"I never intended to go up against the Ministry of Magic or Mr. Watson!"
John slammed his fist on the table and glared at his wife, fury was all across his face.
"Don't you understand, Yvonne? Our fields can scarcely keep enough food on the table for this family to survive month to month. They certainly can't give us anything better than subsistence. I need a proper job. A wage."
He spread his calloused hands on the table before him. "And I have no other trade to fall back on, no other skills to sell. The only work I know is broom work. I just—hah—I only…"
His tirade faltered as he caught sight of Yvonne's face. She had gone pale and fear pooled in her eyes like dark water.
The sight of her terror brought him sharply back to himself. His aggressive shoulders slowly fell. His expression gradually softened.
"I only want to carry on with my work," he said finally, looking at her steadily with eyes that pleaded for understanding. "To do what I'm good at. To provide for my family with honest labor. Is that so much to ask? You want Bona to have a decent life someday, don't you?"
Outside, rain continued drumming relentlessly against the earth with a sound like distant artillery. Water flowed from the broken gutters, washing mud and silt down the slope in dirty streams that were slowly swallowing the old cobblestone path at their door, burying it beneath layers of debris.
"But what exactly are you… what are you all planning to do?"
Yvonne lifted her face to his, searching his expression for truth beneath the words. Her warm brown eyes were clouded now with worry.
"Promise me, John. Promise me you won't do anything dangerous or reckless. Bona and I can't be without you."
"Don't worry—" John rose from his chair and pulled her close to him, wrapping his arms around her.
He patted her gently on the back, making soothing sounds, carefully positioning her so she couldn't see his face—couldn't see the shadow that had settled behind his eyes.
"You know I'm no fool, Yvonne. It's not as though I'm planning to charge at Ministry Aurors or a wizard like Mr. Watson, waving a garden shovel or a broomstick handle like some kind of madman. We're only raising our voices. We just want the Ministry to pay some attention to poor folk like us."
Yvonne's fingers tightened their grip against his back. Her brow creased deeply with worry. Her lips pressed together.
They stood holding each other tightly in the doorway for a long while and outside, the rain showed no sign of stopping.
A downpour like this, so close to harvest time—they both knew it meant the crops would suffer catastrophically. The damage was already beyond saving.
Staring out at the world blurred beyond recognition by fog and driving rain, at the grey curtain that had swallowed Weasel Hill, Yvonne felt a new wave of dread rise in her chest.
"Maybe I ought to go and fetch Bona now," she said finally, pulling away from John's embrace. "It's getting late, and I do hope she hasn't been any trouble to Mr. Lovegood and Luna."
"You mentioned earlier—" John's brow shifted slightly, his expression was thoughtful. "That the Lovegoods are good people?"
"They are." Yvonne looked at him and blinked, as if surprised he would question this.
"In fine weather, Mr. Lovegood and his daughter Luna always go to the little river on the far side of the village, fishing for Plimpies. You know, those odd magical fish? I run into them all the time when I go to that same stretch of river to do our washing there."
She smiled slightly at the memory. "Luna is happy to play with Bona for hours despite the age difference. She even makes little gifts for her—bottle-cap necklaces, chains woven from wildflowers, things like that. Strange little creations, but full of charm and imagination."
Yvonne's expression grew fonder. "When Luna's away at Hogwarts during the school year, Mr. Lovegood mostly stays home writing his articles. Sometimes, though, he'll wander along the riverbank when he's looking for inspiration.
Once or twice, I've happened across him during those walks, and he'll buy some fresh vegetables from me. And one summer—" She paused again, her voice softened with warmth at the memory. "—he used magic to water the filed for me. Spent an entire afternoon casting charms, refusing any payment. He said neighbours should help neighbours."
"Is that so?" John frowned slightly. "But I don't recall you ever telling me any of this before."
"I'm fairly certain I have told you, John. More than once, actually." Yvonne reached up and touched his face tenderly. "But in those days when you were still working, you'd come home exhausted every night. By the time I got around to mentioning these small daily happenings, you were already nodding off in your chair."
John said nothing in response. Silence was the only cover he had for the guilt that came over him.
