Fic: "Infinitely suffering thing", for inthesewalls
Title: Infinitely suffering thing
Author: virginia_bell
Recipient: inthesewalls
Rating: PG
Character(s): Remus Lupin
Warnings: War and implications thereof, implied alcohol use
Summary: Remus has been at war for a decade now, and it seems as if war is all he has ever known.
Author's Notes: Much thanks to my betas for their nitpicking, commentary, advice, and special thanks to A for holding my hand through this and giving me all the laughter and support I could ever need. I thank T.S. Eliot for the title. To inthesewalls, I tried to tailor this to your requests as closely as possible, and I hope you enjoy this!
Infinitely suffering thing
Remus, my friend, I must tell you about this delightful little Muggle café I was just in the other day. It's right near the entrance to the Ministry, and it sells pastries and, ah, the coffee! Never had a better brew in my life. You might like it.
Remus is not quite sure why this impromptu venture into the heart of London is a good idea. Indeed, he is quite sure that it is a very bad idea - much of the Order would have advised him to not pay any attention to Arthur Weasley's ramblings about Muggles. Furthermore, there's much work at the headquarters to do. The days do not give enough time for this foolishness, but to hell with rationality - here he is, standing some distance away from what appears to be a popular corner of the city. It is an entirely outdoor venue, this coffee shop, flourished with rustic motifs. It is so busy that he has difficulty finding an open table. Scanning the premises, he questions once more the wisdom of his being here.
No, no open table. He does, however, find a slightly emptier table, occupied by a single woman. A pair of sunglasses shields most of her face from his judgment, and a blue scarf rings her neck. He gestures to the open seat. "Is this taken?"
She starts. "Oh. Oh, no, it's not."
Remus can hardly sit down when a waiter rushes up to him, sweat forming on his forehead and a menu in hand. "Good morning, sir. Anything I can get for you today?"
"Just a cup of coffee, please."
"Of course."
Sighing, Remus leans back in his chair, placing his hands on the armrests. The woman sits across from him, and he finds himself examining her. She has taken up the newspaper now, but it appears that she pays its actual contents little attention. The large black print at the top indicates that it is a Muggle publication, although Remus can't say that he expected anything else. It is one that he regularly reads, a habit he and others had adopted from Albus Dumbledore after his death. Civilian deaths resulting from the war with the Death Eaters attract attention from the Muggle media, and even if they do not know the true cause of those deaths, Remus must constantly be assured that the wizarding world has remained uncovered.
Although he has not yet read this particular issue, ten years of newspaper reading have given him at least a superficial understanding of Muggle affairs. For instance, Remus knows that world has grown increasingly instable, and that the British government has grown more assertive in placing military forces in order to enhance the country's security. There has been a general uproar among the populace over such plans, but sometimes, Remus cannot understand them. He has been at war for a decade now, and as he studies the dark print, it seems as if war is all he has ever known.
"Your coffee, sir." Remus looks up to find the waiter placing a saucer and matching cup before him. "That'll be one pound and forty pence."
He tries his best to obscure the sight of Knuts and Sickles from the waiter as he hands over the correct change.
Arthur, Remus quickly learns, was most correct. Each sip of that dark, swirling liquid fills him with the earthiness expected of a crop cultivated in the tropics. It circulates his blood, prodding his stupor into wakefulness, and he feels happier now than he has felt for some time.
"It's good coffee, this." His words are directed to no one in particular, and perhaps, they should not have been spoken aloud. Nevertheless, the woman across from him looks up from her newspaper, her eyes still obscured by those sunglasses. "Erm, do you also think so?" he asks, kneading his fingers underneath the table.
She pauses, then returns to her reading. "I suppose."
"Do you come here very often?"
She pauses again. "Regularly."
He nods, struck by the foolishness of the conversation he has just had. Resolving to say nothing more, he downs some more coffee and settles comfortably into his chair. The woman moves onto arts and entertainment, discarding the front page onto the table. It lands there on an angle, and Remus twists his head to straighten the text.
"Would you mind if I looked at this?" he says, holding up the paper.
She shakes her head.
