Consequences

Chapter 3: A Rock and a Weasley


It’s nice to walk through my own front door. Not Mum and Dad’s house, not Jon’s flat, not the box room at Grimmauld Place. My home. With my mess, my things, my empty cupboards. I open the pantry door in hopes of finding something more than the half packet of hedgehog-flavoured crisps that I know is in there. Hoping Mum has come by and filled my shelves like she used to when I was training. No such luck. So crisps it is. They’re most likely stale, but beggars can’t be choosers and I really don’t want to go out again tonight. I got another little lecture from the old lady who lives downstairs as I came in. I should put on a coat; I’ll catch my death of cold. I should eat more; I look emaciated. Emaciated? Granted, my clothes are feeling looser this week but I wouldn’t go that far. Suppose that’s what you get on a steady diet of caffeine and Pot Noodles, supplemented, of course, by the occasional bag of stale crisps.

Speaking of caffeine ... I could use a cup of tea. I know tea is something I do have.

I rummage for the tea and put the kettle on. This is the earliest I’ve gotten home from work in ages. It’s odd. And I can’t quite decide what to do. Well, yes, I can.

Is it pathetic to want to put your pyjamas on at seven o’clock on a Saturday night? Probably. But then, I’m finding I do pathetic rather well recently. That’s all I really want to do. Pyjamas, good book, roaring fire and a cup of tea. Later perhaps a nice sleeping draft and in bed by nine o’clock.

I head into my bedroom and dig through my drawers until I find my favourite, and therefore most threadbare, pair of pyjamas. They used to be red, but now they’re a rather sad pinkish-orange colour and I’ve resewn the buttons many times. I’ve never been able to sew straight. Don’t care though, they’re soft and warm and no one is going to see me in them anyway. When I pull the blanket off the end of my bed a paperback book falls to the floor. My rather tatty copy of ‘The Tartan Rogue’ the third and best book in Molly Malone’s ‘Mists on the Moor’ series.
That’ll do nicely. When was I reading that last? Slinging the blanket over my shoulder and tucking the book under my arm I sprint back into the kitchen to rescue the kettle which is now whistling madly on the cooker.

I make my tea, take up my crisps, blanket and book and retreat fireside, creating a roaring blaze in the hearth with a flick of my wand. I’ve always had the knack for fires.

Oh yeah, crisps are stale. Not too bad though. At least they’re not soft yet. Where was I in this book?

There’s a knock on my front door.

Bugger.

When I open it though, there’s no one there, just a dinner tray hovering in the air. With a covered plate and bowl and a steaming mug of cider. I must really look like I need to be fed.

‘Thank you, Mrs Fuller!’ I call downstairs.

‘You’re quite welcome, dear. The small bowl is your pudding. Eat, you’ll feel much better. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

Not quite believing my luck, I take my newly acquired dinner tray and kick my front door shut. I set the tray down on my small kitchen table and uncover it. Ooh. Toad-in-the hole, cabbage and baked beans. I love Mrs Fuller. Actually, she reminds me a bit of Molly Weasley. Well ... if Molly were ancient, had blue hair, loved cats, and of course, actually liked me.

Dinner’s fantastic. At first I have grand ideas that I’ll actually be able to finish all of it, but about half way through I realise it’s just not going to happen. Not if I want to eat my pudding as well, and I do. Because it’s treacle pudding with custard. I wrap up the remnants of my dinner and put them away for lunch, or, more likely, breakfast tomorrow.

I take my pudding and my cider and curl up once more in front of the fire with Ms Malone’s most excellent book, pulling the coffee table up against the sofa so that everything is within easy reach. The pudding is sweet and sticky and fabulous and I am so enthralled by it I nearly forget about my reading. Nearly, but not quite ... I love this book.

A violent storm and a fearful horse have left Alison Devaney stranded on a deserted moor in the Scottish Highlands. She is rescued by Sir Callum MacKay, Laird of Glencairn and archnemisis of Alison’s dreaded uncle Angus. The rogue MacKay has taken her back to his castle for the night. She is told to stay in her room but her curiousity about he man is piqued and she wanders through the corridors and eventually up to the tallest tower. There she finds MacKay, the tormented Laird, standing on the precipice in the driving rain ... and ... well ... it’s a good bit. That’s why the corner of the page; page 149 to be exact, has been folded down so many times.