"In that case—" When Yvonne mentioned again her intention to go and collect Bona from the Lovegoods' house, John hesitated. "Do you think Mr. Lovegood and his daughter might be willing to put the two of you up for the night?"
"Put us up? Spend the night there?" Yvonne's eyes widened slightly with surprise at the unexpected suggestion.
"Well, it's like this." John turned his head slightly, avoiding his wife's questioning gaze, unable to meet her eyes.
"The two Shear boys and a few of my other friends from the various workshops, I've asked them all to come round here tonight. Just for a drink and some company, really. Just to let off some steam after everything that's happened."
He cleared his throat awkwardly. "But you know how these things go. They might have a bit too much to drink to walk home safely after, and the rain will make the paths treacherous. I thought it would be easier if you and Bona weren't here. So…"
"I think…" Yvonne didn't press him for more details. She only studied John's eyes for a long moment, her expression was uncertain and troubled.
"I think the Lovegoods would be happy to have us. But John—who is going to cook for you all?"
"Oh, we'll manage ourselves somehow," John said quickly, and his relief at her acceptance was visible. "Cold food, bread and cheese, whatever's in the larder. We're not children. We can feed ourselves for one night."
Yvonne nodded once, slowly, still unconvinced but willing to trust him.
She went upstairs to their bedroom to change into clean clothes. When she came back down to the first floor several minutes later, she found her husband already hard at work sweeping the sitting room.
The sight of it stopped her at the foot of the stairs for just a moment. Then she came back to herself and said nothing about it. She only walked quietly to the kitchen and began tucking fresh vegetables into a woven basket—cucumbers she'd picked that morning, two ripe tomatoes, a bunch of spinach with the dirt still clinging to its roots.
Then she crossed to the fireplace and rummaged through the grey-dusted nook built into the chimney wall until her fingers closed on a small cloth pouch.
She drew it out and weighed it in her hand for a moment, feeling how light it had become. Her lips pressed together in concern. "We need to buy more Floo Powder soon, John. We're nearly out."
"I will," John said, glancing up briefly from his sweeping before returning to the task. "Tomorrow or the next day."
"But isn't Diagon Alley completely destroyed? Can you still get supplies there?"
"The Ministry has cleared a temporary trading space beside what's left of Diagon Alley," John explained, speaking between sweeps of the broom. "Right next to the ruins. The merchants are all trading out of canvas tents now, makeshift stalls. It's not proper shops, but you can get most necessities."
Yvonne nodded in understanding. She opened the nearly-empty pouch with careful fingers, pinched out a measure of the powder and cast it into the cold fireplace.
The flames erupted instantly, blazing bright emerald green and crackling with magical energy. Yvonne leaned her head and shoulders into the bright green flames, feeling the peculiar tickling warmth of Floo fire that never burned.
"Oh, I'm so sorry to disturb you at this hour, Mr. Lovegood—would it be all right for me to come through and have a word? It's rather important."
Her voice echoed strangely through the magical connection.
John watched as his wife's body visibly relaxed at whatever friendly response she heard in reply. A moment later she stepped fully into the fire, basket in hand, and vanished completely with a soft whoosh.
He stood watching the fireplace for several minutes after she'd gone, staring at the now-empty grate where green flames had been.
Ten minutes passed.
Neither Yvonne nor Bona reappeared through the flames.
'Good.'
John let out a slow breath. The kind Mr. Lovegood had evidently agreed to give Yvonne and Bona a place to sleep for the night. That was one worry resolved.
That whole afternoon, once Yvonne had departed and he was truly alone, John didn't rest for a single moment.
First, he climbed up through the attic to access the third-floor roof, emerging into the pouring rain without bothering with any protective charms.
He replaced the cracked and broken tiles—there were dozens of them due to accumulated damage from years of neglect—with salvaged pieces of board cut to fit.
The work was difficult and dangerous. The wet roof was very slippery. Rain poured into his eyes, making it hard to see. But he worked with determination, hammering nails with numb fingers, knowing that every leak he fixed now was one less problem later.
Then, without pausing to dry off or rest, he patched up the sitting-room ceiling on the first floor—the hole Yvonne had accidentally made at midday when her magical accident had sent the pot lid rocketing.
