RP: The Frailty of Words
Date: November 25, 2004 (Sorry for the backpost)
Character(s): Jack Sloper
Location: The Blarney Stone Pub, Aberystwyth, Ceredigion
Status: Private
Summary: Jack goes looking for information, and relives some things he'd rather not.
Completion: Complete
It was with a soft pop that Jack appeared amidst the trees of Penglais forest, in a small clearing set off from the main road. He remembered this spot from his brief layover in the war after the battle at Cardiff in the opening stages of the fighting, and if he recalled correctly the old Order safehouse should still be down near South Beach, disguised as an old pillbox from the muggle World War. He took a deep breath, relishing the mixed scent of pine from the trees and salt from the sea, the air seeming cleaner than any he’d had occasion to taste in a while. With an equal force of exhalation he set off towards the sounds of the road, emerging on the dimly lit street after vaulting a wooden fence a few minutes later. He glanced around the steep hill, adjusting his internal compass quickly. The National Library lay opposite whilst the University was to his left, overlooking the low-lying buildings of the town at the foot of the hill, about half a mile down. He flicked his collar up as he set off with the incline, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking down at the pavement as he passed the Hospital and finally came to the junction that would lead him onto the high street.
The streets were fairly quiet, the only people about being students travelling between the disproportionate amount of bars and pubs that littered the small town and provided its lifeblood, all flowing on draught or optic. He made his way down the high street, appreciating the tranquillity that seemed to possess the place. After the last couple of days, he needed that.
As he walked up the hill that led to the seafront, he found his mind casting back over all that had happened over the last couple of days. His brief, but painful recollections with Roger, his readjustments back into the world he thought he’d left far behind in the dust. And Ginny, her fire when she admitted her feelings for him on his doorstep, the passion in her eyes when she found out about the letter. It was a strange attraction that he felt for her, he’d come to Stoatshead Hill with nothing in his mind but trying to find a place in any world, and yet…he’d felt a pull to her that was both intense, and troubling in equal measure. He didn’t know what to make of it, and that bothered him greatly.
"Tell me, Jack. Tell me about your St. Mungo's."
"I look forward to hearing from you." Stretching up, Ginny rested her hand on his shoulder as she dropped a soft kiss on his lips.
"I like you, Jack. And not in the gee, you're my friend kinda way. Not that I don't like you as a friend, I do and I know I'm screwing it all up standing here telling you this."
He opened his lips instinctually, a mechanism that was bred into him as surely as the ability to breath as her tongue flicked across his, retreating as her mouth closed on his before parting again, this time accepting him as they kissed slowly.
With a slight shake of his head, he attempted to dispel the vivid, clear memories that punctured his consciousness and intruded into reality. He fished a cigarette out of his pocket as he turned onto Bridge Street, passing several pubs with Welsh names he couldn’t even hope to pronounce, let alone order a drink in as he lit it. The icy, frigid breeze that whipped through the streets, fresh off the Irish Sea combined with the heat of the smoke and caused the first inhalation to hurt as his lungs found a comfortable medium. He exhaled, his breath frosting and mingling with the expelled fumes as he approached a bridge that ran over the mouth of the Ystwyth river. He paused on the railings for a second, taking time to glance at The Blarney Stone below him, set on the river’s border but under the bridge before his eyes fell out over the aperture and into the sea beyond. The moon left a pale, indistinct white reflection on the water, which seemed to glitter on the crests of the small waves and ripples that coursed through it. The surface looked dark, obsidian, dangerous as Jack flicked the butt of his cigarette into it, watching as it fell into the current and bobbed away until the shadows of the river swallowed it whole.
With another shrug of his shoulders, adjusting his jacket up more comfortably, he made his way down the stone steps, pausing at the large oak door before he pushed his way into the warm and raucous atmosphere of the pub. It certainly had a bit of character to it. Benches set into the stonework walls provided the majority of the seating, with giant barrels serving as tables for what would have been otherwise empty spaces. The bar was immediate as he entered, a long surface of dark, polished wood that accentuated the reds and greens that were splashed around the pumps and optics. Middle-aged men with stomachs bred from years of alcohol abuse sat on a corner of the bar that Jack assumed had been theirs for just as long, the occasional wife chatting to the other occasional wife that was with them. Varying sorts of people littered the rest of the bar. Students, professionals, locals and workers occupied most of the tables and chairs, some watching the man with the guitar on stage, others eating, even more simply conversing with one another and contributing to the low hum of chatter that pervaded the entire building, an undercurrent to the quiet, but slightly manic rendition of ‘The Irish Rover’ from the guitarist. He moved forwards, pressing through the groups of people that loitered on and around the bar before he leant forwards on his elbows, nodding as he caught the eye of the barman.
