Consequences

Chapter 7: Make Believe

It’s funny how your life with someone, your dreams with them, your hopes for a future together, can be reduced to the contents of a cardboard box. The box was on my doorstep when I returned from breakfast with Mum and Dad. I’ve made myself a pot of tea, eaten half a treacle tart, written a letter to Tabitha, and borrowed Mrs Fuller’s eagle owl ‘Leto’ to deliver it.

But I haven’t opened the box.

I’ve looked at it a lot. Walked around it. Nearly tripped over it once. I just can’t bring myself to tear off the tape and unpack my things. I know what’s in there. I know it’s everything I left at Jon’s apartment.

But now the tea’s nearly cold, and if I have anymore tart I think I’ll make myself sick. I know I can’t avoid it forever.

My name isn’t even on the box; just my address, like he couldn’t even bear to write it out.

Draining my mug, I fall to my knees on the floor beside it, finally tearing off the tape and opening the flaps. There’s no note. Nothing like that. There are two sets of robes. The powder blue ones I’m so fond of, and a set of work robes. Black, of course. Both are freshly laundered and folded neatly. My favourite pair of jeans. A faded pink tee shirt I’ve had forever. Got it at a Colm Spank concert ages ago. Faded sliver lettering on the front of it still reads, ‘Spank Me.’ I only ever wear it to bed now. Toothbrush, flannel, shampoo ... My coffee mug. Half a packet of blackcurrant jelly slugs. A small stack of photographs. I don’t even want to look at those at the moment! Some books, a few magazines, and ... No. No, no, no, no. I’ve reached the bottom of the box and amongst my various odds and ends is a Quidditch jersey. Not just any Quidditch jersey. The Arundel Aces - Jon’s favourite team. Autographed by MacIsaac himself. I gave it to Jon for his birthday last month. He can’t do this. You don’t return gifts.

He loves this. He was so happy when I gave this to him. Lifted me into his arms and told me he loved me. He did love me.

How can this have happened?

I don’t know how long I sit there on the floor with Jon’s jersey, but my alarm clock is shrieking and I know I have got to get ready to go. I’ve a long journey tonight and I can’t be late. I can’t be late. I can’t be late for Oz again.

*
*

Oz wanted to have his ashes poured into a bottle of Ogden’s and thrown into the sea. When his best friend, Jamie, read his wishes, I had to laugh. Perfect.

There were drinks and stories and lots of laughter; a celebration of a life now lost. I actually rather enjoyed myself, even though I did get roped into recounting my time spent outside Dumbledore’s office with Oz.

Now the procession starts down to the water. There are about sixty of us here tonight to send Oz off. All dressed in black robes, all hooded, all with wands lit, walking in groups of two or three down the rugged path to the cliffs.

It’s a beautiful night--crisp and cool. The sky is clear, the moon is bright, and all the stars are visible. I find myself looking for Orion as I always do. It was the first constellation I learnt to recognise when I was a child, and for some reason, finding him always makes me feel better. He’s here tonight, bright and constant as ever.

We reach the edge of the cliffs and move to form a semicircle around Oz’s dad and Jamie. They have a large bottle of Ogden’s and fill the glasses of the family members gathered in the inner circle. A few witches and wizards move amongst the rest, handing out glasses and filling them for the toast. When the bottle he is holding is about a third full, Jamie adds Oz’s ashes to it. Pouring more whiskey from his own glass to make sure it is indeed full, he recorks and reseals it before holding the bottle over his head. Oz’s dad gives the toast. It’s in Irish, so I don’t understand most of it. I know it’s not sad, it doesn’t sound sad, and the wizards beside me smile and nod under their hoods.

‘Sláinte.’ Oz’s dad raises his glass.

‘Sláinte!’ we all call back, lifting our glasses and drinking the toast. Oz’s dad steps back from Jamie, and Jamie, turning in a full circle to pick up momentum, hurls the bottle out to sea. It disappears into the blackness of the night. Silence. I think we are all listening for the splash as it hits the water, but I know I couldn’t honestly distinguish that noise from the sound of the waves crashing on the rock. We spend a few moments in quiet reflection and then the crowd begins to disperse. Voices rise up again in the night.

Pushing my hood back off my head, I begin to make my way back up the hill. The night air feels lovely on my face and I love the smell of the sea.

‘Tonks!’ A voice calls out from behind me. ‘Tonks.’

I stop and turn to see Oz’s sister, Jenny, her hood falling back from her head, running up the path behind me, followed closely by three wizards.

‘Can I talk to you? I mean before you go. Just for a few minutes.’

‘Sure.’

