Chapter 3

The man sitting at the desk was unmistakably an older version of Cyril, perhaps in his mid- to late-thirties; in appearance, he was identical to the person Cyril saw in the mirror every day, if somehow, indefinably, older and more mature-looking. And yet, something about him was entirely unfamiliar: the unconscious frown that furrowed his brows, the impatience in his fingers as he scribbled on a scroll of parchment, and something of hardness about the eyes.

But what really made Cyril feel like he’d been punched in the stomach was the sight of the man standing before the older Cyril’s desk, almost seeming to cower as he waited for Cyril to notice him.

They stood there, Cyril, his father and the nervous little man, watching as the Cyril at the desk wrote, the only sound in the room the scratch of the quill against the parchment. When he had reached some sort of stopping point, he set his quill aside with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Was there something you needed, Morrissey?” he asked curtly.

Morrissey seemed to brace himself. “We �“ that is, Greta and I �“ we were wondering…well, whether we could go home, Mr. Cresswell.”

“The business of St. Mungo’s continues whether there is a holiday or not.” The older Cyril’s voice was crisp and matter-of-fact. “In fact, Christmas is a particularly busy time of year for our Healers. The answer is no.” He looked back down at his parchment and reached for his quill; obviously, in his mind, the conversation was over.

Morrissey didn’t agree, apparently. “Sir, it’s busy for the Healers, but our work can just as easily wait for a holiday.”

Cyril set his quill back down, looking straight at Morrissey for the first time, and his voice was sharp when he spoke again. “And why should it wait? We are responsible for keeping the Artifact Accidents floor running smoothly and working on the budget is part of that. If we become lazy, then the hospital will suffer for it.”

“But Mr. Cadwallader used to let us �““

Cyril cut him off. “There is a reason why I am in this office now and not Mr. Cadwallader. My answer is final; this business needs doing.”

“Do you really want to spend Christmas here?” Morrissey burst out. “Have you no one to go home to, no family or friends to spend Christmas with?”

The older Cyril took a moment to answer, and though his face was expressionless, the younger Cyril thought he might be a bit taken aback by the question. Young Cyril himself waited on tenterhooks to hear the answer; hadn’t the older Cyril got anyone? But then, he reflected, he had people, he just wasn’t interested in celebrating. So why was he so surprised by his older self not wanting to?

It was, he supposed, because he’d rather thought �“ hoped, anyway �“ that by the time he was that age, he would have gotten over Sarah �“ or, in his best dreams, gotten her back.

The older Cyril seemed to come to some sort of decision; he said a plain “No” and went back to work.

Morrissey seemed surprised; so was Cyril, looking on. “No one?” Morrissey said in disbelief, echoing Cyril’s thoughts. “No one at all? ”

The older Cyril put down his quill again with an angry sigh. “If it will stop you nosing into my private business,” he said, “then fine. Take the rest of the night off. But I still expect your report by noon tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow �“?” Morrissey began to protest, but broke off when Cyril glared at him. “Th-thank you, sir,” he said quickly. “I’ll have it in by then.” He smiled nervously and scurried away from Cyril’s desk.

“And Morrissey?” Morrissey paused in the doorway and turned back to face Cyril, rather anxiously. Cyril fixed him with a stern look. “I don’t need your pity. I’m well-off, I’m working at a job people my age rarely rise to, and I’ve got a very nice flat to go back to.”

“Not everything, though, is it, sir?” Morrissey said, and left before Cyril could reply. In the silence, the sound of the quill Cyril held snapping could be heard quite clearly.

“That’s not me,” said the younger Cyril after a painful minute or two of quiet.

“Isn’t it?” His father looked saddened by this scene, his eyes fixed on the Cyril at the desk who had found another quill and gone on with whatever he was working on, writing in furious strokes. “This is a Cyril I never hoped to see, but it’s you all the same. And it’s not just that he’s thrown most of himself into his career that worries me; it’s the career he’s chosen.”

Cyril looked from his father to the version of himself at the desk. “Why? You had a desk job, you worked with similar stuff �“ you always said working Goblin Liaison was tantamount to working at Gringotts, you were always negotiating with finances and such.”

“Yes, but I’ve always enjoyed working with numbers,” his father said. “The Cyril I remember hated them. Don’t you remember what you said to Sarah last Christmas? You wanted to work at St. Mungo’s, but your dream was to be a Healer �“ not some sort of administrator. Can you really say that, as you are now, you’d be happy managing Healers but never being one yourself?”

“No,” said Cyril. “It sounds awful.”

“Thank God for that,” said his father, laughing a little. “You’re not that Cyril yet.”

They were both startled by a muffled exclamation from the desk. That Cyril threw his quill down and said to himself, “It’s no good.” He sat looking wearily at the now-splattered parchment in front of him. “The sums are probably coming out all wrong, and I’ll just have to scrap it and re-do in the morning. Might as well throw in the towel and go home for the night.”

Silence reigned again as the older Cyril rested his forehead against the heel of one hand and sighed. After another moment, he seemed to gather his strength and pushed himself to his feet. He tapped his wand against the parchment to dry the ink, rolled it up and tucked it under his arm. He stopped at the doorway only to shrug on his coat. Cyril and his father followed as he walked slowly along the hallway and through the reception area. They emerged from the dusty storefront of Purge and Dowse, Ltd., and the older Cyril gave the street only a cursory glance before Disapparating.

Cyril’s father seized his arm, and Cyril was almost relieved to feel the sick feeling of moving from one place to another that he had grown acquainted with while following his family about in the present (or, he supposed, the past, from this perspective. He couldn’t decide whether it was the recent translocation or this thought that made him so dizzy).

