#40. I could swallow the seas to wash down all this pride
Title: For Change and Loss and Star-Crossed Love and Lies (Part II)
Series: Harry Potter
Spoilers: Through all seven books! You heard me, so consider yourself duly warned!
Characters: Starring Emmeline Vance, Death Eater Avery (the eldest brother) and Remus Lupin in that order. Guest appearances listed alphabetically rather than in their order of appearances include the Avery family (unnamed Father, Mother, Middle Brother and Youngest Brother), Sirius Black, Edgar Bones, Antonin Dolohov, Lily Evans/Potter, Peter Pettigrew, James Potter, Fabian Prewett, Gideon Prewett, Severus Snape, Nymphadora Tonks.
Pairing(s): Avery x Emmeline and Remus x Emmeline, and if I mention anymore there would be spoilers.
Author Notes: This damned overly ambitious piece has taken me more than a year to write (I do admit I fell into a writer's funk when I accidentally deleted portions of my writing). And I also have to call this a ficmix (again), and I apologize that there is no music attached. I always used to see these and swear I wouldn't write them and what do I do but write not one, but two. If you happened to read Day Late Friends (which also features this hapless triangle, though with a lesser focus on Avery) please note that it is not quite a continuation or expansion on that story. This is taking that theme and twisting the characters a quarter in another direction to see where they would wander. I also want to apologize for the bastardization of the sub-characters as I'm not comfortable nor accustomed to writing them, especially when dialogue is involved. And speaking of dialogue, I must admit there is way more talking in this than I anticipated.
In regards to the style, spoken speech is generally indicated through italics and with my usual queer aversion to names, though they do drop in occasionally.
Also feel it worth mentioning I am LIVID that I exceeded the word count and that I have to break this fic up into... who knows how many parts yet. For now, consider this part two!
Prompt: I realize I'm way past my due date (and what I failure I was!) but I still think it's fun to tag the prompts to these. So here we go with #40. I could swallow the seas to wash down all this pride. Check out this link to see what remains to be taken.
The Mix
Part I | Part II | Part III
. . . . . . . . .
The impact, she feels, simply isn't there on the day she bursts into the parlor of his family home to announce, I'm going to be married.
Maybe she imagined herself more dignified; remote, like the pedestal he places her upon. She believes, no, she talked herself into believing that not a curl could stir from the pins that keep them impeccable, that her voice would be level and smooth like a frozen lake at midnight.
Instead she is breathless with the weight of the words, her eyes anxiously picking out his languid form in the dark. She brushes at an errant curl impatiently when he fails to respond, when he maintains his silence with a hand casually resting atop the grand piano behind him.
She circles the room as she waits, moving around the perimeter as she tries to make out his face in the dark. At last his silhouette stirs and she watches as one hand moves to his pocket-an old habit, though she does not remember when or why it began at all.
When he speaks his voice is low and smooth as he says, what do you expect me to say? And she is jealous of the nuances there, that he is the frozen lake; but little matter, she thinks, because she will be the melting glacier to come crashing down, yes, she is certain she can break this calm, this collected, this entirely calculated silence.
Congratulations are usually customary, she intones, feeling like ice flints and she steps towards the French doors and consequently into the moonlight. She intends to lure him to her; she believes he will be the moth drawn to the proverbial flame.
Instead she watches as the shadows lengthen and fold and it is only then that she realizes his back is to her as he presses down one of the ivory keys belonging to the shadowy grand piano. They both listen to that one note swell only to fade-she in the waning moonlight and he in his half-light and shadows and she wonders how much longer they will continue like this. How much longer will he draw out his sonata, note by note, the pauses so thick and so suffocating that she cannot even remember the melody they comprise and she is about to speak, she needs to hear words, any words, but he beats her to it, he says, then why are you here?
. . . . . . . . .
When he at last turns to look back at her the moonlight slants past her shoulders in a way that makes him think of right angles and secrets locked, their keys unbroken. It is an irrational thought, he thinks, but lately she is his lady of mysteries, though it appears one is unraveling right before his eyes.
But this is a case he never wanted solving-at least, not in the way that it is panning out, not with another man’s ring upon her finger. True, he believes he could be the better man, he could concede to the loss of his youth’s flame, he could watch her move on because maybe it’s time he showed a little bit of selflessness, maybe it were time he secede from his fruitless plight. What right did he have to drag her into his mess; into his waking nightmare filled with promises he cannot keep but must die trying.
He simply is not cut out for war.
She is the one to break the silence this time as she takes a decisive step towards him and his place by the piano, the moonlight shifting the play of shadows upon her face. You were the first person I wanted to tell, she whispers in a tiny voice that still manages to sound like an accusation and again he wonders what it is that she wants from him.
No, he begins to say at last and it looks to him like relief is melting her frown into a smile, or maybe it is merely the light skipping across her cheekbones as she advances another step. You have come here with questions and I haven’t the answers for them, he continues as he closes the piano lid with an audible clack.
His heart nearly stops when she whispers his name, he thinks maybe he can get through this if he only regards her with sideways glances and he shoves his hands into his pockets, he tells her in a voice filled with more conviction than he feels, Go.
No.
The silence is thick between them once more and he thinks of cobwebs gathering in the attic of his family home, he thinks of the mirrors covered along the walls, the portraits in the hallway draped in mourning cloths. He considers this and the chill in the room, but he makes no move to close the French doors because that would mean he must move towards her-and this is one battle of wills he is determined to win for her sake as much as his own.
But she is stubborn, he knows this from childhood, and her heels click on the marble tiles as she continues her slow approach. She will not bend-never has-and so it is up to him to break, to crack, to fold. Wildly he thinks of his job, the one he is actually paid for-he thinks of breaking codes, cracking locks, never fixing, always taking things apart and he almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of his life up until this moment.
He doesn’t, however, and instead tells her, do what you want, you always have. He passes a hand over his eyes because he cannot watch her any longer-he tells himself the moonlight is simply too bright upon her porcelain skin, her eyes large with expectations he does not pretend to understand.
When he takes his hand away he is startled to find her there before him, her lily white fingers reaching up to touch his face.
Surprise must be written on his features for she says, I thought perhaps you were crying, but he snorts at this and brushes her hand away.
You think this is a mistake, she surmises from his silence as her fingers press an errant curl into place behind its pearl pin. He longs to snatch the pin from her hand, longs to take her hair down and watch the play of moonlight upon the tumble and fall of her twisting curls.
Instead he snaps, Don’t put words into my mouth. Perhaps this is said too quickly, and he doesn’t like that she is smiling at him-smiling because she has unruffled his carefully constructed veneer of apathy.
He does not have long to be annoyed because in the next instant he finds himself stunned when the same white hands reach out to grab him by the collar, effectively tugging him down as her lips crush against his in a kiss.
You were the mistake, she reminds him even as she is loosening his tie, even as she is pulling him closer, and he wonders if this is because she has always felt secure in the knowledge that he lets her have her way, every time.
. . . . . . . . .
Out of the blue, Wormtail sighs, Everyone’s getting married.
He feels his brows chasing each other up his forehead when he asks, You’re not, surely?
He feels a twinge of guilt and wishes he had the grace to phrase his question better when he catches the look on his friend’s face, the puckered brow, the accusing glance, so he quickly adds, I just thought you’d introduce her to us first before making a lass your bride, is all I meant.
The frown slackens and his friend offers the ghost of a smile and he worries for a moment, thinking he only made the situation worse. His friend clarifies with that same wry twist to his mouth, I meant everyone besides us.
Well, Lily accepting Prongs’s proposal, I think surprised James most of all… he concedes, not sure where Wormtail means to lead this particular thread. But Sirius, he’s free as the wind. A wriggle of doubt coils itself in his stomach, he tries to keep the suspicion out of his voice when he adds, Unless you’re suggesting that Padfoot… He finds he is trailing off again, unsure where his words are taking him.
He’s unsure of so much these days. He sees James and Lily less and less now that they are married and settled, Sirius barely at all and he misses, suddenly, the safety of the school they left behind, the room they all shared and the small world they were all a part of.
Because now he finds himself doubting every preconceived notion he has of Sirius.
For Sirius is like fireworks, his moods brief as they are profound and explosive. There is the boom of his laughter, the crackle of his temper as it flares and sparks. He is the light in an empty room, his presence stretching until it fills and devours the farthest corners. And then, as that firework fades in the sky sinking into darkness, so too does his moods ebb and recede, and he does not doubt that Sirius could marry a girl on a whim, on a dare, if provoked.
Daredevil antics are his specialty, he verges on the brink of absurdity, folly and everything that falls in-between but there is no one left to rein him in, no one to curb the stunts, the disregard for authority beyond their group-and even that, is a very fine line.
Peter interrupts his thoughts with an insufferable sigh, he says, No, Moony, Prewett. A Prewett popped the question, if his brother is enough to go by.
He blinks, he wonders at the relevance of this statement and all previous, wonders why Peter is telling him this when his friend adds, with that same wry smile, To that Vance girl, though he might have said it for a lark.
He wonders who could joke about marriage, he wonders that she could commit herself to it, she who is flighty, who sits with the one who matches her mood of the moment. The Prewett brothers, it is said, are as fond of pranks as Sirius, but that does little to erase the unease unfolding in his chest, sinking in his stomach to join the coils of doubt.
Peter stands to wave the Potters and Padfoot to their table, it requires effort for him to remain engaged in conversation, to act surprised when Lily announces the happy news, to be as delighted as he ought to for James, the soon-to-be-father, and he knows he is casting a damper on the evening, he can feel it from the disapproving kick from Sirius and see it in the way Lily will not look at him for the tears that are misting her eyes, the same tears she laughs away as the perils of motherhood.
. . . . . . . . .
I will end it. All of it, she tells him after he has fallen asleep.
She knows he is asleep not by the steady and rise and fall of his chest, but by his face, by the softness that sleep brings to the line of his brow and mouth. She runs her fingers through his tousled hair, curling the dark strands around her fingers and smirks to herself, because she knows he will hate how his hair looks in the morning.
Where have you gone? she whispers to the boy his face becomes in sleep, tracing his bottom lip. She finds she misses the innocence of their early days of courtship, the stolen kisses in the garden, the way he held her hand in the halls at school. She nearly, but not quite, misses the curl-tugging, missing more his expression as he watched both her hair and for her reaction.
And she realizes she stumbled upon it, she realizes what is gone.
His reactions.
She can remember the fleeting looks of jealousy that would flit through his eyes in their later years of school, when they were friends, not lovers. She can remember seeing the hurt in his eyes the few times she spared him a backwards glance when she was on the arm of another man. She can remember the sneers he would spare the boys she dropped because she never looked back at them, never wanted to, never had to.
He was there, is there, and she always comes back to him.
And he is always here, even when she thinks he would rather not be, and that is a thought that disquiets her, a thought that makes her move closer until her head is tucked beneath his chin and the arm he slips about her waist is as natural as his breathing.
She closes her eyes when she hears him mumble her name into her hair. She wonders when it became so important to draw his attention, to know that she captures and holds it.
But even as she is holding him, she wonders why he did not try to stop her, and it is this thought that keeps her awake most of the night.
. . . . . . . . .
The morning sunshine is bright, but that is not what awakens him-quite the contrary it is her startled intake of breath and the way her nails suddenly dig into his wrist that snaps his eyes open and then quickly half-mast against her silhouette framed by the morning sun.
What is this, she hisses but it is a demand and not a question because he knows she knows they both know exactly what it is without him having to say it.
