Her boots were soundless on the wet cobblestones as she headed down the main street of Diagon Alley, dressed in a plain grey trenchcoat belted at the waist. A dash of red caught her eye and she stopped to check the crates of fruit on display outside a shop. The man behind the crates smiled at her as she looked upon rose-red apples.

"These are lovely," she told him gently, her painted lips in her genuine smile, "could I have two please?"

An exchange of coin and she was on her way once more. The sky above was grey but it did nothing to dampen her spirits. She was living her best life, being able to walk freely down the Alley.

Certainly one day they could turn up at her doorstep once more, ready to secure her with their magical restraints. She would go willingly. But today was not that day. She had done her best, she felt, to reform. Turning down every request to steal yet another artefact, one last job. They were always so quick to insist. Morgana's last job was well over years ago. She was done with that life.

Comfort. Stability. She was one of the most requested artefact and antiques consultants in the country by the wealthy. That alone should be enough to last her a lifetime. If they came for her, then so be it. She had lived a life well.

Something gold and slender caught her eye as she walked past the warm rays spilling from a store window and she backtracked. Through the thick clear glass a figure poised in perfect balance and grace rotated slowly on a black base. Morgana's dark eyes focused on it.

Laughter from a boy of sixteen as he knelt on the rug in front of a fireplace, grinning as he watched excitedly a girl of thirteen open her present carefully. She didn't want to break it! He'd earned the galleons to buy it over the summer - what could it be that he had to get for her?

A dancer, delicate, graceful, pirouetteing and twirling on her stand as butterflies glittered around her. The chimes were soft, sweet. She squealed in delight - a present that represented her dreams.

No matter how much of a child's fancy it had been back then, he'd cared about her dreams to let her have something to remind her to achieve whatever her heart desired. He believed in her. He believed in her dreams.

The sight of the figure blurred. She blinked away the encroaching tears rapidly, taking a nearly forgotten breath before she grew lightheaded. Her hand touched the glass, fingers trembling. The glass was cold, but the yearning ache in her heart was colder.

There was no doubt that their father would have already thrown out the gift. He had been resolute in getting rid of her name. She wondered if the neighbours would ask after her-- who was she kidding. They hadn't had neighbours in years.

It was mine.

The bell above the store door tinkled. "Good evening," she said to the bright brunette salesgirl who hurried to meet her, "I couldn't help notice the dancer in your window. Could I look at it, please?"

It was exactly as she had remembered, soft chimes and all. Perhaps the tune was different and she'd never know, but as she held it in her hands she remembered.

They would lie on the carpet in front of the fireplace in her room and watch the dancer twirl. Brother and sister, sharing a simple gift from one to another. In the summer, after a long day of chores, home from Hogwarts and away from their stern father.

He would tell her that, during the summers when they would spend these quiet nights watching the dancer, he felt the most at peace. No words were ever exchanged.

No words needed to be said.

For a split second she felt the heat. The space was too small; the person behind her accidentally elbowed her in the back. She gasped as she nearly dropped the dancer but quickly steadied herself and looked behind her, ready to apologise for being in the way. So caught up had she been in memories of bitter sweetness that she'd forgotten she could have been blocking the way--

Dark eyes locked with each other, and both pairs widened at the sight of each other. The warm light caressed hair of the same hue, and perhaps length, falling upon a recognisable frame, a silhouette she saw in her dreams and wishes as an adult. The yearning in her heart reached out to him.

No words needed to be said. Her eyes were full of shock and longing. His eyes were of surprise, and... fear? As if in unity, their gazes grew sad, the brief moment of a human meeting with another fleeing quick in the cold reminder of the gulf between them. She saw in his eyes the grief, the guilt, the pain, a flash of a second before he turned away hurriedly. 

Her lips moved soundlessly, Mord?

She too turned away, remembering then she still held the dancer in her hands. But it was not the dancer that was the answer to the ache in her breast. It was a fleeting comfort, of a memory she could never get back.

