Most honorable log thing:
I've gone mad. Well, not that I started at "normal" per se, but now my potion bottle has really, let us say, uncorked itself. It started on the train. Or the lift. Wait, no, it was that excruciating little tea shop in Diagon Alley. Madam Pluddihooves or whatever sort've saccharine thing it's called. It was there when Fleur Delacour had pushed up her sleeves and tied up her hair.
Sorry. Words. See, this is why it's completely sideways to be writing any of this down in you, my poor already ruined journal. And I've gone and spilled tea right on the corner bit. Great, now you're going to curl. Well, might as well carry on with it and get it out of me.
So, this tea place. That was yesterday. I had to run to Diagon Alley to pick up some mended robes (don't ask) (okay, you can ask) (apparently you can't hex off nail polish from robes (or carpet) (or cats)) and my mind was scattered in a million directions. My usual. The office was planning on this humongous quidditch-viewing party (apparently someone's got themselves an operating Muggle telly) and I was posted to deviled dragon's eggs duty. And where are you going to find those? And what kind of dragon's eggs are they? Would Alastor be there to muck up the whole thing with his usual-well- Alastor qualities (I owe that man my very wand but you can only hear about the advancing field of magical prostheses so many times without wanting to puke into a cauldron).
And that was how I found myself in that gnome's pile of a tea shop. I blinked and suddenly I was clutching a tea pot, looking down at two cracked tea cups on the ground. Unfortunately, this is more than form for me. Typical Tonks, really. Somehow, in my deviled egg thoughtery, I had walked straight into the store and proceeded to begin to knock, if you'll excuse me, fancy shit over.
The tea shop lady, bedecked in a healthy balance of dead birds and live ones, started charging over to me. You should have seen this woman, a storm of feathers and budgies and a wand. Pointed at me. Shouting. "Get out of here, boy!"
Huge fighting. Her yelling something at me, pointing to my clothes and my scruffy hair (I've been in a street urchin mood since I got onto a Dickensian jag last month). Me pointing at all the bird poo piling up on her shoulders. Someone definitely got called a trollop but at that point it was all a mess.
The shop door tinkled. The bird tea woman/furious Valkyrie stopped hitting me over the head with her old woman cane and looked up. For the first time, this lady cracked a smile. I mean, glowing. Saint like.
"My dear!" she said. Her voice was honey on toast, no longer serpent curses.
"I am sorry," I heard someone say, "I did not mean to be interrupting."
"My girl," the old woman said, throwing open her arms, "give your granny a kiss."
I turned and Fleur Delacour was standing at the door. She was carrying some sort of huge bundle of parcel and looked a bit pinched in the face. Now, dear journal thing, I know you're bursting with questions about my tepid little story. Such as:
"But, Tonks, what is Fleur doing in London? Shouldn't she be sighing softly into a baguette in France? Where is any of this even going?"
And I couldn't tell you. At least, I couldn't tell you then. But there she was, not looking particularly excited to hug this woman. This granny of hers. Instead, she looked at me with what could generously be called a 'curious' glance but felt more like an inspection.
"Don't I know you?" she asked.
"Wotcher," I said. I wriggled my nose, which I had grown twice as large and extra pimply and brought it down to size. I brushed off my men's coat and extended a hand.
"Tonks. I believe you were at the Triwizard Tournament."
"You're one of Bill's friends aren't you?" she asked. She took my hand and shook it limply.
"Bill Weasley?" I asked.
"Well, yes, of course. I've seen you once at his home. For some sort of meeting, I don't know what for but-"
"Yes!" I said loudly (nothing like almost outing Members of the Order in front of cranky old grannies). "Yes! I have seen you there! And how do you know Bill?"
"He is a friend from work," Fleur answered quickly. At that, I could see it in her eyes. She was worried. "What time is it?" she asked.
"About half past, my love," the woman said, patting Fleur on the arm. That wench of a woman looked up at me with a serene smile, "Isn't she beautiful, my lad?"
