the door said. “Otherwise, stop clogging up the pipe.” Arran lowered down and took a step back. “Comin’ in?” The man asked.
Arran quickly felt his trouser pockets, which only confirmed he was penniless. He bit his lip and shook his head. With another step back, he turned and began to walk away. Soon, though, he heard the man call out after him.
“Hey! Hold on!” He yelled. Arran turned to see the man waving him back. “If you’re too broke to watch a fight, maybe you’d like to be in one, instead? There’s a few spots for open entry.”
“What is that?” Arran asked.
“It’s bare-knuckle boxing. You come and fight a man about the same size as you. If he knocks you down and you don’t get up again, you lose. If you knock him down, likewise, you earn yourself five shillings.”
Arran didn’t care about five shillings. He had some galleons at home, and in his new storage box at Gringott’s. But he hadn’t walked nearly far enough to wear out his undercurrent of frustrated energy. Fighting a man who also wanted to fight didn’t seem like the worst thing he could do. “Alright,” he told the man.
“Follow me, I’ll take you in the back.” The man waved him along, and Arran followed him through the crowded room, and then into what seemed like a dressing room. There were a few men loitering around. The man pointed to a cabinet with open shelves. “You can put your clothes here. I mean, whatever you don’t want to wear. Those spectacles will get broken. You should leave them here. Go down to your undershirt, if you have one. You can keep your trousers on, but I’ll just need to check your pockets.” Arran was suddenly glad he’d forgotten his wand, as the man briefly ran his hands along Arran’s waistband and the sides of his trousers. “You really don’t have a penny in there,” he chuckled. “Can you read, lad?”
“Aye,” he replied.
“Read that.” The man pointed to a list on the wall, titled Rules. “Write your name there, under your weight range.” He pointed to a paper. “Then wait in here until you’re name’s called. It’ll be another twenty minutes, or so. They’ll be a man to get you. Then you go out and fight, by the rules, and see how you do. If do well, or if you enjoy getting pummeled, come back again. Got it?”
Arran nodded, and the man left him there. He read the rules.
No grabbing hair.
No gouging.
Keep it above the belt.
Punch!
Entertain, don’t maim!
He watched the fighting men through the doorway for several minutes. He watched how they stood and how they made their fists, and then wrote his first name on the paper. He was well practiced in wand dueling, and the use of weapons, but fists… less so. While he knew what it was to receive a fist, he’d never actually punched someone else before. He looked down at his hands and slowly curled them into two fists. Poppy would not be happy.
He wasn’t sure what he’d got himself into. The anger he’d felt earlier had since been partially replaced with anxiousness. He didn’t think he could just leave again without paying, though. And it was all voluntary. It was a sport, like the dueling club at school.
Arran removed his buttoned down shirt, folded it, and placed it on the shelf. He did have on an undershirt. Then he continued watching, and attempted to hastily learn what he could. A man came into the room, read the next two names on the paper, and called his. He put his spectacles on his folded shirt, and then met his opponent, who gave him a good look over. They were told to step onto a scale.
While he was in the same weight range as Arran, he was shirtless, shorter, thicker, and older. He gave a small laugh, but held his hand out to shake the young man’s. His name was Bertie. Arran shook it quickly, and then they were taken out. They’re names were announced and they were soon in the ring. The ring was made of several lines of rope that ran between four wooden posts.
The fight was started. The older man had his hands up and he bobbed lightly between his two legs. Voices yelled and jeered from the perimeter, and Arran tried to get his bearings in that new situation. He raised his hands up. Fighting men defended themselves that way. His opponent began to lurch forward and back, with Arran attempting to orient on him. Bertie threw his fist out. Arran reacted and caught it with his forearm.
He thought about trying to punch back. He knew how to grab a man by the neck from behind and he could bring down a lighting bolt on someone’s head. He could curse a goblin dragon into ashes, but he didn’t know how to hit a man head on.
Suddenly, a knobby fist struck him in the gut. He tensed up just in time to take some of the impact, but was still forced to bend over. He straightened himself up fast enough to dodge the man’s follow up. As Bertie’s arm passed by the side of him, Arran sent his fist into the man’s bare side. It was a wall of solid muscle, and the man seemed barely bothered. He smiled in amusement.
