The Footsteps of the Valiant

I had a tilt at the Bartleby Snopes dialogue only writing contest this year, an entirely new format for me. The rules are simple – only dialogue, no “he said”, no directions, just conversation. They keep the top five entries on the boil and reject everything else. I clung on for a few days, but inevitably got tinned.

That said I had a bit of fun with this and I hope you do to:


Studded Door


The Footsteps of the Valiant


“Who’s there?”

“Archon? Archon, is that you?”

“It is. Child, you don’t sound like one of my regular guards.”

“No, your holiness. Far from it. I have come to save you.”

“Bless you daughter, but you are taking a terrible risk. Flee, before they find you.”

“Don’t worry; no one will be coming for a while. Your long captivity is almost over.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The guards on this watch have been bribed. They’re all looking away.”

“‘By their own greed shall they be undone’ as it says in Acolytes Three.”

“Yes, your Holiness.”

“What is it that you are doing? All I can hear is a scratching at the door.”

“Trying to pick the lock. This one looks like a regular forbidding dungeon door with a big unsophisticated lock that a halfwit gaoler can manage, but it turns out to be surprisingly complex.”

“Well, they have had me locked up in here for a long time, I’m sad to say you are not the first devout soul with fire in your belly and righteousness in your heart to try and save me.”

“I know, there are memorial cobbles hidden throughout the city with the names of the holy martyrs.”


“They prise one up, engrave it and replace it overnight. There’s also a threnody that is sung by everyone in attendance: “The Footsteps of the Valiant”, it’s quite a moving tune.”

“Cobbles are not lacking in humility I suppose.”

“You are a prisoner of the state Holiness. They could hardly erect statues.”

“No indeed. How are you getting along with that lock?”

“It won’t be long; the Duke had a similar one on his strong room. There’s a trick to it.”

“I see. I take it the path of righteousness has not always been the one you have chosen?”

“No your holiness I’m a thief. I don’t actually have any of that belly or heart stuff. Your followers got tired of sending each other to certain death trying to save you. They hired me. I’m a professional.”

“So what about that business with the holy martyrs and the cobbles?”

“It never hurts to empathise with the client. Especially when the client thinks they have a cause. It can get you ten, maybe fifteen basis points on the price. Bitter, hard bitten pros with no emotional intelligence have to sell their services at a discount.”

“My goodness, I had no idea it could be so complicated. I must admit I’m not sure how I feel about being rescued by someone who has not been saved.”

“Oh it’s your flock that are saving you. The money was raised by subscription. As best I can make out, you’ve had everyone from widows and orphans contributing pennies, to businessmen putting an entire year’s profits into the fund. It was very touching, but of course it doesn’t pay to get sentimental.”

“But you are the one who is doing the saving.”

“‘Judge not the sword, but the hand that wields it.’ That’s from Ruminations Six.”

“You know your scripture!”

“Good research on the client, adds another ten points to the price every time. Those surly hero guys hanging around in taverns half drunk and unshaven really don’t know what they’re doing. I have an office, and a secretary. Prospective clients get cinnamon tea and a brochure.”

“I suppose that makes me feel better about it. How is that lock coming?”

“Nearly there. Just one turn…got it. Stand back your Holiness. There’s a torch out here, and the sudden light may be painful.”

“That won’t be a problem.”


“To be fair, no one else has ever got this far. We’ll have to review security arrangements.”

“Gosh. It’s rather nice in here isn’t it?”

“Well, there had to be some trade-off for being locked up all these years.”

“Your carpets are as good as the Duke’s and I happen to know that’s a third century jade vase.”

“You’re an educated woman.”

“Well, yes. But that one I stole to order for…”

“That was you? God bless you. It was originally stolen from the Church by the second Hieromancy. ‘It will profit them not the things they take unto themselves. For all shall be returned to its rightful place in time for judgement.’ Divination Twelve, in case you were wondering.”

“It seems I’ve been an agent for the Church before then. It’s good to know we’re on the same side.”

“Indeed. If you like what you see here, you should come out onto the balcony.”

“How do you have a balcony in a dungeon?”

“Come and see.”

“Oh. Oh my word.”

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?”

“I never imagined there would be a cavern inside the mountain. Where does the light come from?”

“As I understand it there are crystals in the rock that run right the way up to the surface. Or they redirect light to each other or some such. It does give the whole thing a lovely glow. And the rainbow over the waterfall is almost permanent.”

“I did wonder why you stayed here.”

“I am a prisoner, child.”

“Yes, but there are stories about how you gave sermons in two villages at the same time. I always wondered why someone who could do that would allow themselves to be locked up.”

“You believe the stories? I’m surprised.”

“I stole some records from before the dissolution of the Church. The parishes kept records of who came and went.”

“You really do your research very thoroughly.”

“Thanks, I had an intern do the actual data work.”

“And these records showed me in two parishes at the same time?”

“Yes, and it happened more than once.”

“Unfortunately it’s not a miracle or some God given power. The truth is a little more prosaic. I served four parishes as a young priest, and I had to walk from one to another. I wasn’t actually that devout, and they were all about fifteen miles apart around the Sky Lake.”

“I know, I have the records, remember?”

