Chapter Text
The changing of sunlight to moonlight. Reflections of my life
Oh how they fill my eyes
The world is
A bad place
A bad place
A terrible place to live
Oh but I don't want to die...
31st December, 1995
"Life sheds everythin', Mund," Brian Fletcher always told his son, voice gruff and serious, a twinkle in his eye despite his rugged, worn appearance, "all except for the bonds that hold yer up."
"But Ma shed her bond with you, Pa," Mundungus had said, voice as deathly serious as his dad. Very insensitive, he knew. But his father always shook his head, a smile on his lips; sometimes a short, barking laugh in company. Often, he would also join in his laughter, or have a pleased smile on his lips. What a lovely thing it was to make someone you love laugh... Mundungus was too young to recognize the pain in it. The sudden glassiness in his warm eyes, the downward turn of his wide, usually smiling lips. Pain. He had become some sort of buddies with it over the past few years. It hadn't hurt much when he got his multiple ear piercings at ten, courtesy of his dad, but right now, Mundungus felt like he was holding all the pain in the world. Right now, on New Year's Eve.
"Pick up the call, McTavish," He muttered, kicking the phone booth's floor. He winced as he felt his toes burning, and his boot's front chaffed a little; the cheap, torn off fabric lay lonely on the wet booth's floor. Rain pounded outside like it was hellbent of ruining Mundungus' night even further, going on without a stop, flooding the streets of London. Passerbys under umbrellas looked at him weirdly as he pounded his fist on the wall. He was too drunk to care, both on firewhisky and desperation. "I know you're out of Azkaban, you git." He sobbed, unashamed, desperately dialing again.
No answer.
Mundungus slammed the booth's door behind him, tears mingling with the drops of rain. He didn't bother covering himself with the thin umbrella he had brought. His tears would soak him either ways. Taking a turn into the nearest alley, he slumped down against the wall and buried his face in his knees. He willed the night to make him dissapear in its darkness. What a better existence to be in? The one and only left wasn't picking up the call anymore. Fearful thoughts filled his head.
Who knew friends could ruin your life like that?
1st September, 1972
Mundungus was thoroughly enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame. He kept being flooded with exclaimed remarks as he was led through the Great Hall by a very disgruntled looking pure-blood blonde.
"That's the boy who tore the Sorting Hat with his piercings," he heard an older looking boy whisper to a girl at his side. Mundungus scrunched his nose, which he hoped was in a spoilt, unbothered way. He didn't want to look like he was basking in his glory.
Honestly, it was that green cloak professor's fault for putting that hat on his head so rough. The bloody hat had wailed in a horrible, screechy tone inside his head, making him wince so violently that that it slipped down to his shoulders.
Not very chivalrous. Not very clever. Not very loving or hard-working, or ambitious and capable of slyness, either. The hat sniffed in his head, bitterness evident. More Slytherin, though. And then fell silent for a while. Mundungus supposed that he had to talk back to the hat.
"Anything's fine," he grunted, feeling very suffocated with the smelly, itchy hat over his face. What a bore. He was already feeling tired of this magic business. Being a fisherman like his Pa wasn't a bad idea. He didn't want to be a loveless freak like his mum.
The hat sniffed again. "Slytherin!" He wailed loudly. Mundungus winced again. The green cloak professor's lips twitched, and a giggle spread through the other first-years. "A first time." She said, voice calm, movements precise as she took the hat back. Mundungus' face twisted into a frown again, trying to look unbothered. What a joy to have that thing off his head.
The only thing good about the day was the feast. The roast potatoes and roast chicken, lamb chops, Yorkshire puddings, the steak and peas and carrots; followed by mint treacle tarts, jam doughnuts and rice pudding. All the delicacies he had never had in the life at the coast. He wanted to take all this to show to his dad; see his eyes twinkle again, and the familiar smile. He felt a little bitter when he remembered that his mother probably enjoyed a feast like this back in her days, too. He suddenly lost his appetite once the thought crossed his mind. He pushed his plate away after a minute. He busied himself in watching the beautiful, starry view of the night sky through the enchanted ceiling, and admiring the interior of the hall.
The castle settled around him as the night wore on, stone and water and magic pressing in like a held breath, and Mundungus had the sudden, unreasonable thought that Hogwarts wasn’t built to keep people safe at all—it was built to keep things in. Secrets, mostly. Boys with sharp smiles and sharper names. The lake beyond the glass shifted and sighed, and for a moment he imagined it closing over him the way the sea sometimes closed over his father’s boat, dark and patient and uncaring about who came back up. He wondered how long it took a place like this to decide what you were worth, and whether it ever let you change its mind once it had. Mundungus pulled his cloak tighter around himself, feeling very small, and very visible, and not at all sure whether being unnoticed would be enough to save him here.
The fame followed him all the way to the Great Hall's gates. He kept his eyes straight ahead at the dizzying sight of the stairs. A clowny ghost-like creature sweeped up over them, emptying shiny particles on their heads. Mundungus only looked up with awe.
"Getting Off Never Glitter," a girl with hair as white as snow said excitedly from the back of the crowd. Maybe the middle, he didn't know, he was focusing on the lovely intricate ceiling carvings. The careful detail on each one. How he longed that they were items he could nick off the walls. He had enough experience nicking from the coast's gangs.
