Leaving is easy.
Sometimes, love dies in a moment, like a parent playing peek-a-boo; it's there, staring you in the face, until, suddenly and inexplicably, it's not. You don't know why and you don't know how; all you know is that it's not there anymore, that you've lost something that you once held precious. At others, it goes out with a fight, like someone struggling to stay awake even as their consciousness slips away from them like water through their outstretched fingertips. That's when, before their eyes, they can see the feelings fade away until only the dull pain of regret remains.
They were the kind who railed against it, scratching and clawing to stay awake even as their love grew feeble and awareness grew thin and weak. For two years, they fought a losing fight, sometimes as allies and sometimes as enemies but rarely in sync. Determined to see it through to the victory celebrations that would mark the end, they kept yelling and loving and arguing and clinging and tearing down everything they'd built. But they eventually realised that they were too far gone to ever go back to how they had been, and that it was better for them and for their son if they just succumbed to the sleep and donned the titles of exes and old flames and past loves.
By this stage, letting go doesn't feel like giving in; it feels like moving on. After all of their issues and their arguments and their time spent falling apart and never putting it back together quite the same way, it seems like the simplest thing in the world to just pack up and leave.
With that in mind, Eddie feels nothing but numbness as he tells her that he's leaving. The first hint of tears dot her eyes like the artwork Dean made the other day, where he'd spread brown glitter over the small coloured surface so that they shone like the perfect beacon the boy had always seen her as. Yet he knows, from her otherwise unruffled gaze and from their history and their conversations and the way she once mused about what life would have been like had they never married, that Annalise has accepted it as well. She's won't cry because it's a shock or because it's unwanted or even because some might call it ignominious; she'll cry for the fact that something that was once beautiful has been tainted to the point where both parties can walk away without pain. She'll cry for who they used to be, for the love-struck teenagers who had thrown their all into their relationship and would have been horrified at the idea of ever parting. The idea that a love could be true but could still fizzle out had seemed so foreign to them back then; the concept of divorce had puzzled them like a jigsaw that was missing several pieces, something that they were so close to understanding but couldn't quite grasp.
Now, destroyed by fire yet somehow wiser as a result, they get it.
He promises to keep in contact. He promises to be there for Dean over the years.
He promises a lot of things.
-s-a-
He manages to keep his promises, too, for a time. He's well aware of all of the stereotypes regarding black fathers, and he knows that many of their friends are just waiting for him to fall short of the mark, but he's determined to be there for Dean and, as much as he can, for Annalise. Living alone has given him the space to deal with the hollowness that once overcame him, to do magic and to contribute to the war effort without endangering his family, and to look back on their marriage with fondness and nostalgic love. It can be awkward to view as friends something they once viewed as lovers, but they make it work. Their son is their priority and they are unwavering in their dedication to making the transition as smooth as possible for him.
-s-a-
But, as all things, it eventually all turns to dust.
Despite the activism of famous witches and wizards like Albus Dumbledore and Waleed Bickmore, there seems to be no way to avoid open warfare. A series of unexplained murders and disappearances have been cropping up around the country, causing tension to skyrocket to an unprecedented high. It's the elephant in every room, looming over everyone as they refuse to acknowledge it for fear of making themselves a target for its fury.
Of course, Eddie is in a precarious position. Although his blood status protects him from random attacks and threats, it also makes him a potential recruit. And, while he might be blanketed by the unwitting protection of his pureblood ancestry, his family isn't. Knowing that Annalise and Dean would be targeted if the self-titled Death Eaters found out about them, he makes the tough decision to cut off contact with them in the hopes that it will keep them safe. It isn't foolproof, and he's desperate for the blood supremists to be defeated so that he can see his family again and know that they are no longer in danger, but it's all he can do.
Yet, still, it's not enough.
-s-a-
As usual, when the announcement comes, he feels as if his whole world has stopped spinning and he, no longer held down by gravity, is about to faint from terror. Every time he hears of another attack, his brain reminds him of the possibility that they might have been involved. It usually doesn't take long for his common sense to kick back in and remind him how unlikely that is; they live in a highly populated Muggle area and have no known connection to the wizarding world, after all, and there are so very many people in the world.
