A/N: It's been a long time between updates, for which I apologize. The result is my longest chapter yet. I hope not too long. Thanks to flying cow, who gave me a little nudge forward when I was tearing out my hair over the last few impossibly difficult pages.
A "Saving People" Thing
Chapter 9. Questions
Harry levitated the bound form of his former professor ahead of him down the attic stairs onto the second floor. Although no one else was in sight, the once-silent house had gained a sense of purposeful activity: The rumble of voices came from the room where Emmeline Vance's body lay, and footsteps echoed up the stairwell from the floors below.
"Harry," Lupin muttered as they reached the bottom of the stairs. He twisted his head back in an attempt to look Harry in the eye. "Albus wouldn't want this to happen. He needs every one of us to--"
"Shut up," Harry answered shortly.
With a down-flick of his wand, Harry lowered Lupin none too gently onto the floor of the hallway. The man tensed against his bindings for a moment, perhaps testing them, and then said in an insistent whisper, "I swear to you, Harry, I had nothing--"
He broke off as Harry's wand moved to point directly at his face. Pulling his gaze away the wand, Lupin stared up at Harry as if he didn't recognize him. Harry could identify with the feeling.
The moment stretched out. Lupin appeared to be thinking hard, and eventually his expression changed to one of wary conciliation. Despite the wand still pointed at him, he'd apparently decided to try again. "Dumbledore would never want you do--"
"Silencio!"
Harry tucked his wand with slow deliberation back into his belt and then looked down. "I'm sorry I had to do that, Lupin, but sometimes you don't know when to stop."
Turning away, Harry moved towards the wide open door of Emmeline's room. The wood was emblazoned with a glowing blue mark in which Harry could make out the intertwined letters "MLE". The room appeared much as Harry had last seen it, still a mess, but Emmeline's body was now covered by a white sheet with the same blue mark.
Moody, facing the door, was conversing with a tall, gray-haired wizard in blue robes. They stood in a cleared spot in the middle of the floor and didn't appear to be at all pleased with one another. Two other blue-robed wizards moved methodically around the room, waving their wands across walls, windows, furniture, and debris. No one acknowledged Harry.
"... could've been anyone. I'm not calling in the--"
"Aurors are the ones you want dealing with Dark magic, man," Moody growled. "The rest of Magical Law Enforcement isn't equipped or trained to--
"Mr. Moody. With respect," interrupted the man in an exasperated manner that he seemed to be trying to quell, "There's no evidence of magical attack at all, much less Dark magic. It could have been anyone. If you're so sure this was Death Eaters, where's the Dark Mark?"
"They don't always use it. In the first war--"
"Yes, yes," the other man said hastily. "We're all of us is aware that you were in the forefront of the resistance to You-Know-Who in the first war. Very admirable, sir, but..." The man waved his hand around the room. "This could have been done by Muggles. Likely it was. She's chosen to live here alone, as a Muggle, on a Muggle street. There's not another Magical household nearer than Charing Cross. That in itself is suspicious, Mr. Moody, as I'm sure you'll agree."
Moody looked around the room and then down at the sheeted outline of Emmeline.
"Nothing could look less like Muggles," Moody finally said, his tone adding, you imbecile. "You're suggesting this sort of thing is bound to happen when a witch chooses to live with Muggles?"
"Of course not!" the man responded heatedly. "Although the incidence of violent crimes amongst Muggles is far higher that for Magical folk. You know that. And it's highly unusual that she should choose to live here instead of with her own kind. We'll be asking her friends and relations about it, you can be sure. And of course we'll also question her Muggle neighbors, even though they're unlikely to-- Well. We'll do everything we can to get to the bottom of it."
"Hmph." Moody was clearly not impressed by this reassurance.
Which the MLE official picked up on, because he switched tack and said rather aggressively, "And what exactly is your business here, if I may ask again, Mr. Moody? How do you come to know the victim? How did you manage to arrive before MLE?"
Moody, however, clearly wasn't about to let himself be browbeaten by a Ministry official. Instead of answering, he stepped closer to the man. In a quiet voice that Harry had to strain to hear, he said, "Listen to me, Towler. Call in Shacklebolt or someone else who's competent to pick up magical traces before it's too late to find them. Now. I'll take this up with Gawain or even Rufus if I have to, but I don't care to waste any more of my time."
