You Can't Go Home Again

Keith Nicholas stood outside Jack Dyllan's house and tapped his foot against the sidewalk.

Tap. Tap. Tap

This was a mistake. It had been years. She was likely to open the door and not even recognize him. If she opened the door at all. What if it was her kid? Wait, no, it hadn't been that long. But she could've adopted. And then where would he be? Sitting in front of some kid he'd never met, forced to explain that he had known her mom years back and now she was the only person in the country who might be willing to talk to him? That would be terrible. Better to avoid the whole thing. Catch a bus, maybe a portkey. Teleportation didn't make him vomit anymore, he could be in Russia by the end of the night.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Then again, he didn't know anyone in Russia. Not even a girl who may or may not have adopted a kid in the two (three?) years since they had last spoken. God, what was the last thing he said to her? He'd put good money on it being something hurtful. It seemed like he hadn't done anything but burn bridges in years. But she was a Gryffindor, right? Or had been, anyway. They stuck by their friends. He just wished he could've know if he still counted as one of those.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"C'mon," he whispered to himself. "C'mon, c'mon c'mon. You can do this. You can do this."

He took a hesitant step towards the door, ignoring the nausea that suddenly decided to make itself know. Why was this so hard? He had done much scarier things than this. Much scarier things at a much younger age. And yet stepping up onto that welcome mat and knocking on the door seemed to be so much worse. What had his dad always said? About pulling off bandaids?

Right, right. Pulling of bandaids. Do it fast, before the pain can stop you. Jump in the water quick, before the cold can dissuade you. Knock on your friend's door now, before the possibility of her kid answering it can convince you to portkey to Russia.

No more waiting then. He reached his hand up. Balled it into a fist. Struck his knuckles against the wood of the door, three times.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

They had done a pick up practice this morning, early, early, early. Between her displeasure at their devastating loss against the Harpies last month, and Coach's general displeasure at the dip in their performance recently, it had been decided that she, as captain, would conduct drills at four in the morning this Sunday. And they would keep going until their plays tight, no room for mistakes.

So they had. For six hours, with one half hour break. Her team was exhausted, frozen to the bone, covered in mud - and boy were the pissed, because they had another one in just two day's time. She wasn't going to stop until the fire was back in their eyes.

It'd help if she had Robin Ivanov back, she hated to admit.

She had barely arrived home when she heard a knock on the door. Viv was in the greenhouse, unless she had decided to dip out to the grocery market, and besides, she had a key. Wherever Viv was, Sunny and Goose had followed, so she had been looking forward to maybe an hour's soak in the bath, maybe a bath, maybe just a long slow sip of some Firewhiskey.

Life went on.

She tossed her gloves onto the kitchen table, her boots having been abandoned the second she had slipped through the door. Her pants and jersey were covered in mud, and she was working on pulling off the soft helmet as she opened the door.

Oh. Right.

Um.

Wait, what?

She had frozen, halfway through pulling the helmet off of her head, and now she tucked it under her arm, blinking. She leaned forward, glancing down the street for... camera crews? Or something? But her eyes came back to Keith.

"Where the hell have you been, then?"

Thankfully, it was Jack who opened the door. Technically, that didn't mean she hadn't adopted a kid, but it made Keith feel a lot better about the odds.

God, he towered over her now. It was easy to remember her as the invincible upperclassmen she had been when he had met her, but he had shot up like a weed in recent years, and at six feet flat was nearly a full foot taller than she was. When had that happened? Had it been this bad the last time they had seen each other?

She looked terrible. Exhausted, muddy, cold. The glamorous life of a professional quidditch player. Keith was suddenly glad his interest in the sport had never gone too far. To be fair, he couldn't have looked much better. Dressed in a ratty t-shirt and jeans, with unbrushed hair and dark circles under his eyes, he looked more "mugging survivor" than "respectable adult."

"Where the hell have you been then?"