But this time Callum McKay isn’t the tall, dark, adonis, Ms Malone describes. This time, he has ginger hair and dark blue-green eyes. His shoulders are broad and muscular and covered in freckles. His chest and abs remind me of statues I’ve seen in museums, as if he’s been chiseled out of marble. Gold and ginger curls trail down from navel. And his throbbing manhood, as Ms Malone so eloquently describes it. Well ... what can I say ... the boy’s got girth.

I let the book fall to my chest, and I sink further back into the softness of the cushions, allowing my gaze to sweep the room.


There’s nothing soft about Charlie. His body is thick and hard. He has scars and burns up his forearms, across his shoulders, and down his left thigh; that’s new. His fingers are long, rough, blunt, his hands broad and callused, but I love the way they feel on my skin. As they sweep my sides, slide down my back, grab at my bum. As his fingers ...

Stop it.

Memories live in this a flat, regardless of whether or not I permit myself to dwell on them.

He sat on this sofa six years ago and swore he’d be mine forever. And pledged the same to him. He kissed me as I spoke it. Laid me down on the blanket in front of the fire. This blanket I believe. I pull it tighter around me. I’m suddenly cold again
.
Were we foolish or just childish? We believed.

We didn’t understand then what we do now. We were spoilt by the examples set by our parents, misled, made to believe that ‘happily ever after’ was the norm and not a near unattainable ideal. That lesson we had to learn for ourselves.

He’s everywhere here if I allow him to be. He’s in the kitchen making me breakfast. Eggs a la Charlie. I was always afraid to ask what was in them. He’s trying to fix the squeak on the front door and making it so much worse. He’s sitting here tying newspaper into knots for the fire. He’s singing ‘Spank’s Anthem’ in the shower. He’s in my bed. It took forever for me to get the scent of him out of the pillows. I scourgified everything umpteen times. But nights like this I wish I hadn’t. Wish there was something left.

So I shut my eyes and allow the memories to play. I know I shouldn’t, know full well it’s self-destructive, self-defeating, but I do it anyway. I love them. And I hate them.

He decided we needed to shag in every room in the flat that weekend two years ago. He told me this, whispered it to me, as I was falling asleep on Friday night. Sleepy, post-coital, content, I didn’t really take him seriously. I remember muttering, ‘Hmm ... that’d be good,’ wrapping myself further in his arms and, fade to black. I hadn’t taken him seriously. Until ...

I had just gotten out of the shower and he was there, leaning against the wall of the bathroom watching me dry off. I ignored him at first, hung up my towel, wiped a clean space in the mist on the mirror and ran my fingers through my hair, trying to decide who I wanted to be that day.

I could see him standing behind me, not moving, barely blinking. Just staring at me with a look of rapt concentration, slightly drunken concentration actually. His eyes never left my body. When I decided on blond he moved, and I suddenly felt the cold porcelain of the sink pressed against my belly, warm denim against my backside. His arms slid around my waist, up my torso, over my breasts. He pulled me back firmly against him. He dropped this head down, lips moving from my shoulders over my neck and up to my ear.

‘I want it dark,’ he whispered. Just the tone of his voice sent shivers down my spine.

‘What?’

‘Your hair. I want it dark; I want it yours.’

But his right hand had made its way down between my legs, making it impossible for me to concentrate on anything but the exquisite feeling of rough fingers on soft skin.

I made the change.

I knew it was wrong when my hair fell down my back, before I even opened my eyes and saw it in the mirror. It was long and dark purple. I looked at him in the mirror and he just smiled, continued tugging playfully on my earlobe with his teeth. I turned my head and captured his mouth, running my hand down his right forearm, stilling his fingers briefly while I made the change. His hand squeezed my left breast, pulled gently at my hardened nipple, trying to distract me again. This time though, I got it right and he immediately buried his face in my hair.

