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Azkaban by AC_rules
Chapter 10 : Our Light.
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 11

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But hold on to what you believe in the light
When the darkness has robbed you of all your sight

Mumford and Sons, Hold On to What you Believe


Toby Abercrombie absent mindely ran his finger along the edge of the newspaper cutting and tried to concentrate on digesting the information – beneath the sensationalised headlines and the poorly reported facts there was a trace of a story that he was supposed to be piecing together. HARRY POTTER RETIRES FROM MIISTRY AFTER FAILED HUMAN RIGHTS BILL, the headline read, obtrusive enough even for Toby’s tired brain to digest, but the smaller letters of the Prophet’s newsprint were more difficult to absorb. Lines like ‘it is not only a matter of individual cases’ and ‘the Head Auror position remains vacant’ were lost between pointless interviews from unnamed Ministry Officials.

Toby was in half a mind to complain about Professor Gumboil but, once again, decided against the idea; he had managed nearly a full seven years at Hogwarts without really drawing himself to the attention of the Professors and now didn’t seem the time to start. Instead, he would simply continue taking deep breaths and working through the essay, making sure that he didn’t mention it to his mother at any point because he knew full well that she would have plenty to say about the situation. He could almost imagine her hysterics – ‘how could you be so insensitive? Making my son write an essay about his own father? Modern history can go sod itself; I refuse to have my son forced to relieve those memories!’

Toby shook his head clear of thoughts and picked up his parchment, once again reading the essay title aloud, “Using the case study of Euan Abercrombie, explain how individuals acted as a catalyst for change in the post-war period.”

 It was irritating that Professor Gumboil had taken his favourite part of Modern History and made it virtually impossible to find the usual joy in dissecting various sources and looking at the bigger picture – reading about a stream of names and circumstances that changed the world he now lived in. The 2032 Wizarding rights bill, the later amendment covering every single wizarding creature with proven levels of consciousness: werewolves, House elves, goblins, merepeople and vampires. Beings, previously discriminated against finally being given a sense of justice. More than that, the changes stretched far beyond the end to the ostracising of individual groups, and into the realms of replicated muggle ideas about rights.

Every witch or wizard has the right to an education. Every witch or wizard has a right to a fair trial before being sentenced to any crime. Every witch or wizard has the right to have their sanity remain untouched. He knew them in the simplified way his mother had told him, sat by his bed when he couldn’t sleep and whispering them to him over and over, it wasn’t for nothing, Toby, it wasn’t for nothing – look at our rights, Toby. Now, if you want to attack any god damn Ministry official you want they can fine you, and they stick you in that new prison of theirs, but they can’t rip away your sanity and your life, Toby. You’re safe. We’re all safe.

“Euan Abercrombie won his case and compensation, but the subsequent bill backed by war heroes Harry Potter and Hermione Granger-Weasley was rejected by the Ministry of Magic and turned over because...” Toby read, pausing to frown at the piece of parchment and change the following line. Toby loved history, particularly Modern History (if not his Modern History professor), and he had a natural ability to pick out all the correct information and work out the bigger picture – cause and effects, he could do. The trouble was his essays never sounded smart enough, he could never quite pull off the air of academic ease that his fellows managed. Toby wasn’t clever. He wasn’t thick, either, but his intelligence was the sort that was difficult to gain marks in exams. So, he continually struggled to get his Acceptable grades and the only subjects he’d ever really wanted to better in were History of Magic and Modern History of Magic.

“Toby,” Lydia Cross smiled, sitting down opposite Toby and watching him flit through the piles of paper “how’s it going?”

“Slowly,” Toby answered, offering her a smile before turning back to the parchment, “I’ve got all the sources; it’s just a matter of writing the essay, now.”

“I got some biscuits from the kitchens.” Lydia said, pulling out a pile of crumbling cookies from her bag and smiling.

“Sympathy biscuits?” Toby questioned, taking one before turning back to the piece of parchment.

“Yeah,” Lydia said with a faint blush, “I figured you needed them.”

“Thanks.” Toby laughed.

“I tried to read the book,” Lydia continued, taking Toby’s History book and staring at the page in question (‘the rights reforms: a revolution’), “but I couldn’t finish it. It was too sad,” Toby raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Oh, come on Toby – you know I can’t deal with sad things! I’m a mess every remembrance day when they read out the names.”