You can’t tell me that you are honestly surprised, he counters but without the vitriol to match her tone and he makes no move to snap his arm out of her grip, merely squints back as she continues to glower down at him. He can feel his pulse beating rapidly beneath her fingernails and when she tightens her grip, he watches with detached interest, as his fingers become a splotchy pink and white. Maybe she means to rid him of this hand, he thinks, maybe she means to rid him of the mark that binds him to a cause he believes in but never wanted to fight for.
No, she says at last, I thought I knew you better than this, and when she releases his arm he feels the pin pricks in the tips of each of his fingers as his wrist throbs beneath the crescent marks of her nails.
I don’t know why I came here for this. He is a good man-I cannot believe you let me do this to such a good man, she begins, her tirade growing in volume as she snatches her clothes from the floor, yanking them on hastily with those same strong fingers now so flustered and trembling as she struggles with the ivory buttons.
He eyes the tangle of her hair, the red flush staining her cheeks and he lets her continue without interruption. I am his fiancée and I betrayed him, betrayed him for you, for this and what’s more is that you let me. Knowing full well what you are in the middle of!
The buttons on her blouse are askew and her chest is heaving but he is staring at the anger and guilt twisting her features, knows the betrayal she must feel and something else in her eyes, maybe it is fear but of what he cannot name. Surely she is not afraid of him-but maybe of the cause, of the madman behind it, yes, he thinks it hardly likely anyone could ever fear an Avery.
Maybe it will be enough if she can keep these feelings alive, he thinks, maybe she can hate me for the both of us.
So he settles back into the pillows and says, Then I’ll repeat what I said to you last night, love: what exactly did you want me to say?
. . . . . . . . .
He takes the stairs two at a time and even then he feels it is not fast enough. Up he climbs, calloused hand sliding along the banister, fingertips noting the chips and splintered edges but he does not care, not today, not when there is a place for him to be.
There is little ceremony when he opens the door, not stopping to wonder why it is unlocked nor why she’s not rushing to meet him at the sound of his footsteps.
He draws a deep breath, thinking only of the surprise he has planned, dreaming only of the expression on her face when he says-
-No, he says nothing because there is company in her parlor, there are flushed faces before him and he can see the white teeth flashing in a grin on the face of a twin and he knows he’s stood there far too long because her fingers are fumbling with the pearl buttons on her blouse and she never looks at him, no, not a once.
Sorry mate, begins the twin, shifting on the settee as he fastens his eyes upon the younger man. Didn’t know anyone was coming ‘round, did we, love? Her head bows, assenting, and he watches the veil of hair as it slides and further obscures her now pale cheeks.
The ginger haired man moves to stand, Cheshire grin in place, but Remus is no longer in the door he was framed in and it isn’t until he is back out on the street that he realizes his fingers are cramping around the neck of the champagne bottle he carries so he does what he must-he lets it go and doesn’t look back when he hears the crash.
. . . . . . . . .
She counts the steps as they retreat, first out the door and then down the hall until she can hear them no longer.
She counts her heartbeats, willing them to slow, even as he is reaching for her, even as he lays a hand upon her neck. She turns her face away before he can kiss her.
No.
His fingernails graze her neck when his fingers flex but he lets go just the same, blue eyes regarding her out from under his ginger fringe.
It was all go before, he points out sourly, as he rakes his hand through his hair. Who cares what the boy saw, Emmeline-a mousey bloke like him won’t tell a soul. And even if he does-what does it matter? We’re engaged to be married and I think we’re entitled … Hey. She feels him reaching for her on that last word, even as she turns her back to him, even as she stands and crosses to the window.
All she can see is shattered glass on the street and a dim figure in the distance. Couples are looking over their shoulders and she can imagine what it was that they saw.
Who they saw and the state she put him in.
I want to call it off.
His response is slow, incredulous, dumfounded and he struggles to move one word out of his mouth and when he manages it he says What?
You heard me, she replies, because she knows full well he heard her, clear as crystal, bright as day, loud as glass shattering on the pavement far below.
She wonders what it is that she is breaking.
They are all such good men.
Yeah, I thought I heard you say you want to call it off. He pauses. I told you, I can wait until the war is over before we marry, never mind what my sister says-
She pinches the bridge of her nose and when she releases it, she clarifies, I meant us, Gideon. I meant that we’re over. Through. I’ll leave the ring here, on the table, she slips it off as she says this, she leaves it on the sideboard beside the vase. Lock up, if you remember, before you go. She gestures to the keys as she sweeps past him, as she steps out of her own terraced house and onto the street to take a walk, a breath of air, to tell herself she is doing the right thing.
. . . . . . . . .
By the time the dust begins to clear, he comes to the startling realization that he is still in one piece. This comes as a shock, naturally, because he is not a brave man and certainly not a strong one either because breaking codes within numbers are his forte, not breaking bones.
His nerves are too rattled to let him cough too loudly (his sides hurt anyway), and his hand wavers, drooping to his side as he sways in the face of the relief. The adrenaline, the pure fear that got him this far is already receding into a false sense of security.
They might have lost the war but this battle is surely won.
Surely, he thinks, but not certain because it is then that he sees one of two flame heads move in his direction and his heart beats a staccato.
No, no, he thinks wildly, I cannot do this on my own.
He is frightened and he is alone because two of his comrades (unwittingly) took the brunt of the explosion. Their ringleader Dolohov, is unconscious not too far away and he cannot see the other three without moving his head, which he is reluctant to do now that the red haired one has seen him.
It is a twin, and he doesn't know which one it is, doesn't know which one gave his girl the ring and he knows he shouldn't care but he does. He cares because she cares and because she will cry and be hurt and that is why he never proposed to her in the first place.
To keep her from being hurt.
Licking chapped lips he stands his ground, eyeing this twin and the body, which seems sagging and heavy in the arms of its mirror image.
Missed one, says the twin in a way that is almost conversational, except there is a hard glint to the eye that he recognizes in soldiers, in fighters, a look that is rarely seen in his fellow bankers.
Aren't you going to finish the job? taunts the twin as he heaves the body in his arms, the head lolling and bleeding and he doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see the half-mast eyes but he cannot stop staring and so he fails to respond to the jeers.
Didn't your mother tell you to look at someone when they're speaking to you? and this time the twin gets his full attention. There are many remarks forming on the tip of his tongue but he swallows them all because he doesn't have a twin but he does have (did have) brothers (now only one) and he knows all too well what loss is.
Go, he whispers at last in response and the twin stares at him, stares at him like he has snakes in his hair and dragons at his ankles and then this twin laughs and laughs and laughs and the sound is high and hideous and it rings louder than the residue ringing from the explosions in his ears.
Go before they get up, he insists when the laughter doesn’t cease but he stops taking a step forward when the wand is out, the wand is pointed at him and that white hot flash of fear is the only thing he can feel budding in his chest where his air should be.
Please. My mother would die if she lost another son. Please. Please. And you-you have someone waiting for you to come home, she- and that is as far as he dares because that wand is jabbed in his direction and the eyes are wild, like a goblin whose gold got snatched and he doesn't dare breathe for fear of what will happen next.
All that I have is here, says the twin at last when the laughter subsides into heaving gulps for air and the twin shifts the body again and the red hair is matted now with carmine and dust and he thinks this is the stuff nightmares are made of, especially now the riddle of the twins is answered.
I couldn't let her have him, continues the twin as he drops to his knees, the body of his brother sinking in an awkward mess of arms and legs bending at crude angles. She had no right to him. We've never been apart. Ever. Live together, die together, that's what we promised. And the twin stares hard at him, so hard that he begins to think back to moments before the dust settling, thinks back to the explosion, that big, bright bang that they did not cause because why else would his comrades fall about him, like the last leaves off of autumn’s trees?
Finish it, goads the twin with a saccharine smile. Finish what I have begun.
No, he whispers back. I cannot do that to her.
Who cares about her? grinds out the twin, patience wearing thin. It's what you do. It's what you are. Why else are you standing there with a mask upon your face?
No. I've never killed anyone, he whispers and it is true because he never dared to.
Coward, states the twin with the flint turn to his eye, watch me finish what NONE of you had the strength to do, and he doesn't have time to feel relief that the wand is no longer pointed at his person because in the next instant there is a flash of viridian, then two bodies falling in a tangle of arms and legs and two heads of red-red hair bent one toward the other, as though conferring one last secret.
He is still staring at the bodies when the others rouse, Dolohov claiming the victory as his own.
The others laugh with relief; they are happy to have made such a blow against the rising odds.
But even after they leave, even after he is safe and alone in his family home he can still see their heads bent together in a pool of blood and he does not know what he will say to her when he sees her next; to break her heart because the fiancée is dead or to break her faith because the other twin could not see life beyond the warring.
He never tells her anything, in the end, because his comrades in arms write him out of their victory, forgetting, perhaps for their own personal gain, that he had even been there to begin with. Instead of six there is five and the newspapers sing that it took five to bring the twins down.
They may have forgotten him, but this does not mean that he will ever forget that it really only took one twin to destroy it all.
. . . . . . . . .
Remus.
Her voice is a bell that breaks the silence he has become accustomed to. He fumbles with the teacup between his calloused hands, fingers stroking the porcelain as he turns slowly in his seat to look at her, body aching from last night’s moon, mind wearied from the pain of it all, of his life, of the lives lost.
Everything.
No, he cannot see life beyond the hour so he has trouble turning to the future as she does.
I haven’t... I can’t... Don’t speak if you’ve come to talk of weddings, he croaks at last, licking chapped lips and adverting his gaze because he will not let her break his last resolve, he will not allow her to crumble his last few walls.
No, he cannot think of weddings, hers even more so, with the recent death of his two dear friends.
Three, his mind his quick to remind him. He must remember Wormtail’s sacrifice, mustn’t forget Black’s betrayal and suddenly he finds himself very tired of all of these musts.
He can hear her crossing the room as he lifts the teacup, touches the lukewarm liquid to his cracked lips and even this effort is monumental. She says at last, So you have not heard.
He does not want to hear, does not want to know what he missed, what else he is losing, what else is lost.
He is dead, Remus, they both are. And I, I called the wedding off before he-they-came to that. For a moment he is stunned, he is lulled into the awareness that there are more funerals in the wake of the war that should be over, a war that should be done.
What else did his poor friends die for?
He wants to tell her the aching in his chest only has very little to do with her and her decisions and that there is an overwhelming throbbing regret for the time lost with friends-friends who shared a longer history, a solid friendship-but truly, how solid, he cannot say in the face of so much betrayal. And he is suddenly sorry that he ever grew up, that he grew apart from his friends, his friends that picked him, when they had no reason to.
His friends.
And now he knows is that he is alone.
And because he is certain that he will be alone, he tells her of his affliction, his long kept secret and the poorly explained absences that caused the source of contention between them. She is silent through his unexpected announcement, her lips pursed and eyes narrowed.
She takes a step towards him, she hesitates, she turns, she says, I’ve got to be at the trials.
Yes, he assents, dropping his gaze to his half-empty cup, listening as the door closes softly behind her.
. . . . . . . . .
The trials are still fresh in her memory though months are past since, and she can remember the woman in her mourning black standing straight as steel, cage veil raised to reveal eyes direct as a glove slap, and this very woman announcing to the astonishment of all present that she, the mother, the Avery matriarch, is the instigator, the perpetrator, the puppeteer behind her son. And he, the eldest son, with the bleakest look in his hollow eyes, the despairing in his voice as he acquiesced, as he said, yes, she made me.
And she remembers how she made her own son twist and writhe in pain on the pulpit before the judge believed her, though the action, perhaps, saved him from joining his mother in prison. She recalls how only a few weeks later the family wore black, for this selfsame woman, who perished alone surrounded by stone, they say from her broken heart.
