November 22, Tuesday
12:05 pm
Donnan McBoid's Residence



Duncan made his way down one of the Diagon streets, clutching a paper bag - full with a lunch designed for two people - in one arm as the wind whipped at his coat. The temperature was already dropping, but the wind gave the air more of a bite, promising worse to come that evening.

No matter the season, this particular area looked the same as always; tired and worn. To a first time new arrival the question of it really being a part of Diagon might even come up. The main shopping district, tidier and well-kept when not trampled by new students, was a stark contrast to the buildings here housing many different wix.

Two weeks had passed since Duncan's last 'random' visit to check in on his uncle. Plenty of time to give Donnan some privacy, though he wasn't too sure about the neighbors. One witch in particular did tend to glance over in more than just idle curiosity.

Upon reaching his destination Duncan rapped the knuckles of his free hand against the door. To Duncan's immediate concern the door swung open at his touch. Such a thing simply did not happen. Frowning, the Scotsman stepped inside. His hand dropped to hover near his wand, body tense and ready for a fight. He glanced around to search for possible foul play. Finding none he called out, "Hey, Old Man. Are you in here? Why's your door unlocked?"

In the kitchen, Donnan stooped over the contents of the ice box, frowning at the leftovers languishing in there. Fish and chips from the pub down the street. A hunk of old cheese, a carton of old milk. The remnants of a Sunday roast that his neighbor Norma had given him a few days ago. That woman was always giving him food. He'd told her that it tasted a bit off, no offense, and she'd just laughed, reminding him to return the plate once he'd finished it all.

But really, it did taste off. And he most likely would finish it all, due to politeness and neighborliness, despite the fact that it would sit in his stomach and give him indigestion. He frowned into the icebox, took out the fish and chips, and startled as the door banged open.

Duncan's voice. Donnan straightened, feeling his bones ache. His glower faded for a moment. The boy must be here to feed him like an overgrown pet. The boy was overgrown himself, towering over his relatives and lacking the decency to stop growing at 6 feet.

"Is that you, Johnny? Have you brought me my Pepper-Up Potions on this fine Monday morning?" He hollered, unable to resist needling his well-meaning nephew.

Donnan emerged from the kitchen, holding out the white box of leftovers and giving it a rattle. He set it on the table in the dining area, unopened. Lunch was all set.

"The door's unlocked because I was planning on using it again," he raised his dark, bushy eyebrows. He'd forgotten to lock it just this once. But he wasn't about to tell the kid that.

He eyed the bag Duncan was holding. He looked back at Duncan, and let out a breath through his nose. At his own plodding pace, he moved aside his museum volunteer badge, a copy of the Daily Prophet, a stack of books, a walking stick that he used for hikes when he felt like getting out of London, and a few other things to make room on the table. Then he sat and gestured at the chair opposite him.

At the sound of his uncle's voice some of the tension eased away from his body. "Ha ha, you're so funny. I bring a gift and it's not a potion." Seeing Donnan standing at the doorway and looking as grouchy as ever, Duncan allowed himself to fully relaxed. Except for the open door everything was exactly how it should be.

The old man shook the white box no doubt holding tasteless leftovers and Duncan grinned. "It's better than whatever's in that box, too." With space cleared at the table he set the bag down on the table. Postponing on taking the offered seat, he wandering into the kitchen for some silverware, quite at home in the old man's space.

"You have some clean dishware this time, I hope." Donnan never did. Cleaning up was too mundane and unnecessary for him now, mostly because he lived alone.

After all this time, Duncan remained fairly certain he was the only family member to check in on the older McBoid. His visit today, however, was not a coincidence. A certain letter[1] had arrived that morning at their cottage from one Solomon Carstairs, Head of the DMLE no less. In it the man had also written that letters would be sent to both of Iona's parents. The Scotsman wasn't sure how Donnan would react to the news. Personally, he felt like he might still be in shock, uncertain how to react. It wasn't every day a person learned their long lost cousin was a disembodied spirit.

1.	Not Your Average Funeral

Duncan liked to ask questions that could easily be answered if he would only use that young eyesight of his.

"The icebox is stocked with drinks. Grab two, will you," Donnan replied simply. They had their choice of juice, old milk, and beer.

Out of sight for a moment, Donnan took the chance to open the suspicious bag, peering in and pulling out the to-go boxes. Two chicken curries. Two salads. Two apples. Not even a bag of crisps to enjoy.

