midnight1990

[midnight1990]

Chapter 3. Borgin and Burke

Whilst in the back room staring at jars of eyeballs that seem to be staring back at me, my head is rushing with too many thoughts...

... I understand that Donius had to change his life when the ministry witch asked him to consider taking us in. I understand that he never wanted kids running around in his home. I understand that to live costs money, and that children inevitably cost another person money. I never wanted to be the responsible one. I never wanted to come here, to this dirty, shadowy alley in the middle of muggle London, to take care of my siblings and take orders from a bitter old wizard. I miss speaking Welsh and people not grinning at my accent. I want my tad to come and find me; I even want my Cadwallader relatives to acknowledge me — just one time. Only my mam’s parents showed any us any love.

Now I’m thinking of Mam’s family.

Taid was the one who’d started the gathering business that we lived by. His brothers left him and the family property to move further south, which would have been fine, he said, except they’d never spoken to him again. They were younger than him and weren’t set to inherit the land anyway, so he said he never held it against them. Didn’t want a country life, Taid supposed; wanted to be a bit more looked up to in the Wizarding World. The Cadwallader line had kept themselves to themselves mostly, respectable enough that the name was recognizable. Still is though, innit?

There’s been a small number of Cadwallader kids at the school since Taid’s time — one boy is on the Hufflepuff quidditch team, actually. Never spoke to him as he’s younger than me and in a different house. Not much in common, and no recognition on his part. The Burkes had all but disappeared until me and Llon showed up. The old wizarding families tend to be like that: popping out small but steady lines of offspring, then suddenly vanishing from birth records for odd stretches of time until, finally, one male member gets married and produces an heir or two. Theodore Nott is a good example of this. I’ve seen his father, and the man is senior. Theodore’s the same age as Draco Malfoy, but his tad looks old enough to be Mr. Malfoy’s father!

The thumping of the kid’s feet above my head snaps me out of my harried thoughts. They've probably finished dressing themselves and are now searching the upstairs rooms for mischief. Donius has gone off to the Leakey Cauldron this morning to meet with an associate of his, likely to purchase some non-tradeable items. I’ve been completely out of sorts since Donius unloaded all my debt information on me last night. I even climbed over the garden wall to go and walk through the alley, only skipping the parts that are exceptionally seedy.

I went into Diagon Alley as well, where all the shops had closed at predictably decent hours, while the few remaining witches and wizards strolled merrily along the street; just enjoying a warm night, I suppose. When I turned back into Knockturn Alley there were still a number of shops open, ones like the tiny old ‘apothecary’ up the street from Donius’s place. This other one sells ingredients meant for very specific old potions. The skinny old bat who runs it lives in the basement, where one can see the bright candlelight glowing just above the dark gray cobbles. Sometimes there’s creepy noises and shouts coming from the building; people say she performs ancient spells and makes special... tonics... out of human remains. That’s one place I can consider working at — during daylight hours, at least.

Another shop that keeps night-hours is a pawnshop towards the end of the alley. The people who go in there after hours tend to have shifty looks about them, and I know the items that are bought and sold there are often stolen goods. I’d rather not try my luck there.

In the present moment, I’m preparing to find a duster to tidy up this musty room when the bell over the door announces a visitor. I’m saved from having to attend the front counter though, as I hear Donius’s voice in jovial conversation with someone.

“Now then, I keep the ones from albino cockerels in here...”

He enters the back room, followed by another wizard with his face covered by the great black hood of his traveling cloak. Donius notices me standing there, and glances casually back at the tall, strongly built man behind him.

“He’s here to trade. We’ll be back in here for a bit, so I don’t want to see or hear any brats.” To the man he simply says, “My niece.”

As I turn to exit the room, the mysterious man nods his head and mutters a hard but wholly polite “mum”.

I wonder if he’s handsome, underneath his rough hood? Maybe I’d let him take me out to the back alley and fuck all the misery out of me; maybe Donius is actually going to sell me to him and the albino cockerels are just a farce; I’d probably let the man take me, at this point.

But I don’t stay to find out if the hooded wizard is handsome or not, instead I run up the stairs to warn the children to behave, or Donius won’t be the only one walloping them later. In my room I run a brush through my hair which — if possible — has gotten longer than my backside in the past year at school. I’ve got dark hair like Tad’s; some say it’s black, others just call it dark because it’s not got the sheen that the truly jet-headed have.

It’s too warm outside to wear a cloak in my opinion, though many witches and wizards do wear them in such weather. I pull my dusty work robe over my head and exchange it for a deep garnet-colored one that ends below my elbows.

I leave the shop and head down the alley towards Borgin and Burke’s, a dark artifacts shop run by Mr. Borgin. According to Donius, one of our long-dead relatives opened the shop with Mr. Borgin’s grandfather, hence our last name remaining on the sign over Mr Borgin’s business. Today, I’m going to see if I can wheedle a job out of old man Borgin; he’s always been quite nice to me and the kids, though he’s kicked out Llon and Gwenyn a few times for sneaking around his back room. He knows Donius quite well, and I’ve always had a funny feeling that he doesn’t like my uncle too much.

The dregs of wizarding society are out today; I pass shrouded witches and warlocks trying to keep their faces hidden; two stooped old witches stand against a bare wall, selling poisonous herbs and live, shrieking bats, baring yellowed teeth and looking as creepy as one can imagine (I swear, they must do it on purpose). Two goblins carrying bulging sacks and looking carefully over their shoulders walk deeper down the alley; two grubby-looking wizards smoking their pipes near the closed pie stall (dark arts aficionados have got to eat, sometimes) give me overly interested looks as I pass them by. I hope the resin cleaves to their bowls.

Borgin and Burke’s is thankfully empty when I open the door, and the familiar voice of old Mr Borgin comes hurriedly from the back...“I shall be right with you!”

“It’s just me Mr Borgin... it’s Branda!”

“Eh...?”

Stooped and slick-haired as ever, Borgin comes up to his counter and actually smiles when he sees me. “Well, look what the kneazle dragged in from the street! Glad to be rid of that school nonsense?”

“I suppose so...” I’m suddenly unsure of how to proceed with asking for a job.

“Excellent. And how has your family fared in your absence? I’ve not spoken with Donius these past weeks...”

“They’re alive. Donius is the same as ever...”

Mr Borgin eyes me closely — he hasn’t remained one of the most successful businessmen in Knockturn Alley without being able to read people — especially the kind to frequent this place.

“Oh dear... what’s the old bastard up to, now?”

“Well, it’s just... I have to have... sorry, I’m hoping for a job, Mr Borgin.”

At that, Borgin turns on his heel and points his wand towards the back room and a teapot, two cups and a bowl of sugar fly onto the counter. He taps the ancient looking pot, muttering under his breath until steam begins rising gently from the spout.

“Have a seat, my girl.”

A spindly wooden chair has appeared directly behind me, and soon a small round table from around the back is hopping awkwardly over the floor to stop beside me. He’s soon provided us with milk and a plate of rather stale smelling biscuits, but stale isn’t moldy, and tea makes biscuits better, anyway.

“Now then, what’s this about a job?”

“Well, I’m out of school now, so I need to start earning my own money and getting ready to live on my own...” I say as innocently as I can.

He’s not fooled.

“... and I need to pay back everything I owe to Donius.”

“Tsk tsk, I was afraid that this might happen to you someday. I’ve heard Donius speak of his grievances with your lot before. Family doesn’t mean what it used to, you know...”

Is he talking about Donius’s lack of concern, or my parent’s lack of presence?

“I’m afraid I can’t give you a full-time job in my shop as of yet, but I can pay you to dust up the front every now and again. I don’t trust even a quarter of those whom I do business with, and your inexperience...”

“Don’t worry about me, Mr Borgin, I’ll take what I can get, but I will be searching for...”

Just then the door opens with the clang of a bell (I hate bells, anymore) and a tall, solidly built man with a thin black mustache enters. I immediately stand to help clear away the tea spread that’s right at the front of the shop, but the big wizard is far from bothered...

