The bookshop was Elijah’s salvation. His father had taken it upon himself to whisk Fauve and Thierry away for an impromptu bonding session and he’d left coordinates for a house taped to the fridge door in the kitchen. He’d mentioned that seeing a psychiatrist would do Elijah some good. Elijah had taken little to no notice until he was placed in a position where he’d had nowhere else to go. He’d decided to think about it. He tore the note off of the fridge and stuffed it into his bag before grabbing an apple and heading out for the day. He’d fumbled with his keys, one managing to slot itself between his skin and one of his rings, but had managed to lock out without any dire issues. Then, Elijah had gone up the road to the little bookshop he spent his days in.
At about twenty two eleven though, the door of the bookshop opened. Elijah brought his eyes up from the text before him and blinked a little before taking in the two people that entered the shop. The first was a woman, tall and slender with a tiny waistline and ebony hair that fell to her waist in light curls. Her eyes were the colour of the open sky and darted about the shop, excitement sparking within her irises. Her company was in the form of a little girl that came up to her knee. She was angelic with her long blonde hair and cute, pixie features. She almost looked like...
Elijah’s breath caught in his throat.
Abruptly, he rose, kicking a stack of books over by a misplacement of his foot. He swore quietly to himself and dived to the floor, quickly and clumsily gathering the books towards him once more. A short, feminine cough overhead made him pause and he exhaled shakily before looking up into the bright, sky blue gaze that the little girl shared with her mother – and someone else Elijah knew. Her pale pink lips rose and parted into a gap-toothed smile and Elijah’s own lips quirked at the sight. Her lips came together again and she took a book out from behind her back. Elijah barely caught her whispered words but somehow, they wormed their way into his heart and emblazoned themselves over what was left.
“You dropped this,”
Then, as quickly as she was there, she was gone again. Elijah watched as her mother ushered her out of the bookshop and he continued to watch until her little form danced away down the road. It was only then that he allowed himself to breathe.
With a long, billowy sigh, Elijah dropped his head onto the pile of books that he’d gathered in his arms. It was then, that another piece of his mind unlocked, releasing his worst possible nightmare. He had no choice but to delve into the memories, re-ride the freight train that was that bitter December. His anguish was dredged up again as if it had merely been hours after the event. Her screams once again pierced his mind and he could feel the sticky scarlet on his hands, on his face, on his neck. Elijah knew it to be an illusion but the reality of it was too much.
When the shopkeeper walked back into the main room, a cup of tea for Elijah in hand, the door slammed shut. He opened his mouth to call the boy back but was stifled by the look on his face. The wise old man put the cup of tea down and picked up Elijah’s bag. He placed it high on the shelf that was the boy’s favourite to peruse and turned his attention back to his own novel, awaiting his new friend’s return.
-
Number 23, Godric’s Hollow was home to the Longbottoms. Elijah thought it blissfully ironic that Neville had chosen to settle his family there of all places. It was interesting to think that Neville’s whole life could have played out an entirely different way. Had Lord Voldemort chosen him to kill and his parents to brutally murder then things would have been different. It was almost laughable to think that the boy who had gotten off lucky by comparison was now as close to what could have been his reality than he had ever been.
Elijah pushed open the gate to the cemetery. The high-pitched squeal probably alerted the whole village that someone was there but he couldn’t find the energy to be concerned. He padded up the cobbled path, skirting around fallen branches and birds that were swooping down to get leaves and worms from the grass that lined the edge of the path. A few flowers had come into bloom but the shade from the trees overhead would have them shrivelled up within the week; they already looked limp enough.
It didn’t take long for Elijah to find the headstone; or rather, headstones. Lily and James shared one. Harry’s was next to it. There was something wholly unjust about the saviour of the Wizarding World not dying on his own terms; and dying because of the man he supposedly killed. Now, he lay side by side with his parents and everything he’d fought to fix was unravelling with each moment. Bravery was something Elijah did not believe he possessed yet as he stood there, his eyes drifting over the names time and time again, he realised that just their headstones created a sense of hope in him. They were people who had fought everything the Death Eaters stood for - everything Voldemort stood for – and even though they were gone, there were people in their place willing to carry on.
With a soft sigh, Elijah took a seat on the grass. He leaned back, placing his hands on the path, before sitting forward once more.
“Oi! You there! What d’you think you’re doing?”
Elijah’s eyes shot up and he immediately sourced the location the voice had come from. Further down the path, a man in grey overalls stood proudly, a broom in hand. His hair was grey and scraggly and day-old stubble splintered his jaw. Elijah opened his mouth to answer him but the words died in his mouth as the man flipped him off. A small smile ghosted across Elijah’s lips and he watched the man sidle back up the path, muttering something about insensitive kids. Elijah’s gaze travelled back to the headstones and he bit his lip.
“I wish I could be stronger,” He admitted, as if they were listening to him. “I wish...I wish I could learn to live instead of exist.”
They weren’t going to help. The real help was in Number 23. Elijah couldn’t do it though. He couldn’t bring himself to admit that he needed the help. He refused to admit that he woke up in a cold sweat every night because of nightmares that were nearly a decade old. He couldn’t deal with the fact that every time he set eyes on a little blonde girl with blue eyes and a bright smile he wanted to break down and cry. He couldn’t live at home knowing that not a kilometre away, he’d watched his best friend die at the crude hands of Muggles. He couldn’t accept the fact that he’d never be a part of his daughter’s life. He couldn’t plaster a smile on his face and pretend that Harry’s marriage was something he was happy about. He couldn’t live another day in the falseness he’d been brought up to move in.
“I can’t do this anymore,” He whispered brokenly. “I just...I want it to end.”