He frowned deeply at Duncan when he returned. He wondered, not for the first time, if his Healer copied Duncan on all her dire warnings to avoid stress, eat healthier, and stop working so much. He'd stopped working, technically. He didn't count volunteer work as real work, and he made no promises about the rest of the Healer's advice.

"Is this it?" Donnan crumpled up the empty bag. "No geriatric jello cup?" He grumbled and settled into his fate at the table, allotting his nephew several napkins and his share of the grub.

He took a bite of curry. Not bad, but Donnan chewed slowly to make a point.

The rhetorical question he had asked about dishes being clean was a huge no, as expected. The state of the kitchen, however, was worse than he imagined. Opening the fridge revealed mostly bare racks - he sniffed the milk and poured it down the sink - and the cabinets were almost as bare too. Grime covered the sink and he had to wrinkle his nose a bit.

Apparently, when his uncle went out later in the evening, Duncan would have to clean his kitchen and go grocery shopping to stock up the poor kitchen. Not that he'd tell him as much. Donnan would grumble, telling his nephew to mind his own business and that he could take care of himself. Unfortunately for him though, Duncan cared too much to mind such grumbling.

After scourgifying a couple forks the wizard grabbed a couple beers from the fridge. Trophies in hand he made his way back to the previously offered seat. Sitting down he popped the tops off the beers then handed Donnan one of the newly clean(er) forks.

Shaking his head at the old man's comment he snorted but had no hard feelings over it. "Well, that's gratitude for you."

Duncan took a bite of his own curry and looked over at Donnan. "No, there's no jello. I did put a new tub of ice cream in your icebox for dessert." Unless his taste buds had changed in the past couple weeks, the flavor was the old man's favorite. Hopefully that would win enough points to not be glared at for buying groceries.

The choice of beer, the ice cream in the icebox. Now that was more like it. Donnan's frown faded and he ate with a bit more gusto. He lifted his clean fork and gave a grateful nod to Duncan.

For the first few minutes, they ate in silence, as was Donnan's way. The house had changed very little over the past few decades, decorated in earthy greens and orange. Bookcases lined the walls of the living room, the books packed and organized so tightly together on the shelves that they were prone to getting stuck whenever Donnan selected one. A new wireless sat on an end table, gifted by Duncan one holiday to replace the sputtering, static-emitting wireless Donnan had fought with for ages. He kept the wireless on low for most of the day while he was home, the chatter reminding him of the bookshop.

A few of his ex-wife's muggle antiques still sat around, collecting dust. Though he'd taken down the photos of their married life, leaving the walls mostly bare, he still displayed a small photo of his daughter, Iona, back from when he remembered her happiest.

He paused to take a sip of beer, and glanced at his nephew.

"So tell me, bring any foals into the world today?"

He asked the same sort of question every time Duncan came around, interested in hearing about his work on the farm. Sometimes he asked after Angus. Sometimes he even asked after Moira, a grandniece he'd never met.

Duncan always enjoyed spending time here. Eating a meal quietly while sitting across from Donnan was, in more ways than one, nostalgic. Except as a child he had rarely been quiet, trying to aggravate his brother or even Iona every chance he got. Most of they time they didn't let him rile them up, much to his youthful disappointment and boredom.

Smiling to himself at Donnan's question he shook his head. "No, Uncle. No foals today, but plenty of them are due in a few months. When they're all born you can come see, if you like. Only thing that's really new with the horses is we're entering a couple of them into the Christmas Prelude Cloud Course. I think they could have picked a better name but," Duncan shrugged. Nothing to be done about it.

He also enjoyed coming here to tell the old man how things were going, how everyone was doing. Duncan knew his uncle stayed busy most of the time doing volunteer work at different places but it was still nice letting him feel like part of the family, fractured as it was. "Angus is the same as always. Moira's turning into a regular workaholic. Takes it all very seriously, as usual."

A cloud course? Donnan snorted. That didn't sound very productive, watching winged horses race across the skies. Though he supposed that's what horse lovers and the sentimental public in general liked to see around the holidays.

"Good luck to them."

If the McBoid brothers had bred and raised them, they'd need little luck.

