The boy sighed at the memory, his lips twitching into a reluctant smile. Well, what was he to do? He was no Joey Tribbiani. If there were any cosmic scripts dictating his life, clearly someone had handed him the wrong one.
Still, he had to admit, it wasn't all bad. He'd finally managed to get through to her. The demon-child, as he liked to call her in his head. Nina. His foster sister. She'd been chatty once they got home, waving her dolls in his face and shoving books under his nose like a tiny, vengeful librarian. The dolls, though—that had been an entirely separate trauma.
An aisle full of dolls.
He'd rather not think about it.
He was sure half of them were haunted. They had those unblinking, glassy eyes that knew. He could almost hear them whispering: You'll join us soon. But, haunted or not, the plastic monstrosities had served their purpose—they distracted Nina, and, unexpectedly, him too.
Helped him stop thinking about… well, everything.
The last home. His old foster siblings. How nothing ever lasted.
Infernal dolls. Functional, in their own cursed way.
Nina had even shown him her books, including a series called Harry Potter. The covers didn't look like much at first—just a scrawny kid in glasses standing next to a red-and-black steam train—but the back cover caught his eye. An old man with a sweeping beard and little round glasses. The blurb hinted at magic, castles, secret worlds.
Intriguing, if a bit on-the-nose.
Nina had launched into an enthusiastic, borderline scholarly lecture about how "Harry finds out he's a wizard and goes to this big castle school and fights evil," waving her arms around as though she'd lived through it herself. It sounded fun. Not too close to home, at least. Not too close.
"Well," he thought, "first things first. Haul this big load of grass clippings and get my payment from those two cronies."
He hefted the heavy garbage bag near the bin, wiped grass off his shirt, stowed away the tools, and rinsed his hands under the garden hose until the dirt swirled down the drain.
Then he called out toward the crooked old house.
"Mrs. Wyrd! Mrs. Sweltan! I'm done with the lawn! Can I get some water?"
The silence stretched for a moment.
"I'm finally done with the repairs too! And the weeding! It took three days, but it's done!" he added, loudly, hoping to nudge along the concept of payment.
"Come in, boy!" came the reply—both voices, in perfect sync, like twin speakers malfunctioning.
He sighed.
Of course.
That meant he had to go inside.
The house smelled like a library that had been sealed shut for a hundred years, must and dust and something vaguely floral that failed to hide the damp. The two women sat in their usual spots like sentries.
Mrs. Sweltan was the gentler-looking one, a black woman in her sixties, solidly built, with salt-and-pepper hair tied back and a face lined in sternness but softened by an occasional, genuine smile.
Mrs. Wyrd, on the other hand, was… ancient. He wasn't sure how she was still breathing. She had dyed-black hair in curlers, a tiny frame, a pale, rosy-cheeked face riddled with wrinkles, and wire spectacles perched on her nose. When she wasn't muttering to herself, she was scowling at books—or swearing.
"Finally here, you child!?" she squeaked in her papery voice.
"Yes, Mrs. Wyrd," he said sweetly, mentally adding, you old bat.
Mrs. Sweltan chuckled at something unspoken, eyes glinting with private amusement. He smiled back, nervous.
Definitely cronies.
"Come on, I'll get you something to drink," Sweltan said, rising.
"Oh, no, I'm fine, really—"
"Sit your butt down, child!" Wyrd barked, cutting him off like a guillotine.
Well. What was he to do? Best not to provoke the elderly dragon. He sat obediently on the worn sofa, wondering vaguely how many synonyms for "rugrat" she had stashed away for later use.
Sweltan returned with a large glass pitcher and three mismatched tumblers, placing them on the table with ceremony. The liquid inside was thick, almost syrupy, catching the light in strange ways.
"Um. Mrs. Sweltan," he asked carefully, "what… is that?"
"Something sweet," she said with a serene smile. "Don't worry, I'm not trying to kill you."
Wyrd erupted into laughter, a cackling wheeze that rattled the air.
"Ohohoho—ho! Oh my word! Funniest thing I've heard this bloody century!"
He froze.
Wait. Why was that funny?
He glanced at Sweltan. She didn't look like a murderer. But then again, didn't all serial killers look normal right up until—
Poison.
Poisoned glass.
He stared at the tumblers like they were ticking bombs. His palms were sweating.
Sweltan sighed loudly, which somehow made everything worse.
He stood abruptly, inching toward the door.
"Oh, sit down," she said, exasperated. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd have done it weeks ago."
…
Comforting.
…Sort of.
