Game Over

Game Over - Chapter 1

Forgetful

~*~

He was walking down the dark roads of Diagon Alley with a vague certainty, as if he had walked the same distance again and again through time, as if the suspicious stores hidden in the shadows were not unknown to him. The sun had set some time ago, and the only source of light at the street was the mediocre Lumos of his wand and a couple of flickers that looked suspiciously like a pair of eyes that were staring at him, an eerie glow coming from their depths.

He didn't flinch from the always present feeling of being watched. He paid no heed to the random rag clothed bundles that were trying to warm themselves with feeble Incendios, producing various dark coloured flames that went out almost instantly. He walked past the Apothecary that now sold far worse things than powders and herbs; past Flourish and Blotts' old building that now resembled a derelict shack, devoid of any sings that it used to be a successful bookshop. He stopped walking for a few moments outside Fortescue's old Ice Cream Parlour as he shuffled the folds of his heavy winter cloak, a midnight blue to 'suit his colouring', like someone had once said... Who was that someone who had said that, actually? He distantly tried to remember, as his gaze wandered over the Parlour, the state of which indicated that it was under Dark possession.

Not of great importance, he thought, as he pulled his scarf, a faded grey, closer around his neck. Whoever it was is probably dead now.

He almost chuckled at his thought, though rather humourlessly. What, oh, what had made him cynical? Apart from the obvious issue, he didn't want to ponder over it.

He tugged at his cloak absentmindedly, as he glanced over at Madame Malkin's-

it had been her who had said that, yes, it was her-

store, and his gaze wandered in the same forgotten way over at Gringotts and its faded white marble-

it would never fade, I had always thought it could not fade-

to Ollivander's, almost at the end of the Alley. Or at least what used to be Ollivander's and was now mud and dirt.

He shook his head as if trying to clear it from cobwebs, and continued walking. It was a cold night, and the moon wasn't lighting the sky, maybe dared not light it. Maybe it was hiding its shame behind the clouds.

Ice, remnants of a snowfall the night before, was breaking under his feet, and dirty water was trickling in random directions, following the crevices of the street.

He reached the bank and turned to his left, to enter a place just as dark, where there were even more eyes staring through the night, less light, narrower roads. He seemed to know Knockturn Alley with the same vague certainty of a path walked before, and a destination visited one time too many.

Only a few more steps led him to a building somewhat different from others, probably because there was some sort of light coming from it in colours; a smeared red, a scarlet that was strangely dull. Through the broken windowpanes covered with tattered curtains, the light had the same colour, he noticed; that same washed out red, those same tinges of dulled scarlet. There was no door, though a few rusty hinges at the doorframe showed that there used to be. In its place there was a curtain-like piece of fabric; ripped at some places, moth-eaten and filthy to the touch as he tugged it aside to enter.

"Nox," he whispered, and the corridor was plunged into a darkness broken only by the red light that came from the end of it. As he walked towards it, the winter feeling dissipated, and a sick feeling of warmth enveloped him. The air was carrying the stench of sweat and dirt and alcohol and heavy cigarettes, making it very hard to breathe. He loosened his scarf, letting it hang around his neck, and unclasped his cloak as he entered-

"For upstairs?"

"Yes."

-the small entrance room, where a woman with faded blonde hair and strikingly red lipstick sat behind a counter, its wood scratched, unpolished, and worm-eaten.

"Full or by the hour?"

"Full."

He answered her questions mechanically, as if he had done so time and again, and his gaze wandered somewhat lazily around. Walls that had surrounded him before stood as sturdy as it could be possible in a building as old as that, grime and dirt having seeped into their material; greasy under his fingers, he knew. Behind the woman-

"Any extra preferences?"

"No."

-a spiral staircase, dark coloured from the amounts of rust that covered it, led to the upper floor through a hole in the ceiling that looked as if it had been blasted open. He knew firsthand that it was as dangerous as it seemed; the fourth step from the top was dangling from the rest of the poorly made metallic construction, and one could not put his trust in the ceiling on his way up, as pieces of plaster falling was a common phenomenon.

"Seventeen Galleons, nine Knuts."

A small shower of coins fell on the counter.

"Room 546."

He climbed up the staircase, careful enough to stay alive and not break his neck from falling off. His every step was a creaking sound.

Creak. Creak.

Thump.

He had stepped on the concrete of the floor above, and his foot had made a reverberating sound that bounced off the walls. Black velvety material was covering the floor; a carpet that, though threadbare, faded, worn out, and not resembling velvet anymore, was muffling all sounds, and as he stepped on it, it drowned it predictably.