Familiar with the routine of these visits, Duncan went on to explain what the family had been up to lately. Ah, so Angus was still a cheerful recluse and Moira a less cheerful one. Sounded about right.

Donnan chewed on his food, ruminating. He hoped Angus' daughter left the farm from time to time and lived it up a little. From what he'd heard, she seemed to spend most of her time at home, working, or at the Wentworth menagerie, working.

"I'd better not," he waved off his offer. "Don't want to be a bother, and I don't have your eye for foals. They all look the same to me, gangling and newborn," he raised his dark eyebrows and let his mouth quirk up. "Besides, you can't sneak me in through the barn like a wayward old goat. Angus would spot the difference and I suspect Moira would as well, if she inherited the McBoid stare."

He sipped at his beer, averting his gaze. "Best to owl a picture, Duncan."

Duncan nodded in appreciation at Donnan's well wishes, taking a drink of his beer.

Depending on the race the competition was sometimes fierce. This race, however, was more for young horses to get their wings wet and get a taste for racing. A way to test which horses were meant for the sport. The horses that weren't tended to be used in breeding programs or as simple riding mounts.

Donnan's old goat joke was amusing, but Duncan had to shake his head. "You're never a bother, Uncle." Still, he had made the offer knowing his uncle wouldn't accept it. That didn't stop him from trying on occasion, but the old man had never actually been by the farm. He still held hope that would change one day.

Their lunch mostly devoured, Duncan noted Iona hadn't come up at all. Either his uncle hadn't received the letter yet, hadn't read it, or had chosen to ignore its contents. Only the old man was far too calm for the latter option. Only one way to find out.

"Speaking of owls, when did you last check your mail?"

Donnan cracked a smile, for his nephew's sake. Until or if he heard from Angus himself, he wasn't one to butt in where he might not be wanted.

He finished the last bite of his lunch, set down his fork, and lifted his eyebrows at the odd, mundane question. His mail?

"Yesterday," he sat back in his chair. "I like to give the neighborhood hooligans a sporting chance at running off with it."

They hadn't yet, but it was just a matter of time. They kicked over trash cans, littered, left their brooms strewn on the pavement for anyone to trip over, covered the brick walls with graffiti, and followed him home from the cafe, but what could he do?

Donnan sighed as he rose from his seat, gathering the empty containers as well as the day-old fish and chips to chuck into the rubbish bin. Nothing dire had showed up in the Daily Prophet this morning, and he rarely received important announcements via owl, so he could only assume his nephew was checking his state of mind. That damn door. He'd forgotten to lock it just this once...

Grumbling under his breath, he went to the window in the kitchen, opening it and lifting the sack attached to the sill outside. Full. He took a moment to refill the treat box for the owl, and dropped the bag on the kitchen counter, standing in the archway between the living room and the kitchen as he rifled through the day's mail.

"Let's see here."

He lifted up a flier with large, block letters and a photo of older people smiling.

"Join WARP.[1]"

He dropped it into the bin. No thank you.

"Ah. Grocery coupons. You'll make good use of those later, Duncan."

He handed the advertisements to the kid, not bothering to hide a smirk. That's what he got for insisting on buying food for him when he was fully capable of stocking the pantry on his own. He just hadn't gotten to it yet.

The next envelope had silver ink that glinted in the sunlight, and the pamphlet inside showed a photo of a long-haired creature with wide, mournful eyes.

"Donate to save our demiguises. I volunteer at their bloody zoo, what more do they want?"

Rubbish bin.

"Medical. Medical."

He hesitated over the rubbish bin, then set the letters on the counter.

Neighborhood bulletin. Wasn't even worth mentioning out loud. Binned.

Donnan paused at an official-looking ministry envelope sealed with the golden stamp of the MLE. He glanced at the return address, then back at the seal.

He cleared his throat, as if to get a bad taste out of his mouth, and looked at Duncan out of the corner of his eye.

"Ministry nonsense. I'll read it later. Bad manners, otherwise."

Brow furrowed, Donnan began clearing off the rest of the table, setting the forks in the sink because his nephew was watching, and ignoring the bad feeling in his gut.

Too much healthy food would do that to an old man.

1.	Wizarding Association of Retired Persons

As Donnan began to clean up, Duncan moved to help but sat back down at a shake from his uncle's head. Whenever he brought lunch or dinner, the old man always cleared the table. However, now that he had brought the male up the Scotsman was feeling somewhat restless. Needing something to do with his hands he began picking at something stuck to the table.

