Maybe it was misery.
"It's going to be okay."
That was what Hermione had said, over and over. Every single fucking time she said that, Iris wanted to murder some unfortunate bastard who happened to be standing nearby. It wasn't gonna be okay. That was a complete fucking lie and both of them knew it. Nothing was gonna be okay and everything was damned to hell.
Hermione's face was so peaceful, so serene, every time those words were spoken, that at one point Iris even suspected she believed it.
Of course, it doesn't matter what you believe. Life fucks you over anyway.
Hermione knelt on the street in a line with five other Muggleborns. They were supposedly the leaders of the Muggleborn resistance movement. Bullshit. Hermione might have been an outspoken critic of the Voldemort-ruled government, but there was no Muggleborn rebellion. That shit was a lie used to justify the war on those of impure blood. Most Muggleborns had managed to flee the country before everything went down the shitter. But not Hermione.
Not know-it-all Hermione. Not righteous-saint Hermione. Not beautiful-precious Hermione.
Please, not her.
Iris' fists were clenched so hard that the skin of her entire hand was the color of spoiled milk and her fingernails, though cut short, caused her to bleed from her palms. Why the fuck shouldn't she go out there and murder those cunts now? Fucking cowards, those executioners wearing masks, wearing masks so that Iris herself couldn't identify them and murder their fucking wives and kids and their fucking pet goldfish-
"Calm down," a low, greasy voice whispered in her ear.
Iris jerked her head around and her eyes settled on a piggy face, multiple chins covered in stubble and whatever hair left on his head looking like they were going to commit suicide. But if anyone had noticed his eyes - oh God his eyes - they might have recognized him.
Sullivan Gardner.
Oh, he wasn't exactly famous. He was kept hush-hush about it all. The big, dirty secret of the Ministry of Magic Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It pissed him off to no end that he had to flash his Level Ten Security Clearance badge to any fucker less important than Amelia Bones or Barty Crouch. The head of the Special Operations Unit.
The government sector so secret, Voldemort had never found out about.
But Voldemort, in all his hissing glory, would find out about the secret government subdivision that had been piking the heads of senior Death Eaters and left them there surrounding the Ministry building soon enough if he didn't lay his fucking hands off Hermione-
"Are you listening?"
A meaty hand gripped Iris' chin and forcibly turned her head to stare back into Gardner's eyes. He glared at him. "Dumb bitch. Look at yourself. About to take on the Dark Lord and ten of his generals while causing mass collateral casualties, are ya? Sit tight like the good little girl you're supposed to be and watch your friends get murdered."
Strangely enough, that helped.
Iris watched Hermione.
Her expression didn't change once when Voldemort spoke to her. Always so serene. Always so beautiful.
"Any last words, Hermione Granger?" Voldemort asked passively. It was almost as if he was genuinely interested in what she had to say.
Hermione raised her head. Though her words were quiet, they were heard by everyone.
"War is peace.
Freedom is slavery.
Ignorance is strength."
Several heartbeats after that, Hermione toppled silently to the ground. She'd gone painlessly. That was more than could be said for the other less fortunate fuckers Iris knew.
That didn't stop Iris from hurting, though.
Iris looked around Tonks' flat. It was little better than a studio apartment, having come with only a separate kitchen, bathroom, sitting room and bedroom. Of course, it was a king's chamber compared to what she'd been living with for some time. And it would be all to herself. At least, if Dumbledore didn't detect the subtle compulsion she'd placed on Tonks earlier that day, the compulsion to spend a night at Sirius' place instead of coming home.
She examined the kettle, having briefly forgotten the function of it. To boil water. Iris shakily removed the kettle from its sitting place, afraid that her rough, barbaric hands might break it. She removed the lid. It was a simple enough design. She moved over to the sink, to the tap. She turned the handle. Water fell out. Transparent, colorless, cold.
Iris watched the water, mesmerized. How long had it been since she'd seen such a sight? A month or so after the Muggle government fell, people were introduced to unpasteurized brown sludge from their water systems. People got into fights about clean water. Rogue killings, especially parents of young children, to keep their kids safe. Some of the more reckless ones tried drinking the disgusting muck, was immediately discouraged either by the taste or diarrhea. In an age where medicine and medical assistance wasn't readily available, it was easy to die from shitting too hard. Some wizards tried to sell water they'd conjured through aguamenti. After that, it didn't really shock Iris to hear that some wizards had been enslaved by Muggles so they could conjure water and multiply food.