‘You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.’

The comment earned a small laugh from me.

‘You are,’ he continued, his lips tugging on my earlobe again. I pushed my hips back into him and he groaned against my neck.

His other hand released my breast and moved between us. I heard the soft clink of his buckle and the tongue of his belt slid across my lower back. Then a clunk as said buckle hit the bathroom floor along with his jeans. His fingers left me slowly, his arm slid up around my waist, lifting my hips, pulling me onto the tips of my toes. The hand he had between us slid up my back and he pushed me forward, the flat of his palm between my shoulder blades. The basin was cool on my forearms, my hands gripped the sides tightly, my knuckles white. I dropped my head down and shut my eyes.

‘No,’ he said, leaning over me, his voice husky with anticipation. ‘Watch. Watch us.’

I looked up into the mirror again and was surprised by what I saw there, not just in his face but in my own. My eyes were darker than normal, still mine, still gray, but darker. My cheeks were flushed, lips red and swollen. And him staring at me, oh God, the way he was looking at me: wanton, demanding, feral, but I’ve never felt so loved, or so wanted. I felt his knees bend, felt his thighs on the backs of mine, watched him bite down on his lower lip as he pushed into me. I fought to keep my eyes open, to keep eye contact as the pleasure of our connection washed over me. Charlie, in that moment, was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Did he know then that it would be our last weekend together? Was he already seeing her?

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Why the hell do I do this to myself?

But last Saturday I was his again.

No.

Last Saturday ...

I cheated on Jon.

I feel the tears burn behind my eyes. Cold, dead weight growing steadily in the pit of my stomach.

I’ve betrayed him. What for?

Sanctuary.

A place where I didn’t have to think. Where I didn’t have to feel. Where I didn’t have to hear Moody’s words in my head. ‘I’m sorry. We lost Sirius.’ Lost him? Like he’ll turn up one day? He’s not a bloody house key, Mad-Eye. No. He’s dead! Dead because of Bellatrix. Dead because of my bitch of an aunt whom I failed to defeat at the Ministry.

Somewhere I didn’t have to see Remus, standing against the wall of the ward, looking older than I’ve ever seen him. Looking like he couldn’t take another step.

Where I didn’t have to answer any questions. Where I didn’t have to watch my mother fall apart. Sirius was innocent, Mum. I’ve known for two years but couldn’t tell you. I can tell you now because he’s dead. He died tonight at the hand of your elder sister, who, by the way, also put me in here.

I needed Charlie. But I had no right to do that to Jon.

Selfish. Bitch.

What the hell am I going to do?

Aside from wallow in self-pity.

Get off your arse.

I disengage myself from the blanket and walk slowly into the bathroom, splash water on my face and scrub a towel over it. Don’t feel remotely better.

I need to put the kettle on again, make myself a sleeping draft and go to bed.

There’s another rap on my front door.

I don’t need anymore food Mrs Fuller. I don’t need any washing done. I don’t need a cat for company.

But it’s not Mrs Fuller. Instead I’m greeted by a bouquet of flowers, and Jon, standing behind them.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ he says, moving the flowers down from his face. They’re Gerberas, my favourite.

‘What are you doing here?’ I step aside and let him in.

He hands the flowers to me and kisses my cheek. ‘Am I not allowed to turn up unannounced?’

‘Course you are. It’s just ... well ... I wasn’t expecting ...’ I glance down at my attire, ‘ratty ‘jamas and all.’

‘You look gorgeous.’ He grins at me. ‘Even with custard on your nose.’

My hand immediately flies up to my face but he brushes his finger across the bridge of my nose. He licks his finger.

‘Gorgeous, and tasty too.’

‘I thought you’d be working tonight.’ I fill a vase with water and arrange the flowers in it on the kitchen table. So pretty. They do wonders to brighten my dreary little kitchen, and my mood. He removes his coat and hangs it on the hook, ambling over to the sofa. He takes up my vacated seat, stretching out his long body and removing his tie.

‘No. Mudge is finally back from holidays, so he’s on tonight.’

