Alignments Installment 32
wellymuck Installment 32
Series title: Alignments
Series summary: Friends come together and pull apart under the pressures of the first war with Voldemort. Scenes across five Aprils.
Series rating: PG-13
Author: magnetic_pole
Word Count: 1,700
Installment 32: Epilogue, November 3, 1981
Summary: Life resumes.
Note: First of two parts. Eight brief vignettes in Part 1, then Remus' story in Part 2.
For many witches and wizards, November 3, 1981, was an ordinary day, the first ordinary day after so many extraordinary days that the sense of strangeness had long since worn off. The return of daily life, welcome as it was, was novel and uncomfortable in its own way. The celebrations had died down, and it was time to clean up; the shops were reopening to discover they had more customers than supplies; the Ministry seemed strangely empty; and the students at Hogwarts, grumbling quietly because one day off was not nearly enough, were reluctantly heading back to class.
*
On November 3, 1981, first thing, because she was nothing if not strict in her habits, Augusta Longbottom went to visit her son and daughter-in-law at St. Mungo’s.
The wards were quiet this time of day, and Augusta liked to come before other visitors arrived, so that she could talk to Frank and Alice openly, in a normal way, before the healers arrived and cast odd glances at her. They could glance, of course; she held her head high and wrapped her stole around her neck and looked back haughtily every time, but earlier was certainly better. Especially when she brought Neville, as she had today.
When she arrived, however, she saw the ward already had a visitor. Alice’s mother was deep in conversation with one of the healers, speaking softly but urgently in a language Augusta couldn’t understand, clearly asking the Healer to do something, because the Healer shook her head no several times, then replied with what was clearly an apology. Augusta scowled; here all this time and she still doesn’t speak proper English, she thought. After the Healer’s second refusal, Anna, who hadn’t seen her enter, turned on her heel and left.
“Sorry,” the Healer said, walking over towards Augusta now. “That was the mother of one of the patients here. She wants me to perform some dangerous magic on one of the patients. She doesn’t understand just how far gone they are. Or perhaps she just can’t accept it.”
“I’m Augusta Longbottom,” Augusta said, shifting Neville to her other arm and offering a gloved hand.
“Oh,” the Healer said with surprise, smiling. “I’m Winnie Chan. I was at school with Alice and Frank. I never kept in touch, but I’ve heard about what they did. You must be very proud of them.”
Augusta, indeed, warmed with pride. “I am. This is Neville, their son. He’s going to be just like them one day, isn’t he?” Augusta slipped a finger under Neville’s chin, raising his face to her. “Isn’t he?” Neville smiled, his round face pink and happy, and Winnie squeezed his plump fingers before leaving. Augusta set him down on one of the beds and began a monologue that the three other people in the room could not understand.
*
On November 3, 1981, Susan, now eight months pregnant, was married in a modest ceremony at the local register office. She and the groom, a handsome Muggle who looked as if he could not believe his luck, were the only ones in attendance. They were both on their lunch hour, and the ceremony was brief.
Like everyone else she had met recently, the clerk didn’t seem to notice or care about her belly, and she shuddered a sigh of relief, her shoulders relaxing, when the ceremony was done. She kissed her husband and he squeezed her around the waist very gently, helping her back outside and in to the high street.
Susan had not heard about the fall of Voldemort or the death of Lily and James because she hadn’t talked with anyone in the wizarding world for months, save the occasional disapproving letter from her parents. She had finally left because of the baby, but now she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it sooner. The past few months had been the best in her life; she couldn't believe how she had lived in the stifling, repressive atmosphere of the wizarding world for so long.
She thought about this world only occasionally when she thought about her baby. She hoped desperately that Peter had been lying about his background as her parents lied about hers, that his family were not quite so pure of blood as they claimed. Then again, Squibs were born even into the oldest families. She could always hope.
*
On November 3, 1981, just after lunch, Petunia Dursley looked in on her nephew, who was fast asleep on the bed. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of this new, unwanted, unwelcome addition to her family, but she knew what she wanted for him. Please let this child grow up to be normal, she thought. Magic had taken Lily away and split their family, it had given her sister odd and frightening ideas about the world, and now it had killed her. Lily had said once that not all children of wizards and witches--she swallowed hard to get past the bitterness of these words--had children who were like them. Perhaps her nephew would not be that way. However confused her feelings were about Harry, she wouldn’t wish that life on anyone.
*
On the afternoon of November 3, 1981, after a midday meeting with the teaching staff, Dumbledore sat alone in his office. Looking thoughtfully at the Pensieve on the table in front of him, placed his wand at his temple, and withdrew a long, silvery memory. He prodded it gently with his wand, frowning, closing his eyes, opening them again, running his tongue over thin, dry lips.
