No confession prepared Thatcher. He dealt with any guilt, holding it inside and locking it away, yet the suffering read clearly on his face. A smile never touched his eyes anymore. The man might have welcomed a Dementor at one point because he felt drained going through the motions. Each death hit him anew, almost as if each one granulated a scabbed wound ripped off and pouring blood. Of course, loosing people in the Order affected him differently; he had to know the person well. The department decided against it, offering generous leave and compensation, but he stayed hard at it, determined to close another case.
Dumbledore demanded nothing of him, nor did he walk away. The Potters died, murdered, and Joshua eventually learned and accepted that Lily just wasn't coming back. The Longbottom case hit him hard, almost to the point where he wouldn't get up because the past lured him with its tempting, captivating pleasant memories. It was a foggy morning, nothing out of the ordinary happened. Mrs. Longbottom alerted Thatcher first, saying that something just didn't feel right. They had been gone for days at a time before. Usually, this annoyed the nosy neighbours, seeing as they couldn't fill in the blanks.
This was no mission, and those two never stepped out of the box and went on a secret romantic rendezvous or anything, so that was a cause for question in itself. Tired of listening to the old lady harp on, they decided on a search. Mad usually jumped on an opportunity because the Death Eaters needed to be kept in line. In the back of his mind, he knew Alice and Frank took care of themselves. Nobody got in their way when they landed on a lead because they worked so well together. Mad-Eye and Thatcher often made snide comments that the two fools were doomed to be together for eternity. One would eventually kill the other; it was only a matter of time. So far, they managed nine years together locked in matrimony. A kid had come out of that. That was the first time, at least from what he remembered, that grouchy old lady ever smiled without a bruising commentary or throwing suggestions at her son.
Mad-Eye insisted on not being an active figure in their lives outside of work. With the downfall of You-Know-Who, the Order disbanded and the survivors went their separate ways. Mad-Eye wasn't completely sold on that idea, and after private conversations with Dumbledore, he didn't know. Things calmed down at the Ministry, although Barty Crouch still wielded an iron fist. He said much less these days, perhaps biting his tongue. The man liked his power. They hoped he chose not to spin off into a revival, for this sapped all of his credibility.
After reading over a case, he tossed the thing onto a pile, for it got him nowhere, and random words, like articles, stuck in his brain. This job seemed like they travelled down an endless dark road with the promise of a dead end. Without their powerful leader, they fell down one after another, a ripple effect, and, and under the influence of Crouch, the Ministry said they took no prisoners; each of them suffered through exhausting interrogations. Mad-Eye sat among wizards dressed in maroon robes, the Wizengamot, yet he merely acted as a listener among the audience. Courtroom Ten always felt like a locked icebox and sucked any happiness, any hope, out of the atmosphere. This had nothing to do with reaping a reward. He took it upon himself to witness this for the victims, especially for the victims; they needed a voice.
"All present?" Crouch's voice cracked like a whip.
Mad-Eye sealed his roll of parchment. The buzzing crowd of spectators standing below shook his focus. Only a handful of faces registered to him. The young Junior Minister, Cornelius Fudge, for one, whose nose was already splattered with ink, had snuck up behind the court and hid in the corner. Others were clearly here for the story. A little blonde thing, Rita Skeeter, held a camera aloft, ready for any memorable shot, and she seemed quite keen on her job. If Mad-Eye had a say in these proceedings, and he did not, except for the families and close friends of the victims, these would be private. The court needed no drama, for this was a difficult, mounting task.
"No prisoners indeed," grunted Mad-Eye as he shifted his position for a better look. Just last week, when he first observed a session, things seemed lax. A door slammed shut and footsteps thundered up the old creaking stairs. Mad-Eye pulled out his wand as something rustled past. Dumbledore reacted and grabbed his wrist. Annoyed, Mad-Eye looked up and saw Thatcher brush his white locks out of his face. "You idiot."
"You're pulling that off as a term of endearment," Thatcher said breathlessly, relaxing after a moment and taking the empty seat next to Dumbledore, deaf to the other wizards' whispered conversations. "Professor?"
"Six-thirty means six-thirty," Mad-Eye continued, checking the time. "Not seven twenty-seven or whenever the hell you feel like it."
