Rendezvous in Waterloo
And the AU keeps a-growing...
This one is for everyone on my flist who's having a bad week. *hugs* I wrote it to cheer myself up, and I hope it's a nice bit of escapism for you too. You are wonderful.
Title: Rendezvous in Waterloo
Rating: PG
Words: 1645
Summary: It's 1991, and Voldemort is going from strength to strength. Whilst a young boy called Harry Potter has just discovered he's a wizard, the Order of the Phoenix are hard at work...
Disclaimer: Not mine, oh, so not mine. It all belongs to JKR.
The café was in a narrow, grubby street behind Waterloo station. She could hear trains rumbling over the railway arches, but it was the only sound beside the click of her heels on the uneven pavement.
She was old enough, just, to remember hearing music over the radio, jaunty and brash. That had been before the presenters starting dying on air, their breath turning bloody in their throats. Only the government, and the resistance, used the radio now.
It was hot, the thick, draining stupor of an English summer. She could smell petrol, and cigarette smoke, and the rich, dirty hum of blood from the carcasses hanging outside the butcher’s shop ahead. Blood dripped from them, marking the broken paving stones below.
She skirted the shop, ignoring the assessing eyes of the boys sitting on the step, smoke pluming from their cigarettes.
There were few other shops open. Between the slow collapse of the tourist trade, and the political massacres of the eighties, London was dying.
She doubted it would be enough to satisfy the hunger of those who claimed to eat death.
The café was at the end of the street. Its windows were tinted, and the door was closed, though the handwritten sign on it read Open. She paused for a moment, gathering her courage. This was her first mission, and she really didn’t want to mess up.
She could see her reflection in the glass, the swing of blonde curls from under her hat, the faded, once-smart, red dress. She’d wanted to paint stocking lines on her legs, but Mad-Eye had vetoed it.
Less than two weeks since she left school, and she doubted any of her classmates would recognise her.
Of course, throughout her school years, she’d taken care to be a short brunette, rather than a leggy blonde. After so many years of concealing her condition, it felt strange to see a fresh reflection every morning.
Taking a breath, she twisted the handle, and went in.
She spent the first few moments blinking at the darkness, seeing only dim shapes, bent over their tables. No one was talking, and she could hear a fan creaking. Its breeze didn’t reach her.
“What’d’yer want?” an unfriendly voice demanded.
She turned to see a woman glaring at her from the behind the counter, her meaty arms crossed.
“Cup of tea would be nice,” she said
The woman snorted. “Here, or take away?”
“Here.”
“Right. You want milk and sugar with that then I need to see your coupons.”
“Make it black,” she said, with a sigh. That was something she was really going to miss about school. Having a herd of cows in the grounds, and beehives, made the food a damn sight better than down here in the cities. She’d had a ration book nicked twice before she thought to put a Returning Charm on it.
“I’ll bring it over,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes.
Dispirited, she tottered her way to the back of the café, where there was an empty table. She wasn’t used to having legs this long.
The table was made of metal, and wobbled dangerously as she squeezed into her seat. She steadied it, and got out her paper. She was supposed to do the crossword.
No one had approached her yet, so she flicked through the Guardian first. The headlines were the same old stories: power stations burning, families slain in their beds, politicians vanishing into the night. The Princess of Wales had visited terror orphans in Doncaster. One opinion column decried the idea that the pseudo-anarchist Death Eater terror movement was funded by the Soviets, claiming instead that they were product of the neo-fascist capitalist backlash. The other accepted Soviet involvement, but believed that this showed that only a truly Socialist government could achieve a ceasefire.
She snorted softly. It constantly astounded her how Muggles could miss what was in front of their eyes.
A cup of tea was thumped down in front of her. It was in a chipped white mug, and gleamed greasily.
“Ta,” she said, without looking up.
She heard heavy footsteps thud away, and turned to the back of the paper, digging through her bag for a pen. She hated crosswords.
Immediately baffled by one across (Pretty girl in crimson rose, 8) she stared at it blankly, nibbling the end of her pen.
What was she supposed to do now? Just sit and wait, she supposed.
It would have nice to have had a bit more training. She knew even Auror training was down to six weeks these days, what with their casualty rates. She’d barely had time to unpack her trunk before she was working full time. She’d had both the Order’s spymasters bombarding her with advice, and she wasn’t supposed to do anything which wasn’t in her orders. Even so, she was jittery.