“Yes, but what you have to factor in is that two of the parishes were in a different diocese.”


“I got paid by the sermon. I knew no one would cross check the records from one diocese to the other. They used to hate each other.”

“You were fiddling your attendance to get paid more.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I’m a thief, not a fraudster.”

“I always thought putting around the story that I was able to perform miracles by being in more than one place at a time was quite inspired.”

“Divine inspiration?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I take it you aren’t coming with me then?”

“Not as such, no.”

“You can let go of my arm.”

“You see, the Duke and I have an arrangement. He needs the people to believe in something to stop them falling for heathen influences. And the firebrands have a predictable cause to rally around. It makes them easier to track.”

“You’re quite strong for an old man.”

“You see those spars and blocks in the corner?”


“That’s actually exercise equipment. I also do yoga. I’m in pretty good shape for someone who hasn’t been outside in a decade.”

“Do you have to grip so tight?”

“The arrangement serves the church as well. Nothing keeps the people as devout as a live case of someone suffering for their souls. Donations have never been so high, even though the services are held in secret.”

“I imagine that saves a lot in overheads.”

“You’re very astute. Church buildings are in need of constant repair. This way the worthy lend us their houses, and I’ve cut an entire layer of management out of the structure. It’s very efficient.”

“My arm is hurting pretty badly, do you think you could let go?”

“I’m afraid not. There are very few people who know what is happening. Even the guards just pass what they think they’re feeding me through a hole in the door. My meals actually come on a dumb waiter from the palace kitchens.”

“I’m really pleased for you, but I really think I ought to get going. I only bribed one shift of guards and they’ll change soon.”

“And there’s the rub. The arrangement works because it is secret. And a secret is only a secret if no one knows it.”

“Penitents Seven?”

“Good guess. Penitents is a go to book if you’re in doubt because no one ever reads that one, but actually that is all my own.”

“It’s an awfully long way down.”

“‘He who dies to serve the faith shall live for ever.'”

“Does it matter that I’m a she?”

“Not to God. On the plus side, maybe you’ll get your own cobblestone.”



If you are interested in my writing take a look here


The Lesser Evil


The Lesser Evil

(Harry Potter Fan Fiction)


“Why does she keep touching you?” Ginny asks the question lightly, as if enquiring about the weather. She doesn’t even look at me as she leafs through the newspaper. There’s no suggestion that this is different to the quiet routine of our evenings when the kids are away at school.

I don’t answer. The armchair has me in its grip, too exhausted to move. My work is meticulously filed, my reports thoroughly written. So different from my school days. Diligence delays the moment of my return to this place.

“I just think it’s odd. Any excuse to put her fingers on you, hold your hand.” Now she does look up. My eyes are closed but I can feel her gaze, still and curious. “At dinner on Sunday she wiped that smudge of icing off your cheek.”

The speech must have been rehearsed. All the while I was in the office she would have stared into one of my pictures and worked on the pacing and intonation. The questions are to put this into the realm of another’s fault. It’s not Ginny. It’s not me. It’s the other woman. How strange she is, this interloper in our lives. How maddening to us both the quirks of her behaviour.

Ginny knows if she brings the locus here, into our living room, into something between us, it would be to invite the blame to sit at our hearth and add its silent accusation.

“I hadn’t noticed.” The lie falls easily into the space she has left for it.

“I don’t mind for my own sake, but she’s married to my brother.” Sub text: your best friend. “You know how he can get.”

I do know how he can get. His anger I can handle. It is a red thing, a live flash that can be doused and cooled. The sister, my wife, she’s like me. Her rage is black, deep and lasting. You might mistake the coals as dark and cold, but put your hand on them and they will stick to your skin, burn through to the bone.

“I’ll tell her to stop.” I know she’ll reject my opening offer in this negotiation.

“That would be weird.”

“You tell her.”

“That would be worse.”

“Then I’ll stay away from her.”

“That would be best. Just don’t make it obvious you’re avoiding her.”



The silence returns, blanketing. For her the task has been accomplished. How could we possibly be to blame? The problem was outside of us, beyond our hearth. Accountability has been localised there, as has the response. There is no more to say on the subject. Unless it is a test, a tableau and trap, a probing of my own responses. Sitting by my own fire, I can’t let down my guard.

When there is a sufficient distance, the taste of the last conversation a memory, she asks “How was your day?”


“Still the same case?”


“Any leads?”

“None. Just a trail of bodies.”

“There’s nothing in the paper.”

“Just the obituaries, otherwise we’re keeping it quiet.”

“Those were reported as old age and natural causes.”

“They weren’t.” I have to get out of this house. The constant wariness is kicking me deeper and deeper into a well of fatigue. “I’m going to get some air.”

“Would you like me to come?”

“It’s OK, I need to get the day out of my system. I’m not great company right now.” Subtext: It’s not your fault. You’re OK, I’m not OK.

“I’ll keep dinner warm for you.”


I leave the house without my coat. It is a miserable, frigid February. I consider going back for it, but the door opens and it floats out by itself to settle on my shoulders. The fact that she still cares only makes this harder.

