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BELLATRIX LESTRANGE HAD BEEN surviving on the run. By now, her skin stuck to her bones, her eyes swollen, and dark circles had cast a shadow under her bottom lashes. She rested her hands onto her face, knowing they all were looking to her for answers. She had nothing, nothing but a pointless rage that was filling her chest with a torrent of emotions. After he-
The pain of the thought, the very idea of it, spread throughout her chest until she was forced to let out a scream just to make it subside. She saw some of the Death Eaters flinch back at the twisted sound, and she wanted nothing more than to blow the entire place to ashes. They were on the run, being hunted by worthless mud-bloods who didn't understand a thing about the vision of the Dark Lord.
Bellatrix lifted her eyes over to the Death Eaters left, most having scattered after-Bellatrix swallowed thickly at the thought-after he disappeared. She refused to believe he was dead, knew that he wasn't capable of dying. The mudbloods, the blood traitors, everyone had no idea what the Dark Lord was capable of, but Bellatrix knew.
The few Death Eaters left were lost, with no direction, but the war wasn't over. Bellatrix would make sure that none of them forgot what even the Lord's memory would do to their world. It was Amycus Carrow who spoke, where everyone else seemed afraid to. "We have word of the Potter boy's location. Who should we send?"
Bellatrix nearly scoffed, looking at the cowardly lot who all seemed ready enough to go after the baby. It would be easy to kill a child, of that she was certain. However, she knew the child's guardian, and she doubted a single one would be able to find let alone kill her. She couldn't say that out loud though, not wishing to ensnare their judgment on the 'high esteem' that she held for a mudblood.
No, Bellatrix had to think of something else. She already sent four Death Eaters, one being her husband, searching all of Godric's Hallow for her lord. She had heard nothing. "Where is this location?" Bellatrix's voice was quiet, calm, but she was moments from losing her temper.
What am I doing? Bellatrix hadn't a clue, but she was certain she was losing her mind.
For the first time, Amycus lost his prideful gleam, proving Bellatrix's initial sentiments correct. He didn't know.
"We've heard words on her locations all over Paris, but pinning her down is a matter of time," Amycus stated, causing Bellatrix to glance up, brows furrowing and her eyes narrowing.
Moving around this much with a baby? Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, but she had already stood. "Every house, every safe haven, every area she so much as stood in," Bellatrix said, her temper flaring. "Kill every muggle, mudblood, and blood traitor you find."
"What will that do?" Antonin Dolohov asked with a scoff, and Bellatrix snarled, having always respected his craft, but hated him.
"Send her a message, make her paranoid. Everywhere she looks back on, will be a trail of blood," Bellatrix said, running a hand through her hair. "Once we find her, you and I will end her."
From inside the safe house, of the like she'd never feel safe in, she could feel the cold draft of the night. Humiliated that she had been forced to seek haven in a hovel. The floorboards creaked, the room smelled of dead bodies, likely because they had killed the family of muggles who lived here. It wasn't what they deserved. This wasn't a place befitting of her, but contacting her sister was a death sentence. Wherever Lucius Malfoy was, he was out there saving face. Saving his name of all things. Bellatrix would kill him too.
Wherever her lord was, she'd find him. She finds him or she'd die. This was her life's purpose, her life's work, and he couldn't be dead. She'd find him and he'd be back where he belonged. Next to me. Bellatrix hated the desire, the longing, the desperate ache she had for him. She never felt safe a day in her life, but when he was near, she knew that his power was all there was, blocking out the world around them. And now people dared slander his name with that of 'defeat' from a baby. She would kill the Potter boy, kill whoever so much as held him or fed him.
It didn't matter who Ivy Evans was, Bellatrix would kill her brutally and horribly. She hated Dolohov, but out of all the Death Eaters left, she had a strong suspicion he would be the one who could kill her. Or, she'd find her and make due on old debts.