“Oh, are we having a tea party in here Borgin, how nice! I could use a good cuppa... I do take sugar, no milk if you please!” He’s grinning widely, but the glint in his eye says he’s reading the situation before him — Mr Borgin is not exactly known for his warm hospitality.

“And with a young lady, too! What a delight! Lucius... Lucius you ought to come quickly before they’ve drained the pot! Old Borgin’s gotten himself well in!”

Borgin swears under his breath, while I avoid the stranger’s eye and rush to place the biscuits behind the counter, and right then Mr Lucius Malfoy strides into the shop. The big mustachioed man steps aside to give him room, and Mr Borgin adopts the same simpering, oily manner as Donius did when Mr Malfoy came into the apothecary.

“Ah, Mr Malfoy, looking well as always sir! How may I be of service to you?”

I’m beginning to realize that Lucius Malfoy may be bigger brass than I’d previously thought.

Draco’s always invoking his father’s name, either to impress or to threaten... he’s even done it to some teachers! It isn’t that it never worked in his favor, but he did it so many bloody times that a lot of us stopped paying attention. I’d always assumed the Malfoys were just a particularly rich family with a lot of connections, but now...

The elder Malfoy’s cool voice breaks through the tense silence after the big wizard’s rather rude entrance, “Mr Borgin, you appear to be quite occupied, forgive us...” his eyes find me and recognition dawns on his face, “You, girl! I’d not thought to find you here! D’you attend Mr Borgin as well as Mr Burke?” Malfoy’s brawny companion looks very intrigued, now. Before I can answer, Borgin himself jumps in, “She may be, sir! I’ve needed someone to dust off the display cases...”

Mr Malfoy takes this in, “Ah... I suspect the two of you were just discussing the subject.” His eyes survey the now half-cleared table, the teacups still full and waiting to be drunk.

I quip in, “Yes sir, and we’ve finished talking for now. I’ll be out of your way. Thank you Mr Borgin...”

“My dear girl, those teacups are still quite full...” he raises an eyebrow at me and Mr Borgin who, along with the strange man, is clearly anticipating what will happen next. I walk to the table and finish my tea in one gulp, knocking it back like a warm, earthy shot of liquor. “Thank you for the tea, Mr Burke... Mr Malfoy” I nod my head at him as I walk past to exit the shop.

Before the door closes I hear the other man ask, “Who’s that little chit...?”

*** *** ***

Lucius

Lucius could’ve sworn that the young witch he’d met in Burke’s apothecary the previous day and again just now in Borgin and Burke’s looked rather familiar.

It hadn’t quite struck him the first time he’d met her, but while watching her as she knocked back a full cup of tea, something began tugging at his brain. The uncouthness of her action had lit some dim spark of memory, though he could not fully picture it. He’d heard her refer to Donius Burke as her “uncle” but as far as he could recall, the man’s long-dead father had produced no other issue. He would need to dip into the public family-archival, always a good source when one was unsure of another’s background. Family history provided information on one’s character, to be sure; apples never fell far from their trees — he should've known, he owned a full orchard!

As he and Macnair, who was ever the connoisseur of poor hapless witches, exited Mr Borgin’s shop the other man cleared his throat, “So then Lucius, are you going to tell me about your young acquaintance?”

What could he tell Macnair? He hardly knew any more about the girl than his fellow did!

“D’you know of Donius Burke? The girl was working in his apothecary yesterday; I needed to restock the manor’s potions stores.”

Macnair raised a questioning eyebrow, “That’s all... no name, no address...?”

Lucius breathed deeply through his nostrils and tried not to roll his eyes, “Well, as I was quite busy seeing that Burke wasn’t trying to swindle me like the last apothecary, I didn’t feel inclined to harass his teenaged assistant on your behalf...”

Macnair waved a large, meaty hand dismissively, “Alright Lucius, I won’t bother with it! Good lord, you’re rarely any fun, these days!”

At this, Lucius could only stare at the other wizard. Macnair quickly realized how ridiculous the idea was... that any of them should be concerned with “fun” more than other matters at present...

Macnair cleared his throat apologetically, “Forgive me, Lucius... the summer air’s got me feeling some way.”

Lucius acknowledged the man’s flimsy platitude with his typical air of indifference, “Indeed, Macnair. Hot weather has always been rather... distracting... for those of your disposition, I suppose.”

Macnair rolled his eyes, “Alright, Lucius. I’ll be off then, do let me know if you discover any more about that young cunny...”

“Good day, Macnair!” Some wizards never grew up, and Lucius had quite despaired of his long-time associate...

He considered apparating home to the manor, but his curiosity about Burke’s young “niece” was still at the forefront of his mind. He supposed he could check on his order of dragon’s bile, though a mere 24 hours had passed since he’d made arrangements for it. Then again, he recalled Narcissa worrying about the possiblity of doxies in the attic...

*** *** ***

The kids and I are standing ‘round the counter of the apothecary eating lunch. Donius often keeps the shop open during lunch, and though he left again a short time ago, he expects me to attend to business, despite four small children in need of their midday meal. To remedy the situation I’ve had Llon and Gwenyn bring sandwich fare down into the shop. All we have for that are some tomatoes, onions and cold slices of sausage — pig tastes good, but we could do with chicken or beef. Goat is nice as well, but we have to wait until we know they’ve got a bezoar formed before we can slaughter one. The chickens are sold for fresh ingredients in potions, so I always have to ask permission to harvest one for food, as well. I think I’ll do that tonight.

Gwenyn’s walking around the shop munching on her sandwich as she goes, stopping at the genital display to read about the properties of hippogriff testicles, “You cut ‘em off a big horse-bird, then?”

“I didn’t, Donius might’ve watched it though, but he probably just bought them from a dealer.”

“Borrrring!” She moves onto another display case.

It use to be a thing where wizards would put a hippogriff’s ball into their brandy or tea to help with magical (not even sexual) dysfunction. We know that it doesn’t actually do anything, now, but some people still like to try it out when they’re desperate or just curious.

Llon looks up from his lunch wistfully, “I wanna ride a hippogriff, someday!” I’m sure he does.

“Well, you might’ve been able to do it in Hagrid’s class, but someone else ruined that for everybody”... fucking Draco.

A glance out of the window tells me that most shoppers are likely at the Cauldron now, eating their lunch or otherwise resting in the shade away from the sun’s growing heat. A few passersby can be seen moving up and down the alleyway... no one particulary sinister right now... oh, there’s Donius come back from his reprieve, and he’s talking over his shoulder at... Lucius Malfoy... again?!

That horrid bell cling-clangs noisily as the door opens to let the two men into the shop; time to act professional.

“Alright kids, let’s take our lunch upstairs; grab your cups... I’ll help you...” Ffionwyn tries to take Afon’s sippy-cup along with both of their plates, but I grab his kit from her before she loses everything to the floor. Llon’s still shoveling food into his mouth as he heads for the stairs, eventually grabbing Afon around the waist and hoisting him along. Gwenyn, meanwhile, saunters lazily across the shop while staring squarely at Mr Malfoy, sizing him up.

I say as nicely as I can, “Come on, Gwenyn...” but Donius is less patient.

“Get up there!” he snarls at her; she rolls her eyes at no one in particular and finally picks up her feet.

“You’ve quite the brood, Mr Burke.” Mr Malfoy’s lips curl slightly as he watches my brother’s and sisters make their way out of the grown up’s space. I nod my head once again towards Mr Malfoy, ignoring Donius, and follow the short ones.

I hear Donius sigh heavily, “I do the best I can for them, sir. The day the last one moves out, I’ll be a free wizard, at last!”

“I can only imagine...” now that I’ve heard that slow, haughty drawl more than a few times, I realize how Draco tries to sound like his old man, but the boy’s such a spoilt little twat half the time that hardly anyone outside his gang takes him seriously.

“You say you need the old doxycide formula, sir— please wait here a moment, I have some excellent product in the back... oh... Branda! Girl, prepare some tea for our guest, and be sure to mind yourself!”

Damn him! I’m only half into my lunch! Malfoy probably won’t even touch anything we offer him, but in the small pause I give for him to refuse any refreshment, he says nothing, so I set the kettle on and charm the dirty teacups in the sink to clean themselves.