“True,” Toby said, shifting his knee so that it touched hers under the table. He was always amused by Lydia’s default reaction: jerking away, turning very pink and then spending the next ten minutes gradually moving her knee closer again. It made him smile.

“So, how does it end?” Lydia asked.

“Where did you get to?” Toby asked her, setting down his quill and turning towards her.

“Jessica asking Euan to move out.”

“Well, next he takes an overdose of his anti-depressant potion and is rushed to St Mungo’s. Then Harry Potter turns up at the hospital and explains about the case. They go to court and he’s awarded several thousand galleons in compensation. Herman Blunt loses his case for compensation but, the other guy, Terence Higgs; his brother was awarded nearly ten thousand galleons compensation money.

“After that, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger-Weasley try to force through the bill trying to get rid of the Dementors and sentences in Azkaban for minor crimes, but they lose. Harry Potter resigns from his position in the Ministry in protest, Hermione Granger-Weasley pulls together another six cases similar to the previous ones until, the following year, the Dementors are removed from Azkaban and the other wizarding prison is set up. After that, everything changed.”

“But I know that,” Lydia said, “we learnt that in third year. What I mean, Toby, is what happened to your Dad?” Toby gauged Lydia’s reaction – she could tell that really, she knew, she’d always known.

“He killed himself,” Toby said quietly, “a month after the court case. He couldn’t handle the fact that it had all been for nothing, I think. The Ministry weren’t happy about things, so they were taking their full twenty eight days to hand over the compensation and by that point it was too late. Then they tried not to give it to as at all, but after Hermione Granger-Weasley threatened to take them back to court and demand even more money they gave in. Half of it went to my Mum and the other half got placed in a trust fund until I turned seventeen.”

“That’s horrible,” Lydia said, “how can people be so awful?”

“But that’s the thing, Lid, no one thought anything of it. It was normal for criminals to be put in a place that quite literally drove them insane, and nobody ever thought to stop it. Now everyone agrees that it was barbaric and inhuman, but it had been going on for years and no one had done anything about it! People are so happy to just exist conforming to unfair systems until somebody else changes something. In modern history, so many people were willing to fight against Voldemort – yet nobody would fight the Ministry. What I’m saying is that if anyone ever sees something that they think is unfair they should do everything within their power to change it.”

“Okay,” Lydia said, “so why won’t you go tell Professor Gumboil that it’s unfair for her to set you an essay about your own father.”

“I don’t want to give her the satisfaction,” Toby sighed, “I know it’s stubborn, but I want to write the best essay ever. I should be able to do it; I was there for half of it after all.”

“Okay,” Lydia said, “I’ll help you. I’m good with essays.”

“Thanks,” Toby smiled, taking another of the biscuits and scattering crumbs over the pieces of parchment, “first I have to sum up the case study in a single paragraph.”

“But it’s so long,” Lydia said, frowning, “there’s so much to say.”

“Yeah,” Toby picked up his piece of parchment, “and I don’t think ‘after the Ministry sent two old sods to my house to take me away’ is really going to cut it.”

“No,” Lydia said with a smile, “possibly not.”

“It’s hard to sound impassive.” Toby continued.

“Do you remember that?” Lydia asked, leaning on her elbow and looking up at him carefully. “Do you remember the attack? The book said you were there.”

“Yeah, I was,” Toby answered, shifting in his seat slightly, “but I was really young, all I remember is all the yelling.”

“What about the other stuff, do you remember that?” She continued carefully. “You don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine. I remember a lot of it. Hard to forget. I remember him coming back from Azkaban and I remember him being, well, not right. I remember waiting for the verdict of the court case and then, the funeral. Harry Potter came, Hermione and Ron Weasley too, then there was a representative from the Ministry. Mum got mad and demanded that they left. She threw a party when Mockridge got voted out of the Minster position.”

“What happened to the money?”

“Still got most of it,” Toby shrugged, “it was never about the money. Me and Mum don’t need that much money, really. But it’s there for my wedding, or if I just don’t want to work for a couple of years I can do that too. She likes to say that the money is about freedom – it gives us a couple more options about things.”

“Yeah,” Lydia agreed with a nod, “my parents say that about money.”

“Anyway, you’re not helping me very much with this essay,” Toby said pointedly, nudging her with his knee again, “all of got is a paragraph that needs to go somewhere near the conclusion.”

“Hit me with it.”