“Nice try, kid,” he offered, as he punched back. Arran just managed to catch it with his arm. That is when Bertie pressed his real advantage. He had been playing… warming up. His fist went into Arran’s cheek, twisting it away. The powerful jolt sent pain through his face until it hit the back of his head, and bounced around. A confusion of which way was up filled his thinking parts. He began to fall to one side, but ran into the rope fence.
Bertie watched to see if his young opponent was going down or not. Arran wobbled, but got his feet steadily under him again. There was no quitting until you had to in that match, and Arran didn’t have to yet. He raised his hands in front of his face again, and took a step forward. The man circled around.
“That’s the spirit,” he offered, before he began to pound both fists into Arran. Every part of his upper body was a target. He tried to block them, but they came one after another so quickly that he could only accept that his fate was sealed, before another hit landed on his face. That time it was his same cheek, but higher up, on the bone.
He knew he was falling that time, and there was no rope to catch him. All he could see was blurred faces and the ceiling. Bertie laughed and patted him on his bare arm. He and the official must’ve conferred that Arran was alive, and both took a hold of an arm and dragged him to his feet. With their help, he stumbled back to the dressing room and was placed on a wooden chair. Arran sat, slumped, for several minutes while he regained his senses. At least it was over. How long had it lasted? Minutes? Seconds? He had no idea.
A rolled up wet towel was thrust into his face. Arran took it and pressed it gingerly against his cheek, and immediately took it off.
“Hold it on there, if you can stand it,” the giver said. It was the same man who’d thrashed him just moments before. “Keep cold on it. It’ll help with the swelling.” He sat down on a nearby chair. “First time?”
“What gave it away?” Arran replied, his lower eyelid threatening to cover the edge of his vision.
That elicited a hearty laugh from Bertie, who sat back and rubbed his knuckles. “We all gotta start somewhere. You did alright, for a first timer. You have a good defensive instinct, but your punch is weak.”
Arran agreed, but how anyone’s punch could’ve made a dent in Bertie, he didn’t know, so he just looked at him with one slightly contemptuous eyebrow.
“Welp,” Bertie slapped his hands down onto his knees and stood up again. “Take it easy, lad. And keep your face cold. Ice is better, if you can get it.” He began to laugh to himself, again, as he grabbed a shirt from a wall hook and headed to the door.
Arran was used to getting hurt, Merlin kenned. He’d gotten used to carrying wiggenwelds in his pocket that year. But at the London home, where his only injury had been the time his socked foot slid from under him while taking the stairs four at a time, he’d stopped loading his pockets with the healing potion on a daily basis. And he certainly didn’t have any with him then. He couldn’t even go to Diagon Alley for a phial since he had no money. He’d simply have to go home like that.
He stood, unfolded his spectacles, and attempted to set them on his face. Then he eased his shirt sleeves up his arms. His stomach and side suddenly reminded him that they, too, had been rather mistreated. He buttoned and tucked himself back in. Then he made his way through the crowd with his head down. Someone gave him an exuberant slap on his shoulder on his way past. He just winced and walked faster, until he was out into the thick night air.
Arran sighed and began his walk in the direction of home. He was pretty sure he could backtrack his way to somewhere familiar. He wasn’t angry anymore. Something about Bertie made Arran unable to even be upset about losing. He had expected to lose, frankly, after watching the fights before his. Bertie beat him fairly, and without any show of malice. It was good sportsmanship.
…
Arran stood across the street from Fig’s house and pondered his options. He really didn’t want Fig to see him like that. Showing up with a swollen, beaten face after reading Miriam’s journals, when Fig had warned him of their contents, seemed like a recipe for disappointing him. Fig had been understanding over Arran’s past, to the extent that he knew it. But now Arran was supposed to be better. He was better… by a lot. Yet arriving like that might make it seem like Arran wasn’t as redeemed as Fig thought. He just did not want to disappoint the man.
Another choice was to try to sneak in the back door and find the wiggenwelds. They were in the kitchen cupboard. Fig went to bed on the early side and usually locked the back door by then. But if Arran had left the house in distress, as he had, Fig wouldn’t go to bed. He’d be waiting for the sound of the door. Ominis might be able to smuggle one out, but there was the matter of getting his attention—
Arran heard a sound off to one side of him. It was that of a man clearing his throat, and he quickly looked over. In the light of the nearest streetlamp, Arran recognised the familiar silhouette of Eleazar Fig. He was standing still, but at Arran’s notice, he approached.