“Two double Jamesons, no ice.” He said slightly gruffly, pulling out his wallet. His drinks came back to him a minute later and he handed over a ten pound note, pouring the second into the same tumbler and nodding again as he took the change back. He lifted the glass to his lips, sipping at the amber liquid as he felt the familiar sweetness on the tip of his tongue, the burn as it travelled down his throat following soon after. He pulled another cigarette out, fumbling in his pocket for a lighter before a spark ignited in front of his face. He leaned in, inhaling the flame into the tip before puffing out, starting as he followed the hand to the face of his benefactor.
“Mr. Sloper.” The raspy, lilting voice that had been on his mind since that fateful bus ride greeted him. “I didn’t much figure this fer yer kind of local. A little bit more…afield, shall we say, from where we last parted?”
“Mr. O’Flaherty.” Jack reciprocated the stoic greeting. “Was wondering if you might have a moment?” He regarded the old man for a moment, taking in his slightly aged-looking suit jacket and flatcap. The ever-present walking stick of gnarled and knotted wood was held lightly in one hand while the other played absently with the zippo, wrinkled hands popping the lid and resealing it as he replied, chuckling.
“As a man gets older he learns he has fewer and fewer moments to spare, lad. But fer the price of a pint, I’ll be yours fer the time it takes me to drink it.” Jack nodded, signalling to the barman again and nodding in the direction of the old man. He noticed O’Flaherty’s hand flick out ever so slightly, as the man on the other side of the counter immediately went to the Guinness tap. Jack paid for the drink when it arrived, and passed it to the Irishman, who set off immediately. He followed him, winding through the crowd until they rounded the bar, stepping down a small flight of stairs until they reached an inset seating area, complete with booths that afforded a fair deal of privacy to their occupants. Most of whom were presently engaged with each other’s tongues or eyes anyway, he observed, as they pulled into the far corner, sitting opposite from each other on the mahogany tables. A candle set into a wine bottle burned between them, being the only source of illumination in the small area, its flickering light reflecting gently off of the glass ashtray. He flicked his ash into it as O’Flaherty lit a fat-looking cigar, puffing on it several times before fixing the younger man with his sharp, blue-grey eyes.
“Well, laddie?” He rasped, his voice having a decidedly less jovial, amused edge to it than the last time they met. “It’s not often I get me clients come back ter wine and dine me after I get ‘em where they’re goin’. What’s plaguin’ yer mind?”
Jack was silent for a few moments, taking a drag on his cigarette and exhaling, watching the curls of the smoke pass through the candle, twisting and turning in the heat it generated.
“I need some information.” He said finally.
“Oh aye? And what information would that be?”
“I’d like to find out about a man. Julius Sloper.”
This time it was Dylan’s turn to silence, his expression unreadable as he leant backwards into his cushioned seat. The shadows of the light and the brim of his flatcap obscured the man’s eyes, but Jack knew they were fixed on his. He held his gaze (or at least, where he’d last seen a place to hold it), his face deadpan as he flicked his ash into the glass receptacle without glancing at it.
“And what, my son, would ya be doin’ wantin’ ter know things like that?”
“My business is my concern.” He replied automatically.
“Not when it concerns me, it ain’t. And certainly not if yer getting mixed up wit’ a man like yer uncle.” At the narrowing of Jack’s eyes, the Irishman chuckled slowly, deeply. Once, Jack had found it humorous, infectious, but there was no joviality now. No sense of amusement. “Oh yes, Jack. I’m familiar wit’ yer family history.” He leant forward then, the lines of his weathered and wrinkled face looming out of the darkness quite striking, lunging languidly through the haze of smoke, almost wreathed by it. “Includin’, shall we say, the less pleasant aspects?” He laughed that mirthless laugh again. “By the look in yer eyes, I’d be sayin’ he’s decided on a reunion yer not too eager to join, am I right?”
The younger man said nothing, his face remaining impassive even as his blood chilled a degree, his fingers edging almost invisibly to where his wand was concealed in his sleeve.
“Ye won’ be needin’ that, Mr. Sloper.” The old man rasped. “I’ll not be meaning ya any harm tonight.”
“Then will you help me, or are we done here?” Jack asked abruptly. “Because, between you and me, since you seem to know so much about my situation…I’ve had more than enough crap to deal with over the last few days to last a lifetime. My patience ain’t infinite.”
There was silence again, a long, drawn out moment as both men regarded each other, analysing the strengths and weaknesses of their words, their postures, their eyes. Finally, O’Flaherty lifted his Guinness to his lips, taking a long draught before setting it back down.