Wasn't that the question of the day! Certainly not one Keith was willing to answer - not without a hell of a lot of prodding, anyway. Luckily, his mastery of conversational deflection hadn't abandoned him. "You look bloody awful," he pointed out. "Practicing? I'd hope so, after the Harpies." He gave a trademarked Keith Nicholas grin. "I listen to all your games on the WWN. Well, almost all of them. Missing Ivanov yet?" He peered over the top of her head into her house. "Still, I guess you can't complain. Got this place, right? A certifiable adult now. Does everyone on your team know you used to set off dungbombs in the grand hall?"

And, of course, he didn't answer. Because old habits die hard and he had never responded well to her ordering him around. While she wanted to answer, it was kind of nice to see how some things never changed.

Amidst all of the other horrible changes, this one little constant was nice.

"We don't talk about that match," Jack grumbled, glancing past him at the front garden. "Ivanov will come back when he's... done doing whatever he's doing," she said, eyebrows lifted as though she felt truly convicted by it. When truth be told, no one had heard from him in months.

"Adult is a loose term," she said, finally looking back at him. "Very loose." She smirked at his question. "Kidding? On good days, I release them in the lockers." She almost laughed, but couldn't. "Hey, come on in. I'll get you a drink. What do you want?" She ushered him in, giving him little choice, not offering him a choice. "Come on."

Another old habit. She was gonna boss him around as she pleased.

Yes. She hadn't even noticed his smooth rerouting of the conversation. He was the best at this.

"Ah, water, I guess," he said, stepping into her house. Honestly, it was hard to imagine Jack living here - but he supposed she had grown up, despite how she tried to deny it. She wasn't the same person he had met six, seven years ago. She was older, tougher, more settled. Not completely settled, but more. "Really, anything but coffee. I've had too much already, I'm bound to jitter myself to death any moment now." He gave her a fragile grin. "It was a long trip."

Which was true. The pawning of the last of his things hadn't given him enough money for a portkey, and the ferry between Ilvermorney and Hogwarts didn't cater to those unaffiliated with any school, so he had been forced to catch an only semi-legal magic carpet ride across the atlantic. Absolutely brutal.

"I-I'm not interrupting, am I?" He asked, glancing around, subtly leaning against the wall to avoid falling over. "I hate to barge in like this, but my parents are in France and they think I'm still in the States anyway so..." he groaned inwardly as he realized he had just answered her first question. "So I'm kind of out of options," he finished lamely.

She closed the door behind him and crossed for the counter, pulling a chair out at the old table that was central to the kitchen. She reached the cabinets and pulled out two glasses, deciding to opt for water even though the beers in the fridge were calling her name, loud and clear. She filled the glasses and turned, crossing to settle at the table across from Keith, sliding him his water.

"No," she said, taking a gulp of her water. "As long as you don't mind the mess. Speaking of." She pulled out her wand and flicked it, her clothes immediately losing the mud and sweat, though the spell left them a bit soapy-smelly. She rolled her shoulders and dropped her hands onto the table.

She lifted an eyebrow, the pieces coming together a bit. "So, you graduated from the States, then? What's the plan, mate?"

"So, you graduated from the States, then? What's the plan, mate?"

What was the plan. What was the plan. What was the plan.

"Well-"

Of course he had a plan. He was Keith Nicholas. He had had a plan every day of his life since he was six years old. They weren't always well thought out, or even particularly good - sometimes they were even just "wing it" - but they were always there. Keith had always known what he was going to do next.

"Well, I'm glad you asked, because that one's a...that's a one," Keith muttered, gulping down the glass of water. Plan. Right. Okay. He was back in England. He had his wand, six knuts, two sickles, the clothes on his back, and various knick-knacks in his backpack. He could...

"I don't know."

He swallowed, hard, and ran his hand through his hair. He needed a haircut. He needed a shower. He needed a plan, but he didn't have one.