‘So you thought you’d pay me a visit?’

‘Well, I got home from work and you weren’t in my bed, so I thought I’d come over and see if you’ll let me into yours.’

‘And the flowers?’ I follow his path to the sofa, taking a seat on the back of it and looking down on him.

‘Just because. Well, because I’ve been a bugger, working all the long hours and such. Sorry. Been rather neglectful this past week, haven’t I?’

‘I’ve been working long hours myself.’

He picks up my book from the coffee table. ‘Whatcha reading?’ I dive over the back of the sofa to get it but he grabs it out of my way easily. His arm sweeps around my waist, pulling me into his lap. ‘Molly Malone?’

‘Yes, okay. Give it back.’ I manage to wriggle free and lunge for my book again.

‘No.’ He stands up, holding it over his head. Jumping doesn’t help me; he’s a foot taller than I am. Stepping quickly around the other side of the coffee table, he opens the book and begins to read. ‘His hand caressed her ample bosom ...’

‘Jon.’

‘Oh, oh ... wait ... wait ... we have hardness ... straining to be released ...’

He’s laughing, looking down at me and I can’t help but laugh myself.

‘Jon!’

‘Darling, this is pure smut.’

‘Oh, and I suppose you read Lascivious for the articles?’

‘I do. I read one the other day about an influx of cheap cauldrons into the British black market.’

I have to give him credit for a least trying to keep a straight face whilst spewing such rubbish.

‘If you read Lascivious for the articles then I read Molly Malone just to nit-pick the historical inaccuracies in modern literature.’

‘Historical inaccuracies, eh?’ He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me tightly to him. The book is still in his hand behind my back. He thumbs through the pages. ‘So my poor girl is here all on her tod, reading a porn ... an erotic,’ he smiles down at me, ‘novel. What a crap boyfriend she must have.’

‘He’s not crap.’ I slide my hands up his chest, wrap my arms around his neck and stand on my toes to kiss him. ‘He’s wonderful, just hard working.’

‘Not around to do his duty?’

‘Duty?’

‘Relieving some of the obvious tension you must feel if you’ve resorted to reading Ms Malone.’

‘Obvious?’

‘Merlin, yes. Just look at you.’

‘What?’

‘Seductively tousled hair ... sexiest pyjamas on the planet.’

‘Oh, please.’

He runs a finger across my shoulder rubbing the thin fabric of my collar between his thumb and forefinger.

‘You do know I can see through this.’

I didn’t, actually.

‘So were you actually reading the book, or just skipping to the good parts? One of these pages with the folded corners, perhaps?’ I hear him thumb through the pages behind my head. ‘Mmmm.’ His mouth drops to my ear. ‘Is this what you want me to do to you?’

If you mean taking me away to a Scottish castle and doing me up against the turret in the pouring rain, then yes.

‘Well, unfortunately it’s not raining, and we are in London.’

Merlin, how did he know that? Ah ... page one hundred and fourty-nine!

‘But I think I can improvise. School would be perfect. Though I’m sure Dumbledore would be none too happy to find us shagging on the precipice of the Astronomy tower. Though with almost a thousand randy teenagers I’m sure it’s been done.’

I know it’s been done.

‘We don’t have a tower, or a thunderstorm.’ He bends closer, kissing me and I draw his plush lower lip into my mouth. He tastes like honey, I don’t know how or why as I’ve never seen him eat it, but he always does.

‘We do have a shower.’ He starts steering me backward toward the bathroom.

No. Not there. Not tonight.

‘Wait. How about page two hundred and seven instead?’

‘Mmmm. Two hundred and seven.’ He stops, pinning me against the door jam. ‘What’s on page two hundred-seven?’ He flips through the book again. ‘Oh, now, love ...’

We’re changing direction, moving swiftly into my bedroom. The buttons of my top are undone before we reach the door. Mouths fused together, I back onto my bed, pulling him with me. Mentally cursing the inventor of the oxford, I get about half of his buttons undone before I try and push his shirt off over his shoulders.

