We are not shining stars

Jack was not sure how she had managed the home before Nemo. Sure, he made most of the mess, had brought another animal into the fray, and he was constantly tearing the house apart, but somehow, it had been easier to maintain the petting zoo they ran when he was around. Perhaps he was simply motivation, or good moral support. Whatever it was, she sorely missed it now. She had been working a lot, adjusting to her new schedule as a Beater for her favorite team, and when she was home, she was too sore to do much.

Today, however, she had a day off. For once. Naturally, though, Jack would not be allowed the luxury of catching up on the ever-elusive entity of sleep. She had awoken early, unfortunately, because her feet felt damp. On inspecting, she realized that Mongo, the ottoman that had convinced himself he was a cocker spaniel, had eaten the socks right off of her feet, and had been licking any traces off of them until she had awoken. He waved his blue striped body innocently, before scampering out. Evidently, his purpose had been fulfilled.

"Jerk," she mumbled.

Resigned to her fate, Jack took one of her record-breaking short showers and dressed for the day in her usual plain shirt, jeans, crummy sneakers attire. She quickly set about feeding the critters that had begun running her life. A hearty bowl of kibble and bits for Elliot, with a side of raw meat; she refilled the Jarveys bowl with dry ferret food, for there was such a thing; and she threw Mongo some very ugly argyle stockings, because, apparently, he socks had just been a warm up for his real breakfast. He settled to gnaw happily on them and Jack began to prepare her food, pulling on a jacket in preparation for the chores she had to do outdoors.

Typically, Fred and Weasel got along. In fact, they usually ganged up on the humans and ottomans in the house; only Elliot seemed to manage to keep them in line. However, on occasion, they battled amongst each other. Usually it was when they both attempted to get the last bite of food in their bowl. Today, this happened again. The Jarveys began wrestling when Weasel threw Fred towards Mongo. The white Jarvey spitefully grabbed Mongo's socks from him and ran off, skidding around the corner and into the hallway. Mongo immediately chased after, and Weasel tailed behind, cackling gleefully.

It was all fine until Jack heard the crash- they had torn right through the screen door. Again. Jack slammed down the box of frozen waffles and immediately took chase, grabbing a boot stuffed with extra socks, following them out the side screen door and into the front yard, neighbors be damned, yelling at the flurry of fur and cushions, "Damn it, you idiots, there's enough socks to go around!" as she wielded the boot.

The rattle of railway cars had burrowed persistently beneath Merlot’s skin to infect her bones, and she trembled. Though she had long since departed from the station, she quaked with the train from which she had stolen a ride across the three day distance, as though that rusted method of transportation had imprinted itself upon her; staining her inner skin with its brown, flaking age. Be this the case, she did not feel particularly older; she was not lent the support of experienced years or birthday celebrations. Though she could not tap from the tunnels of her ears the rolling of loose bolts and shrieking wheels, her trek across Britain had not rid her of her naivety, or her nerves. Thus, it was with shallow breaths that Merlot approached the... exotically painted home, which was labeled with identical digits to those which she’d scrawled across a slip of fraying parchment, now weighing heavily in her pocket. Her thumb flicked over the accessory wrapped around her fourth finger, and bound in place by her knuckle.

The spinner ring had developed a nervous squeak as it slid smoothly above its idle counterpart.

She would be needing a new one.

Merlot hitched the stiff strap of her duffel higher on her shoulder.

Squeak-squeak. Squeak-squeak.

She lifted her hand to the door and hesitated before its brilliantly colored wood.

Squeak-squeak. Squeak-squeak. She twisted the spinner ring madly on -

- and leapt back when the building emitted an abrupt and thunderous crash. She drew her whittled ‘wand’ from its designated pocket in her brown, pencil jeans and surged towards the door once more. “Hello?” She called, prepared for a case of emergency. She knocked her clenched fist against the door and tensed as her muscles instinctually adopted a defensive position. “Hello?” She called in her shrill voice with her blue eyes wide.

The ferrets were working their way around the side yard, Mongo following at their heels as he panted with exertion, and the crazed redheaded was not very far behind. Mongo's feelings were hurt- he had been innocent in this situation, after all, and was being punished by his furry friends for a reason he could not comprehend- and Mongo feels never stayed hurt for longer, as they always became feelings of passionate rage. He had nearly trampled Fred to death the last time the ferret had worked up the audacity to steal the typically-peaceful ottoman's sock snack.

Jack could sense this change in her striped pet-furniture, as he hunkered down and increased his speed after the fleeing ferrets, who had put aside their differences in the sport of terrorizing the easy-going ottoman. Jack now knew, if she wanted to keep her ferrets alive, she had to calm down Mongo.

"Mongo! Stay! Stay, Mongo!"

