"Downpour and Defeat" (Arabella Figg/Marlene McKinnon)
Title: Downpour and Defeat
Author/Artist: liliths_requiem
Prompt: "I'm leaving because the weather is too good. I hate London when it's not raining." - Groucho Marx
Pairing(s): Arabella Figg/Marlene McKinnon
Word Count/Art Medium: 1,171
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): angst
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: I would like to thank w-r for the amazing beta job! I know this is short, but I wanted to give the prompt justice, and I really feel like this was the best story for the prompt.
Summary: Arabella Figg and Mundungus Fletcher find it difficult to believe they’ve won the war.
They are sitting down for tea at three in the morning, high off Knockturn Alley potions and the tragic, Pyrrhic victory. She looks nineteen again, mascara streaked down pale cheeks and eyes rimmed red from tears and intoxication. He wants to pull her into his arms and rock her like a child, promise her the world and have everything make sense again. Instead, they sip their tea.
“I’m going away for a while,” Arabella tells him, letting her lips linger against the hot tea. “Dumbledore has asked me to move to Surrey.”
Mundungus places his teacup down on the saucer. His hands are steady, which is strange for Mundungus, who has been sober for the last six months because of the War and who never quite withdrew from all the drugs he was using. He stirs the tea absent-mindedly, “The War’s over, Figgy. You ain’t got no reason to work for the old cook no more.”
He’s working class and dropped out of Hogwarts at fifteen to help feed his younger brothers and keep his mum out of the brothel. Arabella met him on the wrong side of Knockturn Alley when a bunch of Grindelwald’s leftovers thought it would be good fun to rape the squib. He took her home, cleaned her up, and got her a job with a black market kneazle dealer. When she became a legitimate dealer, he stopped talking to her for all of three weeks. He caved eventually; he always caves when it comes to her.
“I want to leave, Dung.” Her eyes look empty, but her smile is almost real, “There’s nothing left for me in London. Marley’s dead, Benjy’s gone, and you’re going back home. All I’ve got left in this city is ghosts and goblins and the end of the world.”
Mundungus looks more sober than he has in days when he meets her eyes and reminds her, for perhaps the thousandth time, “The world hasn’t ended.”
“They keep telling me this,” her eyes flash silver, and Mundungus is reminded of the way she used to keep them all in order, keep the chaos at bay, even in the middle of a battle. He is reminded that she is indomitable. “But I lost everything, Dung. Bloody everything. My world has been reduced to me and you, and you’re leaving me too.”
“So you’re giving up and moving to Surrey?” he doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s an edge that wasn’t there a moment ago. “We won, Arabella. Why the hell are you going to let them get the better of you now?”
She doesn’t meet his eyes. She stares at the clock, at the picture of Marlene wrapped in her arms, at the stain in the ceiling she still hasn’t fixed. She shrugs. “I’m leaving because the weather is too good. I hate London when it’s not raining.”
He doesn’t smile, but something softens in his eyes. “Do you really think now is the time to quote bad Muggle comedians?”
“Someone once told me there was never a bad time to quote bad Muggle comedians.” She places her tea back on the saucer and moves close to him. Leaning up on her tippy-toes, she kisses his cheek, lingering to breathe in his cologne. “I’m leaving, Dung.”
“It’ll rain again, eventually,” Mundungus tells her, hopefully.
She lingers in the doorway, her hand upon the knob. “Maybe I’ll come back, then.”
:::
It is three in the morning and they are drinking tea, but Mundungus has been sober for six years and Arabella isn’t wearing any mascara. She’s lying in bed, magical stitches crisscrossing muggle ones in a failed attempt to stop the bleeding. Poppy has a healer looking for the origin of the curse used to cut the squib open from navel to neck. In her hand, there is an empty handgun. She hasn’t let it go in five hours.
“I’m going away for a while,” Mundungus tells her, smoothing the hair off her sweating forehead. “Shacklebolt’s asked me to go to Wales.”
Arabella drops the gun, and the way it clatters as it falls to the floor disrupts the eerie quiet that has cloaked the infirmary since the battle ended. She’s pale and her hands shake as she brings the teacup to her lips. She doesn’t look at him as she speaks. She doesn’t want to acknowledge the hypocrisy in what she’s about to say. “The war’s over, Dung. You don’t need to take your orders from Shacklebolt anymore.”
