The Middle of Nowhere

The Middle of Nowhere
~pandorajones.

*

The good thing about being alone and in the dark is that I have time to think, and there is no one here to interrupt me. The bad thing about being alone and in the dark is that I have time to think, and there is no one here to interrupt me.

I never got a chance to say I’m sorry.

I never got the chance to say goodbye.

Between my tears and the rain, it’s difficult to see. The moon shines brightly through the clouds and bathes the caravans that surround me in a silvery haze. It’s cold. Had I been thinking, I’d have done something about waterproofing my robes when it first started to rain. It doesn’t matter anymore, though; there comes a point where one can’t get any wetter.

When I left St. Mungo’s this morning, I just wanted to be alone. The thought of returning to Grimmauld Place seemed unbearable, with the sad nods and messages of condolence I am sure to encounter there. Too many voices would be speaking aloud that which I do not wish to hear---Sirius is dead. I had thought about going back to my flat, reading a book or listening to the wireless but that seemed too depressing. I suppose I didn’t really want to be alone, after all. So here I am, sitting on the steps of a dark old caravan in the middle of a thunderstorm, waiting for a man who may or may not even come home tonight.

It all made sense this morning.

*

After what seems like an eternity, I hear voices approaching and, soon, a chorus of cheerful ‘goodnights’. Two figures stroll across the grass toward me. They stop short when they see me, hands diving into pockets. A wand is held aloft, and a voice calls “Lumos!” I pull back my hood. The shorter of the two cocks his head to one side and promptly bids farewell to his friend.

Soon, I am looking up at a familiar face—a mop of unkempt ginger hair, an overly generous amount of freckles, and blue-green eyes that defy worldly description.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

He smiles down at me. “I didn’t ask.”

He takes my hand, pulls me to my feet and opens the door of the caravan. I follow him in. It is larger inside than it should be from its outward appearance, but he hasn’t gone overboard—just one big room: a small kitchen area, sitting room, and bedroom. The latter is actually just an oversized bed filling one end of the caravan, with drawers underneath and curtains.

He removes his cloak, hangs it up, and then takes mine, waving his wand over it to dry it off, before hanging it beside his own. He then lights the lamps and the large wood stove in the kitchen. The temperature change is immediate, but I’m soaked through and shivering. Full robes, not a good idea. I should have been like him, and worn jeans and an Aran jumper.

Why’s he giving me that look?

“Have you been crying?” he asks.

“No. It’s just the rain and I’m tired.”

Liar.

“Gawd, you’re cold." Taking both my hands between his, he blows warm breath on my fingers. “Come on.”

He leads me back to the bedroom and rummages through his drawers, producing a towel and a pair of flannel pyjamas in muted blue-grey plaid. He smiles at me and turns his back deliberately so I can change. I dry my hair and strip off my wet clothes, hanging them over the back of a chair. I pull on the pyjamas and set about rolling the ample cuffs. The top almost comes to my knees and the sleeves are well past my fingertips. Really, I must look a sight, but they’re wonderfully warm.

“Can I borrow a pair of socks?” My feet are freezing.

“Sure.” He turns and grins, opens the top drawer, and tosses me a pair of red wool socks. I pull them on. Sexy, I know, but I’m cold. “Can I make you a cup of tea or some hot chocolate?”

“Chocolate.”

Did I answer too quickly? For all his admirable qualities, and there are many, Charlie Weasley cannot make a decent cup of tea.

The wall behind the settee is covered in photos, and I wander over to look. Some of them are hung properly, in frames; others are just stuck to the wall with Spellotape. There are many new ones since I last visited: one of Bill and Fleur at what looks like a fancy dress party; Ron at Hogwarts, making faces behind Hermione’s back while Harry rolls his eyes; Ginny in the garden at the Burrow; and… Where the hell did he get that? Me, at the Ministry Christmas Party last year, fending off Bagman in his mistletoe hat. There are also two of my old favourites here: a teenage Charlie with a very young Ginny perched on his shoulders waving madly; and the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup, fourth year, I believe. This photo always makes me smile, I have a copy of it at home, but Charlie’s is wonderfully different; it’s missing someone. Charlie stands in the foreground wearing his Quidditch robes, his team around him, his right hand on the Cup held high above their heads, and his left arm slung loosely around my shoulders. My fourteen-year-old self is screaming and laughing with the rest of them, but that’s where the similarity ends. In the photo I have at home, my left hand is clasped with that of one Ciaran O’Reilly, my boyfriend at the time. In Charlie’s picture Ciaran isn’t there; he has been cut out rather haphazardly—with scissors. The picture has looked this way ever since I can remember, and it always cheers me.