And a week to the day of his wife’s death, the father succumbed to his illness, the one he had suffered with for as far as her memory of them stretched. From five Averys there are now two-a war suspect and a sports star, and she makes a point not read the slander slung at the latter. She feels sorry for that Avery, the middle brother with his young wife and their newly born son.
But she is not here to reminisce; she is here to remind the eldest Avery of life beyond the walls of his family home. She is here to remind him the war is over, he need not wear the shadows anymore, he is allowed to feel again without fear and trepidation.
You’re as good as the patriarch of your family now, she chides him, not unkindly. You must act like it, you have got to take control of your inheritance-
Yes, and his voice is bitter when he cuts her short, My inheritance of cobwebs and quiet, of debts and ruin.
It’s not as bad as that, she soothes, hand stretching as though to touch him though she never quite reaches him. Surely you are exaggerating the circumstances-
He snatches her hand into his and she is surprised by how warm it is, how feverish his touch. It is worse, Emmeline, far worse than you imagine. Shall we go for a walk together, you and I? Down to the shops maybe, so you can see how they look at me, how they revile me, how they wish their gazes would be enough to kill me-
Enough! She snaps her hand out of his grasp, trying not to dwell upon how the warmth seems to seep from her trembling fingers.
Enough, she repeats with more composure, her voice cooler now, You have made your point quite clear. She folds her arms over her chest and gives him a firm look. I still don’t see how this has anything to do with us-it might even help, to be seen with me, you know. And I don’t care what they think or what they believe.
You’re not as naive as this, surely, you know they believe it was me all along. His voice is smooth, she thinks irrationally of the porcelain, wonders if it will break just as easily. They think a mother’s love will move her to say anything, do anything-
It doesn’t matter what they think.
And the silence that follows her words is so thick, so prolonged, she realizes she has no idea what he is thinking until he says, quite softly, You feel this way now, Emmeline, and I believe you do, no, don’t interrupt me, because I must ask you, what of the weeks to follow? The months? Have you thought of the talk that will follow in your wake at the office? The subtle snubs, promotions passing you by, invitations mysteriously lost in the mail? Emmeline, my darling, my clever girl, you know this and it is only your sentiments, your nostalgia for me that make you say otherwise.
She stares at him then, wondering who is this man before her. She stares at him, wondering where the boy went who used to pull her curls in the classroom, the one who walked with a swagger and an arrogant turn of his head when they strolled arm in arm through the halls in school, where the young man who took all the girls she ever hated out for dinner at the same restaurants where she dined with her newest beau.
She wonders what this means, if this means he is turning the tables, if rather than her giving up on him, he at last has given up on her.
He breaks the silence then, he says very softly, You chose your career over me once, Emmeline. I am asking you to make that choice again.
Why? she whispers, fingers curling, clenching into her palms, because she thinks this is the moment of porcelain breaking, her world suddenly unbalanced. Is this about- and he interrupts her even as she is realizing there are too many names to fit in the end of the question.
No. And he is facing her but she wishes he would turn and look out the window as he usually does, because she does not think she has ever seen pain etched so clearly in the tight line of his mouth and in the darkness ringing his already dark eyes. I love you. I never stopped loving you and I never will but I need to let you go.
She inhales, but she cannot feel the air, she wonders if this is what it feels like to drown upon land, but he is still speaking and she does not want to hear him, does not want him to finish. She raises her hands, poised as though to cover her ears though she never gets her chance to.
If my love wasn’t enough for you before any of this, Emmeline, it certainly won’t be enough for us now.
. . . . . . . . .
Instead of finding the parlor to his family home cloaked in shadows, he discovers it awash in the golden glow of candlelight, the long neglected chandelier winking as the teardrop crystals rebound the light. Garlands of evergreen with tallow berries and holly are twisted with silver ribbons and strung from the ceiling, leading his gaze to the richly decorated fir tree that fills the corner of the room beyond the piano and the woman who perches on the piano bench, a vision of green silk and silver baubles, indistinct to him at the distance he maintains.
You’re late, she admonishes, voice soft as she keeps her seat, and he can just make out the curl of her hair as it spills over her ivory shoulder, though he cannot make out the bend and twist when he views her thus framed against the tree.
I didn’t realize I had appointments to keep, is all he says in return as he tosses his wool cloak carelessly over the back of a leather, padded armchair.
Where else would you go, tonight of all nights? she points out as she stands in one fluid movement and he wonders why her edges are melting into the tree behind her.
I went for a pint, and many years of practice show his mastery of the careless shrug, a shrug he hopes will deter her from further interrogation. Futile, he knows, but he tries in the only way he knows how.
He can imagine the brow arching, he can see the tilt of her chin as she appraises him, no he does not need to see her expression at all because he can read it in her voice when she reminds him, You’ve always preferred wine.
But tonight is not about his preferences, it’s not about the white wine he favors or the champagne he shares with Emmeline on special occasions or the raking burn of the whiskey he indulges in when he feels his world systematically collapsing around him.
So he lifts his shoulder in a shrug but stops when he feels her hand caress his arm, he fixes his gaze on the glass of the French windows even as he tries desperately not to find her reflection there. I wondered what he saw at the bottom of that glass, he says at last when the pressure of her fingers do not lessen. I wanted to see if I could find what he was looking for.
He thinks she might have muffled a sigh against his back as her arms enclose him in an embrace and he lets himself just feel her for the moment, the soft, warm curve of her body, the slightly cold hands that are pressed firmly to his chest.
Why are you here? he asks at last. Surely you have invitations to festivities where there is something worth celebrating.
I did, she admits slowly, answer reluctant like honey from a jar, But then you would be alone.
I am alone.
She is silent then as her hands slide away; she turns him so that he is facing her when she asks, Why are you trying to spoil this?
Because, where you see Yuletide cheer, and while I admire your efforts at decorating, I can still see this house riddled with its wraiths and shadows. She opens her mouth to speak but he presses on relentlessly, turning her now so that her back is flush against him as he points to her the places he speaks of.
I can picture my mother, there, sitting on the settee beside my father while he squeezes her hand. I can see my youngest brother beside the fireplace, tearing open the presents, racing to the next one. And I can see him he knew she would understand he now spoke of his other brother, the one found dead the Christmas past. Loitering by the window, right here in this spot, sussing the skies and the ground below, judging the snowfall and whether or not he would be able to go outside to hone his sport. He releases her then as he moves away from the window. You see trees and painted porcelain decorations and I, all I can see are the dead.
She whispers his name and he shakes his head. My brother had everything I ever wanted. Everything, and yet... that was his answer. His solution. Oblivion in a bottle and it took his life.
He is surprised when she ducks around him, appraising him again with a half-smile and he wonders what she finds so amusing. He does not need to ask because she says with that selfsame smile, I think you’re drunk.
With the amount of alcohol I have consumed tonight that is altogether plausible, he relents with a sigh as her smile broadens.
And he didn’t have everything you wanted, she points out. You never liked blondes. Or notoriety of any sort. And you’re rubbish at sports.
I see why I keep you around, and he is pleased when she blushes, he strokes the back of his hand down her cheek and adds, But he had the life I wanted. A wife, a child, a career despite the slander against our name…
Shh, not this again, she chastises with a reprimanding tap to his lips. His hand stills in his pocket, fingers closed around the familiar shape and angle of the ring he always keeps with him. She carries on, Remember, you’re not the only one to have lost loved ones to this madness.
I don’t want to be your charity case, he interrupts her lecture in his last effort to persuade her to leave his company, even as his resolve is folding, like spring leaves in the face of frost.
Charitable? Me? she scoffs as she tugs him to the settee, pulling him down next to her. It’s Christmas. And this is the only place I know I can go where I do not feel alone. My motives are purely selfish. She waves a sprig of mistletoe under his nose and his brow arches at that but she seals his response with a kiss.
. . . . . . . . .
He cannot count the reasons on all his fingers and toes for why he should not be here. There is the every present hurt, that raw wound ache that bleeds into every thought, every regret, every opportunity past and lost.
This is one of them.
He wonders if this makes him masochistic, his constant desire to return to everything that he has lost; that he says yes when he ought to say no; and the simplest fact that he never gets what he wants.
Maybe he doesn’t know himself anyway.
This is why he is waiting in the park, breathing in the late spring but unable to appreciate its grace and splendor.
Indeed, he wonders why the world can be so verdant, so brilliantly emerald with life when there is a barren wasteland of winter behind his lids, each and every memory of his friends a ghost, a twisting, cracking tree never reaching him, and his heart itself splinters jagged and breaking his body with every beat.
In these moments he longs to be sand, sifted and pressed hand over hand until he is no longer himself, simply a part of everything and nothing at all.
He wonders what happened to bring about this change, when he used to wish for nothing else but to fit in and to have someplace to belong to.
When he opens his eyes he is not surprised to see her clad in a dress of green and she is running those last few steps towards him. In the next instant she is in his arms, her nose cold when she presses it against his neck and he finds himself straining to hear the tears that are not falling.
When he breathes, her fingers are digging into his jacket and he presses his face into her hair and he thinks of the green of the park and the green of her dress and he wonders if he will ever remember how to feel alive again.
. . . . . . . . .
She speaks the truth, she admits, I did not dare to hope that you would come.
She waits through the silence, she contents herself with listening to his heartbeat, slow and steady, telling herself it beat fast for a moment, when she first threw herself into his arms, at his mercy.
She does not know why he came to her call, especially when she has not seen him since the day he revealed, at last, the source of his reservations.
She knows even less why she is there.
But she also knows she cannot fear such a pitiful countenance, a young man who so suddenly looks so far aged beyond his years.
She runs her fingers through his hair, tracing out the silver mixed in the brushed gold and brown and she wonders at the way in which loss affects them all differently. She outruns her losses through her search for diversions, through her desire to bury memory so far beneath her breast that only her heartbeat can touch upon it. Avery is ever methodical, remorselessly reliving every moment that he cannot fix, of every loss agonizingly felt. She sees in this young man before her his battered and bruised and bewildered heart, his disbelief and the guilt that comes with being the one left behind in life.
And she is suddenly very sorry for him and his losses, for him and his heart, so many times betrayed.
She touches his face and he looks at her at last instead of dully seeing through her.
He looks at her in hope, hope of what, she cannot say, and she goes to her toes, she kisses his cheek, she says, You are so much stronger than you realize, you know.
He is shaking his head, she knows these are not the platitudes he wishes to hear, but she will not let him bury himself in her, she will not let him run where she has run, or stand still where Avery has lost himself.
She tells him what he already knows, I am your weakness. And she adds after a moment’s hesitation, because she needs to believe in this as much as he needs to hear it, And I will not hurt you anymore.
His intake of breath is a needle in her resolve and fear snakes through her for a moment when she goes on tiptoe, when she presses her lips to his in what she tells herself will be the last time. Alarm screams through her nerves when his arms close about her, when his lips press more insistently upon hers and she berates herself that she could ever fear this heart heavy boy who is doing all that he knows in desperation to keep one tie the same.
But she will not let him, she will snip this tie as surely as she knows he will grow beyond this moment.
She believes he can survive the aftermath of the war and she acknowledges, at last, as she bids him goodbye that maybe she can see the ghosts in his eyes and wonders if she is making the right choice after all.
. . . . . . . . .
They see one another intermittently through the years, mostly on holidays when she claims she would rather be with him than be alone in a crowd and he accepts her worry, wondering if she thinks him so weak as to follow in his middle brother’s footsteps.