Just outside the village a path veers off from the road and heads off across the fields and farms, shielded by hedgerows. A stream winds its way through, heavy with a month of rain. I stop on the little hump backed bridge and stare into the water. It’s too dark to see my reflection. That’s just as well.

Sometimes in the mirror I can see the shadows. He’s left his mark on both of us, a stain that can’t be removed. Funny how I can’t say His name any more. I used to shout out it so bravely, so cavalierly when He was something I could fight.

I wish there was something I could turn my anger onto now. Someone I could charge at, my head down, heedless of the consequences and howl invectives. A sink into which I could pour the constant bubble of my resentment.

I was forged and scarred in war; I can’t live in a time of peace.

The path here seemed so natural, so obviously correct, and as easy to take as the path to the bridge. We had won a war and lost half a generation. The bodies of our friends lay broken amid the ruins of Hogwarts. In that bittersweet aftermath how sane it seemed to grab whatever happiness was available, share it between us. We knew it might be lost in an instant. We married young, bore children to fill the void.

The danger did not return. How easy to look back now and say “Had I known then what I know now, I would have chosen differently.”

That is a lie. We did not have it in us to do that. Could we have walked away? Could I have said to my closest friend, my brother-in-arms “This happiness you have found is less than the happiness I deserve”? Could I have admitted to the girl who waited for me, “You were only ever a safe haven, a refuge I found from the sacrifice I made for your brother”?

She is here. The one. The destiny that was so obviously written for me that I resisted it, fought against it like it was a prison coming to claim me. The one who was the very best of us. She respected my need for freedom even though it meant she settled for an ordinary man.

Her arm snakes its way around my waist. There is warmth against the chill. I rest my head on the soft bed of her curls. She puts her head against the hammer in my chest. The skittering chaos of my heartbeat slows and steadies. The rest I should have found at home seeps into my bones, scorning the chill and the drizzle.

“How long?” I need to pace this respite.

“He’s discovered Netflix and Quentin Tarantino. He won’t realise I’ve gone for a while.”

The kiss is simple and sustained. An umbilical that feeds us both. A union.

The moon is up. She steps back and by its light pulls away a few hairs that have stuck to my coat. She drops them in the river, and then she’s gone. I wait, listening to the stream and then follow her back into the village, past the glowing windows of her house and into mine.


* * *


Ginny is curled, foetal against my back. Part of me wants to turn around and offer her some comfort. She is as much a victim of bad decisions and the change of time as anyone. And she has carried the burden of His presence, as I did. That deserves a bottomless well of compassion.

I can still smell the other lingering in my arms, on my breast. If I turn around and hold Ginny, she will know someone has been in her place. Not offering her comfort is a lesser evil, a mercy that she will not ever understand or appreciate.

Compassion, comfort, mercy. So easily confused with love in the fear and alarum of battle. So obviously not love when the dust settles.

Sleep has only claimed me for a little while when the tapping comes. A folded card is marking a regular tat tat tat on the bedside table. The words printed neatly on the inside glow gently in the dark.

“What is it?” A sleepy question. Night will reclaim her in moments.

“Work, I have to go.”

“Be careful.” Mumbled, and then she has drifted away.

I slide out of bed, careful not to let the cold in. I change in the kitchen, well away from the bedroom so I don’t wake her. I stir up the fire and add another log. When it is crackling I add a handful of powder. It flares green and I step through.

I emerge in a room which is frigid and dark. The small fireplace behind me, long unused, spits out dust. I step to one side. My partner appears. Best friend. Brother-in-arms. Cuckold.

Her perfume is heavy on him, beneath it their sweat. My hackles rise. I fight the urge to lash out.

“Harry? Is that you?”


Light emerges from wand tips.

The corpses are a couple. Very old. They could have died in their sleep, both sitting in their armchairs, a small coffee table between them. The man’s face is twisted in horror, as if he has been scared to death. The woman looks bewildered. There is not a scratch on them, no sign of violence. Nothing else has been disturbed.

There are pictures on the mantelpiece: the couple in younger, healthier times, a young woman who could be a grand daughter, and another couple with a toddler, who could have been the same young woman in her infancy. None of the images move in their frames. This is new; thus far all the victims have been wizards and witches, old and living alone.

I try to concentrate on the faces in the pictures, but my senses are flooded with the smells he has brought in with him. They cut through the cold air and the death stink. He moves around the room, knowing there is nothing to find. I stand still, jaw clenched. The ink stain on the inside of my ribs aches. It marks the place where the Dark Lord had his grip and was ripped out by my own death.

I feel it seep up and around me, loosening my grip on my magic. I stamp on it. Hard.

There is a change in the air, a scrape of claws on the carpet. A dog bursts in at ankle height and gives a single bark.



He muffles the sound, I stun the dog. My spell blasts it back down the narrow hall, sliding across the floor into the kitchen to lie limp and still.

“Steady on Harry.” Ron’s spell was better, considered and proportionate to the threat. We are here to find clues and clear up the evidence of death by magic, not unleash our anger on a small West Highland Terrier.

“Someone could pick out its memories. Had to be sure.” Another lie that slips out easily. He falls for it, as he does every time. It is a lie that suits many purposes. He’ll tell his wife, who will know it is nonsense, and she will seek me out to comfort me. I’m getting too good at this.

