Good Butterbeers Just Don't Go Bad

Good Butterbeers Just Don’t Go Bad

~Booksprite

A/N: Here’s the second part! If you didn’t read the note in the FIRST chapter then here it is:

Disclaimer: I own nothing of this story, with the exception of the pairing and the idea of Rosmerta being a squib. But I did not own Minister Fudge, McGonagall (thank God), Flitwick, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Rosmerta, or Cho Chang. I do own these people (and this only here because the list is getting so large):

Uncle Tommy-boy,

Chang Mei,

Chang Chun,

Chang Ning,

Chang Ling,

Chang Ming,

Chang Kun,

Chang Lin,

Chang Yin,

Chang Xiang,

Chang Shui,

And Cousin Robert

They’re all straight out of my twisted mind so you can’t claim them as yours, so :P

Now, on to our feature presentation :D always wanted to say that

***

I grasped the half-butterbeer half-scotch, and brought it to my lips, only to find the glass was empty. I sighed, reluctantly placing the empty mug on the counter, as I looked at the other people that were gathered around Fudge, awaiting his answer, though we all knew it. Our mouths were slightly open in wonder of when Fudge would next speak.

     Fudge’s eyes had closed, as he was clearly reliving the things he’d seen, the things he’d heard, and also, perhaps, just to be dramatic, as he started to talk, “He did indeed.” Was all I needed to hear, as I stared at the mug, thinking: Why did I think this would be different? Why? I leaned back, almost letting the mug crash to the floor, but plopping it back on the counter before I had The Symptoms of Denial again: dizziness, weeping, downing alcoholic drinks one after another to drown my sorrows. I straitened my back when I realized I wasn’t the least dizzy, perhaps The Symptoms were lessening, as I heard the information so often. Turning my thoughts back to Fudge, I listened again, though still wary of any Symptom that might suddenly occur. “Black was tired of his double-agent role, he was ready to declare his support openly for You-Know-Who”- the same questions gnawed at my mind, How do you know what he was thinking? How?! How in Hell do you know he was a double agent? Because of facts, I told myself, because of proof. But still, I could only lessen the questions, not make them vanish completely –“And he seems to have planned this for the moment of the Potters’ death. But, as we all know, You-Know-Who met his downfall in little Harry Potter. Powers gone, horribly weakened, he fled. And this left Black in a very nasty position indeed. His master had fallen at the very moment when he, Black, had shown his try colors as a traitor. He had no choice but to run for it—”

     Hagrid let out a growl, and began to yell, so that the entirety of the pub could hear his raves, “Filthy, stinkin’ turncoat!” most of the populace of The Three Broomsticks had gone quiet, and the few members of our grave conversation we blown back slightly, due to Hagrid’s momentous roars of anger. When Hagrid slammed his drink on the bar, my half-butterbeer half-scotch teetered slightly, before rolling onto the floor with a sound clunk.

     McGonagall sent Hagrid yet another glare, before snapping, “Shh!” and bringing her gillywater to her lips, shaking her head disapprovingly, and narrowing her eyes at him as if that would stop the large man when he was on a roll.

     Of course, it didn’t, as Hagrid restarted his rants, now in a yell that shook the small pub, and I clutched my stool, for fear of falling of, as McGonagall crossed her arms across her chest, disdained that her efforts to silence the burly man hadn’t worked, “I met him! I musta bin the last ter see him before he killed all them people!” Hagrid was stomping his foot to punctuate every sentence’s end, “It was me that rescued Harry from Lily an’ James’s house after they got killed!” My heart wrenched horribly, as I felt the deliberate need to drink all of the tequilas Tildy had stashed back in her lair, and the dizzy feeling swamped my mind, as Hagrid continued his screaming, “Jus’ got him outta the ruins, poor little thing, with a great slash across his forehead, an’ his parents dead … an’ Sirius Black turns up on that flyin’ motorbike”- oh, I still remembered flying around on it, Sirius clad in a leather jacket, not even wearing a helmet, which his Mother always nagged him about –“he used ter ride. Never occurred ter me what he was doin’ there. I didn’ know if he’d bin Lily and James’s Secret-Keeper. Thought he’d jus’ heard the news o’ You-Know-Who’s attack an’ come ter see what he could do. White an’ shakin’, he was. An’ yeh know what I did? I COMFORTED THE MURDERIN’ TRAITOR!” The last sentence made me fall off my chair with a thump and Flitwick was so surprised, he let go of his drink, and it crashed to the floor, breaking into pieces.