Iris closed the tap and set the kettle on the gas stove. She was afraid to use it, she was afraid she'd do something wrong with it and it wouldn't light, instead leaving the gas to build up in the kitchen and blow up in Tonks' face later. She pulled a face and left it alone. She'd been assimilated into her wasteland mindset for so damn long. She didn't remember anything.
Funnily enough, she still remembered how to operate an automobile. One of the first things she'd done when anarchy fell was steal some rich prick's Porsche and go on a joyride. That memory was clear in her mind for whatever reason, as was the sensation of pressing down on the clutch, shifting gear, braking and accelerating and cornering just right. She might have to get it back in her head to use the indicators, though.
Tonks' room was surprisingly clean. Iris supposed Tonks didn't have much to do, all alone; she didn't even have a television, it seemed, or a radio. Iris wondered if she should prank Tonks. Set up a network of high-quality speakers in and around her rooms. Soon as she gets home from work? Give yourself to the Dark Side. Cue Imperial March and cut the lights in Tonks' flat. She'd shit herself.
Maybe for another time, when she was used to handling electronics again. Iris peeked into the bathroom. Pretty standard stuff, but she hadn't seen a working shower in ages. She found a clean, fluffy towel, and grimaced when she realized she'd left dusty fingerprints on the white fabric. She placed the towel just outside the bathtub that was practically too small for anything but a child. She removed her clothing, dropping them onto the tiles. Her nose wrinkled when she realized just how badly she'd dressed all these years. Compared to the cleanliness in Tonks' flat, the dirty, dusty and sweat-caked bandages she'd been using to keep her chest tightly packed weren't giving her any points.
She removed it slowly. How long had it been since she'd seen her own body like this? She didn't remember having so many fucking scars. She wasn't Madam Pomfrey level, but she did feel she'd become quite the spontaneous field medic. She stepped gingerly into the tub and drew the shower curtains closed.
She turned to tap again and cold water sprayed on her. She didn't flinch. However, she did flinch when it started to get warm. She'd forgotten about warm water. Christ, the things you forget in a wasteland, huh? Iris was capable of heating water, but she'd completely missed the real usage of that bit of magic - heating baths. She was a fucking idiot; for no reason, she'd been bathing in cold water the past fifteen-ish years.
Iris watched the water running off her turn into a swirling brown eddy as it approached the drain. Fuck, she was disgusting. Iris grabbed Tonks' shampoo and dumped half the contents on her head. She scrubbed her scalp furiously. Apparently, occasionally casting a cleaning charm on yourself wasn't enough.
The suds were almost black when it spiraled down the drain. Iris squirted body soap onto herself and scrubbed furiously with a pink body sponge, the same way one might treat a stubborn stain on a frying pan. Dead skin was torn off alongside dried blood, sweat, and pus. It was all washed away in a revolting rainbow of the colors of sickness and death.
She estimated it took her forty minutes in the shower to thoroughly clean herself. Her face a little more difficult, because it was hard for her to close her right eye, as damaged as that eyelid was. She didn't want to accidentally gouge her eye out in the process of scrubbing her face, or something.
She poured generous amounts of conditioner into her hair when she was done. Hopefully, this would make it a little easier when brushing out fifteen years' worth of accumulated knots in her hair. She stayed under the water for another five minutes, just because. She eventually had to resort to her iron willpower to shut off the tap.
She drew back the shower curtains and while she dried herself off, she realized, there was no way in hell she was putting her old clothes back on.
No fucking way.
They stunk like a bitch, especially whatever clothes she'd been wearing underneath. White v-neck undershirts that were anything but white at this point. She sent a wandless vanishing charm at it; if she tried burning it, she'd probably get knocked out by the fumes. She vanished all of her underclothes; the spandex tights that she'd been wearing for warmth, the bandages that served as a makeshift bra, and whatever monstrosity that her underwear had morphed into after all these years. To be fair, there were no menstrual hygiene products in the bleak future.