I will say, Donius sounds much less simpering today than yesterday morning when Mr Malfoy was last here, but the servility is still present in his manner. For a second I’m wondering why Mr Malfoy hasn’t gone to the apothecary in Diagon Alley to purchase doxycide, but I realize that he must be looking for the formula which has been off-market for several years; the kind that, instead of only paralyzing the doxies, will properly kill them after 30 seconds. Doxies are nasty little pests with venomous bites, so they don’t need to be around unless one has need of that venom or their eggs, which can be used in potions (of course).

“Here you are, Mr Malfoy, how do you like your tea?”

“Plain, if you please.”

I place the tea service on the counter, turning the tray so the teapot is closer to me. It’s warm outside again, so I’ve chosen a refreshing brew of mint, the vibrantly green liquid glints invitingly as I pour it into a cup for him. When I hand him the cup and saucer, the look on his face is one of mild surprise — he probably didn’t expect I would have even that much etiquette. As he is standing, he holds the saucer up as he takes a sip, rather than leaving it on the counter.

“Pleasant” he murmurs, and I take this as my cue to leave, but before I can turn around he asks, “Forgive me... I couldn’t help but notice earlier... your lip...?” He gestures to a corner of his mouth, looking curious. The left side of my own is cut and bruised from when Donius hit me yesterday; the inside all shredded and tender. I freeze for a brief second, digging through my brain for an excuse, “I tripped and fell against the doorway.” I try to look him dead in the eyes as I say this. He raises an eyebrow, his expression unperturbed, “Doorway, eh?”

“The doorway looks worse.”

Mr Malfoy makes a sound like he’s just held back a snort, returning to his tea; I turn to leave him, but he calls after me, “Now, you’re not going to leave me here alone, are you? It’s awfully dull to take tea on one’s own!”

I want to go back to eating my sandwich, but it would be rude to refuse him my company — he’s too high up, and I’m too low down.

“‘Course, sir, but I’m afraid I only brought one cup...” of course, he merely conjures a second saucer and cup. I add a small spoon of sugar into my tea, mixing it in with quick circular motions that clink gently against the porcelain until I remember how Aunt Onyxia reacted the first time she had me over for Sunday tea — “Miss Patreva... kindly stir your tea in a civilized manner!” — I immediately cease what I’m doing and switch to gently moving my spoon back and forth. Mr Malfoy seems to be trying not to smirk over his own drink.

“My son used to do that on purpose when he was little... the boy enjoyed rattling his mother on occasion.”

“I know Draco a bit — we were in the same house.”

Mr Malfoy doesn’t seem too surprised at this; at least he looks interested.

“Ah, yes... Slytherin was my house as well; I was made prefect in my fifth year.”

“I was, too.” Indeed, I became a prefect the year my life went to absolute pieces. I was quite shocked, as I was set to take remedial classes to catch up on what I’d missed in the spring.

“Truly? I must ask you then, how did you find my son’s behavior throughout your appointment?”

Oh Lord, I’m not sure if I should answer him truthfully — I was one of the few Slytherin prefects who would hold Draco accountable for literally anything.

I take a busy sip of tea, “Well, he’s quite smart; he’s entertaining, and he sometimes treats his friends during Hogsmeade trips...” those really are the only good bits of Draco’s personality as far I could see, and even then he was often being a prat! His father nods his head, keeping his grey eyes on me, waiting for more information. How honest can I be with this man...?

“And how was his behavior with you?”

“Well... he didn’t like me much as a prefect. A lot of the prefects try to avoid reporting students in their own houses — I wasn’t one of them. I liked doing the job, but Draco was a good student as far as I know...”

“Severus and I communicate regularly about my son’s progress at school... but please, does he at least show you due respect?”

Well, if he’s asking me... I shake my head and grin wryly into my cup, “He does tend to call me a ‘stupid, bleeding cow’ when he sees me, but most of us students cursed our prefects, so I suppose I can’t really...”

Mr Malfoy sets his cup onto its saucer with an audible clink and places it on the counter.

“I must apologize, on behalf of my son...”

Just then Donius finally emerges from the hidden storeroom next to the cellar — it’s too bad the devil’s snare is kept trimmed and placid in the dark, dank space or Donius might have his ankles snatched out from beneath him, someday...

“Here you are sir! I do apologize for the wait sir... I hope this one”...he throws a dark look at me...”has been minding herself?”

“Indeed, Mr Burke, your... assistant... has been a fine hostess.” He raises the cup to his lips and takes a leisurely sip, as if Donius can’t possibly have any other business to attend to, but that’s the thing about this world, isn’t it? The rich may take their time, and the poor must give their time — although Donius isn’t exactly poor; just a tradesman.

“Glad to hear it sir, glad to hear it — the doxycide formula you requested sir...” he places a small glass bottle filled with a heavy black liquid upon which a translucent, oily red liquid sits... that’d be the poison; it’ll do the job once it’s been shaken in with the black liquid.

“Ah... excellent Mr Burke. Shall we settle up, then?”

“Of course, sir. Three galleons and 12 sickles should do for this item.”

What?!

“Uncle Donius, that should be six galleons, not three... sir!”

“Not this one!” Donius hisses at me through clenched teeth, and the buzzing feeling I get when I’m upset or angry begins blooming in my neck and my jaw; I made that potion — last year in the basement, adding poisonous ingredient after poisonous ingredient, the steam burning my eyes and my lips. There’s a reason the ministry passed a law banning the brewing and selling of the shit.

I think Mr Malfoy is sensing the tension between Donius and me, for he now interjects, “I must say, Mr Burke, I found your first price quite surprising! Six galleons does sound much closer to the fair cost of such a... rare... concoction.”

Donius nearly sputters, “Oh, but... sir... I...”

“Come now, Mr Burke” Malfoy reaches into one of his robe’s front pockets, “I’m also quite curious...” a handful of gold emerges to rest heavily atop the counter...”how does one obtain such special potions, anymore...” he’s counting pieces of gold from the small pile of money, lazily counting off one, two, three, four pieces... Donius opens his mouth to speak, and the humming, buzzing flush reaches my chest...

“I made it,” I don’t say this — I proclaim it.

Donius glares fire into my very soul; Mr Malfoy has paused his torturously slow summation of his gold, his cool gaze studying me with a strong hint of mirth.

“You are the maker of this concoction?” Mr Malfoy’s eyes are now alight with... I don’t know, glee... disbelief... curiosity? It doesn’t matter; if some top nob wizard with no fear of strolling through the grimiest, seediest market in wizarding Britain wants to know how we get our less-than-legal materials and tinctures, I want him to know damn-well which items I’ve sweat and bled over.

“Yes, I made it last summer.”

“I see, and do you produce other such potions?”

Donius immediately jumps in, desperate to gain a foothold in the conversation, “She does sir, when I feel she can manage the instructions.”

Mr Malfoy has finished counting out six galleons, pushing them towards Donius while staring directly at me.

“Forgive me, I’d quite forgotten to ask you earlier... but what is your name, girl?”

Again, before I can answer, Donius steps in, “her name is Branda sir.” Malfoy merely glances at him.

I speak my own name, more clearly than my uncle ever does, “Branda”, the ‘r’ rolled fast and the a’s properly extended. BRRAAN-daa.

“Branda” Mr Malfoy pronounces it perfectly, the very Welsh sounds rolling strangely off of his tongue. “And your surname?”

“Burke, sir.”

“Of course, of course.”

He’s gazing more steadily at me now than before, looking down his long, sharp nose at me.

“Her mother’s a Cadwallader.” Donius adds, and when I look at him I’m surprised to find him no longer bobbing submissively, nor flicking his eyes about in nervousness. I think I know where this is about to lead...

“Who were your grandmother’s family, on your father’s side?”

Here they come — the questions of ‘whose your family?’ ‘whose your blood? ‘how many magical grandparents can you claim?’

“Flints” I answer with confidence.

“I see, and your maternal grandmother? What was her surname?”