     McGonagall, who was the only one who kept her calm during Hagrid’s roars, scolded him, cheeks blazing red with embarrassment, as all of the pub was looking at our solitary group with a what-oddballs expression on their faces, “Hagrid, please!” she snapped, narrowing her fine, pencil-thin eyebrows in agitation, “Keep your voice down!” she wagged a finger at him, though Hagrid seemed deaf to her pleas.

     Trying desperately to regain my balance, as people were beginning to look at me, in my falling position, and point, making crude comments. I wobbled up, and placed one hand on the bar, and the other on my stool for support, as I sat back down, wishing Hagrid would quit yelling or all the mugs in the pub would break like Flitwick’s had.

     Hagrid still didn’t hush, allowing the entire bar to gawk at us, the people sitting with the yelling, probably mad man, “How was I ter knew he wasn’ upset abou’ Lily an’ James? It was You-Know-Who he cared abou’! An’ then he says, ‘Give Harry ter me, Hagrid, I’m his godfather, I’ll look after him—‘Ha! But I’d had me orders from Dumbledore, an’ I told Black no, Dumbledore said Harry was ter go ter his aunt an’ uncle’s. Black argued, but in the end he gave in”- That was one of the many, many things that doesn’t fit in the story, I thought, Sirius never gave in. Never. He just wasn’t like that, he was a stubborn asshole, and he wouldn’t have any way other than his own-“Told me ter take his motorbike”- and that too, Sirius loved that motorbike, almost as much as he loved—well, almost as much as I thought he loved me –“’I won’t need it any more,’ he says.”

     “I shoulda’ known there was somethin’ fishy goin’ on then. He loved that motorbike, what was he givin’ it to me for”- But then again, in a way he’d already given me up and the damn bike when he let You-Know-Who engrave the Dark Mark on his arm –“Why wouldn’ he need it anymore? Fact was, it was too easy ter trace. Dumbledore knew he’d bin the Potter’s Secret-Keeper. Black Knew he was goin’ ter have ter run fer it that night, knew it was a matter o’ hours before the Ministry was after him”- And that’s another thing, I sighed, Sirius didn’t run. He never ran. Unless he didn’t do it. He’d take up full responsibility for his own pranks, but when someone else did something that he was blamed for, he swore up and down he didn’t do it.

     “But what if I’d given Harry to him, eh?” Hagrid questioned, looking at all of us with a straight, even gaze (though he wobbled a bit in his seat, as over half his drink was gone). We all knew what would’ve happened if Hagrid had handed Harry over: Harry would be dead. My should-have-been-godson would’ve been dead. But, in Hagrid’s better judgment, he hadn’t handed Harry over. And Harry was alive—for now. But he might not stay that way, as Sirius was loose, and evidently rabid, “I bet he’d’ve pitched him off the bike halfway out ter sea. His bes’ friends’ son!” I tucked my hands into my armpits, thinking his Godson and the thought sent shivers up my back, as I turned away from the group, afraid I was going to start panicking again, reliving the events that had so altered my life, “But when a wizard goes ter the Dark Side”- but if he had gone why didn’t I know? Why? Yes, I remembered, he’d been detached, but the times were getting harder, of course –“there’s nothin’ and no one that matters to ‘em anymore.”

     Not even me, I thought, wrapping my arms around my body, though no one seemed to notice my now fearful state, as I tried to find safety in myself, hugging myself, the way I always did when the story was retold, as the dangerous Symptoms settled in, as I felt dizzy, wavering nervously on my stool. I felt sick, and wanted to race to the restroom, but I tried to regain my senses, though still dizzy and somewhat sick, I squeaked (with satisfaction, mostly from being able to speak at all): “But he didn’t manage to disappear, did he? The Ministry of Magic caught up with him the next day!” And sentenced him to life in Azkaban.

     Fudge shook his head, sadly, his mouthing pursing as if he had something bitter in his mouth as he spoke, “Alas if only we had,” he took a large gulp of his mead, before speaking again, “It was not we who found him. It was little Peter Pettigrew—another of the Potters’ friends”- Peter? I wondered, If I remember, Peter was a fearful little scrounging rat who hid behind James, Remus, and Sirius. But then again, I was somewhat biased because the first I met Peter, he had been making jokes about how easy I looked (“She looks so easy if I winked at her, she’d drop on the ground and pull off her robes and let me shag her”) –“Maddened by grief, no doubt, and knowing that Black had been the Potters’ Secret-Keeper, he went after Black himself.” Which, I thought, doesn’t make sense either, as Peter wasn’t the brave type; he was the hide-behind type.