"Careful," the blonde prefect snapped, pulling hard at his cloak to stop him from stepping into a void between the stairs. He blinked in confusion. "Bloody hell," he shuddered, looking down at the moving stairs, "what freakish hell is this?" The blonde glared at him, hard and annoyed, and continued to lead the first-years down to the dungeons. Mundungus rolled his eyes at the back of her head. These snobby pure bloods.
"Narcissa Black," A boy with flaming red hair mumbled from beside him, surveying him with a sideways glance. Mundungus thought he looked as prim and proper as the prefect he had introduced: the neat hair, icy, piercing blue eyes and a cloak tailored neatly to his form."Think I care?" He asked the boy, his patience wearing thin. He had read books for coming here. It was a first, as he had never done that before. He had seen the Blacks being mentioned one too many times. He already knew that whatever type of family it was, it held power.
"No, but you should," the boy shook his head, and continued downstairs.
He was too relieved when the password was given to the slithering snake protruding from the wall. (Oviparous, it was. Mundungus vowed to never memorize the passwords.) The common room almost felt like home. It was warm, with a huge fireplace burning. A snake mantelpiece was at the core of the room, taking all the attention and was carpeted with colors of green and silver. A '*Welcome, First Years*' sign even hung on the ceiling, with a depiction of a snake curling around each silver letter. The best arrangement was keeping it underwater. He was immediately reminded of his dad again, and the fishes and days spent at the banks of lakes and seas. He was at home away from home, for a moment. For a few minutes, he only looked at the fishes outside the panes of glass, a small smile fighting to take place on his lips. He was the last first year to make his way to his dorms. His mood was dampened a little at the sickening green light, which he had just noticed.
The dorm was worse than he could have ever imagined. The green light was unsettling in itself, but the presence of three other people made him halt in his steps at the doorway. He hadn't shared a room with anyone except his dad before. And what was worse was that the prim red-hair from earlier was here, folding his cloak and unpacking his things. He guessed that the snow-haired boy was alright, as he smiled warmly when he opened the door. But the unbothered, uncaring expression that the boy in the bed beside his wore made him gulp. He hated people like that, even though he tried to act like one. It was a defense mechanism, really. Mundungus was sure he looked like a git...not whatever that boy looked like.
"Hullo," he said finally, in an attempt to ease the tension in the room he was sure that he was the only one overanalyzing. The snow-haired boy nodded and went back to unpacking his stuff. No one else bothered to acknowledge him. He subconsciously let out a relieved sigh. He prefered it that way. Being a nobody. Makes stealing and thieving way easier when unnoticed.
He made his way to his bed, the only one left unclaimed, marveling at the comfort of the mattress and the largeness in size. He particularly loved the curtains to hide himself from the other boys. He'd be using those curtains so much they'd be worn by the time he was going to get out of here.
Could he leave here early? He didn't fancy this magic stuff, eitherways...
Mundungus shook the thought of his head. Who in his right mind would give up such good food and bedding! Besides, the student body here was large. He'd be rich by the time he left. He hoped the cloaks had shallow pockets for easier nicking. He'd be in real luck then.
He stole another look at his dorm mates, eyes shifting away quicker from the boy with the straw-blond hair. Gosh, he'd never get used to sharing a room with him. He wishes they'd never try to make friends with him. He was here to have fun. But alone. He didn't need snobs becoming his friends and ruining his school life.
Would they even accept him? A father who wasn't a wizard, growing up normal and all, no mention of magic. He didn't want to take any chances. He didn't want to face rejection. He had enough with the brunette across the street. She had wanted him to take his piercings off and grow his hair out from the lovely close-crop he had right now. He dressed pretty normal, too. And the piercings would've thrown them off long ago. He guessed that families like theirs didn't allow things of that sort. He was quite happy with being raised normal. How boring he would've looked without his army of silver.
"I'm Evan," The warm boy said to him, approaching casually as Mundungus had settled into his bed, fidgeting with his wand. He gestured to his friend, the calm maniac boy, "My friend, Barty."
Evan turned to the prim boy, who wasn't looking as prim in his emerald pajamas, and now outright laughable. "And you are?" He asked.
"McTavish, Tarquin McTavish."
He nodded once and pulled his curtains shut, the thick green fabric sliding into place with a soft, final sound. For a moment, he pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the bedpost, listening to the rustle of fabric and the low murmur of voices on the other side. He hadn’t missed the way Evan’s eyes had lingered on McTavish, not curiosity exactly, but recognition. The sort of look people gave names that meant something. Mundungus frowned faintly. McTavish. It didn’t ring like Rosier, didn’t carry the old, polished weight of Black or Avery. He’d skimmed enough books before term started to know which names repeated themselves like spells, etched into margins and family trees. McTavish hadn’t been one of them. Still, Evan had looked impressed. Which meant Mundungus had already underestimated something, or someone.
That sat uneasily in his chest. He lay back against the pillows, staring up at the dark canopy overhead, fingers worrying at the edge of his wand as if it might anchor him. He told himself, firmly, that this didn’t matter. He wasn’t here for names or legacies or whatever silent games they were already playing in the open air beyond his curtains. He was here for the food, the warmth, the opportunities. For full pockets and empty consciences. Bonds were a luxury people like him couldn’t afford, he knew that already, even if he didn’t yet know why.
If he could speak to his future self, Mundungus Fletcher thought dully, he would tell him one thing and one thing only: don’t get attached. Don’t let the room fill in around you. Don’t confuse proximity for safety, or laughter for loyalty. Because the truth, the one he wouldn’t learn for years, was simple and brutal.
Some bonds don’t hold you up.
Some bonds drag you under, and never let go.