Consequences

Chapter 5: Senseless.

I used to come here as a child. With my dad, whenever we’d visit my great uncle Robert. We’d walk up to the castle and down here to the Holy Rude. And through this graveyard, Dad pointing out the gravestones of long-dead Muggles who I may, or may not, be distantly related to. Me, in my Sunday best, my tongue and lips stained bright pink with the rock candy uncle Robert would always give me, listening intently to Dad’s every word, as always enraptured by his stories.

But this graveyard looks so much different at night. Colder, darker, but filled with a kind of electric energy as well. Thunder crashes overhead and lightning continues to crack the skies, but the rain hasn’t come yet. It’s like the whole world is standing on the precipice and it’s intoxicating.

The anti-Disapparation charms have been set; if the bastard’s still here he’s not going anywhere.

There were rumours that he had been sighted here in Stirling two days ago. Deuteronomy Arbuckle. Mass murderer and general all-round sadistic bastard. His photo has been up on the wall of Kingsley’s cubicle for the last three months, since his escape from the South African prison that has housed him for the past seventeen years.

I pick my way through the various monuments and gravestones. Somewhere here are two more members of Magical Law Enforcement. Alive or dead? We found the third when we arrived, his bloodied body impaled through the iron gates of Mar’s Wark. Toast-racked, as Kingsley referred to it. One of them sent a distress signal not ten minutes ago, but since Kingsley and I arrived there has been no sign of them, save the dead one.

Why on earth Law Enforcement chose to confront him, I have no idea. Why the hell didn’t they just call us in to begin with?

There is a sudden burst of light from the far side of the church and I hear a voice shouting curses.

And I’m running down the slope, staying just off the path keeping as close to the church as possible. Lightning bursts overhead. And I see him. He’s there, beneath that tree. A small dark figure, barely visible in the night. Kingsley must be near him but his Disillusionment Charm keeps him hidden from me.

'Flagello!’

‘Pulso!’

I hear a distinct crack and stone crumbling, as a curse misses its target.

‘Retego!’ I hear the old man call. A jet of purple light shoots out of the darkness.

Shit!

It met its mark. Kingsley, his Disillusionment Charm shattered, dives for the ground as the old man rains curses down at him.

And then I can’t remember half the curses I’m screaming as I throw myself forward into the fray. Don’t care that I’m running headlong at one of the most evil bastards our world has ever known.

‘Pulso!’ It knocks him off his feet but not for long. I’m not close enough for the full effect. Still, it distracts him and Kingsley pulls himself up behind the nearest monument.

‘Retego!’ That’s leveled at me.

I stand my ground and let the charm wash over me. It feels like cold water, but it does nothing. It won’t reveal me to him. That’s the problem with the Disillusionment Charm; a well-placed counter will shatter it. It took me a long time, but I can now come up with my own version of disillusionment. It’s not perfect by any means and it requires a lot of energy, but on nights as dark as this one, it’s very effective and I don’t have to keep changing it. It’s only the lightning strikes I have to worry about. So I stick to the shelter of the trees and monuments.

'Vulnero!’ Kingsley avoids most of it, but it clips his shoulder.

‘Impedimenta!’ Me.

‘Protego! Show yourself!’ Arbuckle cries.

Well, now, that would be stupid, wouldn’t it?

'Pulso!’ Kingsley.

'Pulso!’ Me. Arbuckle blocks Kingsley’s spell but mine hits him full force. He’s lifted off his feet and thrown to the ground.

Ropes shoot out from Kingsley’s wand to bind him, but a single utterance form Arbuckle and they disintegrate to flaming ash.

‘Petrificus Totalis!’ Blocked.

'Retego!’ I shiver as the cold water feeling hits me again.

‘Vulnero!' I throw back, but he spins away.

'Avada ...!‘

I hit the ground hard as the monument besides me explodes into flame.

‘Pulso!’ Kingsley throws himself forward.

‘Expelliarmus!’

Yes!

Arbuckle shrieks as his wand flies from his hand, clattering against a marble monument behind him.

‘Pulso!’ Kingsley hits him again.

‘Accio wand.’ His wand arcs up and into my hand.