My fingers slide over his shoulders and down his back, smooth skin, soft skin, olive, unblemished, perfect. It should be thrilling, but his skin is too smooth, too soft, unmarked by fire or claw. His sweet lips part from mine and he begins to leave a trail of heat from my earlobe to my collarbone, but something’s not right. Usually every nerve in my body would be waiting in anticipation for a brush from those lips, a touch from those fingers, but this time ... Every nerve is on edge, every muscle tense as he sucks at my sensitive neck, drawing the skin into his mouth and using his teeth.

Moving down, his tongue laps at my collarbone, moving slowly to the warm hollow of my throat. Warm, smooth hands caress my breasts. Spreading his hand wide over my breast, he draws it slowly straight up, causing his fingers to move feather-light toward my hardened nipple.

Desperate to rid myself of this impending sense of hopelessness, I thread my fingers through his chocolate hair and down over his shoulders, pulling him closer, longing to be able to lose myself in him again. Why can’t I?

It’s different.

Changed.

I am aware of every touch of his fingertips, every brush of his lips on my skin. Screaming at me, making my skin crawl as he pushes my worn pyjama bottoms down. His tongue encircles my navel, kisses trail down my belly, his hands push my thighs apart. I feel his breath against my center, his tongue ...

No.

I can’t do this!

‘What?’ Jon’s voice.

It takes me a moment to realise I’m sitting bolt upright in bed. That I’ve pushed him away.

‘I’m sorry. I can’t.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing ... I ... it’s ... I’ve just got too much on my mind ... work and ...’

‘Darling, you just need to relax.’ He moves behind me, his hands on my shoulders, kissing my neck. For a few minutes it works. His thumbs dig into the tight muscles in my shoulders. I let my head fall back, relax, but as his hands move over my breasts and down my stomach I feel every muscle in me stiffen again.

No.

‘No, Jon.’ I turn to him. ‘I can’t. Not tonight. I meant it.’

‘All right then.’ He slides off the bed, running his fingers through his longish hair, nearly tugging on it. He’s upset. He pulls on his boots and buckles his belt. ‘Guess I’ll be going.’

I’ve hurt him. I know I have.

‘Jon, please ... please don’t be angry.’

‘Not angry,’ he responds curtly. He’s buttoning his shirt like he’s angry. I try and take his hand but he pulls back to finish his buttons.

‘Jon?’ He softens. And I slide both my hands into one of his. ‘Jon.’

He shakes his head. ‘I know. Work. Your cousin. I’m not angry. Really. But I am going to go.’ He pulls on his jacket. I pull on my dressing gown and walk to the door with him, holding his hand, hugging his arm to me. I need to know that he’s okay, that we’re okay, that everything is going to be all right. I run my hands over his shoulders, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him down so his forehead rests against mine.

‘I love you,’ I whisper, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.

‘I love you too.’ He kisses me. ‘Try and get some sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning. Goodnight.’

And he’s gone.

I shut the door behind him and find myself leaning back against it, sliding down to the floor.

What just happened?

The room is spinning, the walls seem to be closing in on me. I have to get out of here.

*

Six years ago I swore I’d be his.

In what twisted, sadistic little world am I forced to keep a promise I made when I was eighteen?

Even as I walk up the front path to Grimmauld Place, I can’t think why my feet have led me here. Perhaps it’s the hopes of seeing a familiar face. Or just a bed that’s never seen Charlie Weasley. I’m hoping Remus is here, or Bill, someone I can chat to about nothing, someone who can distract me. Hell, I’d even take Moody at the moment, Order business, missing buttocks, I don’t really care.

The house is eerily quiet as I make my way upstairs. Remus isn’t in his room. The kitchen?

‘Check.’ I hear Bill’s voice as I reach the bottom of the staircase. Good. Perhaps they’re both down here. When I cross the threshold of the kitchen of the I freeze. Two figures sit at the end of the long table. Two ginger heads bent over the chessboard, a bottle of McDonal’s between them. One is taller, darker, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail, dressed in his usual bankers’ black from head to toe, and the other ... the other ... has my heart racing ...

I want to run.

~