Still, just the thought of what might have happened haunts him as he makes his way to the nearby markets to do his grocery shopping. By that time on a Saturday morning, Annalise and Dean would probably be baking together in the quest to satisfy their sweet tooths. The scene is as clear in his mind as the cloudless sky stretching out above him. His ex-wife would be encouraging their son to take charge, guiding him through each task and only stepping in when he had done all he could. Quiet jazz music – her favourite kind – would be playing in the background, but the sound of their laughter and happy chatter would be mingling with it and drowning it out. Dean would be struggling to break the eggs without getting any shell pieces into the mixture. The scene warms him, but, even as he smiles at the thought, he can also imagine how the soft music and dynamic conversation could hide the sound of approaching footsteps. They wouldn't be able to hear the intruder before he reached them, before he raised what would, to them, merely looked like a stick, before a flash of green light brightened up the room like the flash of a camera. They would never even know he was there, and their bodies would lie, lifeless, by the half-combined cupcake mixture until Annalise's neighbour brought her kids over for a playdate and realised that something was wrong.
He can't bear the thought of it. Their joyous innocence could be their undoing. Worse still, he isn't even sure if the news would make its way back to him. Her family and friends have no way of contacting him, and there's always the chance that the Aurors wouldn't flag the deaths as suspicious. The prospect of waking up to the news that they were killed is chilling and utterly terrifying, but the idea of going to visit them in the aftermath of the war and discovering that they hadn't made it was almost unthinkable.
He won't let that happen. He won't.
That leaves him with only one option.
So he decides to fight.
-s-a-
He pauses, ostensibly to examine a shop display, and peeks down the street out of the corner of his eye. A hooded figure has been walking behind him for blocks now, and he's starting to get apprehensive about its motivations. Hoods have become more common – not exactly popular, but still more so – among the populace recently as people seek to conceal their identities and blend into the landscape of faces around them. They are still largely associated with Death Eaters, though, so the mere possibility of a hooded someone following him sends shivers scuttling across his skin like ants.
It's still there.
Whether he's being perceptive or paranoid, he could just duck into an empty side street and then Apparate away to safety. He's not afraid of overreacting, and it would let him just circumvent the problem altogether. However, while it's tempting to do just that, it's not a permanent solution. If the person really is a Death Eater, He Who Must Not Be Named would simply send another follower to observe or catch him some other time. Eddie knows he wouldn't be able to shake him forever.
Alternatively, he could try to set up an ambush. It's risky, but it could give them access to a veritable fountain of invaluable information. Given how they were essentially playing on the back foot, primarily focusing on responding to threats rather than on actively pushing back against their enemies, that development would be monumental. All it would take would be a few drops of Veritaserum and they would have names of Death Eaters, past victims and future targets, finally giving them something tangible to work with.
Really, he has no option. He was in Gryffindor, after all.
He ducks into the shop and, after giving an acknowledging nod to the owner, heads for the loo. Fortunately for him, it's empty. Slipping his wand out of his right pocket, he quickly sends off a Patronus to ask Moody to assemble a small task force at the nearest park. After giving it a few seconds to convey the message, he reconceals his wand on his way out and, after buying a stick of gum as a cover, makes his way back outside before setting off again, this time going as slowly as he can without obviously dawdling. His nerves are still all over the place, jumping around like a kid on a trampoline, but he's able to take comfort in the knowledge that he is actively trying to do something about the situation.
This could be the turning point, he thinks, desperately hoping that it is in fact the case. This could be the action that wins it. Then I could go home and explain everything to Annalise and Dean.
It's that thought that keeps him grounded as he turns off the main street and walks to the park, the picture of nonchalance except for the whiteness of his knuckles as he grips his wand, still concealed in his pocket, and the darting motions his eyes make as he keeps watch for any sign of his comrades. It's small and rundown, and the silence that hangs over the place makes it feel like some sort of tribute. To him, it appears to serve more as a homage to the past than as an actual attraction for kids and young families. He thinks he catches a glimpse of someone hiding behind a tree, but that could easily just be a trick of the light; otherwise, it looks completely abandoned.
"Thomas," a gruff voice states, just loud enough to carry despite the absence of any other human being, from behind him. It sounds male, but Eddie isn't certain. "I can't say I'd have expected to come across you at the park."
Painfully aware of the fast staccato of his erratic heartbeats, Eddie turns. The hooded figure is there, their face shadowed by the black shroud of fabric. Their arms hang, loose and relaxed, at their sides, but one hand clenches a wand in its grasp. The message is clear: This isn't a social visit, and I don't care if some Muggle finds out we're wizards and has to be dealt with.
"You have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but…" He lets the rest of the sentence hang in the air, leaving space for the other person to answer the implied question. His goal is, has to be, to keep the figure occupied until the others find the place. A one-on-one duel could go either way, and he really doesn't want to risk entering one with someone who is probably much more experienced at it than he is.
