A Dark Time For The Light

2

Jim wheeled his scooter into the staff car park and killed the engine. He took off his helmet and goggles, stowing them in the back-box and unstrapped his bag. He was vaguely aware of the scrutiny of one of the older workers who leaned casually against the wall enjoying a smoke. There it was again, the scar under the boy’s hair only noticeable when he removed his helmet. The older man’s eyes narrowed then shifted as the young man glanced his way. He stubbed out his cigarette and turned to enter the building.

Jim had, in fact, noticed the older man’s scrutiny and was a little unnerved by it. He shuddered slightly. More than likely, he’d guessed at Jim’s sexual proclivities and was interested. Ugh. Jim wasn’t keen on that idea at all. He hadn’t made a particular secret of his leanings, neither did he flaunt it like that queeny trollop Justin who worked near him on the packing floor.

By and large, his job wasn’t bad. A machine-minder in a large commercial bakery on the edge of Manchester. The noise levels were high, so he had to wear ear-protectors. This suited him fine obviating the need for much in the way of conversation with his co-workers. They were a friendly enough bunch who occasionally dragged him down to the pub on a Friday night for a few games of pool and several pints. The pay wasn’t bad either. He had enough to house, feed and clothe himself with a little left over to run his scooter and pay for a few luxuries like an MP3 player and a mobile phone, plus the cute blond rent-boy that he paid twice weekly to suck him off in a large anonymous park on the other side of the city.

He waved his good mornings to Rita and Moira who sat either side of him and took his place at the packing bench. The whistle went, the machines began to roll and Jim’s working day began.

He had his little earphones tucked snugly under his protectors as did many of his colleagues. He pressed play and with a mounting degree of horror realised he still had his ‘wallowing-missing-his-lover’ soundtrack on. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes, but the machine was at full stretch and he was unable to change his music. He could sense Moira glancing at him askance to one side of him as his head hung low to disguise his tears. She’d seen enough. She slammed her hand onto the red button and brought the machine to a halt.

“Come on, Jim, something’s upset you. They can get on without us, but as your first-aider, I insist you leave your post”. He could do naught but nod as he mutely followed at her insistence, grimacing his apologies at his work-mates. The machine was set in motion again and the two left the factory floor. Moira ensconced them in a corner of the quiet canteen, a coffee before each and gently asked what was troubling the lad.

He’d ripped off his ear-protectors then his earphones as they left the shop floor. As he slumped down to the table-top, he murmured, “I had the wrong music on”. She didn’t understand. “Jimmy?”, she laid a cautious hand on his shoulder. He smiled slightly at the diminutive as he tensed under her touch. “Ssshh”, she murmured. “If it’s any help, I’m not coming on to you, Jim. I just want to know what’s troubling you”.

At her frank admission, Jim melted and threw himself into her arms, weeping. “Fuck, Moira. I miss him so much, and then I play the wrong fucking music. This is doing my head in”, she rubbed his back as the boy sobbed on her shoulder. ‘Him, hmmm’, she mused. She’d always had a feeling about young Jimmy Porter, only to have it confirmed. “What happened?. If you’re up to telling me that is”, she asked as his sobs quieted a little.

Between halting breaths, he managed to tell his tale of being in love with an aristocrat, a boy he’d known at school, then his parents claiming their only child, their heir and marrying him off to someone equally blue-blooded. And how he couldn’t stop missing him. And knowing, that somewhere in a stately Manor house, his lover was likely missing him just as much. That neither him nor his bride had any desire to be wed to each other. That the bride was in love with his best, female, friend.

Moira’s mouth was a perfect ‘O’ as she digested this. When she could trust her voice, she breathed, “That would be so romantic, if it wasn’t so fuckin’ tragic”, and tightened her hold around the weeping boy. She began to rock gently and Jim found the movement calming. She stroked his hair out of his eyes. It was then she noticed his scar. Jim was enjoying the motherly gestures, his eyes closed. Then he felt Moira tense and he sat up, drawing away from her.

“What is it, Moira. What’s wrong?”. His colleague’s eyes were big and round. “Fuck!. I’ve worked beside you for, what?, eighteen months now. I’ve watched you, looked out for you, and until now I didn’t realise who you really were. I should have guessed. At least had an inkling”. She reached out and covered the scar with the boy’s hair. They gazed, transfixed into each other’s eyes. She whispered, “The grey-haired man who saw you arrive this morning?. He’s my ally. He’s not after you, even though we’re both gay, but he’s Justin Finch-Fletchley’s real father and I am Susan Bones’ Aunt”.

At the young man’s shocked expression, she rolled back her left sleeve exposing naked pale flesh. No Dark Mark. “I’m a Squib, ......Harry.....Potter”. He flinched at the use of his given name, then smiled. No-one had called him ‘Harry’ in nearly two years.

Screamed at him by his lover, being dragged away from him by his hair, a henchman either side of him. Despite Harry’s most heroic efforts. He’d sunk to his knees as his beloved was dragged away kicking and screaming, he could feel the tears on his face, see Draco’s mouth forming the words, “I’ll always love you, Harry”, as he was torn away from sight.

Harry felt his eyes fill once again and this time he wept loud and long. The tensions of the last two years ebbing for a while held in capable strong arms. As he quieted, Moira fished in her bag and handed Harry a rather screwed up copy of the Daily Prophet. She pointed a shaky finger at the story she’d ringed in highlighter. The one that spoke of Draco and Ginny Malfoy escaping from Malfoy Manor leaving their five month old baby behind.

“He’s coming to find me?”, he whispered. Moira kissed Harry’s hair. “I think you need to meet halfway”. Harry grinned at his colleague. “Where do I start?”. “Harry there’s an Underground in London”. He frowned at her, “I know. I used it to get to King’s Cross, to catch the train to School”. She held up a hand hushing him. “I don’t mean the underground railway, but the Wizarding Underground. The Resistance. To Him.”. Harry’s eyes widened.

“I can show you on a map although it’s not precise. I can understand why this is a secret”. Harry was baffled. She spread out a map of London. A location having an asterisk drawn over it. “I’m going to ‘send you home’, as your line manager and first aider, Harry. You should get a few hours head start if you set off now”. Harry resisted asking the question of a few hours head start of whom, exactly?.

He found himself outside donning his helmet and goggles. He sparked his Vespa to life and headed himself to London with nary a backward glance. His beloved had escaped. Was he looking for him?. Harry didn’t care. As he picked up speed on the Motorway, he grinned into the chilling wind. He was sure as hell looking for Draco Malfoy.