His uncle began sorting through his mail and Duncan glanced over at him, accepting the coupons when they were passed over. No surprise the older wizard received a fair share of junk mail attempting to tug at the heartstrings. It was also a good thing he didn't try throwing those medical bills away, either.

Duncan's expression turned fully sober as soon as he saw the Ministry letter. The news had arrived just as Carstairs had written.

"Angus and I received one this morning as well. I think you should read it, Uncle."

Duncan didn't want Donnan reading the contents while alone. Even though he never said it, Duncan knew he still held hope that his daughter had merely written them all off and stepped out of their lives. Without any explanation. Without a single goodbye.

Unlike his uncle, he had always suspected the worst and that was why he considered going to this meeting in a building that made him uncomfortable with an organization he didn't trust. To get some answers and maybe hunt down the bastards who had done this to her. Nothing would bring Iona back or make her family feel better about her loss, but at least no one else would be hurt by whoever's dark magic.

M - for language

---

Duncan and Angus had received a letter as well. Duncan had shown up around noon, more meddlesome than usual. They’d eaten lunch first, so it couldn’t be too horrible, could it? If it had been some emergency, he would have sat him down and explained it first.

With an uneasy look at his nephew, Donnan opened the letter. He leaned against the counter comfortably, his eyes skimming over the McBoid name at the top, and skimming down to see Solomon Carstairs’ signature. He cleared his throat, and shook his head. Must be one of those form letters. It was just a few sentences. What could the Head of the DMLE have to say in a few sentences that would upend his entire day?

He started to read from the top.

A relative. Iona McBoid. A daughter, he corrected automatically, and settled on the word ‘discovered’.

Iona.

Discovered.

He froze, nostrils flaring ever so slightly, muscles tensing, as he peered at the letter and brought it closer to his face, gripping the margins of it in his hand.

His daughter, discovered? Found? Was she…?

Iona McBoid. Discovered. If you wish to get in touch with her-

If you wish to get in touch with her.

Wish to get in touch with her.

His hand jerked back, he straightened, and for a few seconds, he struggled with shock and the first flicker of joy. Hope quickened his heart. Without looking at Duncan, he glanced at the window next to the front door. He opened the drapes every morning and looked out into the street and at the rows of houses across the road. He left the drapes open throughout the day and well into the evening, when the lights lit up the living room. His was the only house on the block gleaming so brightly every season and every day of the year, a spot of light in the fog, the rain, the snow, and the darkness of the night, a beacon to guide Iona home.

For a few seconds, years fell off his face, and the frown lines around his mouth softened.

He glanced down and kept reading. The department cannot guarantee her attendance (bureaucratic bollocks) – she currently resides in another being – sorry for your loss.

“What the fuck?” He muttered under his breath.

She currently resides in another being as a pentral. He read again. Pentral. Terribly sorry for your loss.

“What the fuck,” he repeated with more feeling.

He read the whole thing over again. And again. His brow furrowed, his heart quickened in despair. No. This made no sense. He shifted his feet, pushing aside the first ugly inklings that the rug had been pulled out from underneath him. The world was as he always suspected it was, full of war, and senseless death, and yet more war, and senseless death, and his daughter was as much a part of it as anyone else, she could not be spared, she was born into it and grew up happy and curious only to learn what he’d always known, that people would hurt her the more years that she’d lived.

He let his hand fall slowly to his side. He glanced at the stack of newspapers teetering on one of the shelves.

“What the hell is a pentral?” He asked the stack, he asked himself. He ran a hand over his face, his expression falling into the familiar lines of grim loss and sadness. He remembered the word, he remembered something about it in the Daily Prophet, but his mind refused to connect the dots.

Finally, he looked at his nephew, and came around the table to rest his hand on the back of the chair he’d left. Donnan's eyes were bright and hard, his voice gruff to mask the rising emotion.

He held the letter up and gave it a shake. “You got the same drivel? She resides in another being, terribly sorry for your loss!”

He caught his breath, shock and anger coursing through him.

Donnan kept looking at his nephew, his steady and decent and sad-eyed nephew. His brows slanted in anguish for a split second and then furrowed again.

“What does this mean? Is she - is she dead or not?”