The other man, Towler, let out a gusty sigh and stepped back with an air of capitulation. In spite of the circumstances, Harry almost grinned. If Towler's actions were any indication, Moody's name still carried some weight within the Ministry. Was it the fact that Moody was on a first name basis with the head of the Auror office, to say nothing of the Minister of Magic? Or was it Moody's own considerable reputation as a Dark wizard catcher? Because Towler's deference had been evident even before the casual mention of Scrimgeour's name.
The more time Harry spent in Moody's company, the more aware he was that many of his assumptions about the man were probably false. He'd first heard of Moody from Ron, who'd implied that he was a paranoid nutter. And then there had been that article in the Daily Prophet calling him... what was it? A trigger-happy ex-Auror? But no one knew better than Harry himself how misleading that publication could be. And, much as he liked Ron, no one would call him an excellent judge of character.
Still, Harry wondered along with Towler what Emmeline Vance had been doing living in this rather wealthy Muggle area. The only thing that he knew that Towler didn't was that it must have something to do with the Order. His eyes went unconsciously to Moody's cloak, where the vial of memories was stored. And probably her carefully wrapped finger as well, because somehow he couldn't imagine Moody handing that over to MLE.
The MLE official pulled a piece of parchment and a quill from his pocket and began jotting a note in a manner that managed to convey aggrieved acquiescence. Moody looked to Harry in the doorway. Harry gave him a slight nod.
"Potter here's got a little present for you, Towler," Moody remarked to the man, using a tone anyone else might have used to discuss the weather. "Material witness."
Towler gaped at Moody, and then whirled around to face the door. "What? Potter? Harry Potter?" he sputtered. "What do you mean a material witness? Here-- boy! What did you see?"
Moody grunted. "I didn't say he was your witness. Potter came here with me. He caught someone on the roof trying to break through my anti-Apparition barrier. Would've managed it, too, I daresay. Those large barriers never do hold up for long."
For a moment, Harry was confused. Moody was behaving as if he didn't know Lupin, calling him just "someone". When he thought about it, though, it made sense. Order members wouldn't want to draw attention to the fact that they were acquainted with one another. Harry supposed that Lupin--if he were still as loyal to the Order as he claimed--would do the same, no matter what grievances he held against Moody or against Harry himself.
Towler gave Harry an assessing glance and then added a lengthy addendum to his note. He handed it to one of his men, saying brusquely, "Get that to Robards."
The man nodded and left the room, giving Harry a long look as he passed.
Towler stepped to the door and peered down at Lupin. After taking in his bound form and somewhat battered appearance, he gave Harry a sharp look and said, "Offered up some resistance, I take it."
Harry didn't know how to reply, but Moody answered for him. "In a manner of speaking. Doubt if he's your man. Seems he has an alibi for last night. Still you'll want to hold him for a few days and see what you can get out of him. Oh, and he says he's a werewolf."
Towler made a sound of disgust and took a quick step back. He transferred his gaze to Moody again and said, "We'll deal with him. But first, let's talk about Potter. You know Minister Scrimgeour has done everything short of putting the thumbscrews on old Dumbledore to get the boy into the Ministry for a talk. We'll bring him in as well."
"No, you won't," Moody replied casually, scratching what was left of his nose.
"Now see here, Mr. Moody, the Minister would have me chucked out on my ear if he heard I'd found Potter and didn't bring him in, so if you think--"
"Tomorrow."
"You can't just waltz him out of here again without--"
"Tell Rufus," Moody interrupted, emphasizing the first name, "That either I or Albus will bring him in tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock."
"You expect him to just--"
Moody held up a hand for silence and got it. The knotted joints of the old man's hand looked like marbles under his skin. In addition to the missing parts of his nose and leg, Moody appeared to have lost a bit of his ring finger somewhere along the way.
"And if Potter doesn't want to come with you," Moody asked Towler, with a raised eyebrow, "what are you going to do, man? Truss him up like that werewolf and drag him in?" Moody gave a rusty chuckle. "The Prophet would have a field day with that story, I can tell you. And bang goes your next promotion. I don't see that you have any choice here, Towler, nor does the Minister. Tell him ten o'clock." Moody turned his head to addressed an open-mouthed Harry, saying, "Wait for me downstairs, will you, Potter?"
Without waiting for an answer, Moody returned his attention to Towler and said, "Now. Who've you got working lock up these days? Anyone I might know?"