A few pages in, he at last stumbles upon the Muggle issue that interests him most: the ongoing warfare in a country called Iraq. He has been following it ever since the United States alleged that Iraq's head of state possessed a number of weapons of some sort and, somehow, ended up mired in a war of liberation and occupation. Britain was the Americans' primary ally in this endeavor - much to the dismay of most Britons. There had been massive protests here, elsewhere - enough that wizarding communities throughout Europe noticed their sudden, overwhelming presence. The Muggle prime minister's popularity had suffered as a result.
This particular article details a bombing that occurred on one street or another, killing this many civilians and injuring that many others. He feels that he has read this before.
Finished with the newspaper, he folds it, places it on the table, and pushes it toward the woman. She does not notice. He clears his throat. "Your paper, madam."
"Oh."
Remus folds his hands together upon the brevity of her response. A monosyllabic acknowledgement of his presence - what is hidden behind so simple an utterance?
He clears his throat. "The article about the war in Iraq was very interesting, I thought."
"You think so?" She peers at him over the top of her paper. The breeze brushes a few strands of blond hair across her face. "I though it was very boring. Very boring and repetitive. There's an article just like it every day, it seems."
Then she adds, "My son is serving in the war."
He looks at the woman again - her son cannot be very old. So young, and already exposed to the blood and dust and gray of war, but soldiers' parents, he knows, are often proud when their children volunteer for such a service. Thus, he says as much to her: "I am sure that you are very proud of him."
"Hardly. This war is stupid - men dying for nothing, men fighting for things that don't - that do not matter at all."
Her fingers quiver as she picks up her cup and raises it to her lifts. "Well, I'm sorry, then," Remus mutters.
"No matter."
She gathers the disparate fractions of her newspaper and stalks away. Meanwhile, Remus drinks the remainder of his coffee, shuddering at the bitterness of the dregs, before standing up. The little café continues to brim with business, but its cheer cannot disguise the slight lurch in his stomach. Perhaps he will return another day.
-
"Hogsmeade cannot be surrendered."
There is a reason why Remus tries his utmost hardest to avoid these meetings, but when they are mandatory, he has little choice in the matter. He only wishes that they would not yell so much.
"He's right," Ron proclaims. "We all know how close Hogsmeade is to Hogwarts. Imagine that - the Death Eaters would be able to stroll right in."
"And, remember, it's really Hogwarts that can't ever be surrendered," one of the twins continues. "We need Hogsmeade to have Hogwarts, so we need to save Hogsmeade, you see."
McGonagall shakes her head, and everyone in the room takes note. She has served as the senior member of the Order since Dumbledore's death; whatever others' opinions of her, she is listened to when she speaks. "Mr. Weasley, you can be sure that I understand you, but it will be difficult, I think, to wrest Hogsmeade back. You-Know-Who's forces have already entrenched themselves in the town. The residents are naturally terrified; they will not be able to help us very much."
"Difficult be damned," Harry says. "If we lose Hogsmeade, we lose Hogwarts."
If there is a time to object, Remus thinks, it is now. His opinion, he remembers, is also respected among the Order. Surely, they would listen if he questioned the judgment of rushing so foolhardily into a situation of such peril. But war, he has learned, is not an arena for moderation. No, war dictates that the passions of the heart triumph over reason, and if reason seeks to survive another day, it would be best for it to remain silent.
-
"Retreat, retreat," Harry mumbles as the Order stumbles into the countryside, the grass lapping at their shins.
When they reassemble a safe distance away, McGonagall is nursing an injured arm. "As I said," she says, "Hogsmeade will not be easy to retake."
Remus sits down, and he is hardly aware of himself when he lies down among the vegetation. His eyes are directed towards the stars, and he can see the towers of Hogwarts.
-
Another two weeks elapses before he can return to that little corner of London. Like before, he purchases a coffee, and he also throws in an additional pound for a small cut of artisan bread. Like before, he has difficulty finding a place to sit, but then he spies the woman - without a newspaper this time - at a table, her ankle flexed and arms crossed, and he lowers himself across from her.
But, this time, he does not have to speak for her to notice him. "So you're back."
"I feel that I should apologize for what happened last time," Remus says. "It was insensitive of me to just assume that you - you were happy with your son's decision."