And though time has eased the memory of the war in the minds of most, he keeps that ring in his pocket and does not ask the question that burns in his mind whenever he sees her, whenever she chooses to grace him with her presence.
Then the creeping years begin to repeat what he prayed was over for good and for always.
He ignores the signs until his arm burn with the insistence that he must once again pledge his loyalty to a world of death and chaos; he cannot help but feel the irony when he is praised for his loyalty and he wonders if the lines are burned and blurred because he truly does not know what he believes in anymore.
But he is an expert at keeping up the pretenses, and these he maintains with his formal smile, his teasing ways when in the company of some he remembers better, seriousness when in the presence of those who have his baby brother’s fanatical eyes.
He does not know what to say to her when she comes again to his home the Christmas after these summons and he notes she is oddly silent, she never drops her gaze to his arm yet, whatever her reservations, whatever her revulsion for this madman, she keeps her silence and stays through Boxing Day, she sleeps beside him as in days of old.
He touches her hair when she drifts to sleep, loving the bend and curl as much as he hates it within his own hair. He buries his face against her neck and wishes he could forget the world clamoring beyond these four walls.
He wishes for so much to be as it was, for so much of it to have never happened at all.
I love you, he tells her shoulder and succeeds his admission with a kiss. I never stopped, he insists with another kiss to her neck because he wonders if the war only brings honesty at night, when she is sleeping beside him, the only time when he ever feels as though he can pretend that she is truly his.
But I must go now, he admits even as he is slipping from the bed, even as he is dressing in the dark. Once his is finished, once his mask is in hand he comes back, he stoops low enough to kiss her forehead, her cheek, a chaste kiss to her lips as he whispers, But I will come back for you. I will change and I will ask you what you have long since waited to hear.
He does not return until the breaking hours of dawn, he takes the stairs two by two, he opens the door to find his bed empty, the covers cold, and he does not bother to undress, simply curls up in the place she had occupied and simply breathes.
. . . . . . . . .
Those remaining of the group are called together to a meeting and it is here he gets his first shockingly awkward reunion with Emmeline (still Vance, which he later finds the most astonishing piece of news) when they arrive at the same time, both staring at the door and trying to keep stray glances from lingering on one another.
It is she, who attempts to initiate conversation, she who politely says, You look well, not knowing that the memories of their parting rise immediately to his mind.
He bites back the hurt, he has had years to practice a smile that everyone believes and he does not speak until he feels it stretch his lips and then admits, I don’t often hear that, I’m afraid.
She is startled, she looks up at him sharply and it seems she really looks this time because he watches her eyes widen and lips part as she takes in what has become of Remus Lupin in all the years of her absence.
One hand trembles, he looks at those delicate fingers and wonders if she will touch him when the door is thrust open by Sirius’s cousin, when they are admitted in and then there is a meeting between them, business to attend to.
When all is said that can be said about the war and about what must be done, he waits, he watches her out of the corner of his eye until he notices her leaving and then he sets about the delicate task of extricating himself from the newly-forgiven Sirius the fugitive, his only remaining friend (and oh how he relishes in the friendship, how he misses the years they lost, the years that past, even when Sirius’s wild eyes frighten him, even when he wonders, sometimes, if his friend’s mind is as it was or if he really was that reckless).
He slips out the door and down the steps, afraid, for a moment that she has already gone but he sees her walking slowly down the street, he runs to catch up with her, he touches her elbow to turn her, to say, Would you care to-
Yes, she says with a smile as she tucks her hand in the crook of his arm. Let’s go.
. . . . . . . . .
The years were not as kind to him as she, in her youth, had stoutly believed they would be.
They were mercenary, they were cruel and she can see the careworn look extends far beyond his garb to his very being, to the fall of his hair, to the scars she is not sure she remembers, to the hands folded familiarly around his drink.
It is hard to pick up where they left off because, she realizes, she is not quite sure where that was. What she begun and what she ended and all that happened in-between are a blur to her, a messy web of taking advantage of his kindness and weaknesses, of reveling in his adoration, of pursuing him for all of his reticence, his hesitations, and what a mess she made of it all, what a mess she made of him.
He is, as always, an apt listener, and she fills their conversation with all that she has become, of all that she dreampt of when she was younger, and how not a single one came to pass.
He smiles and takes her hand in his, bringing it forward so that he can press a kiss to her knuckles and the blush that spreads across her face is rapid and absolute.
She wonders if she can believe in his smile, wonders if she wants to, and at the same time as her resolve is melting, she thinks she does want to as she squeezes his hand, as she tries to place her hope in this moment without worrying about the aftermath, without worrying about the war, because maybe, maybe this is what it means to stay young, to keep believing in a love she had given up on.
. . . . . . . . .
Avery, are you incapable of standing still?
I’ll have you know that I come from a family of fidgeters. It’s in our blood to find something to fiddle with. He is answered with a sigh, he can feel the exasperation bubbling within the man opposite him so he adds, And aren’t we a little old for this anyway?
His flippancy is met with a silence anticipated so he smiles into the darkness for he is tired of this burden, of the obligations and the promises he keeps to the dead-indeed an irony never lost on him.
It was a long time ago, I’ll grant you that, but surely my brother fiddled and faffed about in classes and clandestine meetings like this. You were friends, I thought, so you must’ve noticed his habit of drumming his fingers. He lets the silence sit for a bit after that, trying to imagine how his youngest brother might look now. He tries to bring the image of his youngest brother to the forefront of his mind but the edges blur as he struggles to peel back the years, finding only obstructions and doubts as he tries to delve deeper into memory.
So he turns to different channels, wonders if this youngest brother would be sharp and incisive, like his contemporary Snape, wonders still if the high cheek bones would hollow to gauntness, if the calculating eyes (his mother’s eyes, he reflects) would dim to one jaded by the times or if he might somehow maintain the power, if he might sustain the flames of his father’s fervor, belief and sense of inherent justice. He wonders if his youngest brother could have avoided trial or if he would go screaming to his prison cell about the righteousness of Him, only to be sprung later when the unthinkable occurs, when He returns.
He wonders if his brother would be the one standing beside Snape instead, be the one lying in wait, lurking in shadows and the cold.
He wonders if this man before him would be here if it had not been for his youngest brother. He knows he wouldn’t be.
He did, is wrenched so grudgingly from Snape’s mouth that it takes him a moment to recall the train of the conversation.
Funny what we remember, he sighs as he rakes a hand through his wavy hair, no longer slicked with the products of his youth. I would be married, if it weren’t for him.
He knows he sails in dangerous waters but he doesn’t care because he no longer has anyone to prod, to rankle, his brothers both long in the ground, his only living blood in the form of a nephew a continent away.
Much to his disappointment the younger man snorts, the younger man points out sourly, You’d be married if you ever bothered to ask.
I did. I tried, I mean, I rehearsed it in my head a thousand times in front of a mirror, and when the war ends, I’ll ask her, he stops short at Snape’s curt question.
You think she remembers you?
I should hope so, he returns, blinking slowly in the gloom, eyeing the fog rolling in that he doesn’t have a taste for.
…You’re a fool to think she’s waited for you, Avery, and it is in a tone of such disdain reserved only for the very stupid that makes him chuckle, a sound that soon disappears back into his chest..
Your concern sets a flame to the cockles of my heart, Snape, he songs with a smile, listening to the irritated silence that settles around them. It’s times like this where he thinks he could almost consider Snape a woebegone brother, or maybe the oft-forgot cousin. I know she looks for men most unlike me. She finds in them everything I am not. But you know, or rather, I imagine you don’t, he glances at his companion sideways again, the smallest of smiles quirking his lips. But she always comes back to me. And she’ll probably say no, when everything is said and done.
Why ask a question you know the answer to? Because of love? he sneers the word, his voice riddled with aspic and venom, a veritable store of all the poisons he keeps bottled in his classrooms. Thinking thus, he can imagine the shelf for ridicule and beside it steeps mockery in its jar. Scorn, disdain, disparagement are lined up neatly too and he smiles, despite himself and much to the chagrin of his companion as Snape strives to further drive the point home.
You think she will forgive you? He never knew a man could be so capable of chilling a word but Snape, in his opinion, finds ways to bend language to his bidding, to sink it in ice until the recipient feels the sting of frostbite.
She will never forgive me. She will never forgive me for what she believes I have done. She will never forgive herself for doubting me because of her uncertainties.
A silence sinks but he wonders, suddenly, if they are not discussing two separate subjects.
Then Snape says slowly, And you say she’s known all along who you stand with? He nods, he is about to throw the younger man’s words right back at him when Snape adds, You are such a fool, Avery. Did you never realize, all this time, she has been standing against you? Working against you? Betraying you?
He blinks at the accusations, opens his mouth to speak before Snape intercedes one last time, before he hisses, She is with them.
. . . . . . . . .
Out of the corner of his eye he can see the way she is looking at him but more specifically the way she is not looking at the young Auror beside him, and he wonders if she truly thinks he has some designs on this girl, this child, this infant. He thinks he is inclined to feel indignant, annoyed that she thinks he is so desperate as that-and yet, there is the small tickle of satisfaction that he cannot deny: she is jealous.
It is a first, he thinks, in their long history, where she is the one who seeks him with her eyes, watching his every intake of breath, reading the nuances and the possibilities in both. Instead he watches her face and the theatre of expressions that come to stage while she at last regards the young one beside him. Indeed, she is a mirror that repels the innocence sat beside him, he feels he can read the young Auror’s expression by the darkening of Emmeline’s face: ah, now she is wistful, now the girl is sighing, now she is humming in a way that can only mean trouble.
But his eyes are for Emmeline alone so he smiles as her brows draw together, he follows the curve of her neck as she directs her attention to the meeting and, because he is older now and knows the consequences of war, he does the same.
Afterwards, as they break into groups speaking in reverential tones and fewer still indulging in refreshments, he catches her sweeping towards the door and he moves to bar her passage.
A small part of him is pleased with his boldness as he looks down at the wondering gaze she directs at him, because they both know the Remus of old would have shrunk and balked from making such a move.
You know, he begins in his best conversational tone, hiding a smile when her brow twitches at the familiarity of his address. While you were so engaged in looking at her, I don’t think you noticed I only looked at you.
It doesn’t matter what I think, she says slowly, weighing her words just as carefully as she weighs her coins when it is time to pay the bill and it is his turn to fall into the smallest of frowns.
It’s always mattered and you know it, and he is whispering without knowing why, feeling a sense of urgency, needing suddenly to impress upon her how truly earnest his feelings are. He never knows what she thinks, has spent most of his adult life trying to dream up what goes on behind the flighty eyes and calculating mind, today being the only exception, today he is certain he read her right.
It’s an old game, she begins, and he means to interrupt her, he does not like where this is going, does not want her to finish but she is faster than he, she presses one long finger to his lips and he falls silent, a candle snuffed.
I can see what you’re doing because I have walked that path before-no, her finger presses insistently, imperiously, to his lips, and he returns the pressure in the form of a kiss, his only means of begging her to say no more. I walked down that road and look where it took me. I will not be played by my own game, you see. I won’t let you turn the tables on a game I am quitting. She withdraws her hand and he finds he is more bewildered by the loss of contact than by the words themselves.
When he whispers back his voice is hoarse and heavy, he says, This never was a game to me. Hearts aren’t to be gambled with.
He thinks of birds scattering to the four corners of the wind when she smiles, he thinks of something fleeting that is lost for good, he thinks, don’t let this be the end.
Her whisper is a caress, she says, I wonder how you can stay so young, so green. Love is a gamble, my darling, and I am so weary of the game.