Harry walked slowly out of the room as the two of them conferred in quiet voices. They followed him into the hallway to stand near Lupin. Harry caught the word "werewolf" and then, as he reached the stairs, he heard Moody say, "If anyone questions it, from Bones on down, tell 'em I requested it specifically."
More murmuring, and then "But mind he comes out again in one piece, or..."
Harry vaguely wondered if Moody were ensuring Lupin's safety at the Ministry or exactly the opposite and found he didn't much care. He made his way to the downstairs hallway, passing a few MLE workers. Ignoring their curious stares with the ease of long practice, he found a comfortable bit of floor next to the front door and sat down.
Harry felt as if an age had passed since he had walked into this house with Moody, but it had probably been less than an hour. Propping his elbows on his raised knees, he leaned his head, which had begun to ache again, against his hands. He wanted to get at the meaning of everything he'd seen and heard that morning.
The thing was, he had so many questions that he didn't know where to start. Questions like, what had Emmeline been doing for the Order? Was her murder directly related to that? Did Moody know, or only suspect, that Death Eaters were involved? If he knew, how did he know? And how would the Ministry go about finding the murderers? What memory was in the vial?
And what about Tonks? Would she have to give an alibi for Lupin? And if so, would she be in trouble with the Ministry for associating with a werewolf?
And then there was a question that was of great interest to Harry, if to no one else: Why did Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic, want to see him? And how long had he been wanting to do that? According to Towler, Dumbledore had repeatedly denied requests for such a meeting. Denied them without so much as consulting Harry.
Harry wondered with a scowl if Dumbledore had even considered doing that first. Probably not. Almost certainly not. When had he ever consulted Harry about anything? He balled up his fists in irritation and then winced. His hand hurt where he'd hit Lupin. A lot, actually, although he hadn't noticed it at the time. A raw scrape ran across his knuckles, and when he flexed his fingers, they felt stiff and painful. But as long as he could still hold a wand, it didn't matter much.
What did matter was Dumbledore's highhandedness, and his own anger. An anger, if he were honest with himself, that had been mounting ever since Sirius's death, when Dumbledore had first admitted the extent to which he had concealed the truth from Harry for so many years.
And, despite all his reassurances to the contrary, Dumbledore was still keeping secrets from him, pulling strings, setting events in motion that concerned him, but never included him.
Did the headmaster think of him as a child still, as someone who needed to be protected from corrupting influences like Scrimgeour? Or was he simply using Harry as a pawn in some stupid power game against Scrimgeour, or even against Voldemort?
The sharp thump of a wooden leg on the stairs caught Harry's attention, and he raised his head to watch the ex-Auror's approach. Harry suspected that he'd have little more time with Moody today, so the thing to do was to focus on the most important points first. Try to get a few things arranged, and some answers, if possible, before the man disappeared to confer with the Dumbledore or to plot retribution or however he meant to occupy himself.
The man's expression, even now, was impassive: He didn't look like a someone who had just found a friend brutally tortured and murdered; his appearance was just what it had been at Tonks's flat that morning. Same brown cloak, same iron gray hair falling to his shoulders, same still face betrayed by a magical eye shifting restlessly in its socket.
When he reached Harry, he paused as Harry stood, and then he led the way out of the townhouse and down its front steps.
The chilly fog was heavier than it had been that morning, laying a milky shroud over the buildings and cars. As they retraced their steps to the Apparition point, the other pedestrians appeared and then disappeared into the mist like ghosts.
When they arrived in the alleyway, Moody stood in the gloom. He closed his good eye in concentration for a moment, and then cast his Patronus, a large hawk that rose quickly into the air like vapor before disappearing.
Meeting Harry's eye, he growled, "For Albus. Rescheduling my appointment. He'll have heard by now why I'm late." He reached for Harry's arm. "Right. Let's get going, lad. I've fifteen minutes to sort you out, an hour to sort out those pillocks at the Ministry, and then Albus will be expecting me."
"Wait," Harry said, shaking him off the man's hand. "I have some questions, and I want--"
"I expect you want a lot of things, Potter, but they'll have to wait," Moody responded brusquely.
Harry let out a quick, exasperated breath. "Look, if the Minister wants me--"
"We'll deal with that tomorrow morning, after I've talked to Albus."
"But I want to know--"
"If you have questions about the case, Nymphadora will be able to answer them when she comes home tonight. I expect she'll be working it along with--"
Harry answered through gritted teeth. "I. Won't. Be. There."