Arran’s stomach dropped. There was no hiding it then.
He saw Fig’s brow furrow slightly, as he got a closer sight of Arran’s bruised face. “Had a busy night?” Fig asked.
“Uh…” Arran hemmed, and looked down. He could feel his face swelling even more under Fig’s gaze.
“Are you alright, son?” Fig asked, softly.
“Oh, aye. I’m fine…” Arran could hear how ridiculous those words sounded, as they left his mouth, and to add to that sentiment, he added, “How are you?”
“I’m perfectly well, Arran. Just been on an evening stroll. I needed to stretch my legs a bit.”
Arran had never known Fig to take evening strolls, or any strolls. That made him wonder if maybe Fig had gone out looking for him. Fig’s legs hurt him sometimes. Arran tried to swallow the knot that formed in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he offered.
“You’re home now, in one piece.” Fig gently patted Arran’s arm. “Let’s go inside and get you a wiggenweld, shall we?” Fig began to cross the street and Arran followed.
They went inside and walked down the long hall to the kitchen at the back of the house. It was a cheerful room, well lit during the day, with many windows. The original cooking had been done in a basement kitchen, but a ground floor kitchen had been added onto the back of the house. Fig gestured Arran to sit down at the small eating table. He went to the cupboard and retrieved a phial of the green potion.
“Have you eaten?” Fig placed the phial on the table.
“No.”
Fig removed a roast beef and some covered dishes from the ice box. He cut several slices from a loaf of bread, and began to assemble a sandwich. Arran watched the tiny squares of yellow and white on the checked tablecloth, as he felt the wiggenweld ease the pressure in his face and the sensitivity of his upper body. The tick of the clock resounded loudly.
“Thank you,” he said, as Fig put the plate in front of him. He placed a tray of other foods on the table, as well. Arran really was hungry, and took a bite. Then he took several more, and worked through most of the sandwich quickly. But he needed to explain himself, as best he could. “It wasn’t a real fight. I mean, it was voluntary. It was a sporting event.”
“Ah. Like a sporting club for fighting?”
“Aye.”
“With muggles?”
Arran nodded.
“Is that… something you’ve done before?”
“No, I’ve never. Well, I’ve done the dueling club stuff, at school.”
“Hmm.”
Fig stabbed a pickled cucumber in an open jar, and ate it.
“I’m sorry that you had to go out,” Arran began. “I didn’t go out looking to fight. I just meant to walk for a while. I read the journals, and got to the part you mentioned…”
“I chose to go out, Arran. And I respect your need to walk. I did some of that when I was younger. Sometimes I’d have a bad day at work, and I’d go on a long walk before I came home. I didn’t want to bring that mad mood home to Miriam. And I can see how a sporting club might have piqued your interest.”
“I only tried to get a look inside, and then they invited me to fight.”
“And you fought a man, in a ring, with your fists?”
“Aye.”
“And… how did it go?” Fig ate another pickle.
Arran huffed quietly, and a small grin formed. “Can't you tell?”
The edges of Fig’s mouth turned up. “Maybe the other guy looks worse than you… how would I know?”
“The other guy was fine. Perfectly unharmed. He was a nice guy, actually.” Arran scooped out several pickled eggs onto his plate. Then he cut a slice of Double Gloucester, and took a bite.
Just then Arran heard soft footsteps coming down the hallway toward them. Ominis soon emerged through the door, his wand up, as always, to guide his steps. He was changed into his black silk robe and pajamas.
“You’re back, Arran,” he said, flatly.
“Hi, Ominis” Arran replied. “What are you up to?”
“I came because I heard voices. And I came for ice cream.”
“Ice cream sounds like a wonderful idea, Ominis,” Fig said, and began to rise. “I’ll clear all this away and get it—”
Arran stood up then. “I’ll clear it away, dad. You can have a seat.”
“Oh, well, thank you,” Fig replied, and eased back into his cushioned wooden chair.
Ominis pulled out three bowls and spoons, while Arran put the food away. Then Arran pulled from the frozen compartment the cherry ice cream, and scooped some in a bowl for each person.
“It sounds like I missed the story of your evening adventure,” Ominis broke the silence of ice cream eating. Arran once again wasn’t sure what to say, but Ominis went on, “By that, I mean, I heard about you fighting in some kind of match, and losing.”