[ Onto Part III]
Series: Harry Potter
Spoilers: Through all seven books! You heard me, so consider yourself duly warned!
Characters: Starring Emmeline Vance, Death Eater Avery (the eldest brother) and Remus Lupin in that order. Guest appearances listed alphabetically rather than in their order of appearances include the Avery family (unnamed Father, Mother, Middle Brother and Youngest Brother), Sirius Black, Edgar Bones, Antonin Dolohov, Lily Evans/Potter, Peter Pettigrew, James Potter, Fabian Prewett, Gideon Prewett, Severus Snape, Nymphadora Tonks.
Pairing(s): Avery x Emmeline and Remus x Emmeline, and if I mention anymore there would be spoilers.
Author Notes: This damned overly ambitious piece has taken me more than a year to write (I do admit I fell into a writer's funk when I accidentally deleted portions of my writing). And I also have to call this a ficmix (again), and I apologize that there is no music attached. I always used to see these and swear I wouldn't write them and what do I do but write not one, but two. If you happened to read Day Late Friends (which also features this hapless triangle, though with a lesser focus on Avery) please note that it is not quite a continuation or expansion on that story. This is taking that theme and twisting the characters a quarter in another direction to see where they would wander. I also want to apologize for the bastardization of the sub-characters as I'm not comfortable nor accustomed to writing them, especially when dialogue is involved. And speaking of dialogue, I must admit there is way more talking in this than I anticipated.
In regards to the style, spoken speech is generally indicated through italics and with my usual queer aversion to names, though they do drop in occasionally.
Also feel it worth mentioning I am LIVID that I exceeded the word count and that I have to break this fic up into... who knows how many parts yet. For now, consider this part two!
Prompt: I realize I'm way past my due date (and what I failure I was!) but I still think it's fun to tag the prompts to these. So here we go with #40. I could swallow the seas to wash down all this pride. Check out this link to see what remains to be taken.
The Mix
Part I | Part II | Part III
. . . . . . . . .
The impact, she feels, simply isn't there on the day she bursts into the parlor of his family home to announce, I'm going to be married.
Maybe she imagined herself more dignified; remote, like the pedestal he places her upon. She believes, no, she talked herself into believing that not a curl could stir from the pins that keep them impeccable, that her voice would be level and smooth like a frozen lake at midnight.
Instead she is breathless with the weight of the words, her eyes anxiously picking out his languid form in the dark. She brushes at an errant curl impatiently when he fails to respond, when he maintains his silence with a hand casually resting atop the grand piano behind him.
She circles the room as she waits, moving around the perimeter as she tries to make out his face in the dark. At last his silhouette stirs and she watches as one hand moves to his pocket-an old habit, though she does not remember when or why it began at all.
When he speaks his voice is low and smooth as he says, what do you expect me to say? And she is jealous of the nuances there, that he is the frozen lake; but little matter, she thinks, because she will be the melting glacier to come crashing down, yes, she is certain she can break this calm, this collected, this entirely calculated silence.
Congratulations are usually customary, she intones, feeling like ice flints and she steps towards the French doors and consequently into the moonlight. She intends to lure him to her; she believes he will be the moth drawn to the proverbial flame.
Instead she watches as the shadows lengthen and fold and it is only then that she realizes his back is to her as he presses down one of the ivory keys belonging to the shadowy grand piano. They both listen to that one note swell only to fade-she in the waning moonlight and he in his half-light and shadows and she wonders how much longer they will continue like this. How much longer will he draw out his sonata, note by note, the pauses so thick and so suffocating that she cannot even remember the melody they comprise and she is about to speak, she needs to hear words, any words, but he beats her to it, he says, then why are you here?
. . . . . . . . .
When he at last turns to look back at her the moonlight slants past her shoulders in a way that makes him think of right angles and secrets locked, their keys unbroken. It is an irrational thought, he thinks, but lately she is his lady of mysteries, though it appears one is unraveling right before his eyes.
But this is a case he never wanted solving-at least, not in the way that it is panning out, not with another man’s ring upon her finger. True, he believes he could be the better man, he could concede to the loss of his youth’s flame, he could watch her move on because maybe it’s time he showed a little bit of selflessness, maybe it were time he secede from his fruitless plight. What right did he have to drag her into his mess; into his waking nightmare filled with promises he cannot keep but must die trying.
He simply is not cut out for war.
She is the one to break the silence this time as she takes a decisive step towards him and his place by the piano, the moonlight shifting the play of shadows upon her face. You were the first person I wanted to tell, she whispers in a tiny voice that still manages to sound like an accusation and again he wonders what it is that she wants from him.
No, he begins to say at last and it looks to him like relief is melting her frown into a smile, or maybe it is merely the light skipping across her cheekbones as she advances another step. You have come here with questions and I haven’t the answers for them, he continues as he closes the piano lid with an audible clack.
His heart nearly stops when she whispers his name, he thinks maybe he can get through this if he only regards her with sideways glances and he shoves his hands into his pockets, he tells her in a voice filled with more conviction than he feels, Go.
No.
The silence is thick between them once more and he thinks of cobwebs gathering in the attic of his family home, he thinks of the mirrors covered along the walls, the portraits in the hallway draped in mourning cloths. He considers this and the chill in the room, but he makes no move to close the French doors because that would mean he must move towards her-and this is one battle of wills he is determined to win for her sake as much as his own.
But she is stubborn, he knows this from childhood, and her heels click on the marble tiles as she continues her slow approach. She will not bend-never has-and so it is up to him to break, to crack, to fold. Wildly he thinks of his job, the one he is actually paid for-he thinks of breaking codes, cracking locks, never fixing, always taking things apart and he almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of his life up until this moment.
He doesn’t, however, and instead tells her, do what you want, you always have. He passes a hand over his eyes because he cannot watch her any longer-he tells himself the moonlight is simply too bright upon her porcelain skin, her eyes large with expectations he does not pretend to understand.
When he takes his hand away he is startled to find her there before him, her lily white fingers reaching up to touch his face.
Surprise must be written on his features for she says, I thought perhaps you were crying, but he snorts at this and brushes her hand away.
You think this is a mistake, she surmises from his silence as her fingers press an errant curl into place behind its pearl pin. He longs to snatch the pin from her hand, longs to take her hair down and watch the play of moonlight upon the tumble and fall of her twisting curls.
Instead he snaps, Don’t put words into my mouth. Perhaps this is said too quickly, and he doesn’t like that she is smiling at him-smiling because she has unruffled his carefully constructed veneer of apathy.
He does not have long to be annoyed because in the next instant he finds himself stunned when the same white hands reach out to grab him by the collar, effectively tugging him down as her lips crush against his in a kiss.
You were the mistake, she reminds him even as she is loosening his tie, even as she is pulling him closer, and he wonders if this is because she has always felt secure in the knowledge that he lets her have her way, every time.
. . . . . . . . .
Out of the blue, Wormtail sighs, Everyone’s getting married.
He feels his brows chasing each other up his forehead when he asks, You’re not, surely?
He feels a twinge of guilt and wishes he had the grace to phrase his question better when he catches the look on his friend’s face, the puckered brow, the accusing glance, so he quickly adds, I just thought you’d introduce her to us first before making a lass your bride, is all I meant.
The frown slackens and his friend offers the ghost of a smile and he worries for a moment, thinking he only made the situation worse. His friend clarifies with that same wry twist to his mouth, I meant everyone besides us.
Well, Lily accepting Prongs’s proposal, I think surprised James most of all… he concedes, not sure where Wormtail means to lead this particular thread. But Sirius, he’s free as the wind. A wriggle of doubt coils itself in his stomach, he tries to keep the suspicion out of his voice when he adds, Unless you’re suggesting that Padfoot… He finds he is trailing off again, unsure where his words are taking him.
He’s unsure of so much these days. He sees James and Lily less and less now that they are married and settled, Sirius barely at all and he misses, suddenly, the safety of the school they left behind, the room they all shared and the small world they were all a part of.
Because now he finds himself doubting every preconceived notion he has of Sirius.
For Sirius is like fireworks, his moods brief as they are profound and explosive. There is the boom of his laughter, the crackle of his temper as it flares and sparks. He is the light in an empty room, his presence stretching until it fills and devours the farthest corners. And then, as that firework fades in the sky sinking into darkness, so too does his moods ebb and recede, and he does not doubt that Sirius could marry a girl on a whim, on a dare, if provoked.
Daredevil antics are his specialty, he verges on the brink of absurdity, folly and everything that falls in-between but there is no one left to rein him in, no one to curb the stunts, the disregard for authority beyond their group-and even that, is a very fine line.
Peter interrupts his thoughts with an insufferable sigh, he says, No, Moony, Prewett. A Prewett popped the question, if his brother is enough to go by.
He blinks, he wonders at the relevance of this statement and all previous, wonders why Peter is telling him this when his friend adds, with that same wry smile, To that Vance girl, though he might have said it for a lark.
He wonders who could joke about marriage, he wonders that she could commit herself to it, she who is flighty, who sits with the one who matches her mood of the moment. The Prewett brothers, it is said, are as fond of pranks as Sirius, but that does little to erase the unease unfolding in his chest, sinking in his stomach to join the coils of doubt.
Peter stands to wave the Potters and Padfoot to their table, it requires effort for him to remain engaged in conversation, to act surprised when Lily announces the happy news, to be as delighted as he ought to for James, the soon-to-be-father, and he knows he is casting a damper on the evening, he can feel it from the disapproving kick from Sirius and see it in the way Lily will not look at him for the tears that are misting her eyes, the same tears she laughs away as the perils of motherhood.
. . . . . . . . .
I will end it. All of it, she tells him after he has fallen asleep.
She knows he is asleep not by the steady and rise and fall of his chest, but by his face, by the softness that sleep brings to the line of his brow and mouth. She runs her fingers through his tousled hair, curling the dark strands around her fingers and smirks to herself, because she knows he will hate how his hair looks in the morning.
Where have you gone? she whispers to the boy his face becomes in sleep, tracing his bottom lip. She finds she misses the innocence of their early days of courtship, the stolen kisses in the garden, the way he held her hand in the halls at school. She nearly, but not quite, misses the curl-tugging, missing more his expression as he watched both her hair and for her reaction.
And she realizes she stumbled upon it, she realizes what is gone.
His reactions.
She can remember the fleeting looks of jealousy that would flit through his eyes in their later years of school, when they were friends, not lovers. She can remember seeing the hurt in his eyes the few times she spared him a backwards glance when she was on the arm of another man. She can remember the sneers he would spare the boys she dropped because she never looked back at them, never wanted to, never had to.
He was there, is there, and she always comes back to him.
And he is always here, even when she thinks he would rather not be, and that is a thought that disquiets her, a thought that makes her move closer until her head is tucked beneath his chin and the arm he slips about her waist is as natural as his breathing.
She closes her eyes when she hears him mumble her name into her hair. She wonders when it became so important to draw his attention, to know that she captures and holds it.
But even as she is holding him, she wonders why he did not try to stop her, and it is this thought that keeps her awake most of the night.
. . . . . . . . .
The morning sunshine is bright, but that is not what awakens him-quite the contrary it is her startled intake of breath and the way her nails suddenly dig into his wrist that snaps his eyes open and then quickly half-mast against her silhouette framed by the morning sun.
What is this, she hisses but it is a demand and not a question because he knows she knows they both know exactly what it is without him having to say it.