They rounded the bend that led to the front yard and Jack lept forward, pinning the ottoman in the garden. She wielded the boot, shaking it fervently, and a sock fell before the enchanted piece of furniture. He halted and hummed serenely, picking it up and very soon coating the fabric in ottoman drool. All offenses were forgotten. Fred snickered from the fence, sure he had gotten away with another dastardly deed, and Jack chucked the book at the fence, shaking the boards. Fred cursed and ran off, towards the neighbors yard, and Weasel followed, squeezing through a hole in the fence. Wilfred, her elderly neighbor, never minded the company. In fact, the ferrets always came back happy and fat.

Jack sighed and looked up, releasing Mongo from her grip. That's when she felt a nearby presence, something that told her eyes were on her. She stood, turning to face her own front door and what she saw gave her a small start of surprise- a small girl stood there, quite timidly. Jack glanced around, looking for an explanation, but finding none she met the girl's eyes. "Uh... Hello there."

A sigh and the scuffle of what Merlot had prematurely identified as the sound of an animal's feet across brick stole her attention from the door before her. She spun away from what she had previously believed to be the source of the havoc that she had witnessed secondhand, flattening her back against it with her wand at the ready and her right boot forward in anticipation. And at once, she was assaulted.

"I have a wand!"

Merlot drew back in terror as a blue and gold trimmed creature, the likes of which she had never before laid eyes on, lunged for her shoes.

"I'll use it! I swear I'll bloody use it!"

She jumped up to stand on the door's lower frame, which provided but an inch upon which to balance. She climbed atop her toes, locking her heals against the door itself in a fruitless escape attempt.

"Please!" Merlot peeped. "I'm looking for Mrs. Omara! You have my word, that's all I'm here for!"

The twelve-year-old chanced to extend a leg outward in the creature's direction and prepared to connect the toe of her boot with its plushy body. "You have my word!" She added, and swung.

((Mrs Omara, good Lord, woman, you're gonna kill me. xD ))

Mongo never could resist himself. Even as content as he was with his ugly socks, they were always forgotten when new socks were to be snacked on. Jack delivered a stern "Mongo, no!" but the ottoman had already zeroed in on the girl, rearing up before he executed his mad dash for her.

She reacted understandably. Jack was glad it was a young witch, and not a muggle. She didn't feel like performing a memory-modifying charm today. Jack sighed and flicked her wand. Mongo was dragged against his will down the path. She spun him around, threw the shoe full of socks, but he turned and went for her again. Jack sighed. "He's not dangerous! He just likes socks."

She hurried forward and seized the ottoman around the middle just as the girl said, "Please! I'm looking for Mrs. Omara! I'm only looking for Mrs. Omara!" Jack dropped Mongo who, surprised to be so rudely forgotten, scampered off.

"Mrs Omara?" Jack repeated. "If such a person exists, I had no idea." She paused. "I'm Jack Dyllan, Nemo Omara's roommate. Who are you?"

Roommate. She had been misinformed.

With an audible expulsion of the panicked air with which she had filled her lungs, Merlot dropped heavily from her perch to stand at the tallest of her varying heights; this stance was evidently one of pride, and consequentially was one which Merlot rarely put to use.

Squeak-squeak, The spinner ring lent her courage, no matter how fleetingly.

"I'm sorry. I was told by the man who gave me this address that I would encounter Mortimer's wife," Merlot apologize, before stowing her makeshift replica of a wand in its respective pocket. "I didn't mean anything by it," She concluded with a firm nod of her head, which she had hoped would be perceived as a gesture of respect. It was nearly identical to her father's typical body language, for both individuals possessed the air of the conductor of silent stories and conversations.

S-s-squ-eak. S-s-squ-eak.

The tremors in her fingers had been worsened by her earlier encounter with the rabid footstool.

"My name is Merlot Margo, nicknamed Mell. I have been told that my father 's been taken." The child squared her shoulders and heaved her duffel further upward before proceeding, "I've come to find him."

The girl relaxed a bit, it seemed, and Jack registered something so strikingly similar about the young girl. It made her stomach buck and lurch, not unpleasantly, but in a way that drew a sadness out of her. She cleared her throat, trying to swallow down these pervasive, rude, feelings. How dare they open the possibility of her appearing weak before a new acquaintance. Jack was too fond of her reputation of strength to allow it to slip now.

Jack felt a grin crack her face open a bit, at the girl's words. "No harm done, but whoever you spoke to either has never met Nemo or myself, or has a terrific sense of humor. He's either a right idiot or a genius." She grinned. "No harm done. That may end up happening for tax evasions, eventually." She shrugged.

Jack was forcing a good mood upon herself, forcing a smile despite this strange sense of loss this child had brought. It was as though the girl had reminded Jack of the loneliness of the home. And there was that irritating feeling that the girl was so familiar.

"My name is Merlot Margo, nicknamed Mell. I have been told that my father 's been taken."

"Mell. I have been told that my father 's been taken."

"I have been told that my father 's been taken."