Moody fixed him with a piercing glare from his good eye, and Harry had the impression that he'd given the man a surprise for the second time that day.
"Well?" Moody barked.
Harry took a breath. "I'm not staying in her flat anymore. You might mention to Professor Dumbledore when you see him that I'm stopping with Fred and George Weasley until school starts, if they'll have me. If not, I'll stay at the Leaky Cauldron. And as for Scrimgeour--" Harry paused, trying to think of some way to protest Dumbledore's maneuvering without sounding petulant. "We will talk about that tomorrow, because I'm through being led around like some trained poodle."
To Harry's surprise, Moody clapped him roughly on the back and said, "Don't blame you a bit, although your timing isn't the best. Told you I didn't see eye to eye with Albus on everything." Moody sounded almost cheerful as he said this. Then he went on more seriously, "Stay put at Nymphadora's, though. One more day. Do that for me, lad, and then I think I may have a proposal you're going to like."
At Harry's nod, Moody reached out to grasp his arm for Apparition. This time, Harry didn't resist.
"And now, food," Moody told him. "We've just enough time to fill a cupboard, eh, Potter?" And then he spun them around.
Ten minutes later, Harry was back in Tonks's flat, standing in the doorway with a bulging paper sack. Moody had managed the grocery shopping with the same alarming efficiency that he did everything else. Now, with a last, gruff admonition to "stay put," Moody closed and resecured the door.
Harry listened for a moment as the clumping footsteps receded down the hall before taking the bag into kitchen and putting away the rather odd assortment of foodstuffs that Moody had selected. Still, he had to admit that toast, baked beans, and a banana were a gourmet treat compared to the leftover takeaway that he normally foraged for lunch.
As he ate, Harry resolutely turned his thoughts away from the morning's events. Instead, he leafed through the Daily Prophet that Tonks had left on the dining table. The news wasn't good, but at least Emmeline Vance's murder wasn't splashed across the front page. That would be tomorrow's news, unless the Ministry was able to keep it quiet.
Could they quash a story if they chose to? He wondered about that. How much control did the Ministry exercise over what was printed in the Prophet?
In the short time since Scrimgeour had taken over from Fudge, the Ministry had upped its already considerable efforts to reassure an increasingly skittish constituency. The posters, news articles, and pamphlets all promoted a single theme: that the Wizarding government was capable and prepared to protect the Magical community from Voldemort and his followers.
But how long would people continue to buy that line, especially if the violence kept escalating? Every day there were reports of suspicious disappearances, property destruction, rumors of giants or trolls sighted in normally peaceful districts. To Harry, it was still an open question whether the Ministry actually spent any time pursuing Voldemort, or whether all of their resources were directed to damage control. If Fudge were still in charge, Harry suspected that it would be all damage control, but Scrimgeour was as yet an unknown.
But he wouldn't continue to be an unknown. Not after tomorrow.
Finding a piece of parchment and a quill, he began making notes for his meeting with Scrimgeour. Now that he knew how eager the Minister was to speak to him, Harry could see this gave him an advantage he could use. Harry half smiled to himself as he prepared a list of questions and... call them "requests." If the Minister wanted something from Harry, he'd need to be ready to offer up a lot more in trade than the empty reassurances he gave everyone else.
By the time he had finished, the mist had finally dissipated and the sun, much lower in the sky now, sent a golden column of warmth into the room. Harry stood and stretched in the sunshine. He massaged his hand, which was cramped from writing and still painful.
He spent the rest of the afternoon preparing for his departure: cleaning Hedwig's cage, repacking his possessions into his trunk, and owling his request to Fred and George for a room. Hedwig was back within minutes carrying the twin's enthusiastic agreement as well as a selection of sweets that they assured him were "fine for eating." Harry regarded them dubiously for only a moment before tossing them in the bin.
After a quick dinner and a shower, Harry made a final tour of the flat to make sure that none of his possessions were still lying about. Nothing of his own was in evidence, but on the low table in front of the sofa lay a book he had never seen before covered in faded red cloth. Curious, Harry picked up the book and opened it.
There was writing on the the yellowed flyleaf, some of it too faded with age to read in the fading light of dusk. Harry reached for his wand to light one of the candles on the table and then stopped.
No one else was here, and he wasn't supposed to use his magic without someone else in the flat.
Inwardly cursing, he lit the candle anyway with an quick tap of his wand. Harry mentally added magic use to the list of things he planned to discuss with Scrimgeour.