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Ivy swept red strands behind her shoulder, clutching her cloak tighter to her petite figure. The darkness of the emporium, the swirling shadows of witches and wizards in the night, all blended together in a mass of bodies. Even from where she walked, she held her head down, her eyes on the cobblestones beneath her feet, but her attention all around her. She had been on edge since coming back to London, back to the melting pot of war sentiments and a broken magical community.
In the nights after the war ended, people had been overjoyed, as if the disappearance of the Dark Lord was a monumental event that meant everything he stood for would dissipate like sea foam. It didn't. Everything lingered everywhere. The wolves, for example, had been a violent sort before Voldemort. With him, they had been organized, direct, killing where he ordered. Now, their attacks were random and scattered and messy.
Death Eaters, having mostly gone into hiding, didn't do so quickly. The deaths were stacking and there were so many unaccounted for. Ivy thought them a motley collection, most were the weak, seeking protection. There were the ambitious of course, seeking shared glory. Then, there were the brutal ones, all gravitating toward a leader who could show them finer forms of organized cruelty.
That knowledge, the paranoia, was how she knew one was following her. She turned right, glancing at magical potions she had no need of. She made another long stride, towards the magical cakes and pastries, said to make you see other worlds. She walked past many magical items, many little tables with magical artifacts that were most likely stolen.
It was no use. No matter how she swerved, how she dodged, the person tailing her was unrelenting. She walked closer to another corner of the huge building, the ceiling raised high into the sky with candles floating in such a way that reminded her of Hogwarts. An old longing flickered in her chest, there and gone.
"What about 550?" A tall man asked the merchant as Ivy approached, the hair on the back of her neck on edge. She was on edge, antsy. She halted her steps, lips pulled into a scowl as she inspected the many artifacts on the table. She glanced behind her as she did, looking into the crowd in a way that was subtle enough for her liking.
"I told you. 850 or you can find your own," the merchant said, gruffly. Ivy glanced at him, the scraggly beard, and wrinkles deeply set in his face. Her eyes ran to the little vial in the other man's fingers, filled with a red liquid. She didn't have to look closely to see it was a vial of blood.
The man holding it was tall, with a well-shaven, clean beard, and dark skin that resembled a bit like teak wood. He had narrowed eyes, a sharp jaw, and a scowl that made him seem all the more frustrated. Ivy glanced at the vial again, curious despite the obvious stalker she had on her arse.
Ivy glanced back at the merchant, still hiding her face in her cloak as she scoffed. It caught both men's attention, the tall handsome one looking irritated and overwhelmed. She could see that he never went to any black markets, which explained why he was so obviously being ripped off. His entire body screamed nativity.
The merchant glanced over to her, his eyes narrow as he recognized her. There was a code, an honor amongst thieves, but Ivy didn't follow them. "Was that not worth 180 just last week?" Ivy said, watching both men turn their harsh gazes to her. "Inflation truly is horrifying."
If only it wasn't so unprofessional to murder people in the open emporium. She was certain that Mundungus Fletcher would certainly do just that. Ivy smirked, lips painted in a deep nude. At the very least, he was doing that with his eyes.
The dark-skinned sucker looked over to her as if she was suddenly his new savior. She didn't correct him, glancing over to the vial of blood. A curious thing for anyone to go all the way to a black market to buy. She was familiar with Fletcher's wares but especially familiar with his raised prices of things that held little value.
She was so familiar with his products that she knew that in the man's hands was none other than werewolf blood. "Why don't you go off and rob someone else for once?" Fletcher's grumbled reply was filled with disdain, but she didn't mind it. Instead, she ran her tongue over a sharp tooth with a smile peeking out.
"If you need werewolf blood," Ivy said, glancing over the trinkets and cataloging just which influential family Fletcher had sold them to. Certainly has been busy.
"Piss off, Irving," Fletcher said, and she never forgot that here, she was Emilia Irving. It was close enough to her actual name so it slipped off the tongue naturally. Especially since the Evans name was now interchangeable with Harry Potter, she was hardly about to use it now.