He’s grinning at me now, a steaming mug in each hand and a bag of marshmallows in his teeth. I can’t help but laugh; after all, it was I who introduced the poor boy to marshmallows years ago. He sits beside me, rips the bag open, and drops two marshmallows into my mug and then the same into his.

His expression is changing; ‘serious Charlie’ is taking over my old friend. Still, he smiles at me, his fingers playing on the tips of my hair.

“Pink, again?”

“I can change it,” I offer.

“No,” he shakes his head, “don’t. I like the pink. Always makes me smile.”

Am I blushing?

“I’ve been worried about you,” he continues, “since I heard. How long were you in St. Mungo’s?”

“Two days.”

“So you were released this morning? —And you came here?”

Nod again. Obviously, Charlie.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m all right.”

Actually, I feel as though I’ve been trampled by a herd of stampeding Hippogriffs, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Are you taking anything?”

“Some horrible red muck.”

“Have you taken it tonight?”

“No.”

“Where is it?”

“My cloak.” I nod toward where it hangs by the door. Charlie takes out his wand.

“Accio potion.”

The bottle is in his hand in seconds; he uncorks it and hands it to me. Gawd, it’s foul. It tastes like Quidditch boots smell.

Charlie laughs at me and offers a marshmallow to kill the taste; I take it gratefully in my mouth from his fingers. His fingertips brush my cheek, and a hand snakes round the back of my neck. He’s gearing up to tell me something.

“I was sorry to hear about Sirius.”

There it is. My heart drops into my stomach and I’m looking at my feet.

“So was I.”

My focus changes now, from my socks to the rapidly shrinking marshmallow in the bottom of my mug.

He takes the mug from me, puts it on the table with his own and slides into the corner of the settee. His hand takes mine and he draws me to him. I curl up in his arms and shut my eyes. The strength of his embrace, the scent of him---sweat and soot and ... This is why I came.

“I’m so sorry, Nymph,” Charlie whispers, his thumb tracing soft circles on the back of my neck. “I know you loved him, and I know you miss him. God, I’m sorry.”

He doesn't understand and I don't want him to. This is all my fault. “It’s just so fucking unfair.”

The tears burn in my throat. I bite down hard on my lip, but I can’t stop them coming. He wraps his arms tightly around me, resting his chin on the top of my head.

After a time he speaks, his voice muffled in my hair, “When my Granddad was dying, I asked him how he wanted to be remembered. He said, ‘Laugh.’ And that’s what I do. I remember him dressing up as Father Christmas and, after far too much mead, getting stuck in the chimney; Gran was furious. I remember him giving an Apothecary Set to the twins for their fifth birthday; Mum was furious. And I remember him telling me a story, ridiculous really, of how he once tamed a Welsh Green with nothing more than a piece of string and a toothpick.” He laughs, and I smile. “This is how I honour him.”

We rock slowly back and forth as I search through my memories for pieces of Sirius.

“I only have one memory of Sirius.”

“What?”

“From when I was little. Just one. It could have been the only time I ever met him, I don’t know. But I remember. I had this soft toy, this Hippopotamus that I loved.’ Charlie chuckles. “Shut up. Anyway, he and my Uncle Mark took him from me and they threw him back and forth over my head until I cried. I suppose that made him feel guilty because he gave it back to me then. He also gave me a pile of chocolate frogs and told me not to tell Mum.”

“That’s awful.”

“Not really; I love chocolate frogs. And for some reason I love that memory, too, probably because Sirius is so clear in it, and ... well ... it’s all I’ve got –—won’t believe you if you say that you’ve never done anything like that to your brothers or Ginny.”

“I do seem to remember pretending I couldn’t see Ginny until she cried. Once, I put Fred on a broomstick that wasn’t working properly, just to see what would happen.”

“How did you apologise?”

“Hmmm ... I think it was Fizzing Whizbees for Ginny and, well, Fred broke his arm, so... I spent about three weeks worth of pocket money at Zonko’s. We told Mum he tripped on the stairs. She still doesn’t know.”

“You broke you little brother’s arm?”

“Nah, the fence did that.”

“Ohhh!”

Shaking off the emotion of the moment, I disengage myself from his embrace and pick up the mugs, meaning take them to the sink. My foot catches the corner of the table as I pass, because, well, it’s me, isn’t it? I trip; he grabs me around my waist. Wincing in pain, I pull away. Gawd, that hurts! Damn it!