‘Petricificus Totalis!‘ Kingsley.

And it’s over.

He’s small, shorter than me, and that’s saying something, with wild gray hair and mad dark eyes. Even as we bind him securely he spits at us, and tells us the Dark Lord has risen again and that soon we will all bow down at his feet.

Like hell.

I let Kingsley take him away. I’ll do a sweep of the graveyard, and lift the anti-Disapparation charms as I go. Making sure Arbuckle was the only one here, and hoping also to find the two officers that are still missing.

There are traces of a battle here and there: crumbled headstones, scorched grass and trees, but not enough to give me hope that I’ll find either of them alive. Yet I know one survived long enough to send up a distress signal.

Leaving the main path, I run through the names again in my head. Three young officers: Donnie McLaren, Rory St. John, and Ossian Murphy. MacLaren we’ve found. So, St. John and Murphy. A sick feeling begins to creep through me. I know Ossian Murphy. Oz. He was a couple of years behind me in school. A nice boy, curly hair, jet-black, he played chaser, sent me a Valentine in my last year.

I lift the final charm and make my way up the small hill. Suddenly, I’m flooded with another memory, of running up the stone steps when I was seven or eight to see the map at the top. A round map, wrought in iron, on a stone pedestal. I’d ask Dad about all the buildings, trace the river with my finger ...

'Lumos,’ I whisper as I approach. What I do expect to see is Slamannan Plateau & Southern Uplands. What I didn’t expect is the blood. It’s covered in blood, shining in the light from my wand. Lightning cracks the sky and in the brief seconds of daylight I see the blood in the tree and the on the grass and then the dark bundle up against a gravestone, not two feet away. I raise my wand over my head so as to cast a bit more light. There’s another small pile at the base of the tree. Just pieces. I kneel beside the closest bundle, nothing much recognisable: a mass of fabric, flesh, and blood, but there is a hand, a left hand, with a wedding ring. I step back from the tree and throw an orange mark into the sky.

One down, one to go. Why the hell weren’t we called?

Not so far away, a stone angel stands atop a granite memorial and looks lovingly down on the churchyard. I’ve always been drawn to her. I used to love just looking at her face. She has me transfixed again tonight, but for a different reason. Under her watchful gaze lies the body of a wizard, face down. I make another orange X in the night sky, marking another body to collect, and I drop to my knees beside it. Navy law enforcement robes, jet-black hair.

Fuck. The sick feeling in my stomach rises into my throat. My hand finds his shoulder and I turn him over. His hair is matted to his forehead with blood, thick and dark, and far too much.

But he’s alive. The orange mark I threw into the air I now replace with a red cross.

His breathing is shallow, ragged, but when I touch him, I feel his body stiffen.

'S’okay, Oz. Lie still.’

'Who? What?’ he breathes. His eyes are dark and wide in his pale face. My stomach lurches.

He’s almost bled white.

Shit, I’m still disillusioned, I’d forgotten. I shift again, to the girl he’d recognise, down to the same blue hair I sported for most of seventh year.

'Tonks?’ he whispers, his expression changes to one of relief. A familiar grin spreads across his face and I can't help but smile back at him.

'Yeah.’

'You’re a fecking Auror now, aren’t you?’ That makes me laugh, which, I believe, is why he did it.

'I am.’

'Then someone saw it?’

'You sent the signal?’

He nods. 'Arbuckle?’

'We got him. Oz, what on earth were you ...’

'He was just an old man ... We thought ... if we could ... it’d make Law Enforcement look really good, wouldn’t it?’

Part of me wants to smack him senseless right now. Of all the stupid, fucking things ... Instead, I pry his fingers away from his robes so I can see the damage that’s been done. The fabric is shredded for the most part anyway, and I have no problem tearing it the rest of it away.

All I can see is blood.

The crater in his stomach is full of it. And it’s bubbling slowly from a gash in his chest too. Auror training only covers the basics. I have no idea what to do with this. If he wasn’t watching me, screaming and running comes to mind. But I just smile. 'Let’s see what I can do.’ Waving my wand over the wound I mutter, 'Concresco,’ knowing that, however much I wish it, the charm isn’t strong enough to deal with all of this. The blood is still bubbling up. I push my hand into the mess in hopes of at least stopping the bleeding I can see. 'Dolor Hebeto.’ The only thing I can hope to do is take away some of his pain.