"If you want wolf blood," Ivy continued with an amused grin. Ever since Mundungus Fletcher had stolen the Robe of the Fire-Rat from her a year ago, she had made it a point to pay close attention to the little weasel. She had been stealing his clientele for months. Despite her new mission, her spite wouldn't dissipate. She backpacked around China for six months looking for that fucking robe, said to have been worn by Kaguya herself. Then, this rat-looking motherfucker steals it from under her nose. "How much are you willing to pay for it?"
"I was clear," the man said, pointing Fletcher a pointed glance. "550."
"Well, you have a deal," Ivy said with a smile at Fletcher, who looked about ready to hex her. He did no such thing, likely knowing he would last little chance in a fair fight. She'd instead have to watch her back, just as she was doing at this moment. Whoever had been tailing her was lost behind the sea of witches and wizards. Catching a single suspicious soul was impossible since everyone here was shady.
"You are an evil, shrew of a thing," Fletcher told her, and she smiled sweetly.
"Indeed," she said, her eyes roaming back over to the man. She offered her arm to him and waited until he had slipped his hand in, to steer them away from a scowling Fletcher. "Now, I'm Emilia Irving, that over there is a pompous asshole who gets his wares by stealing from other thieves."
"Truly?" The man motioned to look back, but Ivy was moving them too fast through the crowd, subtly looking for a familiar face, or any indication of the person tailing her. She saw nothing.
"Oh indeed, but I can find anything and I'd like to think I'm fair," Ivy said, her eyes roaming towards the man's rather handsome face.
He was tall, as she could see his head high above her own. "I'm DamoclesBelby," he said, and Ivy paused, eyes going to his own.
"You must be a fool to use your real name," she told him, a half-grin appearing on her face. He looked taken aback, his eyes wide.
"W-well it could be fake," he announced, and she shook her head, steering him towards
"Nobody would choose a fake name so recognizable," she reminded him with a sly smile. "You're trying to make a cure."
"H-How did-"
"You got the order of Merlin. How could I not know?" Ivy glanced behind him. "Well, I do believe we have some business together after all."
"Why are you so interested in my business?" Damocles asked, and she shook her head.
"I am a good samaritian." Ivy tapped her bottom lip. "It sounds to me like you don't need a vial of blood. You need an actual wolf."
"Are you-?" Damocles looked at her, up and down, as if he could smell it on her. Ivy scoffed.
"How much are you willing to pay for a test subject?"
"I'm not comfortable with those words."
"I'm not comfortable with anything less than 10000," she said, lips curled again.
"That's ridiculous," he said, looking incited. "Are you suggesting to sell another human being?"
She leaned closer, her voice falling in a whisper. "They're not really human." She leaned back, smile back in place. "And no. Not really. Merely a finders fee."
"That's a ridiculous amount you're asking," he said, and Ivy shook her head.
"What's ridiculous is that you think you can study a magical virus that's been preserved using magical means," Ivy said, holding up the vial of blood from Fletcher. Damocles looked scandalized, but Ivy didn't mind considering the Cape of the Fire-Rat had been worth a couple hundred thousand. Even worse considering he likely didn't get its full worth and gambled it all away.
In the vial's place was a transfigured leaf, which she hoped would be bought by a dangerous man who would proceed to beat the shit out of Mundungus. She could only wish. "You stole that."
"Everyone here stole something," Ivy said, glancing around the crowded hall. "I'm giving you this."
"Why?"
"So you see its value," she answered, and watched as he gingerly took it in his hands. "You have four weeks." She handed him a little card with a golden star on the front. "When you accept, burn that and I'll know."
As she turned to walk away, he called out to her again. "What's your real name?"
"What?" She asked, turning back to him.
"You said everyone here is a liar. What's your name?"
She wasn't about to call it out to a room of strangers. "I'll tell you if you agree."
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Peter Pettigrew was starving. Surviving, but not living. He had to check on his mum, but getting anywhere near her was impossible. He had to live. He was surviving on the scraps that the rats got in the magical emporium. The scraps of leftovers, forgotten. He had to wait. He was waiting. The new school semester was to begin if he had his days right. He never was certain he had anything right.