“Avery, sir. Her mother was a Prewett and my Tad’s tad’s mam was a Mulciber.”

I’m relieved to see that Malfoy looks impressed, if only for a moment — this man knows how to hold his emotions. I wait for him to ask for my parent’s Christian names, but instead he turns back to Donius.

“I trust our business today will remain... private... Donius,” he uses my uncle’s name for the first time, a clear gesture of — not friendship — but of guaranteed dealings in the future, and a degree of mutual understanding.

Donius bows solemnly to Mr Malfoy, “Of course, Mr Malfoy, sir. You need not worry on that account, sir!”

Finished with Donius, Mr Malfoy turns to me and, once again, I refuse to bow like my uncle. I wait for him to speak first, as he is above me, but he just gives me another odd, appraising look before bidding us a good a day and exiting the shop.

I look at Donius, my feet planted and my hands curling into fists, ready to defend myself if need be, but the old man isn’t looking at me in that way, rather he’s wearing a strange, almost... worried? No, he doesn’t waste time worrying over me... a disturbed expression on his face.

For what, though?! I think our deal with Mr Malfoy went even better after I spoke with him...!

[midnight1990]

Chapter 2. Mr Malfoy

Cracking eggs into the pan, I wonder how my plans will flesh out in the following months: make money, find a home away from this place, and find Tad. I’ll have to prove to the ministry officials that I’m capable of raising my siblings without the other Burkes. Perhaps I’ll finally get a license to collect dangerous ingredients for the shop...strike a deal with Uncle Donius and keep a percentage of the profits. If there’s something in it for him, then he should be amenable. I could peddle on the side as well, though that would surely lead to the black market in non-tradable substances. If I’m caught doing that, I’ll never get the kids.

A crisp snap of the newspaper breaks through my thoughts, and just as well — the sausages are beginning to smoke. I plate up our morning meal and set the coffee on the table (he makes his tea when he wakes up). As I tuck into fried eggs and buttery toast, I consider asking now about my plan...the money part, not the contacting-my-dad part. He seems content this morning; he hasn’t cursed at me nor complained grumpily of any goings-on in the world, his usual morning routine. I suppose this is as good of a chance as I’ll ever get.

“Uncle, I was wondering if I could talk to you about something....?”

He grants me a momentary glance of his iron-colored eyes, deciding if he wants to engage or not.

“I suppose. What is it?”

I nonchalantly begin cutting up my sausages.

“Well, since I’m done with school, I think it’s definitely time for me to start making my own money, so that I can eventually find a flat — and hopefully take the kids off your hands.”

He’s put his paper down and seems to be considering my words, his eyes going from me to that place in the air people look at when they’re thinking.

“I’m glad to hear you’re looking ahead, but how exactly are you going to earn this money?”

This is the part I’m most worried about...

“I’m not totally sure. I’ve been wondering about getting a license to gather more ingredients than just wolf’s bane or nettles. Maybe I can find a job nearby, possibly two. I’m still thinking of options.”

He finally puts his paper aside and begins to tuck in. “Keep that train of thought. I need to talk to you about some things anyway, so we’ll have this conversation tonight after work.”

And that’s that, for now.

Of course I considered my career options in school with Snape, but it was never a question of whether I’d go straight towards my own future or stay behind to raise my brothers and sisters. Family comes first, but the Slytherin in me is still scheming and plotting. How can I get what I want, and take care of the others at the same time?

By the time we’ve both emptied our plates, Ffionwyn and Afon trudge groggily into the kitchen. The younger they are, the earlier they rise.

“Right. I’m opening up.” And with that, Uncle Donius straightens his robes and heads down the creaky stairs to begin the day.

***

Umf!

The last crate of scarab beetles is placed atop the others. More crates containing fresh ingredients are stacked along the walls of the storeroom, just behind the front of the shop proper. The crates today come from abroad...

North Africa and the Mediterranean, I think. Later I’ll unload them and put the ingredients in barrels and jars for display.

I turn to the shelves for my next tasks; they reach as high up as the ceiling, holding jars of eyeballs; insects; pickled entrails; phials containing various nectars and venoms. The more rare or expensive items like powdered silver or crushed gems are in a smaller room adjacent to this one, locked at all times. In the corners sit barrels filled with mooncalf dung, animal bones and mummified frogs. Chickens peck around the walled yard where two bezoar-goats reside. Other ingredients must be kept below in the dark cellar.

I need to refill the jars of dried salmon roe and powdered graphorn horn, the latter of which is one of our most expensive ingredients due to the danger of collecting it in the wild. I’m surprised the old man leaves this job to me — if I spill one gram it’ll be a disaster in his mind! I can already hear him “That’s one whole galleon more than you’re worth!” A single gram of powdered graphorn horn is worth one galleon, and right now I’m working with roughly 600! Maybe I should skive some off the top and —

But I don’t get to consider to whom I might sell a gram of powdered graphorn horn as the bell above the front door clangs loudly through the shop. Donius is tending the front, so I won’t have to serve whatever troll cross-breed needs attending to.

“Mr. Burke, I presume?” A man’s drawling, upper-class voice reaches my ears; probably not a troll look-alike...that voice actually sounds a mite familiar...

“I am, yes” I hear my uncle turn on his stool, then, “...Lucius Malfoy...? Why, I haven’t received your patronage in years, sir! To what do I owe this pleasure?!”

I haven’t heard him this excited since...never? My attention is caught as well, though. I know Malfoy — Draco Malfoy — as I was one of his prefects for three years. Little snot; always needed more discipline.

“I’m in London on business today, and my manor’s potion stores are in need of resupplying. I’ve brought a list...” there’s the crisp rustle of a roll of parchment being pulled from a pocket...”of each ingredient as well as the amounts I desire.”

Lucius Malfoy speaks in a way that suggests he knows full-well who is in control of this exchange — him. In less than one minute my Uncle has gone from hectoring old scrote to obsequious toady.

There’s a few moments of paused silence as Uncle goes over the list.

“We’ve plenty of dragons’ blood, sir, but I’m currently awaiting a shipment for the creature’s bile, which should be here within the week. Shall I put your name down for it sir? I can assure you’ll be the first to receive your order sir!”

Good God, how many times must he call him “sir”? And on his own premises!

“That is acceptable, though I would prefer not to pay for the item before it arrives.”

“Certainly, sir! As for the rest, shall they be delivered to you later or...”

Mr. Malfoy’s cuts in with a rather cool reply, “Yes, of course. I’ve no intention of porting around such...delicate...supplies.”

He’s implying that my uncle expected he would carry his purchases with him like any common shopper, which I’ve gathered from his fine speech and dictating manner, he is not.

“Of course not sir! Of course not! What an idea!”

I’ve completely stopped filling the jar of salmon roe — I’ll probably never get to hear Uncle Donius humble himself in this way, and I want to enjoy every last second of it, even as it is making me cringe.

Mr. Malfoy drawls on, “I’ve time to spare before I’m expected at the ministry...I should like to observe each item, if you please...”

I expect this is the closest he ever gets to making a polite request.

“Not at all, sir! Girl!” He shouts through the wall, probably worried I’m dozing off at his moment of potential glory, but I don’t wait to answer him — this kind of business deal really is important.

“Aye?”

“Bring out the dragon’s blood, and quickly!”

“Which kind?” A dragon’s not just a dragon, after all!

“I said dragon’s blood!”

A frustrated sigh escapes me; if he’s going to sell such an important item to such a — supposedly — important wizard, shouldn’t he be more discerning? I shake the dust off my robes and walk closer to the doorway, mustering as respectful a tone as I can,

“No no Uncle, I meant”... I stick my neck around the doorframe to look earnestly in his face...”I meant what kind of dragon’s blood? There’s opaleye, longhorn, vipertooth...”

“Dear me, I hadn’t remembered to check...a rare oversight on my part...”

There’s that lazy drawl again, though it now holds a note of curiosity. I finally get a look at Draco’s own tad. By Christ, they look exactly the same, except where Draco is still soft like a youth, his old man is hard and angled. On the whole, a lot more impressive than his son, who I’m sure imagines himself to be just as imposing. Mr. Malfoy’s pale eyes sweep over my face, silently taking me in before turning back to my uncle, a somewhat wicked glint in his previously cold eyes.

