WHO: Byron Kettleburn and Terry Boot WHAT: Father/son bonding WHEN: 4 January, evening WHERE: Byron’s flat WARNINGS: Discussions of violence
“It’s not like your mum’s cooking, but she told me you like broccoli, so what does she know?” Byron let that suggestion hang in the air (maybe it’d distract from the smell of burnt breadcrumbs) as he served what was meant to be a baked macaroni and cheese. He gave Terry a somewhat apologetic look. “It’s probably fine if you just scrape the burnt bits off the top.”
It did not distract from the smell of burnt breadcrumbs, but Terry shrugged anyway. “My palette’s not that refined,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll eat anything.” His expression grew suddenly mock serious, though, and he stabbed at the air with his fork. “Except broccoli. Nice try, mum.”
“No broccoli, no turtles,” Byron said as he took a seat across from him. The grin he gave him was a self-conscious one. “Guess I passed this time.”
Terry glanced up from his plate, eyebrows lifted in question while he tried to place the turtle reference. His memory caught up with him after a moment and he laughed under his breath as the entire embarrassing memory came crashing back in. “Oh, yeah, ha, I’m still morally opposed to eating turtles, yeah.”
“Some things never change,” Byron said with a laugh. He served himself up a portion of the mac and cheese before handing the spoon over to Terry. “Which is nice, considering how much has changed lately.”
Terry’s eyebrows briefly furrowed, but he took his time with spooning out his own portion. “I think you were onto something with the scraping off the burnt bits idea,” he said, turning the spoon to peer at the macaroni and cheese’s cross section. “It looks fine underneath.” He plopped his serving onto his plate and wedged the spoon back into the dish.
Byron stabbed at one of the noodles on his plate and popped it into his mouth. He couldn’t help noticing Terry had changed the subject. After a moment of chewing, he nodded. “It doesn’t taste completely awful, either.”
“I’ve definitely had worse,” Terry said, flashing Byron a wry grin before stabbing at another mouthful.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about my cooking.” Byron flicked a bit of burnt breadcrumbs at him. “Careful, or I’ll make you bake a cake with me after this.”
Fork raised, Terry tried (and failed) to bat away the breadcrumb. “Bake a cake with you? I didn’t realize you wanted to move.”
Byron rested his hands on either side of his plate and feigned a dubious look. “Are you implying I’d burn the place down?”
“No, I would,” Terry said with a snort that was mostly for the dubious look.
“I’m glad to see you carrying on my legacy,” Byron said around another bite. He swallowed. “Is that how you hurt your hand?”
“This?” Terry lifted his bandaged hand and stared at it, toying with coming clean about what had happened to his hand. He didn’t want it getting back to his mother, though. “Oh, yeah, mum and I are moving. She tried to get me to bake cookies with her and.” He threw his bandaged hand up with a shrug.
Byron pursed his lips. “She probably should’ve known better,” he said and reached for his drink. He watched Terry’s face as he added, “Except you had that on Christmas Eve, when you first got home from school.”
Terry’s eyebrows furrowed again and he looked down at his plate. “Well, yeah. It was a joke,” he said slowly. “I didn’t really burn down the house.”
“I know,” Byron said, keeping his eyes on him. He hesitated before adding, “Is it from detention?”
The walls kind of felt like they were closing in and Terry dropped his fork on his plate with a clatter, drawing both of his hands away and into his lap. He still didn’t look at Byron. “I don’t get why you suddenly care.”
“I don’t suddenly care.” Byron kept his tone as even as he could while ignoring another twist of guilt in his gut. “You’re my son.”
Terry breathed a skeptical breath through his nose. “Okay.”
Byron dropped his eyes to his plate and shrugged. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“Good, because I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, if you change your mind…” Byron sighed. “I’m writing a story on the Carrows.”
All Terry could manage at first was an uneasy laugh. He looked up finally and stared at Byron for a long moment, to see if maybe he’d take it back. But he didn’t. “Well, great,” he said, his voice tight, “I can’t wait to see you say we deserve it.”