He was hungry and cold and scared.
The fear set in his bones, no reprieve, no simple thoughts. The nightmares were worse. They came every night, every time he closed his eyes. He shivered at the thought of the countless cruciatus curses thrown his way. He was so tired of remembering it.
In his sleep, curled up in the corner of the cage to escape a particularly nasty rat who enjoyed biting him when he slept. He had learned to bite back, to attack when it was not looking. He couldn't afford to kill it, considering the owner would hardly look kindly on selling a murderous rat to children. He refrained.
In his dreams, the memories came, dancing around him. The nightmares were bad when they replayed the Death Eater's laughter as they tortured him. He remembered Antonin Dolohov's particularly nasty enjoyment of making him scream. It wasn't long before Peter would break. They took time, breaking bones, mending them, breaking them again. Over and over. They found clever ways to make him suffer. They took his mouth away, watched him fumble trying to breathe. They'd give it back just before he would pass out. Dolohov had figured out the exact seconds leading up it.
The cruciatus curse was just when they were feeling lazy, but it set his bones on fire. "Tell us where the safe houses are?" They'd ask, and he saw it every night in his sleep. He replayed his broken memories, his guilt eating away at everything he was. It ate at his subconscious, his conscious, his very being, his heart. He wondered how long he'd even have one.
He didn't tell them. He wanted to be strong like Sirius Black. He wanted to be clever like Remus Lupin. He wanted to be brave like James Potter. He surrounded himself by powerful people, hoping that even a fraction of what they were would become him. He prayed that they'd rescue him, that they'd somehow find him, that he mattered enough to the order for them to look.
"We thought you might be reluctant," Dolohov said, his twisted grin all the more apparent in the dark. Peter wondered if they'd ever just kill him. They found ways instead, to make him wish he were dead. "So we brought someone for you."
Peter awoke from the memory, from the nightmare, freezing, his fur matted and dirty. He tucked his face into his small paws, hyperventilated in as much a form as a rat could do. Peter stared around the room, at the pets asleep for the night in their cages, at the nasty rat who bit him every chance it could get. As it slept, it didn't look like the terror that Peter knew it to be.
There were woodchips from underneath him, and they were uncomfortable to step on. He wished he was back in his mother's home, in his bed, and to have her sing to him one last time. He wished so many things had gone by differently.
The truth was, the worst memories weren't of his torture. The ones that truly made him awaken in tears were the simple ones. To an outside eye, looking in, they were memories of friends, laughing together, pulling pranks, being one another's everything. He remembered the months spent trying to become Animagus.
"Do you think our Animagi say something about you?" Remus had asked, and Peter remembered this clearly from the nightmare he had the night before. He remembered the uniforms that Sirius had left unbuttoned. He remembered the sun shining in on James, making him look like a renaissance painting. Even Remus had looked dangerous and extraordinary with his scars. Peter always compared himself.
"Oh definitely," James had replied, leaning back, trying to catch Lily's eye. "Sirius is loyal and simple as a dog, and will bite to protect himself."
Sirius had scowled at James. "And James, you're like the king of the forest. Ready to look out for your family." Sirius let out a wolfish grin. "And if you wandered in the middle of the road, I would hit you with a car too."
"So why am I a rat?" Remus had asked, feeling even worse about his transformation. It wasn't nearly as glamourous.
"Don't you like cheese?" Sirius suggested.
Peter hated these memories, and in dreams they'd haunt him, making him awaken to a pang of crushing guilt that practically swallowed him. He didn't want to remember them. He didn't want to remember how much he had cared about them. He didn't want to remember how he admired them. He didn't want to remember that he betrayed that.
He didn't want to remember Lily's quick wit, her bright smile, and how much he had admired her as well.