“Alright, Jack.” He said. “I’ll tell ya what ya need to know. But I’m askin’ something of ye in return, you parry to the deal?”
“Depends what the something is.”
“Nothin’ too taxin’. I’m just curious as to a few things. I’m somethin’ of a student of the human condition, you see. I’ve made me way through life knowin’ people, knowin’ how to read ‘em. Now you…yer somethin’ of a mystery.” He lifted his pint again, but he didn’t sip at it. “I know yer record, know yer history, yer family and yer doin’s now. It is, as I said, me livelihood ter know this.” He drank from his glass again, before he leaned in once more as he set it back on the table. “But what I don’t know is how ya felt at critical points in yer life, how they made you the person y’are. That is what I’m askin’ of ya for yer…information…Mr. Sloper.”
Another silence.
“Go ahead.” Jack replied, taking another, slightly deeper sip of his whiskey this time. He relaxed into the burn, sitting backwards into the booth but keeping his fingertips near the thin shaft of holly at all times. Whatever Dylan O’Flaherty said about making it his business to know his customers, his insinuated knowledge of Julius’ involvement in his parents’ deaths was…disconcerting.
“I want ya to tell me about the first time ya killed a man.” The Irishman said, his voice almost completely toneless. Jack raised his eyebrows at the question, but allowed recollection to envelop his mind as he related what had happened on that day in Cardiff…
He struggled to keep his breath steady through the exhausting manoeuvres they executed, as his group moved down the narrow, winding alleyway. The sun beat down on them overhead; making it even harder to move as their robes stuck to their skin, sweat pouring down their foreheads and burning their eyes.
Crouch, run to cover, survey, signal, cover, move on.
They’d been clearing the area for nearly two hours now, constantly under random fire from the Death Eaters that remained guarding the rear of the force that had attacked the Enclave. So far his group had taken down every one that stood and fought, but they’d lost two of their number to the hit-and-run, almost guerrilla tactics that were being employed against them now. A wand would flash from a window, or an alleyway, or from absolutely fucking nowhere at all. There’d be a dart of green that would sometimes blow something innocuous into its component atoms, and sometimes rip a person’s soul from their body. Either way, it had all of them on a hair trigger. They were tired, stressed, thirsty and separated from the main defensive force. In a situation like this, mistakes were easy to make and if there was one thing that the last day of combat, his first day, had taught Jack, it was that mistakes cost lives.
Which was why, as he moved to his cover, guarding the advance of the man covering his own back, he didn’t hesitate when he saw the black-garbed arm reach out of an overhead window, led by a dark brown shaft of wood.
“Laceratus!” He shouted, watching with an almost morbid fascination as the argentine beam shot outwards from his wand tip, striking the would-be-assailant in his ribs. The angle of the shot was so that the curse sliced straight through the underside of his armpit, severing his wand arm instantly in a spray of blood that rained down on Jack sickeningly. Taken aback, the Death Eater spun with the impact and fell forwards, landing face-first on the cobbled stone floor below with a sickening crack that couldn’t be mistaken for anything less than it was. Jack swallowed, the inside of his throat sticking to himself as he realised what he’d done. With hesitant hands he reached forward, ignoring the flow of warm, crimson liquid that surged from the tear point where the man’s arm had been. His fingers closed around the mask, pulling it off of the man’s face, which now lay at an unnaturally acute angle to the rest of his body.
He didn’t think he’d ever forget the man’s eyes in that moment. The clear, green, unseeing eyes that stared into his accusingly. In that moment, he didn’t think he’d ever be the same again.
Until the bin next to him exploded with a hex thrown from in front, and he dove back into cover, his wand flashing out with the same curse that had just taken his innocence from him.
“And did ya?” O’Flaherty asked, puffing on his cigar almost nonchalantly. Jack stared at him.
“Did I what?” He countered gruffly, knocking back a sizeable gulp of his whiskey.
“Forget his face?” Jack set his tumbler down, his eyes telling the Irishman his answer without the need for words.
“Aye…” O’Flaherty ruminated softly, thoughtfully. “Ya never do.”
“No.” The younger man agreed, as he took another large mouthful of the amber liquid that swirled thickly in his glass, grunting as it seared his throat and burned his heart. He glanced down at his near-empty tumbler, reaching for his wallet before O’Flaherty clicked his fingers, motioning for him to stop. Jack’s eyes were drawn to the brief flash of sparks that flitted between the older man’s thumb and forefinger with the gesture, and slowly replaced his money back into the leather holder. Within minutes, the barman had set fresh drinks on their table, waving away payment as if it were not needed. The brown-haired man looked at his retreating form thoughtfully, before his eyes flicked back to his companion.