"You go on too much, Medusa" Fleur said. She put the heavy parcel on the ground. She pushed the sleeves of her pink sweater up, gathering fabric heavy at her elbows. I saw a flash of soft skin, the underside of her arm. It looked silken smooth and for a moment, my fingers twitched with want. But I stopped myself.
Fleur scooped up her hair in two strong handfuls. I tried not to look. I patted my pockets for a coin purse, knowing full well they were emptier than a leprechaun's promise. Her hands stroked her hair up and then she slid a hairtie off her wrist. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency, roping and re-roping her shining hair. A flash of neck greeted me. I choked on my own saliva.
"Going for now!" I said (or some such terribly disconnected dribble). But that woman, that Medusa, she didn't even notice. Fleur, I have been learning, has that effect on people.
Alright, journal-doo, so now we got the tea part, yeah? But what about the train? I did mention a train after all. Well, to make a long thing short, I got the deviled dragon's eggs and I was an hour late to the party, entombed on the muggle train. Normally, I am a connoisseur of public transportation. You don't get much more freedom to gawk unabashedly at muggles than when you're twenty stops short of your destination on a Saturday night.
Some lanky muggle asked what I had in the box I was holding. I told him deviled dragon's eggs. You would be surprised how quickly you can end a conversation with direct honesty. It's about as quickly as deviled dragon's eggs can turn a train carriage into a lair of peppery sulfur. The muggles, it seemed, did not mind. Perhaps they were used to much worse odors wafting through these parts.
But, suddenly, the lights overhead flickered. Not uncommon on the tube, I know, but then they blinked off. Someone was silly enough to gasp. That person was me. Maybe now would be the time to tell you something that, as a loyal Hufflepuff, I am ashamed of: I hate being underground. I'm also not crazy about darkness. And both? Oh, both is an entirely new breed of blast-ended skrewts.
"Well, what's this about, then?" some bastard asked into the dark. But everyone else was quiet or murmuring amongst each other. My hand ached for my wand. A simple Lumos could dispel the fear settling around my throat.
"Attention passengers, it seems like a short delay may-"
If anything else was said over those muggle talking bits, it was lost to a wave of groans. I clutched my box of eggs to my chest, closing my eyes and thinking of a sunny summer day at the quidditch pitch down by my house. Clear open skies, me with a broom between my legs.
Oddly, my mind turned to Fleur. To her sharp eyes assessing me. Her fingers weaving through her silky hair. But, then, the lights shot back on. Relief overtook people, as they blinked and looked around the carriage. The image of Fleur floated out of my grasp.
With a slow pick-up, the train moved to life again.
Victoria Station clipped the operator.
I stood, shook my head. It would be no good to be an hour late and miss my stop. I summoned purpose back into my body. Tonight was set to be a real roar. I mean, come on, imagine it. If I ever found a group of people who can get more plastered than off-duty Aurors, I would turn in my badge and my wand. And nevermind tonight's match was the Chudley Cannons against the Spanish National.
The carriage doors opened. I slipped out and strode up and out into the fresh air. I took it all in, feeling relief to be out of that nightmare coffin. As I took in the heady aroma of downtown and the excited glow of tourists and none-too-subtle Cannons fans alike, I was struck by two things at the same time.
The first was shot at my head. Something slimy, smelling of an open garbage heap, was sliding down my cheek. The second hit as a glittering blue vision before me. It was her. Fleur. Strolling with her arm through Bill Weasley's.
I stopped. Sputtered. Wiped off whatever was on my face. I looked at it. Deviled dragon's egg.
"What?" I whispered. I was pelted again. And again. I twirled around, growling. I had forgotten my box and it appeared that someone was returning to me via air post. Tonight was a whole other bag of every-flavored beans.
But in the swirl of people around me: Muggles flashing pictures (always taking pictures!) and trolleys and cars zooming every which way, I could not find my target. Good thing Alastor was not here to see me fail in basic observation tactics or I would have been taken to some dingy basement and made to scrawl "constant vigilance!" until my fingers bled.
"Tonks? Is that you?" Fleur asked.