Morgana slowly replaced the dancer back on the shelf, making sure to be as delicate as she had been with it all those years ago. Her fingers lingered on the base, a futile effort to capture the soft memory of the two of them sharing in a dream she once had.

He cared about her so much. She knew he had never stopped caring. The chasm between them gaped wide, scoring its ice cold pain across both their hearts.

She heard the salesgirl's voice in the background. Oh, I'm so sorry, these walking canes are actually just for appearances. They're not made to the correct requirements for proper support. I don't know where you could get actual walking canes.

Morgana turned around. He was at the counter looking forlornly at the little collection of sticks in their stand. She watched him turn and slowly limp further into the shop despite what the lass had said.

That was it. She'd read he had been injured in an attack. It hurt. It hurt to see him hurt. He'd always stood tall, being the pillar that everyone could lean on. Now he seemed so frail, trying to keep standing tall despite his gait. Struggling.

"Excuse me!" Her voice spoke before she realised what she was doing. Her throat seized right after. He was going to ignore her, right? Ignore her and leave her alone?

He stopped in his tracks and turned. Reluctant, hesitant. She could see it.

"I know where you could get a good walking cane for an affordable price," she continued. "If you'd like to come with me...?"

The moment stretched out for far too long.



He nodded.


Morgana headed back to her store. Blood was still pounding in her ears. The lump in her throat was getting larger every step she took, but nothing stopped her from walking. Nothing stopped her from thinking about the way they had walked in silence down the street. Their gazes avoided each other. Yet their steps fell together despite his lame leg, upon wet cobblestones on a grey day in Diagon Alley. The closest they had ever been since that fateful day years ago.

He never spoke to her, but he had listened. She had been nervous at first, but something deep down in her heart remembered he would always listen. She offered the different canes, extolling to him the virtues of each wood by appearance and sturdiness, and magical conductivity. Antiques included walking canes that had to be of a quality that sated the wealthy and she had a treasure trove of knowledge just for it. She offered it to him, and he heeded.

After a long deliberation, still in silence, he chose out of her offered options. It warmed her heart to see him use it right after, getting used to how it felt in his hands and to help him walk. She could see the relief in his face, replacing the odd flashes of pain he had had when she had accompanied him down the street.

Without words, she too saw the gratitude. The forlorn sadness. The longing that mirrored hers. But also how thankful he was. How glad he was to see her again. The sentiment was mutual; warmth had swelled in her chest as she smiled back, knowing he would be alright now.

She could not be there to help him lean against her in the times to come, but for a moment, for one fleeting moment, their world was healed. Brother and sister, for once, as if they had never been separated.

The door shut behind her. She pulled down the blinds and turned off the lights, leaving but a single lamp on the counter lit.

"Mordecai," she said. Her voice sounded strange, strained, but the sound of his name was warm, comforting. The tears threatened to spill, but she was smiling.



Maybe one word needed to be said.

14 March 2017, Improper Use of Magic Office

She came in looking at papers in her hand, only briefly aware that he was there sitting on the couch. Distracted by the work in her arms, she cast a spell on the door once she'd shut it behind her and sat down on the couch, setting down the papers onto the desk.

She saw the handsome cane of dark red wood, upon which his hands rested. Wenge wood, she'd later come to learn, a beautiful specimen of a tree that had stool tall and strong and proud, not unlike her boss who despite his wounded leg still came in to work as usual. He had recovered but the injury would never heal. She'd seen him wince in pain sometimes and she had always been quick to offer to carry work for him. He had always accepted graciously, though she knew it soured him inside. He hated burdening people. He always had.

Sameera had opened her mouth to compliment the cane, but saw his expression. His eyes half-closed, gazing at the beautiful cane with sadness in every line etched in his face. Over the years she'd come to recognise his quiet moments of grief, guilt, pain, when memories would strike him and he needed a moment to push them away so he could focus on his work.

He closed his eyes briefly and slowly exhaled, before opening them and looking back at her. Whatever sorrow he had, he'd tucked away. Work beckoned. She smiled understandingly at him, sadly for him.  If only for once life would throw him a bone and let him rest.



No words needed to be said.