Watching his uncle read the letter turned out to be much harder than Duncan had anticipated. He felt like an ice cold, bony hand had gripped his heart and was squeezing it mercilessly.

His eyes and throat burned but he fought against it. The whole realization would be hard enough on the old man without his own emotions being thrown into the mix.

Joy and hope flickered over Donnan's face. He kept reading and the light died, replaced by confusion and despair. How many times had he seen that reaction during the war? I'm so sorry, we couldn't save them in time.

Duncan really wanted to punch something right now. To punch someone.

Donnan came back to the table but didn't sit down and asked the questions he dreaded.

"A pentral is the disembodied soul of a person," he swallowed hard, "made through a ritual using dark magic." Duncan took a breath, focusing instead on the guilty person cloaked in shadows, letting rage fuel his words instead of sorrow.

"I imagine she died a long time ago, Uncle, and her soul trapped Merlin knows where all this time. She can't.... Iona has been unable to move on since her death. At the moment she, and whoever she resides in, are stuck in some half life. She can't... she can't stay."

Despite his attempts, his voice cracked on the last word.

Duncan had always assumed an unfortunate death had found his cousin. Being told she had 'been discovered' and confirmed, for all intents and purposes, dead was entirely different.

He really wanted to punch someone.

His nephew had come prepared. Pentrals, he spoke without hesitation, trying his best to explain while swallowing his sorrow.

Donnan let his hand rest over his mouth, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. He could only focus on a few words at a time, until those words repeated over and over again, stringing together a horrible truth. Simplifying the truth into one truth.

Pentral. Disembodied. Dead. Trapped.

Disembodied. Soul. Trapped.

Dead. Dead. Dead yet trapped.

His daughter.

He turned away, the words echoing in his head. His gaze fixed on Iona's small portrait on the wall. He'd taken the photo just before her seventh year, in the small community garden a few blocks down. She stood wrapped in the blue summer cloak Marianne had bought for her. In the photo she moved, placing a silly little flower in her hair, and flashing a peace sign at the camera, and smiling wryly and seriously as she always had. Iona, despite her attempts to impress her mother, had taken after him once she'd graduated, settling in with the order and routine of the Ministry, surrounded by books and the things she loved.

He closed his eyes, face awash in pain. Dead. A victim of dark magic, his daughter.

She couldn't stay? Donnan only truly heard, or remembered that he'd just heard, the crack in his nephew's voice and looked at him, blinking for a long moment. She was dead. Dead and gone. How could she be here, how could she stay or not stay, if she were gone?

"She's dead," he told him bluntly, unhappily. Duncan, poor kid, couldn't understand that yet.

He considered the chair in front of him and thought that if he sat down, he might simply stay there forever. He steadied himself with both hands on the back of the chair, knowing he had to keep standing for something. The boy, now a grown man at the table. His ex-wife, who had clung to the belief that Iona was alive all these years.

And someone else. Someone...

He remembered one chilly night earlier in November. Two teenagers had trailed after him on his way home from the cafe. Two young faces, watching him in the dark. One impish face with blond hair. The other, a girl with delicate features and a red braid.

He shook his head, the image dissipating.

"They want us at the Ministry to do what, exactly? What do they want?" His hands clenched on the chair, his voice sounded low and angry.

Duncan watched Donnan process what he had said, taking the opportunity to get his emotions in check once more.

One slow, deep breath in, out, and repeat. The technique was a simple one. He had stumbled upon it when he first started on level four, trying to not punch the department head in the nose during a disagreement. Over time he figured out it helped with much more than just reining in his temper.

                    "She's dead," he told him bluntly, unhappily.

"Yes, Uncle." Silence fell for a few more moments and when Donnan spoke again there was an angry tone to his words. Duncan was almost glad to hear it. Fighting had more hope at recovering than a quiet surrender.

                    "They want us at the Ministry to do what, exactly? What do they want?"

Considered his uncle Duncan sat back, no longer picking at the table. The news was extremely confusing, Carstairs should have let someone who could make more sense write the letter, and with no small amount of pain. It seemed not quite everything had sunk in for him just yet. Patience was required.

"We're supposed to meet her, I think. Iona and whoever she currently inhabits. I don't know if they're trying to be kind or if it's something else." The Ministry had always been riddled with hidden agendas. Maybe that was part of why The Fall happened so easily.

"I can give your response along with ours when I write it."