"Fleur, how good it is to see you again, and so soon," was what I wish I had said. Instead, I was twirling around, decked in bits of terrible stinking egg, shouting to the sky.
"Who's doing that?" I screeched instead.
"Tonks, what's wrong?" Bill asked, tucking a tuft of hair behind his ear. I huffed, trying not to look at his hand which was unconsciously reaching out to hold Fleur's. He stepped forward. "What's happened to you?"
"Eggs, eggs, eggs!" a boy howled with glee. He ran at me, full tilt, the last four eggs clutched to his chest. I put up my hands but it was too late. I was bombed. With a final whoop, he disappeared into the throngs.
"So were you two off to do something...together," I said, uneasily shifting back and forth. I could feel the control I kept over my metamorphmagus powers slipping. My hair was growing longer, curled bangs now framing my face.
"Let's get you inside," Bill said quickly, noticing my panic. I nodded my head. We ducked into a pub. But not a pub pub. A Victoria pub. Greasy muggles were stuffed into the booths, Americans shouting out drink orders with their unbearable cheeseburger accents. "Fleur, do you mind if you wait here a moment?" Bill asked. Fleur nodded her head. She looked at me but it was no longer with an Inquisitor's stare.
Bill tugged me into the men's and locked the door. He rubbed his chin.
"I was never any good at cleaning spells," he said, taking out his wand. I dug out my own wand and ignited the tip.
"Well, there's all sorts of ways to clean," I said, slipping off my coat. Bill stayed my hand.
"Maybe not... torch your coat," he said.
"It's ruined all the same," I answered. I stuffed it into the gigantic bin. Let someone else figure that out.
"You were headed to Truffley's party tonight, weren't you?" he asked as he doused a paper towel in water and scrubbed at my hair.
"Everyone in MLE is going. I mean Magical-"
"Law Enforcement. Yeah, I knew what you meant," Bill said flatly. "There. Now you only smell a bit like someone threw you in the Thames."
"Thanks," I murmured, looking at myself in the mirror. My dress shirt had come untucked and was flecked with water. My pants, thankfully, had been mostly spared. And my hair, was, as always, a little worse for wear. "How did you know about that party?"
"Fleur's friend invited us," Bill said, knotting his mouth. He looked at me, as if to read my reaction to her name. Slipping into Auror mode, I kept my face flat, unreadable.
"Do you know anyone else who is going then? Or just Fleur?" I asked.
"You don't like her, do you?" Bill asked. It was direct but not unkind.
"What?" I said, louder than I thought. Bill sighed. He looked at his pocket watch.
"I reckon we're all fashionably late, then, aren't we?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow. I smiled weakly.
"We'll go together then, shall we?" I asked. He opened the door to the loo and gestured for me to exit first. Fleur was standing where we had left her, looking visibly uncomfortable. She slung on an overly large coat.
" I do not know what 'e did, but you look a thousand times better now," Fleur said with a smile. I cringed a little. Merlin's beard, what did that even mean?
"Shall we?" Bill said.
So, blah de blah, the three of us finally darkened the front steps of Truffley from Investigative Inquiries's home. Already, the cheers and stomping was vibrating the floorboards. Good, I thought. Perhaps they would all be tossed enough not to notice my grave lack of munchables.
Truffley led us through. Indeed, it was more than Aurors here. I recognized sorts from other departments. A woman who once gave me half of her biscuit from Magical Catastrophes was refereeing a game of Basilisk's Fang at the kitchen table. In the hallway, Tanner Yabberfoth, secretary to the head of Mailings and Shippings was snogging one of the twins who ran the tea shop on the fifth level.
"Where's our blokes?" I asked Truffley, patting him on the back. He laughed, swilling an ale around, splashing some of the foamy contents on my shoes. He pointed down the hallway.
"Keeping the game warm, of course," he said with a meaty chuckle. I turned around. Bill and Fleur were gone. Probably off in some dark corner not smelling of egg pie, I thought darkly. I joined my brethren, my ilk, my kind.
As promised, every auror was crowded around the little telly, shouting and arguing.
"Late," Alastor sniffed, his back to me, "and you didn't even bring the eggs."