An unnaturally long hallway started at his right. He stood still for some moments, looking blankly at the darkness that was tinged with the same red lights. In a strangely ritual way, with the vague air of someone repeating a pattern, he tugged at his leather gloves slowly, until he had taken them off, and set upon walking down the hallway.

Doors. There were doors along his way, made of cheap, breakable wood, and numbers carved on them, as if with a penknife. They were so close together that the rooms behind them were either magically enlarged or really small, and he wasn't sure which one was actually true.

Something was splattered against one of them; he had no intention of finding what exactly. The wall had a deep slash clearly made by claws. The number of one was not visible in the dim light. His mind was jumping detachedly from one thought to the other. He didn't want to think why.

There it was. A door of a colour so dark that it looked like all colours had been sucked out of it. A dirty, bloodied white, trying to contrast the pitch black, was forming the number '546' in crooked handwriting.

It was a door he had never seen before, but the sense of déjà vu, the nagging feeling of repetition, was there, as always. Doors were different, but everything was familiar. Fortunately? He wouldn't know.

He pushed the door open easily, and stepped in.

Cheap jasmine and heavy sweat, he thought, without realising it. The smell, or rather stench, was the first thing he usually noticed upon entering the rooms, and this one was not much different. The room was almost as dark as the corridor, though that red was still coming out from somewhere, like an aura.

He decided he didn't like that particular shade.

The room was small, and bare of furniture, with the exception of a dark coloured mattress laid on the floor - the colour was unnatural, he noticed. He thought the sight was vaguely strange. Usually, there was at least a broken bed.

His surroundings were not a surprise, and the young woman sitting at the edge of the mattress, her face turned towards the wall, was not a surprise either. She looked at him through the shadows of her corner, with tired eyes.

"The charm," she said, with a voice so scratched that he was distantly reminded of sandpaper on flesh. He threw the metallic coin-like object on the mattress, probably made of tin, and she leaned backwards to grab it. As she moved, he noticed she was only wearing a short, thin dress that could have once held a cream white colour, but was now torn at places and faded, grime and dirty marks on it. Under his own warm cloak and voluminous robes, he wondered how she could stand the cold.

The coin was put on a paper box, and she sat back, looking at him again with her tired eyes. He wasn't sure if she indeed was as pale as she seemed, as the light coming in the room was limited to a sad starlight.

"You seem like a smart fellow, so let me tell you this." She stood up and stood by the window. "Unless you haven't noticed, this is not a happy little place. I'm not here to make your day." Her hair, cut unevenly at the length of her chin, was a dark red, or maybe a brown. It was hard to tell with that scarlet light. "So I'm just going to ask you a series of questions before we begin."

She was sarcastic. Or maybe bitter. He couldn't tell, what with her looking out of the window.

"As you wish." He was almost surprised to hear his own voice, in an unearthly quiet sotto voce.

They always asked him if he wished to forget or to remember. He knew they did.

"To forget," he said distantly. "I wish to forget."

She hadn't even asked.

"I thought you would." He was trying to describe her voice. It was sore and metallic, rusty. "Only Death Eaters and reminiscent fools ever want to remember."

"I could be a Death Eater," he said, and his words had that same heavy quality.

She chuckled with no humour. "I could be the Pope in disguise. But I'm not."

"Strangely certain, aren't you?" He removed his cloak, and hung it on a spare nail on the wall.

She chuckled again in that cold way. "I have been poisoned, cursed, beaten and tortured by our prestigious Death Eaters, all in a night's work." Her eyes found his and stayed there. It seriously unnerved him. "I think I could tell if you were a Death Eater, a clown, or God almighty." She cocked her head to the side. "Name?"

"There is no need for one."

"There is always a need for a name. Names distinct, and divide, and discriminate. Names damn, destroy and diminish. Names carry the past of the dead." Her hair was falling on her face in asymmetrical locks. Its colour was dulled and faded. "'A rose by any other name would smell as sweetly', but it is the name that defines your prejudice."

"Shakespeare."

"He always comes in useful. Diachronically accurate, he proves to be." She looked up. Her eyes were still unsettling him; soul searching and burning. "Cigarette?"

"No, thanks."

"I meant for me."

He looked up. Her face had fallen in a shadow that left only her lips be seen, pale and chapped, but curling in a slow smile. He dug his hand in his left-hand pocket and drew out a silver cigarette case, from which he withdrew a single one and extended his hand towards her. She took it almost without looking, gingerly.

"I also have to scream your name when I reach the high peaks of ecstasy. Light?"

She sounded almost practical about it. She took the offered matchbox and lit the small stick with rough fingers, blistered at places, scarred at others. The fire lit up her face with red and gold hues, and the bitter, sarcastic expression became apparent. He noticed it made her look older.

"You're different."

"Different than the rest of the whores?" She took a whiff.