"It's been forgotten." She shrugs. "You assume that my son chose to fight?"
Remus grimaces. "There hasn't been a conscription?"
"Not officially, of course, but there are other things that can - that drove him to this."
"No, no, I understand. I have some - " He stumbles, wondering how best to translate his own conflict into a language she can understand. "I have some friends in the war too. They believe - I think they believe they are doing the right thing, that they are acting on behalf of what is good and just. Being their friend, I can certainly sympathize, but sometimes, I too find myself wondering what all of this fighting is for. What are they worth, these noble causes? What will we sacrifice to achieve them?"
Suddenly, Remus senses that he has spoken too much.
"I'm sorry," he says, recognizing that this is the second time he has apologized to the same stranger.
"No matter," she says, "but I do wish that my son could come home."
Perhaps she too recognizes that they have had this exchange before, but now, the woman is daring to smile. The burgeoning joy tickles, teases, pulls at her mouth, and when Remus next sips coffee, he notices that he is smiling as well.
-
The Order are collapsed among a collection of sofas and pillows. Empty bottles of Butterbeer and Firewhiskey litter the tables. The only sound is the soft lullaby of the fire.
Molly Weasley wanders into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. "Boys, you're not drinking again, are you? I told you to stop. Firewhiskey is a vile substance."
A twin slurs, "Ronald."
Ron pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He seems to shrink. "I've never touched your bloody alcohol."
Molly advances on her inebriated sons before Arthur holds out a hand. "Not now, my dear."
They sit in silence. Severus is the first to rise. "So what is to be done?"
"We must try again," Harry says. Remus thinks that, sometimes, there is too much of James in his son. "We had the Death Eaters on the run for a little while last time. Maybe, maybe if we were to surprise them more this time..."
McGonagall waves her wand and conjures a glass of water for herself. Her eyes flutter shut as the liquid trickles into her mouth. "How would we do that?" she prompts after wiping her mouth.
"I - I." Harry lowers his face into his hands, rubs his tired green eyes, and does not look up. Thus, the fatigue of war: How does one outsmart one's enemy? How does one survive them? "I will think of something."
-
"You told me when we first met that you came here 'regularly.'"
She appraises him with a single raised eyebrow. "I do."
"By 'regularly,' did you mean that you come here everyday? I'm beginning to think that you do. This is my fifth time here, and here we are, at the same table, for the fifth time."
"If it is solely through my own choice that I wish to be here everyday - "
"So I'm correct, then?" he asks lightly.
"It - it is easier." She sighs, passing her fingers through her hair. Her arm nearly dislodges those prominent sunglasses of hers. He has yet to see her without them. "It is easier for me to not think of him - my son - and the war. It's so frivolous, isn't it, this café? Customers will sit here for hours at a time, laughing, drinking, trading gossip - they are all trying to forget something."
"Like you?"
He can almost see her blink at his question. "Like me."
-
Remus recalls that he has been in many a life-threatening situation, but none, he thinks, is quite as frightening as this one. There is not a light lit in the whole of Hogsmeade, residents and their extinguished lamps squirreled in their homes as they avoid the fighting. There is not a light lit, and Remus is streaking through an anonymous avenue that crawls through the stifling stars and air.
Footsteps form a mad labyrinth of circles and squares and angles, and he is lost somewhere in the middle of it all. Streaks of light paint the sky - he knows that they are the curses that are being fired on this night; a cry, a scream, their accompaniment. People will die tonight, he realizes, but at the same time, he remembers that people have always been dying. There is nothing special about this.
Remus almost trips. Picking up his robes, he notices a thick lump by his feet. It is crowned with red hair, and he looks no more.
And there it is. An arc of silver to his left, to his right, and if he does not move or hide, it will soon press him to death's side - and death, he knows, does not easily relinquish her grasp. He crouches low and rolls away, wand like ice clutched in his hand. He takes shelter in the shadows behind the building, and with the instincts of a wolf, extends his head just enough to view his nemesis. The Death Eater is, of course, barely perceptible by darkness; his black robes and hood are terrifyingly adept at the art of concealment. Remus, however, has been too well trained by experience to not find him.