He fitted new boards, filled cracks with plaster he mixed himself, sanded rough edges until they were smooth. Whatever time was left after these major repairs, he gave entirely and obsessively to cleaning the sitting room and the kitchen that opened off it.
He cleaned with a thoroughness, working across the muddied, stained planks with a wet cloth, scrubbing patch by patch until not a single dark stain or smudge remained visible.
In the process he discovered several boards that were rotted beyond saving. He replaced them with better lumber from his small stock of materials.
He treated the floor joists beneath with the household's hoarded supply of specialist pest-repellent—taking great care not to provoke the Bundimun colonies living in the foundation too badly, lest they take offense at the disturbance and finish off the old house's crumbling foundations for good.
Not a single hidden corner of the first floor was spared his attention—the chimney nook thick with old soot, the encrusted cooking range caked with years of grease, the windowsill beside it covered in grime, all of it received focused cleaning.
When at last John finally stopped, straightening up from his crouch with popping knees and an aching back, the whole of the first floor had been utterly transformed.
It was still nowhere near what you might call grand or elegant—the furniture was still shabby, the wallpaper was still peeling, the general air still was one of genteel poverty.
But it was tidier, cleaner, more respectable than it had been in years. Tidier than the sitting room of the Weasley family who lived just outside the village, and everyone knew Molly Weasley kept a decent house despite their limited means.
And yet there was no satisfaction in John's eyes as he surveyed his work—only a restless, uneasy look. His gaze moved nervously across every corner of the room and kitchen, afraid something foul might still be lurking in some spot he'd missed.
Then his eye caught on the wand lying on the kitchen windowsill. It had lived in his house for the better part of half a century.
In all that time it had never produced a single reliable spell. Even its feathers were working themselves loose, sticking out at odd angles like the quills of a diseased bird.
"Useless thing," John muttered, his expression was darkening with disgust.
He snatched it up with rough hands and flung it carelessly into the neatly stacked pile of firewood beside the stove, where it clattered and disappeared among the logs.
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
But before he had even finished turning away, he was already diving back toward the wood pile with a strangled sound of regret.
He scrabbled frantically through the gaps between the logs until his searching fingers closed on the wand and fished it out again, brushing splinters from its surface.
"For Bona's sake, fine," he grumbled to himself, talking aloud to the empty house.
He tucked the wand carefully into the kitchen cupboard drawer, laying it on top of the clean dishtowels. "She loves watching you shoot sparks."
"Good Lord—" Absorbed completely in his frantic cleaning, John had forgotten to look outside to monitor the passage of time. Now he did, and his heart sank.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the grey and sodden sky had gone completely black.
Night had fallen without him noticing. And the wretched, relentless rain of the afternoon had stopped at some point without his hearing it cease, leaving behind only dripping eaves and soaked earth.
Scattered stars blinked fitfully behind a thin, tattered veil of cloud, visible now that the storm had passed.
The old clock nailed to the sitting room wall told him how late it was with its accusing hands.
John wasted no more time standing there staring. He bolted upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.
The house was in order—now he needed to put himself in order. He couldn't receive a respectable gentleman looking like this: soaked to the skin, covered in dust and plaster, smelling of sweat and chemicals.
Where he had been meticulous and careful with cleaning the sitting room, John was considerably less thorough with his own washing. He was in and out of the bathroom in under five minutes.
Then he frantically pulled on his best clothes from the warped wardrobe: a clean shirt that was only slightly frayed at the collar, his good jeans without any patches on the knees.
Towel still clutched in hand, rubbing roughly at his damp hair until it stood up in spikes, he clattered back down the stairs with his heart pounding.
"Huph!"
He'd barely landed at the foot of the staircase, when the kitchen fireplace erupted in a roaring rush of crackling green flame.
Out of that emerald blaze stepped a man.
He wore a black top hat of fine felt. His tailcoat had been cut with understated elegance. His shoes were polished to a dark mirror-shine. A pair of gold wire-rimmed spectacles sat precisely on the bridge of his nose, and at the corners of his mouth rested a gentle, composed smile.
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