He heard Minerva’s voice at the door, then her footstep in the hall.
“Come in,” he said.
“Albus.” Then, without preamble, she began: “It doesn’t make sense.”
Dumbledore placed his fingertips together and his elbows on the tabletop. He nodded slowly. “But it seems to be what happened.”
“Remus seemed to be a traitor, too,” Minerva said. “And now that doesn’t seem to the case.”
“No?” Dumbledore said. “The Ministry isn’t so certain about that.”
“When did you last believe what the Ministry had to say about anything?” Minerva asked with a frown.
“When I couldn’t think of any other plausible alternatives,” Dumbledore replied.
In the Pensieve younger versions of Sirius and Remus swirled.
*
Very late in the afternoon on November 3, 1981, Edie Johnson found herself back in Britain, back in Muggle London, and finally, after much inquiry, on the doorstop of the house her second cousin Patrice owned, where Remus apparently now lived.
“He hasn’t been in all day,” Patrice told her. “I wondered about that. He normally comes back after classes quite early on a Tuesday. No shift at work today.”
Edie hesitated, wondering how much Patrice had been told, wagering it was very little. “He might be in trouble,” she said. “And he’s certainly upset.”
Patrice frowned. “Perhaps he went back to the village he came from?” When Edie looked confused, he elaborated. “He misses his old life at home.”
Edie did not know what to make of that, so she asked if she might leave a note for him in his room upstairs. When she entered, she found his clothes and books intact, scattered about as if he had just left the room. She searched for a quill, then remembered there would no quills here and found a ball-point pen. She wrote a short note with both her address, for the Floo, and a Muggle telephone number.
Her parents and Angelina were waiting for her in Brixton when she got home. They hadn’t seen one another in months, and Edie was suddenly achingly glad to see then again. They talked well into the night, until her father got up and stretched.
“Time for bed, Edie,” he said. “Work tomorrow, you know. One struggle begins when another one ends.”
*
Shortly after retiring to her rooms on the evening of November 3, 1981, Minerva discovered a letter had been delivered to her. She rolled the parchment open to see a familiar, elaborate handwriting, Leonore’s, and her eyes skimmed the page eagerly:
Dear Minnie...We were so relieved and so happy to receive your letter about the fall of Voldemort...glad to hear that you are safe...tragic about Edie’s friends who were killed...don’t know what to say about Sirius, such a shock...returning to London...hope that you will consider joining Reginald and me at a meeting next month in Brixton...want to get working on the House Elf issue again...perhaps even take up the Prewetts’ ideas about wizarding housing...think the political atmosphere might be more conducive in the next few years...
There was the sound of someone arriving in the Floo, and Minerva started and rolled the parchment up quickly.
“Eileen,” Minerva said.
“Minerva,” Eileen said with a crooked smile that stretched across her face hesitantly, as if those muscles had not been used in a long time. “So good to see you again.”
“It’s been too long,” Minerva said, setting back into her favorite chair.
“What was that?” Eileen asked, gesturing at the parchment in Minerva’s hand.
“This?” Minerva set it aside with a sigh. “Nothing. Please, have a seat. I have tea ready. I’ve missed talking with you.”
*
As the moon rose on November 3, 1981, Sirius sat in a cell in Azkaban, brooding about the way everything had gone wrong in the end, blaming himself entirely for events that he never could have controlled. He did this as he had done everything else in his twenty-two years, with a passion bordering on the obsessive; with a certain analytic, intellectual intensity; with a touch of fatalism and a little anger and more than a little self-hatred. He pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and let his head rest on his knees, closing his eyes against the light of the moon. Sirius Black had never done anything halfway in his life, and regret would be no different.
*
On November 3, 1981, shortly after before midnight, Peter crouched in an upturned bin in a narrow mews off Diagon Alley, tail twitching, patiently waiting for a cat to pass by. He rummaged through the bin’s contents, looking for something to eat, concentrating on the task at hand: survival. He nibbled on a biscuit and nursed his mutilated paw and tried very, very hard not to think about the events of the past few days. He did not want to think about how these events had come to pass, because the answer was too easy: one step at a time, not inevitably, but following a certain course he had played a part in dictating, as all events come to pass. The riddle of Peter Pettigrew, friend and traitor, was not difficult to solve if you were not afraid to think about it, but Peter was terrified. He had been terrified for months now, and it was almost a relief for him to think that he might stay small and furry and out of sight for a while, concentrating on what he did best, getting by.
