Consequences

Chapter 22: Lost

Was Scotland always this cold in September? I’ve forgotten. Blowing on my fingers, I rub them together as I make my way down the train and take a seat by the window at the back of a near vacant car. Pushing my wet hood from my head, I unfasten the toggles on my coat and adjust my rucksack on the seat beside me. Outside looks to be about six o’clock at night when in truth it’s nine in the morning. But the clouds are thick and heavy and the rain pours. It’s not that far from my new flat to Hogsmeade station and, despite the rain, it seemed rather lazy not to walk; I’ll know better next time. I’ve been looking forward to this morning all week. I have the whole weekend off. That hasn’t happened in ages. So I’m going home to London to order pizza from my favourite Muggle take-away and just sleep my weekend away. I’ve been on nights for the past two weeks so sleep is what I look forward to the most. But for now, it’s nice to be able to just sit here, relax and let someone else take me to London.

Resting my head against the cool window, I stare into the dark and the rain. Watch the wet slats of the platform as the train begins to move. It wasn’t much more than two weeks ago I was jumping to that platform with Harry after my little cousin decided to behave like a Malfoy. Rather wish I’d caught him. From what I’ve heard someone needs to teach that boy a lesson.

I had the perfect opportunity to talk to Harry then, but I didn’t. I walked him all the way to the school gates and barely said a word to him. Just couldn’t do it. What would I say? So I answered his questions as best I could and hoped he wouldn’t want to talk about Sirius ... that he wouldn’t talk about Remus.

So, in my cowardice, I just left him with Snape at the gates. Snape, who was nearly on the receiving end of a very nasty curse that night. My Patronus weak - indeed. Arrogant bastard. Wonder what Harry would have thought if I’d done it. Might have been able to get away with it too. After all, everyone already thinks I’m barmy.

The train pulls away from the platform and the lights of the station move past in a foggy, rain soaked haze. I rather like Hogsmeade and I think I know it now better than I have ever done. Patrolling the village and the fringes of the school grounds have become my life these past few weeks. Still, I don’t mind too much. The students are rather funny. You can’t turn a corner on a Saturday without encountering them snogging in every darkened doorway. It makes me laugh really. The amount of times Charlie and I were caught doing the same thing. Glad I don’t have to discipline them for it. Don’t think I could do that.

Becoming a familiar face around Hogsmeade has its advantages as well. Already there is a group of older wizards at the Hog’s Head that have taken to inviting me to join their conversation. Mostly it’s dull, and has to do with drink, or business, but occasionally they let their prejudices show. There is one in particular that I rather want to keep an eye on. And well, as long as I’m busy, it doesn’t leave me much time to think. And I tend to think too much. Especially when I’m alone.

I think about reasons why.

His and mine.

Think about the way things were not so long ago. The way they are now ...

Why does he always have to touch me? Every time. Every Order meeting, every time I have to see him, he touches me. Sometimes it’s just my fingers, the back of my hand. Sometimes it’s my shoulder, my arm. Tuesday night, as slipped behind me in the kitchen, his hands were on my hips, as he whispered, ‘Excuse me’ in my ear.

He didn’t have to go around the table that way, but he did. He always does. He always touches me. Does he think I don’t notice? Doesn’t he realise how much it hurts?

Stop. Shaking my head I draw a deep breath. It’s stupid really. Just when I think I’m going to be all right, that things are getting better, I have to see him again, and it all falls apart. Then I end up feeling like an idiot for letting him affect me so much. I am an idiot. How would he feel if I did that to him? Next time I should say something. Let him know that I don’t want it. But ...

Stupid.

**

Crack!

The sheer volume of the noise has me bolt upright in bed. I watch in horror as part of my ceiling crashes to the floor in a ball of flame. Burning timber on the foot of the bed. Snatching my wand from under the pillow, I’m up in an instant and throwing myself through the doorway only to find my sitting room in much the same state. Pulling on my cloak and shoving my feet into my trainers, I’m out the front door.