“Okay,” Toby said, pushing his hair away from his face and picking up his parchment again, “individuals were a vital part in the reformations that followed the post-war period as many of the individual cases brought the attention of the media towards these key issues. In the case of Euan Abercrombie, his situation brought the attention of other individuals with more power and influence than himself, leading towards the first National campaign against the injustices of Azkaban.”

“You’re so clever,” Lydia smiled, “maybe we should stick you in Ravenclaw instead.”

“Nah, I’m not clever. Not clever enough for Ravenclaw, at any rate.”

“I’m glad you’re in Gryffindor.”

“I’m not that brave either.”

“Bullocks,” Lydia said, her face colouring as it always did when she felt passionately about something, “you’ve earned the right to be in Gryffindor more than anyone else here. You’re my favourite type of Gryffindor, Toby.”

“What, the messed up ones?”

“No,” Lydia said, “the meek Gryffindors. There’s no need to be so obtuse about being brave, is there? Jumping off the Astronomy tower to out man each other, its rubbish Toby! You’re the quiet-brave.”

“Quietly brave?” Toby asked, grinning as he took in her pink cheeks.

“Yes,” Lydia said definitely, “brave enough to write this essay. If I were you I’d have kicked up a fuss in the middle of the lesson.”

“Well, you’re not the quiet-brave.”

“No,” Lydia said, “I’m not very good at being quiet, per say.” They both smiled at that for a few seconds before turning back to the matter at hand, “right, with your essay- you need to structure it more. Argue the case, different interpretations and that crap.”

“I know,” Toby said with a sigh, “but it’s difficult.”

“Of course it is, you’re insanely personally involved. I mean, normally you get a bit overly-close to your history essays, but this time... well, rather you than me.”

“I don’t mind,” Toby said, “not really. If I could get it all down on paper properly, it might help.”

“Yeah,” Lydia agreed; she had a tendency to do that sometimes, agree with everything Toby said before she’d had a chance to process it properly, “Well, okay, its ages since I did History but you have to... pull in different factors. By the look of all these bit from the Prophet, you’re going for media?”

“Yeah. Media, individuals and the war.”

“The war?”

“Yeah. If it wasn’t for the war then the Ministry wouldn’t have been so open to change. So, the war helped the reforms be implemented as people were more open to things changing. But, the war also had a negative effect because part of the reason Kingsley Shacklebolt couldn’t change anything about Azkaban when he was Minister, was because there were so many Death Eaters in Azkaban and people wouldn’t have felt safe any other way.”

“Okay, write that down now,” Lydia said. “We’ll put it all in the right order later. But, try to use the word ‘however’ a lot and then evaluate everything. Lots of analytical sentences.”

“Yes, Miss.” Toby grinned, dipping his quill in the ink well and beginning to write on one the scraps of paper. He’d definitely gotten better at expressing himself than just after his father’s death, when he’d tried his best not to talk to anyone until Alfred had sat him down and prized open his fears and guilt until he’d been able to talk about it freely – but Toby still found it difficult to write things down sometimes. Ideas that were clear and concise in his head became cluttered and awkward on paper.

Forget it, his Mum used to say, your father could never write anything down either. You’re a lot like your father, Toby. I never thought I would be able to say that and mean it positively, but you are – you’re very much like the man I once married. Your quiet assurance, your understated bravery and your extraordinary resilience to everything that’s happened to you; so much like your father.

“How’s this?” Toby asked, passing the piece of paper to Lydia and pursing his lips slightly.

She bent over the parchment for a few minutes before looking up, “not bad,” She nodded, “you just need to...” and then she was lost crossing out certain words and replacing them with others. Toby sighed.

“I need to include quotes too,” Toby added, “from historians or, well, anyone really.”

“Are you still in touch with Harry Potter?”

“Not really,” Toby said, “he told us to contact us if we ever needed anything and sometimes he writes letters to my Mum or Alfred about things, but I haven’t seen him for years.”

“You should write to him and ask him for a quote,” Lydia said confidently. “That would shove things in Professor Gumboil’s face – an actual quote from the actual Harry Potter. No, listen; he’d love that sort of thing. Rebelling and tomfoolery, it’s his sort of thing – I’m sure he’d love to help you metaphorically stick up a middle finger to your history teacher.”

“Don’t be silly,” Toby laughed, “he’ll have much more important things to do than give me a quote.”

“Oh go on, Toby, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Quiet-brave, remember?”

“Yes, but, oh come on... what’s it that you say? That everyone should use everything in their power to act against injustice. So, the injustice is you being set this essay and you have the power to enlist Harry Potter’s help.”