“Nymph? What is it? What’d I do?”

“It’s nothing. I’m just a little sore.”

“A little?”

The cups now in the sink, I look for something else to do, not wanting to meet his eye.

“What happened?”

“They tell me I fell when that bitch hit me.” No effort to keep the venom out of my voice there. I move past him; he clasps my arm, stopping me. Reaching around from behind, his fingers move over the buttons of my top. I catch my breath as he slips it off over my shoulders and tentatively touches the faint red marks on my back and side—my attempt to hide the bruises.

“Let me see them, Nymph.”

“No, Charlie.”

“Nymphadora.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Please.” He hands me back the top. I clasp it to my chest when I should really just pull it back on. He looks so concerned that I just... can’t.

Instead, I relent and allow the marks to appear—black, purple, blue—all down my back and across my shoulders.

“Jayzus,” he breathes. I feel myself tense at his words; apparently, so does he. “S’all right, love,” he whispers. “It’s only me.”

Love? Now that’s been years.

“I told you. They’re ugly.” They are.

He leans over my shoulder, close to my ear. “You’re beautiful,” he tells me.

Why does that give me goose bumps? My face feels hot. I'm definitely blushing now.

“Lie down,” he says, nudging me forward toward the bed. “I’ve got something that works wonders on bruises.”

The bed is soft; I pull back the quilt and blanket and lie down on my stomach, watching him as he digs in the kitchen cupboards. He comes out with a round purple bottle.

“Some sort of oil,” he explains, shaking it vigorously. “Got it from the Wise Woman down the village… Well, the Muggles call her the Wise Woman, but we all know she’s just an old Crone. Never found anything like it before—not even in your precious London.”

I’ll ignore that.

“Do they hurt a lot?” he asks, sliding onto the bed beside me.

“Some of them,” I answer truthfully.

He pulls his shirt and jumper off over his head and tosses them in the general direction of the armchair.

“It stains." He grins, in an answer to the look I must’ve given him. "Don’t want to get any on me. Now, this is going to feel a bit cold at first but it warms up nicely.”

He trickles it down my spine. It’s fucking freezing! He laughs as I thump the pillow.

“I did warn you,” he chuckles.

“Wanker.”

“Have to be, don’t I… stuck out here?”

The pillow muffles most of my laughter. He begins to spread the oil gently across my neck and shoulders. It smells strongly of peppermint but it truly is wonderful stuff; the cooling effect is lovely, once I’m over the initial shock.

His hands move down my back and over my ribs, rolling the waistband down so he can tend the huge black bruise that extends down my left hip.

“Feel any better?” he asks.

Hmm, let’s see, half-naked Weasley, who I know only took his shirt off because he knows me too well, is slathering a heavenly oil over my body, with slow, careful, deliberate movements and…

“Nymph?”

“Oh, it’s grand; thanks.”

His hands spread across my shoulders again; this time his touch is not so light and his fingers knead into my muscles, but there’s no pain. In fact, his hands feel hot. Everywhere he touches is suddenly bathed in warmth. I may melt. But too soon he finishes; too soon his hands leave my body.

“Did I miss any?”

Pulling the blanket around me, I roll over and sit up.

“My leg, my ankle.”

“How far did you fall?”

“Dunno. Can’t remember.”

He pushes the left leg of my pyjamas up and begins work on the bruises there.

As I watch him, it occurs to me that I haven’t seen this face in seven months, and that it’s been far longer since I’ve been held by him… since I’ve touched him… kissed him.

We don't do that anymore.

Reaching out, I lay my hand on the side of his face… run my thumb across his lower lip. To my delight, he shuts his eyes. I lean forward and take that lip into my mouth. He lets go a low, guttural moan and kisses me with an intensity I’d nearly forgotten. How could I have forgotten this? He tastes like chocolate and marshmallow and ...lager.

Ah, that’s were he’s been.

He pushes me gently backward to the mattress, tugging at the blanket I have wrapped around me, dispatching it to one side, skin against skin and I’m shaking, literally vibrating. Really hoping it’s all in my head… that he won’t notice.

“You’re trembling… Why?”

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

Not wanting to wait for a response, or worse, a remark, I pull his mouth back down to mine. The urgency of my kiss surprises even me. Surprises him as well, as he deepens it. I feel his hand on the waist of my pyjamas.

We shouldn’t do this.