He squeezes my arm. 'Thank you.’

Nodding, I fire more red sparks into the air in a desperate attempt to get them here faster.

'I’ve gone and done it, haven’t I?’ he whispers, pulling my attention back down from the angel above us to him.

'Done what?’

'Gotten myself killed.’

'Don’t be daft. You’ll be all right.’ But I know that’s a big lie. Lie because even though I’m holding tightly, applying as much pressure as I can on his chest, I can still feel his blood seeping through my fingers.

Another crash of thunder and the rain begins. I draw a circle above us in the air with my wand, preparing to shield us from its onslaught.

'No,’ Oz whispers, 'let it fall. I like the rain.’

'Me too.’

He closes his eyes as the rains splashes down on his face, mixing with the blood sending red tears flowing down his cheeks. I bunch the sleeve of my robes in my hand and wipe the blood from his face, lean forward and kiss his forehead. His eyes open again and smiles at me.

There are pops all around us as they Apparate. Wizards and Witches of various description. 'I’ll come and see you later,’ I promise. He nods, and I let go of him and let the Healers do their job, moving backward through the small crowd as it swarms around him. The rain seems to be making everything blurry. They disappear with him soon enough and I stand alone, leaning against the stone angel, watching the clean up begin. It’ll probably take most of the night. They must repair every broken stone, heal every scorch mark, mop up every drop of blood; nothing can be left for the Muggles to find in the morning.

A hand clamps down on my shoulder making me jump; Kingsley is there beside me.

'Come on. We’ve a report to file.’

'Yeah, okay.’

'You all right?’ he asks.

'Fine. You?’

'Shoulder twinges a bit.’ He rubs it absently. 'But I’ll be fine.’

*

It’s after midnight before we finish recounting the events in detail to two different department heads, which for some stupid reason could not sit in the same room and hear it at the same time. I’m dead tired and feeling particularly numb. But there’s one more stop I have to make. I leave the lift at Law Enforcement’s floor and head down the corridor to Sergeant Peterson’s office; Oz's immediate superior. I knock first before opening the door. Peterson sits at his desk poring over stacks of paperwork.

'Excuse me, Sir?’

'What can I do for you, Miss Tonks?’

'Sir, I just wanted to ask ... Ossian Murphy?’

'Dead,’ he replies, not even bothering to look up from his papers.

'I’m sorry, sir.’

He nods, but that is the only acknowledgement I get, so I shut his office door and make my way back down the long dark corridor toward the lifts, trying to prevent the tightness in my chest from rising to my throat. It's not as if I hadn't expected it. Pressing the button for the Atrium, I find myself staring at the mud on my boots. Mud, grass, blood ... The doors open and I step out.

A shadow falls across my path, I look up to see Jon standing there. He smiles, runs his fingers through my hair and cups the side of my face. 'You all right, love?’ he asks. 'I just heard.’

The words won’t come, so instead I slide my arms around his waist, pulling myself to him, burying my face in his chest. He kisses the top of my head and gives me a tight squeeze before pulling back. 'Come on,’ he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. 'Let’s go home.’

I want to. I really do.

*

A short time later, Jon is stoking the fire and I am curled up on his big, squashy, sofa wearing the powder blue robes I conveniently left in his wardrobe.

'Thought I was having a bad day,' he says, turning around and coming to sit beside me. 'Then I get back to the office and I find that not only has my girl been doing battle with dark wizards but that she also had to collect three bodies.

'Two bodies,' I correct. He gives me a quizzical look. 'They weren’t all dead.’

'What?’

'When I found them. They weren’t all dead.’

'Oh, no,' he pulls me closer and wraps his other arm around me as well, pressing his lips to my temple. I take a deep breath, drawing my strength from him.

'Ossian Murphy was alive.’

'Was it bad?’

'Horrible.’ He squeezes my fingers. 'Worse though, because I know him; knew him.’

'Oh, Merlin,’ he breathes.

'He was at Hogwarts.’

'Would I’ve ...’