"Yes."

She let out tendrils of smoke. In the cheap scarlet light that came out of everywhere and nowhere, even the shape of the mist was clearer as it hid her face. "Happy women are all alike; every unhappy woman is unhappy in her own way."

"Anna Karenina. Almost."

"Odd woman. All suicidal and the like." She let out ringlets of smoke that dissolved after floating for some moments. Gracelessly, she let herself fall on the mattress.

"Are you not going to tell me your name, then?" Her figure was lit by the weak moon that barely had a day of life left, and a yellowy light fell on her dress of those faded champagne tones. It was leaving her legs almost bare; thighs too slim, knees too skinny, marks of violence too many. Her hair, the dark wine red that they were, was hiding her face as she had her head tilted to the front, and pale bruises from fingers were visible near the collarbone. He felt shaken from that in a degree that made him wonder how he had thought of wine and champagne. Red wine and champagne. They reminded him of a time that seemed so long ago, of fleeting images painted with fine vintages of Bordeaux and wedding champagne.

Her hair, a blood red colour, maybe dyed, maybe not really red but a dirty burgundy was falling on her face, hiding her eyes. Her tainted and yellowed buff dress had slipped up her thighs, exposing more of her pale, sick skin.

"I told you it doesn't matter."

"And I told you it does." She stood up and stood next to the window, looking outside. She took a large whiff.

"Smoking is highly unhealthy," he said absentmindedly.

She exhaled a cloud of smoke towards him. "Whereas the working conditions in this hellhole of a whorehouse are practically impeccable, right?"

When he didn't answer, she threw the smoke out of the window. "After all, why are you carrying a rather hard-to-find brand of them in a fancy silver case?"

He didn't answer her question. Slowly, almost lazily, he pulled his scarf from his neck and dropped it to the floor.

"Do you always ask so many questions?" His gloves followed the scarf accordingly.

"Do you always answer so few of them?"

He felt a faint shudder at the sound of her voice, rough like hard chalk on a blackboard. "You're answering questions with questions."

"And you are supporting a meaningless and quite feeble imitation of a conversation." She stopped to proceed to a rough coughing fit, sounding like her own frail body was fighting against her. "It is a certainty that you didn't come here to gossip."

She walked to him, to the unlit spot where he was standing. As she came closer, her features became a blur, her outline faded; her eyes were plunged into a darkness that made them stand out like orbs of a weak and shadowy colour.

"Take what you want to take," she said with her hoarse, trembling voice. "What you have paid for." Her hand went at the nape of her neck, where her dress was tying together. She started pulling at the knot, untying it.

A warm hand caught hers.

"Stop."

It felt like time had stopped as he let his hand trail a path from her neck to her hair, unkempt, rough to the touch. It felt like everything was suspended for a moment, as he looked into the eyes of that woman that was too, too familiar for him to ignore.

"Noctiluca inluminate!"

He didn't know why that peculiar incantation had come to him instead of the all too familiar Lumos, or even Luminum, but suddenly the moonlight became stronger, and fell on their figures; a shower of dim illumination.

"Your eyes." She was stating horror with her words, a silent horror that was flickering in her own grey eyes. "Your eyes..."

He felt a cold wind as she looked at him with those ash coloured eyes and the need to lower his and close them shut. Maybe if he opened them again, he would realise that it was all an illusion of the light, that he was another random client and she another young whore. Maybe everything would be normal again.

"It's not you..." she whispered forcefully. "It's not, it's not you, it shouldn't be you, it can't be you, please tell me it's not!"

He looked at her; let her voice wash over him. He knew her voice, knew her eyes, knew her once peaceful face.

"Not... not you." She hid her face in her shaky hands, then slowly drew her hair back. Her eyes were shining with hard tears.

"That changes very little though, doesn't it?" She looked up to him and tried to smile her bitter smile. "Still a client."

His eyes hardened. "That is not fair."

"And what is?" She was still letting that bitter smile show. "Did you think the war was fair? Did you think the Defeat was fair? Do you think our life is fair?"

He felt her voice far too loudly. It echoed and reverberated in his ears, like a huge drum beating single sounds.

"Stop." The world burst with an abnormal clarity. "Why are you doing this, Gin?"

Her eyes froze in an icy grey, and she looked at him, pressingly, accusingly. And he looked back at her, though not without some difficulty.

"So this has become personal?" she said. "Mumbling nicknames, playing the warm and homey card?" She looked at him even harder, even more cutting.

He reflected her eyes only hurt him more than her words.

"This is not about attacking me." His voice was calm and detached. "Or even accusing me."

"You're quite right," she responded scathingly. "This is more about fucking you. Or whatever else pleases my, as it seems, client of great distinction." She tilted her head in a burningly mocking bow.