“Good thinking.” He casts his light around the room. “Let’s finish up here, I doubt we’ll find anything, but we have to be sure.”


He goes out, leaving the ghost of her scent behind in the room.


* * *


Work passes slowly the next day. There is paperwork to file on the deaths, adding to the roll call of a serial killer. No one in the magical community has been stirred by them yet. The victims are all old, their deaths expected. Families are saddened but not surprised, the police have no evidence on which to hang suspicion. Only a few of us carry the burden of knowledge.

A junior Auror has left background research on the murdered couple on my desk. Brian and Edith Leahy of Gosport. Brian was in the late stages of terminal cancer, but refused palliative care because of Edith’s dementia. He would not let her live alone, or in a hospice. Fifty years of marriage, one son with his family had moved to Denmark. Brian had cared for Edith through years of his own illness. The bland facts of the lives snuffed out are an injustice. There should be more to show for that devotion. I leave the report on my desk.

On the roof of the Ministry, I stare at the leaden sky. The old couple had precious little time left, and their deaths were perhaps a blessing in disguise. I lean over the parapet and dry heave. A dribble of spit falls onto the streets of London. Once I fought for those precious moments of life. I should aspire to be like Brian Leahy, and if that is not possible then at least to mourn his death.

In the afternoon we gather round curled scrolls and notes pinned to a board. We scrub hands through our hair and over tired eyes. We have no leads, no clues. The only reasonable surmise is that there is a dark wizard at work. I know what I have to do next. Ron’s not happy about it, and he wants to come too. That would be an escalation. There is history here, and that needs to be respected.

I leave him at the office and appear outside the gates of the old manor house. It is as forbidding as I remember from the last time I came here, bound and beaten. They make me wait. It is an important part of a valid wariness, a demonstration of who is coming into whose domain.

Lucius sits at the head of his dining table. The only light in the room is from the enormous fireplace. He tries to sit up straighter when I am shown in, tries to sneer, but he is a broken shadow of a man. He has the dark rage too, but in him it is the pathetic whining of a cur. There is a goblet in his right hand, which trembles with the knowledge of his impotence. His left hand snaps onto his right wrist to steady the goblet, and then in a burst of furious action he hurls it into the fire.

There is a snap as a house elf appears, diving into the fire to retrieve the goblet and emerging with its rags a-smoulder. I don’t flinch and I don’t react. He mumbles to himself and then calls for more wine.

It takes a few minutes for Draco to appear. His is lean and tall and gaunt. Pale as a ghost. He shows me into his study wordlessly. Only when the door is closed and the unwelcoming halls are locked out does he speak.

“Why are you here?”

“I need information.”

“I thought ferreting out things you weren’t meant to know was your particular skill.”

I don’t rise to it. Eventually he motions me to a chair. From a sideboard he pours two drinks, and puts one on the coaster in front of me. He doesn’t sit. He stands at the window and looks at me in its reflection.

I take a sip. Fire-whisky. It is smooth and sharp like a goblin made knife.

“There’s a serial killer on the loose.”

“Should I be worried?”

“He’s targeting the very old and infirm.”

“Maybe I should invite him in. He could be doing me a favour.” He looks out through the walls to where his father sits.

“It looks like the work of a dark wizard. Killing curses. Six so far.”

“You think of dark wizards and you come here. Should I be flattered?” There is bitterness in his voice. His family are still wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, but their power and influence is much diminished among ordinary wizarding folk.

“Six deaths. Someone is trying to emulate your old master.”

“Why would they tell me about it?”

“Because if there is a rising of dark wizards they will need you and your money.”

He laughs at that, a genuine display of mirth. “You never had real money. You don’t stay this rich by giving it away to every madman with fire in his eyes.”

I don’t have an answer to that. The black rage is in me, clawing under the surface, but I am in his domain and I need his help.

He keeps looking at me in the reflection and occasionally sips his drink. “The war’s over. Why are you still fighting?” He turns from the window to look at me directly and answers his own question. “You’re looking for a wall to bash your head against. You’ve won, and now you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

“There’s always something to fight for.” It’s a weak answer. I’ve ceded ground to him, and he knows it.

“No. The things you fight for in peace are simple, prosaic. Raising yourself to see to the kids at night, resisting the urge to shout at them, letting them grow into who they want to be.” He pauses, looking for the key to get in. “Keeping the fires of passion burning when the fuel is spent.” I know I have not reacted, but he nods slowly to himself with the ghost of a smile. “I lost in the war and I’ve won more from it than you have, because I can live in the peace.” He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. “That isn’t enough for the Chosen One though, is it? You need the big achievements, the cries of acclaim. It’s not enough to be a hero in your own household.”

He’s echoing my own thoughts from the day before. Knowing that his mind has taken him to the same place as mine makes me feel like I’m wearing soiled clothes. I’m running out of the patience to take his barbs. “Do you know who is behind the killings?”

“No. It’s not anyone who looks to me and mine.” He goes back to looking at me in reflection. “But there are whispers in the wind.”

“Tell me.”

“Whispers that tell me this is as much your doing as anyone’s.”

My grip tightens on the glass. It is goblin made, no pressure I could put on it would make it break. I could use it to hammer the manor house into rubble. “What do you mean?”