Still, straight from school to the Order of the Phoenix wasn’t to be sniffed at. She’d always known, as her parents’ daughter, that she would be at war from the moment she left school. She hadn’t expected to be summoned to the headmaster the morning after her last exam.
He’d known, of course. Despite all her careful precautions, and all the lies she’d prepared, he’d known.
She hadn’t liked lying, though she’d found the challenge fun. Her condition made her a weapon, though. She’d spent her school years as a chubby brunette, with a tendency to wear too much eyeliner. The trail of Muggle cosmetics she left scattered across the Ravenclaw dorm had explained away any careless blips in the colour of her hair or the shape of her lips. She had conscientiously spelled her curtains shut every night, in case she dreamt she was someone else.
Now the Order knew. Part of her, the wary, edgy part, told her that was too many people.
Well, tough. She’d just have to be good enough to stay alive.
Someone sat down opposite her, dropping a copy of the Telegraph onto the table.
She jumped, knocking her cup over.
The man snarled, and grabbed his paper.
“I’m so sorry!” She jumped up, forgetting her knees were in a different place from usual, and almost knocked the table over.
“Sit down, you clumsy fool,” he snapped, and she froze thinking, oh, nice voice.
Then he snatched her own paper up and dropped it onto the spreading puddle of tea.
“Hey,” she said. “I was trying to do the crossword.”
He glanced down at it, with a sneer. “You were failing.” As she gaped at the rudeness, he added, “Are you leaving?”
“No,” she said, sitting down forcefully.
He peeled her paper off the table, and pushed it back towards her, with the very tip of his finger. She glared at him.
He ignored her, curling his fingers around his own mug, and turning his folded paper over to glance at the headlines. He wasn’t an attractive man, which made her resent the rudeness a little less. She didn’t have much patience for peacocks. No, not attractive at all. Thirty-ish, greasy hair hanging around his face, a nose she wouldn’t have stuck on her own face for fear of someone recognising a disguise. Nice hands, though, long-fingered and fine-boned.
“You will find,” he said, without looking up, “that the answer to seven down is mockery.”
That was the password. This was Dumbledore’s pet Death Eater? The one she had been sent to contact? The one whose last two handlers had died excessively messy deaths?
After a second, she gathered her wits, and said, “Nah. Can’t be. I’ve got cellarium for twelve across.”
He looked up at her, black eyes startled. Then he said coolly, “Then you are mistaken,” and went back to his paper.
What was she meant to do? He was supposed to be handing her documents. He didn’t seem in any hurry to do so.
“You like crosswords, then?” she asked brightly.
“I like peace and quiet.”
“Just trying to be friendly.”
“Don’t.”
She rolled her eyes, and took a mouthful of tea. It had gone cold. He didn’t look like her idea of a Death Eater. She had a vague idea that most of them looked like the batshit crazy side of her mother’s family, with pale, vicious eyes and silken robes.
He drained his cup, and raised his voice, “I would like my bill.”
What? He couldn’t leave. What had she missed? Mad-Eye would blow a gasket if she came back empty-handed. Desperately, she said, “Well, that was short and sweet.”
“Not short enough,” he said, and rose, intercepting the waitress. “Good afternoon.”
Then he was gone.
She stared after him, baffled. Had there been a clue somewhere among the barrage of insults that had just passed for a conversation? Was she meant to be meeting him somewhere else?
He’d left his paper. The pool of tea was already seeping into its corners, turning them brown. She picked it up, annoyed.
It was a hell of a lot heavier than it should have been.
Oh, Merlin, please let her not have tipped PG Tips over top-secret documents.
She made herself finish her tea slowly, aware of the weight of the paper on her lap. Then she paid her bill, neglecting to leave a tip, and swanned out into the summer heat again, soggy papers bundled in her arms.
All she had to do now was get these back for Lupin to decode, and she’d have survived her first mission for the Order of the Phoenix.
She only spared a moment to wonder if she would see Dumbledore’s man again. She had more important things to worry about than graceful hands, and scornful eyes.
Casually, Nymphadora Tonks made her way back up the sun-bleached street, towards the railway arches, and the dark corner beneath them which was safe to apparate from. Her work, for today, was done.