“Modified confundus charm, tied in with a trigger.” He said simply, the Irishman beamed.
“Very good, Mr. Sloper.”
“I know dark when I see it.” He half-spat. Dylan simply laughed.
“Is that what I am, now?” He pondered, almost to himself. “I’ll let ya think that. I believe ya owe me another story, fer now.”
“Name it.” Jack said, pulling another cigarette from his pack and lighting it in one smooth motion, breathing out the initial toke into the air around them.
“Tell me about the point when ya knew there’d be no goin’ back. That this war would be a part o’ ya, as sure as yer very limbs, for the rest o’ yer days.”
Jack thought for a moment, only a moment, before he took a drag on his cigarette and replied simply.
“Hogwarts.”
As he raced through the ruined corridors, dodging piles of debris and avoiding open areas like the staircases, he wondered how it had all come to this. He remembered these halls as being places of learning, of belonging. Places where he’d walked with Jimmy Cootes, and Ginny Weasley, and Marie Christane to Potions. Where he’d had fights with the Slytherins in his year, over by the suit of armour he’d just torn past. Where countless generations of kids his age had loved, lost, learned and lived.
Now, it was just a killing field.
His legs burned as he forced himself to go on, ignoring the smell of burning wood that pervaded the area. He knew they were losing, he’d heard and felt one of the towers collapsing not long ago when he’d been cut off once again from the group of survivors he’d managed to cobble together. That was the way of this battle, though. He’d been on his own for most of it, avoiding the ambushes that were waiting to be sprung by being too fast, only forced to fight when he was slowed down by others. The scene was chaotic. Nobody knew anything about orders, there was no contact with the outside world, all he could see was fire, and smoke, and blood…
His thoughts were interrupted then as his foot caught on something, his forward momentum pitching him up and over, unable to stop before he slammed thickly to the floor, his jaw smashing into the stone. His vision flared with white spots, threatening to become obfuscated by darkness before he forced himself to stay conscious, focusing on the taste of copper in his mouth from where he’d bit his tongue on impact. With a groan, both at the collision and at the pounding now present in his head, he spat a mouthful of blood out onto the floor beside him, the feeling of it almost instantly filling again making him want to vomit right there. His vision began to clear, the haziness being shaken off as his eyes refocused onto what had tripped him. A leg, lying horribly still on the floor. Despite his best efforts not to, his eyes travelled up the rest of the prone, immobile form, finally coming to rest on the boy’s face.
He couldn’t have been older than sixteen, maybe seventeen, but he lay there, clutching his stomach with his spectacles broken around vacant, dead eyes. The dried blood, and putrid, grey colour of something internal poking between his fingers left little to the imagination as to how he’d met his end.
As Jack lay staring at the image of shattered youth, of innocence raped before him, he almost didn’t notice the sounds of footsteps approaching, almost didn’t cast his shield charm in time as two Death Eaters rounded the corner and fired an Eviscerato curse in his direction. He didn’t think as he glanced at the body casually, raising his wand and firing two quick spells in succession, the words rolling off his lips unfeelingly.
“Avada Kedavra.” A pulse of green light, the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Stunned silence. Another pulse. A softer, more muffled sound as flesh fell on flesh.
Jack bent and closed the poor boy’s eyes, before turning and limping off in the direction of the Library, failing to care about the blood pouring from his leg where the Death Eater’s curse had deflected onto it. It was a small price to pay, when you knew you’d never really leave that corridor.
Jack finished his story and leant back in his chair again, staring at the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, rolling it around absently, unconsciously. With an automatic gesture, he lifted his cigarette to his lips, crushing it out when he realised it had long burned to the filter before he pulled another from his pack. O’Flaherty reached over, lighting it for him before he settled back.
“And ya never questioned why ya were fightin’?”
“No, never. Not after that day. Not until…”
“Aye,” The Irishman cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I’ll not be needin’ to hear on that particular story, lad.” Jack nodded in appreciation as he finished the first glass of Jamesons, reaching for the second slowly. The moments passed, heavy with the words that had been spoken, the memories and their associated weight bearing on the both of them as the ever-present hum of chatter continued, oblivious to the stories and tales being told.
O’Flaherty finished his Guinness, motioning at Jack, who smirked mirthlessly before swallowing his glass in two large gulps. He clicked his fingers again, before both his elbows came to rest on the table, fingertips against each other in a temple as he spoke slowly, and measuredly.