“He’s a good man to take orders from, Figgy,” he tells her, simply. “He’s smart and brave and I’m glad he was the man I had to follow into battle.” He pauses, grabs her now empty hand, “I don’t know why you insisted on following me.”
“I didn’t want you to be alone,” she tells him, “And I couldn’t lose you.” Arabella isn’t the type of person to be open with her emotions, so the way she’s choking up right now is enough to break Mundungus’ heart. “I couldn’t let you face the end of the world without me.”
“The world hasn’t ended,” Mundungus reminds her, taking the tea from her hand and placing it back on the saucer.
“Moody’s dead. Amy’s dead. A bunch of children too young to fight are dead,” her voice cracks, “It bloody well feels like the world’s ended.”
Mundungus drops his head to his hands, his elbows propped on his knees so the weight of his skull is evenly distributed. It feels like he’s holding the weight of the world on his shoulders. He peeks out from above his fingers, “Why can’t we ever just enjoy a victory?”
Arabella looks him dead in the eyes. “Because we never have victories; we win wars and lose all our soldiers.”
“There’s a lot of soldiers still standing,” Mundungus counters, “You and me being two of’em.”
Arabella purposefully looks at both herself and her best mate. She cracks a smile and quips, “Neither one of us is standing.”
Mundungus rolls his eyes: “You know what I mean, Arabella Doreen.”
She grabs his hands and he tries to steady the shakes. “Why are you leaving?”
Mundungus doesn’t miss a beat. Arabella’s always hated his perfect memory and perfect timing. They’re both great attributes for any convict, so she’s learned not to complain about them too much. He kisses her clammy cheek and pets her hair soothingly, “I’m leaving because the weather is too good. I hate London when it’s not raining.”
She slaps him.
“Now is not the time to be quoting bad Muggle comedians, Mundungus Fletcher,” she tells him, his name coming out as both a laugh and a sob.
He lets go of her hand and stands to leave. “There’s never a bad time to quote bad Muggle comedians.” He puts on his hat and grabs his wand off the nightstand, “I’ll be back in a few months.”
“When it starts raining again?” she asks, hopefully.
He nods, “Course, Figgy. I’ll come back then.”
:::
Outside, the rain keeps falling.
Author/Artist: liliths_requiem
Prompt: "I'm leaving because the weather is too good. I hate London when it's not raining." - Groucho Marx
Pairing(s): Arabella Figg/Marlene McKinnon
Word Count/Art Medium: 1,171
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): angst
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: I would like to thank w-r for the amazing beta job! I know this is short, but I wanted to give the prompt justice, and I really feel like this was the best story for the prompt.
Summary: Arabella Figg and Mundungus Fletcher find it difficult to believe they’ve won the war.
They are sitting down for tea at three in the morning, high off Knockturn Alley potions and the tragic, Pyrrhic victory. She looks nineteen again, mascara streaked down pale cheeks and eyes rimmed red from tears and intoxication. He wants to pull her into his arms and rock her like a child, promise her the world and have everything make sense again. Instead, they sip their tea.
“I’m going away for a while,” Arabella tells him, letting her lips linger against the hot tea. “Dumbledore has asked me to move to Surrey.”
Mundungus places his teacup down on the saucer. His hands are steady, which is strange for Mundungus, who has been sober for the last six months because of the War and who never quite withdrew from all the drugs he was using. He stirs the tea absent-mindedly, “The War’s over, Figgy. You ain’t got no reason to work for the old cook no more.”
He’s working class and dropped out of Hogwarts at fifteen to help feed his younger brothers and keep his mum out of the brothel. Arabella met him on the wrong side of Knockturn Alley when a bunch of Grindelwald’s leftovers thought it would be good fun to rape the squib. He took her home, cleaned her up, and got her a job with a black market kneazle dealer. When she became a legitimate dealer, he stopped talking to her for all of three weeks. He caved eventually; he always caves when it comes to her.
“I want to leave, Dung.” Her eyes look empty, but her smile is almost real, “There’s nothing left for me in London. Marley’s dead, Benjy’s gone, and you’re going back home. All I’ve got left in this city is ghosts and goblins and the end of the world.”
Mundungus looks more sober than he has in days when he meets her eyes and reminds her, for perhaps the thousandth time, “The world hasn’t ended.”
