Unspeakable

Unspeakable

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Eleven o'clock.

You reach towards the drawer. And stop.

Not yet. You can wait another hour.

Your hand is shaking. It can't be withdrawal. Can it?

No. Just... fatigue. That's what you'll call it.

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Eleven-oh-five.

You shouldn't be doing this, not at your age. When you started out it was the younger witches who worked the night shift. Like that Mafalda Hopkirk – poor kid. She was here the night that... no, don't think about that now. It was three months before she could return to work, even with the transfer to Improper Use. Watching children is all she's good for now.

Don't pretend you never envy her.

No, there's no way you're going to let a young witch take the night shift now. Not in these times. And especially not tonight.

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Eleven-ten.

Sod it. You need a drink. No one should have to do this job.

The drawer opens with a metallic rattle – this vice is one secret you can't hide from yourself. You pull the cork from the bottle of Ogden's FireBlend. Slosh the liquid into the sticky glass. Swirl it round. Sniff it. Sigh.

Time was you'd have settled for nothing less than 18-year-old malt. But this will do. By the fifth glass you can't tell the difference anyhow.

It burns your throat.

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Eleven-fifteen.

The Aurors are on full alert tonight. Waiting for your word. They've had a tip-off – something is going to happen.

They don't understand that something always happens. And you always have to watch.

You scan the boards for traces of forbidden magic. Nothing.

Nothing? That's... unusual. Even since Crouch's Apparition ban there's always some teenager trying his luck against the Detector Charms. Especially on a Saturday night. But this night, the world is preternaturally still. Holding its breath. Waiting.

You are always waiting. Always hoping you wait in vain.

And always that hope is dashed. If only it was merely Apparition you had to watch.

Have another sip. You deserve it.

.

Eleven-twenty.

It hasn't always been like this. You even used to look forward to the night shift. You smuggled in secret bottles then, too. Took bets on who would discover the weirdest transgression. Watched with a voyeur's delight for blackmail material you couldn't use. For such trivia you had to sign the Unspeakable Secrets Act.

Not that they needed that from you. You know how to keep a secret.

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Eleven-twenty-five.

You're good. You always know what's significant, even when the patterns crowd the maps. But that's not the only reason they want you here.

It's unspoken, like so much in this place, but you know. They all know.

You're... known. Reliable. A Hufflepuff to the soles of your feet, and beyond. They could never turn you. And you have no family they can threaten. Not any more.

So during the night you watch the boards, and during the day you watch your back. Sometimes you don't know which is worse.

That's a lie. It's always the now that is worse. The past and the future you can block out – one way or the other.

Have another sip – just the one though. You want to eke out this drink for an hour.

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Eleven-thirty.

"'Bella?"

You spin round. The glass shatters on the floor.

"You all right, Bella?"

Alastor. In the fire. The flickering flames don't quite mask those scars.

"Perfectly all right!" Your voice is brittle, but the lie is easy after all these years. "You startled me, that's all."

"You're not the only one who's jumpy tonight. Have you seen anything?"

He knows to keep to the job at hand. Knows it from the last War – and still he came back to the front line. Now that is truly heroic.

"Nothing."

He nods at your reply. He knows 'nothing' means more than nothing. He knows to leave that unspoken.

"Well, you'll let us know if you see anything."

You laugh. Don't worry – you don't really sound that hysterical.

"Constant vigilance, right Alastor?"

A smile lights his craggy features. A collegial smile. He respects you.

He disappears with a pop.

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Eleven-thirty-five.

You pull out your wand. Bend down to the broken glass. Put your finger to a smooth, sharp-edged fragment. Push it slowly through the whisky puddle.

Ouch.

You suck your finger. Alcohol and blood, mixed.

Gods, what's come over you? You should be watching. You scramble to perform a Repairing Charm. This mess, at least, you can fix.

The cut on your finger, you leave. Such insignificant pain, compared to what you've had to witness here.

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Eleven-forty.

You're wondering how Al- how the Aurors are doing, up in their Disapparition room. Your brother used to tell you about that – how they'd wait, tension simmering with black bubbles of humour. Sick, the jokes he used to tell. He knew you'd understand.