She leads me away from the path and I just know this is the part I was dreading. The part of the evening I hoped would never happen. We stop in a little alcove about twenty yards or so from the path. She turns to me.

‘I just have a few questions ... about my brother ... and ... well ... I know this isn’t the best time but ... I just need to ask ... to know. Is that okay?’

‘Of course.’

‘My brother ... the night he ... died. I just need to know what happened.’

‘I don’t really know what happened, Jenny. Wish I did. When I got there it was over.’

‘But you and Kingsley Shacklebolt arrested Deuteronomy Arbuckle.’

‘We did. But your brother ... but Oz, was injured before that. I only found him afterward.’

God, didn’t the Ministry tell them anything?

‘And Rory and Donnie?’

‘Were dead.’

‘How ...’ she begins to ask, but I shake my head and she seems to understand; that’s a question she doesn’t want answered.

‘But Oz,’ she continues, ‘he was alive.’

‘Yes. But he was very badly hurt.’

‘And there was ...’

‘There was nothing I could do.

She nods. I can see tears in her eyes and I wish I were anywhere but here.

‘Was he in pain?’

‘I did everything I could to see that he wasn’t.’

She smiles at me as tears start down her face. The wizard beside her wraps his arm round her shoulders and she leans into him. ‘Thank you,’ she says to me.

‘We should get back up to the house, Jen, your mum and dad ...’

I still can’t see his face but I now know the wizard beside her is Jamie. She looks up at him and nods in agreement. ‘In a minute,’ she says, before turning back to me. ‘Did he know ... Did he know he was dying?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘Just that he loved you all very much.’ Complete lie, but I know she needs to hear it.

She smiles at me again. ‘Thank you, for everything you did for my brother. And for coming tonight. He was always very fond of you, did you know that?’

I shake my head.

‘He thought you were fabulous. Good night, Tonks. Sorry for the questions.’

‘Don’t be. I understand.’ And I do.

She disappears with her companions up the hill and I sink to the cool grass, draw my knees up to my chest, and stare out in the direction of the water, once again seeking out Orion in the skies. There are so many questions I have myself. Did he suffer? Was he dead before he hit the veil, or only when it engulfed him? Did she kill him outright, or did she make him beg for his life? Was there blood? If only I’d’ve ... fuck! It’s only Orion and me but still I feel the need to wipe the tears from my face, to draw my breath in deeply and tell myself to suck it up. I’m getting so used to pretending I’m even doing it when I’m alone.

But I’m not alone. I hadn’t realised that only two of Jenny’s companions had left with her. Hadn’t realised until the third sinks to the ground beside me; makes me jump.

He hands me something white. A handkerchief.

‘Thank you,’ I whisper, wiping the tears from my face. I fold the cloth over in my hands before I notice the initials embroidered on the corner: C.G.W. I feel a surge of energy rush through me, although I’m at a loss as to label it relief or panic.

‘I didn’t know you knew him,’ I say finally.

‘I didn’t. Don’t. Not really. Hell of a Quidditch player though. Can’t understand why he didn’t try for the national team.’

‘Possibly the same reason you went to play with dragons.’

He laughs. ‘Suppose so.’

‘So why are you here, Charlie?’

‘My mate Conn is Ossian’s first cousin. He’s at the colony in Siberia. He couldn’t get away, and since I was going to be over here anyway, he asked that I come in his stead. Couldn’t say no, could I?’

‘Suppose not.’

‘I thought it odd that you were here, but after hearing all that ... well ... Tell you one thing, I do not envy you your job.’

I wrap my arms around my knees and rest my chin on my hands, feeling his hand on my back, rubbing in small circles. He leans into me. ‘Are the tears for Ossian, or for Sirius?’

I hate him, I hate him, hate him, hate him. Hate the fact that he can read me so well. That I can’t hide a damn thing. He brushes my hair behind my ear.

‘I always hated seeing you cry.’

‘Then why were you so good at causing it?’

I wish I could see his face, see if my words have any effect. Yes, I know it wasn’t a very nice thing to say, but damn it ...

He does push back his hood and runs his hands through his hair, lacing his fingers behind his neck. ‘I know I did ... know I was. Can we say, because I’m an idiot? Can we say, because I’m ... What is it your friend Tabi calls me? An emotional fuckwit?’

‘Tabi doesn’t call you a fuckwit.’ Much.

‘Oh, yes, she does. She’s said it to my face more than once. Come on.’ He stands up and offers me his hand. ‘It’s getting late. We should be going.’

Sliding my hand into his, he pulls me to my feet and we set off up the path. His arm is around my shoulders before we reach the top of the hill and he pulls me close as we walk. And I feel myself slipping; slipping into that sweet little place of forgetting that only Charlie Weasley affords me. Pretending that the man walking beside me didn’t break my heart into a thousand pieces, pretending that I haven’t broken someone else’s because of him.