Death put a lot of things into a new and probably more accurate perspective, including the ban on underage magic use. All of the petty Ministry regulations in the world weren't going to stop Death Eaters. Or find Emmeline Vance's murderer. And he himself hadn't hesitated to use magic against Lupin earlier that day, when he believed he was capturing a killer. Was some Ministry injunction winging its way to him even now?
Harry looked back down at the flyleaf of the book in his hand. On the brittle, old paper were several inscriptions in different hands. The first, and dimmest, was in a flowing copperplate:
Presented to Alastor in the hope he that will strive for excellence in everything his does. - Dad
The next one was written in an heavy, angular hand, the words pressed firmly into the paper:
To Dunbar, who may become a credit to the Auror Office if he continues to apply himself. - Uncle Alastor
The one that followed was in the same handwriting:
Nymphadora, Be vigilant in your studies. I expect you to amount to something one day. - Alastor Moody
Harry recognized Tonks's hasty scribble in the last inscription, although it looked as if she'd made an effort to be neater than usual.
For Harry, future Auror. Keep this until someone you care about needs it more than you do. - N. Tonks
Harry flipped through the rest of the book. Interspersed with the sparse text were sepia tinted Wizarding photographs of people using barbell weights. The pictures, like the book, were old, and the people in them had the outdated look of another era with their waxed mustaches, woolen string vests, and solemn expressions. Victorian? Edwardian? Harry couldn't be sure.
Clearly, this was the instruction book for the weights that Tonks had offered him last night. She must have found it and added the last inscription that morning before leaving for work. Harry perused the book for a long time, watching the men in the photographs demonstrate their exercises in ceaseless, never-tiring repetition. He flipped back to read the inscriptions again and then closed the book and lay it on the table.
Going to his room, Harry reached under the bed to retrieve the weights that he had decided earlier not to accept. Carefully, he stowed them in his school trunk and then returned to the sofa.
In the deepening evening shadows, images flitted into his mind: Emmeline's body in its crimson pool, Lupin as he twisted away from the Incarcerous, a finger in a teacup, a jewel bright trail of blood. Harry tried to empty his mind, because he didn't want to see Emmeline Vance. Or Sirius. Or Cedric, with his blank, surprised stare. Instead, he found himself facing a young Alastor Moody sporting a string vest and a large mustache. And then there was an older man, maybe it was Moody's dad. And then it was Tonks, with the light blue hair she rarely wore, holding one of the weights out to him. She winked, and he grinned back.
Harry must have fallen into a dreaming doze, because when he became aware of himself again he was slumped uncomfortably sideways with his cheek resting on the arm of the sofa. It felt late, although he had no precise idea of the time. The candle he'd lit earlier was much lower, and cast a flickering glow in an otherwise dark room.
Shaking off his momentary disorientation, he sat up and looked towards the front door, from which came the characteristic snick of wards coming down. That must have been what had roused him. On any other night, the sound would have been no cause for concern, but simply the signal that Tonks was arriving home. Tonight, however, he felt for his wand and drew it.
After this morning, Moody's brand of caution no longer felt like paranoia to him, but merely good sense.
The door cracked open, and Tonks, still in her scarlet Auror robes, slipped inside. She immediately closed and re-warded the door, and Harry cleared his throat so as not to startle her in the dim room. She turned at the sound, met his eyes, and looked down at the tip of Harry's wand, which was still pointing towards her.
She smiled faintly and, strangely, the expression only emphasized how unhappy she looked. "You want to pose one of those idiotic security questions? Go ahead, Harry. Only don't ask what was the last thing I said to you last night, alright? Not up to that at the moment."
Harry tucked his wand away, but she continued to watch him. Her face was pale under her inky hair, and there were shadows under her eyes. "You didn't need to wait up," she said finally. "It's late. Past midnight."
Offering him another smile that didn't reach beyond her mouth, Tonks turned away and made her way methodically around the flat, much as Moody had done that morning, briefly reinforcing the wards on each window. Harry saw that he wasn't the only one to re-evaluate paranoia today.
She walked out of the room and Harry heard her renewing the wards in the bedrooms. As she returned to the living room, she pulled her Auror robes over her head to reveal her usual ripped jeans and an incongruously cheerful yellow t-shirt.