“I didn’t mean abusing my connections.”

“But that’s what it’s all about!” Lydia said eagerly. “It’s all about circumstances! And, use what you’ve got. That’s what Harry Potter did! He used the fact that he defeated Voldemort to influence the world for good. I bet he hated that he was using what he had, too, his connections, but he did it anyway. Come on, Toby, let’s write a letter to Harry Potter!”

“You’re doing that thing when you get overexcited and obsessive about something.” Toby rolled his eyes.

“Plus, you’re pretty similar. I mean, you’re both in the history books.”

“I’m not in the history books.”

“You are in this one,” Lydia said triumphantly, ceasing the text book and reading out loud, “after Euan’s son, Toby Abercrombie, injured his leg at his local muggle play –”

“Lydia, give that over - people are staring.”

“You’re famous, Toby!”

“Only to people interested in the Rights-revolution and reforms in the post-war period of modern magical history, now put my text book down or this biscuit is going to be crumbled in your hair.”

“Everyone in school knows, and hands off my hair.”

“Yes, but the only reason they know is because the Prophet ran a feature about how I was going to Hogwarts which meant everyone’s parents told them to look out for poor little Toby Abercrombie – either telling them to make friends with me or to stay well away in case I was a headcase too.”

“Okay,” Lydia said, letting her hair fall around her face and silently splitting the last biscuit into two halves, “I just think... it’d be really cool to get a quote from Harry Potter.” She pushed the other half of the last biscuit in Toby’s direction and pulled another clip from the Prophet over to her side of the table.

It was the worst article of the lot, one which he remembered reading all those years ago even though his mother had tried to hide it from him.


 The tragedy continues after court-victory for the Abercrombie family as Euan, recently awarded four thousand galleons in compensation, took an overdose of medicinal potions in St Mungo’s last night. Ronald Weasley, wife of Hermione Granger-Weasley and friend to Harry Potter, has reported that both are ‘deeply saddened by the events’ and that ‘this tragedy only reinforces what they have been fighting against – a system which takes and ruins the lives of ordinary people.’ Other Ministry insiders have suggested that the stress of the court case may have caused unnecessary stress on Euan’s fragile mental health; calling the actions of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger-Weasley as ‘irresponsible.’

More questions are being asked inside St Mungo’s this morning, as the public demands an explanation as to why a patient on Suicide watch was left unsupervised.

Alfred Cattermole, Euan Abercrombie’s therapist, and Euan’s family and friends have been unable to comment and are, today, grieving the loss of a father, a husband and a son.

Lydia pushed the article away from her after a few short lines, apparently remembering her aversion to reading anything sad and sat with her lips tightly closed for a few long moments: Toby was not used to her being so quiet, as usually Lydia was so explosively loud and he thought that perhaps seeing her so pensive is what drove him to agreeing.

“All right,” Toby said, “let’s write a letter to Harry Potter.”


“It’s after curfew,” Lydia pointed out as they walked swiftly towards the owlery, the completed letter to Harry Potter clutched in Lydia’s left hand, “I thought you’d be bothered – you don’t normally break the rules. Not like the others.”

“I find it helps not to make a spectacle of yourself,” Toby returned, “but a late night trip to the owlery is hardly going to get us into much trouble.”

“No,” Lydia agreed, before shaking her head –as if reprimanding herself for agreeing so quickly, “you’re so... good.” She said eventually as they turned round the last corner and found themselves in the owlery.

“Good?” Toby repeated, shaking his head slightly as he searched for his owl amongst the faces of many. He appeared after a few moments, ruffling his proud feathers and landing on Toby’s shoulder. “Hello, Train.” Toby said softly, smiling to himself as the ridiculous name rolled off his lips – yet more proof that eight year old boy should not be allowed to name their pets.

“You’re just so, I don’t know,” Lydia trailed off, looking very small as she looked up at all the owls with her hands outstretched slightly. Lydia always did look slightly dreamy, “you have an unshakable goodness about you, it’s nice. I like it. But, really Toby, you should be a lot messed up than you are. Greta stopped eating for half a year when her parents got divorced, for goodness sake – and then here you are, calm, collected and good.”

“I’m sorry,” Toby said, attaching the letter to his owl’s leg and smiling at Lydia’s back for a moment, “I could start binge eating and lashing out at people, if you like.”