It’s burning. Everything; the houses all around me. Slick flames and thick, dark smoke billowing upward into the London night. They’re there near the end of the lane now, dark figures, hooded and cloaked. There is shouting and curses and screaming as people awaken to the nightmare. Taking the stairs as fast as I can I bang on the door of the ground floor flat. ‘Mrs Fuller! ‘Mrs Fuller!’

‘What’s the matter dear?’ comes a tired voice from behind the door.

‘Fire!’ I shout. She clicks the lock over and opens the door, a large tabby, Fergal, clutched in her arms. ‘Fire,’ I repeat. ‘There are Death Eaters here in the street.’ I point down the end of the lane as the last bit of black cloak disappears around the corner.

There is fear in her face but she nods defiantly. ‘Well go on then. Don’t worry about me. I’m all right.’

I’ll have to take her word for that. And I turn, already at a run. Sending a series of signals into the sky as I go. Hopefully, the Ministry Wardens are paying attention tonight.

There are people wandering out of their homes. Standing on lawns just staring at the smoke and flames. I scream at them, to move away from the buildings, to wake their neighbours, to make sure everyone gets out. My words have little affect on some but others react rather sharply. The sound of my voice seeming to snap them out of their horrified trance. I see them run now, banging on doors of the surrounding houses.

I catch up to the Death Eaters just around the bend. Seven in total, oblivious to me as they attack homes on both sides of the street. My first curse knocks the four at the back off their feet, but has the unfortunate consequence of having the other three all turn on me at once. They fire from either side and I literally have to throw myself face down on the pavement to avoid it, rolling behind Mrs Patton’s bins for shelter. The bins are the next casualty, but still, I manage to get a few good curses off. The noise attracts some of my braver neighbours who I seem to appear out of nowhere, wands drawn, hands shaking. Ted, from across the street, Brian, from number sixteen and Mr Harris, a pensioner from the end of the next block.

I know they mean well and, although I am grateful for the help, part of me really wishes they wouldn’t.

It’s Mr Harris that strikes first. With a well aimed ‘Pulso!’ at the Death Eater closest to me. He staggers and falls and I’m back on my feet. They fall in behind me. Well, Ted and Mr Harris do, flanking either side. It’s the most effective formation in this type of situation and I’m surprised they know to do it. It’s Brian who seems unsure of what to do. He seems to bounce on the balls of his feet for a moment before charging stupidly into their midst. Wielding his wand over his head as if it were some sort of club.

It forces the rest of us to move forward, breaks out tight formation. The curses fly. I don’t remember the curses I scream. Or those lobbed at me. Brian is down, twitching on the pavement at my feet. I’ve a good mind to leave him there. But we manage to push the Death Eaters back and I soon glimpse Ted dragging Brian onto the steps of a nearby house.

There are two Death Eaters down and a third just now scrambling to his feet as Ted rejoins us.

It was Mr Harris I was worried about but when I glance over, he seems to be doing quite well.

These Death Eaters are younger, not much older than me, so while they have a lot of energy, their aim and spellwork, thankfully, leave a lot to be desired. As does Ted’s. He’s been shooting off spells left, right and centre but I’ve yet to see him hit anything. He also seems to be using jinxes more than anything else. Things learnt in school and never meant to inflict any real damage.

‘Vulnero!’

That hits Ted in the leg and he crashes to the ground. Unfortunately, Death Eaters don’t use many jinxes.

I can’t see Mr Harris anymore. He’s disappeared further down the street with two of the Death Eaters. Hope he’s all right.

‘Vulnero!’ That’s aimed at Ted again and I have to leap forward and throw a Protego charm in front of his as he seems to be doing nothing to protect himself anymore.

Fuck!!!

Whatever that was it hits my side. Burning. Bringing me down to my knees. And I shove my wand into my robes and mutter a numbing charm as quickly as I can. It’s a cool sensation and I’m suddenly able to move again. I just know I’m going to pay for that later.

The tallest Death Eater stands over Ted and grinning back at his fellows who seem enraptured he begins, ‘Avada --’

‘Levetei!’