“Your recommendations, Mr. Burke?”

Uh-oh. He’s challenging him. I step into the front of the shop behind the counter, feeling responsible for putting my uncle on the spot.

“Beg pardon...I should’ve asked if you need it for general use, or in a more specific capacity. Most dragon’s blood can be used interchangeably, but some potions are best made with a particular species’ blood — sir.”

Malfoy’s cold, sharp eyes are now gazing at me, one eyebrow rising slightly. I’ve said sir with deliberate — but still respectful — firmness; he is my elder, after all, besides occupying several stations above me. It’s hard to brush off centuries of convention, and my entire extended family are, by and large, traditionalists. I’m still not licking his boots, though.

Uncle clears his throat awkwardly, “yes...yes of course, I should’ve...”

But Mr. Malfoy doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to my uncle’s stammering apologies...

“Where is that accent from?” The corner of his mouth twitches — is he trying to keep from smirking? Well, there’s only one way to answer his question.

“Cymru, sir”.

“Ah, I thought it sounded...Celtic...how charming.”

There’s a certain rivalry between us Welsh wizards and our English counterparts. Primarily it has to do with Welsh language-use, the rest is friendly (usually) regional nonsense; national pride and all that. English is almost everyone’s first language in Wales, and many wizards born there don’t speak Welsh at all; they may not even have Welsh accents! But for wizarding families that have lived deep in the country for centuries, Welsh is still used on the daily. Back when Hogwarts was first built, Celtic languages like Irish and Welsh were still widely spoken, and students from those areas didn’t always know English...or French, which became important once the Normans came over in 1066. Those would be Malfoy’s ancestors; many of the old pureblood families are descended from the conquerors.

The problem now is that people still see no problem asking “why don’t you just speak English?” That’s an easy one: to annoy the English.

It’s funny where history likes to pop up, innit? Like at this very moment, but Mr. Malfoy is finished with his assessment of me...

“A generic variety will do for today. If I ever have need of a particular...strain...I will be sure to inquire here, first.”

Uncle finally manages to cut in, “honored, sir! We would be honored by your patronage in the future, sir! Here!” Uncle shoves the list of goods in my face, “Go back and gather these items... carefully!”

He grits his teeth on the last word — that’s how you know he’s truly embarrassed. Well, if he’d been more concerned with asking the usual questions instead of kissing someone’s arse...!

I keep my mouth shut and go back to the storeroom. I have more pressing things to attend to than sniping back at Arse-licker, like getting through Malfoy’s list without making a mistake. Ever since I came to live here, my eyesight has gone funny. It became less strained during school, but this last year my eyes kept blurring the words in my books and class-notes. No one in my family but the elderly have ever needed glasses, so I’m not sure where I got it from, but if it gets any worse, I’ll have to buy a pair.

Written on the list are five ingredients, which is five too many to become low on...in my opinion, at least. I take the thick glass jug filled with dragon’s blood (Romanian longhorn) from the locked storeroom and bring it into the shop, where my uncle and Mr. Malfoy are discussing trade laws. Again in the back room, I squint over the list. There’s wolf’s bane, though he’s written it as “aconite”; dragon bile, which he’ll be waiting on for about a week; essence of dittany; and finally, flobberworm mucus — used to thicken potions. The handwriting is a fine, perfectly executed script; he probably had to sit at a desk as a boy and write his name a thousand times until his mother, tutor or whoever was satisfied with its form.

By the time I bring out the last of the ingredients, Mr. Malfoy seems to have satisfied himself with the quality of our products and is now viewing the other ingredients in the shop.

“You’ve quite the collection, Mr. Burke. I haven’t seen such curious...er, wares on display even in the most eccentric venues of Europe!”

Oh no, he’s noticed that part of the shop.

Nearly anything in nature can be used for potions...grass cuttings and crushed stones; animal droppings; human remains, even. But every book written on the history of potions will list a special kind of ingredient that has been used since the very dawn of potion-brewing: reproductive organs.

The display which Mr. Malfoy is referring to holds exactly those things...including various animal genitalia. Some are dried and set in glass cases, while most have been preserved in jars along a shelf. Each item is clearly labeled with the organ, the species it belongs to, and the unique properties it possesses. It isn’t the largest display we have, but it’s certainly the most eye-catching. I try to keep straight-faced as possible, but I can’t stop a creeping blush from burning my cheeks.

Donius finally manages a sentence that doesn’t make him sound like a total arse-kissing nitwit.

“Yes sir. This establishment never shies away from the less conventional and exotic. Waste not, want not, eh sir?”

Mr. Malfoy gives Uncle an appraising look, “Indeed. Well, everything appears to be in order...”

They settle on a price: 220 galleons for the lot, minus the dragon bile. The gold coins glint tauntingly in the light from the windows — I want that money.

“When shall I have these delivered, sir?”

“The sooner the better, I think. Now, I must be going. I expect the dragon bile within the week, Mr. Burke”.

“Of course, sir! As soon as it arrives, sir!” Uncle bows deeply; Mr. Malfoy merely looks down his long nose at him, a smug grin playing at his lips, but the real kicker is when he looks to me, as if he expects that I’ll do the same as my uncle. Instead, I stiffen my jaw and nod my head to him, looking him in the eye at all times. You’re in my house, old man — I’m not your servant.

He stares hard at me, and I can’t tell if he’s offended or...amused...?

Finally, with a swish of his long black cloak he turns toward the door.

“Well, a good day to you both!”

About 2 milliseconds after the bell has stopped ringing, I’m on the shop floor spitting blood into my hand.

***

Uncle Donius was so sore with me over his embarrassment this morning that he didn’t even stay for lunch...or bother with tea! Between his hurt pride and my cut lip, I think the transaction with Mr. Malfoy went rather well, though!

It’s nearing closing time, and after feeding the animals and sweeping the shop floor I leave Uncle checking his inventory and drag my way to the kitchen upstairs to prepare dinner. The old man will either join us or head to a pub — my money’s on the latter. I’ve been peeling potatoes when Gwenyn makes her presence in the kitchen known by throwing an airplane made of parchment directly over my head; I watch as it glides out of the window and onto the dirty cobbles below.

“What’s for dinner tonight, eh?”

“Noswaith dda to you, too!”

Gwenyn means bee, and she’s almost as busy and as irritating as her namesake. By busy I mean busy being either lazy or a pain. She and Llon are quite alike in personality, but where he is more adventurous, Gwenyn is mischievous.

“Get out, or help.” Why did I have to be born first?

I know when she walks further into the kitchen and plants her bottom in a chair that it isn’t to help at all.

“Don’ wanna leave, do I?”

“Alright, then.” With that, I grab a handful of potato peelings and toss the soggy brown bits into her face.

“Oi! Betch!”

Before she can react too quickly, I grab the back of her chair and dump her onto the floor, potato peelings falling through her long yellow hair, sliding down her shirt front and sticking to her round red face, which is snarling up at me in abject fury.

“I’M GONNA BLOODY KILL YOU, YOU...”

“WHAT’S GOING ON UP THERE?! I’LL THROW YOU LOT OUT...SHUT UP!!!

*** *** ***

Surprisingly our venerable old uncle has decided to join us unruly lot for boiled potatoes, sausage and buttered bread. Normally, after a day as eventful as this was, he’d have been long ago stewing in his cups at the Leakey Cauldron, or perhaps at the Broken Bone, one of two pubs in Knockturn Alley.

Llon was out running around Diagonal Alley all day and came in so late that he had to climb over the garden wall. That’s how we’re required to get in if we don’t make it back before closing — a jaunt over a stone wall. He had two scrawny lizards tucked in his pocket which he says the owner of the Magical Menagerie gave him.

“They was s’posed to be food, bu’ she said the owls would’n touch ‘em. Reckoned they were sickly or somfink.”

Between my thick Welsh accent, Uncle’s regular English accent and those of the city boys he made friends with at school, Llon’s speech has transformed into something I can’t identify.

