He knew nothing. Here, of all places, he reached a dead end. He fell in too deep, blinded by all the nonsense, blinded by the love, and it sapped him of energy. Everyone thought he was this simple librarian, a book binder at the Tattered Tavern, and he played his role quite well, especially considering that he saw it all as a hobby, but none of them had the slightest clue of his night life. Once he walked out of that bookstore, Thatch turned his back on the world and leapt into her arms. There were a few more stacks that needed sorting before he left, so he got to work round the place. Thatcher rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and tied back his pale white locks; his hair had been that colour since he was a teenager. Bored, he contemplated running upstairs after he locked the till.
A bell rang when the door opened, announcing a wandering patron. Not many people came in searching for books late at night, and he really wanted to call it a night, but he put on his best face and stopped thinking about flipping through a new release. Perhaps the colourful display posters lured them inside. The women didn't seem to be together, for they shared not a word. The tall one with long hair and heavy eyelids strode right past the other one, in fact, almost as if she didn't realise or care she was there. Thatcher thought the neighbours might think she looked odd, for the woman was dressed in black robes. She walked up to the counter, but they both knew she had no interest in books whatsoever. Thatcher debated feigning busywork, yet he decided against it because she looked furious, and he was no stranger to her wrath.
"You really are wasting your time here," she said without preamble, snatching the book out of his hand. She wasn't very patient, and she picked at every detail, but, for some reason, he still liked her. When he said nothing, she sighed and glanced round the place. There was a fiery, determined look in her eyes, and although he'd like to believe it, he knew this passion was not for him. "Are you going to do it or not?"
"Bella," he said quietly, taking the book back and setting it on top of the other packaged volumes. He smiled at the other patron, hoping he channelled a good librarian instead of a struggling book salesman. Bellatrix got the hint and leaned against the wall, muttering darkly when he stepped past her. He judged people carefully, trying to see what this woman might purpose, so he might lead her in the right direction rather quickly and make quick sale. She was a plump woman, who was dressed in simple clothing, and a dark plait fell down her back. "May I help you?"
"Oh, me?" The woman laughed softly and looked down at her feet. She reached in her grey satchel and pulled out a slip of paper. "I'm looking for Through the Mystic Looking Glass by Jacqueline Marquis, and I know they're not released till tomorrow."
"Yeah." Thatcher consulted a mental list.
"But it's midnight," she said hopefully, her voice dropping an octave. They both laughed at her poor attempt. "I'm not obsessed with her, I promise. Please, I lived with her. It's just that I can't sleep and I have an appointment tomorrow, and they don't have this sort of thing stocked at my store."
"You lived with her?" Thatcher didn't bother hiding his surprise. Lady Jacqueline Marquis was a renowned alchemist who worked at a prestigious Parisian university. Most people had no idea of her magical background, for she was a talented witch, so this threw him for a loop. He scrutinised the woman and decided to play with her. "You work for Flourish and Blotts, don't you? I mean, I know who she is, but this is covering a royalty. Are you stealing from our competition?"
"With one volume?" she laughed, pulling his leg. "Yes."
He took the book off the counter and flipped through its pages. "So, you know her?"
"I hope so. She's my mother."
"No." Thatcher turned to the dedication. "'My daughter, my dearest Meghan….'"
"That's me," she said, blushing. "I didn't know she wrote that, so that's rather embarrassing, but I suppose it could be worse."
"Well," he sighed loftily, pouring on the dramatics and taking her money before passing over the book. "I suppose I could make one exception. I can't believe she didn't just send you a copy, though, that's a cheap move."
"She gave those to my grandparents and a close friend of hers, Albus Dumbledore," she said, sliding the book into her bag. They ignored a low hiss from Bellatrix, who stood nearby. She shook her head, smiling at the awed expression on his face. "It's really nothing special. Don't ask me anything about metals or chemistry because I don't know anything, and I'd rather not humiliate her."
Before Thatcher knew his next move, he rushed to open the door for her. He offered to walk her home, blaming his courtesy on the rain. After all, it was a cold night, and he really didn't want to leave her alone. Not that he really cared about the woman one way or the other, but a thousand questions popped in his head. Of course, she would say it was boring living with a genius after eighteen years under her roof, but he really admired the woman's work. Bellatrix agreed to come along, even though she looked at the woman as though she was worthless, and she kept her distance. It wasn't that long of a walk, and by the time they reached, the quiet neighbourhood, he had barely begun his questionnaire.
