From a Tumblr challenge, Nuri chose Lawrence and the line “All I know is, one of us is right, the other is you.” from this list of prompts.

Precedes 2nd January 2011 thread, Through Gray Mist Creeping

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“Y'seen the Prophet, my beloved?” Willy asked Gladys-May from the kitchen doorway. The kitchen was the only room in the house that had any heat that morning, the oven warming up in preparation to bake bread. The air smelled of yeast and flour, and there was a fine dusting of ingredients on the kitchen table where Jack and Susie were forming dough buns, clothes rolled up to their elbows, barefoot. Their legs were folded up on the crooked bench beneath them, keeping away from the cold flags beneath.

“On the windowsill,” his wife replied without looking round, busy at the stove. Willy’s stomach rumbled noisily as he rounded the kitchen table, reaching out to affectionately ruffle Jack and then Susie’s hair. Both children offered their father grins with rosy flour-powdered cheeks, but glanced worriedly back to their mother. The dark-haired witch at the stove glanced back over her shoulder at her children and they both straightened their faces to the bread buns.

Willy dropped his hand away from Susie’s slender shoulder. It was his third morning at home after release from Azkaban, and his fourth stint there. Two years ago he had attempted to trade some acromantula eggs, and on his arrest there was no question that he’d spend some time in the North Sea. He’d missed two Christmases, two years of his children growing up. For two years Gladys-May had raised them single-handedly while running the farm. She was a resourceful, wonderful woman who Willy loved with all his heart, but he was an idiot. In an attempt to fill their dwindling coffers, to feed their children over winter, he’d gone before the Wizengamot. Gladys-May was furious, rightly, but the children couldn’t hide their glee at their father being home. They’d even scraped together home-made Christmas presents for him. Paper-mache animal models from old Prophets and Witch Weekly magazines - Susie’s pig made up of skin tones from the colour photographs.

He reached for the newspaper on the kitchen windowsill. 




Lawrence Musgrave slept deeply in a bed of straw. His tight brown curls folded around his lined face, hugging filled out cheeks for the first time in over a decade. The slumbering wizard was curled tightly into a ball beneath a stained blue tartan blanket which was threadbare due to age. In the fog of the late December morning, it kept him warm enough over yesterday’s clothes. He’d kept his boots on, partly to be prepared to flee, but more out of exhaustion. One pale hand gripped the blanket just beneath his lowered chin.

In the stable below, a piebald male wickered softly, her greying ears picked out footsteps crossing the muddy yard through the fog and slushy snow. Above her in the hayloft, the former auror’s eyes moved beneath their lids, before his face creased as if in discomfort. To depart from sleep was such sorrow. Dreams were to relive memories of a life he no longer had, would never reclaim, but could believe in without consciousness.

Willy's whistling brought Lawrence’s dark eyes open to the grey morning, back to reality. Seeing the balding head appear above the edge of the loft brought it home entirely.
“Mornin’ Mr Musgrave!” Lawrence made a face and crawled out of his makeshift bed. Straw clung to his hair and clothes, like a scarecrow. He tugged the blanket around him, attempting to keep out the chill.
“Morning Willy.”

Lawrence studied the other man’s appearance. Willy had slept in the ramshackle Shufflebottom farmhouse last night. Whether he had slept in the marital bed was to be disclosed, but either way, he’d slept in a warmer, more comfortable place than Lawrence had, even if it had been the living room armchair. Lawrence couldn’t deny his jealousy towards the other man, for a family, a wife, a chance of life even if he had gone to Azkaban.

“We made the paper, see,” Willy extended the folded daily to the wizard sat cross-legged on the loft boards. Lawrence reached out with his remaining hand, noting the striped towel slung over Shufflebottom’s left shoulder. Lawrence rubbed at his eyes with the crook of his wrist before laying the paper across a bent knee to examine the lead stories. He didn’t see it at first, and then: Glasgow no match for dementors! IDREAD at a loose end… Lawrence continued to read, curious as to what the Prophet made of last night’s efforts.

“We’re famous, we did a better job than all of them,” Willy continued, leaning over the edge of the loft with his wand in hand.
“Not famous, no…” Lawrence quietly corrected, still engaged in reading.
“We’ll be famous though. They’ll be paying us loads when we are getting rid of the dementors.” The bucket of cold water wobbled on the way up, spilling onto the dusty floor below with a crackle. Lawrence glanced up at an inopportune second of the process, witnessing his former classmate's unflattering builder’s arse crack.

“How’s Gladys-May this morning?” The former auror asked, setting aside the newspaper carefully. The pail made it up onto the loft boards, though not all of the freezing contents remained inside. Lawrence didn’t care much for Mrs Shufflebottom. She had been their classmate too, but she and Lawrence had never been all that friendly. He was however interested in whether she would remain in the house all day, and if the Shufflebottoms had access to an owl.

“Lovely, blessed as ever.” Willy replied hastily, a smile on his face. He looked back in the direction of the house, thinking about the family baking bread in the kitchen. Harmonious as a trio. He wished his wife were as enthusiastic to see him as his children, but he had never been the perfect husband. Even so, they were still married. She would come round, especially when they had money!

“I meant how does she feel about her husband.” Lawrence persisted in a low tone, now knelt beside the bucket, wand pointed steadily at the water, bringing it to temperature. Wiggling his beard insecurely, Shufflebottom settled on the loft edge nearby, dangling his short legs over. He shrugged his shoulders and swung his ankles.
“Eh, oh, glad I’m home, of course Mr Musgrave.” Water splashed on the boards as Lawrence washed. Shufflebottom decided to add to his lie, unable to resist. “Overjoyed. Why wouldn’t she be?”

Emerging from the bucket, face dripping, Lawrence Musgrave gave his old school friend a knowing look and extended his remaining hand.
“Willy, all I know is, one of us is right, the other is you. Now pass that towel. We’ve work to do.”