     I shook my head, before asking: “Pettigrew … that fat little boy who was always tagging around after them at Hogwarts?” And making jokes about how “easy” some of the girls were, I thought mentally.

     McGonagall nodded, sighing, reminiscing once again, “Hero-worshipped Black and Potter,” possibly, I thought, because he had no real talent himself, “Never quite in their league, talent-wise”- Never QUITE in their league? I snorted, if I remember correctly, Peter could do a damn spark of magic without Potter and Black. Why, if his family hadn’t been so influential I bet he would’ve been branded a squib –“I was often rather sharp with him. You can imagine how I—how I regret that now …” a clouded look made her seem even distant that normal.

     Fudge clucked his tongue sympathetically, and shook his head sadly, then kindly saying, “ There now, Minerva, Pettigrew died a hero’s death”- but still, I just couldn’t think of Peter as a hero, I guess when someone calls you easy you don’t want to like them even though you should –“Eyewitnesses—Muggles, of course, we wiped their memories later—told us how Pettigrew cornered Black. They say he was sobbing ‘Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?’ And then he went for his wand. Well, of course, Black was quicker. Blew Pettigrew into smithereens …” And that was the final piece of the puzzle that doesn’t make sense: Sirius was queasy when it came to blood and gore. He tried to hide it, but he flinched at even the slightest sight of blood. He would never have intentionally caused something like that. But then again, I chided myself, he did plan that escapade with Snape. I shook my head, Sirius had always defied all logic, so I had no idea why I was using his personality quirks to contradict the solid facts that had been drilled into my head for years.

     I saw McGonagall grab a handkerchief from her robe’s pocket, then blow her nose, clearly the chilly weather was giving the Hogwarts Professor a cold, I mused, even though she always tried to give off a stern, harsh, almost immortal appearance, “Stupid boy… foolish boy …” wow, I thought, how polite you are, McGonagall. McGonagall took a drink of her gillywater, looking down into its depths, “he was always hopeless at dueling … should have left it to the Ministry …” And let Black wander freely?

     Hagrid stomped his foot, baring his teeth, clutching his fists, obviously in another mood to rave at the top of his lungs, “I tell yeh, if I’d got ter Black before little Pettigrew did, I wouldn’t’ve messed around with wands—I’d’ve ripped him limb—from—limb” the last three words were separated by Hagrid’s fists connecting with the table with a slam. A small part of me was silently thankful that it had been Peter and not Hagrid who’d met up with Sirius. I mentally slapped myself: Sirius might’ve been my fiancé for a while, but he was a murderer! I should be wishing Hagrid had met up with Sirius … I shook my head, maybe Sirius’s mind isn’t the only one that defies logic.

     Fudge narrowed his eyes at Hagrid, and giving him a sharp look, before scolding him like a child who just spilled juice on the carpet, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Hagrid. Nobody but trained Hit Wizards from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad”- I blinked, before guessing that the ‘hit wizards squad’ must be another, fancier name for ‘aurors’ –“would have stood a chance against Black once he was cornered. I was Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Catastrophes”- why do they use such goddamn long names? I wondered, then thought Guess I’d be ‘magical alcoholic beverages supervisor’, chuckling slightly, I returned my attention to Fudge –“and I was one of the first on the scene after Black murdered all those people. I—I will never forget it. I still dream about it sometimes. A crater in the middle of the street, so deep it had cracked the sewer below. Bodies everywhere. Muggles screaming. And Black standing there laughing, with what was left of Pettigrew in front of him … a heap of bloodstained robes and a few—a few fragments—”

     I clamped my hand over my mouth, wishing Fudge hadn’t been so damn descriptive, I felt my stomach twisting and writhing just thinking about the sight of all the blood and gore—all the bodies littering the streets and “she’s so easy” Peter diminished to a few fragments and bloody robes. A few tears of sympathy for the poor people that had died and for Peter welled in my eyes, as I grabbed the handkerchief that was tucked safely away in my pocket. I blew my nose at the same time as four other people, though I didn’t look back to see who I’d blown my nose with. Dabbing at my eyes, I tried to compose myself.