"Right." Thatcher tied his white hair back and laced his trainers. He knew this behaviour was unacceptable and he would stay after for the time buried underneath parchment. He nodded to Amelia Bones, who, surprisingly, simply shook her head. She had reserved a seat for him on Dumbledore's request. "Don't suppose I could say I lost my son."
"No. Where was he?" asked Dumbledore as Crouch read off a list, an attendance record, introducing the court.
"In the broom cupboard," said Thatcher, shaking his robes sleeve. "Figure that one out."
The room fell silent. Their attention turned to the heavy doors as Crouch stood up on the platform. The cases were chosen by random selection, so the announcement often surprised them as nothing but recorded evidence entered through those doors. Dementors stood at the doors, and Aurors dragged the accused in. Bellatrix walked in led by a young black Auror with a bald palate. Her long tangled locks framed her pale face. She revealed no fear, not even when she took a seat and the snakelike rattled, linking through her arms, locking her in place.
"You, Bellatrix Black Lestrange," Crouch reeled off without preamble, "have been charged with the assault and murder of Meghan Reagan Nielson, twenty-eight, of Surrey."
The buzz rose immediately. Mad-Eye turned his head so fast he thought he got whiplash. It was pubic knowledge, another whispered in the Wizarding community, but it had been mere speculation. Heads jerked towards Thatcher; he stared at his hands. "When did that get released?"
"Last Wednesday," said Thatcher softly not looking up. "I told Albus to do whatever he wanted. He submitted the charges over to committee."
"You may step out," said Dumbledore, raising his hand as Crouch turned, handing it over to the board. His voice rang through the hall. "Madam Lestrange."
Mad-Eye sat and held his tongue. Dumbledore hardly made that move, taking up a case before others stepped in. He clarified points and countered testimony, feeding the words back to the accused. He spoke in a calm tone and waited till she turned towards him. She threw him a dark look, though she acted a little hesitant without her master there to protect her. Mad-Eye didn't know how long Dumbledore had known Meghan. The man knew her mother, Jacqueline Marquis, who worked in chemistry, an alchemist at university. He assumed he knew the woman her whole life, for it was clear by his tone that he treaded carefully, choosing his words and distancing himself.
"Why?"
Bellatrix remained silent as stone.
"I would have argued you never had a hand in it, personally, seeing the passion you craft in your targets. You plan out everything. She was nobody." Dumbledore surveyed her over his spectacles, waiting. "What? She was an Auror's wife? The woman worked at a bookstore, so she's not exactly threatening, is she? Why bother?"
Bellatrix said nothing until Thatcher looked up at her. "She had nothing."
The audience thought she merely agreed with Dumbledore. In truth, she had admitted nothing of significance, yet her words carried weight. Dumbledore drummed his long fingers on the bench and considered her words. She didn't budge when he fired off a few more questions, the room thought that he had given up and was ready to pass her onto the next man. They thought Dumbledore was about to let her go, but he held off.
"Did she ask you for help?"
"What?"
"You heard me." Dumbledore cleared his throat. 'You tracked her."
Bellatrix let out a shrill of laughter. "You're losing your touch, Dumbledore."
"No, no, dear, although I'm rather surprised you're not jumping to a confession to honour your Dark Lord. No, you followed her to Flourish and Blotts. Perhaps you resorted to the Cruciatus Curse, the weapon of choice, but you panicked when Meghan went into labour. I saw the scene. There was a lot of blood, and it bothered you that she never gave up, so you strengthened the curse, and you lost interest after a couple of hours. You fled and let her bleed to death."
"She had nothing," Bellatrix repeated without a shred of remorse. "She knew nothing. The filthy Mudblood wasn't worth a damn."
"No more questions," said Dumbledore, taking a seat and passing her along.
As spectators, Thatcher and Mad-Eye said nothing for most of the morning. Thatcher looked drained. Dumbledore invited him to these sessions, but Mad-Eye couldn't see why this was a smart move, especially considering that he had to face this woman again. Neither of them would ever be able to erase that night at the bookstore from memory. It had resurfaced two years later as if someone had slapped them in the face. Mad-Eye had not expected this to happen: he walked through all of these cases a second time. After a short recess, most of them returned for the afternoon round. Mad-Eye realised that Dumbledore followed through testimonies while flipping through the pages of a book; this undivided attention irked him a little until he recognised what it was. The professor compared two confessions side by side, judging the truth behind their words.
"Thatcher stood up as soon as the Longbottoms case was announced. "No. I'm done."