We walk slowly past Oz’s parents’ house and down the winding lane into the Muggle village, barely saying a word. The streetlights are lit and bathe the buildings in a soft, warm, glow; it’s pretty.

He leads me through the streets and up the front path of the Sheep’s Heade Inn. We pass the bar and start up a set of steep wooden steps to the rooms above. His key turns the lock in an old door and we step into a small, neat room.

Warm light from the street outside floods in through a large window. There’s a dark wood four-poster bed with a patchwork quilt, a chair, a chest of drawers, and a small square table in the corner with a Muggle coffee machine on it.

He doesn’t turn on the lights.

Instead, he turns to me and runs both his hands through my hair; I look up at him for the briefest of seconds before his mouth covers mine. My eyes close and I realise I’ve already forgotten.

He’s so warm ... so warm ... How can someone be like this all the time? His hands unfasten the clasps down my front. He flinches and chuckles as I slide my hands into his robes. My hands are cold. I know they’re cold, but he should be used to that by now; I’m always cold. Colder still as I feel my robes fall to the ground at our feet. The chill in the air is giving me goose bumps. I’m shivering as he lifts me into his arms, crosses the room and lays me down on the cool, crisp, cotton of the quilt.

I watch him pull his robes over his head, see the soft lights play across his chest and on his shoulders, catching his hair and making him glow.

The scars on his abdomen have lightened a lot, to a pinkish white. I remember kissing them, kissing down their length, running my tongue over ... but I stopped that. Put a halt to our little game. Stopped it. Because of me, because of Jon. Jon ... I try desperately to push the thought of him from my head.

It’s not as if it matters anymore, anyway.

Charlie slides down beside me, smiles at me, and as I brush the stray hair back from his face, he kisses me again. Soft, sweet, warm, kisses. His hand slides up my side, a rough hand with countless calluses, but it leaves a path of warmth on my skin that is his alone.

‘How can you always be so cold?’ he mutters into the side of my neck. That hand slides down to my hip and he pulls me roughly closer so that my body presses completely against the heat of his.

‘How can you always be so warm?’

‘Easy, I’m hot blooded. It’s the hair, you know.’

‘Really?’

‘Mmmmm.’

He slides the bra strap off my right shoulder and plants kisses in its wake. But I instantly feel myself tense as his hand slides behind me and he unhooks my bra. That now far too familiar sense of dread fills me. I know he feels it too, because his touch softens, and he leans over me whispering, ‘Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,’ against my ear as he slowly slides my bra off. Still I can’t bring myself to look down; instead I look up at him, at his face, his eyes.

‘You are so beautiful,’ he whispers, kissing me softly as his hand moves over my left breast, over that hideous mark. His kisses trail down my neck, across my shoulders, following the path of his hands to my breasts. His hands slide to my sides and I feel myself arching up against him, against the wet warmth of his mouth.

Eventually his kisses move across my stomach, to the hem of my pants and down, the warm of his breath, heat of his mouth sending waves of warmth over me, even through the thin, wet, fabric. His kisses back across my belly, swirling his tongue in my navel; making me laugh.

‘I can’t help but notice,’ he says, half sitting up, ‘you still have pants on, and, as you can see, this is clearly a no clothing room.’

‘Is it?’

‘Didn’t you see the sign when you came in?’

‘No.’

‘Then you’ll just have to trust me,’ he says, winking and hooking his thumbs into the sides of my knickers. ‘These will have to go.’

‘Well, if there’s a sign ...’

‘But first, well ... I just have to ask ...’

‘Ask what?’

He kisses the hem of my knickers and grins up at me. ‘Does the carpet match the curtains?’

Raising an eyebrow at him, I just smile. ‘What carpet?’

‘Mmmmm,’ he groans. ‘You are fucking amazing, you know that?’

‘I have heard that before.’ A small scream escapes my lips as he pulls my knickers off in one swift motion, pushes my legs up and apart and buries his head firmly between my thighs.

Fuuuuccckkk!

And I happily surrender to him, to the amazing feeling of his rough fingers ... his lips ... his tongue ... teeth.

Oh God ... can’t think straight.

Squeezing my thighs together, I push him off.

He grins. ‘You know I can’t resist.’

‘But I want you, too.’

He grins at me again, turns around, and slides back to the bed beside me, giving me perfect access to him. As he continues with his job, I start mine. I hear his breath catch in his throat and it makes me smile. I know what he likes and I use that knowledge to my advantage. His fingers dig into the skin of my thigh and I hear him murmur, ‘Fuck, yeah.’