'No.’ I shake my head. 'He was two years behind me. You were long gone by then.’

'Were you friends?’

'No, can’t say that we were, not really. I never knew the man. I just remember the boy. He was very funny. Played Chaser for Slytherin. Wicked fast. Spent a lot of time sitting outside Dumbledore’s office.’

'Undoubtedly that’s why you remember him so well.’ He smiles down at me, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. 'Since it has been rumoured you did a lot of that yourself.’

'Very funny.’ I look past him and into the flames. Still, I can’t get that image of Oz out of my head. 'There wasn’t a damn thing I could do.’

'Oh, sweetheart.’ He tightens his embrace and I let my head fall back against him.

'I’m just so fucking tired, Jon.’

After a time, he pulls back and looks at me sternly.

'You eaten today?’

Have I? Hmmm ... yes. 'I had a Cauldron Cake around lunchtime.’

'Are you hungry at all?’

'Come to think of it, a bit, yeah.’

'Stay,’ he says, sliding off the sofa. He disappears into the bathroom and soon I hear the water running. A few minutes later he’s with me again. 'Close your eyes,' he says, as he takes my hand and leads me behind him. The first thing I smell is lilac. The air feels wet and warm. It's darker in here than it was in the sitting room.

'Can I open my eyes yet?'

'Yes.'

Candles flicker around the room, hazy lights in the steam rising from the bath. The bath. The bath is full of bubbles, soft, and pink, and nearly overflowing the edges. I feel myself shiver in the warmth of the room. It's lovely. With a grateful smile, I turn to Jon, sliding my arms around his waist. 'You’re amazing.'

He kisses me softly, his hands slipping through my hair and down over my shoulders.

'Jon?’

'What would you say to a nice warm bath and a good takeaway?’

'Mmmm ... Love it.’

'Good.' His hands start undoing the clasps on my robes. They pool at my feet moments later. I step out of them and he hangs them up on the back of the door. He kisses my lips again, as he unclasps my bra and I slide my arms through the straps. Kneeling in front of me, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my pants he pulls them down and off, placing soft kisses on my belly, leaving waves of warmth in his wake. Part of me wants more, wants him to do more, wants to know how it would feel to have my legs wrapped around his waist and my back pressed up against the cold tile of the bathroom wall. But I know he won’t, even if he wants to, it’s not his style; he’s always the gentleman.

So instead he slides his hands up my body and stands up again. 'In you go,’ he says as I step into the bath and sink blissfully down into the warmth of the water and bubbles. 'Is it okay?’

'It’s lovely.’

'Be back in a bit.’ He leans down and kisses me again, leaving his sweet taste lingering on my lips. 'Don’t go anywhere.’

'Couldn’t if I tried.’ I lean back and shut my eyes. My mind begins to wander again.

The truth is, Jon is right. Spending time in the corridor outside Dumbledore’s office is how I knew Oz. Trading stories of crimes and punishments, sharing Fizzing Whizzbees and daring each other to hold Acid Pops on our tongues for longer than the recommended three seconds at a time. I liked him. He was a really nice kid. What I imagine Sirius would have been like at that age.

But now the image of Oz in my head is so different: with a hole the size of a Quaffle in his stomach and ... The fear in his face. He knew. I can’t help but wonder if it was like that when Sirius died. They told me he fell through the veil in the Death Room. But was that it? Was it painless? Was there blood? Was it quick, or did he suffer like those boys did tonight? Like Oz did. I can’t bring myself to ask Remus. And I’d never think of asking Harry. But part of me really wants to know.

My morbid reverie is interrupted moments later by Jon’s reappearance in the doorway, a steaming pizza box in one hand and a six pack of Butterbeer in the other. The full-strength stuff, too. Not for the kiddies.

I pull myself up in the bath and grab a towel down off the rail. 'Hand me my robes?’ I ask Jon.

'No. Stay where you are. Go on, relax. I will bring pizza to you.’ He pulls the chair that normally sits against the far wall up beside the bath, places the pizza box on the seat as I slide back into the bath and he sits on the floor beside it. He opens two Butterbeer and hands me one. When he opens the pizza box, steam rises into the air.

'Ham and pineapple with mushrooms, your favourite I believe.’

