I couldn't seem to find a complicated, dark, thoughtful, evoking, romantic title for this one.
Also, let's clarify a couple things here, for those readers I've been leading on up until... now.
○ 1) This is eventual Dramione. (Hey, what did you expect? I love this ship.)
○ 2) It is epilogue-compliant. Though it invents pretty freely on lots of stuff, it doesn't technically go against what was said in the epilogue. I mean, Draco and Hermione don't get married (too young... bleh).
The two are not mutually exclusive, I assure you. I decided that the best way to give everyone closure was to give closure to Hermione and Draco, probably my two favorite characters. I started off on friendship and it turned to romance without my consent, though I certainly didn't protest. This fic is only about the first year after the war and it's Dramione, not Ronmione. So sue me. I didn't mess too badly with the other pairings, I promise.
Disclaimer: It's all Rowling's.
Chapter 11
Why Lee Became an Auror
August 21st
"Snap out of it, George," he said as he took a sip of the too-hot coffee.
He shifted the mug from his right to his left hand, trying not to let his irritation show. Heating Charms weren't his forte, and this one he had miscalculated. It didn't help that he had always hated the taste of coffee, hated especially the insipid flavour of instant-powder coffee. George knew this, of course.
"At six in the evening?" he asked, nodding at the mug.
"It helps," he said shortly, and George nodded.
It helps was his all-around excuse for pretty much anything these days. It worked. Recently, George had taken to using it as well, although he hadn't commented on it.
"Give," George said, holding his hand out. He took the burning mug unflinchingly and took a sip, then made a face. "Too bitter."
"You think so?" he asked, taking the mug back and looking at it. "Feels tasteless to me."
"You've probably burned off the last of your taste buds with it."
"That would explain it."
"Hey, Lee..." George said suddenly.
"Still thinking about The Letter, are you?" Lee asked.
They had all received It. All those who had stood and fought. The youngest had got It with their Hogwarts letter; he had had a more elegantly phrased, lengthier one. It was definitely not Kingsley's writing; he had met Kingsley thanks to Potterwatch, and he didn't speak like that. The form had been just that, a formality, and Lee had filled it out in five minutes and owled it back in ten.
George had stared at his Letter like it was a poisonous snake until It had spontaneously combusted, making Lee jump. George's magic had become unreliable lately, like a seven-year-old's. He couldn't seem to control it; he hadn't used his wand in weeks, and occasionally strange things would happen. Lee put it down to grief and had tried to understand, but Angelina had soon put things straight – George had to see a specialist if they didn't want to have the shop and flat turn into a pile of charred toothpicks. He had been seeing Morgana Pratchett for three weeks now. Practchett was Muggle-born and a self-proclaimed magical psychiatrist, a profession not really recognised in the wizarding world. She had been recommended by Hermione, and George had gone along with it, recognising Hermione's usual perspicacity... but in this case, the witch had made a blatant mistake.
Lee had met Pratchett, who generously came over to the flat for her sessions with George rather than having him come to an office Lee suspected didn't exist. She was a quiet, intelligent-looking woman with blond hair pulled back into a strict bun and square glasses that did nothing to soften the angles of her face. Lee couldn't deny that she was a smooth talker and sharp-witted, but there was nothing about her that suggested she might be good at helping others to deal with things such as what George was going through. She was too serious to be of any use to his friend, and too indelicately nosy. She pried and asked questions that left George more bruised than he had been to start with. But she seemed efficient at calming his bouts of uncontrolled magic, at least. During their last session, Lee knew they had talked about The Letter. It was always on George's thoughts.
"Yes," George said. "But not for the reasons you might think. I know I won't accept."
"I'm glad you reached a decision."
"I was thinking about you."
Lee's fingers tensed around the mug. He forced himself to relax his muscles and stared at the black coffee.
"Oh?" he said, trying to sound casual.
"I've known you for years, Lee, and you never showed any sign of interest in law enforcement," George said, not to be fooled by faked casualness. "You never wanted to be an Auror before. Heck, you never even liked Defense Against the Dark Arts apart from the year Lupin taught it!"
"And Moody," Lee pointed out, swigging back a mouthful of coffee and almost gagging as it burnt his throat. "He was an Auror –"
"He was a nutter disguised as an Auror," George corrected him.
"Still. It got me thinking –"
"Cut the crap, Lee," George interrupted him. "I may be crazy enough to need a psychiatrist but that doesn't mean I'll fall for your lies any more easily than I used to when we were at Hogwarts. Truth. Now."
Lee swirled the coffee around in the cup. "Look –"
"And look at me when you're speaking."
He met his friend's eyes for a second, then looked away. It was just too painful. Everything that was George had once been reflected in Fred. Now, without that mirror, George was only a shadow of himself. Or maybe it was his own loss Lee was feeling. Maybe he felt the pain of Fred's absence so acutely that he was imagining things. Either way, he couldn't properly look at George without seeing Fred, and that hurt like hell.
"Lee," George said, his voice managing to crack on the single syllable. "Please..."
"I have Firewhiskey," Lee said abruptly, standing up. "In a cupboard somewhere –"
"Lee," George said again. "Sit down."
"It helps."
"I don't care!" he snapped. "Just sit down and look at me."
Slowly, Lee sat back down. And looked at George, really looked at him, for maybe the first time since the battle.
He had lost weight. A lot of it. There were dark circles under his eyes, which stood out in stark contrast with his pasty skin. His eyes were dull and lifeless. He couldn't have looked less like himself if he tried, but despite it all, he still looked too much like Fred.
Lee looked away again, blinking furiously.
"I hate him," he spat. "He took two of my best friends from me. He killed Fred and he... damaged you. And I can't stop thinking that maybe..." He swallowed. "During the battle, I fought him. Rookwood. I duelled him, and I lost. He blocked everything I sent him and he almost killed me. He did kill the girl who was fighting with me. I didn't even know her name – but I couldn't protect her. I backed off and I – I let him pass."