“I said your skill was ferreting out secrets. I learned about Polyjuice potion from you. Your exploits have launched a whole industry making invisibility cloaks. None of them a shadow on yours, of course.” He swirls the little that remains in his glass. “And then there was your odd behaviour in the battle. Everyone else was fighting for their lives and you were chasing round the school looking for a trinket. Word gets out, people make connections.” He laughs again. “You burst out of the bank on a dragon. People have worked out you were looking for objects connected to the Dark Lord. The word being whispered in secret places is “‘Horcrux’.”

“That’s not a word many people know.”

“You’re deluded. In any case you might take an interest in a book that went missing from the school library. Very dark magic, very highly restricted.”

“Do you know who took it?”

“‘Who’ could be anyone.” He finally moves away from the window and drops into the chair on the other side of the desk. “One of my own businesses is selling ready made Polyjuice potion. Just add a hair and you can be anyone you please.”

“Do you keep a list of your clients?”

“Just the interesting ones.”

“I’ll need to see it.”

“It’s at the shop. Stop by tomorrow. I’ll tell them to expect you.”

I put the glass carefully back on the coaster. He shows me out by a side door and we don’t exchange pleasantries.

The study was stuffy and the whisky was heady stuff. I walk for a few miles trying to come to terms with what is happening, trying to hold in the horror. Someone is trying to make a Horcrux. Someone wants to split their soul to make themselves immortal through cold blooded murder. Alone now, I let my body shudder and shake. It’s a hideous thought.

I don’t go straight home. I wait on the bridge. It’s late. She won’t come at this hour, but even the faint hope of it is better than the sterile confines of home. And then she is there, slipping into the circle of my arm. She gives me a fierce, tight hug and rests her forehead on my cheek, breathing heavily. The whisky still clouds my lips. She replaces her forehead with a kiss and then she’s gone.


* * *


“Any message for the kids?”

“You’re going to Hogwarts?”

“Following up on a lead. There was a book stolen from the library. I thought I might stay for lunch while I’m there.”

“Just tell them I love them.”

“They’ll hate that.”

“Then make sure you do it in front of all their friends.”

I leave with a smile. The kids do that to us. They give us a shared purpose; push the darkness into a corner. I go to the office first and brief Ron on the evening’s discussion. He offers to get the list of customers from the shop. He doesn’t like going back to Hogwarts, and I don’t press him on it.

The school gates show signs of repair. Ancient stones alongside fresh cut new ones. It’s like that throughout, except for those parts that had to be torn down entirely. I look in on Neville first. He’s elbow deep in muck in the greenhouse, but still puts out a hand to shake mine before withdrawing it with a rueful smile.

“How are the kids getting on?”

“They don’t have green fingers, but they pay attention. They’ll be fine. How’s Ginny?”

“Fine, she sends her regards.”

“This isn’t a social call.”

“No. What do you know about the book that was stolen?”

“It’s baffling really. Middle of the day, the library was busy. The alarms on the restricted section went off. We’ve accounted for all the children, and none of them set off the alarm.” He stops for a minute, washing the dirt from his arms. “The thing is the book went after we’d cleared the library, but before the detection spells were reset.”

“I’ve heard invisibility cloaks are becoming more common.”

“They are. We’ve confiscated several, but they’re not that effective. We had four teachers in there scouring the place. Someone got by us, picked up the book and got out again without us noticing.” He steers me out towards the hall for lunch. “We’ve told the students it was a drill.” He puts a hand on my arm to stop me. “I sent a report to Ginny, this used to be her department. Now she’s back at work I thought you’d know all the details.”

“Ginny didn’t come back to work.” That had been the plan, once the children were all at school and her days would be empty. “It’s not been the right time.” He doesn’t pry, and I thank him silently for that.

“The report will be on her desk.”

“I’ll look for it.”

After lunch I go to the library. My Auror’s badge opens up the restricted section for me. There’s thick dust everywhere. The house elves are not allowed to clean in here. Only one shelf has been disturbed. The stolen book is back in its place, and has been put there recently. Whoever put it back didn’t trigger the alarms this time. He’s getting better, more skilled, more cunning.

Before I leave I open up the map. I trace the familiar parts of the castle and look for names I recognise, the children of friends. The new additions to the castle aren’t on the map, and students seem to walk through walls and then disappear entirely as they pass through remodelled sections. I spot my sons moving between lessons. Another name catches my eye as I begin to fold the map away. Disappearing off the edge is Ginny Potter.

I open out the map again and rub my finger over the spot where I saw her name, but there is nothing there now.

I have a sick feeling developing in my stomach. By the time I get back to the office, Ron has gone. He’s taken the customer list with him. I sit at my desk for some time, rubbing my scar for the first time in ages. It hasn’t troubled me at all since the battle, but I feel its presence on my head now.

I go to the bridge first. I need courage before I walk into my own home. I need to be grounded, certain. I also need to see the customer list, to confirm or close the yawning pit of suspicion that is opening up in front of me. That means going to Ron’s house, which is a sweet torture all of its own.