The cloak, the dragonhide armor, and the accessories like the wand holsters, she wouldn't vanish. But they needed to be washed somehow and Iris wasn't entirely sure how leather was meant to be cleaned. She did however put her silk shirt and silk pants into the washing machine, conveniently located next to the bathroom sink, intending on asking Tonks to help her with it later.
She stared at her nude form in the mirror. She wasn't even planning to, really, it just caught her eye. She was different. She looked civilized. The wild mop of hair that hung down her crazed eye was gone, now that it was clean and wasn't held together like a bird's nest due to all her sweat and grease. Her body - how long ago was the last time she'd seen it? - was lean, lacking in fat, and her skin hugged her muscles. Well, not that she'd expect anything else when her diet consisted of Stalin's Peasant Supreme every fucking day.
But she looked worse than she thought she'd have.
Oh, she'd aged well, that was for certain - not a single wrinkle on her face or body - which was a surprise considering her lifestyle. Maybe, when she fell through the Veil, she was made a little younger, a compromise between her current age and however old she should have been in 1995? She'd had her suspicions, especially because it seemed to her like her line of sight was shorter than before, and she decided that, considering how youthful she appeared, this was probably the case.
But she was also looking like a prisoner of war. Her ribs were more prevalent than her breasts. Her stomach was non-existent and her limbs were spindly like that of an insect. Every surface of her body imaginable - and yes, she checked her arse too - was covered in scars, big or small, recent or old. Some of the oldest being a circular puncture wound from the basilisk, and the massive silvery noughts-and-crosses playing field etched into her back from her time with Vernon.
In short, she hated how she looked.
She wasn't her persona. She wasn't intimidating. She wasn't a rogue agent hellbent on killing the entire administrative branch of the government. She wasn't a dark witch. She wasn't the Devil of the Thames, she wasn't the Butcher, she wasn't the Vanquisher of Voldemort. She was just Freak, having grown through puberty with too little nutrition and too much pain. She wasn't scary. She was just ugly.
The mirror cracked with a piercing crash. A spiderweb of near-invisible lines reached all the way across the large, square mirror hanging above the bathroom sink. Iris was thankful for that. She could pretend that there were no tears brimming at her eyes, that way.
Iris left the bathroom, determinedly not looking at any of the other mirrors. She'd have to apologize to Tonks about that. She desperately reined her magic in - she hadn't been this stressed in a long time. Her magic was like a rabid dog tugging on her leash, swirling around her, wanting to pounce, wanting to destroy indiscriminately.
Thank goodness that Tonks was the same size as she was. Iris wasn't entirely sure if it was appropriate borrowing Tonks' underwear, especially when she didn't know Iris well (Iris knew Tonks well enough in the other world, thank you very much) but she decided it was better than the alternative where she wore Tonks' pajama bottoms all commando. She picked out a yellow-and-white stripey pair and pulled them on. She glanced at the bras. By no means was Tonks filled out in that region, but anything she had would still be bigger than whatever Iris needed to hold up. Iris snorted self-depreciatingly.
She moved onto the pajamas. She didn't want to pick out Tonks' favorite set or anything, so she chose whatever was at the very bottom of the very neatly stacked pile in her closet. It turned out to be a slightly faded, lavender-colored set that was thick enough to be warm without being too restricting. She pulled these on and thought about socks, before she decided otherwise. She was enjoying the sensation of bare toes on the soft carpet, one she'd not long experienced, and she would also enjoy the sensation of her toes in the undoubtedly crisp sheets of Tonks' military-neat bed.
If there was one exception to just how amazingly neat Tonks was, it was her pillows. Like, eight of them; they were arranged haphazardly on the double bed in weird angles and positions. Just as Iris remembered, honestly. Her memories began bubbling back to the surface of her mind, memories she wished would stay hidden, as she experimentally picked up one of the pillows, a very soft, pink plushy one.