But they never understood you, not really. They probably think you have it easy. Safe.

And it is easy. All you have to do is watch people die. Nothing to it, really.

You reach for the bottle. And stop. You can hold out till midnight.

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Eleven-forty-five.

Even outside the Ministry, they know what you do. You can see it when they avoid you on the street. They know you know the deaths of husbands, fathers, daughters, cousins, uncles, nieces, nephews, friends, colleagues, classmates...

At least you can carry that burden for them.

Sometimes you talk to yourself. Who else can you talk to, after all?

Apart from Tufty, that is. Another creature of the night.

Cats know what it is to walk alone.

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Eleven-fifty.

Something. Something must happen.

No. Don't think that. You don't know what you might think into being. Do you want something to happen?

Of course not. I want Nothing. Like this – calm.

Calm?

Yes. Calm. Tranquil. Peaceful. A world at rest. Safely sleeping...

Sweet dreams, Bella.

.

Eleven-fifty-five

It's only five minutes till midnight. Have another drink now – you did spill most of the last one.

No. You said midnight. You need to keep some con-

Oh God.

A green flash on the board.

How? There's always an Apparition first. Always!

Mind freezes. Numb.

Instinct acts. With expert speed you weave the spells that zoom in to trace the co-ordinates.

No. That's impossible.

Unless...

No.

Please, no.

Too late to call the Aurors. It's always too late. And they'd never find that place in time.

And besides, you have to watch. You have to bear witness. They all know you watch over them. Each may die alone, but no one dies unseen.

But still, they do die.

And you still watch.

You wait. For the other flash. And the third, to complete the burnout of yet another connection you'd thought was safely severed.

Midnight. The Witching Hour.

How can you think of the time at a time like this?

How can you not?

You're gripping the table. Why aren't you used to this by now? Why do you still let yourself care?

Flash.

And a scream. Or was that just in your head? You can't make these deaths more real. Haven't you learned that by now?

Flash.

There. Over now.

But...

You feel sick, but you hardly notice that. You always feel sick, after.

But...

A trickle of water in your ice-bound mind.

That was wrong, that last one. Not 'wrong', in the way this whole crazy world is wrong. Wrong. That arc, it... looped, somehow. That's not right – you've seen enough to know.

So the Dark side have further refined their sadism? Great. Yet another report to write. Augustus will be fascinated.

But... what if...

No. Hope is dead. Like them.

But...

Damn this job! Just when you think you've seen it all, it throws you something like hope!

It's illegal, to zoom in this closely, but you have to know...

...something's alive. Others might have missed that, but you never would. You know the difference between life and death.

You did expect that, didn't you? Green flashes don't come from nowhere.

But... there's also something... between.

How? How can that be?

There's one person who might know the answer to that. One person who'll know what to do. And it's not Alastor.

You release the breath you weren't aware of holding, and turn to the fire. Feel the powder, coarse between your fingers. Like ash.

You throw a pinch into the flames, and call out,

"Albus?"

* * * * *

Six a.m. – but that doesn't matter any more, does it?

Dawn, then.

You're slumped in a chair at the edge of the room. Your room. Crowded with witches and wizards. You're watching them.

They're... celebrating. Happy. Do you remember happiness? Did you ever think you'd be happy again?

Are you happy now?

No.

Not like young Bode over there, grinning at Cornelius Croaker. You never managed to convince those two that hope is futile, and you're glad of that now. Oh, they're tired – you all are – but behind the weariness there's a light in their eyes. A light that's seeing the future for the first time.

That light is missing from Augustus Rookwood's face. It's probably missing from yours.

You'll make do with relief, then. And you are blessedly relieved: never again will you endure the night shift.

Alastor will make sure of that. He's out there now, hunting. You could watch him, if you could bear to look at the boards.

He'll never let go.

And neither will you. Today you'll leave the wizarding world, and you're glad. Glad to leave them to their recovery, glad to avert weary eyes that have seen too much.

But you'll still be watching. And you'll still be keeping your secrets.

Someone pushes a drink into your hand. Across the room young Bode jumps onto a chair to propose a toast. You raise your glass.

This time, your hand does not shake.