How deafening is night when one knows that one's life is but a spell away from ending. Remus cannot even hear the incantation as he Stupefies the man (all of these years later, and he still hasn't the nerve to kill someone).
It is only when he hears the muffled crack of flesh on earth that he dares to slip away with the Order in their retreat.
-
Remus will never admit that vanity was the reason he refused to visit the little café, but it is true. A man with a gash so powerfully etched upon his face should not make himself known to the public until it somewhat mends, and this is a powerful wound. Hermione spends half an hour at his side, applying this salve and that potion with little success. Sighing, she ultimately turns to a Muggle antibacterial lotion and a curious invention she calls plaster.
Some time passes while he heals, the Order heals, and when all that remains is a raised cascade of skin, he wanders into London once again.
It is the first time he sits at a table alone, drinking his coffee.
-
He returns to the café next week. Nothing.
-
It is as if the woman's existence were but a whisper, a sigh, a perfume pressed to the wrist - how long the scent lingers, how indecipherable its source. Remus does not understand why he should miss a stranger.
He does not return to the café after this.
-
"But something good has come out of it," Harry says after a long silence.
"Oh, really?" someone sneers. "Now we have to save Diagon Alley, do we?"
"We may have lost Hogsmeade," Harry continues, "but the Death Eaters had not expected that last raid. They lost - they lost many lives that night. Snape, would you like to share what you've learned?"
The two black-haired men glance at each other. Ten years they have fought as brothers, and still, their mutual dislike persists. Severus opens a folder and pulls out a sheet of parchment. "The Dark Lord has not suffered casualties like these in many years, despite their victory at Hogsmeade. Hmm, let me see: Macnair was treated to a Killing Curse - "
"I thought we had agreed not to use it," Remus interrupts quietly.
Severus glares at him before continuing with his reports. Remus runs a hand through his hair and recalls that, after ten years of fighting, the old morality is often the least of the Order's worries. "So Macnair is dead. Avery, Goyle - also dead. And - " Severus frowns " - Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, dead, it seems, from a Stunning Spell."
Harry closes his eyes. "A Stunning Spell? It can't kill, can it?"
"My intelligence indicates that he died almost instantaneously from traumatic head injuries. I can only guess that this particular Stunning Spell, ah, was quite strong. Malfoy must have been near a wall, which could not have been too friendly towards the incoming human."
-
At exactly three minutes past one in the morning, or so says his alarm clock, Remus awakes in a sweat. He kneads his forehead, then closes his eyes, turning over this way then that way, seeking a return to the embrace of sleep. Sleep, he urges himself, sleep, but no sleep shall cloak his thoughts tonight. Severus is standing above him, but he is not speaking. He is the messenger, but the messenger says nothing. The words are derived from something great, impersonal, cruel: You Stunned him, Remus. Blasted the boy right off his feet and into a wall. Could've at least spared him the pain, eh?
Exactly one hour after this, he awakes again, the guilt like stones in his pockets. He does not know why this death in particular should bother him. He did not mean to kill Draco Malfoy, of course - that the boy had the misfortune to be standing near a wall when Remus reacted in self-defense was not something he could have prevented. But that is a technicality. Remus has caused deaths in the past: it is an inevitability of war. This he knows, and this he had long since reconciled to his reason. There is no reason, absolutely no explanation as to why this death is bothering him so.
Perhaps, he starts to think, perhaps it is not Draco's death that haunts him. Perhaps it is instead the stranger at the café, her blond coiffure and her comical sunglasses. He remembers that she has a son, just as the Malfoys have (had, he corrects) a son, and that her son is serving in the Muggles' war, just as the Malfoys' son had served in the wizards' war. Perhaps - Remus shudders for her - perhaps her son has been killed in battle, just as the Malfoys' son had died in the heat of conflict, and that is why she stopped going to the café. Perhaps now, the woman is grieving, keeling with sobs and curses for the enemy that has stolen away the life of her beloved child.
Then Remus's eyes widen with horror, his blood chilling with truth. The Muggle newspaper, the coffee shop, the careful ambiguity of her speech - these, the motifs of a life incognito, and he has been too stupid to realize it.
He has killed her son.