"So, with such a talented mother," he asked, for he could not recall her face. "Which House were you in and why are you stuck at a bookstore?"
"Well, I never attended Hogwarts or any other magical school for that matter," said Meghan, turning the corner and tucking a loose strand behind her ear. If Bellatrix looked angry before, this revelation caused her to look downright appalled, but Meghan seemed to have no problem admitting it. "My father just retired from Beauxbatons. He grew up in Kendall, so he was not taught there, and we stayed in Carlisle and Galway when I was a girl because it was important to him. I enjoy working in Diagon Alley because I've been taught things under the table, and it's nice to be in the community."
"I imagine." Thatcher nodded.
"You mean you stole it?" asked Bellatrix nastily.
A few minutes later, they started walking up to a house. Bellatrix seemed oddly patient about the whole thing. Thatcher wanted to tell her of for the comment, but they rarely got any peaceful moments, and perhaps she decided to act less protective. Thatcher had not idea how to categorize their relationship, for they both knew she was married, yet he played her game. When they reached the door, Meghan caught her breath and fumbled round for her keys. A stocky man with auburn hair, a trimmed beard, and glasses opened the door first.
"Where the hell have you been? I was just about to come looking for you …" The man stopped speaking when he looked into the corridor. He took his wife by the arm. His tone changed like the crack of a whip. "Get inside."
"What's wrong, Gideon?" Meghan searched his face for an answer. "I told you I wasn't tired after work, and these people offered to walk me home."
"Yes, Gideon, what's wrong?" asked Bellatrix in a dangerously soft whisper. She reached out and grabbed the young by the arm. She had done this before because she put her hand over Meghan's mouth, muffling the shocked screams. "She's really not that bright. You should work on that, you know, because someone could hurt her."
Gideon stood in front of his door and nodded at a man passing them in the corridor. He squeezed a crumpled paper bag in his hand and crossed his arms. "Let her go."
Meghan wrapped her fingers round Bellatrix's wrist. Surprised at the young woman's strength, Bella released her. Her husband forced her inside. Gideon failed to hide the fear on his face and decided to keep his wife out of this. Thatcher wanted to tell Bellatrix to stop all of this; she got nowhere. She held her tongue for long enough and dropped the act when they reached an alleyway. Gideon had tried to give chase, but that didn't work. The man decided to duel, a foolish attempt, for he slid on the wet pavement.
"I have nothing! Nothing!" He raised his hands, gasping, in a gesture of surrender. "I don't even know why you're doing this. I didn't … I didn't …"
"You didn't what? Track Lucius through the Ministry?" Bellatrix read the shock on his face and turned a deaf ear to his apologies as she jabbed her boot into his bleeding hand. "You're not sorry, Prewett, not yet."
It rained last night. He remembered that much; it all came in through in pieces, but this room looked familiar. Whenever she asked for him, Thatcher stayed in this private bedroom. The vaulted ceilings and the handsome four-poster bed sparked his interests, but, of course, he rarely wasted time with anything else. He always woke up first, seeing as he never slept well, and it was always nice when he avoided questions. She stayed with her sister and this begged the question: what was he doing here night after night? Heavy footsteps coming down the creaky steps jerked him from sleep, and he snatched his things off the floor.
"What time is it?" She didn't look up. Her long locks were splayed on the white pillowcase.
"I have to go." He tied his curls back and pulled on his trousers.
"Not yet," she said, reaching for his arm. "Thatcher."
"No. Shit." He reached for the doorknob, but someone jerked it from his grasp. "Narcissa."
Thatcher didn't have an excuse because the truth was written all over his face. Narcissa forced a cold smile on her lips as she looked him up and down. With nothing else to say, Thatcher worked on buttoning his shirt and finding his shoes. This happened more often than he'd like to admit, but he supposed it was better than being greeted by Lucius, who would have thrown him out of the house. Narcissa caught on quickly, and she kept her mouth shut, yet this didn't make Thatcher feel any less comfortable. Everyone knew Bellatrix was married to the walking corpse, and this would not settle well with the rest of the Black family. He had learned to make a quick escape and not to pack a bag because forgotten things gave away their secret.
"Thatcher," she said, walking over and pulling back the curtains. "Get up, Bella, we have company."
"He's here?" Bellatrix tossed Thatcher a wrapped handkerchief; he caught it. She looked like a little girl who had stayed up all night hoping to catch a peek at Saint Nick. He would have laughed if she didn't act so serious. She crawled across the covers and straightened his collar. "Are you ready?"
