Fic: Skhizein

Feb 07, 2010 16:09

I've been sick for the last two weeks. It has not been fun, but I wrote something.

Title: Skhizein
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Montague, Angelina Johnson; mentions of past Angelina/Montague, present George/Angelina
Rating: All
Word Count: 1530
Summary: War didn't end the day the other side fell or the day they signed the treaties and had a parade. It happened generations later, when the pain had become a dull itch, surfacing only on the day marked for remembrance.
Notes: Written for redcandle17's prompt for Angelina/Montague; disappointment



Skhizein

The children were ugly. Auburn hair and freckles dusting their cheeks, they looked up at Montague with wide hazel eyes, mouths stained with something red and sticky. They were a perfect blend of their parents: Angelina's pleasant features and George's stocky build. They would have been beautiful if not for the latter parent's genetic contribution. If they'd been Montague's children they would have been lithe of body, had darker hair and eyes and would've never worn such open expressions.

"Are you okay, mister?" the boy asked, his lower lip jutting out as if he was about to cry. A bleeding heart distressed by someone else's misfortune.

Montague yearned to reach out and wrap his fingers around his throat. He felt something like pleasure thinking of the boy's prone body lying in the middle of the park. It was nothing more than a thought. Unlike others he'd known, Montague didn't have to put his hands behind his back or move away to prevent himself from turning thought into action. In Azkaban all he'd had were his thoughts. Sometime during his eight year sentence he'd forgotten how to act.

"Were you in the war?" This from the girl, the younger of the two. Her hair was braided into what seemed like a million tiny plaits. Montague remembered tugging on Angelina's braid extensions in the corridors at Hogwarts. He'd done it to get her attention, to remind her he was there.

The girl stared at him, waiting for an answer. Montague wanted to laugh. Had he been in the war? Who hadn't been? Even the babies, born to overly nervous parents who had seen too much, were caught in it. War didn't end the day the other side fell or the day they signed the treaties and had a parade. It happened generations later, when the pain had become a dull itch, surfacing only on the day marked for remembrance. Montague hadn't fought in the war, but he was a casualty.

"I was in the war, yes." His voice sounded odd to his ears, cracked, the words tumbling into each other. He'd never been one to say much, preferring to show rather than tell. However, before Azkaban he'd been able to enunciate every word. He'd sounded like the proud, wealthy Pureblood he was.

"Did you kill anyone?" The boy was eager for him to say yes. He would ask what a dead person looked like next. There were too many children like him.

"Roxanne. Fred." Her voice was as he remembered it: soft but with a commanding air. It gave nothing of her emotions away. "I told you not to go too far. You had us worried."

She was still beautiful. She wore the burden of the war and the extra weight of motherhood like badges of honour. She carried herself as she always did, as if she deserved to be respected, loved and admired. It would have been easy to hate her if not for the warm expression she always wore.

If she was shocked to see him, he couldn't tell--but he'd never been able to know what she was truly thinking.

Angelina placed a hand on Roxanne and Fred's shoulders, looking down at them. "I want you to go back and apologize to your grandmother. You know how she can get. You should've thought about how she would feel, how I would feel, before you decided to run off."

The children hung their heads, murmuring apologies.

"We just wanted to see if he was okay." Fred glanced at Montague. "He was just standing there talking to himself."

"It's not polite to talk about people as if they aren't there, and I know for a fact you didn't come over here because you wanted to help him Now go find Grandma Molly before she gets even more worried."

Nothing more was to be said. The children started to walk away. When Angelina didn't follow they stopped, looking back.

"I'll be there in a minute," she said, giving them a reassuring smile.

Fred and Roxanne glanced at each other before continuing on their way.

"I didn't know you and your family would be here," Montague said, watching the children. "They came over to talk to me."

"I know. You were never the stalking type." She gave a short laugh and looked him over. "How are you?"

He didn't know how to answer. He could say he was fine. At least he was alive. At least he was no longer in Azkaban. But how could he be fine when there were so many things he'd lost and so there were so many things he'd never have.

When he didn't answer Angelina spoke. "Where are you staying?"

"With my parents. The Ministry says I have to stay with them for a year or two. A ministry worker stops by occasionally to make sure I'm not dabbling in the Dark Arts."

"They gave you your wand back?"

Montague snorted. "Of course not. Not for five years, and even then. . ." And even then he would have to have it frequently checked for dark spells and curses.

"I'm sorry." It hurt that she was sincere.

Montague shrugged. "It was my fault."

He'd been with her before she'd left for Hogwarts. They'd been laughing, pressed against each other, when he felt the heat coming from the coin she wore on a chain around her neck. He'd been inside her, teasing her by not moving. He'd given her a questioning look as the coin grew warmer, knowing what it meant.

"Come with me," she said as she pulled on her boots. He told her to stay, but hadn't give her a reason to.

"And do what?"

"Whatever needs to be done. What's going on out there isn't right. I don't care what you believe about Purebloods or muggles. It shouldn't be like this."

"No." It would have been stupid of him to choose a side when it wasn't clear which of them would be victor.

"You're angry," he said as she pulled on her cloak.

She regarded him with a cool look, but something was simmering under the surface. "No, I'm just disappointed. Everyone, including Slytherins, have to take a side at some point. If you don't they'll choose one for you."

She'd been right, but that came later.

A week after the war ended they met at The Leaky Cauldron. Angelina had been terse, unforgiving. She wouldn't look at him. When she forgot herself and did, she became sullen. He was one of them now. He hadn't seen what she had, hadn't lost friends and walked among the dead. He didn't know what it was like to kill.

They said goodbye, knowing there would be nothing afterwards.

There was a public outcry in the following months. What was the ministry doing to make sure another war would never occur? Why weren't those who were quietly supported the Death Eaters being punished?

It shouldn't have been a surprise to wake up to Aurors pounding at his door early one morning. He was a Slytherin with connections to the Malfoys and was vaguely related to most of the Dark Lord's more fervent followers, but what Pureblood wasn't?

Montague was fascinated by the Dark Arts. He had spellbooks and a few cursed objects he tinkered with when he was bored, but he had no interest in inflicting pain on others. It was too messy. The Wizengamot didn't believe him. They sentenced him to eight years in Azkaban alone with only his thoughts and the screams of other prisoners for company.

If he'd said yes. If he'd gone with her. . .

They would have called him a hero. The children would have been his.

Montague wasn't angry, not anymore. Azkaban had left him dulled, unable to feel any extreme emotion. He now lived in a constant state of discomfort and unease. He spent most of his time sleeping or trying to fall asleep. Today was one of the few days he'd wanted to be outside.

"I just wanted to feel the wind again. Wanted to remind myself that was I free." He hadn't meant to say that out loud. Montague didn't have it in him to be embarrassed.

Angelina was wearing an expression he knew all too well. His parents wore it all the time. They pitied him and felt guilty for not having done something to prevent his arrest and imprisonment.

But what could she have done? The Ministry needed their scapegoats.

"I have to go," Angelina said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. It was something she usually did when she was nervous or excited. "Maybe we should have lunch, or something."

Montague nodded. "Sure." They always said that.

"Next Friday at the Leaky Cauldron? Noon?"

Montague raised his brow, his stomach twisting. "Sure. Friday at noon."

Angelina smile was forced. "Good." She touched his arm. "I'll see you then. It was nice seeing you."

Montague nodded. He turned away after she did and began walking towards home. He didn't look back.

"Will you go see her?"

An old witch walked by, glancing at him curiously. Montague ignored her.

"No," he replied. "We already said goodbye."

End

angelina/montague, hp, fic

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