Summary: "Here, on the edge of the end, it's all of us but them." As the Order of the Phoenix prepares for the final confrontation with Voldemort, Harry reflects on words unsaid, questions unasked, and the currents of love running through the lives around him. Sequel to "Turning Point" and "Ground Rules".
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and I'm definitely not making any money.
Author's Notes: SoppyDrunk!Remus listens to Peter Frampton's "I'm in You."
Thank you to superbeta Zorb and to everyone who reviewed on FictionAlley.
On the Brink
All of us but them.
There's no light through the windows. The power's down, and we don't dare do magic, and the candles aren't more than a flickering comfort against the onslaught of darkness. We're all on edge, nerves singing, waiting. Waiting for the end.
All of us but them.
Remus left after dinner, retreating silently to the room he once shared with Sirius. Ginny is white-faced, her lips pressed together grimly, her knuckles bloodless as she clutches the handle on her mug. Her cocoa's gone cold, but I doubt she notices. Snape paces silently, chewing on his thumbnail. It vaguely occurs to me that I've never seen him look nervous before. Fred just looks ill. Dean dozes restlessly in a chair by the cold fireplace. Draco has been reading the same page for an hour, his pale eyes skipping restlessly over the text. Tonks is stretched out on the rug, facing the wall, but I know she's not sleeping. Even the kitchen is silent, ever since I heard Molly trudge heavily up the stairs a few hours ago, her feet thudding against the floor in a note of desolation that seemed to fill the entire house.
I feel like I'm barreling towards blackness, the ultimate end, a night even deeper than the starless, moonless pitch that seeps in through the windows, and all I can do is grit my teeth and face straight ahead, look death in the eye. This is it. I'm still fighting it inside, but I don't really believe that I'll come out on the other side. It's the same feeling I see on all their faces, obstinate rebellion without hope.
Well, all of us but them.
Not them. Never them. She's sitting on the sofa lengthwise, one leg half-bent against the sofa back, her other foot draping down towards the floor. He's sitting between her legs, leaning back against her. Her chin juts over his shoulder, her arms wrapped securely around his waist and covered by his own. Her eyes are closed, her breathing soft and even, but he is awake and calm, his gaze unfocused, looking towards infinity. They've never been much for public displays, but tonight their tangled limbs are the only thing in the house that seems natural. I look at his face, at the small smile playing about his lips, and with a pang of sadness I think, I wish it were me. Not with her, not with him, just - just at peace. At home.
It's all of us, but them.
Tonks gets up suddenly, runs a hand through her brilliant green hair and shrugs, then walks out, her robes billowing out around her. My chest tightens. She and Snape are the only two of us who insist on wizard clothing; even Draco has started wearing jeans (black) and jumpers (also black) to catch fewer funny looks out in London.
Some stolen moment just before sixth year, I commented on the robes. She shrugged and said, "Being a half-blooded Auror is hard enough without cracks about your clothes." I laughed. She nibbled my earlobe.
Ginny watches Tonks go, sets her cup on the side table and walks silently to stand by Fred. Absently, he slides an arm around his sister. She rests her head on his shoulder.
Hermione shifts against Ron in her sleep, and he turns a little bit to look at her face and smiles. I see his finger brush the small diamonds on her left hand, and she threads her fingers through his without waking. He must notice me watching them, because he looks up at me and gives me a lopsided grin. There's nothing fake, nothing strained in that.
All of us but them.
Fred kisses Ginny's forehead and walks out silently. She looks down at her feet. I can feel that she's crying, even if she doesn't make a sound.
"I'm so happy," Ron had said to me quietly, that day. I remember, we'd been in the library, studying for N.E.W.T.s like ordinary seventh-years, but things were already falling apart fast by then. He had looked me in the eye, and for the first time it struck me how much he'd changed since Arthur and Percy had been killed. His face had sharpened, his eyes had deepened. He'd grown stronger, quieter, more centered. More at home in himself. At just seventeen, there were already a few strands of silver in his fire-red hair. "I'm not sure what's going to happen, but I'm happy." He had laughed then. Madam Pince had been so startled by the sound that she forgot to look disapproving. I had felt a pang, almost like I was going to cry, but I honestly wasn't sure if it was because it was horrible or beautiful.
Maybe because it was normal, and there was so little of that left.
"No, you've got the incantation down, but you're holding your wand too tight." She rested her hand over my own, repositioning my fingers, and I caught a whiff of the blend of mint and orange that marked her as her, utterly unlike anyone else. "Now, try again," she murmured in my ear, her arm around my waist. My heart jumped. Some ancient and noble Black ducked out of the frame as I hexed his portrait from across the room. She laughed into my shoulder.