Next chapter: Epilogue: November 3, 1981 (Part 2)
Series title: Alignments
Series summary: Friends come together and pull apart under the pressures of the first war with Voldemort. Scenes across five Aprils.
Series rating: PG-13
Author: magnetic_pole
Word Count: 1,700
Installment 32: Epilogue, November 3, 1981
Summary: Life resumes.
Note: First of two parts. Eight brief vignettes in Part 1, then Remus' story in Part 2.
For many witches and wizards, November 3, 1981, was an ordinary day, the first ordinary day after so many extraordinary days that the sense of strangeness had long since worn off. The return of daily life, welcome as it was, was novel and uncomfortable in its own way. The celebrations had died down, and it was time to clean up; the shops were reopening to discover they had more customers than supplies; the Ministry seemed strangely empty; and the students at Hogwarts, grumbling quietly because one day off was not nearly enough, were reluctantly heading back to class.
*
On November 3, 1981, first thing, because she was nothing if not strict in her habits, Augusta Longbottom went to visit her son and daughter-in-law at St. Mungo’s.
The wards were quiet this time of day, and Augusta liked to come before other visitors arrived, so that she could talk to Frank and Alice openly, in a normal way, before the healers arrived and cast odd glances at her. They could glance, of course; she held her head high and wrapped her stole around her neck and looked back haughtily every time, but earlier was certainly better. Especially when she brought Neville, as she had today.
When she arrived, however, she saw the ward already had a visitor. Alice’s mother was deep in conversation with one of the healers, speaking softly but urgently in a language Augusta couldn’t understand, clearly asking the Healer to do something, because the Healer shook her head no several times, then replied with what was clearly an apology. Augusta scowled; here all this time and she still doesn’t speak proper English, she thought. After the Healer’s second refusal, Anna, who hadn’t seen her enter, turned on her heel and left.
“Sorry,” the Healer said, walking over towards Augusta now. “That was the mother of one of the patients here. She wants me to perform some dangerous magic on one of the patients. She doesn’t understand just how far gone they are. Or perhaps she just can’t accept it.”
“I’m Augusta Longbottom,” Augusta said, shifting Neville to her other arm and offering a gloved hand.
“Oh,” the Healer said with surprise, smiling. “I’m Winnie Chan. I was at school with Alice and Frank. I never kept in touch, but I’ve heard about what they did. You must be very proud of them.”
Augusta, indeed, warmed with pride. “I am. This is Neville, their son. He’s going to be just like them one day, isn’t he?” Augusta slipped a finger under Neville’s chin, raising his face to her. “Isn’t he?” Neville smiled, his round face pink and happy, and Winnie squeezed his plump fingers before leaving. Augusta set him down on one of the beds and began a monologue that the three other people in the room could not understand.
*
On November 3, 1981, Susan, now eight months pregnant, was married in a modest ceremony at the local register office. She and the groom, a handsome Muggle who looked as if he could not believe his luck, were the only ones in attendance. They were both on their lunch hour, and the ceremony was brief.
Like everyone else she had met recently, the clerk didn’t seem to notice or care about her belly, and she shuddered a sigh of relief, her shoulders relaxing, when the ceremony was done. She kissed her husband and he squeezed her around the waist very gently, helping her back outside and in to the high street.
Susan had not heard about the fall of Voldemort or the death of Lily and James because she hadn’t talked with anyone in the wizarding world for months, save the occasional disapproving letter from her parents. She had finally left because of the baby, but now she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it sooner. The past few months had been the best in her life; she couldn't believe how she had lived in the stifling, repressive atmosphere of the wizarding world for so long.
She thought about this world only occasionally when she thought about her baby. She hoped desperately that Peter had been lying about his background as her parents lied about hers, that his family were not quite so pure of blood as they claimed. Then again, Squibs were born even into the oldest families. She could always hope.
*
On November 3, 1981, just after lunch, Petunia Dursley looked in on her nephew, who was fast asleep on the bed. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of this new, unwanted, unwelcome addition to her family, but she knew what she wanted for him. Please let this child grow up to be normal, she thought. Magic had taken Lily away and split their family, it had given her sister odd and frightening ideas about the world, and now it had killed her. Lily had said once that not all children of wizards and witches--she swallowed hard to get past the bitterness of these words--had children who were like them. Perhaps her nephew would not be that way. However confused her feelings were about Harry, she wouldn’t wish that life on anyone.
*
On the afternoon of November 3, 1981, after a midday meeting with the teaching staff, Dumbledore sat alone in his office. Looking thoughtfully at the Pensieve on the table in front of him, placed his wand at his temple, and withdrew a long, silvery memory. He prodded it gently with his wand, frowning, closing his eyes, opening them again, running his tongue over thin, dry lips.