     Fudge shook his head, as if trying to rid his mind of the memories that had just been unearthed by my questions, “Well, there you have it, Rosmerta,” he took a gulp of his drink, probably trying to rid it of the same bad taste that filled my mouth, “Black was taken away by twenty members of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and Pettigrew received the Order of Merlin, First Class, which I think was of some comfort to his poor mother”- a mental picture of Peter’s mother popped into my mind, last I’d seen her, she was plump and round, always slumping and slouching, with long, stringy blonde hair down to her hips, with her hand always clamped around a bag of chips or some other snack, and a beer in the other hand, or the beer in her mouth. Very flatly, Peter’s mum wasn’t what I would call ‘poor’ I knew a lot of things she was, but ‘poor’ just didn’t seem to fit her –“Black’s been in Azkaban ever since.”

     I shook my head, I’d heard the story so many tons of times that I couldn’t count them, and every time it ended with Sirius’s sentence to Azkaban for the rest of his life. Like that was the climax of the story, or even a definite ending, which, now that Black had escaped, it certainly wasn’t the ending.

     I sighed, and asked, “is it true he’s mad, Minister?” it seemed impossible, witty Sirius, charming Sirius: insane. Mad. Bonkers—or, as Uncle Tommy-boy always said ‘a few beers short of a hangover’. I sat back on my stool, and leaned against the bar, staring at the peachy-pink designs that were on the counter, and waiting for Fudge to answer.

     Fudge was quiet for a few more moments, before answering slowly, “I wish I could say that he was. I certainly believe his master’s defeat unhinged him for a while. The murder of Pettigrew and all those Muggles was the action of a cornered and desperate man—cruel … pointless. Yet I met Black on my last inspection of Azkaban”- I shivered slightly, thinking that maybe being head honcho of the British wizarding world wasn’t all cushy and comfortable all the time, like I’d often suspected –“You know, most of the prisoners in there sit muttering to themselves in the dark; there’s no sense in them … but I was shocked at how normal Black seemed”- I raised an eyebrow at this: Sirius had never been exactly ‘normal’ in all my years of knowing him, before Azkaban –“He spoke rationally to me. It was unnerving. You’d have thought he was merely bored—asked if I’d finished with my newspaper, cool as you please, said he missed doing the crossword”- that is a bloody lie, I thought, Sirius hated crosswords or anything you had to sit still to do, even reading-“Yes, I was astounded at how little affect the dementors seemed to be having on him – and he was one of the most heavily guarded in the place, you know. Dementors outside his door day and night.”

     I felt a small twinge of pity for Sirius, having dementors up his butt at all hours of the day, but then, remembering the numerous murders he’d committed, I took back any sympathy that I may have had. You just can’t feel sympathy towards a murderer, I told myself, you just cannot unless you’re a nutcase. And you aren’t. I think.

     I shook my head, as I silently mulled over the latest information I’d been given, savoring it, wanting to use it to convince myself later that I didn’t feel anything towards Sirius—except hate and absolute disgust. A question gnawed at my brain, as terror slowly crept into my heart, “But what do you think he’s broken out to do?” I asked, probably looking bewildered and confused, as I often did when I asked questions, “Good gracious, Minister, he isn’t trying to rejoin You-Know-Who, is he?” No, I thought, even Sirius isn’t daring enough to do that with the entire wizarding world on his tail—right?

    Fudge cleared his throat, and avoided my eyes, as if looking into them would make my words become reality, “I daresay that is hi – er – eventual plan,” he took one last sip out of his almost-empty tankard and then resumed speaking. Just like Uncle Tommy-boy, I mused, wondering what Fudge would do if I compared him to my redneck great uncle, but Uncle Tommy-boy never evaded your eyes, he always looked straight into them, as if daring you to contradict whatever he was saying, “But we hope to catch Black long before that. I must say, You-Know-Who alone and friendless”- he makes him sound like a shy schoolboy, I reflected –“but give him back his most devoted servant”- I almost fell back in surprise, sure, it was common knowledge that Sirius was a Death Eater, but You-Know-Who’s most valuable servant seemed a bit extreme-“and I shudder to think how quickly he’ll rise again …”

     After Fudge quit talking, I watched as McGonagall stood up, sitting her gillywater down with a chink and, in a voice that a mother uses with her child, slightly-scolding, slightly-reminding she began to talk, while making for the door, “You know, Cornelius”- They’re on first name basis? I thought, and then laughed, Brings kinky thoughts to mind –“if you’re dining with the headmaster”- and she’s not on first name basis with Dumbledore? Brings even more kinky thoughts to mind –“we’d better head back up to the castle.”

