Consequences

Chapter 6: Damage

The Daily Prophet have been running articles all week questioning the training of Ministry officers in all departments. Law Enforcement, of course, has taken the brunt of the criticism. ‘Young Officers are Improperly Trained and Lack Proper Supervision’ seems to be their favourite headline. They change the order of the words sometimes but it’s always the same. Today’s was, thankfully, more sedated, just information on the memorial service and how to attend. They only saved the last half of the article to ask if, with better training, Murphy, St. John and McLaren might still be alive.

But, then, hindsight’s twenty/twenty.

It’s Thursday. Of course it’s Thursday. Is there a better day to say goodbye? There are three large photographs at the front of the auditorium. They are very nice, official looking, portraits taken in their dress robes, most likely immediately following completion of their training. All three appear to be trying very hard to look smart. McLaren keeps running a comb through perfectly coifed hair. It’s almost funny.

I don’t think I’ve heard anything of the speeches aside from, ‘We are gathered here in grief ....’ What I think is greater testimony to how much they’ll be missed is the amount of people who have turned up today. The auditorium is filled to capacity, and I know there are more in the street outside. A sea of navy robes. Law Enforcement officers, past, present, and future line up to pay their respects. This is the worst single loss of life for them in ten years. From my seat near the left wall I can see various ‘high ups’ from the Ministry are also here present. Amelia Bones and Jasper Yeats to name just two. Dumbledore is also here, dressed in Slytherin House colours. I hadn’t realised all three had belonged to the same house. To his immediate left is Snape, in his usual black, with the exception of a cravat in green and silver. He’s wearing his usual sullen expression, but he’s missing his usual sneer. The others are represented, too. Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout are seated right behind him.

They’ve begun the awarding of the medals. The medallions are large, larger than Galleons, solid gold and awarded to the families of those who have died in service: recognition, but poor compensation.

I hadn’t realised Oz was married. Didn’t know ‘til I read it in the programme. Her name is Deirdre, and when she’s called, she stands and moves forward to accept the commendation from the Minister, along with his condolences and her husband’s wand. Blond hair flows down from underneath the black scarf she is wearing.

I know the girl to her right is Oz’s sister, Jenny. She started at Hogwarts a few years after he did. I only recognise her because of the hair; it’s long and curly and the darkest shade of auburn possible. The older couple standing behind her must be Oz’s mum and dad. Oz looked the spitting image of his father. The older man carries a chubby little boy of about three in his arms. He has thick dark curls, and I’d know he was Oz’s son even if it wasn’t written on the paper in my hands. His name is Fionn, the same as his granddad. He is the only one of the group without tears; he laughs and pulls at his grandfather’s beard. He doesn’t know he’ll never see his Daddy again.

Donnie McLaren’s parents and brothers are there to accept his commendation. His mother is given the medal and his wand. He was the youngest of twelve and they are all here. Mrs McLaren is short and rather round, with white hair in a neat bun. She immediately reminds me of another mother I know with a lot of boys, but I’m trying hard not to think about that. I hope they never learn how he died.

Rory St. John had three girls. Their mother died two years ago. Now they will be in the care of an aunt and uncle. His eldest, Violet, is ten. She steps forward to accept her father’s wand and his commendation, tears streaming down her face. And I am suddenly very glad for the strong arm around my shoulders.

There are more speeches, a little laughter, and more tears. We stand as the Honour Guard march past. And it’s over.

My father tightens his embrace as the families walk slowly by us. I lean back against his shoulder, against the familiar, scratchy, warmth of his cardigan, as he kisses the side of my face. ‘Love you,’ he whispers.

‘Love you too, Dad.’ I know he only came with me because I asked him to. I know what I do for a living scares him. I know he’s afraid that one day he’ll be called to one of these, to be presented with a wand and a medallion.

They bury Oz on Saturday in County Sligo. Peterson informed me last night that I have been asked to attend. I want to go. But the whole prospect of it terrifies me too. Thus far I have managed to avoid tears over this, but if I’m asked to recount the events of last Sunday night to his parents, or his sister, or his wife, I don’t know what I’ll do.

Dad turns to me as we get outside. ‘Come by the house tonight. Dinner or just a cup of tea; doesn’t matter. We haven’t seen much of you lately.’

‘Love to, Dad, but I can’t. Not tonight. Jon and I have dinner reservations at eight. But I’ll come on the weekend, I promise.’

‘Make you breakfast Saturday morning?’ He grins and squeezes my shoulder again.