“They keep telling me this,” her eyes flash silver, and Mundungus is reminded of the way she used to keep them all in order, keep the chaos at bay, even in the middle of a battle. He is reminded that she is indomitable. “But I lost everything, Dung. Bloody everything. My world has been reduced to me and you, and you’re leaving me too.”
“So you’re giving up and moving to Surrey?” he doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s an edge that wasn’t there a moment ago. “We won, Arabella. Why the hell are you going to let them get the better of you now?”
She doesn’t meet his eyes. She stares at the clock, at the picture of Marlene wrapped in her arms, at the stain in the ceiling she still hasn’t fixed. She shrugs. “I’m leaving because the weather is too good. I hate London when it’s not raining.”
He doesn’t smile, but something softens in his eyes. “Do you really think now is the time to quote bad Muggle comedians?”
“Someone once told me there was never a bad time to quote bad Muggle comedians.” She places her tea back on the saucer and moves close to him. Leaning up on her tippy-toes, she kisses his cheek, lingering to breathe in his cologne. “I’m leaving, Dung.”
“It’ll rain again, eventually,” Mundungus tells her, hopefully.
She lingers in the doorway, her hand upon the knob. “Maybe I’ll come back, then.”
:::
It is three in the morning and they are drinking tea, but Mundungus has been sober for six years and Arabella isn’t wearing any mascara. She’s lying in bed, magical stitches crisscrossing muggle ones in a failed attempt to stop the bleeding. Poppy has a healer looking for the origin of the curse used to cut the squib open from navel to neck. In her hand, there is an empty handgun. She hasn’t let it go in five hours.
“I’m going away for a while,” Mundungus tells her, smoothing the hair off her sweating forehead. “Shacklebolt’s asked me to go to Wales.”
Arabella drops the gun, and the way it clatters as it falls to the floor disrupts the eerie quiet that has cloaked the infirmary since the battle ended. She’s pale and her hands shake as she brings the teacup to her lips. She doesn’t look at him as she speaks. She doesn’t want to acknowledge the hypocrisy in what she’s about to say. “The war’s over, Dung. You don’t need to take your orders from Shacklebolt anymore.”
“He’s a good man to take orders from, Figgy,” he tells her, simply. “He’s smart and brave and I’m glad he was the man I had to follow into battle.” He pauses, grabs her now empty hand, “I don’t know why you insisted on following me.”
“I didn’t want you to be alone,” she tells him, “And I couldn’t lose you.” Arabella isn’t the type of person to be open with her emotions, so the way she’s choking up right now is enough to break Mundungus’ heart. “I couldn’t let you face the end of the world without me.”
“The world hasn’t ended,” Mundungus reminds her, taking the tea from her hand and placing it back on the saucer.
“Moody’s dead. Amy’s dead. A bunch of children too young to fight are dead,” her voice cracks, “It bloody well feels like the world’s ended.”
Mundungus drops his head to his hands, his elbows propped on his knees so the weight of his skull is evenly distributed. It feels like he’s holding the weight of the world on his shoulders. He peeks out from above his fingers, “Why can’t we ever just enjoy a victory?”
Arabella looks him dead in the eyes. “Because we never have victories; we win wars and lose all our soldiers.”
“There’s a lot of soldiers still standing,” Mundungus counters, “You and me being two of’em.”
Arabella purposefully looks at both herself and her best mate. She cracks a smile and quips, “Neither one of us is standing.”
Mundungus rolls his eyes: “You know what I mean, Arabella Doreen.”
She grabs his hands and he tries to steady the shakes. “Why are you leaving?”
Mundungus doesn’t miss a beat. Arabella’s always hated his perfect memory and perfect timing. They’re both great attributes for any convict, so she’s learned not to complain about them too much. He kisses her clammy cheek and pets her hair soothingly, “I’m leaving because the weather is too good. I hate London when it’s not raining.”
She slaps him.
“Now is not the time to be quoting bad Muggle comedians, Mundungus Fletcher,” she tells him, his name coming out as both a laugh and a sob.
He lets go of her hand and stands to leave. “There’s never a bad time to quote bad Muggle comedians.” He puts on his hat and grabs his wand off the nightstand, “I’ll be back in a few months.”
“When it starts raining again?” she asks, hopefully.
He nods, “Course, Figgy. I’ll come back then.”
:::
Outside, the rain keeps falling.