With a frown, Byron muttered, “It’s not for the Prophet.”
Terry stared at Byron for another long moment. “What’s it for, then?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “I was hoping it’d make it to the Quibbler, but…”
“I’m sorry — what?”
“It’s gone now,” he explained, shaking his head. “You’ll have to get your cryptozoology news from somewhere else.”
“Yeah, I know,” Terry said, his jaw going tight. He looked away again, this time in shame. “I mean, I figured. They took Luna from the train.”
Byron’s attention was fully on Terry now. “You saw them?”
“Yeah, Anthony and I were by the window and we saw two of them grab her from the platform at school.” Terry ducked his head even further, drawing his unbandaged hand over his hair. “But they were gone by the time we got out there.”
His eyebrows crept higher as Byron asked, “You were going to try fending off Death Eaters?”
Terry realized what he’d said and to whom and quickly sat up straighter, shaking his head. “No.”
Byron looked skeptical. “Your mum would have a heart attack.”
“I know,” Terry said. “I don’t know what we would’ve done, but we couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.”
“I know the feeling,” Byron said, sinking back into his chair. He wished there were beer on the table, but he had a feeling that would give Lumos a heart attack too. “Kind of difficult when they start attacking kids.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Terry mumbled, feeling a little like they were approaching territories he wasn’t quite comfortable with. He scrubbed the heels of his palms over his thighs and gave Byron a look that wasn’t sure what it was. His head was caught somewhere on what the Quibbler used to be and what had gotten it banned at Hogwarts. “You were really going to write for the Quibbler?”
“It seemed like the next best thing. A semi-legitimate source that wasn’t being controlled by the Death Eaters.” Byron sighed at the ceiling before fixing a blank stare on the plate of food in front of him. “Doesn’t matter now that it’s gone.”
Terry studied Byron, mouth twisted in thought.
“Starting a blog’s not hard,” he offered. “Anthony’s sister has got one. If you use social media right, you could get some traction, too. I think Francine’s idea of a PR campaign is just owling Anthony copies of her posts.” He laughed a little ruefully under his breath. What made it through the post from Francine’s blog wasn’t all that funny.
“Francine,” Byron muttered with a derisive snort. But he carried on chuckling at the absurdity of it all. “Never thought I’d see the day I ended up taking cues from fucking Francine Goldstein.”
“Could work, though, yeah?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Shaking his head, Byron sat up and hunched over the edge of the table. “So, those are my cards.” He gestured for Terry to get on with it. “Your turn, kiddo.”
It took Terry a while to find it in himself to get on with it. For several very long moments, he stared at Byron. He felt itchy both at the idea of telling his father everything and the idea of not telling him anything. And then, in a rush, he unwound the bandage from his hand and withdrew it from under the table, holding it out for Byron to see.
What he saw was a painful looking set of scabs and I will not hide mudbloods in Terry’s handwriting. Byron felt a chill run up his spine. He was silent for a long moment before he asked, “They made you do this?”
With a nod, Terry drew his hand back and stowed it under the table again. “I didn’t want mum to see,” he said softly. But then he shrugged, shook his head, and added, “They asked me about her, but I don’t know where she is. And I wouldn’t have told them even if I did.” The last was fiercely delivered.
“Of course not,” Byron said, combing a hand through the front of his hair. How anyone at Hogwarts could’ve imagined such a thing would force students to turn on their loved ones, he didn’t know. Terry’s grandmother had practically raised him. Her being a muggleborn had never made a difference. Byron cleared his throat. “What else have they done?”
“Everyone has to take Dark Arts — that’s what they’re calling Defense Against the Dark Arts these days — and Muggle Studies,” Terry said, not looking at Byron. “And if you’re shit in either class…” He paused, but then raised his hand, back of it facing his father. “And if you refuse to write your lines, well, they’re Death Eaters. They know the Imperius curse.”