‘I’d love that, Dad.’ The parting hug I get today is tighter than normal, but that’s just fine. I could use more like that.

*

Work was an absolute bugger today. I’m twenty minutes late arriving home. I fumble the key in the lock, and it seems to take forever to get the bloody thing open. I expect to find Jon pacing in his jacket and tie, tapping his watch and reminding me we only have fifteen minutes to get to the restaurant.

But the flat is dark when I enter. Odd. Perhaps Jon is having another late night at work. I put the light on in the hall.

He’s not. He’s here.

He’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, holding his coffee mug in both hands, and looking out the window. He’s still in his work clothes. The lights from the theatre across the street shine brightly through the window, but only serve only to make the whole place look dingier than normal.

He looks in my direction, but he doesn’t look at me. He’s looks through me, at the peeling paint on the far wall. His eyes are bloodshot, red, and I wonder for a moment if someone else has died. ‘Jon?’ My own voice sounds hollow in the cold silence of the room. I crouch down beside him, run my hand through his hair. ‘Jon, what is it? What’s the matter?’

He presses his cheek briefly against the palm of my hand, closing his eyes for a moment, before finally meeting my gaze. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘What? Tell you what?’

‘Where you went when you left St. Mungo’s.’

Oh God. The all too familiar cold weight that gripped my throat at the sound of his voice now dives painfully into the pit of my stomach, heavier still, and colder. No. No. No. I was going to tell him. I was going to tell him. Oh God. He can’t already know.

‘Jon.’ But he ignores me, getting up from the table with his mug, moving away. I follow him but he won’t let me close.

‘Instead,’ he continues, ‘Burgess comes up to me today and asks me to tell you he hopes the Romania trip was okay and that all’s well with your family. Now, I look the rather foolish, don’t I? So, I pretend I know what he’s talking about, and then I ask around. Turns out, you took a Portkey to Hanover that Sunday morning and then another to Bucharest later that day. You also were given emergency Apparation authorisation for Romania. Under destination you wrote ‘Baia Mare’. You didn’t return ‘til late Monday night.’

‘Jon ... I...’

‘Oh, you were actually planning on explaining? You see, I was wondering today, what family you had in Baia Mare. Then, well, I passed Arthur in the corridor, and everything became perfectly clear.’

‘Jon ...’

‘You don’t have family in Baia Mare, Tonks. What you do have is Charlie Weasley.’

‘Charlie’s been one of my best friends since I was eleven years old.’

He rounds on me. ‘You haven’t spoken to him in more than two years!’

‘I just needed to go .... to get away.’

‘So, why didn’t you go and see, Oonagh, or Tabi? Or, God forbid, you could’ve come to me, and we could’ve gone somewhere together.’

My hands are in my hair and I can’t clear my head. Why? Why can’t I? I’m trying to think of something, anything, that can make this better, anything that makes me less of a bitch. I can’t. ‘I’m sorry; I know I should have. But I just needed to talk .... to talk to him.’

‘You went all the way to Romania to talk to Charlie Weasley?’

‘Yes!’ Didn’t I?

‘Just to talk to him?’ He softens a bit. Cocks his head to the side as he considers me, for a moment.

There’s got to be something more I can do to make him understand; I never meant for any of this to happen.

‘You see, just talk .... that I could deal with,’ he continues. ‘Don’t much like it, but I could deal with it.’

I move toward him, touching his arm and then his chest. He backs away. ‘No.’ he says, shaking his head. ‘No. I’ve got more questions.’

Please don’t.

‘Was it only talk, or ...’ He bites his lip and sets his jaw, looking down at me. ‘Did you sleep with him?’

I can’t look at him. Can’t even look up; my gaze is fixed on the piece of wall behind his left elbow. I can feel the flush in my cheeks, the tears gathering behind my eyes.

Please don’t make me answer that.

‘Did you sleep with him?’ he asks again. The tears run freely down my face. ‘Fucking answer me, Tonks!’

‘Yes.’

There is a warm spray on my face as his coffee mug hits the wall behind my head and shatters.

‘Fuck!’ he screams.

‘Jon ...’

‘What! What can you possibly say!’

‘Jon, please ...’ I try and touch his arm, try and make him understand, but he wrenches away from me.

‘No!’

‘Can’t we talk about this?’

‘Talk ... talk ... all right, yeah, okay.’ He grabs a chair turns it around and sits down. ‘What do you want to tell me? How it was? How many times he made you come?’ He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging on it. ‘Go ahead, Tonks, talk.’ And then he’s on his feet again, and the chair is flung to one side as he backs up against the kitchen wall.