Language Charlie.

And then it’s my turn for bad words ...

We move like this for some time, this blissful loss and regain of control. This give and take.

‘You’re gonna make me come.’ I hear him murmur.

‘And ...’

‘Do you really want me to?’

‘Wouldn’t mind.’

‘Well I would.’ He pulls away, and suddenly I find myself flat on my back, Charlie over me, red hair falling in my face. ‘I would,’ he continues, ‘ ‘cause I really want to fuck you.’

‘Do you now?’

‘Mmm, I do,’ he says. ‘I want to feel you under me. I love the feeling of you under me.’

Why is it I love to hear that?

He pushes slowly into me, too slowly, for my satisfaction. I tighten my grip on his hips and pull him in hard, eliciting another divine groan from him. I love the feeling of Charlie inside me, love the sound of our skin coming together and separating again, as we set our pace. He slows only to regain his control and regulate his breathing; every time he does I capture his mouth with my own, revelling in the taste of him ... of us, on his lips.

And when I know he’s close to breaking, I start. Changing slightly with every stroke. Pulling him deeper, tightening all around him. I know he feels it when he grins down at me, his teeth white in the dim light of the room. ‘God, Nymph...’ he breathes, his breath welcome against the damp skin on my throat. I change again and something inside me screams in triumph at the shuddering whimper that sounds like nothing I’ve heard from him before.

His breath becomes ragged in my ear; his pace quickens to a fever pitch. ‘Nymph...love...I love...’ My heart starts a wild jackhammer beat that has nothing to do with our activity and my eyes search his out, but they are closed. Please don’t...’ He licks dry lips and his mouth hangs open in that familiar way and I desperately hope he is done talking for the time being. His movements become jerky and uncontrolled when I change again, driving more words from his mouth. ‘God, I love fucking you,’ he says in an explosive breath and my heart slows, in relief. A few hard strokes and he’s driving deep into me, his body stiffens and the feeling of his release sends me reeling over the edge ... losing control. Whispering his name in his ear.

Wonder what colour my hair is now.

He kisses my lips and then my eyes and I open them to look up at him smiling at me. The thrilling tingle of my own release is still rocketing through me and I return his smile with a goofy one of my own.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

He moves down beside me and I run my hand down his chest, across his abdomen. Over the scars.

‘These look much better.’

‘Yeah, healed nicely.’

I know that’s as close as we’ll get to talking about what happened the last time we were together. We don’t talk. Not about anything important anyway. Talk can shatter this otherwise perfect little world.

He sorts out the blankets and pulls them up around us, wrapping me in his arms. I curl up against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, wishing that any of this were real.


*

I can hear Charlie’s soft, even breathing and feel the warmth of his arms around me. If I close my eyes, the Muggle room and the rapidly approaching morning don’t have to exist. But, unfortunately, they do. Just like last time I know I can’t stay, know I have to leave and go back to my life and he must return to his.

He moans gently in his sleep as I slide out from his arms. I pull on my clothes and slip noiselessly out of the room. I Disapparate only when I reach the darkness of the stairwell so as not to chance waking him.

*

The kettle is boiling madly. I rip open the packet of sleeping draft, empty it into my mug and pour the steaming water over it. It fizzes and bubbles up purple. I doubt one’ll be strong enough or work fast enough, not for tonight, so I open another packet and add it to the mug as well. It bubbles furiously now, as if to try and lecture me on the dangers of double dosing. Not supposed to, I know, but I don’t give a fuck at the moment. Besides, I’ve done it before and it didn’t kill me last time.

I stop on the way from the kitchen to my bedroom to pick up Jon’s Quidditch jersey from the top of the box, bringing it with me as I retreat to my bed and sit cross-legged in the centre. Setting the mug down carefully in front of me, I bring his jersey to my face and inhale.

I know what I’ve lost.

And I know that by my actions tonight I’ve sealed it. Know that I can no longer hope for forgiveness from Jon. That I can never again call him my own. I’m sorry, Jon. It was a mistake. I shouldn’t never have done it, but just for good measure I fucked him again.

Tears choke me once again, stinging my eyes. I drop the jersey into my lap and pick up the mug once more, drinking as much of the sweet, steaming liquid as I can without burning my throat.

Setting my now empty mug down on my bedside table, I strip off my clothes and pull on Jon’s jersey. There is something perverse about curling up in Jon’s jersey, surrounding myself with the scent of him while I can still smell Charlie, feel Charlie in me, feel the impressions of his hands on my skin. I shut my eyes tight and hope that the sleeping draft will take me soon.

What I wouldn’t give now for the warm comfort of Buckbeak’s neck, or Remus’s shoulder.

*