I mouthed, "constant vigilance" to myself.
"I saw that!" he sniped, turning around. His blue eye swiveled quickly. It was known to do that after a pint or five.
"So how's the Cannons, then, you beasts," I hollered, squeezing myself between Kingsley and Alastor on the couch.
"Regrettably horrible," Kingsley said. He reached out and handed me a Black Beak.
"Yegh, who brought this troll vomit?" I asked, popping open the tab. I took a pull from the can, disgusted but thirsty.
"Aye, that would be Milt," said another Auror, Leonis. "Go! You ruddy excuses for beaters! They're right on ya!" Leonis roared at the telly, gripping his bright red hair. The Cannons, it seemed, were having an uneven night. Leonis shot up, kicking a throw pillow across the room, knocking over a glass vase.
"Leonis, lad," Truffley sniffed, his eyes on the small set but a pudgy finger to the vase, "my Marcie barely let ya wild dog arse in here."
"Your wife," Leonis said. He dug out his wand from his pocket and stumbled to the mess. I took a swig of Black Beak. Now, drunken magic isn't quite the same. Take Leonis, for example. Ceramic shards twitched dully, limp. Not a shred closer to a fixed vase.
"How about you keep your mouth shut about Marce, eh?" I said. I poked my wand at the heap and it hastily collected back into an uninspired Greek replica. Leonis stumbled out of the room, grumbling.
I patted Alastor on the knee.
"I've got some dragon's egg left in my hair, you want me to grab a fork for you?" I asked. Alastor sniffed.
"Something's agitating you," he whispered roughly, unscrewing the cap to his skeletal flask.
"Are we talking about our feelings?" I asked.
"Murderous crows, 'course not," he said. He drank from his flask and wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve. "Your nose. It's a dead tell. Merlin's teeth, the only one from last year's aurors-in-training to pass and it's a changeling who can't-"
"Let me freshen up," I said, cutting off Alastor's tirade before the wind could really hit the sails. I lurched off the couch and finished the Black Beak, burping out purple bubbles in my wake.
The game was an execution, anyhow. Anyone could see it. Now, I needed the loo. The Black Beak had hit and my hair was still musty in a way I was beginning to feel woozy about. I parted through the crowded hallway, though hardly anyone brushed me. Okay, perhaps the stench was worse than I thought.
A doltish man from Transport had the neck of a bottle of something golden swirling around in his pocket. I remembered him. Shut down the Floo Powder networks on Take Your Grub To Work Day (or whatever such blithery it was called). More importantly, he was the one that denied me a Portkey request to a very important match (an hour lunch break, last time I checked, did not have to be served in the dusty chambers of the auror lounge. Is it anyone's business if I peeked in on Harpies against the Succubi's semi-final round? Is it?).
So I swiped it. The bottle was more empty than I thought. I smirked, lost in the crowd, winding my way to the bathroom. I turned the knob and walked in. But it was a bedroom. I was about to stumble out but decided to sniff at my newly claimed prize. I uncorked the bottle. Something but divine and damning reached my nose. Like pine and spice and Christmas and hooky and casting a spell for the first time. It was on my tongue and down my throat. I held up the bottle to the light of a lamp.
"McGuely's Triple-Spirited Hogwash" it said in curling golden script which licked around the bottle. The drink warmed me to the edges of my fingers. I took another sip. Then another. Thoroughly cozy, I slipped out of the bedroom. I tapped a woman and asked for the bathroom. She seemed not a little horrified to smell me and pointed upstairs. Tipping a hat I was not wearing, I weaved around a corner and took the flight of stairs, two then three at a time.
At the top, I found my destination and turned the knob. Locked. Why wouldn't people let me piss in peace, I wondered, perhaps aloud. I took another sip, finishing the last of the hogwash. The bottle slipped out of my fingers and rolled somewhere away. My bladder, beg pardon, was set to burst like a wee dragon from its egg. Whipping out my wand, I unlocked the door.