“What would you like to know, Mr. Sloper?”
Character(s): Jack Sloper
Location: The Blarney Stone Pub, Aberystwyth, Ceredigion
Status: Private
Summary: Jack goes looking for information, and relives some things he'd rather not.
Completion: Complete
It was with a soft pop that Jack appeared amidst the trees of Penglais forest, in a small clearing set off from the main road. He remembered this spot from his brief layover in the war after the battle at Cardiff in the opening stages of the fighting, and if he recalled correctly the old Order safehouse should still be down near South Beach, disguised as an old pillbox from the muggle World War. He took a deep breath, relishing the mixed scent of pine from the trees and salt from the sea, the air seeming cleaner than any he’d had occasion to taste in a while. With an equal force of exhalation he set off towards the sounds of the road, emerging on the dimly lit street after vaulting a wooden fence a few minutes later. He glanced around the steep hill, adjusting his internal compass quickly. The National Library lay opposite whilst the University was to his left, overlooking the low-lying buildings of the town at the foot of the hill, about half a mile down. He flicked his collar up as he set off with the incline, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking down at the pavement as he passed the Hospital and finally came to the junction that would lead him onto the high street.
The streets were fairly quiet, the only people about being students travelling between the disproportionate amount of bars and pubs that littered the small town and provided its lifeblood, all flowing on draught or optic. He made his way down the high street, appreciating the tranquillity that seemed to possess the place. After the last couple of days, he needed that.
As he walked up the hill that led to the seafront, he found his mind casting back over all that had happened over the last couple of days. His brief, but painful recollections with Roger, his readjustments back into the world he thought he’d left far behind in the dust. And Ginny, her fire when she admitted her feelings for him on his doorstep, the passion in her eyes when she found out about the letter. It was a strange attraction that he felt for her, he’d come to Stoatshead Hill with nothing in his mind but trying to find a place in any world, and yet…he’d felt a pull to her that was both intense, and troubling in equal measure. He didn’t know what to make of it, and that bothered him greatly.
"Tell me, Jack. Tell me about your St. Mungo's."
"I look forward to hearing from you." Stretching up, Ginny rested her hand on his shoulder as she dropped a soft kiss on his lips.
"I like you, Jack. And not in the gee, you're my friend kinda way. Not that I don't like you as a friend, I do and I know I'm screwing it all up standing here telling you this."
He opened his lips instinctually, a mechanism that was bred into him as surely as the ability to breath as her tongue flicked across his, retreating as her mouth closed on his before parting again, this time accepting him as they kissed slowly.
With a slight shake of his head, he attempted to dispel the vivid, clear memories that punctured his consciousness and intruded into reality. He fished a cigarette out of his pocket as he turned onto Bridge Street, passing several pubs with Welsh names he couldn’t even hope to pronounce, let alone order a drink in as he lit it. The icy, frigid breeze that whipped through the streets, fresh off the Irish Sea combined with the heat of the smoke and caused the first inhalation to hurt as his lungs found a comfortable medium. He exhaled, his breath frosting and mingling with the expelled fumes as he approached a bridge that ran over the mouth of the Ystwyth river. He paused on the railings for a second, taking time to glance at The Blarney Stone below him, set on the river’s border but under the bridge before his eyes fell out over the aperture and into the sea beyond. The moon left a pale, indistinct white reflection on the water, which seemed to glitter on the crests of the small waves and ripples that coursed through it. The surface looked dark, obsidian, dangerous as Jack flicked the butt of his cigarette into it, watching as it fell into the current and bobbed away until the shadows of the river swallowed it whole.
With another shrug of his shoulders, adjusting his jacket up more comfortably, he made his way down the stone steps, pausing at the large oak door before he pushed his way into the warm and raucous atmosphere of the pub. It certainly had a bit of character to it. Benches set into the stonework walls provided the majority of the seating, with giant barrels serving as tables for what would have been otherwise empty spaces. The bar was immediate as he entered, a long surface of dark, polished wood that accentuated the reds and greens that were splashed around the pumps and optics. Middle-aged men with stomachs bred from years of alcohol abuse sat on a corner of the bar that Jack assumed had been theirs for just as long, the occasional wife chatting to the other occasional wife that was with them. Varying sorts of people littered the rest of the bar. Students, professionals, locals and workers occupied most of the tables and chairs, some watching the man with the guitar on stage, others eating, even more simply conversing with one another and contributing to the low hum of chatter that pervaded the entire building, an undercurrent to the quiet, but slightly manic rendition of ‘The Irish Rover’ from the guitarist. He moved forwards, pressing through the groups of people that loitered on and around the bar before he leant forwards on his elbows, nodding as he caught the eye of the barman.