Luckily, my spell is faster and, although he probably doesn’t like it much, Ted goes flying ten feet. The Death Eater’s curse hits the ground creating a good size crater and sending dirt and grass flying everywhere.

‘Pulso!’ On my feet again, I send it at the tall Death Eater. He’s sent over backward and I hear the distinct ‘thunk’ of his head hitting the kerb. He won’t be getting up anytime soon.

‘Flagello!’

That’s not aimed at me. I know it hit Ted.

‘Protego!’ I put myself in between them and Ted.

‘Flagello.’

‘Pulso.’

I manage to glance off many of their spells . I’m not doing too badly. Their aims not great. But they’re closer now. And now their numbers are back to three, no four as they free the other two from their bonds. Shit.

‘Avada Kedavra!’ I’ve aimed it above all their heads but immediately feel weaker for it. They scatter and duck down obediently. I was hoping to give Ted a chance to crawl for cover, but he just sits there - stunned.

‘Go!’ I scream but he doesn’t move. ‘Go!’ At last he listens. Stumbling into a narrow passageway between two houses. They turn their attentions back to me, but I don’t stand still long enough to actually let them hit me with anything.

My next curse hits the one on the far right and he crumbles to the pavement unable to move, at least for the moment. Three to one is better odds, isn’t it?

‘Avada ...’

They seem to have abandoned just wanting to hurt me and are going straight for the kill. This one comes from the fat one in the back but his aim is off and it’s not hard to get out of the way. A portion of another's ‘Flagello!’ curse hits my hip and it hurts but not enough to make me still.

‘Avada Kedavra!’ it’s number two’s turn and again not that hard to avoid; I keep moving backward glad of the twenty or so feet between us now.

They keep advancing in the same triangular formation so it’s easy to shield each other. Not easy to break, especially, since they seem determined to throw killing curses at me.

The one in front raises his wand and I know his aims better.

‘Avada ...’ I begin but the words have already left his lips.

It’s odd watching the green jet of light shoot toward me. I throw myself down to the lawn. The curse hits the lamp post behind me, and it explodes in a ball of flame. I scramble to my feet and throw myself behind Mr Flinchley’s wall. Trying to catch my breath, to numb the pain in my side again, to try and think of what the hell to do next.

I’m not stupid enough to think I can manage five, well four, Death Eaters on my own.

This is ridiculous. I have no idea how long I can keep it up but at the same time, what choice do I have? Where the hell is the Ministry? What I need is a distraction. What I need is ...

‘Expecto Patronum.’ I don’t shout the words, in fact they barely come out as more than a whisper, but I concentrate everything I have into them. Into what exactly I want to have happen.

The werewolf springs forward from my wand and I watch from the shadows as it hurls itself out of the darkness and through the ranks of masked figures. They scatter. Tripping over themselves in an attempt to get out of its way. They don’t stay still long enough to realise it’s just a Patronus. There are a series of pops as most Disapparate. I step from my hiding spot ready to fire off every curse I can think of but they’re all gone now. Even the unconscious one. Someone must’ve taken him.

Having done its job beautifully, the werewolf turns and bounds at me with such playful exuberance that, had it been real, would definitely have knocked me flat. Instead it just seems to disappear through me. Makes me shiver.

I round the bend in the road to see Mr Harris sitting on a short wall of one of the undamaged houses. There is blood all over his face. Stark against the pure white of his hair.

‘Wotcher, Mr Harris.’

He grins up at me. ‘Please, it’s Sinjin.’

‘You should probably see a Healer, Sinjin.’ I say, sitting beside him on the wall. I’ve called him Mr Harris for six years going to be hard to change now.

‘Not as bad as it looks.’ He grins at me again. ‘The Mrs will have this cleaned up in no time.’

‘Thanks for your help. I very much appreciate it.’

He nods. ‘I take it the werewolf Patronus was yours?’

I nod. ‘Yes.’

‘Nicely done. Useful. I nearly ran myself.’ He laughs. ‘Should have seen the two I had trying to get out of it’s way.’