“No, you’re probably okay as you are,” Lydia said, turning back towards him and walking over to pet his owl, “but most of the time I forget about all the stuff that’s happened to you. You seem so normal. That’s a good thing, by the way.”

“Don’t feed my ego too much, Lid, or else I’ll start joining the others diving off the Astronomy tower to continue proving I’m a man.”

“Nah, you’re too sane.”

“Are you ready, then?” Toby asked, letting Train nibble his finger for a few minutes, “to write to Harry Potter about my history homework?”

“Modern History,” Lydia corrected, “and it’s all up to you. You gonna send it?”

“Yeah,” Toby said finally, releasing the bird and watch it fly out into the starry sky. They both stood there for a moment, watching as the bird became a silhouette, then just a speck, and then nothing at all.

“Maybe you should write a book,” Lydia suggested into the silence, “about what really happened.”

“Me?” Toby questioned. “You know I can‘t write. Writing isn’t really my thing.”

“No, but, you can do anything.”


“Sure,” Lydia said, “you’ve got the passion and well, you understand people. You care. You’ve got everything you need, Toby.” Toby didn’t answer that, choosing instead to let the words wash over him for a few minutes.

Toby thought it was strange how the sky always seemed to look the same. He’d never wrapped his head around Astronomy, but he liked looking at the stars – how sometimes you couldn’t see them, but they were always there.

“You coming back?” Lydia asked, tilting her head up to the sky for a moment.

“Well... I’ll be up in a bit, I’m just going to write a quick letter to my Mum.”

“Okay,” Lydia said, “night Toby.” She rested her head on his shoulder for a second, sending him a long smile before walking out of the owlery and leaving him there alone.

Toby didn’t much mind being alone. He liked to think and he found that easiest when there was no one around to ask him questions.  He thought of Lydia and smiled (her strange exuberance always made him smile) and then his thoughts turned back to the essay that he still hadn’t written.

It presented the familiar question: was it worth it?

He liked history because he liked the way pieces of the jigsaw fitted together to cause everything to shift, the way everything always fell out in a way that seemed almost inevitable in hindsight, and the way simple individuals within a story could change the whole course of history. Sometimes, when he let his mind get carried away from him, Toby saw the whole of the world and thought that perhaps he could change the world too: that his name might be printed in some history book, or at the bottom of a civil rights bill or, maybe, he’d write that book.

Toby looked out into the night, feeling the April breeze brush against his face.

He had everything he needed. Maybe he wasn’t the best with words or with academia, but he had passion and a story to tell. He remembered more than he’d let on to Lydia and the memories twisted around in his brain sometimes. And, the bits he forgot, he could always trust his mother’s soft voice to retell the story, perched on the end of his bed when she thought he was asleep (she always was a pathological worrier).


“You slipped and you fell, tumbled over the surface of the rocks into a heap. We were on the beach. He picked you up, dusted you off and tended to your crying. You always soothed easily, bruised easily. I brought you an ice cream from the van and told you not to go wondering off again. I said how I’d been worried, frightened – especially when we found you like that, crying about your arm near the rock pools.  He laughed, pulled his son up into arms and said to you ‘well son, at least you’re okay. At least you’re okay Toby, but... please, please Toby – don’t wonder off. Don’t wonder off again. You’ll worry your mother.’

“I was worried and I made you press an ice pack against your arm until it was numb. Still, you bruised easily. You liked how you bruised easily: the blueish greyish marks on your skin that still haunt me. You built up a collection and you’d say ‘Look Daddy, this one is from falling of my toy broom... and this one is from walking into the table, and this one is from falling off the rock pools that time you fell asleep on the beach when Mummy was supposed to be watching me, and I wondered off...’

“You’re not to wonder off Toby. You should have woken him up and told him you wanted to climb on the rock pools. Then you could have done it together, you and your Dad, and you’d climb the highest rock and throw your arm up in the air in triumph. He would have laughed and warned you against the slippery rocks. He’d have snatched you up when you started to tumble. He’d have protected you from the nasty edge of that dastardly cliff. Don’t wonder off Toby and please be careful.

“We went to the playground, all three of us, and he watched you as you dared the monkey bars and braved the slide. You defeated the arch nemesis of the swings and rode the roundabout fearlessly. We watched our son, our Toby, with your brown-blonde mop of hair spinning around you, your blue eyes lit up with excitement as you spun, spun, spun. The darkness began to fall and I said ‘we’ve got to go home soon now Toby, we can’t stay here forever, we’ve got to go home soon Toby.’ You didn’t listen, you didn’t want to listen: you wanted to spin yourself into giddy dizziness forever and ever, you wanted to fly down the slippery silver of the slide, and launch yourself from the bars with fervour and joy. You didn’t want to go home.