     One by one the members of our small, gossiping group left the table, thanking me for the drinks, complimenting me on how well business was doing even with the dementors running about, and promises of coming back soon (Hagrid, probably meaning he’d be back for more mulled mead in an hour or two). Finally, still mulling over the gossip I’d just gotten, I went back behind the counter, and was faced with all the customers that had been waiting while I was chatting with the little group.   

     It took quite a while to get all the orders filled, since the group must’ve been talking for over an hour or two, but I did after fifty minutes, I made another half-scotch half-butterbeer and leaned against the counter to enjoy and savor the taste, while reading the newest copy of Witch Weekly (which had a very interesting article on how to use Muggle makeup to enhance your look, as Muggle cosmetics were rarely used in the wizarding world, and it would make you look distinguished—or so the article said).

     Another swoosh of wind made me look up from my magazine (the article I was currently reading entitled The Dark Hottie: Tom Riddle Before He Became Voldemort) and I found myself looking up into Remus Lupin’s golden eyes that I’d always thought made him look like a dog, a Husky in particular. He was wearing the familiar faded robes that he’d been so famous for in Hogwarts, and toting a suitcase with the peeling, golden letter Remus J. Lupin on it. He wasn’t wearing a coat, only a light cloak that was as tattered and patched as his robes.

     All in all, he looked almost the same as he had when I’d last seen him at twenty, with exception of a few premature gray hairs scattered about in his hair. He smiled softly, before sitting down on the stool directly in front of where I’d been leaning on the counter.

     I cleared my throat, as I reached down for the old bottle of scotch that was nestled under my counter. My hand touched its cold glass and I pulled it out from under there, and I let the glass chink against the wood, as I looked at Remus, expectantly.

     He gave me an annoyed look, before saying, while shaking his head, “You know I don’t drink alcohol.” I inwardly grinned, remembering how Uncle Tommy-boy looked when Remus had stated that, it had been during the time they were in Hogwarts, sixth year Christmas I believe, the Uncle Tommy-boy had said ‘God bless that brave, ignorant sonny, but it will do him damn good when he finds out what he’s missing’ before offering the boy yet another tankard of Gin and Rum, which he still refused.

     I shook my head, “wimp,” I teased him, sticking my tongue out, before pouring myself a glass of plain scotch, not near as good as it was mixed with butterbeer, but I was afraid Remus would take any chance I gave him to drift back off into the snow-ridden world outside the Three Broomsticks, “how’s it going?” I asked mildly, taking a sip of the scotch I’d just poured.

     He shrugged, “So-so,” he replied, being just as mysterious as I remembered him being when I had first met the other Marauders and him. He was always trying to meld into his background, always trying to remain unnoticed, and never giving you a direct answer to anything that involved himself.

     I took another sip, analyzing his expression and position. I’d gotten to know Remus quite well through Sirius, and, like all the people I was good friends with, I could often tell his or her mood by their posture and facial expression. Remus wore a tired, cloudy look upon his face, his golden eyes looking more distant and faraway than I remembered. He was sitting in with his feet dangling above the floor (the stools have always been quite tall, because Uncle Tommy-boy said “That’s what makes a real bar!”) and both hands resting on the counter, fingers interwoven, and he kept moving as if slightly nervous, glancing from side to side, shifting position every few seconds.

     “Good so-so, or bad so-so?” I questioned, still gazing at him through the glass I was drinking out of.

     He blinked; looked up at me, probably wondering why I was staring so intently at him, “Okay so-so,” he murmured, turning himself away from me, a direct thing that said “DO NOT SPEAK TO ME”. But I didn’t listen.

     “Never pictured on of the Marauders as a teacher,” I commented, probably seeming dodgy to Remus, but then again, most people did – Especially Sirius’s girlfriends, as Sirius normally found wild, exotic girls fun for a ‘one-nighter’.

     He nodded, shallowly, and I could almost see his mood fluttering over him: a dark cape that loomed above his head, reminding him that Sirius had just escaped from Azkaban and it was (in Remus’s ever blameful mind) his fault.