‘Probably looked the same as mine. I didn’t really expect them all to Disapperate.’

‘You’re an Auror, aren’t you?’ he asks.

Nod again. ‘Yes. But you - I thought you were in banking?’

He chuckles and smiles at me, wiping the blood from his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief. ‘Not really. Cursebreaker.’

‘Ah. That explains it.’

‘Honestly, I haven’t had that much fun in ages,’ he continues.

‘Fun?’

‘Yes, fun. You wouldn’t be an Auror if it wasn’t fun for you too.’

He makes me laugh. ‘Suppose it is. Just not necessarily in the moment.’

He chuckles.

The pounding of feet on the cobblestones tells us the Ministry has finally arrived. Finally. We glance at each other and get up wordlessly agreeing that we do not want to deal with the Ministry straight away. I dust myself off and Mr Harris flips the hood up on his cloak as we walk down this side of the horseshoe-shaped street. Mr Harris nods a goodnight to me as he disappears into one of the homes on my right. The houses down here are all right. They didn’t get more than a few houses around the bend. I walk down to the end alone, trying to blend with the crowd. Turning slowly back into my part of the street. Law Enforcement and Firefighters are everywhere now. Everything is blackened, smoldering.

From the outside it doesn’t look so badly. Must’ve been one of the first the Firefighters reached. They are all over the place now. In heavy mustard-coloured robes swarming over any building where flames can be seen.

Mrs Fuller stands in front of her flat with a few belongings, packed in a suitcase and three cat carriers. A large man is beside her his arm around her shoulders and as I approach I recognise him as her eldest son, Bernard.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask when I get close enough. But she’s not all right. She’s shaking, there are tears down her face.

‘What’s the matter?’ Could you ask a stupider question, Nymphadora?

But the answer is quite simple.

‘I can’t find Simon,’ she stammers at me.

‘Mum, we’ve got to go.’ Bernard tries to steer her away. But she won’t budge.

‘I can’t find Simon,’ she repeats. Her hands slide into mine and she squeezes tightly.

‘Mum, come on. It’s just a bloody cat. It’ll be fine.’

‘Don’t worry I’ll find him,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll look after him. I promise. Go. Go with your son. Simon’ll be all right.’

She still looks unsure. So I feel the need to repeat myself.

‘I’ll look after him. I promise.’

She nods finally, and Bernard mouths a ‘thank you’ as he leads her away from the scene. Her bag and cat carriers following them obediently.

My staircase looks somewhat precarious. The metal is all blackened and twisted and there are bits missing but I climb it anyway, slipping undetected into my flat, into what’s left of my home.

It’s a mess.

Charred beams and bits of the roof are everywhere, water squelches the carpet beneath my feet. I can see down into Mrs Fuller’s flat through gaping holes in the floor. Had anyone been sleeping on my sofa tonight they’d’ve been killed. It’s completely buried, burnt and broken.

I make my way carefully through into my bedroom, hoping I at least have some salvageable clothes. Something that’s not my pyjamas.

The metal bed stead is all that is left of my bed. Bits of springs on the floor below.

The chest of drawers on the far wall seems relatively unscathed though. And I pick my way carefully across the floor to it. It’s were I keep Muggle clothes and well overflow from my wardrobe. I remove my cloak and laying it out on the floor, I begin to pile any salvageable clothes and odds an ends I can find onto it. I find a large jumper in the bottom drawer and pull it on over my head, glad for the warmth of it. My side begins to throb again and I'm forced to pause to numb it again.

There are other bits and pieces here too. When I’ve gathered all there is, I tie the cloak into a bundle and make my way carefully back to the sitting room. Dropping my bundle by the door, I kick off my trainers and pick up my boots, which along with my coat appear to be all right. Probably smarter to be walking around all this in boots anyway.

Suppose I’m luckier than most; a lot of the things that are precious to me came with me to Hogsmeade. But I hate looking around this room. I’ve lost my books, all of them. The bookshelves just aren’t there anymore. I’ve lost photographs, photo albums. Suppose I might be able to get copies of some of them, from Tabi or Mum, or Charlie. But others I know I can’t replace.