"I bet we can work out what our animagus will be," James had said, that day, months before they successfully changed. They had been in transfiguration class. Peter remembered the uncomfortable desks, how James, Sirius, and Remus had already finished their work, not worrying about goofing off. How Peter was nowhere near complete, and how Peter had no idea what he was doing.
"Won't know unless we try, mate," Sirius had told James.
"It's supposed to reflect who we are as people," James said, taking a pause as his eyes went to Lily Evans, sitting in front of him.
"Pointless," Sirius had replied.
"Evans! I need to ask a serious question," James said, leaning forward to get a closer look at her. Lily always looked so disgusted by the notion of talking to him, and Peter enjoyed watching that disgust when she met James' eyes.
She had turned around, looking annoyed by doing so, and said, "What Potter?"
"Just humor me, sweetheart," James said with a grin that made Lily's nostrils flare. "If I was an animal, what would I be?"
"A pig."
Sirius whistled, "Wow, she didn't even hesitate, mate." He pats James' shoulder.
"If you have time to ask stupid hypotheticals," Lily said, her eyes going to Peter. "Maybe try helping your friend finish the assignment."
When Peter remembered her moments of kindness, how she observed and noticed everyone, the way her eyes followed everything in the room, Peter felt even worse. He felt a sinking pit in his stomach. She was gone and it was his fault.
Everyone always assumed it had been Remus who was the responsible, mother hen of their group, but half the time, Remus was cranky, sick, and exhausted. James had always been the one making sure everyone was okay. He was the one making certain that Remus saw Madam Pomfrey, the one who pats Sirius's back every time Ivy Evans said or did something particularly cruel, the one who made sure that Peter did his charms homework.
And Peter was the reason he was gone.
Peter sunk further into the woodchips as if they could swallow him back up. They didn't. He was left in the puddle of his guilt, of everything he did and that happened to him. Sirius was in Azkaban for something he hadn't done.
"You betrayed them!" Sirius had screamed at him, the hate in his voice echoing on repeat in Peter's cranium.
I betrayed everyone, Peter thought, the despair drowning him. But he'd continue to betray them. He just wanted to live.
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Emma Vanity didn't ask for others' help. She learned how to get to school on her own, learned how to dress on her own, learned how to cook on her own, and every other task her family had forgotten to teach her. She had never felt as alone as she did when the magical witch stood above her, checking her child. The bleeding was followed by the worst pain she had ever felt. It had been like something was kicking her repeatedly in her uterus, slamming from top to bottom. Something was moving around her organs, playing with them like they were toys.
"It's normal for a bit of bleeding," the witch told her. She had a kind voice, the sort that made patients feel at ease and welcome. Emma didn't feel either of those things. She was suffocating.
How was it normal to feel like she was dying? Magical doctors could only do so much, but Emma needed more. Pain medication, spell, an abortion, Emma didn't care. She just wanted it to stop. It, of course, did not. Instead, a new contraction nearly broke her entire body in half. She let out a barely repressed scream, holding her stomach.
"There has to be something," Emma said in a gasp, the witch, whose name had to be Melody if Emma could remember correctly.
"Please understand. Magical medicine and babies are still uncertain territories. For something like contractions, it's best to work through it." The witch, though Emma refused to call her doctor until the woman went to medical school like she did, looked to truly believe that.
"Go away," Emma gasped out, and the witch slowly nodded her head, leaving Emma alone as she had grown accustomed to being. There, Emma laid her head back against the pillows, imagining this was what giving birth must have felt like. She let out small sobs, repressed in her hand.
She felt so alone, but to have Damocles here would make her feel even worse. If he were here, he'd know just how little she wanted this child. She'd scream it at him, and despite what he had done to her, he didn't deserve that. Her shoulders were shaking, and she was losing her mind. The swelling of her belly made her wonder if this was how her own mother felt about her. The horror at the thought only made Emma cry harder.
"You okay in there?" A boy's voice asked, from a small distance away, behind the curtain that separated her from other guests. She had only one other person in the room when she was wheeled in, but he had been asleep when she came.