You can’t tell me that you are honestly surprised, he counters but without the vitriol to match her tone and he makes no move to snap his arm out of her grip, merely squints back as she continues to glower down at him. He can feel his pulse beating rapidly beneath her fingernails and when she tightens her grip, he watches with detached interest, as his fingers become a splotchy pink and white. Maybe she means to rid him of this hand, he thinks, maybe she means to rid him of the mark that binds him to a cause he believes in but never wanted to fight for.
No, she says at last, I thought I knew you better than this, and when she releases his arm he feels the pin pricks in the tips of each of his fingers as his wrist throbs beneath the crescent marks of her nails.
I don’t know why I came here for this. He is a good man-I cannot believe you let me do this to such a good man, she begins, her tirade growing in volume as she snatches her clothes from the floor, yanking them on hastily with those same strong fingers now so flustered and trembling as she struggles with the ivory buttons.
He eyes the tangle of her hair, the red flush staining her cheeks and he lets her continue without interruption. I am his fiancée and I betrayed him, betrayed him for you, for this and what’s more is that you let me. Knowing full well what you are in the middle of!
The buttons on her blouse are askew and her chest is heaving but he is staring at the anger and guilt twisting her features, knows the betrayal she must feel and something else in her eyes, maybe it is fear but of what he cannot name. Surely she is not afraid of him-but maybe of the cause, of the madman behind it, yes, he thinks it hardly likely anyone could ever fear an Avery.
Maybe it will be enough if she can keep these feelings alive, he thinks, maybe she can hate me for the both of us.
So he settles back into the pillows and says, Then I’ll repeat what I said to you last night, love: what exactly did you want me to say?
. . . . . . . . .
He takes the stairs two at a time and even then he feels it is not fast enough. Up he climbs, calloused hand sliding along the banister, fingertips noting the chips and splintered edges but he does not care, not today, not when there is a place for him to be.
There is little ceremony when he opens the door, not stopping to wonder why it is unlocked nor why she’s not rushing to meet him at the sound of his footsteps.
He draws a deep breath, thinking only of the surprise he has planned, dreaming only of the expression on her face when he says-
-No, he says nothing because there is company in her parlor, there are flushed faces before him and he can see the white teeth flashing in a grin on the face of a twin and he knows he’s stood there far too long because her fingers are fumbling with the pearl buttons on her blouse and she never looks at him, no, not a once.
Sorry mate, begins the twin, shifting on the settee as he fastens his eyes upon the younger man. Didn’t know anyone was coming ‘round, did we, love? Her head bows, assenting, and he watches the veil of hair as it slides and further obscures her now pale cheeks.
The ginger haired man moves to stand, Cheshire grin in place, but Remus is no longer in the door he was framed in and it isn’t until he is back out on the street that he realizes his fingers are cramping around the neck of the champagne bottle he carries so he does what he must-he lets it go and doesn’t look back when he hears the crash.
. . . . . . . . .
She counts the steps as they retreat, first out the door and then down the hall until she can hear them no longer.
She counts her heartbeats, willing them to slow, even as he is reaching for her, even as he lays a hand upon her neck. She turns her face away before he can kiss her.
No.
His fingernails graze her neck when his fingers flex but he lets go just the same, blue eyes regarding her out from under his ginger fringe.
It was all go before, he points out sourly, as he rakes his hand through his hair. Who cares what the boy saw, Emmeline-a mousey bloke like him won’t tell a soul. And even if he does-what does it matter? We’re engaged to be married and I think we’re entitled … Hey. She feels him reaching for her on that last word, even as she turns her back to him, even as she stands and crosses to the window.
All she can see is shattered glass on the street and a dim figure in the distance. Couples are looking over their shoulders and she can imagine what it was that they saw.
Who they saw and the state she put him in.
I want to call it off.
His response is slow, incredulous, dumfounded and he struggles to move one word out of his mouth and when he manages it he says What?
You heard me, she replies, because she knows full well he heard her, clear as crystal, bright as day, loud as glass shattering on the pavement far below.
She wonders what it is that she is breaking.
They are all such good men.
Yeah, I thought I heard you say you want to call it off. He pauses. I told you, I can wait until the war is over before we marry, never mind what my sister says-
She pinches the bridge of her nose and when she releases it, she clarifies, I meant us, Gideon. I meant that we’re over. Through. I’ll leave the ring here, on the table, she slips it off as she says this, she leaves it on the sideboard beside the vase. Lock up, if you remember, before you go. She gestures to the keys as she sweeps past him, as she steps out of her own terraced house and onto the street to take a walk, a breath of air, to tell herself she is doing the right thing.
. . . . . . . . .
By the time the dust begins to clear, he comes to the startling realization that he is still in one piece. This comes as a shock, naturally, because he is not a brave man and certainly not a strong one either because breaking codes within numbers are his forte, not breaking bones.
His nerves are too rattled to let him cough too loudly (his sides hurt anyway), and his hand wavers, drooping to his side as he sways in the face of the relief. The adrenaline, the pure fear that got him this far is already receding into a false sense of security.
They might have lost the war but this battle is surely won.
Surely, he thinks, but not certain because it is then that he sees one of two flame heads move in his direction and his heart beats a staccato.
No, no, he thinks wildly, I cannot do this on my own.
He is frightened and he is alone because two of his comrades (unwittingly) took the brunt of the explosion. Their ringleader Dolohov, is unconscious not too far away and he cannot see the other three without moving his head, which he is reluctant to do now that the red haired one has seen him.
It is a twin, and he doesn't know which one it is, doesn't know which one gave his girl the ring and he knows he shouldn't care but he does. He cares because she cares and because she will cry and be hurt and that is why he never proposed to her in the first place.
To keep her from being hurt.
Licking chapped lips he stands his ground, eyeing this twin and the body, which seems sagging and heavy in the arms of its mirror image.
Missed one, says the twin in a way that is almost conversational, except there is a hard glint to the eye that he recognizes in soldiers, in fighters, a look that is rarely seen in his fellow bankers.
Aren't you going to finish the job? taunts the twin as he heaves the body in his arms, the head lolling and bleeding and he doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see the half-mast eyes but he cannot stop staring and so he fails to respond to the jeers.
Didn't your mother tell you to look at someone when they're speaking to you? and this time the twin gets his full attention. There are many remarks forming on the tip of his tongue but he swallows them all because he doesn't have a twin but he does have (did have) brothers (now only one) and he knows all too well what loss is.
Go, he whispers at last in response and the twin stares at him, stares at him like he has snakes in his hair and dragons at his ankles and then this twin laughs and laughs and laughs and the sound is high and hideous and it rings louder than the residue ringing from the explosions in his ears.
Go before they get up, he insists when the laughter doesn’t cease but he stops taking a step forward when the wand is out, the wand is pointed at him and that white hot flash of fear is the only thing he can feel budding in his chest where his air should be.
Please. My mother would die if she lost another son. Please. Please. And you-you have someone waiting for you to come home, she- and that is as far as he dares because that wand is jabbed in his direction and the eyes are wild, like a goblin whose gold got snatched and he doesn't dare breathe for fear of what will happen next.
All that I have is here, says the twin at last when the laughter subsides into heaving gulps for air and the twin shifts the body again and the red hair is matted now with carmine and dust and he thinks this is the stuff nightmares are made of, especially now the riddle of the twins is answered.
I couldn't let her have him, continues the twin as he drops to his knees, the body of his brother sinking in an awkward mess of arms and legs bending at crude angles. She had no right to him. We've never been apart. Ever. Live together, die together, that's what we promised. And the twin stares hard at him, so hard that he begins to think back to moments before the dust settling, thinks back to the explosion, that big, bright bang that they did not cause because why else would his comrades fall about him, like the last leaves off of autumn’s trees?
Finish it, goads the twin with a saccharine smile. Finish what I have begun.
No, he whispers back. I cannot do that to her.
Who cares about her? grinds out the twin, patience wearing thin. It's what you do. It's what you are. Why else are you standing there with a mask upon your face?
No. I've never killed anyone, he whispers and it is true because he never dared to.
Coward, states the twin with the flint turn to his eye, watch me finish what NONE of you had the strength to do, and he doesn't have time to feel relief that the wand is no longer pointed at his person because in the next instant there is a flash of viridian, then two bodies falling in a tangle of arms and legs and two heads of red-red hair bent one toward the other, as though conferring one last secret.
He is still staring at the bodies when the others rouse, Dolohov claiming the victory as his own.
The others laugh with relief; they are happy to have made such a blow against the rising odds.
But even after they leave, even after he is safe and alone in his family home he can still see their heads bent together in a pool of blood and he does not know what he will say to her when he sees her next; to break her heart because the fiancée is dead or to break her faith because the other twin could not see life beyond the warring.
He never tells her anything, in the end, because his comrades in arms write him out of their victory, forgetting, perhaps for their own personal gain, that he had even been there to begin with. Instead of six there is five and the newspapers sing that it took five to bring the twins down.
They may have forgotten him, but this does not mean that he will ever forget that it really only took one twin to destroy it all.
. . . . . . . . .
Remus.
Her voice is a bell that breaks the silence he has become accustomed to. He fumbles with the teacup between his calloused hands, fingers stroking the porcelain as he turns slowly in his seat to look at her, body aching from last night’s moon, mind wearied from the pain of it all, of his life, of the lives lost.
Everything.
No, he cannot see life beyond the hour so he has trouble turning to the future as she does.
I haven’t... I can’t... Don’t speak if you’ve come to talk of weddings, he croaks at last, licking chapped lips and adverting his gaze because he will not let her break his last resolve, he will not allow her to crumble his last few walls.
No, he cannot think of weddings, hers even more so, with the recent death of his two dear friends.
Three, his mind his quick to remind him. He must remember Wormtail’s sacrifice, mustn’t forget Black’s betrayal and suddenly he finds himself very tired of all of these musts.
He can hear her crossing the room as he lifts the teacup, touches the lukewarm liquid to his cracked lips and even this effort is monumental. She says at last, So you have not heard.
He does not want to hear, does not want to know what he missed, what else he is losing, what else is lost.
He is dead, Remus, they both are. And I, I called the wedding off before he-they-came to that. For a moment he is stunned, he is lulled into the awareness that there are more funerals in the wake of the war that should be over, a war that should be done.
What else did his poor friends die for?
He wants to tell her the aching in his chest only has very little to do with her and her decisions and that there is an overwhelming throbbing regret for the time lost with friends-friends who shared a longer history, a solid friendship-but truly, how solid, he cannot say in the face of so much betrayal. And he is suddenly sorry that he ever grew up, that he grew apart from his friends, his friends that picked him, when they had no reason to.
His friends.
And now he knows is that he is alone.
And because he is certain that he will be alone, he tells her of his affliction, his long kept secret and the poorly explained absences that caused the source of contention between them. She is silent through his unexpected announcement, her lips pursed and eyes narrowed.
She takes a step towards him, she hesitates, she turns, she says, I’ve got to be at the trials.
Yes, he assents, dropping his gaze to his half-empty cup, listening as the door closes softly behind her.
. . . . . . . . .
The trials are still fresh in her memory though months are past since, and she can remember the woman in her mourning black standing straight as steel, cage veil raised to reveal eyes direct as a glove slap, and this very woman announcing to the astonishment of all present that she, the mother, the Avery matriarch, is the instigator, the perpetrator, the puppeteer behind her son. And he, the eldest son, with the bleakest look in his hollow eyes, the despairing in his voice as he acquiesced, as he said, yes, she made me.
And she remembers how she made her own son twist and writhe in pain on the pulpit before the judge believed her, though the action, perhaps, saved him from joining his mother in prison. She recalls how only a few weeks later the family wore black, for this selfsame woman, who perished alone surrounded by stone, they say from her broken heart.