Cyril blinked and brought his eyes into focus. He still felt a bit seasick, but he was too busy taking in his surroundings to be bothered by it.

His older self hadn’t been joking about having a nice flat. It wasn’t just that the front room alone was at least twice the size of Cyril’s current lodgings. The room looked like something out of a catalogue. It was beautiful, polished…and completely impersonal. There were none of the photographs and useless objects collected over the years that the younger Cyril kept in his room. Cyril couldn’t even see any books �“ although it was entirely possible his older self kept the bookshelves in his bedroom. He couldn’t see even this strange future self giving up reading.

Now that he thought about it…”Where is he?” Cyril asked. “I mean…where am I, I guess,” he amended as he looked around. In answer, his father nodded at a door in the wall they were facing. As if on cue, it opened, and the older Cyril stepped through. He stowed the parchment neatly in the drawer of a desk.

This finished, he went through another door into what seemed to be a small kitchen. He flicked on the lights, looked around, and turned them back off again. A second door let him into the bedroom. He examined the room. From his irritable huff, it was evident that whatever he was looking for was not there either.

“Where is the confounded thing?” the older Cyril muttered. “It’s eight now; it’s usually here by late afternoon.” He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, frowning, while the younger Cyril looked on quizzically.

The younger Cyril finally asked, “What’s he looking for?”

“Mattie’s owl.” His father’s grave expression didn’t waver. “He sends you a letter every Christmas updating you on what’s happened with the family in the year just gone. He’s done this once a year, every year, for ten years. He keeps hoping that maybe one year you’ll send a letter back, but you never do.”

Cyril felt sick. “Don’t they see him at all?”

His father shook his head. Before Cyril could ask anything further, his older self crossed decisively to the front door and quit his flat, slamming the door as he left.

Cyril’s father grabbed his arm. “Heads up, we’re moving again.” They dissolved into the air, and Cyril wondered wearily where they were going this time. It seemed to take an age for all the pieces of his body to come back together.

The village street where they stood was full of houses decked out splendidly for Christmas. All was silent, and the houses cast their golden light on Cyril and his father. Cyril could almost hear some plaintive carol echoing over the rooftops.

But the stranger who Cyril would become marred this image. He ignored the scenery, his eyes focused on searching the house numbers for the one he was looking for, his body tense with some urgent need that the younger Cyril could not fathom. He drew even with Cyril and his father and stopped short next to them, his eyes fixed on the nearest house.

It was a small house, one story, timber-framed, plastered and painted a delicate shade of pink. Between the thatched roof, the garlands of pine and holly, and the fairy lights twinkling on house and shrubbery alike, it looked like something from a Christmas card.

Unaccountably, the older Cyril looked uncertain at the sight �“ even scared. The younger Cyril looked for a sign of what had so unnerved him. He saw a movement in a window and squinted, trying to see the source. As his brain finally registered the image, he yelped in surprised recognition. “That’s �“”

“Henry, yes,” said his father.

“But why is he…?” Cyril broke off. “Never mind. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough,” he said, nodding at the window. Henry was looking intently out. Cyril couldn’t help but feel pierced by that gaze, even though it was meant for his older self.

Henry disappeared from the window, and the older Cyril backed away a few steps. But then he gathered his resolve, as palpably and obviously as the coat he now wrapped more tightly around himself. Arms crossed and shoulders squared, he waited as if for a confrontation.

And maybe he was right to expect that, Cyril acknowledged as Henry came out of the house. Henry closed the door softly and advanced down the gravel path slowly and deliberately, but Cyril could see pent-up anger in every line of his body.

Henry came to a stop in front of the older Cyril. For a moment it looked as if he wanted to punch his younger brother, but instead he simply hissed, “What are you doing here?”

“You �“ you look just like Dad,” the older Cyril stammered, visibly taken aback.

Henry simply glared and waited. Cyril drew himself up and said, in a voice that was trying to be cool and nonchalant, “I just wanted to ask if there was anything wrong with Mattie. He didn’t send a letter this year, and I wondered.”

“Mattie is fine, health-wise anyway. If you ask me, he’s doing worlds better emotionally as well. Finally gave up on you, did he? About time. It’s been ten years. God knows you gave up on us a long time ago.” Henry crossed his arms and said coldly, “It hurts, you know, when your brother won’t talk to you and he won’t even tell you why. Good to know you’re getting some of your own medicine for once.”

The older Cyril’s posture relaxed just slightly, and he said, “Well �“ good.” He paused and repeated, “Good,” as if he could think of nothing else to say now that he had got his answer.

“Was that all you came for?” Without waiting for an answer, Henry went on, “Good, then I’ll get back to my Christmas and you can get on with whatever the hell you do with your life.”

He turned and walked quickly back along the path to his house. Just as he reached the front door, Cyril called, “You �“”

Henry turned and waited, arms crossed. “I �“” Cyril gulped and raised his chin again, this time to less effect. The pause as he reached for words stretched out, and Henry began to look more and more impatient. Finally Cyril said deliberately, “Tell him I’m glad he’s stopped bothering me. I was getting a bit sick of him chasing after me like some sort of puppy. I’ve got my own life to live now.” With that, he turned and strode briskly off down the road.

The younger Cyril could hear nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. Was he really going to be like that? He was sure that his older self had wanted, badly, to say something else. But he’d made the choice to continue shutting himself off from his family, burning bridges as if his life depended on it. He barely heard his father as he said, “That’s it, it’s back to the present for us now.” He ignored his father’s comforting hand on his shoulder, and the peculiar, compressed feeling as they made the jump back into his proper time was almost comforting, a physical sensation to match how he felt emotionally.

As his old familiar room swam back into being, Cyril finally croaked, “Why?”