     Something had happened; I knew it, either that or everything had just crushed the old Remus Lupin I’d known so well, the one who laughed when I told Peter off for calming me “easy”, the one who planned pranks with Sirius, the one who was always thoughtful about everything. I sighed, trying to remember the name of his old girlfriend… Ella? No. Cleo? No, that was one of Sirius’s earlier one who’d cussed me out more times than I could count after Sirius broke up with her for me. Mei? Yes, I thought triumphantly, that was her. She was a little Asian girl with big, big walnut eyes who kept mostly to herself. 

     I took a sip of my glass, staring at it, deeply, and “How’s Mei?” I questioned, looking up at Remus, who was now nervously fiddling with his wand. He stopped fiddling abruptly, and I noticed a slouch develop in his posture before he answered.

     “Married. To Chang Xiang, remember him? He was in Slytherin,” there was a note of disgust in his voice that surprised me, Remus normally covered his feeling up well, “Didn’t you notice when she dropped out in sixth year with him?” I blinked, no, not really, I laughed, remembering how Uncle Tommy-boy always said, ‘Dammit, girl, you just can’t put two and two together, can ya’?’, “They have ten children now. We keep up a fair bit. Her daughters are Cho, the oldest girl – have you seen her? She’s a Ravenclaw in fourth year – and Shui – she’s in second year, year under Harry… she’s a Hufflepuff I think. Her dad was damn mad, said Mei, when Shui got into Hufflepuff – and Ming, Ling, and Ning – triplets. They’re coming to Hogwarts in two years. Mei says I’ll know them by their hyper activeness,” he chuckled slightly, “Lin is the oldest boy—Cho’s twin, so he’s in the same year as Cho, surely the Head Boy, he’s in Ravenclaw as well, he’s not made anything below brilliant grades – even Snape can’t dare give him anything below perfect grades. Mei has quite high expectations for the boy; says he’ll be the next Minister of Magic.”

     He was no longer slouching, but standing up straight, looking at me, as he spoke of his old girlfriend and her numerous children, “Then there’s Kun, he’s only three right now. The other three are Jin, Chun, and Yin. Yin’s the only girl out of those three. She’s eight, Jin’s one, and Chun’s five.”

     He ended with a sigh, and slouched again, making me scowl, I hate it when people use such bad posture. I crossed my arms, contemplating Remus J. Lupin, whom I’d always thought of as the most perfect male I knew. But now he seemed envious of this Chang Xiang. Of what he had: Mei, and her large number of offspring. I looked out the frosty windows, thinking; it seems like everything – or anyone – perfect is always revealed to be a normal person – or thing – when you pull away their mask.

     “May I have some butterbeer?” questioned Remus, pointing to the large tankards that were lined up in army-like rows, as if standing at attention, I almost asked ‘any scotch?’ but, as if reading my mind, he said, “No alcohol, please.”

     “You don’t know what you’re missing—!” I chirped, in a singsong voice; as I fetched a tankard, pulling it out of its army rows, and pouring butterbeer into the now wonderful smelling tankard, I took a sharp whiff myself, wishing I had more butterbeer, enough to spend on me.

     He took a nice, long gulp of the warm liquid, looking as if he was drinking the drink of the Heavens, then, he slammed it down firmly, before starting his line of inquisitions.

     “How’s Great Uncle Thomas (Remus always insisted on calling him by his proper, birth-given name instead of Tommy-boy)? Still with us?” he took another drink, but this time his eyes were directed up at me.

     I felt frozen, as if time itself had entered a stage of hibernation and I was the only one still awake. Uncle Tommy-boy had died a year after Sirius went to Azkaban, swearing on his deathbed that he’d haunt Sirius because ‘that damn player for breaking my niece’s heart! I’ll hound him till the day he dies!’ the worst thing was that he died approximately fifteen minutes after saying those words. I prayed it didn’t become true. I didn’t want my Uncle Tommy-boy to live a wretched afterlife as a miserable ghost who hounded Sirius to the ends of the Earth (not that I doubted Uncle Tommy-boy would do it if he became a ghost). I sighed, feebly answering; “He’s no longer with us…” Remus nodded understandingly.

     “Same with Mum and Father,” he said, shaking his head, “past two years ago,” he sighed, “took a while to get used to life without them.” I nodded, solemnly, wishing one of us would change the subject; it was making me uneasy.