Thatcher straightened his cuffs and decided not to worry about the wrinkles. He snatched the fine black robes off the armoire door. He pulled them on and pulled on a pair of black heels. He had planned on avoiding this discussion at all costs, yet she bought it up at every chance. It was an honour, they had said, to serve the Dark Lord. When would she find out he had whispered secrets fuelled them by more just so he could remain in her good graces? He squeezed her hand.
"Bella."
She pulled on her ensemble and pulled him to the door. "You'll show him, won't you?"
Thatcher fingered the cloth and slipped his other hand consciously into his pocket. He supposed she was excited, and this would be a new page for him, but they needed to slow down. Thatcher needed a minute. He opened his mouth and she kissed him, which caught him off guard, and he didn't pull back till he saw Narcissa's annoyed expression out of the corner of his eye. They walked down the corridor in silence. Thatcher took a breath when he saw the tall figures in the sitting room. His eyes zeroed in on the corpse. He stopped right before they crossed the threshold and snatched Bellatrix's thin wrist.
"You're leaving him? You're leaving Rodolphus, right, and we'll be together because you chose me? You're choosing me? You said it last night."
Bellatrix avoided her sister's eyes and laughed softly as if they had shared a private joke. "Of course."
He believed her. Thatcher wanted to believe her, intrigued by her every word, for he had never met a woman quite like her. Perhaps she felt that way, too. No, she did. He had not imagined it: she said she loved him. It was difficult to get out of an arranged marriage, but Rodolphus and she clearly felt nothing for each other. When was the last time he shared her bed? He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help himself, and all she had to do was realise why she missed. If she didn't want a family, he would cope with that, and maybe she could consider it with time. They didn't have to marry because he didn't to trap her. Thatcher wasn't sure about his bloodline, even though his flighty mother assured him that her deceased husband was from a prominent family, and Bella always wove that little detail in too, but he only pass on his information. He just wanted to be with her and share a life together that meant more than acting as sleeping partners.
"Thatch, I love you," she whispered, holding him close. He found it extremely difficult to concentrate with that wandering hand of hers. "Do this for me?"
"Yes, I'll do you anything for you," he said, taking her hand and kissing it.
She dropped it, but he didn't want to act as though this bothered him in the slightest. He knew better than to show weakness in the Dark Lord's presence. He was prepared to take this next step. Thatcher had gone out of his way to present a gift to him, a showcase of his talents. The Dark Lord had made a casual request, testing his strengths, and Bellatrix had encouraged him to follow through because Thatcher clearly had a valuable gift. When he got to the man's feet, he kneeled and stared at the flames crackling in the fireplace. The man spoke in a low hiss, a lengthy monologue, and Thatcher didn't pay attention to most of it because he watched Bella wander over to her family and stand by her husband's side.
He didn't know any of them. Why were they all at this initiation? If Bella had looked at him lovingly, the way she drank in the Dark Lord's words showed she had no doubt of her path. The wand tip felt like hot coals, and he tried to block out the pain, but he flinched: he twisted his arm. No, this isn't want he wanted, for he had never signed on to a dark honour code. He had been burned before, but his was an excruciating pain Thatcher simply couldn't put into words. He fell to the floor on all knees, panting.
"Thatcher?" the man hissed, offering him a hand, asking for his gift.
"No."
Thatcher stared at the man's hand and got to his feet. Slowly, he backed away from the group. How could they enjoy watching others suffer? He had been raised by the Church, and although he would readily admit that he walked away from it, he could not condone this behaviour. He crawled towards the door, blocking out their laughter. He jumped in too quickly without realising what this really meant. He was surprised they let him leave when he pulled himself up by the door. He needed to think. The sleet had started falling again, but the cold never bothered him. As he turned round a corner, his knees buckled and he slammed into a brick wall.
"Get up."
Thatcher froze and held his hands up as her curse hit him in the small of the back. It hurt, but he had been through this before, so he took it well. By the third dose, he let out a scream as if she had released a whip on open skin, and he crawled over to the bins for some movement.
"You humiliated me," she said, lowering her wand and slamming his head into the wall with her hand; she didn't let up till he got a nosebleed. She stroked his face, muttered the curse almost lazily and watched him fall back onto the pavement. She laughed softly. "This looks familiar. You want to go back now? We'll just say you had to get a breath of fresh air and clear your head."
"No, I-I'm done." He groaned when she snapped his knee.
"You won't say anything? Sure you won't, love. Crucio!" Bellatrix knelt beside him, ignoring his cries and laughing when he gagged on his words. She touched his cold lips as Thatcher closed his eyes and slipped away. "You love me?"
