Megan - After Azkaban Who: Megan and her family When: May 3rd, 6:27 pm. Where: Megan's home in Cemaes Bay, Wales What: Megan's first moments of freedom COMPLETE
The dingy water pooled around Megan Jones' feet, swirling around her black toes before being sucked down the shower drain. She didn't notice. Eyes closed, she stood in the shower with her head back, letting the water assault her face, wanting to breathe it in.
Nine months, one day, twelve hours, and forty-three minutes. Megan had counted down in the car as her father drove her back to Wales from where he'd picked her up at the Ministry where there only conversation had been her asking if the clock was correct and his gruffly affirmative reply. The first thing she'd done when the car parked was walk straight to the loo, right past her mother's anxious look, and lock the door behind her. Nine months, one day, twelve hours, and forty-three minutes since she'd last taken a shower.
The face in the mirror hadn't even been familiar. Her hair, her once favourite feature, was black and encrusted with dirt and dandruff and possibly lice. It had been past her shoulders on the day she combed it one hundred times and secured it with a pink headband. Now it was tangled in thick knots to her elbows. Her face was sunken and skull like, her wide brown eyes dull and too large in her new face, the skin pulled tight over bone. Raising a hand (black, like all of her exposed skin, with broken nails and swollen knuckles) she forced her fingers to drop the brown paper bag she was holding. With barely a thump, all of her possessions from the past nine months and one day landed on the floor. Her pink skirt, the white blouse with the pretty pink flowers on the collar, the headband, pink heart shaped earrings, clean Mary Jane's and white ruffled socks. She hadn't looked inside to see it, but that's what the inventory list claimed was inside.
Hands shaking, she shed the dirty gray robe she'd been issued at Azkaban, feeling it pool around her feet. The white cotton knickers and bra she'd been wearing for the past nine months (one day, twelve hours and forty-five minutes) soon followed. Her body was as gaunt as her face. All sharp angles and jutting bones, a layer of dirt and filth covering every inch of skin, filling every crevice, invading and defiling everything it touched. Cuts and scrapes stood out, marking their place with dirty congealed blood, infections that had burned and itched and were ignored lying beneath them, marking her shoulders, back, arms, elbows, knees, legs, feet, and even her face.
With a gasp, Megan fell to her knees, hands clumsily grasping for the shower knobs and turning them, spinning the hot water to its highest point. Pulling herself up, she crawled into the tub, settling on her knees as boiling water assaulted her back. The pain sent shocks through her, a spark of feeling that she automatically tried to repress lest the Dementors sought her out. Breathe, Megan, breathe. The voice, Imogene's voice, flowed through her memories and she struggled to take a gasping breath, pushing the pain away and gritting her teeth. Taking deep, rattling breaths, Megan forced herself to concentrate on the little things. Uninteresting things. The way the water turned from clear to pitch black as it slid from her skin, carrying with it the smallest trace of the residue of Azkaban. After awhile the burn began to subside, her breathing began to stabilize, though the water remained just as tainted as it rolled off of her. Pushing herself up, Megan put a hand on the wall, leaving a black hand print on the white tile, trying to steady herself as she turned her face up to the water and closed her eyes.
The water was ice cold when she heard the knock on the bathroom door. "Meggie... you've been in there awhile. Are you all right?"
No, I'm not.. But Megan forced the words back, shaking her head and peeking out from behind the shower curtain. "I'm fine mum, just dirty," she called, her voice hoarse, scratching at her throat as she spoke. There was no reply, and Megan slipped behind the curtain again. She was on her fourth bar of soap, scrubbing at the grime that seemed embedded in her skin. Every layer she washed away another seemed to appear to take its place. Nine months, one day and over thirteen hours of grime. An empty bottle of shampoo and conditioner lay discarded at her feet. Sinking down, she rested her head against the tiled wall behind her, the bar of soap falling from her hand and slipping, abandoned, to twirl uselessly around the drain.
"Meggie... Megan... Megan, wake up. Megan!" Rough hands. That's the first thing Megan felt as she jumped awake, heart beating wildly as she tried to case her surroundings. She was still in the shower, though the water was now off and a thin white towel with blue embroidery was thrown over her. Above her, the worried face of her mother peered down, her anxious hands gripping Megan's shoulders as she shook them. "Oh thank the Lord, Meggie, I thought you were..." pressing her lips into a thin line, Adwen took a deep breath through her nose. "Don't scare me like that. Come on, dry yourself off. I've prepared some rarebit for you."
Swallowing, Megan nodded, standing up on shaking legs and holding the towel tight against her. A worn red robe, her mum's robe, lay across the sink and Adwen held it out for Megan to slip her arms into it once she'd stepped out of the shower. The bathroom door hung sadly, the hinges having been removed, and Megan remembered locking the door behind her. "... I'll have Griffin fix it later, don't you worry." Megan shook her head, only the last strains of her mother's words reaching her ears. "The door?" she asked, pointing at it, her eyes foggy. Adwen nodded, slowly, tightening the belt of the robe around Megan's waist. "Yes. He'll fix it later. It was locked, your father had to take the hinges off. You weren't answering and I thought... Come on, Meggie, let's get you something to eat."