“Two double Jamesons, no ice.” He said slightly gruffly, pulling out his wallet. His drinks came back to him a minute later and he handed over a ten pound note, pouring the second into the same tumbler and nodding again as he took the change back. He lifted the glass to his lips, sipping at the amber liquid as he felt the familiar sweetness on the tip of his tongue, the burn as it travelled down his throat following soon after. He pulled another cigarette out, fumbling in his pocket for a lighter before a spark ignited in front of his face. He leaned in, inhaling the flame into the tip before puffing out, starting as he followed the hand to the face of his benefactor.
“Mr. Sloper.” The raspy, lilting voice that had been on his mind since that fateful bus ride greeted him. “I didn’t much figure this fer yer kind of local. A little bit more…afield, shall we say, from where we last parted?”
“Mr. O’Flaherty.” Jack reciprocated the stoic greeting. “Was wondering if you might have a moment?” He regarded the old man for a moment, taking in his slightly aged-looking suit jacket and flatcap. The ever-present walking stick of gnarled and knotted wood was held lightly in one hand while the other played absently with the zippo, wrinkled hands popping the lid and resealing it as he replied, chuckling.
“As a man gets older he learns he has fewer and fewer moments to spare, lad. But fer the price of a pint, I’ll be yours fer the time it takes me to drink it.” Jack nodded, signalling to the barman again and nodding in the direction of the old man. He noticed O’Flaherty’s hand flick out ever so slightly, as the man on the other side of the counter immediately went to the Guinness tap. Jack paid for the drink when it arrived, and passed it to the Irishman, who set off immediately. He followed him, winding through the crowd until they rounded the bar, stepping down a small flight of stairs until they reached an inset seating area, complete with booths that afforded a fair deal of privacy to their occupants. Most of whom were presently engaged with each other’s tongues or eyes anyway, he observed, as they pulled into the far corner, sitting opposite from each other on the mahogany tables. A candle set into a wine bottle burned between them, being the only source of illumination in the small area, its flickering light reflecting gently off of the glass ashtray. He flicked his ash into it as O’Flaherty lit a fat-looking cigar, puffing on it several times before fixing the younger man with his sharp, blue-grey eyes.
“Well, laddie?” He rasped, his voice having a decidedly less jovial, amused edge to it than the last time they met. “It’s not often I get me clients come back ter wine and dine me after I get ‘em where they’re goin’. What’s plaguin’ yer mind?”
Jack was silent for a few moments, taking a drag on his cigarette and exhaling, watching the curls of the smoke pass through the candle, twisting and turning in the heat it generated.
“I need some information.” He said finally.
“Oh aye? And what information would that be?”
“I’d like to find out about a man. Julius Sloper.”
This time it was Dylan’s turn to silence, his expression unreadable as he leant backwards into his cushioned seat. The shadows of the light and the brim of his flatcap obscured the man’s eyes, but Jack knew they were fixed on his. He held his gaze (or at least, where he’d last seen a place to hold it), his face deadpan as he flicked his ash into the glass receptacle without glancing at it.
“And what, my son, would ya be doin’ wantin’ ter know things like that?”
“My business is my concern.” He replied automatically.
“Not when it concerns me, it ain’t. And certainly not if yer getting mixed up wit’ a man like yer uncle.” At the narrowing of Jack’s eyes, the Irishman chuckled slowly, deeply. Once, Jack had found it humorous, infectious, but there was no joviality now. No sense of amusement. “Oh yes, Jack. I’m familiar wit’ yer family history.” He leant forward then, the lines of his weathered and wrinkled face looming out of the darkness quite striking, lunging languidly through the haze of smoke, almost wreathed by it. “Includin’, shall we say, the less pleasant aspects?” He laughed that mirthless laugh again. “By the look in yer eyes, I’d be sayin’ he’s decided on a reunion yer not too eager to join, am I right?”
The younger man said nothing, his face remaining impassive even as his blood chilled a degree, his fingers edging almost invisibly to where his wand was concealed in his sleeve.
“Ye won’ be needin’ that, Mr. Sloper.” The old man rasped. “I’ll not be meaning ya any harm tonight.”
“Then will you help me, or are we done here?” Jack asked abruptly. “Because, between you and me, since you seem to know so much about my situation…I’ve had more than enough crap to deal with over the last few days to last a lifetime. My patience ain’t infinite.”
There was silence again, a long, drawn out moment as both men regarded each other, analysing the strengths and weaknesses of their words, their postures, their eyes. Finally, O’Flaherty lifted his Guinness to his lips, taking a long draught before setting it back down.