This one is for everyone on my flist who's having a bad week. *hugs* I wrote it to cheer myself up, and I hope it's a nice bit of escapism for you too. You are wonderful.
Title: Rendezvous in Waterloo
Rating: PG
Words: 1645
Summary: It's 1991, and Voldemort is going from strength to strength. Whilst a young boy called Harry Potter has just discovered he's a wizard, the Order of the Phoenix are hard at work...
Disclaimer: Not mine, oh, so not mine. It all belongs to JKR.
The café was in a narrow, grubby street behind Waterloo station. She could hear trains rumbling over the railway arches, but it was the only sound beside the click of her heels on the uneven pavement.
She was old enough, just, to remember hearing music over the radio, jaunty and brash. That had been before the presenters starting dying on air, their breath turning bloody in their throats. Only the government, and the resistance, used the radio now.
It was hot, the thick, draining stupor of an English summer. She could smell petrol, and cigarette smoke, and the rich, dirty hum of blood from the carcasses hanging outside the butcher’s shop ahead. Blood dripped from them, marking the broken paving stones below.
She skirted the shop, ignoring the assessing eyes of the boys sitting on the step, smoke pluming from their cigarettes.
There were few other shops open. Between the slow collapse of the tourist trade, and the political massacres of the eighties, London was dying.
She doubted it would be enough to satisfy the hunger of those who claimed to eat death.
The café was at the end of the street. Its windows were tinted, and the door was closed, though the handwritten sign on it read Open. She paused for a moment, gathering her courage. This was her first mission, and she really didn’t want to mess up.
She could see her reflection in the glass, the swing of blonde curls from under her hat, the faded, once-smart, red dress. She’d wanted to paint stocking lines on her legs, but Mad-Eye had vetoed it.
Less than two weeks since she left school, and she doubted any of her classmates would recognise her.
Of course, throughout her school years, she’d taken care to be a short brunette, rather than a leggy blonde. After so many years of concealing her condition, it felt strange to see a fresh reflection every morning.
Taking a breath, she twisted the handle, and went in.
She spent the first few moments blinking at the darkness, seeing only dim shapes, bent over their tables. No one was talking, and she could hear a fan creaking. Its breeze didn’t reach her.
“What’d’yer want?” an unfriendly voice demanded.
She turned to see a woman glaring at her from the behind the counter, her meaty arms crossed.
“Cup of tea would be nice,” she said
The woman snorted. “Here, or take away?”
“Here.”
“Right. You want milk and sugar with that then I need to see your coupons.”
“Make it black,” she said, with a sigh. That was something she was really going to miss about school. Having a herd of cows in the grounds, and beehives, made the food a damn sight better than down here in the cities. She’d had a ration book nicked twice before she thought to put a Returning Charm on it.
“I’ll bring it over,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes.
Dispirited, she tottered her way to the back of the café, where there was an empty table. She wasn’t used to having legs this long.
The table was made of metal, and wobbled dangerously as she squeezed into her seat. She steadied it, and got out her paper. She was supposed to do the crossword.
No one had approached her yet, so she flicked through the Guardian first. The headlines were the same old stories: power stations burning, families slain in their beds, politicians vanishing into the night. The Princess of Wales had visited terror orphans in Doncaster. One opinion column decried the idea that the pseudo-anarchist Death Eater terror movement was funded by the Soviets, claiming instead that they were product of the neo-fascist capitalist backlash. The other accepted Soviet involvement, but believed that this showed that only a truly Socialist government could achieve a ceasefire.
She snorted softly. It constantly astounded her how Muggles could miss what was in front of their eyes.
A cup of tea was thumped down in front of her. It was in a chipped white mug, and gleamed greasily.
“Ta,” she said, without looking up.
She heard heavy footsteps thud away, and turned to the back of the paper, digging through her bag for a pen. She hated crosswords.
Immediately baffled by one across (Pretty girl in crimson rose, 8) she stared at it blankly, nibbling the end of her pen.
What was she supposed to do now? Just sit and wait, she supposed.
It would have nice to have had a bit more training. She knew even Auror training was down to six weeks these days, what with their casualty rates. She’d barely had time to unpack her trunk before she was working full time. She’d had both the Order’s spymasters bombarding her with advice, and she wasn’t supposed to do anything which wasn’t in her orders. Even so, she was jittery.