Surprisingly willing to oblige him, the figure flicks back the hood, revealing a familiar bearded face. Pureblood circles are small, even including those outside of the Sacred 28, so it isn't difficult at all to recognise the older wizard. In that moment, Eddie knows that he's screwed. By now, he's fairly certain that the man is a Death Eater; but, if so, there's no way he would have revealed himself unless he knew that Eddie wouldn't then pass that on to someone else.
When he realises that I won't fold, he'll kill me. Controlling his tone as best he could, he says, "Augustus. I wouldn't have expected to find you here, either."
"I needed to talk to you about some things."
"You could have owled me. Not to be rude, but it would have been easier for both of – "
"Perhaps. But then you might have informed your noble little friends about my intentions."
"School's over," he replies, his voice laden with glibness he doesn't feel. "I don't need to tell my friends where I am or who I'm with. Grew out of that by third year, anyway."
"You know, I forgot how exasperating Gryffindors can be when they put their minds to it." Augustus raised his arm until his wand was pointing directly at Eddie's chest. "I don't want to be reminded again. You know who I'm talking about Dumbledore's little defence force. You're a part of it, aren't you?"
"Yes," he admits, his gaze directed at the gap between the other man's eyebrows so as to give the illusion of meeting his eyes without actually doing so. He doesn't think the older wizard knows Legilimency, but it's safer to just avoid his eyes altogether. "I am."
"Oh, good. You can probably tell where I stand on the issue, too, given that I'm pointing a wand at you right now. Tell me everything you know, and we might be able to make a deal for your life."
"I know nothing." It sounds like the lie it is, so he adds, "I mean, I know what they're fighting for, but they haven't told me anything else. I only do grunt work. I haven't been involved with them for very long, and everyone knows I've always been gullible, so they decided not to entrust me with anything. I don't even know who's in it."
"That's a shame. You see, I don't want to kill you. I've known you since you were just a boy, after all, and death is so final. But I can't very well make you a deal unless you give me something to work with. Are you sure you don't know anything else?"
His tone is the perfect mix of beguiling and remorseful, so much so that Eddie almost believes he's being genuine. Despite his own stance on the matter, and the knowledge that, at the end of the day, Rookwood really doesn't care about his survival, it's tempting to just go along with it. After all, there is some truth in the claims of his naïveté, and Rookwood has always been persuasive. The feeling only lasts for a moment, however, before it flickers away into nothingness. "Er," he pretends to muse, scrunching his face up as if he were deep in thought, "I, er, I honestly don't know. Nothing comes to mind."
"Maybe I'll give your brain an incentive, then. Muffliato. Crucio."
Eddie's answering screams pierce the silence as Rookwood watches on with cold eyes, waiting for some titbit of information to slip past his defences in between his shrieks of pain and cries for mercy. "I – stop, please stop!"
"All you have to do is tell me what you know."
"I can't think!"
The curse is lifted, and Eddie gasps for air as his body quivers with the aftershocks. "Well?"
Steeling himself for the inevitable, he stoically replies, "I don't know."
"Crucio."
It continues for what feels like forever as he twists and flails on the floor. He doesn't know how long he will be able to hold on for, but he clings to the memory of his little boy's face.
A commotion sounds, and a weak voice inside of him tells him that it might be his friends, that they should be there by now, but he has no idea how far away the noise is or where it is, and he's at Rookwood's mercy, and there's no way they'll get to him in time, and it hurts so much –
Suddenly, the pain goes away once again. "It looks like your friends are here. Gryffindors and their bravery; you know more than you've let on, don't you? Well, no matter. It doesn't change what I said earlier in the slightest."
Remember who you're doing this for. Remember –
"Dean," he whispers, his voice so quiet and weak that it's more of an exhale than anything else.
Distracted by the sound, Rookwood looks back down at him, a puzzled expression on his face as he tries to get any information he can, even at this late stage. "What was that?"
Eddie shakes his head, unwilling to repeat it for fear that the man will use it to track the boy down. Still, as Rookwood covers his head once again and raises his wand, he can't help but repeat under his breath, with his final breath before that dastardly green light brightens up the park like the flash of a camera, "Dean."
A/N: Ugh. I really didn't mean for this to get that dark. I'm getting better at letting bad things happen to characters I like, but this was particularly hard to write.
Challenges:
Cluedo/Clue Challenge – prompts: Augustus Rookwood, puzzled, figure
If You Dare Challenge – prompt: death
Character Versatility Challenge – prompts: Augustus Rookwood, Dean Thomas