"Thatch," Mad-Eye growled.
"Leave," said Dumbledore, overriding him. He squeezed Thatcher's shaking hand as the doors opened. "We'll discuss this tonight. Go home to Joshua. Thank you for your time."
"Yeah." Thatcher apologised as he pushed through the crowd and made it out the back.
"Should I go after him?" Mad-Eye asked. Thatcher had been shaking for a while.
"No, he'll be fine. I don't he's eaten anything, but he does that when he's stressed. I was afraid he'd faint on the bench, and you don't need that as a story in the office."
"No. Are you staying all night?"
"Not tonight, no. I have been holding off the governor's board for two nights, and they want answers, so I'll work on that."
"You've lost your mind," said Mad-Eye in a false voice littered with awe. They listened through the testimony in bits. "Running that school and sitting through all of this."
Dumbledore chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. "Enjoying the living arrangement?"
"With Thatch? It works, I guess, as he stays the hell out of my way, but that kid? He never shuts up. I told him to go in the broom cupboard last night because he suggested hide and seek. I guess he went back this morning because I never sought."
"Alastor."
Dumbledore got up at the end of the session and walked with him out of the corridor. Another section started at the top of the hour, seven o'clock. As the Chief Warlock, they expected him to be present at most trials, but that just wasn't possible during the school year because he had to act as headmaster; his main priority was Hogwarts, and he made no secret of it. They headed towards the Atrium. Out of habit, the professor tossed a few coins in the Fountain of Magical Brethren. The stepped into out of the fireplaces and landed into the headmaster's office. Mad-Eye brushed ash off of his robes and looked round at the portraits.
"Peace and quiet, Albus," said Mad-Eye, stretching his legs and pacing round the office. The kid and his father had not yet managed to destroy his place. "He's a smart kid. Jimmied my damn lock once, though, so I have to step up my game here."
"He is," Dumbledore agreed.
"So," he said slowly. "What about Crouch?"
The pain was etched on the man's face. He looked as though he had almost been knocked down with the shock. After all of these months, the truth leaked out and he had no idea. The idealist leader fell in the eyes of the crowd; the mood had shifted instantly, and there was nothing anyone could do to save him. Listening to that final gripping plea, Mad-Eye wasn't sure what he would have done, and it made him even more grateful that he had no children. Crouch had thrown down the parchment he had been reading through all day and took the offensive. Mad-Eye remembered questioning the young man when they first grabbed him. The boy was a radical, but he had no idea of what he jumped into. Thatcher entries on him ought to be littered with interesting stuff because the boy seemed like he cascaded like a waterfall.
"Ask Thatch."
Mad-Eye loved it when they were on the same page. Dumbledore tossed a rucksack on his polished desk. "How'd you get that in the courtroom?"
"I'm Chief," he said simply, cleaning his spectacles. There was a knock on his door. "Enter."
A house-elf dressed on a toga walked in and bowed low to them. She entered with three dishes on one arm, like a practiced waitress, and duplicated the meal before either one of them requested it. "Professor Dumbledore, sir."
"Thank you, Nadia."
"Professor McGonagall wants to know if you wants to invite one Mr. Nielson to dinner Saturday evening. She says he writes her earlier today."
"She knows Thatch?" asked Mad-Eye as he lifted the lid off of his plate. Dumbledore nodded. He took off a chunk of roast beef and sniffed it before biting it off the fork. "Interesting. Small world, eh?"
"Thank you, Nadia," said Dumbledore, closing the door behind her. "She doesn't know him like you do. He gives her subscriptions and book recommendations."
"Library Boy needs a new hobby," said Mad-Eye as Dumbledore sat down. "Pick pocketing."
"He has a knack for that," said Dumbledore, considering it. He opened the third volume and flipped through its pages. "When he asks you ..."
"I don't know shit," said Mad-Eye.
center ***** /center
Thatcher got back on his feet. Although there were whispers that he would remarry, for his was not a bad looking man, but those who knew him well knew that this would never happen. Thatcher had his handful of women, and he filled their heads with empty promises. They usually crept out of the flat in the early morning hours before Joshua got out of bed. It just made for awkward situations, and he openly admitted that he saw no point learning their names. So when a towel draped figure met him at the front door, Mad-Eye showed no surprise. After thirteen years, they matched the same profile: dark tresses, grey eyes and petite figures.