"I'm going to be a bad mother like my mom," Emma said, a hysterical edge to her voice. Horror immediately set in at her words, and she slapped her hands over her face and cried harder.
"Good thing you caught it early," the sleepy voice said, his voice thick with dehydration, as she could tell by how akin to gravel it was. She didn't even get a chance to be offended when he continued. "If you know, then do better by your kid."
Emma lowered her hands, noticing they were shaking. "You think it's that easy?"
"I don't know," he said, and Emma could vaguely see his silhouette from behind the curtain. "I just want to sleep."
Emma's hands dropped to her side, too drained to be offended by his words. "I wish I could sleep too," she said, holding her stomach as a new contraction began, feeling as if the child was now swimming in there. "I'm Emma."
"I'm tired," he said in reply, and she felt a smile slip through the tears.
"I don't want to be like my mother," she whispered, her hand on her belly. She'd never forget her mother forgetting her youngest child's name, birthdays, and existence. As a way to make amends, her mother always figured the only reward was to throw money at a problem and hope that it disappeared.
The man let out an exhausted sigh that might have made her feel guilty if she wasn't so anxious. Despite this, he didn't ignore her. "Then don't be," he said, his voice still harsh from thirst and lack of use. "It's not exactly out of your hands. You choose how you treat others." He began to cough, making her attempt to sit up. She let out a deep breath, pushing back the pain as she forced her legs off the bed. She used the railing on it to hold herself up, all her senses clouded with the tingling of pain. Slowly, she pulled back the curtain to finally look upon the rude man named 'tired'.
He was covered in bandages, some leaking with blood. The most worrisome one was the blood seeping from the bandage on his waist, blankets kicked off of him and bunched at the bottom of his feet. He didn't even seem to notice her, reaching for the glass of water next to his bed. His clumsy grip lost hold, and the glass went shattering to the ground. Emma's lips thinned, grabbing her wand and muttering a low spell, watching the glass reform. She then did another spell to refill the glass.
Knowing there was no way she would ever be able to stand back up if she reached for it, she did one last spell to hover it back on the food tray next to his bed. Finally, he looked at her, but she was already staggering to hand him the water, not trusting her precision of magic to not bash him over the head with it.
He carefully took it from her grip, his eyes watching her grip the wooden nightstand to hold herself up. Then, he proceeded to drink as if he were dying of thirst. His hands were shaking, causing the water to partially spill over his bare chest. She was enraptured by the scaring, old scarring, that littered his skin. He was gaunt, with skin sticking to his bones, but despite that, she could see a certain strength in the way he carried himself, even as he nearly fell back into his pillow, exhaustion written over his face.
She examined the scars as a doctor would, and she was a doctor. "What are you doing?" The man didn't have a friendly tone, but Emma didn't mind. More often than not, Damocles was cranky before he was kind, stressed as they both raced towards a goal that seemed to get farther and farther away. She took a deep breath.
"Are you in pain?" Emma asked, and he didn't meet her gaze, even as she sat against his bed, taking another deep breath as the next contraction passed.
"Go lay down," he said, his voice tired.
"I am sitting down," she said with an equally tired smile. "Those scars...are they from the war?"
He didn't look comfortable with the topic, but Emma never pretended to be considerate. When she wanted to know something, she'd know it. She could help it, but something in her never wanted to try. Besides, the more she examined the shape of each scar, the trajectory, the gaunt shape of him, the way he pulled at his hair, the way that none of the scars healed normally as if he interrupted the healing process. She could see all of it in a single glance.
"Of a sort," he answered, now attempting to hide some from her observant gaze. His hands moved up to cover him.
She wet her lips, thinking about what she could say. "It's easier sometimes, to tell your problems to a stranger."
He smirked now, and she saw how his face lightened from that horrid darkness as he spoke. "You're not exactly a stranger."
"Oh?" Emma said, pressing her fingers against her stomach, hoping that could alleviate the pain. It did help, however, to focus on someone else's instead.