I haven’t given her the signal. Somehow she knows I need her. She arrives out of breath, wearing a lighter autumn coat. She stops short of me, her expression haggard and wan. Suddenly her lips are on mine. Her kiss is not the chaste, dry connection of lips we have indulged in up to now. She is impatient and hungry. I ease her away, gently at first, and then a little more forcefully.

“Please, no,” I gasp. She pushes my arms away and begins pulling at my coat buttons. “Remember what we agreed,” I beg. It’s increasingly difficult to turn her down.

“I need you,” she growls.

“I know. I feel the same, but not now, not like this.” This time when I push her away, she stays back. Then in a swirl of her coat she has gone.

I gulp big lungfuls of air. On top of all the confusion I don’t need this right now. I give her ten minutes and then follow. Ron answers the door. He has a hollow look in his eyes. “There’s something I don’t understand,” he says.

“Ginny’s on that list of customers.”

“How did you know?” His jaw is slack in surprise.

“It’s just a sick joke. Let me handle it.” Another lie without a flicker on my conscience. I don’t take the list, I don’t need it. As I turn to leave I see the coat rack in their hall. There’s no sign of the autumn coat. I keep turning, avoiding the desire to stare, or rush over and check. I’ve been incalculably stupid.

At home Ginny is sitting in an armchair by the fire. Her wand is on the table, well out of her reach. I stand at the door to the living room. Where do I start this conversation?

She saves me the trouble. “I forgot about the map. The cloak doesn’t fool the map, does it?”


“When they test my wand they’ll know it was me.” Her voice is matter of fact. There is none of the anger that bubbles inside of me, stifling me. I force out a single word.


“Be more specific.” It is a fair challenge. There is so much here I don’t understand. I can’t form a more pointed question. Eventually she offers information to break the silence. “They were all old. Very old, near death. I may only have stolen days from them, months at most.” There’s a glass of wine in front of her. She dips her finger into it and flicks the drops into the fire. The alcohol burns off, and then the drops sizzle against the logs. She does it six times over, once for every life.

“He’s still in here.” She sucks the wine off her finger and then points it at her chest. “The way He’s still inside you.”

“We don’t have to be what He wanted to make us.”

“No, we don’t. But to be free of Him I have to get Him out.” She looks up at me at last. Her eyes are calm, her breathing is steady. “It’s a fantastic idea, don’t you think? Carve out the diseased part of my soul into a Horcrux and destroy it.” She looks away. “Maybe then I can be the woman you need, rather than a fellow prisoner.” She looks at me again, still wholly in control. “I thought I had found a way to fix what’s broken inside me, and now I’m prepared to face the consequences.” She stands up and holds out her hands, wrists together. “Another successful case for the great Auror, finding the killer in his own home.”

“You killed six people.” It’s not a question. It’s barely a statement. I still can’t process what she has done.

“I admit it. My only regret is that I didn’t succeed. I just didn’t have the hate and malice it takes to create a Horcrux.” She puts her hands down at her side. “Just remember that I did it because you wouldn’t face our problems head on to fix them. Brave Harry, ready to die for the world but turns and runs from his dysfunctional marriage.” The turn of her head fails to hide a little sneer of disgust. “I haven’t indulged in the escape you’ve given yourself.”

“You know.”

“You’re an imbecile Harry,” she scoffs. “I knew before you even began. I cracked your little code ages ago. I’ve followed you out most evenings, watching your childish hand holding and baby kissing.”

“My cloak.”

“Our cloak. What’s yours is mine, what’s mine is yours. For better or worse.”

“Was today the first time you impersonated her?” This is safer territory, I can handle my own betrayal better than her brutality.


My mind races through every meeting on the bridge. How often was it my own wife in disguise? Which moments of infidelity were partial, of the heart and mind only, not of the body? That must have been so much worse. If I pick apart the reasons, trace her motivations, somewhere under the darkness and beyond the insanity I’ll find myself. I can’t run from this. No one can save me from it. We’re in it together.

“What do we do now?” I ask.

We stand facing each other for an age. The fire dies down to a dull glow. I pick up her wand from the table. There is an acceptance in her eyes. Through all this she has been more courageous than me. Mad and remorseless, but also courageous.

There is a need for accountability and a penance. Someone has to pay for what has happened. For the sake of our children I cannot let it be her. My question is not hers to answer. I have the answer inside me. The murders will go unsolved, but they will stop. We’re already in the prison we have built for ourselves.

I snap the wand across my knee and throw into the remains of the fire. The flames flare up briefly, and then sink back. Her eyes widen in surprise.

“What do we do now?” she asks.

“The only thing we know how to do. Fight the darkness.”


I initially put forwards the bones of the relationship theory in this story in this post

All the characters, components and paraphernalia above belong to JK Rowling and/or her publishers. The story itself is my original work, it is intended as an homage to the wonderful world Ms Rowling created.

If you are interested in my writing take a look here

Independence Plan for London

It has happened. A coalition of Little England hobbits and post industrial flotsam has led us over the edge and into an abyss of isolationism.

The time has come for London to assert its independence. We are different from the cultural Neanderthals still vainly defending a vanished image of Britain towering over the world. They have been unable or unwilling to wake up to the hard reality that London is the greatest city on earth and they live largely on our largesse and at our sufferance.