He has killed Narcissa Malfoy's son.
Author: virginia_bell
Recipient: inthesewalls
Rating: PG
Character(s): Remus Lupin
Warnings: War and implications thereof, implied alcohol use
Summary: Remus has been at war for a decade now, and it seems as if war is all he has ever known.
Author's Notes: Much thanks to my betas for their nitpicking, commentary, advice, and special thanks to A for holding my hand through this and giving me all the laughter and support I could ever need. I thank T.S. Eliot for the title. To inthesewalls, I tried to tailor this to your requests as closely as possible, and I hope you enjoy this!
Infinitely suffering thing
Remus, my friend, I must tell you about this delightful little Muggle café I was just in the other day. It's right near the entrance to the Ministry, and it sells pastries and, ah, the coffee! Never had a better brew in my life. You might like it.
Remus is not quite sure why this impromptu venture into the heart of London is a good idea. Indeed, he is quite sure that it is a very bad idea - much of the Order would have advised him to not pay any attention to Arthur Weasley's ramblings about Muggles. Furthermore, there's much work at the headquarters to do. The days do not give enough time for this foolishness, but to hell with rationality - here he is, standing some distance away from what appears to be a popular corner of the city. It is an entirely outdoor venue, this coffee shop, flourished with rustic motifs. It is so busy that he has difficulty finding an open table. Scanning the premises, he questions once more the wisdom of his being here.
No, no open table. He does, however, find a slightly emptier table, occupied by a single woman. A pair of sunglasses shields most of her face from his judgment, and a blue scarf rings her neck. He gestures to the open seat. "Is this taken?"
She starts. "Oh. Oh, no, it's not."
Remus can hardly sit down when a waiter rushes up to him, sweat forming on his forehead and a menu in hand. "Good morning, sir. Anything I can get for you today?"
"Just a cup of coffee, please."
"Of course."
Sighing, Remus leans back in his chair, placing his hands on the armrests. The woman sits across from him, and he finds himself examining her. She has taken up the newspaper now, but it appears that she pays its actual contents little attention. The large black print at the top indicates that it is a Muggle publication, although Remus can't say that he expected anything else. It is one that he regularly reads, a habit he and others had adopted from Albus Dumbledore after his death. Civilian deaths resulting from the war with the Death Eaters attract attention from the Muggle media, and even if they do not know the true cause of those deaths, Remus must constantly be assured that the wizarding world has remained uncovered.
Although he has not yet read this particular issue, ten years of newspaper reading have given him at least a superficial understanding of Muggle affairs. For instance, Remus knows that world has grown increasingly instable, and that the British government has grown more assertive in placing military forces in order to enhance the country's security. There has been a general uproar among the populace over such plans, but sometimes, Remus cannot understand them. He has been at war for a decade now, and as he studies the dark print, it seems as if war is all he has ever known.
"Your coffee, sir." Remus looks up to find the waiter placing a saucer and matching cup before him. "That'll be one pound and forty pence."
He tries his best to obscure the sight of Knuts and Sickles from the waiter as he hands over the correct change.
Arthur, Remus quickly learns, was most correct. Each sip of that dark, swirling liquid fills him with the earthiness expected of a crop cultivated in the tropics. It circulates his blood, prodding his stupor into wakefulness, and he feels happier now than he has felt for some time.
"It's good coffee, this." His words are directed to no one in particular, and perhaps, they should not have been spoken aloud. Nevertheless, the woman across from him looks up from her newspaper, her eyes still obscured by those sunglasses. "Erm, do you also think so?" he asks, kneading his fingers underneath the table.
She pauses, then returns to her reading. "I suppose."
"Do you come here very often?"
She pauses again. "Regularly."
He nods, struck by the foolishness of the conversation he has just had. Resolving to say nothing more, he downs some more coffee and settles comfortably into his chair. The woman moves onto arts and entertainment, discarding the front page onto the table. It lands there on an angle, and Remus twists his head to straighten the text.
"Would you mind if I looked at this?" he says, holding up the paper.
She shakes her head.