"My father 's been taken."

"My father."

"My father."

Jack blinked. "Your father?" Jack swallowed, her mouth very dry and her head very light. "Of course. He's gone, so he can't drive me crazy with his antics, so obviously his daughter shows up," she said, quietly to herself, fluttering her eyelids as she attempted to catch up.

And then it hit Jack. This was Nemo's daughter. She was a portion of Nemo.

Jack reached up, rubbing her head, "Come on in. We have a lot to talk about." She opened the door of her house.

The pause that followed proposed an abundance of varying probabilities.

Merlot missed the ring as she reached across her palm with her thumb to strike it another time, performing each turn in quick succession, and missed. The pad of her thumb swept across her heart lines, which she labeled instinctually and according to the practical palmistry book that existed amongst the contents of her duffel, weighing her down.

Fate line. Heart line. Head line. Life line.

- so he can't drive me crazy with his antics.

Merlot's habitual recitation was interrupted, and she smiled, blue eyes alight with adoration.

Her father was a wild bother. She was proud.

“Thank you,” Merlot’s grin widened as she turned to follow the woman’s lead, whom she later intended to bombard with the same blizzard of questions that had overthrown Merlot’s consciousness. She had learned very little from the redhead’s seemingly nonchalant statements in regard to Mortimer. But what was perhaps her most pressing question was one with which the ginger had directly provided her, and she felt incapable of delaying any longer as she stepped across the threshold, “Nemo?”

During Annabell’s stories of the man, she had forever referred to him as ‘Mortimer’.

A nickname, maybe?

Squeak. The spinner ring stilled.

The girl smiled and Jack's feelings of sorrow disassembled. Jack had a guest, one intimately connected to the one person she wished she could see. Jack had a guest. The house suddenly seemed rather proportionate to the people, because, as Jack reminded herself, she had a guest.

The girl thanked Jack and followed her inside. Jack led her through the hallway and into the living room. Jack had pretty much let Nemo's mess stand. If she cleaned up, it would remain clean, and she would have no reminders of her friend. Jack gave it a quick thought, and decided not to clean up. Let the bottles of alcohol, the occasional cigarette and pill bottle stand. As much as Jack may want to protect this girl, she would not lie to her. Jack had always hated being coddled. She could be gentle, but she would lie.

The girl spoke and Jack turned, glancing back at her. She slowly turned, as there wasn't a short answer to her inquiry. "Your father's name is Nemo Mortimer Omara. He doesn't like going by Nemo, but the reasons why don't belong to me, so I can't give them out. He usually goes by Mortimer, Mo, and Mort. He has nicknames with others- I've called him Poe since I met him," she grinned. "I don't know what he'd want you to call him, as father and dad seem a bit plain for his taste."

Jack beckoned her into the living room, "Sit down. Soda, okay?" Jack conjured two cans of soda. Typically, Jack drank what Nemo drank. But when it was her own choice, it was often cola. She sat down at her couch and regarded the girl.

"Alright... We both have a ton of questions. I'll defer to you, as you probably have much more." And I'd love to talk about Nemo. Jack didn't think it'd be prudent to add this, but she missed him so much. Just talking about him conjured some sort of image of him. "Lay 'em on me."

"Nemo Omara," The child pronounced this new-found title for her father slowly, and with delicate care, as though she believed it to possess the ability to summon him forth, returning him from the villains who had stolen him. Merlot knew little of the Death Eaters, and what knowledge she had obtained of their cult had been a long, tedious and risky task. They were the descendants of those whom had slaughtered many a righteous man under Voldemort's command. They were the men and women that her father had hunted.

That her father hunts.

The familiar slither of sorrow crawled her spine as she caught her mistake.

"Poe?" Merlot sounded absent now - lost, even, as she spun slowly on the spot in her examination of the sitting room in which she had been invited. She caught sight of a familiar Vodka; laid eyes upon a cigarette; skimmed her miniscule fingertips along the script of a brightly colored pill bottle. Oxycodone.

She was unfamiliar with this particular poison.

"Does Mortimer suffer from chronic pain?" She naively inquired as she removed her hand from the bottle and cautiously took her place atop the sofa - or rather, in the sofa as its old plush accepted her aboard - looking the picture of a misplaced doll where she sat in the midst of the self-destructive clutter. "Yes, thank you," Merlot excepted her drink, opting to coil her fingers around the can, as opposed to starting on the beverage.

She was not so accustomed to speaking this frequently.

Were it not for the topic at hand, she likely would have found it an uncomfortable burden.

Merlot shifted on the worn sofa, before fishing her hand between her hip and the nearest couch-crack for the item that she suspected herself to be sitting on, and was genuinely surprised by her find. In her twitching fingers lay a sock monkey hat, laden in lint and dust. She turned it over and squinted at the disastrous possession, "Sorry. I didn't mean to sit on it," she tried.