“What were you doing in there...?”

This boy’s penchant for animals gets him in trouble sometimes — he’s tried riding a billy goat through the alley, only to be thrown into a stack of caged Cornish pixies, which sent them flying all over! He got attacked by a mother owl when he tried to make off with one of her owlets (we’re lucky the owl breeder didn’t try to charge him with theft!); and chased by a witch trying to wallop him with her broom for ‘allegedly’ trying to lure her crup (a magically bred dog with a forked tail) puppy with a rasher of bacon! He’ll probably die by dragon-fire in Romania, someday.

“I was jus’ lookin’ a’ the owls! I’m the only one in my room a’ school’ wivou’ one!” he replies, grumpy for a moment, then going back to his potatoes and sausage. He’s never surly for long.

Across the table, Ffionwyn is spooning tiny servings of potato into Afon’s waiting mouth, even though he’s perfectly capable of doing it himself. Ever since I brought him back here last night, the two have been inseparable, Ffionwyn acting as if he’s some foundling what’s been placed directly in her care. For the previous three years when I had to leave for school they would both go to live with Aunt Onyxia, but this last Christmas Ffionwyn was brought back to the apothecary by uncle Donius himself; apparently because Gwenyn, who was now alone without Llon, couldn’t keep out of trouble.

She was found climbing people’s rooftops with an old toy broomstick, ostensibly to “fly higher than a bleedin’ toe’s length off the ground.” Uncle lost her for nearly 24 whole hours because she decided to stay at the Leakey Cauldron because there was “better food, a vampire, and a circus owner recruiting new talent.” Finally, Donius decided that she needed something to distract her from mischief... to teach her responsibility...so he brought her four and-a-half year old sister back and told the then eight and-a-half year old Gwenyn to feed, water and dress her each day.

She did a bang up job of it all.

Finished eating, Uncle pushes his plate aside and looks fixedly at me.

“When you’re finished, come to my office.”

Right...to discuss my future plans...how could I forget?

Once I’ve managed to rope Llon and Gwenyn into washing the dishes, I make my way downstairs to Uncle’s “office” which is just a corner of his bedroom that he partitioned off with a screen. He’s sitting at a small wooden desk, cleaning his pipe bowl and looking over several number-filled pages.

I don't wait to be told to sit down. I want whatever he needs to speak to me about over with, already...it’s rarely ever anything good. He scrapes away the last of the resin and places the pipe aside.

“So you want to leave...eh? Start your own life in the world?”

He’s shuffling through the papers on his desk as he says this, squinting in the dim light as he checks that they’re all sound.

I assume he wants me to answer...

“Yes. I still...”

“Even if you had a job now, what makes you think you could just pack up and go...” he puts those papers down and I realize that my name is on the top one...and there’s numbers and symbols for galleons and sickles running beneath it...”you still owe me money from the past three years.”

He’s fucking joking.

“That was Mam’s job. Not mine.” My ears are beginning to hum unpleasantly.

Donius’s hands are folded loosely before him on the desk, his shoulders hunched forward with his eyes glinting strangely, like he’s trying hard not to turn snide.

“Oh yes, your mum’s payments...those didn’t continue past the first ten months that I had you lot.”

My breath has begun exiting my lungs in long, slow streams through my nostrils.

“I know, and you told me that summer when I came back not to worry about it.” Fuck me! I should’ve known better than to trust adults anymore!

He answers me with a smug look that I’d like to tear off with an empty bottle — I imagine how the break and snap of the glass would sound against the bones of his face...

”That’s right, and you didn’t have to worry about it.”

There’s a tense, buzzing sort of silence in the air as we stare at one another for a moment...

“You brats cost me a lot, don’t you know? All of the food you eat, every stitch on your backs, not to mention school books and other supplies — for you and your brother, remember — wasn’t cheap. I’ve had to balance the cost of you lot with the apothecary’s supplies, my own living expenses, and I’ve got my own debts to pay!”

He pauses to let this all sink in...which is about as kind as he’s ever been to me.

“You can leave if you want to...but you’ll still owe me every knut and sickle from your upkeep, plus interest.”

Now I’m confused, and he sees it quickly.

“Interest means extra money on top of what you must pay, girl...keeps people from reneging on important payments. In your case, if you were to actually manage to find a place and a job, I would require specific payments from you on specific dates. If you didn’t pay me, or — more likely — couldn’t pay me the full amount, I would then add interest...extra money...to the following payment, and so on. Do you understand?”

I understand, alright. I understand that my arse licking bellend of an uncle-who’s-really-a-cousin has likely been waiting — just waiting — to dump this piss pot of information on me. This is probably the most enjoyable moment he’s had during the care of me.

“Another thing you’d need to consider are your brother’s and sister’s debts...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, and it takes me a moment to realize that I’m no longer sitting, but standing up. Donius is hardly phased, though...

“Relax, my girl. Sit down... before I have to make you.”

I stand there glaring at him like an angry owl for a few moments more until I’ve managed to slow my heart rate to at least 110.

“Now then, your brothers and sisters are no different from you. They’ll each be responsible when they’re of age for paying me back...unless you do become their guardian soon with a place of your’n, in which case you will be obligated to pay for them. So, you would be paying your own debts plus each of their past expenses, alongside the cost of your new housing; food; their school supplies; clothing... every little thing. Think you’ll manage...?”

The humming that began in my ears earlier is now a vibrating pulse through my skull and my hands. How is this shit even legal?! Is it legal? We were kids for fuck’s sake, the rest of them are still kids!

“Did you tell D.M.F.I.C. that Mam had gone off her payments, even...?!”

Donius raises an eyebrow, “You actually want the Department for Magical Families In Crisis to know what goes on here? All the shit they could dig up on you, you’d never get the kids in a hundred years!”

He’s talking about the times I’ve sold illegal items for him; he sells most of them himself, obviously it’s his business, but the ministry tends to respect older and more established witches and wizards over ones who are my age, with no credibility beyond school or our parents reputations. He can easily escape a conviction or a charge, just by implicating me.

I want to hurt him so badly right now...I can feel my pulse like a tiny drum. I wish Tad was here.

Donius leans back in his chair, clearly unperturbed by my state of shock.

“Well, does that sound like a plan, to you? Still want to take the full responsibility of the brood? Because if I were you, I’d be concerned with myself. That’s a lot of money you’d owe me, and you’ll probably have interest on your first payment for this month... unless you nab a decent job before long, which I doubt.”

I just sit their, stunned. In the back of my mind though, is an oddly calm voice, gently telling the rest of my brain that he’s right — it’s unlikely that I’ll get a decent paying job that isn’t underground in some way; what I owe alongside what I’d be paying for my siblings would take years and years away from me. Maybe I should just concentrate on myself, for now at least.

Donius is now filling his pipe with the dark, minty-smelling tobacco that he likes, barely looking at up at me as he ends our conversation...

“I really don’t care what decision you make. I want my money, and that’s it. You can try getting ahold of your mammy if you want, but she’s probably hanging by a thread as it is.”

He finally lights up and sucks deeply in to his lungs, blowing out a thick bluish stream of smoke before he waves a hand dismissively at me...

“Alright, now get out of my office.”

[midnight1990]

Good Raven Chapter 1. Cofio — Remembering

July, 1995

As I unpack my trunk in the dusty, dingy room above the shop where my uncle, two brothers and two sisters live, I feel the slight dread of not knowing where my future will lead.  I’m of age now and done with school, so finding work and avoiding trouble should be my first worries, but it ain’t just me I have to worry about. I can’t let the babanod grow up here for much longer — it’s eaten them and me for three years already.

We live in Knockturn Alley, the street off of lovely Diagon Alley where all of the things your decent witches and wizards won’t meddle in are sold; bought; traded or just plain found. In my uncle’s shop is sold potion ingredients, and because this is Knockturn Alley, they’re not normal ingredients — poisons; live creatures; contraband that he (Uncle) said if I ever told someone about he’d hex me for 7 years straight. He also threatened to feed me on only cold gruel if I sold anything cheap, ‘cause once I was all moved in those three years ago he was leaving me at the counter to haggle and sell while he went off to the Cauldron for drinks, or Borgin’s to try and buy even more nasty supplies to bring back to his own business.