And a week to the day of his wife’s death, the father succumbed to his illness, the one he had suffered with for as far as her memory of them stretched. From five Averys there are now two-a war suspect and a sports star, and she makes a point not read the slander slung at the latter. She feels sorry for that Avery, the middle brother with his young wife and their newly born son.
But she is not here to reminisce; she is here to remind the eldest Avery of life beyond the walls of his family home. She is here to remind him the war is over, he need not wear the shadows anymore, he is allowed to feel again without fear and trepidation.
You’re as good as the patriarch of your family now, she chides him, not unkindly. You must act like it, you have got to take control of your inheritance-
Yes, and his voice is bitter when he cuts her short, My inheritance of cobwebs and quiet, of debts and ruin.
It’s not as bad as that, she soothes, hand stretching as though to touch him though she never quite reaches him. Surely you are exaggerating the circumstances-
He snatches her hand into his and she is surprised by how warm it is, how feverish his touch. It is worse, Emmeline, far worse than you imagine. Shall we go for a walk together, you and I? Down to the shops maybe, so you can see how they look at me, how they revile me, how they wish their gazes would be enough to kill me-
Enough! She snaps her hand out of his grasp, trying not to dwell upon how the warmth seems to seep from her trembling fingers.
Enough, she repeats with more composure, her voice cooler now, You have made your point quite clear. She folds her arms over her chest and gives him a firm look. I still don’t see how this has anything to do with us-it might even help, to be seen with me, you know. And I don’t care what they think or what they believe.
You’re not as naive as this, surely, you know they believe it was me all along. His voice is smooth, she thinks irrationally of the porcelain, wonders if it will break just as easily. They think a mother’s love will move her to say anything, do anything-
It doesn’t matter what they think.
And the silence that follows her words is so thick, so prolonged, she realizes she has no idea what he is thinking until he says, quite softly, You feel this way now, Emmeline, and I believe you do, no, don’t interrupt me, because I must ask you, what of the weeks to follow? The months? Have you thought of the talk that will follow in your wake at the office? The subtle snubs, promotions passing you by, invitations mysteriously lost in the mail? Emmeline, my darling, my clever girl, you know this and it is only your sentiments, your nostalgia for me that make you say otherwise.
She stares at him then, wondering who is this man before her. She stares at him, wondering where the boy went who used to pull her curls in the classroom, the one who walked with a swagger and an arrogant turn of his head when they strolled arm in arm through the halls in school, where the young man who took all the girls she ever hated out for dinner at the same restaurants where she dined with her newest beau.
She wonders what this means, if this means he is turning the tables, if rather than her giving up on him, he at last has given up on her.
He breaks the silence then, he says very softly, You chose your career over me once, Emmeline. I am asking you to make that choice again.
Why? she whispers, fingers curling, clenching into her palms, because she thinks this is the moment of porcelain breaking, her world suddenly unbalanced. Is this about- and he interrupts her even as she is realizing there are too many names to fit in the end of the question.
No. And he is facing her but she wishes he would turn and look out the window as he usually does, because she does not think she has ever seen pain etched so clearly in the tight line of his mouth and in the darkness ringing his already dark eyes. I love you. I never stopped loving you and I never will but I need to let you go.
She inhales, but she cannot feel the air, she wonders if this is what it feels like to drown upon land, but he is still speaking and she does not want to hear him, does not want him to finish. She raises her hands, poised as though to cover her ears though she never gets her chance to.
If my love wasn’t enough for you before any of this, Emmeline, it certainly won’t be enough for us now.
. . . . . . . . .
Instead of finding the parlor to his family home cloaked in shadows, he discovers it awash in the golden glow of candlelight, the long neglected chandelier winking as the teardrop crystals rebound the light. Garlands of evergreen with tallow berries and holly are twisted with silver ribbons and strung from the ceiling, leading his gaze to the richly decorated fir tree that fills the corner of the room beyond the piano and the woman who perches on the piano bench, a vision of green silk and silver baubles, indistinct to him at the distance he maintains.
You’re late, she admonishes, voice soft as she keeps her seat, and he can just make out the curl of her hair as it spills over her ivory shoulder, though he cannot make out the bend and twist when he views her thus framed against the tree.
I didn’t realize I had appointments to keep, is all he says in return as he tosses his wool cloak carelessly over the back of a leather, padded armchair.
Where else would you go, tonight of all nights? she points out as she stands in one fluid movement and he wonders why her edges are melting into the tree behind her.
I went for a pint, and many years of practice show his mastery of the careless shrug, a shrug he hopes will deter her from further interrogation. Futile, he knows, but he tries in the only way he knows how.
He can imagine the brow arching, he can see the tilt of her chin as she appraises him, no he does not need to see her expression at all because he can read it in her voice when she reminds him, You’ve always preferred wine.
But tonight is not about his preferences, it’s not about the white wine he favors or the champagne he shares with Emmeline on special occasions or the raking burn of the whiskey he indulges in when he feels his world systematically collapsing around him.
So he lifts his shoulder in a shrug but stops when he feels her hand caress his arm, he fixes his gaze on the glass of the French windows even as he tries desperately not to find her reflection there. I wondered what he saw at the bottom of that glass, he says at last when the pressure of her fingers do not lessen. I wanted to see if I could find what he was looking for.
He thinks she might have muffled a sigh against his back as her arms enclose him in an embrace and he lets himself just feel her for the moment, the soft, warm curve of her body, the slightly cold hands that are pressed firmly to his chest.
Why are you here? he asks at last. Surely you have invitations to festivities where there is something worth celebrating.
I did, she admits slowly, answer reluctant like honey from a jar, But then you would be alone.
I am alone.
She is silent then as her hands slide away; she turns him so that he is facing her when she asks, Why are you trying to spoil this?
Because, where you see Yuletide cheer, and while I admire your efforts at decorating, I can still see this house riddled with its wraiths and shadows. She opens her mouth to speak but he presses on relentlessly, turning her now so that her back is flush against him as he points to her the places he speaks of.
I can picture my mother, there, sitting on the settee beside my father while he squeezes her hand. I can see my youngest brother beside the fireplace, tearing open the presents, racing to the next one. And I can see him he knew she would understand he now spoke of his other brother, the one found dead the Christmas past. Loitering by the window, right here in this spot, sussing the skies and the ground below, judging the snowfall and whether or not he would be able to go outside to hone his sport. He releases her then as he moves away from the window. You see trees and painted porcelain decorations and I, all I can see are the dead.
She whispers his name and he shakes his head. My brother had everything I ever wanted. Everything, and yet... that was his answer. His solution. Oblivion in a bottle and it took his life.
He is surprised when she ducks around him, appraising him again with a half-smile and he wonders what she finds so amusing. He does not need to ask because she says with that selfsame smile, I think you’re drunk.
With the amount of alcohol I have consumed tonight that is altogether plausible, he relents with a sigh as her smile broadens.
And he didn’t have everything you wanted, she points out. You never liked blondes. Or notoriety of any sort. And you’re rubbish at sports.
I see why I keep you around, and he is pleased when she blushes, he strokes the back of his hand down her cheek and adds, But he had the life I wanted. A wife, a child, a career despite the slander against our name…
Shh, not this again, she chastises with a reprimanding tap to his lips. His hand stills in his pocket, fingers closed around the familiar shape and angle of the ring he always keeps with him. She carries on, Remember, you’re not the only one to have lost loved ones to this madness.
I don’t want to be your charity case, he interrupts her lecture in his last effort to persuade her to leave his company, even as his resolve is folding, like spring leaves in the face of frost.
Charitable? Me? she scoffs as she tugs him to the settee, pulling him down next to her. It’s Christmas. And this is the only place I know I can go where I do not feel alone. My motives are purely selfish. She waves a sprig of mistletoe under his nose and his brow arches at that but she seals his response with a kiss.
. . . . . . . . .
He cannot count the reasons on all his fingers and toes for why he should not be here. There is the every present hurt, that raw wound ache that bleeds into every thought, every regret, every opportunity past and lost.
This is one of them.
He wonders if this makes him masochistic, his constant desire to return to everything that he has lost; that he says yes when he ought to say no; and the simplest fact that he never gets what he wants.
Maybe he doesn’t know himself anyway.
This is why he is waiting in the park, breathing in the late spring but unable to appreciate its grace and splendor.
Indeed, he wonders why the world can be so verdant, so brilliantly emerald with life when there is a barren wasteland of winter behind his lids, each and every memory of his friends a ghost, a twisting, cracking tree never reaching him, and his heart itself splinters jagged and breaking his body with every beat.
In these moments he longs to be sand, sifted and pressed hand over hand until he is no longer himself, simply a part of everything and nothing at all.
He wonders what happened to bring about this change, when he used to wish for nothing else but to fit in and to have someplace to belong to.
When he opens his eyes he is not surprised to see her clad in a dress of green and she is running those last few steps towards him. In the next instant she is in his arms, her nose cold when she presses it against his neck and he finds himself straining to hear the tears that are not falling.
When he breathes, her fingers are digging into his jacket and he presses his face into her hair and he thinks of the green of the park and the green of her dress and he wonders if he will ever remember how to feel alive again.
. . . . . . . . .
She speaks the truth, she admits, I did not dare to hope that you would come.
She waits through the silence, she contents herself with listening to his heartbeat, slow and steady, telling herself it beat fast for a moment, when she first threw herself into his arms, at his mercy.
She does not know why he came to her call, especially when she has not seen him since the day he revealed, at last, the source of his reservations.
She knows even less why she is there.
But she also knows she cannot fear such a pitiful countenance, a young man who so suddenly looks so far aged beyond his years.
She runs her fingers through his hair, tracing out the silver mixed in the brushed gold and brown and she wonders at the way in which loss affects them all differently. She outruns her losses through her search for diversions, through her desire to bury memory so far beneath her breast that only her heartbeat can touch upon it. Avery is ever methodical, remorselessly reliving every moment that he cannot fix, of every loss agonizingly felt. She sees in this young man before her his battered and bruised and bewildered heart, his disbelief and the guilt that comes with being the one left behind in life.
And she is suddenly very sorry for him and his losses, for him and his heart, so many times betrayed.
She touches his face and he looks at her at last instead of dully seeing through her.
He looks at her in hope, hope of what, she cannot say, and she goes to her toes, she kisses his cheek, she says, You are so much stronger than you realize, you know.
He is shaking his head, she knows these are not the platitudes he wishes to hear, but she will not let him bury himself in her, she will not let him run where she has run, or stand still where Avery has lost himself.
She tells him what he already knows, I am your weakness. And she adds after a moment’s hesitation, because she needs to believe in this as much as he needs to hear it, And I will not hurt you anymore.
His intake of breath is a needle in her resolve and fear snakes through her for a moment when she goes on tiptoe, when she presses her lips to his in what she tells herself will be the last time. Alarm screams through her nerves when his arms close about her, when his lips press more insistently upon hers and she berates herself that she could ever fear this heart heavy boy who is doing all that he knows in desperation to keep one tie the same.
But she will not let him, she will snip this tie as surely as she knows he will grow beyond this moment.
She believes he can survive the aftermath of the war and she acknowledges, at last, as she bids him goodbye that maybe she can see the ghosts in his eyes and wonders if she is making the right choice after all.
. . . . . . . . .
They see one another intermittently through the years, mostly on holidays when she claims she would rather be with him than be alone in a crowd and he accepts her worry, wondering if she thinks him so weak as to follow in his middle brother’s footsteps.