It’s time to take back our democracy from these small minds and bigots. It’s time to take back our tax revenues that prop up their failed and inefficient industries and unemployment benefits. It’s time to unshackle ourselves from this dead weight that keeps trying to hold us back.

Borders and Immigration

We have a natural border. It’s called the M25. We don’t need it. London welcomes everyone, always has, always will. Even if you voted Out. London takes the different, and the outcast, and chews them up. It spits out street wise, tube map savvy, productive people. London doesn’t care if you are the riff-raff or covered in spots. It just wants you to take part.


It’s time for a new kind of politics in London. The Tories have to go. It is their in fighting that got us into this mess. Labour are no better, because no one can know what they are voting for. New Labour and Corbyn’s Old Labour are toxic for each other and no one wants to be part of their mess. The Liberal democrats are an anachronism and irrelevance, like codpieces.

If we are to unshackle ourselves from Little England then let’s jettison the old politics too. Sadiq Khan can stay to oversee the  changing of the guard, but then we have another election for the president of the Independent Republic of London.


England will need a transition plan, to wean them off our wealth. We’ll fund it from our change from a monarchy to an independent republic. We can sell Buckingham Palace and Clarence House to oligarchs and oil sheikhs who will never live there. We may need to do the basement conversions first though.


This is London, we don’t need a trade policy. In the Del Boy city we’ll sell anything to anyone. The only conditions: no money back, no guarantee.


The Age of Political Unions has ended. Cameron has tolled the death knell for Europe, and in doing so put Scotland onto a path to eventual secession. In five years there will be no Great Britain. The question for London is whether we want to be saddled with what is left, or forge our own destiny as in independent city state, and take our place as the cultural and financial capital of the world.

Steve Jobs’ Prayer

Steve Jobs who art in heaven
Powered be thy products
Our station come, thy updates be done
In life as they are in the lab
Give us this day our continuous news feed
And let us like  a status
As others like our statuses
Leave us not in ignorance
And deliver the stuff we ordered
For thine is the iPhone, the iPod and the iPad
And every other iThing

(With apologies to God)

The Gates to Common Ground

photosapiens agarbatti

Image courtesy of The Photosapiens, click to see more.

The Gates to Common Ground


India is a steaming melting pot of faiths and cultures, one I was briefly cast into as a callow youth. I brought all my first world certainties to that extraordinary, baffling country. I hope I left some of them behind.

My journey started with my ego nicely plumped. An armed guard met me at Delhi airport and deposited me in the bosom of my family in Lucknow. There, amidst those who had remained through partition and the lure of the West, I was loved and coddled. But my movements were bounded by the modest compound, and I lacked all the freedom to roam I knew from London.

Opposite the house there was a temple. While I never went there, it provides the strongest memory of the trip. Every day the temple PA system would squeak to life. Over the braying of streetwalking cows and the intemperate traffic noise, a female voice would rise up in worship. I knew nothing of this lady but the relentlessness of her prayer. Whether she was maiden, or mother, or crone; weathered by care, surrounded by offspring or virgin – I never discovered. Her voice has stayed with me over the decades.

She read a repeated litany of thanksgiving and beseeching. It went on for hours and was almost incomprehensible to me. Time and familiarity had created an elision of words that made them almost impossible to follow. At first it was just annoying. The annoyance bred ridicule: constant use had lined the lady’s throat with gravel, her voice lacked any melody or softness. It was harsh on the ear and grated on the nerves.

By the time I left it was something I waited for. I would sit on the rooftop as the swelling cacophony of suburban life overwhelmed the quiet of morning. And then the alien soundtrack would gather its ponderous momentum. The harsh voice would batter the worldly hubbub into submission, silencing the chatter that filled my head. In those moments, before the inevitable call to join the family for lunch, I found a peculiar peace and freedom. The petty concerns of living evaporated as I fell into the immersion of her worship. The transactions that form life were diminished. I relinquished my hold on them with increasing ease. I was no longer bound by the fading glory of the cracked walls and peeling gate of my uncle’s home. I relearned in that time the joy of writing, and thinking without constraint.

It was only later I recalled that I had felt that stillness and freedom before, in an environment that could not have been more different. It was at choral Evensong. The rooftop in Lucknow was painfully bright in the sunlight, with rowdy, impatient India rising from the street below. In contrast the chapel was dim and quiet. Ancient oak absorbed light and sound. Even my breathing was hushed, as if the enveloping robes for lay visitors laid a geas of monasticism upon me. The service was pretty high up the candle, designed to awe as much as inspire. It was during the Apostles’ Creed that the same sense of stillness claimed me. The possibility of a broader understanding reached out to me, unlocked by absorption and chant.

In itself that moment is not unusual or exclusive, it is often found in music and meditation. Now I am aware of the sensation I have found it in such prosaic circumstances as a long night drive. With the busy, practical part of the mind locked in concentration, the higher functions can be uncoupled and freed. What startled me was to find that outcome across such a broad religious divide.

I found it again most recently, and perhaps most surprisingly on Hajj. During three weeks of pilgrimage the quiet, contemplative moments were plentiful. What astonished me was to be so transported during the rite of Tawaf.