In one fluid movement he’s pulled them to my knees and then off completely. A hand grabs roughly at my arse, before sliding up my body once more. His knee nudges its way between my thighs and I part my legs to accommodate him as he moves against me, hard on my hip.

I shouldn't ...

But his kisses trail across my face… burn a path down my neck… to my collarbone; his hands find my breasts, and I know if his mouth follows I’m done for. And I am—utterly lost.

He continues down, across my belly. I concentrate, with some difficulty, and make a small change. He stops. I feel his soft laughter against my skin, grinning as he raises his head, his chin coming to rest somewhere below my navel. I shrug and smile down at him.

“Carpet has to match the curtains.”

“You’re amazing.”

Gawd, I’m still wearing the socks!

I reach down but he swats my hand away.

‘Leave ‘em.’

Backtracking to my belly button, he then continues his journey south, watching me as he goes. The feeling of his breath on my skin sends the blood rushing through me. He slips a finger inside. My eyes close, my back arches involuntarily as he strokes his fingers in and out of me. His mouth covers me, his teeth scrape my skin… tongue moves over…

“Merlin, Morgan, and Malory.”

“Don’t swear,” he chuckles against me.

I twist the sheet around my wrist and cram it in my mouth; because I can’t think of a retort, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I want to scream his name. I can’t take much more of this. Fuck… I run my fingers through his hair and attempt to push him off. No. I squeeze my thighs together and try again. He raises his head.

“Come here.”

He grins and moves up my body.

My fingers find the waistband of his jeans and I tug gently on it, undoing the top button. He keeps himself just out of my reach.

“Naughty,” he scolds.

“Pot… kettle…” is all I manage between his fervid kisses.

I hate it when I don’t get my own way.

It takes me but a fraction of a second to flip him onto his back; my knees on his elbows, I pin him to the bed. He actually looks surprised.

“Learned that in Auror training, did you?”

“Handy, isn’t it?”

“Do you normally do it starkers? Because I can’t think of any wizard, Dark or otherwise, who would object to this.”

“Be quiet.”

“Yes ma’am. So, what are you going to do with me,” he smirks, “now that I’m helpless?”

In answer, I move down and finish unbuttoning his jeans. He closes his eyes; his hips move against my hands, begging me to touch him. Not yet. I grasp his waistband and pull his jeans off his hips and down his legs. No pants. Charlie doesn’t believe in pants. I sit back, considering him for a moment: my naked friend, his hands behind his head watching me look at him, stupid grin on his face, his erection lying hard on his belly. Beautiful. I can’t help but smile.

Weasley is my king.

I lie over him, my mouth covering his and his hands moving over my body. My kisses move down his neck to the freckles that cover his shoulders… over his chest, playing lightly on his nipples… he loves this… moving down to his abdomen… I love his abdomen… love the rippling of his muscles… love the soft gold and ginger curls trailing down… Love the power rush it gives me as I run my tongue up the smooth, hot, velvet of his arousal and he grabs handfuls of blankets and calls my name.

He’s watching me as I take him in my mouth. His hands move from the blankets to my hair; his eyes close briefly. He breathes a groan that refreshes my goose bumps. But he doesn’t let me play for long; his hips buck toward me and moments later, he’s lifting me, pulling me up his body so my mouth meets his once more.

“I need to be inside you,” comes the hoarse whisper in my ear as he pushes me back to the mattress and pulls himself over me. I run my hand down his shaft and guide him in, filling myself so completely with him. Merli....

“Fuck, Nymph.”

“Don’t swear.”

Why the hell don’t we do this?

My body responds automatically to his, remembering, mapping, as we set our pace. God, I’ve missed him. I know him so well; know what makes him moan, what makes him swear, what makes him....

Smiling to myself I start it, what I know I do best: I shift to meet him, moulding myself to his every stroke. His breathing hastens, he won’t last much longer if I keep this up, but then neither… Merlin… fu…

Suddenly, my hands are pulled over my head, and he’s pinning me to the mattress with the full weight of his body.

“You’re morphing,” he growls, his lips dragging over my ear.

“Am I?” I feign innocence and continue to do it.

“You’re going to kill me.”

“No, I’m going to make you come.”

His grip tightens on my wrists; he pulls back and drives deep into me; and, again, I wrap my legs around him; I feel him begin to shudder. He explodes into me, pulling me over the edge with him.

His name escapes my lips.

Coherent thought fails me.