I should be honest when I talk about the things we sell — they’re rather compelling. It’s a bit exciting to know that the fungi you’re holding (with a handkerchief that’s been charmed to keep the nerves in your hand from suddenly burning and losing all function) are one: that bloody dangerous and two: can put you on the ministry’s list of “Most Dark and Dangerous in Illicit Magical Trade”. Some of the things that the Ministry comes up with!

As interesting as my uncle’s business can be, me and the kids need our own place to live. It’s just too, well, dark in this alley. Ninety nine percent of the people who come through this place are just trying to get their business done; do their shopping — however ill-intentioned it may be — and go home, but that one percent that’s not so good is too noticeable for any decent body to want to raise four little ones here. I’ve been followed by a hag who wanted my fingernails (taken from a living witch or wizard, they’re more useful); groped by warlocks both drunken and sober; sang at by more drunken warlocks (some ditty with lyrics like “I once had a lass with a nice round ass” and it got even nastier) and I’ve even seen duels that ended up in the Prophet! One time, a curse missed its intended target and hit an old wizard who was just trying to get home with the flesh-eating slug repellent he’d bought! The poor old grandpa! I hope he lived.

I go into the smaller room across the hall where the boys sleep and of course Llon’s trunk is sitting wide open on the bed he and Afon, who’s only three, share. I see his rumpled up belongings and I know he scrambled to find his wand as soon as he got up here; I hid it in his trunk as soon we boarded the train to come back for his first summer holiday (and the rest of my life) so he wouldn’t try any last minute jinxes. Sometimes I’m amazed at how easily he obeys me, then again his most vivid experience with a female relative other than me is of Mam throwing him outside at night — all night — so she could drink and have a shag with that big warlock she came home with. He was nine, I was 15 and we were all lucky that it was spring holiday so’s I was home.  I don’t know how they found out, but when the ministry officials who deal with family problems came a’visiting two days later, I was able to convince them to let the kids remain at Mam’s house so long as I was allowed to be there, courtesy of the school and a satisfied ministry witch. I had to write and beg Snape, McGonagall and Dumbledore himself to let me skip a few weeks. I remember feeling quite touched when the first two came to visit, a ministry witch in tow. I don’t think Dumbledore even considers his students well-being outside of Hogwarts.

Professor Snape was my head of house — good ol’ Slytherins looking out for each other — and I distinctly recall the feeling I had when I greeted him and McGonagall at the door that he’d been waiting for something like this to occur. You get that feeling when he looks at you sometimes - that he knows things about you.

I had expected McGonagall to be much less kinder than she actually was — more grave and pitying. She was certainly that way with Mam, “Eira, what have you gotten yourself and your family into?!”

Snape mostly sat all stiff in the chair I’d offered, his spidery black eyes glancing everywhere they could, taking in my raggedy siblings, Mam’s wan expression and the Welsh words doodled haphazardly on our cottage’s stone walls. Words like cariad — love — which had a bright pink heart drawn beside it and calon which had an arrow pointing from it to the rosy heart.

Witch, Welsh and Slytherin. That’s me. Even my name is Welsh, though my dad is English (obviously, my surname is Burke after all): Branda — brân dda — raven good; Good Raven. I have a middle name that isn’t Welsh at all, though; Patreva. Something Latin like what so many of our kind in Britain have — names like Draco, Severus or my Tad’s name, “Nicander” which may actually be Greek. It’s fancy and magical sounding. I’m the only one of my parent’s brood with any name like that — something about a Naming Seer who suggested it for me, but they never went back for their other four kids’s names. The younger ones have a Welsh name and that’s it. I like Welsh names quite a lot, though. Some of the names wizarding parents give their children are too — well — ostentatious is a good word.

Anyway, McGonagall, Snape and the quiet little ministry witch with the clipboard came to a decision: I could stay at home with Mam and the kids while the school year continued as long as one: Mam wasn’t bringing her “gentlemen friends” home anymore and two: I would take remedial lessons in all core classes the following school year.

“Of course, you will receive some lessons by post this spring and over the summer, miss Burke.” McGonagall can be so caring, sometimes.

“Your head of house has stated that you are among the more reliable students at Hogwarts, miss Burke.”

The little ministry witch hadn’t spoken at all to me, only to Mam and to my professors, but now she was gazing at me with what I believe was meant to be a placating — if somewhat sharp — look.

“He says you are quite skilled in his potions class as well as in mentoring the younger students.”

The look on Professor Snape’s face suggested this was meant to be unspoken. I’ve never had problems with Snape; he’s certainly a terror to many (okay, most) students, but he’s only ever had clipped praises or short orders for me to teach the first years how to behave without their parents around to guide them and comfort them and all that. A lot of the prefects were shite at that kind of thing.

Life at Mam’s with the kids was alright for awhile — could’ve probably gone quite tolerably if she hadn’t gone off to the Leakey Cauldron and met some bloke who took her to his flat in wherever-the-hell-it-was. Whatever they did in those six days she was gone, it was bad enough that he went to Azkaban, but not interesting enough for the Daily Prophet to report on. Mam got off, but us kids had to go live with the only relative who was willing to take us — Tad’s second-or-something cousin whom he’d done business with before Mam kicked him out: Mr. Donius Burke, purveyor of dark and illicit potion ingredients since 1974.

Fuck.

***

“Oi, girl! Come down here now! I need you for something!”

Calm down old man, I haven’t finished folding my jumpers yet. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s already got a task for me, even though I’ve only been off the train for two hours. Sunset’s nearly come, and I don’t want to be outside in Knockturn Alley after dark, which ought to spur me faster down the stairs to see what he wants. Making him wait can feel too good though - not that he’s not willing to stomp his way up here which, as I put my last woolen top away, I can hear him doing. Thump, creak; thump creak; the ancient wooden steps groaning loudly as always. Has he still not fallen through them?!

“Are you going deaf?!”

I turn my head to look at him there, his reedy frame silhouetted from the dim light of the hallway. He hasn’t changed in the ten months since I’ve last seen him, and he hasn’t since we arrived here three years ago; grey hair slicked back, his aging face freakishly smooth without a hint of stubble (does he shave, or did he magic the hairs off?).

Before I can say anything he’s stepped into the room to stand over me.

“Get down there, now!”

He points his finger so forcefully that it’s curving up towards the ceiling, and I have to keep myself from glancing up to see if it’ll confuse him. He follows me out of the bedroom and down to the back of the shop, where Llon and the other two kids are on the floor playing with Mouser, the cranky black cat we keep to eat any mice or cockroaches in the the building.

Gwenyn is nine and has long blonde hair like Mam, round hazel eyes and a pink mischievous face. Next to her is five year-old Ffionwyn, who’s brown hair will turn nearly black like Tad’s and mine someday. For now, her head’s as shiny as a chestnut, with a pale face and a shifty quietness about her - probably because she’s been growing up in this dark hole of a place.

“Here”. A small roll of parchment is pressed into my hand.

“Take this to Aunt Onyxia, she’s been expecting it all day.”

He nods his head towards the children - “You can bring back the other one, as well.”

Of course, he’s talking about Afon, the youngest of the family. Three, dark haired and quiet like Ffionwyn, he had to come here when he was just four months old! Unwilling to keep a baby where his customers could hear him crying, Uncle struck a deal with the ministry officials who’d arranged for his guardianship — he would have to remain the legal guardian of Afon, but would be allowed to shunt him off to another adult so long as they were nearby and had no criminal record — a relative preferred. Enter Aunt Onyxia, Uncle Donius’s first cousin.

Onyxia Burke runs a “gift” shop right at the end of Knockturn Alley where she sells candles, cheap jewelry and clothing items, all of which are enchanted for various purposes; making someone fall in love with you; manipulating another’s dreams; even changing their moods or emotions. I hope she’s been keeping Afon away from her shit.