"We need to talk." His voice was coming out in a sharp staccato. "We should talk."

"How absolutely spiffing," she remarked caustically. "I'd really love to talk about this over a cup of tea, perhaps, and some crumpets? I'm afraid we have a shortage of pretzels."

"Don't be cynical," he said softly. "That's my prerogative."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Cynicism comes along with bitterness. And bitterness I have earned. Irony I have endured. Sarcasm I have impersonated. And you had no part in any of that; not now, not ever."

He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it. "I'm afraid you don't-"

She started laughing; he felt like icy water was trickling down his spine. It was a haunted, almost cackling laugh, like the wind was mocking him, like she was mocking him with her silvery eyes, a thin blade against his skin, a high pitched note of an unwind violin. And yet at the same time it was Ragnarok, deities whispering their last words, a banshee's high pitched sob and a Fury's rage.

"Afraid?" she said softly, like poison in a silken cloth. She tilted her head to her side like a porcelain doll. "Did I just hear that lovely word? I doubt you even know what fear is." Her eyes darkened. She darkened. "Let me tell you a little secret."

She put her palm on his chest and pushed him backwards without even pushing him, but guiding him as her eyes forced him to retreat.

"Fear," she whispered, "is something you have never even been close to feeling."

Her hand circled his neck. Long, skeletal fingers, unnaturally cold, pressed at his pulse.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" She stared cruelly at his defensive eyes. "Guess what."

She came closer to him, next to his own face, to whisper in his ear. "That's not fear."

He felt compelled to shut his eyes, to block as many of his senses. But her touch was too strong, and her whisper too loud.

"Maybe it resembles," she whispered again in his ear, "this." Her cold finger trailed a path from his throat to his spine, creeping lower, lowering the fabric of his robes. His body arched involuntarily to her touch. His breathing quickened, and his knees weakened.

"Can you feel it?" she hissed, and he felt like a snake had wrapped its coils around him, on his flesh, suffocating him. "Can you feel the shiver?"

He could feel it. He could have recognised that shiver from its mere description, though he needed none. He knew far too well that crawling-

"-the whisper-"

feeling, full of dread.

"The chill." Her voice was it, quivering icicles, the hissing sound, the nagging sense.

"The illusion."

She dropped her hands from his flesh; even that movement sent him into new trembling. She raised them to her face, and hid it in them.

"You're sadly disillusioned," she croaked, "if you think that petty quivering of being fear. Fear is more, and less. Fear is the eyes on your back in dark alleyways, the breath behind you, the noise in the silence, the loss of every sense of direction. Everywhere you turn, there's a pair of eyes you can't see, a breath you can't feel, a mad voice you can't hear. They circle you." Her eyes closed shut. "They've surrounded you now."

In a nightmare she hadn't yet woken from.

"They're behind you. Fear is when you run."

Her breath was caught in her throat.

"You run with no chance of escaping, knowing with all the dread of knowing, all the certainty. Running, trying to escape their hands and breaths and voices and you know they'll get you, and there is no hope, no hope, everything's lost... you are the victim, the hunted, the prey... and begging won't save you, praying won't save you, no one will save you, lost, everything's lost..."

She drew an unsteady breath, hitched and inadequate. Her face was flushed with a feverish rush of blood, her eyes were shining oddly.

"Fear is rape," she said, with a trembling calm. "Fear is being a survivor in the battlefield. Fear is what I felt when you left me, Remus. When you left us all."

"Do not judge me," he whispered forcefully. "You only know what your eyes have seen."

"My eyes have seen enough," she spat. "Your mere sight disgusts me. You've got enough gold to spend on whores, and the Light-"

"The Light lost. We lost." His eyes darkened to a shiny amber. "It is over."

"Dumbledore wouldn't have wanted us to give up," she said shakily.

His eyes were hard. "Dumbledore is nothing more than a decaying corpse."

The sound of her weak hand on his cheek was echoing, flesh raw from its force.

"Traitor," she uttered in her fury. "You're not worthy enough to even speak of him."

"Kill me then," he said, his voice rising with every word. "Kill me, torture me, do what you have to do to restore the balance of your pretty little world of values and morals. Speak of your ethics and of courage and persistence, deny the facts and keep on thinking that there is still hope to save your rotting world, your scattered life, your blackened soul. Perhaps if you play you sainthood game long enough, you might actually forget that I'm still your client and you a random whore."

The next thing he could describe was a gathering of magic around him as she unconsciously summoned it to herself.

"I will be trying to kill you until I fall," she said, barely audible, and as her right hand became suddenly illuminated by her power, she let her head fall and collapsed in his hands.