Byron furrowed his brows out of disbelieving anger, though it wasn’t toward his son. “They’ve been using the Imperius curse on students?”
“Yeah,” Terry said, roughly. He cleared his throat and forced brightness into his tone. “So it’s write your lines or let the Carrows inside your head!”
“Not great options,” Byron muttered. He lifted a hand to scratch the back of his head and propped his elbows up on the table. “This on top of all the rumours of everything else going on there.” He shook his head. “Wish we didn’t have to send anyone back there.”
“Me too,” Terry mumbled, frowning. But now that he’d started talking, it was hard to stop. “They don’t discriminate either. The first years get it just as bad as the seventh years. They just learn easier stuff.”
“They’re giving the first years detentions like this too?” Byron inclined his head toward Terry’s arm. He shook his head. He couldn’t explain to his son there was nothing he could do — not from the outside, not with Death Eaters in charge, not with them threatening to make things worse for anyone who didn’t go along with them. He could barely look at him. “I’ve heard some of the rumors.”
“They are,” Terry said. “They don’t care about us. They just want us to do as they say.” He wanted to tell Byron about what he and his friends were doing to stand up to the Carrows, but he was worried he’d think it was stupid. So he scooped up his fork and took a bite of his macaroni cheese, his lip curling because it was cold and suddenly tasted like sawdust.
Setting his fork down, Terry pushed his plate away and asked, “What rumors have you heard?”
“Something happened to Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom.” Byron pushed his own plate away and kept his eyes on Terry’s face. “I heard they’ve been sending students to spend the night in the Forbidden Forest, torturing them.”
Something hesitant flickered across Terry’s face, but he corrected the rumors anyway. “It was Luna Lovegood, too. Only they weren’t tortured. Snape caught the three of them breaking into his office so he sent them into the Forbidden Forest for the night with Hagrid — you know, the old groundskeeper. As far as I’ve heard, they’re the only ones who got sent into the forest, though.” He shrugged. “Nothing happened.”
“What happened to Longbottom, though?” Byron’s fingers itched for his notepad, but he curled them in against his hands instead. “I heard he got in a bit of a fight or something.”
Terry breathed a laugh through his nose. “Neville’s been in a bit of a fight every day this year, it seems like.” He shook his head. “I think his balls dropped over the summer or something because he’s been there every step of the way, telling the Carrows what bastards they are.”
“Guess he’s a late bloomer, then,” Byron said, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. “What about you? Told any professors where to stick it this year?”
It was suddenly very hard for Terry to keep looking at Byron. “Uh, yeah, a time or two, I guess.”
“Just like your old man,” Byron said with a rueful snort. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell your mum.”
“Cheers for that,” Terry laughed. And then, lightly, like it had very little to do with him actually, he asked, “Have you heard any rumors about Dumbledore’s Army?”
“About what? An army?” Again, Byron ached for his notebook, this time even glancing across the room for it. “No one’s mentioned anything like that.”
“They’ve been graffitiing the walls loads,” Terry explained, his tone still extra light. “And they’ve been putting out a newsletter with stuff like defense spells and what little news I guess they get at school.” He watched Byron’s face closely now, curious to know what he thought.
“They’re putting out a newsletter? Themselves?” Byron echoed, his interest piqued even more than it already had been. “That’s brilliant.”
“Really?” Terry asked, leaning in and forgetting to pretend like it had nothing to do with him.
“Yeah,” Byron said, grinning across the table at him. “Maybe that’s what I need to do. Skip the blog and go straight to print.”
Terry grinned back, feeling strangely buoyant despite the subject matter. The newsletter had been his idea. He dragged a hand over the back of his neck and gestured with the other. “Yeah, I mean, I guess a blog could always get taken down, too. And print’s always better, isn’t it? More permanent.”
“Harder to track down, I’d imagine,” Byron said with a slow nod. “They must be learning some fancy replication charms or something.”