“You heard that?”
“Obviously.” Ominis’ tone took on a sharpness. “Is that a new hobby? Are you going to do it again? Go out and get beat up on purpose?”
“I just needed to burn up some energy,” Arran replied.
Ominis let out a small huff. “You’ve been like that for the last month. I’m surprised you waited this long, honestly. You need to join an athletics club or get a harder job.”
“Will you get a harder job with me?”
“I’m happy in my situation, Arran.”
“We could be labourers and go back to school with muscles, together.”
“I could not,” Ominis insisted. “I’m not giving up my job for anything.”
“You just can't give up Miss Agnes.” Arran knew where to strike.
Ominis dropped his spoon into the bowl, with a clatter. “You can pry Miss Agnes from my dead fingers.”
Fig let out a snort, but Arran went on. “Whatever shall you do when we have to go back to school? Will Miss Agnes even remember you?”
“She will! Why wouldn’t she? She loves me, in her way, and I love her.”
“Is love enough?”
“You wouldn’t understand, Arran. Highwing is not the same to you.” Arran gave a contemptuous look at that blasphemy, to no effect. Ominis went on. “There is nothing like a Paracelsus’ python to prove there is goodness in the world.”
“And pain, by the look of your arms sometimes.” Arran could see a faint bruise around Ominis’ wrist.
“Those are love squeezes. Hugs. Pure love. And I won’t be leaving her to work as a labourer, thank you. You go and put your toes to the grindstone.”
“Put my nose to the grindstone?”
“Whatever part of you, go do it.”
“Maybe I will,” said Arran, pondering. “Mr. Armstead seems like he’s running out of work for me to do, anyway. He wasn’t even that disorganised to begin with.”
“Another change of pace could be good for you,” Fig agreed.
…
The idea of something more active did appeal to him. Arran could see that he had pent up energy. He felt restless like the cat in the kitchen drawing. That was part of the reason why the journal entry about his parents struck him so hard. It would’ve been difficult to read that under any circumstances, but he might not have had such an overreaction if he hadn’t been storing weeks of bottled up energy inside. His job with the elderly Mr. Armstead kept him at a desk most of the time. He needed something to do.
Arran had only be teasing Ominis about leaving his job, though. Ominis worked for Mr. Merriweather, an affluent magizoologist who was often out of the house during the day. Ominis wanted to earn some money of his own, and while he lacked enthusiasm for beasts, generally, Mr. Merriweather specialised in the sort that lived in tanks, such as mokes, bundimuns, and a well secured streeler.
Ominis went to the man’s house, at midday, via Mr. Merriweather’s car that he sent ‘round, to check tank conditions and generally do not much. Then the magizoologist brought home Miss Agnes, a Paracelsus’ python—a magical cousin of the green tree python. Ominis was the first person she’d been able to talk to, and they got on well. It really was going to be hard for him to part with her.
…
Sunday, 12 July
Arran woke up the next morning in a better state. The wiggenwelds took care of his injuries. He went on a brisk walk that morning, for exercise, and decided that he would do that every day. There was a nice park nearby. Later that morning, Arran was freshly bathed and planned to return to the journals. He sat down at the desk with a better prepared mind. He began with the names of his parents, again, and then re-read the part about Miriam’s search for himself. She’d gone on to return time and time again, to look for him, even after years had passed with no hint of luck.
The last entries were about the early stages of Ranrok’s rebellion. Miriam was trying to determine who the witch of Bragbor’s acquaintance was. That was Isadora, of course, but her name had been scrubbed away from any records, by the Keepers. Miriam was so close. She had figured out so much from very little.
And that was the end of the journal. Arran re-read the three volumes again, and copied the points of his interest onto blank parchment as he went.
It was likely that a long ago ancestor of his was from an ancient tribe of people she referred to. They could all naturally wield ancient magic, and they called it ordinary. But that trait had long ago been almost lost, and replaced with magic as it was now. There were leftover objects, enchanted back then, that remained in the world still. That was all pretty interesting.
But it was the page with his parents’ names that he returned to over and over. For all those years, he’d not thought of them. He’d been lost in every way a boy could be. Lost from them, from Miriam, and from humanity. Her journals were like the missing pages to the book of himself. There were answers in there to the who’s and why’s and what’s he’d been asking himself for some time. Now, maybe he could really get on with it.