Bunching up the robes, she pitched them towards the coat rack next to the front door. They missed the rack and fell to the floor, forming a deep red puddle in the shadows that reminded Harry forcibly of Emmeline as he'd last seen her. Shoving that unwelcome thought away, he turned his attention to Tonks.
She perched at the opposite end of the sofa and unbuckled her boots. One at a time, the boots sailed across the room to land with an angry thump in the corner with her robes. Then she pulled her stocking feet up onto the seat and wrapped her arms around her knees.
For a minute, neither of them spoke. Harry realized he'd not uttered a word since she arrived. He cast around, but could think of nothing to say that didn't sound ludicrous in his mind: Welcome back. Or, Have a busy day? Or even, How are you? So instead, he examined the white tag sticking up from the neck of her shirt. The callus on the index finger of her wand hand. The little mole that was just visible under the hair at her temple.
Tonks put her hands to her face and rubbed it tiredly. From behind them, she said again in a muffled voice, "You didn't have to wait up." And then: "You heard about her?"
"Yes," Harry said, and the single word seemed to fall like a droplet of water into a still, dark pool, their mutual knowledge of what had happened to Emmeline spreading wider and wider, until it filled the room.
For a few seconds, they were silent. Harry wondered if Tonks knew he'd been with Moody at Emmeline's flat. From her question, he supposed not. He said quietly, "I'm sorry. It must have been... Did you know her well?"
Tonks, her arms still wrapped around her knees, looked around the room at familiar objects, the lamp, the carpet, the table. She didn't look at Harry.
"Uh huh." She seemed on the point of saying more, but instead she leaned forward and picked up the book from the table. She flipped it open, looked at the flyleaf, and closed it again. "So, you found your book?"
"Yeah," Harry replied. "Thanks. I-- The inscriptions. Dunbar. Was that--"
"Moody's nephew. He was going to be an Auror."
"Was?"
"Dead," she said, still looking at the cover of the book, rubbing its cloth surface with her thumb. "Beginning of the first war. It's how Mad-Eye got hooked up with Dumbledore, actually. He was a Ministry man through and through before that. Some kind of MLE cock-up got his nephew killed, and they say Mad-Eye was pounding on Dumbledore's office door next day."
"How do you know?"
Tonks shrugged. "Heard it around the Order. Don't ask him about it, though."
"No." Harry looked at Tonks's tense shoulders and said, "Look, do you want some tea?"
She lay the book down on the sofa beside her and shook her head. "Nah. Thanks. You go to bed. I would, too, but I don't think I'll be able to sleep yet. I keep..." She took a breath and blew it out impatiently. Half turning on the sofa, Tonks pointed her wand towards the kitchen and Summoned a bottle of firewhisky from a cupboard.
Harry had never seen her drink firewhisky before, hadn't known she kept any in the flat. Pulling out the stopper, she took a sip from the bottle and then shuddered, saying, "Ugh. Revolting stuff."
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and tilted the bottle towards Harry so that the amber liquid inside sloshed and glittered in the candlelight. Harry took it from her but didn't drink.
She muttered again as if to herself, "I'm not going to be able to sleep," and scrubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes. Harry thought she looked very young at that moment, as well as exhausted and discouraged. He wondered at her past experience as an Auror. Somehow he'd pictured all Aurors reacting as stoically as Moody had done. Had she never seen people who had been killed before? Was murder a rarer occurrence in the Wizarding world than it seemed to be in the Muggle one? Or had she been particularly close to Emmeline?
He shifted sideways and pulled his legs up to sit cross legged next to her. He took her wrists and tugged her hands gently away from her face. "Long shift, huh?"
Tonks nodded and grimaced. "Been on the case all day. I talked to everyone on that bloody street three times over, using three different approaches, morphing into three different people, comparing all the statements, writing the blasted reports, arguing with the idiots in MLE who think Muggles can't be trusted to remember their own names much less what they might have seen or heard last night. Oh. All day except for my meal breaks, when I had the pleasure of being called onto the carpet by Mad-Eye. I understand I have you to thank for that."
She sounded resigned, but not particularly angry. She reached out her hand for the firewhisky, which Harry gave her. She took another sip. Gave another shudder.
"We're going to be on this overnight," she went on, picking at the ripped knee of her jeans. "Rounding up the usual suspects from Knockturn Alley, most likely. Nothing will come of it, but..." She shrugged. "Makes us look responsive, you know? They pulled everyone who had the day off back in to work tonight. Robards sent me home because I'd already done a double shift, but I need to get back early tomorrow. I should be off to bed, but..."