As a Catholic, or an ex-Catholic, he went against the playbook wishing for death, and he didn't get his wish. He knew better, he really did, yet his head felt like a struck anvil, and the pillows did nothing to ease his pain. Something scraped on wood, and it screech rang on his ears, amplified. He felt at draft and recoiled, but he couldn't feel his feet. All dregs of moisture dried up in his mouth. Thatcher stuck out his tongue, an inflating rubber balloon, and was surprised when a soaked flannel touched his cracked lips. He finally opened his eyes and looked at a man wearing half-moon spectacles that sat on the bridge of his nose.
"Welcome back," he said, stripping the bed as new linens rearranged themselves and the pillows shifted behind his head. Dumbledore yanked the covers and called over his shoulder. "May I ask you to grab that warming pan, Meghan? He's freezing."
Thatcher just wanted to get out of here. How had he ended up in Dumbledore's hands? Every muscle in his body ached, but they could torture him with their weapons because he wasn't saying a damn thing attacked him. It had been a foolish decision, as he might have just backed off. But he wasn't thinking that clearly, and it broke out into a scuffle. That was his story, and he knew how to lie, so he was pretty sure he could pull this one off. He opened his mouth to give the spill when a plump woman with dark tresses and grey eyes cost him his train of thought.
"Damn it, woman!"
Thatcher started when the hot metal touched his leg. She apologised, glancing at the wall, wiping invisible tears from her eyes and quickly rearranged the device before fixing the covers. Silently, she lifted a laden tray off of the bedside table and set it in his lap. Thatcher grumbled, thinking he ought to tell her at least she managed to do something right, but he had a hard time grasping the fork when impulses shot his nerve endings. Porridge dripped down his front. After watching him struggle for a few minutes, the young woman sat on the edge of the bed and spoon-fed him. She was careful with him, almost like a child, and she waited patiently for him to swallow.
"You mute?" he asked her. "No, I don't like fruit."
"You need it," said Dumbledore, smiling at the woman's expression as she popped the strawberry in Thatcher's mouth. "Try to eat whatever you can, take it slow, because you'll need the strength."
"Not a Death Eater," said Thatcher defensively after he forced it down. He scooted away, creating distance between them hen Dumbledore took his right arm and pushed back the sleeve. The area looked inflamed, almost infected, wrapping round his forearm at a strange angle. "Oh."
He couldn't say he fled from his own initiation and got paid his dues. No, that would make him a coward, and nobody was a fan of those. He doubted Dumbledore would take the time to listen to him. They turned their heads at a racket at the window and Dumbledore got to his feet when a large colourful bird, who appeared out of nowhere, rapped its claws on the window pane. It looked like an old chicken on his last days. Meghan undid the hatch, and the creature swooned onto the bedside cabinet. Dumbledore looked surprised and soaked its red and golden feathers. He untied a scroll, slit it open with the tip of his wan, and read the message. Chuckling, he put it in Meghan's hand and turned his attention back to his gift.
"'For an old man, you should be easier to find these days. And you thought I'd never surprise you? I win. Checkmate.'" Meghan poured water into a small dish and jumped back when the thing burst into flames. "All right. She's not a nice person because that's just wrong."
Dumbledore shook his head and pointed as ashes landed on the wooden surface, which, surprisingly enough, didn't burn into cinders. Meghan gaped at it, but Dumbledore, quite nonplussed, started tending to Thatcher and offered him a drink. Slowly, a bald thing materialised out of the ashes and Meghan wrapped her hand in a handkerchief and cupped the small chick.
"It's a phoenix," Dumbledore said, checking Thatcher's bandaged hand. "Jacqueline must have found it at a sanctuary, perhaps the one by Mount Blanc. Ingenious move."
"What is alchemist doing in the mountains, especially Mont Blanc? I keep telling her she's mad. You two are strange," said Meghan, shaking her head, "which makes you perfect for each other."
"That's my Lady Jacqueline," said Dumbledore. He walked into the private bathroom, washed his hands and slipped the bird into his pocket. "Well, I have to check on a few matters with Minerva, so I'm headed back to the school. Are you sure you'll be all right?"
"Yes, Professor," said Meghan. She sounded like she got this question on a regular basis.
"I was never your teacher," he said with a smile as he got to his feet and squeezed her hand.
"Says who?" Meghan waved her hand at the textbooks on the floor. "Latin? French? Calculus?"