“Alright, Jack.” He said. “I’ll tell ya what ya need to know. But I’m askin’ something of ye in return, you parry to the deal?”
“Depends what the something is.”
“Nothin’ too taxin’. I’m just curious as to a few things. I’m somethin’ of a student of the human condition, you see. I’ve made me way through life knowin’ people, knowin’ how to read ‘em. Now you…yer somethin’ of a mystery.” He lifted his pint again, but he didn’t sip at it. “I know yer record, know yer history, yer family and yer doin’s now. It is, as I said, me livelihood ter know this.” He drank from his glass again, before he leaned in once more as he set it back on the table. “But what I don’t know is how ya felt at critical points in yer life, how they made you the person y’are. That is what I’m askin’ of ya for yer…information…Mr. Sloper.”
Another silence.
“Go ahead.” Jack replied, taking another, slightly deeper sip of his whiskey this time. He relaxed into the burn, sitting backwards into the booth but keeping his fingertips near the thin shaft of holly at all times. Whatever Dylan O’Flaherty said about making it his business to know his customers, his insinuated knowledge of Julius’ involvement in his parents’ deaths was…disconcerting.
“I want ya to tell me about the first time ya killed a man.” The Irishman said, his voice almost completely toneless. Jack raised his eyebrows at the question, but allowed recollection to envelop his mind as he related what had happened on that day in Cardiff…
He struggled to keep his breath steady through the exhausting manoeuvres they executed, as his group moved down the narrow, winding alleyway. The sun beat down on them overhead; making it even harder to move as their robes stuck to their skin, sweat pouring down their foreheads and burning their eyes.
Crouch, run to cover, survey, signal, cover, move on.
They’d been clearing the area for nearly two hours now, constantly under random fire from the Death Eaters that remained guarding the rear of the force that had attacked the Enclave. So far his group had taken down every one that stood and fought, but they’d lost two of their number to the hit-and-run, almost guerrilla tactics that were being employed against them now. A wand would flash from a window, or an alleyway, or from absolutely fucking nowhere at all. There’d be a dart of green that would sometimes blow something innocuous into its component atoms, and sometimes rip a person’s soul from their body. Either way, it had all of them on a hair trigger. They were tired, stressed, thirsty and separated from the main defensive force. In a situation like this, mistakes were easy to make and if there was one thing that the last day of combat, his first day, had taught Jack, it was that mistakes cost lives.
Which was why, as he moved to his cover, guarding the advance of the man covering his own back, he didn’t hesitate when he saw the black-garbed arm reach out of an overhead window, led by a dark brown shaft of wood.
“Laceratus!” He shouted, watching with an almost morbid fascination as the argentine beam shot outwards from his wand tip, striking the would-be-assailant in his ribs. The angle of the shot was so that the curse sliced straight through the underside of his armpit, severing his wand arm instantly in a spray of blood that rained down on Jack sickeningly. Taken aback, the Death Eater spun with the impact and fell forwards, landing face-first on the cobbled stone floor below with a sickening crack that couldn’t be mistaken for anything less than it was. Jack swallowed, the inside of his throat sticking to himself as he realised what he’d done. With hesitant hands he reached forward, ignoring the flow of warm, crimson liquid that surged from the tear point where the man’s arm had been. His fingers closed around the mask, pulling it off of the man’s face, which now lay at an unnaturally acute angle to the rest of his body.
He didn’t think he’d ever forget the man’s eyes in that moment. The clear, green, unseeing eyes that stared into his accusingly. In that moment, he didn’t think he’d ever be the same again.
Until the bin next to him exploded with a hex thrown from in front, and he dove back into cover, his wand flashing out with the same curse that had just taken his innocence from him.
“And did ya?” O’Flaherty asked, puffing on his cigar almost nonchalantly. Jack stared at him.
“Did I what?” He countered gruffly, knocking back a sizeable gulp of his whiskey.
“Forget his face?” Jack set his tumbler down, his eyes telling the Irishman his answer without the need for words.
“Aye…” O’Flaherty ruminated softly, thoughtfully. “Ya never do.”
“No.” The younger man agreed, as he took another large mouthful of the amber liquid that swirled thickly in his glass, grunting as it seared his throat and burned his heart. He glanced down at his near-empty tumbler, reaching for his wallet before O’Flaherty clicked his fingers, motioning for him to stop. Jack’s eyes were drawn to the brief flash of sparks that flitted between the older man’s thumb and forefinger with the gesture, and slowly replaced his money back into the leather holder. Within minutes, the barman had set fresh drinks on their table, waving away payment as if it were not needed. The brown-haired man looked at his retreating form thoughtfully, before his eyes flicked back to his companion.