She tilted her head, scrutinising his tension, then gestured toward the drinks. "Alright, fine. You pick which glass I drink from. Happy?"
Suspicious, but unwilling to seem cowardly, he nodded and randomly pointed to two tumblers. Sweltan slid one to Wyrd and took the other herself. Without hesitation, they both downed their drinks in one go and stared at him.
Well, now he couldn't refuse.
Bracing himself, he took a deep breath and knocked his back in one gulp.
Instant mistake.
He doubled over, coughing so hard his lungs protested violently, but—after a moment of panic—realised he was alive. Not poisoned. Just woozy. Strangely light-headed. And… oddly happy.
They caught each other's eyes.
And then they laughed.
Laughed until their stomachs hurt, tears pooling at the corners of their eyes.
"That," he wheezed, "was funny!"
"Fucking funny!" Wyrd croaked, pounding the arm of her chair.
Sweltan just smiled knowingly, refilling his glass without asking.
And so they drank. One glass. Then two. Then three. The boy found himself talking—really talking—in a way he never had before. About old homes, old faces, strange little fears he didn't know he'd been carrying.
They listened. They actually listened.
At some point, the two old women ended up on either side of him, patting his back, dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs, muttering soft "oh, honey"s and "bless your heart"s. He couldn't tell if they were naturally this emotional, or if his story was just that tragic.
When he mentioned Nina, though, the mood flipped instantly.
"Can't even get some pu—" Wyrd cackled before Sweltan smacked her arm sharply.
"Oi! Language!"
"He started it," Wyrd muttered, unrepentant.
"Not my fault," he slurred, wagging his finger accusingly. "She doesn't swing that way!"
"Oh, darling, drink some more," Sweltan sighed, pushing another glass toward him. "Ignore the old bat."
He obliged. At this point, refusing seemed rude.
"What is with this tea, anyway?" he mumbled, staring into the thick liquid like it held the universe's secrets.
"Family recipe," Sweltan said cryptically.
Everything was fuzzy around the edges now, sounds stretching, shapes wobbling slightly. His words were turning into treacle.
Then Wyrd suddenly shouted.
"Drat!"
He nearly dropped his glass. "Wha—what's wrong?"
"You served him directly?!" Wyrd yelled, glaring at Sweltan like she'd just detonated a curse in the parlour.
"Mrs. Wzzz—thaz razist!" he slurred indignantly, then frowned. "Wait… that's not right…"
"You beldam!" Wyrd screeched. "He wasn't supposed to drink it straight!"
"Don't 'beldam' me, Fate," Sweltan snapped, "you're the one who brought the tea!!"
"My fault?! Since when does Death serve anyone?" Wyrd bellowed back, curlers bobbing dangerously. "And if you so wanted to, some scones wouldn't have been remiss!"
Their words twisted strangely in his fogged brain, slipping between sense and nonsense. He leaned back on the sofa, giggling at nothing and everything all at once.
"Mrs. Wyrd," he managed between hiccups, "you're looking… so… spinny."
And then he dissolved into another fit of laughter, while the room spun lazily around him and the two cronies argued over Tea, Fate, and Death like this was Tuesday business as usual.
But the cronies were caught off guard as they nearly forgot about him.
"W–well? Do something about him!" Wyrd squeaked, her wire-rimmed glasses sliding precariously down the bridge of her nose as she gestured wildly at the boy slumped against the sofa cushions.
Sweltan, however, sat frozen in her chair, her wide, dark eyes fixed on the boy's woozy, unfocused gaze. Slowly, she shook her head, the faintest shadow of resignation crossing her heavy-set features. "It's… too late, Wyrd," she murmured, voice roughened by something dangerously close to guilt.
"Bah!" Wyrd scoffed, flapping a hand dismissively as if shooing away a persistent moth. "So much for the powerful and the inevitable! You're about as useful as a chocolate teapot."
That earned her a sharp glare from Sweltan, but neither of them said anything more.
The trio sat in silence, though to call it silence would have been inaccurate. The boy giggled softly, words tumbling out between fits of rambling nonsense. Names, phrases, half-remembered jokes—the confused mutterings of someone drifting far beyond their depth. As time trickled by, the sun's warm rays stretched long across the windowsill, fading into bruised purples and greys, shadows curling like stray cats along the corners of the room.
It was in this drowsy hush, with the scent of musty upholstery and something faintly medicinal in the air, that reality settled: something irreversible had been set in motion.
Death, it seemed, had been invited in for tea.
