To Sleep is an Act of Faith
Summary: The war is over, but where is Harry Potter? The wizarding world has almost given up hope of finding their saviour, but Harry is now the one that needs saving; can an unsuspecting muggle help?
Rating: K (may change)
Disclaimer: I can't claim ownership to this until I take over the world with my gingerbread men army and steal JK's brain, but that won't happen till sometime next year so until then – not mine.
Author's Notes: This is quite possibly the most random plot line ever so I'm just keeping my fingers firmly crossed that it will work. You might have to bear with me for a bit while it gets going, but hopefully then it'll be OK! This is also where I get to flash my 'First Fic' card and look sweet and innocent – please be nice! All comments welcome – help me improve!
It was seven o'clock on Thursday morning and Father Damien Moore was making his way through the streets of Limerick, following his usual route to St Michaels Church where he was currently based, and had been so for more than a few years now. Damien was not an old man, yet he could no longer call himself young either. He was happy with what he had achieved in life, and was thankful to God for helping him get to where he was in the world. The dark haired priest had prominent features, but his face was kind and welcoming. He was of medium build and a modest height at five foot eleven.
As usual Damien bumped into Mrs Thwaytes on his way down Lifford Avenue, after seven years of this habit, he had come to think that the elderly lady made a point of being there every morning just so she could give him an update on the wellbeing of her cats. He greeted her warmly and learned that Tabitha had taken a tumble and was currently being looked over by the vets, but it looked like she was going to be okay. Wishing Mrs Thwaytes the best for her day, Damien crossed over the road and walked through the iron gates to Clarey Park. The park wasn't much more than a large area of grass with a path cutting through the centre, some public benches and several trees. But despite the park's seemingly unremarkable appearance, it was well used by members of the surrounding community for everything from somewhere to walk the dog or entertain the children, to snowball fights in winter and picnics in summer.
While crossing the place Father Damien had become fond of during his time in Limerick, he saw a sight that had become almost as regular as Mrs Thwaytes' morning meetings. There was a boy sitting on a bench in the far corner of the square area, a tall oak tree towered above him and caused the early morning sun to cast a dappled light on his hunched body. He sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, and his head resting atop them. His hair was jet black and fell messily around his face, accentuating his pale complexion and drawn features. Damien had first seen the boy around a month ago, sitting on that same bench. He had then appeared on and off ever since, but only recently had he started to sit there every day, and often now he was still there when Damien returned home in the evening. The boy's shabby and miserable appearance had been worrying Damien for some time now, he always sat alone and was never seen doing anything other than looking solemnly forward into thin air. The priest assumed the boy was at least sixteen as he did not appear to attend any school, and yet his diminutive stature would suggest he was younger. Looking over at the boy as he stared mournfully into space, as if seeing terrible things that caused him great hurt, yet were not visible to others, Damien made the decision that if he saw the child again, he would go and speak with him. Making up his mind, he quickened his pace, crossing the park and walking the short distance to the church.
When Father Damien returned to his home that night, he realised he had failed to notice if the strange boy was present in the park that evening. Feeling a little disappointed in himself, he made a firm pact to act the next morning. The reason for his distraction was some news he had received that day, some very good news he had been waiting an obscene amount of time to hear. After almost eight years of applying to his superiors, he had been granted use of the old priests' apartment within St Michaels Church. This meant he was much closer to the people and the God whom he served, and he was happy. Damien Moore went to bed that night, a contented man.
Four blocks away from Damien's flat, a skinny boy with messy jet black hair wandered the frigid streets, looking for somewhere suitable to rest up for the night.