Tonks turned the bottle around in her hands, watching the liquid as it caught the light. She pushed the stopper into the bottle and then said carefully, "Mad-Eye thinks... He thinks the Death Eaters targeted Emmeline because she was in the Order. That they knew, somehow, what she was doing. You know what 'somehow' really means, don't you, Harry?"
Harry thought. "A spy?"
"Yeah." Tonks nodded. She scooted closer to him, so that their knees were touching and leaned forward. She said in a low, urgent voice, "Not necessarily, but... yes. And what she might have told them if she... If they got her to talk. It's very worrisome, Harry. And of course we don't know whether she did talk or not. I wasn't at the scene today, but... I heard she was tortured."
"Yeah. She was," Harry said without thinking. Tonks looked at him sharply, and he added. "I was there, with Mad-Eye. We were the ones who found the-- who found Emmeline."
Tonks took a moment to absorb this and then asked, "You saw her?"
Harry nodded, trying to keep the picture of Emmeline from materializing in his mind. Setting the firewhisky bottle on the table with a brittle clink, Tonks reached out and grasped both of his hands, squeezing them hard.
"I didn't get a chance to see her myself. I was-- They had me on the street most of the day. I haven't read the reports yet either, only heard what people were saying." He saw her throat move as she swallowed. "Tell me. Please..." She sat up straighter, waiting for his answer with a set expression, but still gripping his hands tightly.
Talking about it, Harry thought, would only make what had happened seem worse. For her and for him. He didn't want to be the one to tell her about it. Not in the middle of the night when neither of them was a position to make any difference at all.
Tonks must have seen the reluctance in his expression, because she said softly, "Are you alright yourself, Harry? I'm sorry, I didn't think at first-- For you to have to seen that after everything else--"
"No. I mean, yeah. I'm alright. It was..."
"It was what, Harry?" Tonks prompted, gazing at him with concern.
"In some ways, it was worse than the other deaths I've seen. A lot worse. So much... there was so much blood, Tonks. And her-- her hands." He looked down at Tonks's hands, and her fingers tangled in his own. He went on, still looking down, "But in other ways, it was nothing like as bad as the others, because with them I felt guilty, you know? Exactly as if I'd done it to them myself. With Emmeline, I don't have that weight on me. Or at least, if I am responsible for her death, it's only indirectly. Because I've left Voldemort alive this long."
"Oh, Harry." He looked up to find Tonks regarding him gravely, her brow furrowed in sympathy. Abruptly, she released his hands and pulled him into an affectionate embrace. Harry hesitated for a moment and then relaxed into the warm curve her arms. The only person who regularly hugged him was Mrs. Weasley, and somehow this didn't feel at all the same.
Harry looked down at her head bent against his shoulder, at the dark hair curling against the back of her neck, and felt the tension draining from him completely for the first time that day. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lay his cheek against her hair.
They stayed silent for a long moment, and Harry remembered the afternoon he'd arrived at her flat and her spontaneous hug, when she'd told him how sorry she was about Sirius. He'd felt the same thing then as now, a kind of comfort that was like deep heat seeping into his bones.
After a minute, Tonks lifted her head so that her mouth was close to his ear. She whispered, "Those deaths. You're not responsible, Harry. At all. For any of them. You must know that in your heart."
She pressed one hand to his chest, keeping the other arm twined around his neck. He could feel his heart beating beneath her palm as she went on, "I understand the guilt because-- well, I just do. But in your case, there's no reason for it. You never chose any of this. You were never given a choice."
Harry didn't answer, but nodded, feeling the tickle of her hair against his cheek. Neither of them moved, but after a few minutes, he felt Tonks yawn against his shoulder.
"Sorry," she muttered.
"I'll-- I should let you get to bed, then," Harry offered reluctantly.
"Mm hm," Tonks agreed, not moving. "But if I try, I'll just see Emmeline. Imagine her, I mean. You go on, though."
"I-- No, it's okay. I know what you mean about seeing her." Harry remembered last year, how Cedric's dead and indefinably accusing eyes had appeared every time he had shut his own. "I'll stay up with you if you want."
"I'd like that," she admitted inching a little closer. "Just-- For a few minutes, yeah? I'm worried, Harry. About us. The Order. If they tracked down Emmeline because she was one of us. If they already knew..."
