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"Papa?" Madeline's voice came from the hallway. Her bedroom door was open, and Harry could hear the dulcet tones of Enya playing loudly on his daughter's ghettoblaster.
"Oui, ma belle?" Harry replied, rubbing his eyes, and sitting up on the couch. He scooted over a seat so she could sit next to him.
"Souviens-tu de notre conversation le semaine dernier?" Madeline asked her father, plopping happily next to him, a printed sheet in her hands that looked curiously like directions to someplace.
"Oui, je me souviens. C'est quoi, ca, dans tes mains?" Harry made a move to take it from her hands, but Madeline playfully moved it out of his reach.
"C'est les directions d'auto pour une etablissement Paganisme," she said, giving up the paper to her father.
"A Sickle or Two," he read off the sheet. Underneath the bolded shop name was a few lines of directions to get there. He paused, shell-shocked. Not once in his ten years of living in his new town, had he ever seen any trace of his old life before. Of Britain. Of London. Of... Ron. And Hermione. And Ginny. And all those he'd lost in what had become the biggest, bloodiest war ever waged in the Wizarding community of Britain and the United Kingdom. Aside from his constant nightmares, this was the first real sign that his fellow witches and wizards had really gone on. Had moved on. Or maybe he was just imagining things. Harry felt tears beginning to form in his eyes as the paper in his hands grew blurry.
"Papa, pourquoi tu pleures?" she reached for the sheet between his fingers, but he held the paper in a death grip, so that his fingers indented the paper when he finally returned it to his daughter and stood from the couch, blinking back the tears that were still coming, and wiping away the ones that had fallen to his cheeks. He looked back to his daughter, worry etched across her face.
'She isn't mine, really,' Harry couldn't help thinking. Over the years raising her from toddler to teen, Harry had grown so attatched to this small person that he loved her as his own. When he had moved to this small town ten years ago to get away from the memory and publicity of the war against Voldemort, Harry was determined to start his life over again. New place, new identity, new purpose. He wasn't Harry Potter anymore, but David Sheilds. He was no longer The-Boy-Who-Lived, he was a communications teacher at CFSCE, the Canadian Forces School of Communications and Electronics. He had no ties to his former life, except the mild use of household magic while Madeline was long asleep, and when he couldn't himself.
Madeline's mother had been a drug addict, living on the streets. Carine Lacroix had only her daughter left as family, and when she could support her no longer, had given her daughter up for adoption. Since then, she'd been constantly going from shelter to shelter, seeking a place in which to come clean, and halt her life of harmful substances. But, like many addicts, Mme Lacroix had a tough time coping. She saw her daughter only once a month, and only if she had been clean for the past three days.
Harry didn't even expect to adopt anyone. On a whim, he'd entered an orphanage and simply asked to be allowed to observe the children. Deep down, he was curious as to how Voldemort had lived as a child, and how things may have been for him if Dumbledore had left him at an orphanage instead of with his aunt and uncle.
Dumbledore. Still quite the touchy subject. Had the old man still been alive, Harry wondered what he'd think of him now. A coward? Did Dumbledore think he did the right thing, running away? Harry often wondered if he'd done the right thing.
"C'est rien, ma cherie." Harry forced a smile. "Allons-y?" he asked, motioning to the door. Madeline squealed and jumped up from the couch.
"Merci, Papa!" she exclaimed. "C'est la derniere, je te le promis!" She ran around the corner to the hall closet, where she shoved on her old sneakers as Harry grabbed his keys from a hook by the door. Arm in arm, father and daughter headed to the car.
Eimmi · Sun Apr 15, 2007 @ 10:04am · 0 Comments |
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