‘It’s not like that. It wasn’t like ... I didn’t go there to ...’

‘Fuck, Tonks. How could you do this?’

‘I’m sorry ... I ...’

‘Don’t you get it?’ His hands are on his head again. ‘Don’t you fucking get it. I love you!’

And there are tears in his face and I hate the fact that I’ve done this.

‘I love you, too.’

‘Don’t! Fuck. Don’t.’

‘Jon, please ... I love you.’

He’s shaking his head again. ‘Why?’

‘What?’

‘He dropped you for some blond tart, screwed around on you for God knows how long before that, and still, you’d rather go to him than come to me. What does that tell me, Tonks?’

‘Nothing Jon, ... It’s...’

‘Go.’

‘Jon ...’

‘Get out!’

*

The door slams behind me as I run out into the darkening night.

I’m going to be sick.

What the hell just happened?

What the hell? What the hell? What the hell?

He knows. Oh, God, he knows.

It’s over. It’s over. We’re over. This can’t be happening. Not this.

Not with Jon. Jon, who treats me like I’m the best thing that ever happened to him. Now, surely, I’ll be written off as the worst.

The pain in his beautiful face; the revulsion, the anger - I put that there. Me. Entirely.

Oh Merlin, what the hell have I done?


*

It’s raining hard. The wind stings my eyes. I used to come up here to relax, to think, to stare out at the city in awe. Sitting here on the topmost point of what the Muggles call the Tower Bridge I’d to look out at the city lights, at the millions who live here, Muggle and wizard, wondering what they were doing now. How their lives effect each others. But being out here tonight isn’t helping. Somehow the buildings around me seems smaller, darker. The sounds of the buses, and the cars, and the people, which usually fills me with such energy, have become nothing but roaring white noise in my ears. Tonight, I can’t be bothered with the city; tonight, I look not out at the lights, but at the bridge deck, at the traffic rushing below me.

If I fell, would my magic protect me? Or would it allow my body to be crushed and torn under the wheels of the passing lorries? Would it matter by then? Would the fall kill me first. It is, after all, a long way to the pavement. And if I were to do it ...

Is Sirius already reunited with James? Or is it over, finished, done?

I so want to see Sirius again - To hear his laughter, see his smile. I want to tell him how sorry I am for what happened at the Ministry - That I’d give anything to take it back, to put it right.

Standing up, I see the traffic from a few feet higher. The wind has picked up and if it weren’t for steady footing, I would already have my answers. Shutting my eyes, and concentrating, I can feel nothing but the rain on my face .... can hear nothing but the noise of the street below. I’m leaning forward into the wind, hoping that the storm or gravity will make my choice for me.

A hand clamps down on my shoulder, and a familiar voice says brightly, ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

Taking a deep breath, I scrub my hands over my face, and turn to meet Remus. ‘What’s up?’

‘We’ve found Sirius’s will.’

‘And ...’

‘Well the official reading is the day after tomorrow.’

‘But he’s left everything to Harry?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Including Number Twelve?’

‘Hopefully?’

‘Hopefully?’

‘Well Dumbledore says, and I agree, that it may not be possible. Harry is not a Pureblood. Black legacy may dictate that only Purebloods may inherit it. In which case the house will fall to ...’

‘.... Bellatrix.’ I think I’m going to be sick.

‘The Order are on the move tonight.’

‘Where?’

‘Come, I’ll show you.’

*

I didn’t know the Hogshead had attic rooms. But then I suppose that is the point. It doesn’t have many, just a large mouldy reception leading off to few smaller rooms that could, if necessary, possibly be used as bedrooms. There are several Order members here, talking in hushed tones in the dank corners of the main room. I nod my hellos as Remus leads me through to a smallish room on the far side. It’s dark and rather gloomy but at least it has a window. If I stand at this angle I can see the cheery crowds coming in and out of the Three Broomsticks.

‘We won’t be here for long, of course,’ Remus says, lighting the lamps. Light floods the room illuminating a small single bed, a desk, and a large Hippogriff. I can’t believe I didn’t notice him. I immediately make my bow to Buckbeak, as does Remus. The Hippogriff doesn’t get up, simply inclines his head to both of us, in turn, and continues to crunch grotesquely on ... something that had grey fur, anyway.

‘Have to keep moving,’ Remus continues, ‘for safety’s sake.’

‘How long?’