Muslims are required to make the pilgrimage to Mecca once in their lifetime, if their health and financial wherewithal so allow. In past times those in poor far flung villages would save for a lifetime so that one representative could complete the Hajj from among them.

The spiritual function it performs no doubt varies from pilgrim to pilgrim, but some elements are at its core. First and foremost it reinforces the connection of the person to the divine and distances the individual from the concerns they left behind. It also seeks to engender a sense of oneness with all humanity and erase the sense of difference. All male pilgrims wear two simple pieces of unstitched cloth, the ehram. There is no rank and no precedence for wealth. The clothes are deliberately reminiscent of a shroud, the pilgrim will leave reborn.

One of the many acts Muslim pilgrims must undertake is the Tawaf.  They walk seven times around the black draped building in the centre of Mecca – the Kaaba. It is a rite than places God at the centre of creation, and man in his orbit. As one might expect, an endeavour in which several thousand people at a time are involved is stifling and chaotic. It is utterly different to the sedate choreography of Evensong, or the solitary rooftop. Not even the heat is a common factor. In India it was bright, baking direct sunlight; in Mecca it was a strength sapping sauna, fuelled by the skin crawling proximity of sweating bodies.

There is no organisation to it, there is no system. There is no queuing which my Britishness so craves. At any point in time some are beginning their seven circuits, some are in progress and some are finishing. Some people are not there for Tawaf at all, but to touch the building itself, or the holy black stone set in one corner. And there are more people trying to do all this at the same time than the orderly western mind can comprehend. For those familiar with rugby the seven circuits of the Kaaba are like a forty five minute rolling maul. It definitely shares all the rib cracking and toe crushing you would expect from the most violent of gentlemanly pursuits.

In that environment, so far removed from any other experience, and while in constant motion, it seems strange to claim access to the stillness. And yet it was there. The key was in the repetition of prayer, simple words of entreaty and gratitude, over and over. The sensation of elbows and heels and moist collisions faded. I was surrounded, and yet there was a zone of complete calm in which I could orbit. It was a planetary stillness, in which movement was effortless and irresistible and entirely natural. In the very beating heart of Islam I put to use the lessons learned from Hinduism and Christianity.

Somehow in heat and breathless endeavour to put one foot in front of the other, to progress and not impede anyone else, and to pray in fervent helplessness I unlocked the door to which a distant chaplain and dedicated lady had provided the key. In that thronging multitude I found my unique connection to the divine.

And of course we are all built the same way. Our brains are abuzz with inputs and reactions. We respond because therein lies survival and progress. How curious then that the connection sparks into life when that immediacy is constrained.

When we silence the babble of an inquisitive child with a new toy, then the quieter sibling, the one that sees much and says little, can speak up. Only when it is certain of our undivided attention will it share its precocious insights.

All of which left me considering the nature of faith, religion and prayer. In three incomparable religious circumstances I found the secret to freedom from the passage of time, and the constraining awareness of the mundane. The common thread was a method to distance the base concerns of living. Repetition of prayer seemed to be an essential part of the key that unlocked this state.

So what? Have all the world’s faiths merely found the same intellectual opium? Does a morphic resonance underlie the spiritual mind, if there even is such a thing? Do we all crave the same momentary high and nothing more?

I’m wary to claim epiphany. But in those moments of separation and elevation there was a distinct sensation of something more. I sensed a design grander than the primitive needs of food, shelter and procreation. Nor am I willing to categorically state this was a religious experience. These were moments of acknowledgement that the human mind has capability beyond the cunning and avarice of a higher animal. Does it matter if this is an evolutionary trait that promotes adaptation and innovation, or a divinely inspired gift? The fact is that it is there. Whether we ascribe to an external deity or the god within, we are more than the sum of simple biological processes.

More alarming, more heretical still is the realisation that this is no secret at all. Without searching I found the key in plain sight in three different faiths in three different parts of the world. Is it unreasonable to say that faiths of which I have no experience also share it? Or to suggest that other modes of living that do not characterise themselves as faith, or religion, share it too? Look closely and you may find it at the Wailing Wall, in the manic solfège of Sufi singers, or the throbbing intensity of an underground night club.

I wonder how different the world would be if everyone could take that moment to pause, meditate, pray, and touch the sensation of possibility?

I also wonder, as a Muslim, what it might mean for greater interfaith understanding if the restricted precincts of Mecca and Medina could be opened to people of all faiths or none. How would it be if the welcome I have always found in churches and cathedrals could be extended from the holiest sites in Islam?

What if the chaplain that lead evensong could swap his cassock for the rough unstitched ehram, or the chanting lady of Lucknow don a hijab, and join the orbit of chaos and connection? How different would our conversation be when we could say “I have seen what you see, I have been where you have been.”

My instincts say that openness, sharing, the cross contamination of ideas and beliefs is always a good thing. If we look for similarities perhaps we will lose our focus on differences.

If we all share that higher consciousness, the ability to see beyond our own cravings, then perhaps we should share the paths by which we get there.



More of my writing here

I should admit that The Photosapiens are all younger cousins of mine, from the Indian branch of the family, and I did not ask their permission to use the photo – I just told them I was doing it. That’s just how scions of multiculturalism roll.