Making my way to the fireplace I pick up a pack of Exploding Snap cards from the floor. There’s hardly a mark on them. But then, they don’t burn easily, do they, or you’d constantly be buying new packs. The Cathcart’s bottle that was on my mantelpiece is now among the broken bits and pieces on the hearthstone. Along with a vase some sea shells a bowl and a lot of floo powder. I trace a bit of broken glass through the ash and powder, trying to think of what else was on the mantel.

‘You shouldn’t be up here. It’s not safe.’ The voice startles me. I turn to see one of the firefighters standing in my doorway in his mustard yellow robes, hood still up.

‘I know.’ I ignore him and sit down beside the remnants of my armchair to tie my boots, hoping he’ll just go away.

‘Come on, Tonks, even Aurors can fall through the floor.’

At that I turn. How does he know my name?

I must look confused because he laughs and pushes the heavy hood back from his head revealing thick, blonde hair and a rather nice smile.

Christy.

He grins. ‘I do have the authority to physically remove you you know.’

‘Can I finish tying my laces?’

‘Yeah, all right.’ rocking on the balls of his feet he glances about my flat. ‘This is your place then?’

‘Yeah. Lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Sorry. Were you here when it started?’

I nod. ‘I was asleep in there.’ I jerk my thumb towards my bedroom.

‘Fuck,’ he mutters.

My sentiments exactly. Standing, I make my way back where he stands by the door, pulling on my coat and picking up my bundle.

We exit my flat and for a moment I just stand at the top of the steps and look out at my neighbourhood. The fires are all but gone but more than half of the houses are smoldering. There are thirty homes here. Everyone is in the street. Crowded together in groups, comforting each other. Others lie or sit on the grass or cobblestones, wrapped in blankets as witches and wizards in shimmering white robes tend them. St Mungo’s robes. At the opening of the street The Clares have parked their van. A small line of people still dressed in pyjamas and dressing gowns line up for blankets, hot drinks and sandwiches. So much destruction. There is an uncomfortable tightening in my chest and I find myself unable to move. Just staring at the people below. This is my home ...

Then I feel Christy’s hand slide into mine and I look down at him, for some reason surprised that he’s still there.

‘Come on,’ he says softly, ‘it’s not safe.’

I find myself nodding again and following him down into the street. We don’t get far when we’re stopped by Mr Nando, who shakes my hand profusely and thanks me, there are others too as Christy leads me down to the street. Mrs Singh, Mr Duncan, the woman who just moved in this summer; I don’t even know her name. I smile and nod, but I don’t understand. Why are they thanking me? Haven’t they looked around?

‘Are you warm enough dear,’ the little old lady in the Clares’ van smiles as she hands me a steaming mug of coffee and a cheese sandwich.

‘I’m fine,’ I reply. ‘Thank you.’

As I walk away I hear Christy thank her for his sandwich, before saying, ‘I’ll take a blanket though, cos I don’t believe her.’

Makes me laugh.

We sit on the kerb and Christy wraps the heavy, grey blanket around my shoulders. It does make me feel better.

Doesn’t take long before a man in navy robes approaches us with a notebook in hand. He’s small, thin and twitchy, with scant greasy hair,high cheek bones, thick glasses and a rather pointy nose. Mole-man.

‘Miss Tonks is it?’ he asks crouching down beside us.

‘Yes.’

’Your neighbours tell me. That you lead the charge.’ His high-pitched voice is overly cheerful and it immediately puts me on edge.

‘Suppose,’ I answer suspiciously.

‘How many Death Eaters were there?’

‘Seven. I believe that’s the standard number in operations like these, isn’t it?’

His left eyebrow shoots up over his round frames. ‘Aren’t you a bit young to know about things like that?’

Arse.

‘Well, I wasn’t a very bright child but I could count when I was younger and that is generally how many would turn up to burn things down.’

Beside me I feel Christy tense. He’s looking away now and I can just feel that he’s about to burst out laughing.