"You're Emma Vanity," he said, pressing his head fully back into the pillows. "Captain of the Quidditch team. How could I not know of you?"
It wasn't the accomplishment she wanted to be known for, but it did surprise her. She smiled, watching his eyes stare up at the ceiling in a daze. "That doesn't mean you know me. A stranger who genuinely wants to listen. That's me."
He scoffed, "No thanks."
"I don't want this baby," she whispered and watched as his eyes ran back to hers, to the vulnerability of the statement. "It's ruined my life and I don't want it. The only reason I let it breathe life in the first place was that he wants it more than anything and I couldn't do that to him." When the strange boy who know her name didn't say anything, she continued. "So. There's my secret. Told to a stranger who I know wouldn't hurt me with it. You can go next if you want."
He pressed his palm onto his face with a breathy laugh that sounded somehow more pained than when she wailed fifteen minutes prior. He covered his face with his bandaged, scarred hand. She traced each scar, littering his skin. It was odd, in this world of medicine and magic, that they traced his skin so deeply. He obviously sought medical attention here, and he obviously used magical means to heal it. So, she thought with a curious narrow of her eyes, why are you still bleeding.
But Emma knew the answer. She knew the moment she saw him. He was a werewolf.
"I'm Remus Lupin," he said with a breathy chuckle. "And I wish I were dead."
He looked at her from between his finger, peeking out as if he couldn't believe he said it. Her lips opened for a moment, but she didn't say anything. She just rested her palm against his other hand, lying lifelessly at his side. "It's wonderful to meet you, Remus Lupin." She gave him the warmest smile she could muster. "I am so glad you are not."
"Why?" Remus asked with a scoff.
"Because I don't think you want to," she said in reply, and he stared at her as if she were a boggart. "If you did, you would be."
"I should be," he said in reply, and her thumb traced the back of his hand. "All my friends are dead or dead to me. I should be with them."
Her heart lurched in her chest, but she didn't have any words of relation or comfort for him. She could listen, a stranger to a stranger, just as she promised them to be. He looked as if he hadn't spoken to anyone in months, he looked broken and lifeless. But she saw life in him, a will to live that brought him here. She had been looking for months for a werewolf, but couldn't ask him to take part in experimental science when he was barely holding on. She wanted to, but she promised they'd be strangers.
"All my family are Death Eaters," she said, watching him flinch away from her touch. She wasn't surprised, but she was surprised that she said it. That she admitted out loud something she and Damocles had only danced around. "By that logic, should I be one too?"
He let out a breathy sigh. "You should lay back down."
"No. You should find a way to work through what you're through. Find a reason to smile again," she suggested, reaching for his hand again. "And know that your curse doesn't define who you are, Mr. Lupin."
She watched his skin pale at her comment, but she let go of his hand. "I should be a Death Eater and you should not be dead. You should," she said with a smile, "take a shower and find someone you know, someone who isn't a stranger." Her smile got warmer, amusement flickering on her face. "To tell all your woes to. That's how you move on and live."
"What about the dad?" Remus asked, his eyes cutting straight through her. "Are you going to tell him that you are having the child out of guilt and obligation?"
She wet her lips, her heart drumming with pain at the very thought. "Someday. I almost did so during the divorce," she looked away when she spoke. "But saying it now would only be to hurt him. I need to work through what I am feeling on my own because I am not the one trying to scratch out my own heart," she said, not at all kindly, but Remus didn't seem to mind. "Get some rest, Mr. Lupin."
She stood up to leave, but he had grabbed onto her arm, his hand trembling like a frightened child. Finally, without a word, he let go and looked away. She felt her heart lurch for him, but she was too exhausted for anything more. "You were a good captain...James always said how much he hated that."
She felt her entire body freeze, her face going white as she glanced back over to him. Her brows furrowed together, memories finally coming back to her at just a single name. James Potter. Of course, Emma remembered him, and that his son was the reason the Dark Lord was no more. Emma's heart swelled with sympathy, but she couldn't cry.