An empty bathroom stood before me. Why was it locked? Perhaps Truffley hadn't wanted buggers blindly bursting into his lavatory. Can't imagine why, I thought as I unzipped and sat on the toilet, relieving what there was to relieve.
Finished, I grabbed the thickest towel off the rack, doused it in water and proceeded to scrub vigorously at my putrid hair in the mirror. As I did so, something shimmered. Perhaps it was the hogwash. Or not. I touched the mirror. Nothing happened. Set back to scrubbing, it happened again. It wasn't the mirror or the drink. It was what was behind me. The shower curtain. Even drunk, my auror-trained eyes had detected an Illusion charm. Maybe it was an intruder.
I took out my wand again and slowly reached out my hand. Holding my breath, I yanked away the curtain. The tiles were shimmering, bubbling as if they were behind a tank of water, undulating.
"Reveal yourself," I growled, twirling my wand.
A small figure with large flapping ears shimmered into view. A house elf, outfitted in a dress that was smart but perhaps had been pressed too many times. She blinked nervously than bowed.
"What are you doing here?" I asked. "I didn't know Truffley had house elves."
"Begging your pardon, miss, but I'm not a house elf," she said, quickly smoothing down her dress.
"And I'm not a miss," I retorted, " What are you?"
"What?" She snarled, balling her fists. "Have you any idea how insulting that is? I'm employed is what! And what are you? Pissed and stinking of filth, is what!"
It was my turn to blink nervously. I stepped back.
"I apologize, that was indecent of me," I said softly. "Who are you?"
"None of your business. Mast...Sir Truffley does not want guests in the upstairs rooms. I was set to mind that they would not. I heard you barge in and-"
"I know when I'm being booted," I said, huffing and stomping out.
"And have a good evening!" she squeaked out.
I slammed the door. I wasn't angry. I wasn't. Maybe I was, but it wasn't at her. It was something else. The hogwash was bubbling sourly in my stomach. I needed fresh air, needed to get myself straight.
Wading through the masses again caused less of a scene. Maybe it was because I had shifted into another version of myself I liked to call "Violet". Violet was demure, not drawing much attention. I used this shape during missions involving stealth. Violet was quiet, never clumsy, never a mule at parties. She had an assassin's touch, silent and lethal. Alright, she turned me on a little. Are you happy, dear reader? Is it a surprise that an auror is a tad narcissistic?
Out on the back patio, I breathed. No one was out, the fog had nestled in and I was wrapped up in my cold and drunken thoughts. Behind me, the door opened. It was dark and as Violet, I allowed myself to wrap against the balcony ledge. I knew I was next to invisible. The new moon and the fog had seen to that. For now, I just wanted to be left alone.
There was a murmur. A light murmur.
"It is my feet," Fleur whispered.
"What about them?" Bill asked. I flushed. Feeling suddenly aware of the small space of the balcony. I could hear them. They were kissing. Light sucking sounds and breathing. I wanted to die. I wanted to gag. I wanted to pitch myself over. "I'm sorry," Bill said. "If that was wrong."
"No," Fleur answered. This time, the kissing was deeper. I could hear it. Fleur moaned. Quietly. There was a shuffling of fabric and more kissing. I was locked in a hell I could not escape. My hands were now plastered to the railing, I could not move. I wanted to drain through the boards, burst out like a dying star. The balcony door banged open.
"Evening!" Bill answered too loudly.
"This ain't the kitchen!" someone hollered out.
"No! It's back down the hallway and to your-"
"Now who's out there, then?" the voice asked, rough and slurred.
"Sir, do you need assistance? Can I direct you?" Bill asked too hastily.
"Have I ever told you about the Warlock Wars I was in?" the man wheezed. "Hold on, mind if I light my pipe?"
"Not at all," Bill said weakly. I gasped silently. The man lit his wand tip and my fate was sealed. In the light of flame, Bill Weasley spotted my frozen figure. Our eyes met. I must have looked like a ghost. There was shame and something else there in his gaze. When the light extinguished, I raced to the door and quickly opened it, softly closing it. I ran into the crowd, pushing past people, ready to hurl and rage or scream.