As June approached and the days grew shorter and shorter (everyone was panicking by then), when it got too hard, when it got too heavy, Hermione would say, "we'll have roses," and Ron would say, "no, it's got to be lilies," and they'd get into squabbling and I'd feel myself grin and shake my head, because even if everything else was changing, Hermione and Ron were just the same.
The next to leave is Dean, who whispers, "Good night" and gives me a weak smile. He looks the most exhausted of us all. I think about the time he spent down there, and I think about Parvati, and wonder if maybe he's got the most on the line.
Words unspoken. Questions unasked. "I never got to tell her - I never got to apologize - " These are the things I remember: February 12, the first Gryffindor to vanish, Dean's anguished voice.
Here, on the edge of the end, it's all of us but them.
Two nights ago I walked by Remus's room on my way to bed, two a.m. and so tired I could barely lift my feet, but he was still awake. This was before the power went down, and the electric lights we'd coaxed and wheedled into working in the cantankerous old house were on, his door was halfway open, and he was sitting in Sirius's old chair, looking at nothing and drinking from a pint glass of something that reeked of booze all the way out into the hall and was the color of molten amber. An ancient Muggle record was playing in the background. "You can die but remain you and I/I'm in you/You're in me/ I'm in you/You're with me," the man sang. I had a feeling I shouldn't be there.
It's all of us, but them.
"Well, good night, then," she said, with a nonchalant smile and a platonic pat on the back. As though nothing had ever happened. I went back into my room and choked out dry sobs into the pillow until I got a pounding headache, and wondered how she'd managed to so thoroughly forget everything so fast.
Draco closes the book with a slam and stomps out. We hear his footsteps disappear up the stairs, the weight of the air swallowing each one greedily, leaving us in silence again. Snape blows out of the room in a swirl of robes. Ron rests his cheek against Hermione's, leans deeper into her embrace, and closes his eyes.
I barely notice when Ginny slips away. She's lost six kilo since our friends started disappearing, six kilo she couldn't afford to lose. Her skin is pale, drawn tight over her bones. After we brought Dean out she couldn't stop throwing up for nearly two days. I don't blame her. I'll never forget what it's like down there. And here we are, getting ready to go back down there again, for the others. For Kingsley. For Hannah. For Colin. For Mundungus. For Lavender. For Cho. For Vector. For Neville. For George.
For Dean and Parvati, and words unsaid, questions unasked.
No one's left but me and them, and I watch them sleep as I lean against the wall and wait. She's protecting him, and he's supporting her, and they're keeping each other warm in that perfect ouroborus of their encircling arms. I shouldn't be there, and I leave reluctantly, slipping out of their candlelit haven and up the dark of the stairs.
All of us but them.
I don't really think, I just let my feet wander, until I'm standing outside a heavy wooden door. It's more or less like all the others in this house, but there's a scorch mark just above the handle on this one. I run my fingers over it as I stop and consider, just like I do every night.
Only tonight, I don't walk away.
"It's not going away and I feel like I'm going crazy because I'm head over heels for a sixteen-year-old boy." A year and a half later and I can still hear the rush and tumble of her words, but I can never make up my mind whether it makes me feel better or worse when I think about that night.
I knock softly.
"Come in."
I do.
She looks up at me, and sighs. "Harry..." She's sitting at the desk, wearing a worn set of flannel pajamas. Her eyes are tired and sad, and I can read her refusal in the line of her jaw.
"Wait," I say softly. I step towards her. "I remember what you said. Not until I leave school, right? And I'm not going to try to talk you out of it." I take a deep breath. "But please - " My voice cracks. It always seems to do that around her. "Just - please, don't send me away," I whisper.
The resolute set of her chin crumbles and she stands up, blinking fast. She looks about twelve. In a second she's in my arms, and her face is buried in my shoulder, and her neon hair is tickling my nose. "I don't want to send you away," she says, her voice muffled by my shirt. Her arms are tight around my waist and the warm, knobby pressure of her shoulders against my arms is the most comforting feeling in the world. "I never wanted to send you away."
As we hold each other, my mind wanders and shifts, and after a minute, I'm startled awake by nearly falling over. She's leaning into me, her breathing soft and even.
"Tonks," I say muzzily.
"What?" Her voice is heavy with sleep.
"Go lie down." I straighten up and push her carefully upright, and she stumbles wobbily over to the bed, and collapses on top of the covers. I take the candle from the desk and carry it over to the nightstand, wrestle her under the covers, shed my jeans and crawl in next to her in my boxers and t-shirt. She snuggles up against me and rests her head on my chest, her arm thrown heavily over my stomach. She snores.
I grin in spite of everything, and blow out the light.