“Well,” Terry said, as slow as Byron’s nod. “It’s probably just a lot of doubling charms.” He studied Byron closely. “You really think it’s brilliant?”
“Of course I do, as long as no one gets caught.”
“What if I said I was in the army?” Terry studied Byron even closer, leaning into the table and watching him through squinted eyes.
The look Byron gave him was a cautious. “Are you telling me you’re in the army?”
“You can’t tell mum,” was all Terry said. “She’ll lock me up.”
“I already said I wouldn’t tell her,” he said, pulling a face. But the danger of what they were discussing wasn’t lost on him. He’d been reporting (or trying to report) the news all along. “It’s not your mum I’d be worried about if I were you, mate.”
“I know,” Terry said soberly, staring down at his hand, feeling the same jolt he always felt when he looked down and saw the m-word scrawled on his skin. “I’m worried about them, too.” He glanced up at Byron. “It just seemed mental to sit there and do nothing.”
He understood, but Terry was just a kid. When he looked at him, it was like seeing him for the first time — a seventeen-year-old boy who looked like he could use a good night’s sleep. They had the same jaw. His eyes were still his mothers, but Terry’s mouth was his. His nose was his. He was his son.
He should’ve been worrying about his NEWTs and working up the nerve to ask someone out on a date, not joining an army to fight off Death Eaters and his own professors. He’d never even shaved before.
Byron sighed. “Do you want a drink?”
Terry sighed, too. But he didn’t feel so itchy anymore. Even his shoulders felt a little lighter for having told someone. “Yeah, I could go for one.”
Rising from his chair, Byron disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, he had two beers in his hand. He set one of them down in front of Terry. “Just don’t tell your mum.”
“Tell mum what?” Terry innocently asked. Some of the humor returned to his features as he scooped up his beer and took a swig.
“Exactly, mate,” Byron said, hiding a grin behind his drink. When he set it down, he chanced another question. “What’s your plan then?”
This was where Terry worried his father might start to think what he was up to was stupid. He already knew it was reckless, but Byron was an adult. “Mostly the plan is not to let them desensitize us, especially the younger years, to this stuff. They bring —” He scratched uncomfortably at one of his temples. “They bring Muggles into Muggle Studies like it’s supposed to convince us they’re bad or some such. So we contradict them. And sometimes we stand up to them.” He shrugged, like it was nothing.
“That’s the mark of a good journalist,” Byron said and lifted his drink to propose an unspoken toast. “The great ones are always on the right side of history.”
Terry gave Byron a crooked smile that made him look especially seventeen. “Thanks, dad,” he said, sounding just a little overcome.
“Proud of you, Terry,” he said, clinking the neck of his beer to his son’s. “Fucking terrified, but proud.”
“Oh, bugger, right, sorry,” Terry said at first, scooping up his beer to clink bottles properly. The months since he’d gone off for his mandatory school year had been the most difficult of his life, overshadowing even the year the DA had been founded with its awfulness. To hear his father say he was proud of him made Terry want to evaporate, but it also made every horrible quill stroke worth it.
He tried to bury all that in another swig of his beer, but it caught on a lump in his throat. So he said, again, sounding even more overcome, “Thanks, dad,” but then, hastily added, “If it helps, I’m bricking it, too.”
“As long as it keeps you careful,” Byron said before swallowing down more of his drink. He took a deep breath as he lowered it. “Let’s neither one of us get ourselves caught, all right?”
“Hear hear,” Terry said with an uneasy laugh. His eyes fell on his abandoned plate and he pulled it back over to him, scooping up his fork. “I think I’ve got a second wind.”
Byron grinned and followed suit. “Nothing like celebrating rebellion with cold mac and cheese.”
Terry only snorted and tucked into his food, chewing thoughtfully and sneaking a glance or two at Byron. After a few bites passed in silence, he cleared his throat and said, “Hey, dad? I’m proud of you, too.”
After a fleeting glance at Terry, Byron dropped his eyes to his food. His cheeks felt warm. “Cheers, kiddo.”