Was it blame or indifference in George's cold, cold eyes?
"It's my f – fault." His voice cracked. "It's my fault he died. I was cowardly, I didn't want to die, and I let him. I let him get into the castle."
He forced himself to meet George's eyes again, searching his friend's gaze for something like forgiveness. If George forgave him, then maybe...
The eyes stared back, void of all emotion.
"Why do you think I accepted? I want..."
He could have said, I want to be stronger. I want to be strong enough to defend the people I love. I want to be strong enough to be a true Gryffindor.
"I want to kill him, this time."
Something finally lit up in George's eyes, a spark of fierceness nothing like the forgiveness Lee had been seeking. But he still said nothing.
Lee looked out the window, and someone knocked on the door.
Diagon Alley was a dreary place, Angelina mused. Three shops, maybe, were clearly open. A dozen others were just as clearly closed, their windows dusty, their signs somehow faded. Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes practically loomed before her, dark and uninviting. Fred and George's shop was no longer the most colourful on the street; it might in fact have been the least colourful. A "We're closed" sign hung on the door.
A familiar shiver ran up her spine and she reflexively froze before turning around, her hand on her wand, eyes scanning the alley almost frantically. Someone was there, watching her. She quickly located a dark figure, cloaked and hooded in black – a woman –, standing, unmoving, in the shade of a shop at the end of the alley. The way her head was angled indicated that she was looking straight at Angelina, but the lowered hood kept her from making out her features. It was very warm outside today. Who would wear a cloak?
Angelina let out the breath she realised she'd been holding and struggled to calm her nerves. The Death Eaters are dead or in Azkaban, she told herself. She raised a hand and waved to the figure in black... who spun on the spot and Disapparated soundlessly when she realised she'd been spotted.
Angelina hurriedly rapped on the door, keeping her wand out. It took five minutes for the door to open, and by then, she'd calmed her breathing, but her skin was still crawling terribly. Lee grinned out at her, bright-eyed, and let her in.
"Angelina," he said warmly. "How are you?"
The smile was fake. The tone was fake. Everything about Lee was fake, fake, fake. Faked to perfection, but still fake.
"I'm fine. Just a little tired," she lied.
"George is upstairs – in the kitchen."
Was it her imagination, or was there a strain in his voice that belied his smile?
"I didn't see you at the funeral," he said, as he led her up the stairs. "You were at the award-giving, and the rebuilding, but I realised I can't remember –"
"I didn't go."
He was silent, and after a moment she added:
"I suppose I didn't see... Not the point, exactly, but..." She shrugged. "I can't seem to find the sense of closure required for... I mean, I'm just not..." Her voice trailed off.
"I can't believe he's dead, either," George said quietly from the table, making Lee start visibly.
He was sitting, legs stretched out in front of him, leaning his chin on one hand and staring at them. His eyes were piercing.
He looked so much like Fred that it hurt.
"George," she said, her tone falsely cheerful.
Something flitted across his expression, so furtive she couldn't place it. He didn't answer.
Lee said, "Maybe you want some coffee? Or tea?"
"Tea would be fine, she managed.
"Or, we have Firewhiskey," Lee offered, glancing at George with a little half-smile on his face – that soon died away at George's stony expression.
"That's all right. I, um."
"Don't drink," Lee finished for her. "You're right, of course – I remember. We used to drive you spare trying to make you drink when we were at Hogwarts!"
"Yes," she said, smiling gratefully when she realised he wasn't going to press her.
And she smiled some more and laughed as Lee prepared her tea. They both joked a lot and pretended to be okay. Neither of them managed to fool the other. At one point, Angelina mentioned the strange woman she'd seen outside, which Lee seemed to find amusing.
"Probably one of the old stall vendors wondering when the time'll be right to come sell here again," he said off-handedly, not sounding alarmed in the least.
Angelina decided she'd been stupid; at least until there was another knock on the door, and then the jingling of keys in the lock. She froze.
"Relax," Lee said, even more amused. "That'll be Alicia."
"She has the keys to here?"
He shrugged. "She stays here a lot. She doesn't like being in her parents' house, I guess."
"Yes, George's been letting me stay here for a while," Alicia said, as she arrived at the top of the stairs.
She looked tired and tense, with dark circles under her eyes. The sharpened angles of her face shocked Angelina, who had always seen Alicia as the carefree, easygoing one who would never let anything get her down. Her body was hidden beneath loose-fitting black robes, and the light was gone from her blue eyes.
"But that's not going to last very long. I've found a flat, Lee. I just came around to tell you and give you the keys back."
She jangled the keys in her hand for a second before tossing them to Lee, who caught them easily.
"Stay for a couple minutes," Angelina said, somehow getting the feeling that Alicia just wanted to turn and run away and never look back. She raised her empty cup. "Lee just made me a cup of tea, maybe you want one, too?"
"Or Firewhiskey," Lee said again, and she shot him a look. What was it with him and that drink?
"I'm fine," Alicia said, getting that deer-in-headlights look Angelina had only seen on her a few times. The wide-eyed, trapped look that just begged to be left alone. "I have to go."
"You can spare a few minutes. You look tense," Angelina said, reaching out to lay a hand on her arm.
Alicia jumped at her touch and pulled away sharply as though burnt. Angelina tried not to let her hurt show.
"Relax, Al. Sit with us for a while."
"I really have to go."
Alicia hugged Lee and George, gave Angelina a quick kiss on the cheek without meeting her gaze, and left.
She hadn't met her friend's eyes once in the few minutes she'd spent here.
Not very glorious for Lee, is it? Yeah. Well, it's going to get worse.