The pillow reminded her of that one time she'd shared a bed with Tonks. Sure, they'd crashed together before, but it had been the first time they'd ever done anything with each other. They'd had a good time. At least Iris had. Back then she was still quite inexperienced and uncertain of her abilities, but Tonks had assured her that she'd done well. But it was what happened after that remained branded in her mind. Slightly hot, they'd opted to remove the blankets, but then it was too cold. The two girls had found the perfect compromise of temperature by cuddling close. It was the stench of Nymphadora's sweat, the underlying perfume, smelling slightly of wildflowers, the way her hair unconsciously changed from pink to red in a burst of passion and then down to a muted brown as she relaxed into sleep. It was the way her slender fingers interlocked with Iris' own, and her powerful, muscular thigh wrapped around her waist as if to protect her, and the way her gentle, slow breathing brushed Iris' forehead like the gentlest of kisses.
Iris threw the bedroom curtains shut and dived into the sheets. She curled up, into a ball, yelling at herself internally to go to sleep, furious with herself for allowing herself to cry, too emotional to even remember to stop and feel the sheets. She held the soft pillow to herself desperately as one of its purple comrades dampened from the leaking tears. Despite her heightened tensions, though, it didn't take her long to fall asleep. She was truly exhausted, her muscles numb with exertion to the point that even that big fat bruise on her thigh from her Ministry escapade didn't hurt much anymore.
"I understand that it might be taxing for many of you to attend two Order meetings in one day, but I believe we need to discuss the topic from earlier."
Auror Emmeline Vance would have liked to complain. There were more and more frequent Order meetings recently as they were, and most of them were 80% arguments between Sirius Black and Severus Snape. Both idiots, frankly. But she couldn't really complain, the Aurors on their manhunt had been recalled by noon - only a couple of hours after starting - because suddenly, nobody could remember who they were hunting for.
"I believe the Auror force has taken to calling their original target 'Archangel', based on their task name of Operation Archangel. With information we've received from a few of the Aurors, I have concluded that Archangel is an exceedingly powerful force that should not be agitated, if discovered."
Emmeline paused. Dumbledore knew of many things that were 'exceedingly powerful' and should not be agitated. He'd warned them plenty enough times, as if her abilities as an Auror of twelve years was in question. But Archangel was a person; everyone remembered that still. And the only person that Dumbledore considered them to be truly out of their league, at least individually, was You-Know-Who himself.
Another player had entered the game, then.
"I have determined that Archangel cast a Fidelius charm on their identity," Dumbledore said, earning looks of surprise and nervousness from the other members. Even Snape seemed to have no complaint. "As you know, the Fidelius is extremely taxing magic with a considerable consequence on one's health and magic if attempted casually. Archangel, having come through the Veil, would not have allies, hence one can conclude that they are a powerful enough wizard to perform the Fidelius by themselves."
"We might be able to find out who the secret-keeper was, and go from there," Remus suggested.
"Ah. That would ordinarily be the first course of action, but Archangel fell out of the Veil," Dumbledore rebuffed gently. "They have no contacts, at least ones that share mutual trust. I believe that they would instead choose a complete stranger, likely a Muggle, and obliviate them of the event afterward, making even the secret-keeper forget their meeting. Naturally, they can't forget the secret, but if they were Muggle, they'd never notice a compulsion charm that keeps the secret hidden deep within their mind."
The Order members glanced at each other. "So, how do we deal with this problem?" Arthur asked.
"We can't," Dumbledore replied, to the shock of others. "Like I said to Kingsley and Nymphadora earlier, it is entirely possible that we sit down next to Archangel, have a conversation, get their name and face and floo address, and we would still never be able to realize they are, in fact, Archangel. Such is the nature of the Fidelius charm."
"We can't fight back," Emmeline guessed.
"Not at all," Dumbledore agreed easily. For a supposed threat, he was being very casual about it. "While we will never know their identity, we can figure out a few things about their character. For example, we still know that Archangel somehow recognized Nymphadora and Kingsley, and ceased attacking them once they realized they were real. Thus, we can conclude that they are not hostile towards either Nymphadora and Kingsley, and it is entirely possible they are not antagonistic towards other Order members."
"It's only a possibility," Snape, the ever-pessimistic bat, said.
"Of course it's only a possibility," Emmeline couldn't resist snarking. "We just discussed how we know nothing about them."