'Thank you.’ I hadn't realised I was actually hungry until now. Just the smell of it is making my stomach rumble. I pull large slice from the box. It's thick, and hot, and dripping with cheese. It's been ages since I've had pizza, I'd forgotten how wonderful it is.

Jon smiles and winks at me as he bites into his slice. 'Good, eh.'

'Fabulous.' And he is.

*

Two Butterbeers and nearly three huge slices of pizza later, I finally manage to drag myself out of the bath. Jon has already gone to bed. I run my fingers through my wet hair a few times and pull on my dressing gown. Checking my look in the mirroe one last time before I leave the bathroom.

He’s sitting up in bed when I decide to join him. Shirtless, and reading the latest Colm Canty novel. He looks up and smiles at me over the rims of his glasses.

'Hi gorgeous.’

'Hi.’

'Come here.’ He sets his book and his glasses down on the bedside table and stretches his hand out toward me. Walking around his side of the bed, I slide my hand into his and he draws me slowly to him, hooking his hands around my waist.

'Feeling better?’

'Yes, thank you. Thanks for the beer and the pizza.’

He shrugs. 'It’s my job.’

'Job?’

'Sworn duty as the boyfriend.’ He pulls me closer still; I slip onto the edge of the bed and he pulls me onto his lap.

'Is it?’

'Mmmm ...’ His nose nuzzles into my neck and he drops soft kisses there, sending warm shivers washing over me. 'You smell incredible.’

'Soaking in the tub for an hour or so will do that to you.’

His hands slide through my still very wet, still very blue, hair. Wrapping it around his fingers. 'I don’t think I’ve seen it quite this colour before.’

'Do you like it?’

'I do.’

His lips meet mine. Just lightly at first, barely brushing them. I slide my arms around his neck and lean into the kiss, running my tongue across the softness of his lips. He opens his mouth for me, sweet and soft, his tongue darting out to meet my own. He pulls me across his lap, pushing me gently backward to the mattress; never breaking our connection. Tugging the sash of my dressing gown undone, his hands slide up my body, briefly cupping my breasts before he pulls himself over me, his knee nudging my thighs apart. As the blankets fall away I realise he's not only shirtless, he's everything-less. It pleases me. It's nice to know I'm wanted. Closing my eyes, I place kisses on his collarbone and chest as he curls his body over mine and pushes slowly into me. I draw my knees up, close my eyes and concentrate on every sensation he is causing, trying desperately to recover what we used to have. The way I used to feel when he fucked me. I run my hands over his chest and down his back the way his skin feels under my hands, warm, soft ... smooth, so smooth ... Don’t go there. Don’t, don’t, don’t ... Still, I'm inundated with a flash of ginger, but it is only brief.

I force myself to look up at him as we move together, to see his face. His eyes are shut, the lashes dark against this olive-coloured skin and I hold onto him tighter, my body arching up to meet his own.

I feel the familiar tension building up inside of me with every thrust of his hips. Ever the gentleman, he works me in smooth, long strokes. Never impatient; never losing control; always making sure I get there first. His lips part and a soft litany of sounds that might be words escape: 'want; need; love.' I close my eyes, and wish I could close my ears as well.

I want this. I need it. I need to feel something soft and warm and familiar after the past few days of so much turmoil. I take a deep breath, inhaling the mingled scent of lilacs, sweat and sex. Lilac ... Stop. “Harder,” I whisper, gasping when he obliges. I open my eyes and he’s looking at me, watching me, his beautiful mouth curved in a smile. I smile back, wetting my lips, deliberately exaggerating the arch of my back with his next stroke. His smile broadens and he picks up the pace.

I become aware of the ridiculous amount of creaking coming from the bed and it makes me laugh, the sound bubbling up out of nowhere and a little hysterical. Jon’s mouth covers mine and stills my laughter, his tongue in my mouth giving me that little push over the edge as he grinds his pelvis into mine.

He waits for me to finish and a few sharp thrusts later his body stiffens and his moans fill the room and his body slumps over mine. He slides down beside me, wrapping me in his arms, kissing the side of my face. We lay there in sweet silence for a time sharing sporadic kisses but no unnecessary words. Soon I hear his breathing deepen and I know he’s falling asleep.

