Anthony Musgrave’s worn shoes marked steady time down the garden path. It was twenty-three stone slabs between the back door and the shed door. This morning they were cold and wet beneath the soles of his lace-up shoes, and he could feel the drizzle against his face. The wind wrestled with the tree branches up ahead, and they creaked in the breeze beneath a blackbird’s startled song. If he closed his eyes, Anthony could imagine the garden, just as it was, the tall dark bows of the tree against a slate sky, the green grass to either side of him, asleep, heavy with dew and rain, quiet beds before the fence, slumbering until spring when they would explode in a riot of colour as they had year after year. Up ahead, painted dark green to blend in with the garden, was his space away from his wife August. Where she wouldn’t worry about what he got up to and he could rattle around without irritating her.

Twenty-two, twenty-three.

Anthony reached out to the door handle with his right hand, his wand in his left, about to perform a spell without thought when he sensed something was different. The door handle in his right-hand grasp was loose. It twisted in his grip. He always locked it at night, but August had called him back to the house for a visitor, maybe he had missed in his haste. In the safety of his back garden, he shrugged and pulled open the door, allowing it to swing shut behind him. It closed out the damp air.

Three paces in, two to the right, four forward.

There was a mix of engine oil, wood varnish and damp earth in the air within the sanctuary of the shed. The smell greeted his nostrils every morning like an old friend but faded within minutes to his senses, so accustomed to the bouquet. In the summer months he would open the doors and windows, let the dry air sweep in with heady scents of their garden. The odd bumblebee would circle round his workbench, drunk on pollen.

Anthony’s right hand fingertips unlatched the iron stove door, and lifted in three more blocks of wood from the basket beside. They crackled into life with a spark from his wand in his left hand. He swung the door shut with a squeak.

He took two paces left.

The bright copper kettle roared as water tumbled through its open lid into the empty belly. The pitch of the roar ascended as it filled, water replacing air. The physics of it all never failed to raise a little smile on the old wizard’s face. Simple things beneath magic were what made the world special, never quite lost their charm.

Two paces right.

The kettle settled comfortably on the top of the stove, which was warming well. The glow met the worn knees of his grey corduroy trousers.

Three paces left, two paces back, quarter turn.

Anthony’s knees creaked a little as he lowered his backside to the threadbare two-seater sofa. He leaned back. The sofa stirred.

“I knew I locked that door.”
“You didn’t change the charm.”

A huge grin lit up Anthony’s face. He reached out his left hand in the direction of the voice, gripping the boney shoulder of the horizontal wizard on the sofa behind him, and shook it gently - a mix of glee, frustration and excitement at the reunion.
“My boy.” He uttered proudly, even though his son had just spent more than a decade confined to the North Sea for acts nobody should be proud of.
“Dad.” There was a smile in the voice.



-



“Sorry for eating your biscuits,” Lawrence apologised, returning the empty tin to the shelf above the cracked sink. “I’ll replace them…” there was an uncertainty in his tone, “...when I can.”

The older wizard batted a hand in the air to dismiss the offer.
“Your mother says I eat too many.” He patted his stomach which revealed a modest, but comfortable lifestyle. “If I’d known you were here I’d have brought you some breakfast.”

Lawrence smiled and shrugged. He had smelled the eggs on his father’s breath during their embrace. The whole world smelled different after so long locked up. It was as if his nose had remembered how to smell. Each one brought back strong memories and with them emotions of how much he had lost, how far the world had moved on since the war.
“Didn’t think Mum would appreciate a knock on the door.”

He settled back on the tatty sofa beside his father, retrieving the tin mug full of nettle tea from the lid of the toolbox. “Cyn didn’t. I stopped at Hannah’s for a few days, but outstayed my welcome[1]. Found out she’s a healer, just like she always wanted to be.” Lawrence smiled, happy, and it reflected in the lift in his tone. “I’m glad it worked out for her.”

Anthony nodded, gazing across the room, his head tilted towards Lawrence. He was a proud grandfather. Hannah was more like a proper Musgrave, she’d done good, just like Lawrence, and Anthony hoped she would remain doing good. She was giving more back to society than her mother, that was for sure. But, Cynthia was happy, and that was all you could really ask for your children to be.
“She worked hard at school, proper little Ravenclaw. Healer and nearly married. Everything going for her-.”
“Karma’s a bitch.” Lawrence near interrupted. There was an uncomfortable silence as Anthony sipped on his tea and then lowered it away from his lips surrounded in grey stubble.
“Risk of the job.”



-



“You’ve got my auror graduation photo?” Lawrence asked, spotting it amongst the clutter in his father’s shed. It had once taken pride of place in the family’s sitting room. Lawrence in his early twenties, wearing a proud, official expression which would occasionally break into a familiar cheeky smile. He caught sight of his own reflection in the glass, wearing a ghost of it now, beneath tired, sad eyes, and glanced over his shoulder.

“Well, she doesn’t come in here.” His father reasoned, sat at his workbench behind Lawrence. His nose was pressed to a gigantic enchanted magnifying glass on an extendable arm. His eyesight was considerably worse than Lawrence recalled it, but time did that to you - or rather, age. His father was always a resourceful engineer, and although cluttered, the shed was meticulously organised. The layout had barely changed from when Lawrence had last stepped inside.

“Hannah said I stopped existing when I went to Azkaban,” he agreed, looking back at the photo. It was an altogether happier time, even if had been in dark days of Voldemort’s first rise. His heart felt heavy, physically weighty in his chest and he sighed. “But you refused to forget me.”

“You’re my son.” Anthony replied, tersely, and snatched up a nearby screwdriver. “You were under he-who- his influence. You weren’t yourself.” Anthony looked up in the direction he knew Lawrence was in, but couldn’t focus on his son in any detail at the distance. “You’re better now. It’s all over, and you’ll be able to build a new life.”

Lawrence recognised the wishful tone in his father’s voice, still staring at the photograph.
“Nobody wants someone who’s done time, Dad, especially not someone who did things to their family.” His former self gave a cheeky, carefree grin, which only made his heart weigh heavier in his chest. “But thanks for your optimism. It’s more genuine than the parole clerks in London.”

He stepped away, reached down to the sofa to pick up his battered second hand coat and slipped it back on. “Got to go, show my face. Every Tuesday,” he explained uncomfortably to his father. “I’ll come back and see you some time, Dad. Give … or don’t give my love to Mum. Up to you.”

Eggs again.

Lawrence withdrew from his father’s embrace and wiped his eyes as he left.



End

1.	15th February 2010 Deafening Disgraceful Disownment