     “How’s Robert? Cousin twice removed? He was a right nice fellow, bit big-headed, but then again, so was most of your family,” I snorted, laughing at Remus’s last remark, and he quickly added, “minus Great Uncle Thomas of course,” then, when I gave him a stern glare, he added, “you too, of course!” he smiled brightly at me and offered me back the now empty tankard.

     “Robert’s getting on in the years, he’s now fifty-something,” I said, absent-mindedly, as I let my mouth curl at the edges, as sure sign I was feeling happy that I was only thirty-two.

     Remus nodded, “… ah …” he said, now fiddling with the edges of his tattered and stained robes, “how’s it been after… Sirius?” he asked me, bluntly.

     I nearly dropped the tankard, which I was trying to clean now, in all my shock, no one had ever directly asked the question, most beat around the bush, asking how’s it going? How’s life in general? So, how’s your love life coming? But never directly asking The Question.

     I stared out the frosty window, wondering how I was supposed to answer that. Was I supposed to spill out my soul to Remus, tell him that it hadn’t been the same, that I missed him every damn minute of the day? Was I supposed to lie and tell him that I’d forgotten all about Sirius? What?

     I sat my tankard down on the bar, now beginning to realize how strained and almost tangible the silence that stood between Remus and I was. I took a breath of air, “It hasn’t been the … same, you know?” I asked, glancing back at him, and I saw he was listening intently, “It’s like… someone upped and threw my world upside-down and now I have to go back and recollect the broken pieces to make a puzzle that has too many missing pieces to truly be solved.”

     Remus looked at me, his slight puzzlement showing in his eyes, “And what puzzle is that?” he inquired, sweeping his arm around the room, “The puzzle of your life?”

     I shook my head, uncertainly, wondering how such wise yet hard to understand had come from my mouth, “No, The puzzle of James’s death. And Lily’s, as well. It’s all too mysterious to be real, as if someone’s playing us for fools, laughing as we trip and fall and believe in all the things that they want us to. But then it turns out only to be an illusion. A covering of the truth that everyone has tried so hard to uncover.” I took a breath, “Look at the glitches, the little things that are imperfect—” I was stopped abruptly by Remus, who, for the first time, I’d ever seen him, was raging.

     His voice had collected the steady, calmness of a man about to explode, about to be driven over the edge into the deep, deep canyon of his own grief and fury, “Sirius killed them. Sirius killed Peter. It doesn’t matter what—he killed them—there’s proof—”

     I shook my head, furious at him, Remus, open-minded, forever forgiving Remus, for not seeing the imperfections of it all: “The system the Ministry uses can fail!” I bellowed, glaring at him, hoping against hope I was right, hoping against the world Sirius was innocent, “It has happened before! He wasn’t even given a Goddamn trial!” I raged, stomping my feet, tears trailing down my cheeks; I wanted so bad to believe Sirius was innocent. I wanted so badly for him to be the perfect prankster I’d once known.

     “You always made him out to be perfect,” said Remus, coldly, getting up to leave, “You always made him out to be some perfect little angel who sometimes got devilish and played pranks. But the real Sirius wasn’t like that at all. The real Sirius tried to commit murder at sixteen, using me as his murder weapon. You never saw some of the trash he dated. You never saw anything that was real. You just saw your perfect Sirius, who could do no wrong in your eyes.” He exhaled sharply, now towards the door, “And that, Rosmerta, is where you failed.”

     I was stunned, as Remus walked out of the door, leaving my pub, never giving it a backwards glance. But his words echoed tauntingly in my ears, words so unlike the Remus I had once known, the quiet yet cheerful shy boy who tagged along with Sirius and James. The handsome boy who had dated Mei, then been dumped for someone from Mei’s own county: Xiang. . You just saw your perfect Sirius, who could do no wrong in your eyes, and that, Rosmerta is where you failed. I bit my lip, wiping away the tears from my earlier crying session, wishing everyone would quit staring at me.

     Wishing Sirius was back.

     I was tempted to laugh, thinking how out of kin and blood this was, being so emotional.

     After all, aren’t Malfoys supposed to be heartless bastards who worship You-Know-Who?

***

A/N: Surprise ending! Muahahahaha! Rosmerta is a Malfoy? Well, in this fic she is :D Please review, oh, and there is going to be the last and final Part Three coming out to a fanfiction place near you, soon!