He felt her shoulders stiffen as she said this, and of its own accord his hand began to stroked a soothing pattern along her back.
"Tonks, there's absolutely nothing--"
"They tortured her. Because they knew--" Her breath was coming in agitated puffs against his neck. "They knew somehow that she was part of the Order--"
"There'll be time tomorrow to think about this. Don't--"
"They might have forced her to identify us," she interrupted, speaking in a rapid voice. "Any of us. And if they found her, Harry, they can find--"
"But not tonight," he cut her off firmly. He moved his hands up to rest on her shoulders and shifted so he could look her in the eye, make her understand. "Try and forget about it. Not forever. Just for tonight. You can't do anything for Emmeline until tomorrow."
Tonks met Harry's gaze with her dark eyes, and then she blinked and turned her head slightly away. "That's just it, isn't it? I can't do anything for her ever, Harry. We're... the only thing we can do now is to try and keep it from happening to anyone else."
She shut her eyes tightly, and her face creased as if she were in physical pain. Without thinking, Harry brought a finger up to her cheek. Turning her face back towards him, he brushed his lips over hers. She went completely still, as if she were holding her breath, and he kissed her again so lightly that he scarcely felt the contact.
He drew back and looked at her, their faces inches apart. He saw her mouth open as if to say something, but all that came out was a small oh. Then she leaned forward and returned his gesture with eager warmth. Her kisses were like an extension of herself, darting and impulsive, and offered with an uncomplicated enthusiasm. Harry felt a shiver of pleasure run through Tonks as their tongues met, sliding hungrily over each other. Her fingers ran through the hair at the back of his neck as she gave herself up to this.
Time passed, but how much was anyone's guess, because everything that was happening seemed to be circumventing Harry's brain. Without breaking their kiss, he pressed Tonks gently back until she was lying on the sofa beneath him, their bodies meeting in a hot, desperate line from chest to thigh. All worries of Emmeline, of spies, of threats to the Order melted away. And, Harry thought vaguely, maybe that was exactly the point of this.
One of her hands cupped his face, fingers tracing the outline of his jaw as Tonks pulled him closer, her body seeming to fit exactly against his own. They moved together as if they were part of some instinctive conspiracy to create a moment outside of time and space, where there were no concerns, but only the opportunity to feel and be.
They were kissing more urgently now and the air around them was charged with something that was almost desperation. Harry shifted to a better position so he could free one hand and run his palm along the warm skin of her stomach under her shirt.
His fingers found the hem of her t-shirt, and he dragged it up impatiently. As Tonks arched her back to help him, her foot hit the book at the end of the sofa. It fell with a thunk onto the carpet, startling both of them.
Tonks looked up at Harry and offered him an embarrassed half-grin that made his heart sink. He waited, expecting her to pull away with some joke. Instead she stayed where she was beneath him, her fingers exploring the curve of his neck and shoulder.
Finally she said somewhat breathlessly, "I-- I must say I rather enjoyed that." She grinned wider. And then she laughed as if she'd just announced something quite absurd.
Harry couldn't help but join in. "Yeah. Well. Isn't that the general idea with snogging?" He saw her smile fade, and added, "You're not sorry we're doing this, are you?"
"I-- No. Well... I don't know. I suppose not while we were doing it, but--" And now she did twist a bit and push at his chest until she had them both sitting up again.
"You don't look like you regretted it," he returned, tugging at a lock of her hair that had gone pink at some point.
"Don't be an smug arse," she said, tucking her hair back behind her ears. "My hair changes color all the time. Don't assume it was anything to do with you." But the smile in her eyes said something else. "Thing is, there's a special new circle in hell that Mad-Eye and Dumbledore would carve out for me if they find out I've been seducing the Boy Who Lived. I'm in enough trouble with the two of them already."
"What did they say--"
"Ergh. Later, okay?" Tonks rolled her eyes expressively.
"How about we don't tell them. About the seducing, I mean," Harry suggested with smirk.
"Not possible to keep a secret from Mad-Eye. Believe me. I've tried. The man's a menace." Tonks grinned again, and then suddenly yawned, seemingly surprising herself. "You know, I think I may be able to sleep now. Thanks, Harry."
"You're welcome," he said formally. "The pleasure was entirely mine." They both snickered.
Tonks straightened her t-shirt and flopped back down on the cushions. She said, "This sofa has always been an excellent spot for naps. I might be willing to share it if you like."