He heard Minerva’s voice at the door, then her footstep in the hall.
“Come in,” he said.
“Albus.” Then, without preamble, she began: “It doesn’t make sense.”
Dumbledore placed his fingertips together and his elbows on the tabletop. He nodded slowly. “But it seems to be what happened.”
“Remus seemed to be a traitor, too,” Minerva said. “And now that doesn’t seem to the case.”
“No?” Dumbledore said. “The Ministry isn’t so certain about that.”
“When did you last believe what the Ministry had to say about anything?” Minerva asked with a frown.
“When I couldn’t think of any other plausible alternatives,” Dumbledore replied.
In the Pensieve younger versions of Sirius and Remus swirled.
*
Very late in the afternoon on November 3, 1981, Edie Johnson found herself back in Britain, back in Muggle London, and finally, after much inquiry, on the doorstop of the house her second cousin Patrice owned, where Remus apparently now lived.
“He hasn’t been in all day,” Patrice told her. “I wondered about that. He normally comes back after classes quite early on a Tuesday. No shift at work today.”
Edie hesitated, wondering how much Patrice had been told, wagering it was very little. “He might be in trouble,” she said. “And he’s certainly upset.”
Patrice frowned. “Perhaps he went back to the village he came from?” When Edie looked confused, he elaborated. “He misses his old life at home.”
Edie did not know what to make of that, so she asked if she might leave a note for him in his room upstairs. When she entered, she found his clothes and books intact, scattered about as if he had just left the room. She searched for a quill, then remembered there would no quills here and found a ball-point pen. She wrote a short note with both her address, for the Floo, and a Muggle telephone number.
Her parents and Angelina were waiting for her in Brixton when she got home. They hadn’t seen one another in months, and Edie was suddenly achingly glad to see then again. They talked well into the night, until her father got up and stretched.
“Time for bed, Edie,” he said. “Work tomorrow, you know. One struggle begins when another one ends.”
*
Shortly after retiring to her rooms on the evening of November 3, 1981, Minerva discovered a letter had been delivered to her. She rolled the parchment open to see a familiar, elaborate handwriting, Leonore’s, and her eyes skimmed the page eagerly:
Dear Minnie...We were so relieved and so happy to receive your letter about the fall of Voldemort...glad to hear that you are safe...tragic about Edie’s friends who were killed...don’t know what to say about Sirius, such a shock...returning to London...hope that you will consider joining Reginald and me at a meeting next month in Brixton...want to get working on the House Elf issue again...perhaps even take up the Prewetts’ ideas about wizarding housing...think the political atmosphere might be more conducive in the next few years...
There was the sound of someone arriving in the Floo, and Minerva started and rolled the parchment up quickly.
“Eileen,” Minerva said.
“Minerva,” Eileen said with a crooked smile that stretched across her face hesitantly, as if those muscles had not been used in a long time. “So good to see you again.”
“It’s been too long,” Minerva said, setting back into her favorite chair.
“What was that?” Eileen asked, gesturing at the parchment in Minerva’s hand.
“This?” Minerva set it aside with a sigh. “Nothing. Please, have a seat. I have tea ready. I’ve missed talking with you.”
*
As the moon rose on November 3, 1981, Sirius sat in a cell in Azkaban, brooding about the way everything had gone wrong in the end, blaming himself entirely for events that he never could have controlled. He did this as he had done everything else in his twenty-two years, with a passion bordering on the obsessive; with a certain analytic, intellectual intensity; with a touch of fatalism and a little anger and more than a little self-hatred. He pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and let his head rest on his knees, closing his eyes against the light of the moon. Sirius Black had never done anything halfway in his life, and regret would be no different.
*
On November 3, 1981, shortly after before midnight, Peter crouched in an upturned bin in a narrow mews off Diagon Alley, tail twitching, patiently waiting for a cat to pass by. He rummaged through the bin’s contents, looking for something to eat, concentrating on the task at hand: survival. He nibbled on a biscuit and nursed his mutilated paw and tried very, very hard not to think about the events of the past few days. He did not want to think about how these events had come to pass, because the answer was too easy: one step at a time, not inevitably, but following a certain course he had played a part in dictating, as all events come to pass. The riddle of Peter Pettigrew, friend and traitor, was not difficult to solve if you were not afraid to think about it, but Peter was terrified. He had been terrified for months now, and it was almost a relief for him to think that he might stay small and furry and out of sight for a while, concentrating on what he did best, getting by.
Next chapter: Epilogue: November 3, 1981 (Part 2)