Megan nodded absently, letting her mum lead her from the bathroom to the kitchen table where a plate bearing toast with butter and cheese waited for her. "I know a stew would be more appropriate, but you don't like... well, you always did enjoy rarebit," her mum explained, pouring a glass of milk and setting it beside the sandwich plate, looking at her with an anxious expression so that Megan had to force a smile to her face, now so unaccustomed to the once familiar gesture. "It's perfect mum, thank you."
But it wasn't. After so long of gruel once a day, a disgusting mixture Megan had avoided eating for a week before survival forced her to inhale it, the buttered toast with cheese and whole milk were too rich for her. She forced it down though, every bite, each drop, and her stomach revolted. Leaning over the kitchen sink, Megan retched, every bite of food expelling itself from her stomach as she choked and coughed. "I told you it was too much, Addie. She can't handle that. Give her some vegetable broth and a glass of water. Her stomach's weak." The gruff voice belonging to her dad rang through the kitchen, the sound of the fridge opening and closing and the hiss of a beer can being opened following his words.
Turning the tap on, Megan splashed her face with the water, rinsing her mouth out and cleaning the sink as well as she could. "Stop Meggie, I can take care of that. Go sit down," her mum commanded, placing her hands over hers and prying them from the tap.
The rest of the night went by in a haze. Her mum put her to bed, the night terrors took her out of it. Four times she woke herself, screaming into her pillow, the image of the gaping Dementor mouth drifting behind her eyelids. It was three in the morning when she gave up on sleep and padded into the kitchen, finding the cleaning supplies under the sink. Pushing up the sleeves of an old shirt that she was drowning in, Megan tied back her knotted and tangled hair and grabbed a rag in one hand.
Her dad and brother woke first, and both spared puzzled glances at her while she intently scrubbed away every speck of dust and dirt from each nook and cranny she could find, completely lost in her project and paying neither man any mind as they finished their breakfast and left for the docks. For the first time since she'd taken a breath of fresh air (thirty-two hours and seventeen minutes ago), Megan felt something. A passion, an urge, a desire. The need to be clean overcame her, the obsession to keep everything around her spotless and gleaming and never touched by dirt. As though she could erase the memories of the jail cell by wiping away the dirt that was part of it and keeping it at bay.
She had finished the kitchen and the den when a hand reached out to grip her shoulders. "Meggie, good morning," came a familiar voice, and Megan blinked - her fervor broken - as she turned. "Morning mum! I just thought I'd straighten up, is that alright?!" she asked, giving her rag a worried look. "No, no you're fine, Meggie," her mother assured her, putting a hand on her back and leading her towards the kitchen. "I was thinking, your hair... I always thought you'd look lovely with short hair. Don't you think?"
Megan paused, frozen in place, reaching up to pat the birds nest on her head. Her mum had always refused to let her cut her hair short when she was younger, insisting that proper young women kept their locks long. So Megan had complied, her hair never being above her shoulders at any time in her memory. "R-really? I thought..."
"Yes, well, I was wrong. Short hair would serve you very well. Sit down, let me cut it for you." Adwen's tone booked no nonsense, and Megan's body complied without word, sinking into the kitchen chair that she'd been directed to.
There was silence between them, broken only by the soft snipping of shears as Adwen worked. Chunks of tangled gold hair fell to the floor, sliding across the floor as they fell. "So," Megan started, needing to fill the void, "I didn't see Sunshine in my room. I was going to clean his cage."
More silence as the distinct uncomfortable air settled between them and the subject of the hamster. "Meggie... Sunshine passed away. A few months ago. He was old, you know. Almost three. Natural causes, your father thought."
Tears stung Megan's eyes, and she forced them back. Breathe, Megan, breathe. Another knot of hair fell to the ground, and this time Megan wasn't as anxious to break the silence. Sitting perfectly still, she kept her eyes averted as her mother finished her hair, measuring out the length of her bangs with her comb and fingers.
"There, all set." Megan met her mum's face, looking up at her with anxiety, the need to be consoled barely restraining itself. "Come look, Meggie. It isn't bad," she promised, holding out her hand to her daughter who gripped it tight, her knuckles white as she clung to it on the trip to the bathroom mirror.
"See? You look beautiful. I knew short hair would look so nice on you," Adwen started, rambling as Megan stared wide eyed at her reflection. The face still skeletally thin, though a clean pink sheen dusted it now instead of dirt. And in place of elbow length, black tangles, a cap of gold hair stood out at her. Short. Reaching a hand up, Megan ran her fingers through the pixie cut, feeling how clean and fresh it was compared to the night before. A smile touched her lips, unforced and unhindered. Cutting away the bad so the new would grow. That's what she needed to do. Get rid of the bad. Lie in the sun till she burnt and peeled and the ruined skin could make way for fresh skin. Burn the old clothes in order to get new ones. Clean the dirt away, so that the natural sheen can be seen.
Leaning over, Megan gave her mother a kiss to her cheek. "Thank you mum. I love you."
Flustered, Adwen patted her daughter's cheek. "Don't be maudlin, Meggie. Now come help me prepare some broth.
Nodding, Megan watched her mother leave before bending down to scoop up her clothes from Azkaban and the brown paper bag of her belongings. Grabbing her wand from her room, Megan lit a fire in the grate, despite the summer heat outdoors. Without a second thought, Megan tossed the lot into the fire, watching as the flames swallowed it's kindling. She was home. She was safe. Azkaban was over. And soon... soon everything would just be an unpleasant dream.