A few pages in, he at last stumbles upon the Muggle issue that interests him most: the ongoing warfare in a country called Iraq. He has been following it ever since the United States alleged that Iraq's head of state possessed a number of weapons of some sort and, somehow, ended up mired in a war of liberation and occupation. Britain was the Americans' primary ally in this endeavor - much to the dismay of most Britons. There had been massive protests here, elsewhere - enough that wizarding communities throughout Europe noticed their sudden, overwhelming presence. The Muggle prime minister's popularity had suffered as a result.
This particular article details a bombing that occurred on one street or another, killing this many civilians and injuring that many others. He feels that he has read this before.
Finished with the newspaper, he folds it, places it on the table, and pushes it toward the woman. She does not notice. He clears his throat. "Your paper, madam."
"Oh."
Remus folds his hands together upon the brevity of her response. A monosyllabic acknowledgement of his presence - what is hidden behind so simple an utterance?
He clears his throat. "The article about the war in Iraq was very interesting, I thought."
"You think so?" She peers at him over the top of her paper. The breeze brushes a few strands of blond hair across her face. "I though it was very boring. Very boring and repetitive. There's an article just like it every day, it seems."
Then she adds, "My son is serving in the war."
He looks at the woman again - her son cannot be very old. So young, and already exposed to the blood and dust and gray of war, but soldiers' parents, he knows, are often proud when their children volunteer for such a service. Thus, he says as much to her: "I am sure that you are very proud of him."
"Hardly. This war is stupid - men dying for nothing, men fighting for things that don't - that do not matter at all."
Her fingers quiver as she picks up her cup and raises it to her lifts. "Well, I'm sorry, then," Remus mutters.
"No matter."
She gathers the disparate fractions of her newspaper and stalks away. Meanwhile, Remus drinks the remainder of his coffee, shuddering at the bitterness of the dregs, before standing up. The little café continues to brim with business, but its cheer cannot disguise the slight lurch in his stomach. Perhaps he will return another day.
-
"Hogsmeade cannot be surrendered."
There is a reason why Remus tries his utmost hardest to avoid these meetings, but when they are mandatory, he has little choice in the matter. He only wishes that they would not yell so much.
"He's right," Ron proclaims. "We all know how close Hogsmeade is to Hogwarts. Imagine that - the Death Eaters would be able to stroll right in."
"And, remember, it's really Hogwarts that can't ever be surrendered," one of the twins continues. "We need Hogsmeade to have Hogwarts, so we need to save Hogsmeade, you see."
McGonagall shakes her head, and everyone in the room takes note. She has served as the senior member of the Order since Dumbledore's death; whatever others' opinions of her, she is listened to when she speaks. "Mr. Weasley, you can be sure that I understand you, but it will be difficult, I think, to wrest Hogsmeade back. You-Know-Who's forces have already entrenched themselves in the town. The residents are naturally terrified; they will not be able to help us very much."
"Difficult be damned," Harry says. "If we lose Hogsmeade, we lose Hogwarts."
If there is a time to object, Remus thinks, it is now. His opinion, he remembers, is also respected among the Order. Surely, they would listen if he questioned the judgment of rushing so foolhardily into a situation of such peril. But war, he has learned, is not an arena for moderation. No, war dictates that the passions of the heart triumph over reason, and if reason seeks to survive another day, it would be best for it to remain silent.
-
"Retreat, retreat," Harry mumbles as the Order stumbles into the countryside, the grass lapping at their shins.
When they reassemble a safe distance away, McGonagall is nursing an injured arm. "As I said," she says, "Hogsmeade will not be easy to retake."
Remus sits down, and he is hardly aware of himself when he lies down among the vegetation. His eyes are directed towards the stars, and he can see the towers of Hogwarts.
-
Another two weeks elapses before he can return to that little corner of London. Like before, he purchases a coffee, and he also throws in an additional pound for a small cut of artisan bread. Like before, he has difficulty finding a place to sit, but then he spies the woman - without a newspaper this time - at a table, her ankle flexed and arms crossed, and he lowers himself across from her.
But, this time, he does not have to speak for her to notice him. "So you're back."
"I feel that I should apologize for what happened last time," Remus says. "It was insensitive of me to just assume that you - you were happy with your son's decision."