‘You think this is funny?’ Mole -man’s tone is suddenly nasty.

‘Somewhat,’ Christy responds, chewing his lower lip, in what I can only imagine is an attempt to keep a straight face.

‘You’ll soon be laughing out the other side of your face, lad. This is dead serious.’ He turns his attention back to me. ‘I’m afraid I have some more questions for you.’

‘Regarding ...’ I’m trying to be all professional now.

‘They say that you conjured a bloody great werewolf. I’d like to know how you managed to do that. As far as I know there are no spells for conjuring Dark creatures at will. And to send it after others ...’

‘I sent it after Death Eaters. And --’

But he keeps going. ‘And I also have it on good authority that you used an Unforgivable curse.’

‘Yes.’

Again he cuts me off. ‘Ah, so you admit it.’ He’s scribbling gleefully in his book. ‘That is a blatant violation of ...’

He’s still rambling but I’ve stopped listening. Why is he asking these questions? Is this little cretin really trying to throw me in Azkaban?

He’s tapping his notepad with his pen now, so I can only assume that he’s finished his rant.

‘Do you have anything to say for yourself?’

‘Firstly, the werewolf is not Dark Magic. And, I believe, that’s exactly what you were implying. It’s just a Patronus.’

‘Patronus? Were there Dementors in the area too?’

‘No.’

‘Then why ...’ he begins.

God, he’s thick. So I say rather slowly, ‘I needed something that might make them run. Werewolves tend to do the trick.’

‘And how did you acquire a werewolf for a Patronus?’

‘You don’t choose your Patronus,’ Christy chimes in. ‘It’s not possible. Everybody knows that.’

‘Hmmmm,’ Mole-man chews his quill for a moment. ‘They are a reflection of something deep within the witch of wizard though, aren’t they? Curious.’

I’ve had about enough of this.

‘And what exactly is it you do, Miss Tonks?’

‘I work for the Ministry of Magic.’

He’s about to tell me I don’t. I watch him trip over the words a bit. Looking for a polite way to call me a liar.

‘Oh, Perkins, do fuck off and stop bothering my Auror.’

The voice above us surprises me but has the mole-man positivey quaking. We all look up at Merch.

‘Auror?’ Mole-man stutters.

‘Yes, Auror. Would you like me to spell it for you so that you can write it in your notes?’

‘No. Sorry. Sir.’

‘Off you go then.’ Merch waves a dismissive hand at the Mole-man and he scurries away. Merch seems to just survey me for a moment. ‘Well you’ve had an interesting night, haven’t you, lass?’

‘Quite.’

‘You live here, don’t you?’

‘I did.’ I glance back over my shoulder. ‘Number 27.’

Please don’t ask me to come into work now.

‘I do expect you to come in and a file a complete report tomorrow.’

Thank God.

‘Of course.’ I really want to add ‘Sir’ to that but manage not to.

He grins down at me. ‘In the meantime, I suggest you get some sleep. You look like shite.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’ Bastard.

With that Merch turns and walks back to the group of Ministry types that seem to be gathering at the end of the lane. I notice at once he’s joined by Sinjin Harris.

‘An Auror with a werewolf for a Patronus. Can you get any cooler?’ The sound of Christy’s voice draws me back to reality.

Laughing, I run my hand through what I just realise must be awfully messy hair. ‘Yeah, I’m terribly glamourous.’

He puts his arm around me and I let him. Resting my head against his shoulder. Gawd, I’m tired.

‘You all right?’ he asks.

‘Yeah. So much for my weekend off though.’

‘Inconvenient of them, wasn’t it?’

‘Very much so.’ Straightening up, I smile at him and run my hands through my hair again. ‘I should go. I do need to sleep.’

He nods. ‘Heading to your parents’ then, or your boyfriend’s.’

I shake my head. ‘I’m just going to stay with some friends here in London. I was supposed to stay there tomorrow anyway ... I’ll just be early.’

He nods. ‘Would you like me to walk with you?’

‘No.’ I shake my head, getting to my feet. ‘I’ll be all right. Auror, remember?’

