This was written for an assignment, that's why it was so random: it had to include an amber neckalce, a dumpster, mint chocolate chip ice cream, and the word 'English.' I guess It's AU, now, because JK Rowling decided Tonks didn't deserve to live, that Teddy didn't deserve to have a Mum or a Dad... oh, well. I'm still not over that yet.
Let's just pretend I already di the whole 'I don't own Harry Potter, blah, blah, blah...' I wish I did. But i don't. If I did, Tonks and Lupin wouldn't have died. That really sucked. But enough of that.
She sighed and turned the page, trying to ignore the loud, plaintive tones of REM blasting through the small record store, without much success. The beanbag squashed so agreeably under her was old and patched, just like her jeans, sagging in its lassitude and years of bottoms corroding its intended shape. She brushed dark lavender hair out of her eyes and clacked the amber pendant idly between her teeth, trying to pretend that this part of the mission wasn't this supremely dull. If there was one thing worse than the tension in waiting, she'd found, it was the boredom. She felt the dig of her wand-shaft against her ankle, thrust into her boot and out of site, and checked the knife at her waistband. There were Muggles everywhere, well, duh, this was a Muggle shop, a rundown affair in central London, and there was no point in arousing undue attention when she could easily avoid it. Her summers spent with her father's sister and her boys had not been lost on her, so when it could be avoided, she kept her wand in her belt, and didn't go unprepared. It meant that many less memories to modify, that many more things she didn't have to explain to the Head back at the Office. This new Head was much less forgiving than Scrimgeour had been.
A mild argument broke out an isle over, and she appraised the two miscreants from beneath raised brows. She kept them dark, since most didn't go to the trouble to get their brows and hair to match, but her bramble of violet spikes went unmarked the sea of multihued locks glued into amazing turrets sported by some. The boys shuffled their feet under her stare and walked away. She couldn't suppress the smirk that rose to their reaction. How many people had backed down like that beneath her icily disproving glare? And these idiots didn't even know she had a wand. She returned to the dog-eared book, scanning the pages without seeing the words, ears alert for the slightest change in atmosphere. She doubted anyone would think to look for her here in a Muggle record store. This particular shop had been a childhood refuge; no one had thought to look for here, not even Mum. Well, Dad had found her sometimes, so she'd had to alternate between here and Charlie's house, but she'd had so many hours of nearly-quiet contemplation here, tucked away in the back corner, and everyone left the Pit alone when she was in it. This humble little music vendor had given her breathing space when Mum had been particularly cloying, somewhere where no one looked twice at her collection of black leather and ripped-up jeans and metal spikes and dog collars. If she didn't want to talk to anyone, she just became someone else, and that was that.
There was the off-chance there would be action today, so she'd brought her badge, just in case. But the ministry wouldn't be pleased. They hadn't been pleased that they'd had to pay in part for a two-week stay in St. Mungo's, in a private room no less. But that's what they were supposed to do; she fought for them, and they paid for the wounds she accrued in the line of duty. Only she hadn't been working for them, directly, on specific orders. But they'd paid in the end. She was broke enough as it was, and the Order certainly didn't have funds enough to spread to a second hospital stay that year, and Healers doing research. But luckily, they'd found Sirius' will, and she'd been able to pay them off. But her jeans would have holes in them for a while yet, which was fine with her anyway, and she might end up slimming down a little, buying less food.
The amber hummed gently against her throat, not insistent yet, but she'd have to be there soon. Rising and tucking the book into her pocket, she shouldered her way through the surly and ecstatic patrons, ignoring the manager's askance look that she'd bought nothing, but she wasn't trying to steal anything, so what was his problem? Out the front door, onto the sidewalk, ducking into the overgrown alley with no one the wiser, she crouched down behind the overflowing dumpster and unfastened the necklace. A good few minutes to go, to judge by the intensity of the humming and the heat, and the coordinates were still good. Rising, she turned briskly on the spot and was gone. Shaking off the lingering feeling of pressure, she ducked back out of a different, almost identical alley, and onto a broad street in lower Diagon Alley. Hands in her pockets, she strolled along unconcernedly, whistling softly to herself, doing her best to look inconspicuous—a feat for her. Buying a small mint ice cream from a street vendor—nothing on Fortesque's, of course, but she wouldn't begrudge him, it was still chock full of sugar and chocolate—she scanned the crowd for likely faces as she went along, saw no one familiar, like she was going to anyways, but there seemed to be little threat on the streets; country witches in for a Sunday's shopping, gaggles of tourists, hopefuls clustered outside promising shop windows. Just the usual teenage rabble brimming with angst. They weren't what she was looking out for, she she'd give them a break. Goodness knew she'd have needed one, and had got none, starting brawls on all the street corners for the fun of it or defending her honor against the next snob-nosed idiot to call her bastard. Traitor she could live with—coming from most of them, it was a compliment—but the other one she couldn't abide. She was proud of her blood, proud that she had the right to choose and didn't have to stick her lot one way or another, just 'cause she was born into a family without any choice.
Lamps sprang to life on either side of the way, unflickering spell-lights, and she realized how dark it was. She looked around once more, suddenly and irrationally afraid, but saw no faces in the crowd that reassured her, all blank, all nameless. Kingsley was here, somewhere, and Bill, and Sturgis. Moody wasn't though—so her gaudy choice of hair went unchallenged—and neither was Remus. Well, he wouldn't be, it was Full Moon tonight. She had no idea where he was, no idea if he was alright, and sent a silent prayer his way. She'd see him some time in the next couple of days, he'd promised, but tonight he was alone, hurting, and she wasn't there. Stop it! she ordered herself ineffectually, her mental voice stern. Concentrate on what you're doing or you'll just end up poking yourself in the eye instead of hexing Death Eaters.