"Sorry," she mumbled, closing the door behind him and dashing into the small bathroom.
"Who's that?"
Mad-Eye set a carrier bag on the counter and looked up at Joshua. He didn't really want to know, seeing as he would forget the name anyway, but he decided to let Joshua humour him. The lad had grown into a stocky young man with curly blonde hair and blue eyes. He wore a plain black t-shirt over a light white turtleneck over pair of jeans. This kid had to one of the cleanest bachelors round because he cleaned up as he worked in the kitchen. Eggs and bacon sizzled in a frying pan. He dumped the contents onto the granite countertop and started chopping an onion with a sharp blade. He created strange leftover meals like his father, but this made him quite the cook because he couldn't let his father starve. Joshua had considered getting his own place, and it took him a minute to realise he pretty much already had that freedom.
"Elizabeth, the third, I think," said Joshua as he hunted round for a scapula. He opted for a whisk and started beating the ingredients. "Are you hungry?"
"No."
"I can cook, really. It's not like I'm Mr. Throws Shit Together."
"I know." Mad-Eye opened the door for the woman and shook his head when she walked out without saying good-bye. He scanned the room unconsciously and sighed when he noticed a shock of pink hair. "I am tired of seeing you, girl, quit following me."
Tonks waved at him and offered him a barstool at the counter. "How do you know you're not following me?"
He shrugged and joined her, pushing the bridal magazines aside. "What's this?"
Tonks pulled a face and flipped through a random edition. When neither of them said anything, Mad-Eye decided it would come round later. Joss wasn't one for dramatics, although Tonks leaned on them when she was having of those days. These two had known each other for years; Thatch said they met on the playground when Joss was six, making her round eight, and they had pretty much inseparable ever since.
"Can I tell him?" Tonks flipped the page and showed him a yellow gown. "Cute?"
"No."
"Yeah, whatever," said Tonks, accepting a hot plate and turning to Mad-Eye. "You won't tell anyone. Joss and Natasha are engaged. He asked her a pub last night during a football game."
"The redhead you've known forever?" asked Mad-Eye. Joss nodded, glaring at Nymphadora, who was not fussed at all. "I like her. Did you tell Thatch?"
He knew the answer to that one.
"Steal the rings," he said.
"Mad-Eye," said Tonks. Joshua burst out laughing and choked on his eggs.
"You think I'm pulling your leg?' He raised his wand and a jewellery box soared onto the table. He took out two black boxes and pushed them towards Joshua. "No, they're your mother's rings, so they go to you. They were supposed to go to Rachelle, but that's not going to happen."
"I can't." Nevertheless, Joshua opened the second box, took out a silver sapphire band and turned it towards the light. "I remember this."
"Yeah," said Mad-Eye. He might be stepping out of line here, but it wasn't like the boy was a kid anymore. This fuelled him with a sudden inspiration. He found the old grey satchel hanging in the back of the armoire after some rummaging. Tonks took it from him and fished round for Meghan's keepsakes. "Did he tell you this was at the scene?"
"Yeah. He slapped me when I started looking through it, but I took the prayer book."
"Look at this," said Tonks, flipping through the pages of a tiny daily calendar. It catalogued her last five years. She laughed at the red circles and read an entry, "Born eleventh September, at two thirty-three, four pounds, two ounces, Joshua Alexis."
"That's Dad's writing," said Joshua, squinting at the tiny scrawled hand. "See how it's different? The month before that says, 'Mathieu's and Mum's Wedding: Switzerland.'"
"She probably missed it, but I think Dumbledore went." Mad-Eye shrugged when they looked surprised. He dug round for Meghan's wallet and showed them photographs. "See? That's him with Jacqueline, and that's Mathieu and her. He looks young."
"You know Papa?" asked Joshua.
"In passing." Mad-Eye shrugged. "He invited me his French countryside house once. Course, I found out later, he suspected your father had turned, for some reason, Merlin knows why, that we were a couple. If either of you mention this outside this kitchen..."
"Yeah?"
"There's a lot you don't know about your father, Joshua," said Mad-Eye.
"It gets better," said Tonks twirled her fork and waved at Thatcher, asking him to join them. He stood at the top of the stairs.
"Stop," he growled.
"Oh, one of those stories," said Tonks, laughing lightly. "He' brother; I'm his mother; I'm his sister ..."
Thatcher cleared his throat loudly. "Your uncle?"