You stumbled off the roundabout and climbed up the steps in a rush, all of a sudden, still spinning dizzily as you headed for the bars with a mischievous grin.

“No,’ he said, ‘no Toby – we’ve got to go home now. You mustn’t disobey your mother. You’ve got to come down now, you’ve got to come along – it’s home time’.

“You slipped again, your fingers releasing your weight from the bar and sending you clattering towards the ground. Toby, I said, Toby stop messing around. You remained on the ground for a few seconds and then the wailing started.

“We rose in cannon – rushing over to their crying bawling mess of a son as quickly as only parents can do. Maybe one day, you’ll understand.

“Oh Toby, you’d broken your leg and we didn’t know what to do. There were muggles everywhere and we couldn’t have you carted off to some muggle hospital and treated by some insane surgeon who didn’t understand that you were magical. There were so many kids and so many parents and we were scared. Euan, he stunned you... just to keep you quite so we could get you out of there. Just so we could get you to St Mungo’s... but they didn’t believe us, Toby, none of them believed us.

“Magical children don’t break their legs from falling off climbing frames, not really, and so they took us aside and questioned us and talking about taking you away from us. They took your fathers wand, traced the last magic it had performed... the stunning spell on you.

How did you get that bruise, Toby?

That one’s Daddy’s fault.

Oh, no no, Euan Abercrombie said hastily, we were at the beach and Jessica was supposed to be watching him but she fell asleep. Toby ran off and started climbing on the rock pools, I woke up a minute later and we couldn’t find him – we looked everywhere.

The healer looked unimpressed, worried –nervous really – and she eyed the parents suspiciously.

How did you break your leg Toby?

I fell off the bar in the playground.

“It was spring when they tried to take you away. Two Ministry officials and lots of paperwork. They told your father that they were going to take you away. Foster parents, they said, child abuse law suit, they said. Court. They were going to charge him with abuse and neglect. They were going to take away his son. They were going to take you away.

“He never meant to reach for his wand, but what else was there to do? They couldn’t take his son, his Toby, with his brown blonde hair and his bright blue eyes. They couldn’t take his son. Not Toby, no, and then the magic was exploding from him in waves of anger. Clashing, screaming, and me – what had I been saying that day? The words your father heard every night for the rest of his life as he tried to sleep. The words that filled up the empty space in his head whilst he was dying there in Azkaban and the words that rushed all around him in those final few moments...

“The smaller man grabbed you Toby and the action had just made him so mad. You’d been crying. Such a shrill scream...”


Toby didn’t need anyone to fill in the rest. He knew the screaming well enough. That, at least, would never leave him.




 “...I am a representative from the Ministry. It’s about your son...”

“...Look, I’m sorry – there must be some mistake. We sorted all of this out at the hospital...”

“...I am sorry, Mrs Abercrombie; I am afraid that I will have to take him away pending further notice...”

 “...Put your wand down Mr Abercrombie, it will not help your case if you are threatening a Ministry Official...”

“...Sir, I must ask you to put down your wand...”

“Euan, calm down Euan – we’ll sort it, we’ll fix it, we’re not going to lose Toby!”

“Dad! Dad! Dad!”



“You are under arrest sir!”

“He’s my son!”

“Under arrest!”


“Stop it! Oh my god! Shit stop it! Stop you’ve got to... please! Stop. You...”

“Excuse me Madam,”

“No, NO! Euan! Stop it! You’ve got to... you need to, you can’t... Stop for fucks sake!”

“Madam we really must -”

“Give him too me, give him, he’s mine – you’ve got to hand him over! YOU’VE GOT NO RIGHT!”

“Sir -”

"Let him go!"


“He’s my son!”



“Euan! Stop it! Stop it! Calm down Euan, Euan please – you can’t! You can’t!”

“...I never did anything! You can’t do this! You can’t just turn up at my house and take my son away from me...”

“It’s okay, Toby. Everything’s going to be okay.”


Holy crap it's finished. Thanks for all your support guys and some lovely reviews for the final chapter would be lovely. Holy... I mean, this is actually the end. Ha! I haven't finished anything in over a year... wow. Okay. I need to go... start writing something new or something :P

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