"I don't have a plan, Jack," he said finally. "I don't have anything anymore, except a degree from Ilvermorney and a headache. And I'm sorry I'm here. I'm just...I'm tired. I'm so tired, Jack."

Sitting down is when it struck her how much he had grown. As a relatively short woman (she would always say relatively because she refused to believe she was short) she had long grown accustomed to the adjustment her body had to make to meet people’s gaze, therefore taking away the sensation. But sitting, he looked so… lanky at her table. Looked so oversized. Which made sense. He was a young man.

She really didn’t think she was the sort to see people as they used to be, but as they were. But maybe she had always thought of Keith as that second year who was tampering with potions under the noses of the prefects.

He seemed hesitant, seemed like he was stalling – which was new. She had seen him called out on something he didn’t know the answer to, but he always had an answer to offer. A fake answer, some improvised line, a nonsequitor. She felt the strangeness, the catch, the hesitancy, and her eyebrows knit together, no longer able to keep that distance that came from caring.

She would have just begun feeling out his options, tried to help through suggestion, had it not been for the apology. She… Had Keith ever apologized to her? He had certainly had reason to – she remembered the article about Ariel, after all. She couldn’t remember.

“That bad, huh?” She couldn’t help asking.

“You do have something,” she pointed out. “You have an old friend with more business opportunities than she knows what to deal with, and a spare bedroom, and some extra cash. Just tell me where to start.”

It was so matter of fact. So no questions about it. So… so where do we start now? She allowed for a small bracing smile, her eyebrows quirked.

She hoped he remembered that people often did not say no to her. For good reason.

Jack really was an adult now. He didn't bother saying that, because he knew she'd deny it. And maybe she was right, in a way. She struggled with her own problems, with her future, with the people around her. Just having the house, and the job, and the stability didn't make her an adult.

What made her an adult was the way she handled it. Maybe she couldn't see it, or just wasn't ready to, but she didn't handle her problems, or her future, or the people around her like a kid would. She didn't run off to America, collapse, and come scurrying back home to beg charity from an old friend. She dealt with her issues rationally. It made him feel like shit, a little, but it also made him feel relieved.

"It really is that bad," he said, looking up at the ceiling. He didn't say anything more than that. He would, if she asked (probably) - he owed her that much. But he didn't want to say it if he didn't have to. If he kept it to himself he could pretend that it was all a fever-dream, something he left behind when he crossed the Atlantic.

"Well, I never was very good at saying no to you," he said with a small smile. "One of my very few weaknesses. My only character flaw."

"I'll pay rent, of course," he continued. "And move out as soon as I can. I don't...like being a burden. And before you deny it and say something like "oh no Keith you could never be a burden," I'll cut you off and say I am definitely being a burden, I'm like...textbook burden right now. But that's okay. I'mma make it up to you."

He didn't argue, because he was smart enough to know that it would be a fruitless endeavor. Instead, he made quick work of trying to make up for it. He spoke honestly and bluntly, refusing to get any sort of false kindness. He didn't want to be pitied. She could understand that. He wanted to earn his place in the world with the rest of them. She could respect that.

"Oh, I have plenty of unsavory chores to give you while you stay," she said with a smirk. "This isn't a quiet B&B."

And it was like they knew. Because they always did. A faint boom emitted from outside, presumably the greenhouse. Jack didn't jump. Her eyes closed, she took a breath. Eliot, her Gytrash, came tearing through the doggy door, shape-shifting out of his usual shape of a large wolfhound into a small terrier, before shifting again. And he was gone out into the living room.

She looked back at Keith. "Right. So-"

The door slammed open and Goose stood there, the ten year old little boy covered in head to toe with soot. He blinked. "I... Um..." He coughed. "I'm an accomplice at best. But, it's all under control."

And he ran out of the room, just as Eliot came sprinting through, a towel gripped in his teeth. The dog door flapped back and forth.

Her eyes fell back on Keith. "Welcome to the madhouse."