As I step through the door of my uncle’s shop into the balmy night air, I glance up at the old wooden sign hanging above the door: “Apothecary” it reads, surrounded by engraved bats, spiders and toads. I force a heavy breath through my nose as memories come creeping up again, for we used to sell those things — well, Mam ‘n Tad did - before everything went to Hell.

Mam ‘n Tad were gatherers and procurers of potion ingredients. Magical plants and animals, of course, some of which you must have a special permit to collect, but also things that are not so magical — bats, rats and adders; green things that grow in your back garden like nettles and dandelions; even farm animals like chickens and goats, the latter of which produce bezoars —hard stones that form in their gut and which counteract poisons.

Things that could not be grown or raised near our home (a dragon in the barn might’ve been a bit troublesome) we would search for. This was the best part of my family’s livelihood. Tad would research where things could be found, and we would gather our equipment and head off to some chosen spot ready to work.

He taught me to do many things without magic, which I never knew was unusual for our kind —until I went to Hogwarts. Nobody else knew how to butcher a chicken or start a fire without a wand (except maybe a few muggleborns, but even most of them didn’t know how, either)! My classmates didn’t seem to know what to make of me until the incident with Hagrid’s giant chicken.

One of Hagrid’s roosters had grown to a rather impressive size, comparable to that of a Shetland pony (he had to have charmed it somehow). Well, one day it managed to escape the coop and terrorize the courtyard where all of us first years were learning broom maintenance. Madam Hooch was knocked over before she even saw it, and a boy called Derrick attempted to scare it by kicking it away, his robed arms flapping all around him whilst yelling at it to go away. Unfortunately, Drumsticks now thought Derrick was trying to start a real cock-fight — chest to chest, wings flapping and spurs kicking!

Before it finished its little war-dance with his head bobbing low, neck-feathers puffed out trembling, I’d managed to grab one of the brooms off the work table; as soon as Drumsticks began to step towards Derrick I ran towards that overgrown alarm-clock and jabbed it as hard as I could with that broomstick!

I won’t say it was a smart idea, but the frustration I’d felt over those first weeks at school — people giggling behind their hands when I spoke in my Welsh accent; discovering that students in other houses whom I’d wanted to befriend would scoff at the idea of hanging around with a Slytherin — seemed to take hold of me. It felt good when the broom’s handle hit Drumsticks’ chest, shocking him backwards and confusing him so. It’s likely a good thing that Hooch had finally recovered herself enough to properly stun that scaly-footed bastard before I’d lost my mind completely — that broomstick was starting to feel like a skewer.

Dinner that evening consisted of a hearty chicken soup, platters of little chicken pies, mashed potatoes, boiled peas and fresh, steamy bread rolls on the side.

Oh, and most everyone in my year stopped calling me “Spleens”.

Tad had been bi— Tad had been given the boot by Mam by the the time I’d started school, and in the summers I’d been the one to continue most of the hunting work while Mam settled herself with tending the garden and foraging for plants. Mam knew the work alright, but she’d mainly been the one to keep records of what was brought home; researching the markets and packaging items properly. Didn’t take long for Tad’s absence to start its work on her though, did it? A little kid can only hunt so many kinds of creatures, and of course I couldn’t have a permit to collect things like doxy venom or dragon eggshells, nor could I travel more than a few miles from home.

Soon the goats were sold to another ingredi-wizard, then any magical plants in our garden that required consistent tending died. I didn’t understand how that could’ve happened, not at the time anyway. Mam was good at hiding her drinking back then. Since we were no longer able to provide the great amount of products as before, businesses started abandoning us for more reliable resources.

Sometimes — just every once in awhile — Tad would show up for a visit.

“Only a few days” I imagine Mam whispering harshly, fearfully, her eyes darting ‘round as though expecting whatever forces demanded they keep apart to come bursting out of her cottage’s walls.

He always went out to try and gather more for us to sell, did Tad. He didn’t take me anywhere with him that was outside of the county, though. The last time I went with him was at the beginning of summer after my third year at Hogwarts. He looked so much older than I’d remembered, or perhaps I hadn’t paid enough attention during his previous visits? Grey streaks were beginning to shoot through his thick black hair, which hadn’t been cut in years. He walked slower than I was used to, moving like his body had turned all sore and stiff; his head constantly swiveled around as we worked, as though the very land that surrounded us could not be trusted.

“Don’t let your sisters and your brother stay inside all day. Teach them how to look after themselves, better than your mam or I have done for ourselves”.

Until he said that, it hadn’t really occurred to me just how reckless my parents were compared to those of my classmates. Before Tad had been forced to leave, he and Mam had thought little of hauling me, toddling Llon and squalling Gwenyn to all kinds of strange and exciting places — places I now know where most parents wouldn’t allow their children to set foot. When they needed to collect dragon eggshells from high up in the mountains, us kids sometimes went along.

I learned where to find snakes before I was seven; how to untangle wire snares without slicing my wrist open when I was eight. I nearly drowned in a lake searching for plimpys — round little creatures with long legs you can tie together — Tad said that’s how Merpeople deal with them because they consider them pests.

My parents also enjoyed firewhiskey. Many times after we’d spent a long day trekking through bracken for mokes and doxy eggs, or slogging around in muddy ditches for flobberworms, Mam ‘n Tad would build up a fire. We would toast sausages, slices of bread and even apples for supper, while two of them added the throat-burning drink to their meal. I can’t recall the bottle ever not being empty the next morning.

The drinking didn’t interfere with much until after Tad was gone.

It’s a wonder all of us kids have lived to see three.

I worry Afon won’t recognize me, after I’ve stayed all year at Hogwarts instead of returning to the Alley during holidays. I know I have a responsibility to my siblings, but the Triwizard tournament and its accompanying delights were hard to resist. Uncle was furious when I refused to return to work at Christmas, while Onyxia wrote that I should try and catch a wealthy boy from Beauxbatons, though a Durmstranger would do.

By the time I make it to Onyxia’s front door the few glass street lamps holding charmed candles have sprung to life, casting faint and eerie shadows. I’ve only just touched the brass kneazle-head knocker when the door is wrenched open from behind.

“It’s about time - oh, Patreva! I hadn’t realized you’d returned already!”

I curl my lips into the sparest of smiles — it’s often a struggle to remain polite with this woman. Patreva is my middle name, not my real name. I don’t even know what it means, and Mam ‘n Tad always avoided using it.

“Noswaith dda, Modryb. Sut ydych chi?”

The pleasure I feel when I speak Welsh at Onyxia is the same as ever: sweet but all too bloody short.

“Patreva Burke! You know far better than to speak that way, to me!”

As if she understood a word I’ve just said?! She’s convinced that any language other than French or Latin is used to disparage her.

“Llon and I came back a few hours ago, Auntie. Uncle Donius sent me to give you this” - I hand her the roll of parchment - “and to take Afon back with me”.

Onyxia stares at the parchment in her hand, eyes narrowing in obvious displeasure.

“Did he send me no money, girl?”

Uh-oh

“I haven’t stolen it, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

Her eyes have gotten even narrower, if that’s possible.

“No, no girl. I suppose...I should’ve expected as much...this time.”

She isn’t looking at me as she says this, rather she’s gazing nowhere in particular at the space behind me, as if suddenly lost in thought...

“Well, wait here a moment, then. Here’s the boy’s belongings.” Before shuffling down her entryway she reaches down and hands me a midsized bag filled with clothes, children’s medicines and very few toys. No tea to be had in her house, apparently. Rude sow.

“Here you are, girl.” Onyxia appears at the door with my youngest brother in tow, his eyes widening at the sight of me and his fist going to his mouth in an image of absolute preciousness.

“Oooh fy mach i! Fy mrawd cy-“

“Speak English to him!” Shrieks the old hag I am forced to respect. “I had to teach him prop—“

But I’m not staying for her xenophobic rant tonight, and neither is fy mrawd bach — my little brother. He’s had enough, and I’ve had enough.

“Goodnight Auntie! Thank you for taking care of him, we need to go back!”

And with that, Afon and I are trotting up the alleyway and into the warm summer night.

Well, I’m trotting; Afon’s on my back.