"I need something to do over the summer, and, honestly, you mastered Calculus without me, but you refuse to admit it," he said, shrugging into his travelling cloak. She walked him to the door. "You are exceptionally bright; I just want you to see it. You have talents most wizards ... there is nothing wrong with you, Meghan. "
He left. Meghan closed the door and pulled a pillow off the bed, put it in the chair, and lost herself in a book. Thatcher was rather amused by her. She wore a plain cotton dress and kicked off her heels. She read through the novel like water and fired the warming pan when his sheets cooled. When he needed to use the toilet, she helped him, but they shared few words, and he had to ask for assistance. When she wrapped his hand, she dipped the bandage in lukewarm water.
"Does that hurt?" she asked, fingering the burns on his wrist. She worked in silence and didn't pressure him with questions. Thatcher clenched his wrist and held his leg up till his hamstrings protested. She had a soft touch, so his mind wandered as it always did with beautiful women. It was hard to concentrate with that hand on his knee, especially when she started undressing him. "Mr. Neilson?"
"Yes?" He lifted her chin with his finger, pulling her closer, thinking he might as well enjoy the view while he was here. What else was he going to do? He brushed his lips on her neck and touched her lips. He didn't expect her to answer him with an open hand. With no other move, he played the sympathy card. "I'm sorry. They left me, you know, and I guess I was stupid, but I kept thinking ..."
"They killed my husband," she retorted unsympathetically, buttoning his nightshirt and pushing him back up against the pillows. She slid off the bed, covered her mouth and made a mad dash for the bathroom.
Thatcher laughed, thinking he had never quite gotten that response before. Maybe he truly sickened some women. He looked at the photograph sitting on the bedside cabinet: a familiar face with curly strawberry blonde locks held Meghan in his arms. She looked beautiful, thinner, dressed in a simple white dress. Weeks ago, he and Bellatrix had chased a man through London. Thatcher had watched as she and a few other Death Eaters tossed him in a dumpster outside a theatre. When she was finished, she tied her hair back with a clip and sat down in the chair acting like that never happened. Hours passed. Thatcher swallowed, lost in his thoughts, remembering the man had carried a paper bag and had just walked out of a nearby market. Meghan plucked a strawberry off the plate and took a bite. The squirming in his stomach had nothing to do with hunger, and he realised he better say something.
"You like those?" he asked.
She nodded. She flushed, a little abashed that she had helped herself to his plate without asking. "It's funny when I think about it now because I usually don't eat them. Gideon always bought fresh ones home when he realised ..."
"What?"
"Nothing." Meghan shook her head and turned back to her novel.
"I..." An apology stuck in his throat.
"Mr. Nielson, if you don't need anything, I'd rather not do this with you." Meghan waited for a moment and he turned away from her.
The flames turned an emerald green colour, and she nearly dropped her book as a dark figure started climbing out of it. The man brushed ash off his tattered robes. His dark hair was covered in soot, and his glasses were cracked, but he looked otherwise unharmed. When he turned round, Thatcher got a shock and covered his face with his hands. It was as if this man had walked right out of the picture. Thatcher's mind kept telling him this was damn near impossible, but too much had happened for him not to believe. Meghan reached out to touch his rough face.
"Gideon?"
"No, it's me," the man spoke in a rough voice, taking careful, measured steps towards her. He took her hand and cocked his head to the side. "Meghan, didn't they tell you?"
"Oh, God." Meghan threw her arms round his neck and spoke into his shoulder. "We thought ..."
"I know, I know," he said, looking her up and down. "I needed ... I needed to figure things out. I went to Edinburgh. Dumbledore knew, of course, but we wanted to wait till that track ran cold."
This made no sense to Thatcher, who barely caught himself on the edge of the bed. The warming slid out from underneath the covers and clattered to the floor, spilling its coals. Panicked, he grabbed Meghan, grabbing her by the throat. She gagged, surprised, and the chair collapsed. Thatcher slid out of the bed and they crashed onto the floor none too gracefully. His foot slipped. When he collapsed on top of her, he felt something warm ran down his leg. She yelped, and Prewett jumped to her call, pointing his wand at Thatcher's back.
"Get up."
Thatcher wondered if this would a routine thing this time and got slowly to his feet. He slipped again; there was blood on the floor.
"Fabian," Meghan said quite calmly, which finally made the man lower his wand. "Get me some towels. No, don't touch me, please, it hurts ... but it's not his fault. It happens ... It'll pass ... this happens."
Thatcher squeezed her hand and stared blankly at the wall. It was his first loss.