"It's been forgotten." She shrugs. "You assume that my son chose to fight?"
Remus grimaces. "There hasn't been a conscription?"
"Not officially, of course, but there are other things that can - that drove him to this."
"No, no, I understand. I have some - " He stumbles, wondering how best to translate his own conflict into a language she can understand. "I have some friends in the war too. They believe - I think they believe they are doing the right thing, that they are acting on behalf of what is good and just. Being their friend, I can certainly sympathize, but sometimes, I too find myself wondering what all of this fighting is for. What are they worth, these noble causes? What will we sacrifice to achieve them?"
Suddenly, Remus senses that he has spoken too much.
"I'm sorry," he says, recognizing that this is the second time he has apologized to the same stranger.
"No matter," she says, "but I do wish that my son could come home."
Perhaps she too recognizes that they have had this exchange before, but now, the woman is daring to smile. The burgeoning joy tickles, teases, pulls at her mouth, and when Remus next sips coffee, he notices that he is smiling as well.
-
The Order are collapsed among a collection of sofas and pillows. Empty bottles of Butterbeer and Firewhiskey litter the tables. The only sound is the soft lullaby of the fire.
Molly Weasley wanders into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. "Boys, you're not drinking again, are you? I told you to stop. Firewhiskey is a vile substance."
A twin slurs, "Ronald."
Ron pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He seems to shrink. "I've never touched your bloody alcohol."
Molly advances on her inebriated sons before Arthur holds out a hand. "Not now, my dear."
They sit in silence. Severus is the first to rise. "So what is to be done?"
"We must try again," Harry says. Remus thinks that, sometimes, there is too much of James in his son. "We had the Death Eaters on the run for a little while last time. Maybe, maybe if we were to surprise them more this time..."
McGonagall waves her wand and conjures a glass of water for herself. Her eyes flutter shut as the liquid trickles into her mouth. "How would we do that?" she prompts after wiping her mouth.
"I - I." Harry lowers his face into his hands, rubs his tired green eyes, and does not look up. Thus, the fatigue of war: How does one outsmart one's enemy? How does one survive them? "I will think of something."
-
"You told me when we first met that you came here 'regularly.'"
She appraises him with a single raised eyebrow. "I do."
"By 'regularly,' did you mean that you come here everyday? I'm beginning to think that you do. This is my fifth time here, and here we are, at the same table, for the fifth time."
"If it is solely through my own choice that I wish to be here everyday - "
"So I'm correct, then?" he asks lightly.
"It - it is easier." She sighs, passing her fingers through her hair. Her arm nearly dislodges those prominent sunglasses of hers. He has yet to see her without them. "It is easier for me to not think of him - my son - and the war. It's so frivolous, isn't it, this café? Customers will sit here for hours at a time, laughing, drinking, trading gossip - they are all trying to forget something."
"Like you?"
He can almost see her blink at his question. "Like me."
-
Remus recalls that he has been in many a life-threatening situation, but none, he thinks, is quite as frightening as this one. There is not a light lit in the whole of Hogsmeade, residents and their extinguished lamps squirreled in their homes as they avoid the fighting. There is not a light lit, and Remus is streaking through an anonymous avenue that crawls through the stifling stars and air.
Footsteps form a mad labyrinth of circles and squares and angles, and he is lost somewhere in the middle of it all. Streaks of light paint the sky - he knows that they are the curses that are being fired on this night; a cry, a scream, their accompaniment. People will die tonight, he realizes, but at the same time, he remembers that people have always been dying. There is nothing special about this.
Remus almost trips. Picking up his robes, he notices a thick lump by his feet. It is crowned with red hair, and he looks no more.
And there it is. An arc of silver to his left, to his right, and if he does not move or hide, it will soon press him to death's side - and death, he knows, does not easily relinquish her grasp. He crouches low and rolls away, wand like ice clutched in his hand. He takes shelter in the shadows behind the building, and with the instincts of a wolf, extends his head just enough to view his nemesis. The Death Eater is, of course, barely perceptible by darkness; his black robes and hood are terrifyingly adept at the art of concealment. Remus, however, has been too well trained by experience to not find him.