And though time has eased the memory of the war in the minds of most, he keeps that ring in his pocket and does not ask the question that burns in his mind whenever he sees her, whenever she chooses to grace him with her presence.
Then the creeping years begin to repeat what he prayed was over for good and for always.
He ignores the signs until his arm burn with the insistence that he must once again pledge his loyalty to a world of death and chaos; he cannot help but feel the irony when he is praised for his loyalty and he wonders if the lines are burned and blurred because he truly does not know what he believes in anymore.
But he is an expert at keeping up the pretenses, and these he maintains with his formal smile, his teasing ways when in the company of some he remembers better, seriousness when in the presence of those who have his baby brother’s fanatical eyes.
He does not know what to say to her when she comes again to his home the Christmas after these summons and he notes she is oddly silent, she never drops her gaze to his arm yet, whatever her reservations, whatever her revulsion for this madman, she keeps her silence and stays through Boxing Day, she sleeps beside him as in days of old.
He touches her hair when she drifts to sleep, loving the bend and curl as much as he hates it within his own hair. He buries his face against her neck and wishes he could forget the world clamoring beyond these four walls.
He wishes for so much to be as it was, for so much of it to have never happened at all.
I love you, he tells her shoulder and succeeds his admission with a kiss. I never stopped, he insists with another kiss to her neck because he wonders if the war only brings honesty at night, when she is sleeping beside him, the only time when he ever feels as though he can pretend that she is truly his.
But I must go now, he admits even as he is slipping from the bed, even as he is dressing in the dark. Once his is finished, once his mask is in hand he comes back, he stoops low enough to kiss her forehead, her cheek, a chaste kiss to her lips as he whispers, But I will come back for you. I will change and I will ask you what you have long since waited to hear.
He does not return until the breaking hours of dawn, he takes the stairs two by two, he opens the door to find his bed empty, the covers cold, and he does not bother to undress, simply curls up in the place she had occupied and simply breathes.
. . . . . . . . .
Those remaining of the group are called together to a meeting and it is here he gets his first shockingly awkward reunion with Emmeline (still Vance, which he later finds the most astonishing piece of news) when they arrive at the same time, both staring at the door and trying to keep stray glances from lingering on one another.
It is she, who attempts to initiate conversation, she who politely says, You look well, not knowing that the memories of their parting rise immediately to his mind.
He bites back the hurt, he has had years to practice a smile that everyone believes and he does not speak until he feels it stretch his lips and then admits, I don’t often hear that, I’m afraid.
She is startled, she looks up at him sharply and it seems she really looks this time because he watches her eyes widen and lips part as she takes in what has become of Remus Lupin in all the years of her absence.
One hand trembles, he looks at those delicate fingers and wonders if she will touch him when the door is thrust open by Sirius’s cousin, when they are admitted in and then there is a meeting between them, business to attend to.
When all is said that can be said about the war and about what must be done, he waits, he watches her out of the corner of his eye until he notices her leaving and then he sets about the delicate task of extricating himself from the newly-forgiven Sirius the fugitive, his only remaining friend (and oh how he relishes in the friendship, how he misses the years they lost, the years that past, even when Sirius’s wild eyes frighten him, even when he wonders, sometimes, if his friend’s mind is as it was or if he really was that reckless).
He slips out the door and down the steps, afraid, for a moment that she has already gone but he sees her walking slowly down the street, he runs to catch up with her, he touches her elbow to turn her, to say, Would you care to-
Yes, she says with a smile as she tucks her hand in the crook of his arm. Let’s go.
. . . . . . . . .
The years were not as kind to him as she, in her youth, had stoutly believed they would be.
They were mercenary, they were cruel and she can see the careworn look extends far beyond his garb to his very being, to the fall of his hair, to the scars she is not sure she remembers, to the hands folded familiarly around his drink.
It is hard to pick up where they left off because, she realizes, she is not quite sure where that was. What she begun and what she ended and all that happened in-between are a blur to her, a messy web of taking advantage of his kindness and weaknesses, of reveling in his adoration, of pursuing him for all of his reticence, his hesitations, and what a mess she made of it all, what a mess she made of him.
He is, as always, an apt listener, and she fills their conversation with all that she has become, of all that she dreampt of when she was younger, and how not a single one came to pass.
He smiles and takes her hand in his, bringing it forward so that he can press a kiss to her knuckles and the blush that spreads across her face is rapid and absolute.
She wonders if she can believe in his smile, wonders if she wants to, and at the same time as her resolve is melting, she thinks she does want to as she squeezes his hand, as she tries to place her hope in this moment without worrying about the aftermath, without worrying about the war, because maybe, maybe this is what it means to stay young, to keep believing in a love she had given up on.
. . . . . . . . .
Avery, are you incapable of standing still?
I’ll have you know that I come from a family of fidgeters. It’s in our blood to find something to fiddle with. He is answered with a sigh, he can feel the exasperation bubbling within the man opposite him so he adds, And aren’t we a little old for this anyway?
His flippancy is met with a silence anticipated so he smiles into the darkness for he is tired of this burden, of the obligations and the promises he keeps to the dead-indeed an irony never lost on him.
It was a long time ago, I’ll grant you that, but surely my brother fiddled and faffed about in classes and clandestine meetings like this. You were friends, I thought, so you must’ve noticed his habit of drumming his fingers. He lets the silence sit for a bit after that, trying to imagine how his youngest brother might look now. He tries to bring the image of his youngest brother to the forefront of his mind but the edges blur as he struggles to peel back the years, finding only obstructions and doubts as he tries to delve deeper into memory.
So he turns to different channels, wonders if this youngest brother would be sharp and incisive, like his contemporary Snape, wonders still if the high cheek bones would hollow to gauntness, if the calculating eyes (his mother’s eyes, he reflects) would dim to one jaded by the times or if he might somehow maintain the power, if he might sustain the flames of his father’s fervor, belief and sense of inherent justice. He wonders if his youngest brother could have avoided trial or if he would go screaming to his prison cell about the righteousness of Him, only to be sprung later when the unthinkable occurs, when He returns.
He wonders if his brother would be the one standing beside Snape instead, be the one lying in wait, lurking in shadows and the cold.
He wonders if this man before him would be here if it had not been for his youngest brother. He knows he wouldn’t be.
He did, is wrenched so grudgingly from Snape’s mouth that it takes him a moment to recall the train of the conversation.
Funny what we remember, he sighs as he rakes a hand through his wavy hair, no longer slicked with the products of his youth. I would be married, if it weren’t for him.
He knows he sails in dangerous waters but he doesn’t care because he no longer has anyone to prod, to rankle, his brothers both long in the ground, his only living blood in the form of a nephew a continent away.
Much to his disappointment the younger man snorts, the younger man points out sourly, You’d be married if you ever bothered to ask.
I did. I tried, I mean, I rehearsed it in my head a thousand times in front of a mirror, and when the war ends, I’ll ask her, he stops short at Snape’s curt question.
You think she remembers you?
I should hope so, he returns, blinking slowly in the gloom, eyeing the fog rolling in that he doesn’t have a taste for.
…You’re a fool to think she’s waited for you, Avery, and it is in a tone of such disdain reserved only for the very stupid that makes him chuckle, a sound that soon disappears back into his chest..
Your concern sets a flame to the cockles of my heart, Snape, he songs with a smile, listening to the irritated silence that settles around them. It’s times like this where he thinks he could almost consider Snape a woebegone brother, or maybe the oft-forgot cousin. I know she looks for men most unlike me. She finds in them everything I am not. But you know, or rather, I imagine you don’t, he glances at his companion sideways again, the smallest of smiles quirking his lips. But she always comes back to me. And she’ll probably say no, when everything is said and done.
Why ask a question you know the answer to? Because of love? he sneers the word, his voice riddled with aspic and venom, a veritable store of all the poisons he keeps bottled in his classrooms. Thinking thus, he can imagine the shelf for ridicule and beside it steeps mockery in its jar. Scorn, disdain, disparagement are lined up neatly too and he smiles, despite himself and much to the chagrin of his companion as Snape strives to further drive the point home.
You think she will forgive you? He never knew a man could be so capable of chilling a word but Snape, in his opinion, finds ways to bend language to his bidding, to sink it in ice until the recipient feels the sting of frostbite.
She will never forgive me. She will never forgive me for what she believes I have done. She will never forgive herself for doubting me because of her uncertainties.
A silence sinks but he wonders, suddenly, if they are not discussing two separate subjects.
Then Snape says slowly, And you say she’s known all along who you stand with? He nods, he is about to throw the younger man’s words right back at him when Snape adds, You are such a fool, Avery. Did you never realize, all this time, she has been standing against you? Working against you? Betraying you?
He blinks at the accusations, opens his mouth to speak before Snape intercedes one last time, before he hisses, She is with them.
. . . . . . . . .
Out of the corner of his eye he can see the way she is looking at him but more specifically the way she is not looking at the young Auror beside him, and he wonders if she truly thinks he has some designs on this girl, this child, this infant. He thinks he is inclined to feel indignant, annoyed that she thinks he is so desperate as that-and yet, there is the small tickle of satisfaction that he cannot deny: she is jealous.
It is a first, he thinks, in their long history, where she is the one who seeks him with her eyes, watching his every intake of breath, reading the nuances and the possibilities in both. Instead he watches her face and the theatre of expressions that come to stage while she at last regards the young one beside him. Indeed, she is a mirror that repels the innocence sat beside him, he feels he can read the young Auror’s expression by the darkening of Emmeline’s face: ah, now she is wistful, now the girl is sighing, now she is humming in a way that can only mean trouble.
But his eyes are for Emmeline alone so he smiles as her brows draw together, he follows the curve of her neck as she directs her attention to the meeting and, because he is older now and knows the consequences of war, he does the same.
Afterwards, as they break into groups speaking in reverential tones and fewer still indulging in refreshments, he catches her sweeping towards the door and he moves to bar her passage.
A small part of him is pleased with his boldness as he looks down at the wondering gaze she directs at him, because they both know the Remus of old would have shrunk and balked from making such a move.
You know, he begins in his best conversational tone, hiding a smile when her brow twitches at the familiarity of his address. While you were so engaged in looking at her, I don’t think you noticed I only looked at you.
It doesn’t matter what I think, she says slowly, weighing her words just as carefully as she weighs her coins when it is time to pay the bill and it is his turn to fall into the smallest of frowns.
It’s always mattered and you know it, and he is whispering without knowing why, feeling a sense of urgency, needing suddenly to impress upon her how truly earnest his feelings are. He never knows what she thinks, has spent most of his adult life trying to dream up what goes on behind the flighty eyes and calculating mind, today being the only exception, today he is certain he read her right.
It’s an old game, she begins, and he means to interrupt her, he does not like where this is going, does not want her to finish but she is faster than he, she presses one long finger to his lips and he falls silent, a candle snuffed.
I can see what you’re doing because I have walked that path before-no, her finger presses insistently, imperiously, to his lips, and he returns the pressure in the form of a kiss, his only means of begging her to say no more. I walked down that road and look where it took me. I will not be played by my own game, you see. I won’t let you turn the tables on a game I am quitting. She withdraws her hand and he finds he is more bewildered by the loss of contact than by the words themselves.
When he whispers back his voice is hoarse and heavy, he says, This never was a game to me. Hearts aren’t to be gambled with.
He thinks of birds scattering to the four corners of the wind when she smiles, he thinks of something fleeting that is lost for good, he thinks, don’t let this be the end.
Her whisper is a caress, she says, I wonder how you can stay so young, so green. Love is a gamble, my darling, and I am so weary of the game.
[ Onto Part III]