‘Probably only a week or two at the most.’ He clears the desk into his briefcase with a flick of his wand, pulls up a chair and conjures a second, more comfortable looking one for me. He gestures for me to sit, which I do, and then delves into the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieves a bottle, two glasses, and playing cards. ‘Now this,’ he says,uncorking the bottle and filling the glasses, ‘as you may have noticed, is Cathcart’s Best, not Ogden’s. It’s still Firewhiskey, still potent, but with a smoother, mellower flavour. I thought you might enjoy it more. Thought we could start a new tradition.’

‘So it’s girly Firewhiskey.’

‘Yes.’ He laughs and raises his glass to me. ‘Yes, it is. Cheers.’

‘Cheeers.’ As the liquid burns its way down my throat, I hate to admit it but I do like it better than Ogden’s. ‘It’s quite nice.’

Buckbeak, now finished with his crunching, is at my elbow nudging his beak under my arm, begging for attention like he was a lap dog. He closes his eyes, when I scratch his head and I get up and lead him back over to his corner of the room where there is less furniture to break. He turns in a circle and lies back down. Dropping to my knees beside him, I pat his neck and smooth his feathers. With one final pat to his shoulder, I move to get up and rejoin Remus who is casually shuffling the near flaming, cards. Buckbeak squawks in annoyance at me and makes to get up again.

‘Oh, am I not finished yet?’

The Hippogriff tilts his head to the side and blinks sweetly.

‘Would you like me to sit with you?’

Now that sounds almost like a purr.

‘All right then. May Remus join us?’

Buckbeak inclines his head in Remus’s direction and settles himself back down. Sliding to the ground I lean back against him. He’s very warm and it’s actually rather comfortable. Remus sits beside me with the bottle and the glasses. Buckbeak, seemingly satisfied with this arrangement, crosses his front legs, rests his head upon them, and shuts his eyes.

‘I think he’s been rather lonely,’ Remus explains unnecessarily. ‘Since ...’

Thankfully he trails off.

Silence is golden. I can sip my drink, watch the spider on the beam above me, and torture myself about Jon without a word.

‘You’ve not had a good day,’ Remus states, refilling my glass.

‘What gave it away?’

‘Well, I’m not going to ask about the bridge.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But I did go looking for you tonight. I went to your flat and when you weren’t there ...’

‘You went to Jon’s.’

‘Yes.’

‘How was he? Morbid curiosity.

‘Not well. How are you?’

‘Not well.’

‘What happened?’

‘Aside from all the cursing ...’

‘What! He has no right ...’

‘Ah, but he does.’

‘What?’

I clink my empty glass against the bottle, and he refills it for me once more. I take a long drink of the fiery liquid before answering him.

‘Is there ever going to come a point, Remus, where I’m going to stop fucking things up? Knock it over or fuck it up. It’s what I do best.’

Remus wraps his arm around me, and I move from Buckbeak’s neck to Remus’s shoulder. ‘I’m sure it’s not that bad.’

‘Oh, no? The morning I left St. Mungo’s. I went to see Charlie.’

‘Didn’t you and he used to ...?

‘Yes.’

‘And ...’

‘Yes.’

‘What were ...?’

‘What was I thinking? You see, I don’t think I was, not really, not properly, not honestly, not 'til the next morning anyway. And by that time, of course, it was too late.’ I down the rest of my drink and pull my robes tighter around me. It’s so cold in here. ‘I was going to tell Jon, really, I was. I was just trying to find the right time, and the right ... way.... Thought about doing it tonight, actually. But when I got home from work, he already knew. He found out inadvertently from someone at the office.’

Remus squeezes my shoulder but says nothing, so I just slog on, shutting my eyes to the tears burning behind them and trying to swallow the army that are building in my throat. ‘Oh, God, Remus, he hates me. I’ve hurt him so much. He hates me. What the hell have I done?’

And once again I turn to him, soaking his collars with my tears, clutching his robes in hard fists; hoping that if I just hold on tight enough I’ll stop shaking. I hear a soft ‘plink’ as he sets his glass on the floor, and feel him shift beneath me, as he wraps me tightly in his arms. Burying my face in the side of his neck I inhale the familiar scent of scrubbed skin and sandalwood, feel the bristles on his chin scrape my cheek, his lips resting against my temple. ‘Shh,’ he whispers, ‘it’ll be all right. I promise. It’ll get better.’

I wish I believed him.

He continues his gentle words until exhaustion overtakes me. Until I feel my body relax, lmy grip loosening on his robes, I let my eyes shut and my mind slip into a place where nothing exists but ‘girly’ Firewhiskey, dear friends, and warm Hippogriffs.

~~