“Modified confundus charm, tied in with a trigger.” He said simply, the Irishman beamed.
“Very good, Mr. Sloper.”
“I know dark when I see it.” He half-spat. Dylan simply laughed.
“Is that what I am, now?” He pondered, almost to himself. “I’ll let ya think that. I believe ya owe me another story, fer now.”
“Name it.” Jack said, pulling another cigarette from his pack and lighting it in one smooth motion, breathing out the initial toke into the air around them.
“Tell me about the point when ya knew there’d be no goin’ back. That this war would be a part o’ ya, as sure as yer very limbs, for the rest o’ yer days.”
Jack thought for a moment, only a moment, before he took a drag on his cigarette and replied simply.
“Hogwarts.”
As he raced through the ruined corridors, dodging piles of debris and avoiding open areas like the staircases, he wondered how it had all come to this. He remembered these halls as being places of learning, of belonging. Places where he’d walked with Jimmy Cootes, and Ginny Weasley, and Marie Christane to Potions. Where he’d had fights with the Slytherins in his year, over by the suit of armour he’d just torn past. Where countless generations of kids his age had loved, lost, learned and lived.
Now, it was just a killing field.
His legs burned as he forced himself to go on, ignoring the smell of burning wood that pervaded the area. He knew they were losing, he’d heard and felt one of the towers collapsing not long ago when he’d been cut off once again from the group of survivors he’d managed to cobble together. That was the way of this battle, though. He’d been on his own for most of it, avoiding the ambushes that were waiting to be sprung by being too fast, only forced to fight when he was slowed down by others. The scene was chaotic. Nobody knew anything about orders, there was no contact with the outside world, all he could see was fire, and smoke, and blood…
His thoughts were interrupted then as his foot caught on something, his forward momentum pitching him up and over, unable to stop before he slammed thickly to the floor, his jaw smashing into the stone. His vision flared with white spots, threatening to become obfuscated by darkness before he forced himself to stay conscious, focusing on the taste of copper in his mouth from where he’d bit his tongue on impact. With a groan, both at the collision and at the pounding now present in his head, he spat a mouthful of blood out onto the floor beside him, the feeling of it almost instantly filling again making him want to vomit right there. His vision began to clear, the haziness being shaken off as his eyes refocused onto what had tripped him. A leg, lying horribly still on the floor. Despite his best efforts not to, his eyes travelled up the rest of the prone, immobile form, finally coming to rest on the boy’s face.
He couldn’t have been older than sixteen, maybe seventeen, but he lay there, clutching his stomach with his spectacles broken around vacant, dead eyes. The dried blood, and putrid, grey colour of something internal poking between his fingers left little to the imagination as to how he’d met his end.
As Jack lay staring at the image of shattered youth, of innocence raped before him, he almost didn’t notice the sounds of footsteps approaching, almost didn’t cast his shield charm in time as two Death Eaters rounded the corner and fired an Eviscerato curse in his direction. He didn’t think as he glanced at the body casually, raising his wand and firing two quick spells in succession, the words rolling off his lips unfeelingly.
“Avada Kedavra.” A pulse of green light, the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Stunned silence. Another pulse. A softer, more muffled sound as flesh fell on flesh.
Jack bent and closed the poor boy’s eyes, before turning and limping off in the direction of the Library, failing to care about the blood pouring from his leg where the Death Eater’s curse had deflected onto it. It was a small price to pay, when you knew you’d never really leave that corridor.
Jack finished his story and leant back in his chair again, staring at the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, rolling it around absently, unconsciously. With an automatic gesture, he lifted his cigarette to his lips, crushing it out when he realised it had long burned to the filter before he pulled another from his pack. O’Flaherty reached over, lighting it for him before he settled back.
“And ya never questioned why ya were fightin’?”
“No, never. Not after that day. Not until…”
“Aye,” The Irishman cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I’ll not be needin’ to hear on that particular story, lad.” Jack nodded in appreciation as he finished the first glass of Jamesons, reaching for the second slowly. The moments passed, heavy with the words that had been spoken, the memories and their associated weight bearing on the both of them as the ever-present hum of chatter continued, oblivious to the stories and tales being told.
O’Flaherty finished his Guinness, motioning at Jack, who smirked mirthlessly before swallowing his glass in two large gulps. He clicked his fingers again, before both his elbows came to rest on the table, fingertips against each other in a temple as he spoke slowly, and measuredly.
“What would you like to know, Mr. Sloper?”