Turning a sharp corner, she stepped into Knocturn Alley and out of the throng. Finding the side-street assigned to her, she crouched just above the mud and settled to wait, scrubbing her palms on her jeans, whipping her wand out of her boot and holding it ready, but unlit. The necklace thrummed hotly now, and she stood, breath held, poised on the balls of her feet. She hated waiting.
Soon, sure enough, she heard pounding feet behind her, ragged breath, but the runner's wand was also unlit, and she didn't see him coming. Aiming in his general direction, and hoping she would hit something and not lose the advantage, she sent an Impediment Jinx and heard a dull, wet thunk as something heavy hit the wet cobbles. Jogging over to the fallen man, she saw his bone-white mask, the black robe. She bound and gagged him with magic and tossed his wand before unmasking him. She didn't recognize his face but memorized it anyway, then melded back into the shadows to wait for another one. Kingsley was in the central, where they were supposed to have gathered, and flushed them one by one as they appeared down an alley and into someone's waiting arms.
In another minute there was a witch in the alley with her, and she repeated the maneuver, but this one was ready, and blocked the attack. Launching into another, she moved away from the wall, and flinched as hot blood spattered her face from the gash she'd made in the older woman's robes. An ill-formed hex flew at her, fell wide, closely followed by other, more potent ones. She concentrated on deflecting the curses, knowing that they could ill-afford even one misplaced blow. Like boxers in a ring, she moved in a slow circle, pressing the Death Eater back, gaining ground now, and the woman began to falter, panic. She was yelling curses in some foreign language, brandishing her wand indiscriminately. Quickly, she shut the hag up, before others heard her screams. Ripping back the hood, saw a face marked by hatred and fear. "If you want me to know what pretty names you're calling me, you'd better speak English, love," she advised coolly, giving the woman an extra kick in the ribs for the effort she'd caused, and sent the 'all-clear' flash to Kingsley in the square, turning to stare into the darkness. For a moment she was sure she'd seen something there, a blacker shadow in the grime, but dismissed the fancy and turned away, fixing her attention on the alley's mouth and her next victim.
But no one came. She waited, breath tensed in her lungs, a string of jinxes running through her mind, ready to be put to tongue and wand. But the alley remained still. She heard the muffled sounds of the others in the streets over, but hers was empty. Unwarranted fear that had nothing and everything to do with the sudden stillness flooded through her, making tense muscles quiver. Tentatively, she flashed Kingsley once more, hoping everything was alright on his end.
An indistinct form was pounding down the by-way in her direction now, muddled in the gloom, and she heard the ragged panting, two sets of footfalls instead of one. Glancing about frantically, she tried to pinpoint the movement, the noise, the stench. A bestial form loped for her at a near breakneck pace. She raised wand on high, just making out the outline of arched back, dripping muzzle, elongated joints, coarse, patchy fur.
"Remus?" she called softly, but the word was barely out of her mouth before she was overtaken, and she saw the ruff of silver topping the crested spine, leveled the wand too late, and the breath was gone from her lungs. She couldn't have cursed her way free anymore than she could have screamed. A massive clawed paw knocked the wand from her hand and sent it spinning away. She fell heavily, pinned beneath the beast. Her head had cracked against the stone, and she tried to see past the stars to get a grip on Greyback's throat, but she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Powerless, she writhed under its bulk, but couldn't even cry out when its claws rent her flesh. The world was going hazy around the edges, and for a moment her frantic mind grappled with the paradox of so much bloodless, so fast, then a pair of mighty jaws dank seep into her shoulder, and finally, finally she screamed, a bloody cry of pain so intense it split her lungs and brain apart, bucked her whole body, but in no way described the pain of those poisoned teeth locked in her flesh. The seconds lasted an eternity, the only thing in her mind the burning circle of fangs cracking her bone, the screams splitting her skull. Then suddenly the teeth drew away, and she was free to sob, her stomach heaving at the sensation of their withdrawal from her flesh. She didn't hear the shouting, the growls, couldn't see the new forms in the alley, drawing back her attacker. The heavy bulk of the werewolf was suddenly removed from her, and she watched with bleary eyes, darkened by pain and streaming tears, as dark figures circled the beast, pelting it with hexes that smeared into long tails of colored lights in her vision. There was a blinding flash, and agonized howls, and then it was silent, too silent, for she had lost the ability to scream. Darkness was pulling on her mind, and her life ebbing away into its welcoming depths, so that when Kingsley bent over her, his face a mask of horror and concern, she did not recognize him, a blur that hung over her and muttered unintelligible comforts. Nothing could comfort her. The tears still ran down her cheeks, liquid fire she couldn't feel, only the fire in her shoulder, the fire spreading itself through her blood, spreading its unbearable agony. It was spreading fast, too fast, devouring all of her, and when he reached out and laid a hand on the wound, pressing hard, she was too far gone to resist, too far gone even to cry out at the renewed hurt. He was speaking to her, and she tried to answer, but couldn't form words through the tears, through the hazy blackness that swirled about his face. As she tried to tell him that she hadn't meant it, Remus would never hurt her, not like he had, the blackness closed and drew her in, and she knew no more.