He smiles and chuckles and stands up, slipping the grey blanket over his arm and walking with me slowly to the gate. ‘Well, it was nice to see you again, Tonks. Perhaps one day we’ll have coffee under better circumstances.’

I smile and nod and slip through the gate back into Prince of Wales road. The night out here is quiet, with the vaguest smell of smoke in the air. Most of the Muggles are tucked up asleep in their beds, oblivious to what has just gone on so near by.

But then, it’s probably better that way.

*

I’m grateful that Grimmauld Place is quiet tonight. Nobody greets me at the door. I hear no voices as I climb the stairs to what used to be my bedroom. Wonder if it still is or have I been assigned somewhere else? But as I approach I see a corner of parchment stuck to the door reads “Tonks” in Molly’s flowery handwriting. And turning the knob, I stumble forward in the dim light from the corridor to light the lamp.

This room has changed. It’s cheerier than I remember. The little iron bed is no longer dressed in dull, grey bedding but cheerful and bright in pink. Just like my bed at the St. George. Beside the lamp on the bedside table is a vase of bright flowers; their sweet scent filling the air. It’s really nice. I love Molly.

Taking off my boots and sliding out of my coat, I realise, for the first time, that everything I’m wearing smells heavily of smoke. And ... My side is burning. Numbing charm is wearing off - again. I pull the jumper off over my head and look down at my tattered, dirty, pyjama top.

Now that can’t be good. My right side, from about halfway down my ribs to my hip is covered in blood. Thick, dark, dried blood. Lovely. Unbuttoning my top, I try and get it off but find I can’t; it’s stuck fast with blood and burnt tissue.

Luckily, these aren’t my favourite ‘jamas. Raising my wand I cut through the fabric around the burn. So at least I can take the rest of the top off. Then grabbing a pair of pyjama bottoms and a tee shirt, and pulling my coat back on, I head upstairs to the shower room.

The warm water stings as it soaks the fabric and the wound. I clean it gently with soap and a flannel until I’m eventually able to remove the fabric. It looks bad. That’s the trouble with numbing charms you never really know what you’ve done until later. But at least it’s clean now. I dry off, dabbing at it gently with a towel and search through the bathroom cabinet for something, anything I can use for tonight. There’s a jar of Melamagic-Salve. It says it’s for minor cuts and burns. And well, I don’t think this is major so much as just big.

I’ve used nearly the whole jar before it’s covered completely. It goes on very sticky but once it’s on, it feels smooth to the touch and I’m fairly confidant it won’t stick to my top. I wave my wand over my choice of clothing to get rid of the smoke smell and pull on a lurid green St Paddy’s day tee shirt and bright red snowman pyjama bottoms. They’re both far too big and I look ridiculous - but beggars can’t be choosers. I run a borrowed comb through my hair and realise I don’t even have a toothbrush. I’ll have to make a shopping list in the morning.

My tee shirt reads ‘Don’t fuck with Leprechauns.’ It suddenly hits me that I wasn’t the last person who wore this terrible attractive bedtime ensemble.

Remus did.

The night I took him to club.

The night I kissed him.

I pick up what’s left of my yellow, bloodied pyjamas from the floor and ball them up, slinging my coat over my arm and heading back downstairs to bed. I find myself desperately trying not to think.

I don’t want to think about any of it. I slide into bed and just stare up at the ceiling. At the patterns the dim light of the lamp cast there.

I’ve lost ... all of it.

He looked so silly in these clothes. We had far too much to drink. That night he literally fell asleep on my bedroom floor. Even when I rebuild it won’t be the same, will it? Won’t look the same. The carpets will be different, the walls --

He told me he loved me in that flat. He’d make me dinner when I came home from work. I used to just love watching him asleep in my bed.

He’s never slept in my bed in Hogsmeade.

He probably never will.

I close my eyes and feel the tears slip down my face. It’s just a place to live. Just things. Is it stupid of me to feel this way?

My side begins to throb again and I have to calm it with yet another numbing charm.

If it still feels like this in the morning, I’ll see a healer.

**