The boy's laughter, once bright and unrestrained, grew quieter, thinning into shallow breaths. The haze behind his eyes deepened, thick and syrupy, as though something heavy was pulling him under. Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, devouring the world inch by inch, until even the absurdity of the cronies' arguments seemed distant and unimportant.
"W…why is it so dark…" he whispered, his voice barely more than a trembling exhale. His lips moved clumsily, syllables breaking apart like fragile shells. "Mrs… Mrs… I… go back… read Ha'y Pot…ter… need… money…"
It was nonsense, yet the longing in it was heartbreakingly clear.
And then there was nothing.
The boy stilled. His chest, once rising in uneven fits, settled into quiet immobility. No panic, no struggle. Just… gone. The flame inside had flickered, sputtered, and then simply ceased.
A life, snuffed out as gently as a candle's breath.
Sweltan exhaled shakily, her shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. She reached for her handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. Wyrd, sitting opposite, patted her companion's broad back with a strangely delicate hand.
After a long pause, Wyrd leaned back in her creaking armchair and said matter-of-factly, "So. Tea was a bad idea."
Her tone was calm. Entirely unbothered, in fact, for someone who had just witnessed a death occur in her own living room.
Sweltan swivelled to glare at her, cheeks wet. "Honestly, Wyrd. Honestly." Her voice trembled somewhere between fury and despair.
Wyrd raised both palms in mock surrender. "What? I'm merely acknowledging facts. One of us has to."
"You could pretend to care," Sweltan snapped, clutching her hanky like a lifeline.
"Old as time and still like this, Sweltan?" Wyrd tilted her head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at her lips. The habitual dryness of her tone softened, just barely, like sunlight through gauze. "Haven't we seen this before? Haven't we seen them before?"
Sweltan sniffed, dabbing again at her cheeks. "I am who I am, Wyrd. And I care." Her voice sharpened suddenly. "Didn't even catch a tear in your eye."
"Fair enough," Wyrd said after a pause, reclining deeper into her chair. She plucked up the heavy tome resting beside her, its spine creaking faintly as she balanced it on her knees. "Omniscience is a burden, you know. Tears are wasted when you already know the ending."
Sweltan stilled, something unreadable flickering in her gaze. She stared at the boy's quiet form on the sofa, her voice lowering to a fragile murmur. "So where did he go now?"
"Wherever fate takes him," Wyrd replied simply, her tone neither cruel nor kind. She adjusted her glasses and flipped open the book in her lap. "Wherever he's needed. In the place of someone who… couldn't survive."
At that, Sweltan's head snapped up, her frown carving deep lines across her face. "Wyrd," she said sharply. "Hasn't he suffered enough? Why again as an orphan?"
Wyrd didn't answer immediately. She traced one fingertip along the thin, curling script on the page before her, breathing in the faint scent of ink and old parchment. At last, she said, without looking up, "He will be fine, Sweltan."
Something in her voice made further argument impossible.
"Now," Wyrd added, eyes narrowing as she tilted the tome closer to the fading light, "let me read my book in peace."
Sweltan muttered something under her breath about heartless old bats, but the room had already shifted. The world outside their musty sitting room windows seemed to hush in tandem with the turning of the page.
The words within the book began to move, curling and twisting until they sharpened into clarity:
---
CHAPTER ONE: THE BOY WHO LIVED
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious…
---
Somewhere beneath those printed words, the boy's body began to glow faintly, as though every edge of him was traced in starlight. Motes of shimmering gold and silver gathered along his skin, rising like fireflies set free. The cronies sat silently now, one stoic, one grieving, and neither dared interrupt the quiet unravelling before them.
The motes drifted upward, weightless and unhurried, before slipping through the window's narrow gap. Out into the evening air they went, riding the summer wind like wayward seeds.
They floated past the Marshalls' house, where a little girl sat cross-legged on her porch, waiting impatiently for someone who promised to read with her. She looked up briefly, blinking at the faint sparks flickering overhead, then dismissed them with the distracted indifference of childhood.
The light continued onward, past streets both familiar and strange, past foster siblings huddled together in a new group home, laughing too loudly to hide the ache of displacement. The sparks drifted by unseen, like whispers only the wind could hear.
And then, one by one, the motes scattered into nothingness—folded into whatever lay beyond mortal knowing.
The boy was gone.
But somewhere, far away, his story began again.
Somewhere, beneath a different sky, on a quiet street lined with prim hedges and freshly painted doors, a baby slept beneath the weight of a name that wasn't yet his, his breath soft as parchment turning in an unseen book.
Fate had rewritten its lines.
And once again, there was a boy who lived.