Still, straight from school to the Order of the Phoenix wasn’t to be sniffed at. She’d always known, as her parents’ daughter, that she would be at war from the moment she left school. She hadn’t expected to be summoned to the headmaster the morning after her last exam.
He’d known, of course. Despite all her careful precautions, and all the lies she’d prepared, he’d known.
She hadn’t liked lying, though she’d found the challenge fun. Her condition made her a weapon, though. She’d spent her school years as a chubby brunette, with a tendency to wear too much eyeliner. The trail of Muggle cosmetics she left scattered across the Ravenclaw dorm had explained away any careless blips in the colour of her hair or the shape of her lips. She had conscientiously spelled her curtains shut every night, in case she dreamt she was someone else.
Now the Order knew. Part of her, the wary, edgy part, told her that was too many people.
Well, tough. She’d just have to be good enough to stay alive.
Someone sat down opposite her, dropping a copy of the Telegraph onto the table.
She jumped, knocking her cup over.
The man snarled, and grabbed his paper.
“I’m so sorry!” She jumped up, forgetting her knees were in a different place from usual, and almost knocked the table over.
“Sit down, you clumsy fool,” he snapped, and she froze thinking, oh, nice voice.
Then he snatched her own paper up and dropped it onto the spreading puddle of tea.
“Hey,” she said. “I was trying to do the crossword.”
He glanced down at it, with a sneer. “You were failing.” As she gaped at the rudeness, he added, “Are you leaving?”
“No,” she said, sitting down forcefully.
He peeled her paper off the table, and pushed it back towards her, with the very tip of his finger. She glared at him.
He ignored her, curling his fingers around his own mug, and turning his folded paper over to glance at the headlines. He wasn’t an attractive man, which made her resent the rudeness a little less. She didn’t have much patience for peacocks. No, not attractive at all. Thirty-ish, greasy hair hanging around his face, a nose she wouldn’t have stuck on her own face for fear of someone recognising a disguise. Nice hands, though, long-fingered and fine-boned.
“You will find,” he said, without looking up, “that the answer to seven down is mockery.”
That was the password. This was Dumbledore’s pet Death Eater? The one she had been sent to contact? The one whose last two handlers had died excessively messy deaths?
After a second, she gathered her wits, and said, “Nah. Can’t be. I’ve got cellarium for twelve across.”
He looked up at her, black eyes startled. Then he said coolly, “Then you are mistaken,” and went back to his paper.
What was she meant to do? He was supposed to be handing her documents. He didn’t seem in any hurry to do so.
“You like crosswords, then?” she asked brightly.
“I like peace and quiet.”
“Just trying to be friendly.”
“Don’t.”
She rolled her eyes, and took a mouthful of tea. It had gone cold. He didn’t look like her idea of a Death Eater. She had a vague idea that most of them looked like the batshit crazy side of her mother’s family, with pale, vicious eyes and silken robes.
He drained his cup, and raised his voice, “I would like my bill.”
What? He couldn’t leave. What had she missed? Mad-Eye would blow a gasket if she came back empty-handed. Desperately, she said, “Well, that was short and sweet.”
“Not short enough,” he said, and rose, intercepting the waitress. “Good afternoon.”
Then he was gone.
She stared after him, baffled. Had there been a clue somewhere among the barrage of insults that had just passed for a conversation? Was she meant to be meeting him somewhere else?
He’d left his paper. The pool of tea was already seeping into its corners, turning them brown. She picked it up, annoyed.
It was a hell of a lot heavier than it should have been.
Oh, Merlin, please let her not have tipped PG Tips over top-secret documents.
She made herself finish her tea slowly, aware of the weight of the paper on her lap. Then she paid her bill, neglecting to leave a tip, and swanned out into the summer heat again, soggy papers bundled in her arms.
All she had to do now was get these back for Lupin to decode, and she’d have survived her first mission for the Order of the Phoenix.
She only spared a moment to wonder if she would see Dumbledore’s man again. She had more important things to worry about than graceful hands, and scornful eyes.
Casually, Nymphadora Tonks made her way back up the sun-bleached street, towards the railway arches, and the dark corner beneath them which was safe to apparate from. Her work, for today, was done.