How deafening is night when one knows that one's life is but a spell away from ending. Remus cannot even hear the incantation as he Stupefies the man (all of these years later, and he still hasn't the nerve to kill someone).
It is only when he hears the muffled crack of flesh on earth that he dares to slip away with the Order in their retreat.
-
Remus will never admit that vanity was the reason he refused to visit the little café, but it is true. A man with a gash so powerfully etched upon his face should not make himself known to the public until it somewhat mends, and this is a powerful wound. Hermione spends half an hour at his side, applying this salve and that potion with little success. Sighing, she ultimately turns to a Muggle antibacterial lotion and a curious invention she calls plaster.
Some time passes while he heals, the Order heals, and when all that remains is a raised cascade of skin, he wanders into London once again.
It is the first time he sits at a table alone, drinking his coffee.
-
He returns to the café next week. Nothing.
-
It is as if the woman's existence were but a whisper, a sigh, a perfume pressed to the wrist - how long the scent lingers, how indecipherable its source. Remus does not understand why he should miss a stranger.
He does not return to the café after this.
-
"But something good has come out of it," Harry says after a long silence.
"Oh, really?" someone sneers. "Now we have to save Diagon Alley, do we?"
"We may have lost Hogsmeade," Harry continues, "but the Death Eaters had not expected that last raid. They lost - they lost many lives that night. Snape, would you like to share what you've learned?"
The two black-haired men glance at each other. Ten years they have fought as brothers, and still, their mutual dislike persists. Severus opens a folder and pulls out a sheet of parchment. "The Dark Lord has not suffered casualties like these in many years, despite their victory at Hogsmeade. Hmm, let me see: Macnair was treated to a Killing Curse - "
"I thought we had agreed not to use it," Remus interrupts quietly.
Severus glares at him before continuing with his reports. Remus runs a hand through his hair and recalls that, after ten years of fighting, the old morality is often the least of the Order's worries. "So Macnair is dead. Avery, Goyle - also dead. And - " Severus frowns " - Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, dead, it seems, from a Stunning Spell."
Harry closes his eyes. "A Stunning Spell? It can't kill, can it?"
"My intelligence indicates that he died almost instantaneously from traumatic head injuries. I can only guess that this particular Stunning Spell, ah, was quite strong. Malfoy must have been near a wall, which could not have been too friendly towards the incoming human."
-
At exactly three minutes past one in the morning, or so says his alarm clock, Remus awakes in a sweat. He kneads his forehead, then closes his eyes, turning over this way then that way, seeking a return to the embrace of sleep. Sleep, he urges himself, sleep, but no sleep shall cloak his thoughts tonight. Severus is standing above him, but he is not speaking. He is the messenger, but the messenger says nothing. The words are derived from something great, impersonal, cruel: You Stunned him, Remus. Blasted the boy right off his feet and into a wall. Could've at least spared him the pain, eh?
Exactly one hour after this, he awakes again, the guilt like stones in his pockets. He does not know why this death in particular should bother him. He did not mean to kill Draco Malfoy, of course - that the boy had the misfortune to be standing near a wall when Remus reacted in self-defense was not something he could have prevented. But that is a technicality. Remus has caused deaths in the past: it is an inevitability of war. This he knows, and this he had long since reconciled to his reason. There is no reason, absolutely no explanation as to why this death is bothering him so.
Perhaps, he starts to think, perhaps it is not Draco's death that haunts him. Perhaps it is instead the stranger at the café, her blond coiffure and her comical sunglasses. He remembers that she has a son, just as the Malfoys have (had, he corrects) a son, and that her son is serving in the Muggles' war, just as the Malfoys' son had served in the wizards' war. Perhaps - Remus shudders for her - perhaps her son has been killed in battle, just as the Malfoys' son had died in the heat of conflict, and that is why she stopped going to the café. Perhaps now, the woman is grieving, keeling with sobs and curses for the enemy that has stolen away the life of her beloved child.
Then Remus's eyes widen with horror, his blood chilling with truth. The Muggle newspaper, the coffee shop, the careful ambiguity of her speech - these, the motifs of a life incognito, and he has been too stupid to realize it.
He has killed her son.
He has killed Narcissa Malfoy's son.