There was a time, not too long ago, when I loved this. Loved lying here in his arms. Loved pulling him closer. When we slept, our bodies fitted perfectly together. My leg over his, my arm slung across his chest, my head on his shoulder. Both his arms wrapped around me, his fingers laced on my hip.

Perfect.

But tonight I can’t get comfortable. Can’t relax. Can’t sleep. When you lie in the arms of the man you love, you’re supposed to be able to sleep, aren’t you? It’s supposed to be easy.

'I’m just going to get a drink,’ I whisper, sliding my hand begrudgingly across the warmth of his chest. With a sleepy groan of acknowledgment he releases me and rolls onto his side. The room feels cold as I slide out of the bed, wrap the dressing gown around me once more, and stuff my feet into Jon’s far too big slippers. I shuffle off to the kitchen in search of a packet of sleeping draft, or at least the ingredients to make the stuff myself.

After finding a mug and putting the kettle on, I begin my search. It’s times like this I’m glad his cupboards are almost all empty. It makes it easier for me to find things. I pull open a drawer in desperation and find it full of everything: takeaway menus, little packets: soya sauce, brown sauce, tomato ketchup, vinegar etc, headache powder, cold remedy, and at the very back I find a box. It’s blue with a drawing of a sheep in a nightcap fast asleep on a haystack. One packet left. It’s six months out of date, and orange flavour (yuck), but it’s all he has, so it’ll have to do. The kettle is about to whistle so I pick it up before it does, not wanting to wake Jon. I pour steaming water over the orange powder in the mug and give it a stir. It fizzles up nicely, like it’s supposed to, so hopefully it’s still effective.

Picking up the streaming mug, I retrace my steps back to the bedroom and make myself comfortable in the large leather chair at the desk in the corner and watch him sleep. The neon lights from the Muggle street shine in through the open window, a dancing rainbow of colours on the white sheets that cover him, playing on his chocolate hair and the side of his face.

He is beautiful.

He’s a good man. And kind, and sweet, and I know he loves me. I do love him. It should be simple. But it’s not. Because I've fucked it up. I’ve betrayed him. I’ve lied to him.

And last night ... I nearly did it again.

Oh shit, that reminds me I still haven't read the note Molly slipped under my door this morning. Probably just noting something else she'd prefer I didn't break. Perhaps a change in the time of Tuesday's meeting. I won't be there for it anyway; I'm working that night.

I root through the robes in the wash basket to find the ones I was wearing today and retrieve the note from the pocket, shuffling back to my place at the desk. I turn the note over in my hands, but instead of the usual 'Tonks' written in Molly's flowery hand, there is a simple 'N' written on the folded parchment.

This isn’t from Molly.

This is from Charlie.

I draw a deep breath and open it.

Nymph,
I’m sorry. I should never have I just miss you sometimes.
love,
Charlie.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Really, what the fuck is it supposed to mean?

Dropping the note to the desktop, I lean back in the chair and stare at it. Charlie’s neat script. What is he apologising for? For last night? I was there, too. I’m just as responsible. I’m not a victim of Charlie fucking Weasley. I wave my wand at the piece of parchement and it disintergrates in a small puff of smoke. Last night I thought he was hurt when I asked him to leave; now I think perhaps he was just angry because he didn’t get his own way. Because I didn’t cave. Was this an attempt at making me feel guilty?

I should feel guilty, but not about disappointing Charlie. I should feel guilty for what I’ve done to Jon. I should ... and I do. I have to tell him. I know that now. Somehow I have to find the words, and the strength, to share my secret with him. The thought of it makes that familiar cold, dead, weight in my belly start spinning again. Will he hate me? Can he forgive me? Can I forgive myself? I do know one thing: I can’t continue to do this.

Downing the rest of the potion, I set down my mug and make my way back to the bed, slipping out of my dressing gown, pulling back the covers and sliding into the warm space beside his body. He groans and immediately rolls my way, throwing a heavy arm over me. And I’m glad of it; I hug his arm to my chest, close my eyes and tell myself everything’s going to be all right.

Trouble is, I don’t believe me.