I open my eyes to a sleepy smile and a fluttering of kisses.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He kisses my lips and moves beside me… leaving me. I hate it when he leaves me. My head finds his shoulder; his arms close around me. He reaches down and pulls the blankets and quilt over us.

“We ...”

“Mmm. Don’t care.”

“Stupid not to really.”

“Agreed.”

Not stupid. I know better.

“How’s the work?” he asks. Pathetic attempt to avoid the obvious, Charlie.

“It’s going really well, actually. Perhaps, one day I’ll have my own desk.”

“Still on the bottom rung?”

“Yeah, but really, I love it. I can’t imagine doing anything else anymore. What about you?” I ask, pulling myself up on my elbows. “How’s the dragon taming going?”

“I don’t tame dragons, I study them.” He notices my grin. “And you, of course, know that.”

“I do.” Button pushed.

He pulls me on top of him, lacing his fingers on the small of my back. I rest my chin on my hands looking down at his face.

“Well the dragon taming,” he smiles, “has been difficult of late. First we had to convince the various Ministries that we’d actually found a breeding pair of diamond-backed short-nose and then to allow us to track them in their migration… Well, it’s done now—won’t bore you with the details—you found the camp; cave’s over the next ridge.”

“Still, took me forever to find you.”

“You should’ve owled me. Had I known you were coming I would never have gone to the pub; I would’ve tidied up a bit.”

“Didn’t really give it that much thought.”

“No?”

“No. It’s just ... when everything goes to shit ... there’s no place .. well...”

“You’re welcome here even if your life isn’t shit; know that.”

“Thank you. Gawd.” I thump him lightly on the shoulder. “Why don’t they have dragons in London?”

“Well to start with, they’d eat people, wouldn’t they? Anyway, London can’t be all it’s cracked up to be if you had to come all the way out here for a good rogering.”

“There are plenty of blokes willing to roger me senseless in London, thank you very much.”

He laughs. “Senseless, eh?”

“Don’t start.”

“I do amaze myself, sometimes.”

“Smarmy git.” I bring a pillow down in his face.

He pushes it back at me laughing. “...Not the same if he’s not a Weasley.”

“You have four brothers in London, don’t you?”

“You dare!”

“No, couldn’t. I don’t need your mother hating me any more than she does.”

“Mum doesn’t hate you.”

“Doesn’t really like me though, does she?”

“Course not; you defiled her boy.”

“Well, she wouldn’t have had to witness it, if she’d have sent an owl before Apparating into your flat at eleven o’clock at night on Christmas Eve.”

“Mum and Dad just wanted to surprise me.”

“And they did!”

“You know,” he kisses me, “I don’t think Dad stopped grinning ‘til New Year.”

“I didn’t need to know that.” I didn’t, really.

“Seems like ages ago now.”

“Yet the humiliation is still quite fresh.”

“Oh, come on; it wasn’t that bad.”

“Yes, it was. You should have seen the looks your mother gave me this past Christmas while we were decorating Grimmauld Place. Granted, I broke a few things… started a small fire, but that’s not what that look was for. That look specifically said ‘tart’.”

He laughs. “Are you at number twelve all the time, now?”

“Mostly. Don’t think I’ve been home more than three nights in the past month. Can’t remember the last time I saw my friends or went to a café, even a Muggle one.”

“Well... I’ll be in London Tuesday night—the ‘every member must attend’ meeting, actually includes me this time. I’ve got to give my report to Dumbledore. But I promise, when it’s over, we’ll go to a café, that little Muggle one down by the tube station, and you can order that caramel thingy you like so much.”

He remembers. “I’d like that.”

I move up and kiss him again, enjoying the warmth of his lips, the softness, the flavour of him… of us.

As I slide back, his fingers stay in my hair, and his eyes hold mine. “Won’t do me any good to ask you to stay ‘til then, will it?” he asks. “It’s only two days.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“Just thought I’d ask.”

And there it is; what I’ve been trying not to recall—the Why. It all comes crashing down on me now. This is too hard: the goodbyes, the missed weekends, broken promises on both our parts, months of being alone. And then, he'll go and... He'll break my heart... And... I hate him.

How could I have forgotten that I hate him?

His arms tighten around me yet he says nothing . I do hate him... but ... I need him... I need to get as close to him as possible and to stay there as long as I can. Tightening my embrace, I drop my head to his chest.

Tomorrow will come, it's inevitable, but for now, I’ll lie here, wrapped in his arms, listening to the rain on the roof and the rhythmic music of his heartbeat-- once more in the middle of nowhere.

~Fin.