"Settle down," Dumbledore said soothingly. Snape glared across the table and Emmeline glared right back. "I believe it is unlikely that Archangel will be openly hostile to us. Perhaps excepting you, Severus, considering your tattoo." Emmeline snorted, and she wasn't the only one; much more effective was his abrasive personality than any Dark Mark at antagonizing people. "However, I cannot assure that Harry is safe. He is a child of great import, after all, and Archangel may seek to use him for their own purposes. I would not risk him getting hurt in any way, and I think it may be important to keep watch over him. Possibly double the guards during twilight hours."
"Or you could just bring him over here before he dies of boredom," Sirius growled.
"I would usually answer no, but I think with recent events in mind, that would be a wise suggestion," Dumbledore sighed. "Aurors? Would it be possible for you to remain this afternoon and carry out the operation early?"
"Far too less time to scout and plan," Moody grumbled.
"While Privet Drive has more than a few wards in place, none of it will be any hindrance to someone who can cast the Fidelius on their own," Dumbledore said sharply, his previous exhaustion disappearing for a brief moment. Emmeline felt a shiver run down her spine; while there were more of such scenes recently, she could never get over how much power and authority Dumbledore seemed to radiate when he wasn't playing the part of barmy headmaster and instead a general. "We can only hope that Archangel is incapacitated for a short time after their spellcasting and has to recover, if indeed their motive is to harm Harry."
"Fine, fine," Moody muttered. "Shacklebolt, Tonks, Vance, Lupin, Podmore. Get your arses ready for the recovery operation. We have no time to lose."
Emmeline stood from her seat, as did a host of other Order members. They walked quickly out of the room - Tonks winced as she struck her hip against one of the chairs - and walked to the broom closet. They, one by one, grabbed their brooms and a set of invisibility cloaks. They were nowhere near as perfect and durable as the one the Potter family owned, but they were useful nonetheless. Less area to cover with the disillusionment charm.
"Make sure to fly in formation," Moody barked. "Podmore, you're the scout. You fly ten seconds ahead and make sure nothing intercepts us."
"Yes, sir," Sturgis Podmore said, and set off.
About ten seconds later, the other five took to the skies. Emmeline sincerely believed she would be okay. What were the chances that they'd accidentally run into Archangel, and even if they did, what were the chances that they'd be attacked? Especially not if Tonks and Kingsley were with them. But she couldn't shrug off her worry, embedded in her thoughts like an irritating thorn.
A man as powerful as Dumbledore, somehow summoned - she refused to believe they fell through the Veil for no apparent reason - from another world, right after the Dark Lord returned. Was it a last-ditch effort by the government in denial to get rid of You-Know-Who once and for all?
This was getting interesting. Her journal might not be able to keep up.
Arthur sighed. The meetings never really seemed to harbor good news. In fact, it seemed like every other meeting began with a minute of silence for those killed by newly invigorated Death Eater lieutenants, usually attacking Muggles or Muggleborn families.
And now, there was news about 'Archangel', a mysterious figure that dropped out of the Veil carrying magical power and skill to overwhelm Unspeakables, Aurors, and surpassing possibly Dumbledore himself, the beacon of light in these dark times. It all had to happen in such a short span of time, didn't it? The resurrection of You-Know-Who, the stranger from the Veil…
He snapped his fingers as an idea came to him, and he began to rummage through a small, inconspicuous cabinet off to the side. In there were sheaves of paper, which recorded all the meetings' proceedings in text. At the very top was the newest recording, the one from the meeting they just had. One more below that was from that morning.
He plucked it out, and he began to read. It only served to make him more frustrated, however. There were places where Kingsley and Nymphadora were describing the physical features of Archangel, Arthur was sure of it! But wherever there was such information, his brain would not process it. It simply couldn't, as if he had spontaneously developed a severe case of dyslexia whenever he came across their facial features, or even their pronoun, as if he were reading a different alphabet.
He put down the transcript in disgust. So it really was a Fidelius. And there was a possibility that Harry might be caught up in all of this madness.
When he turned around, he came face-to-face with Sirius Black. Arthur had never really had an opportunity to speak to the man, even before his imprisonment - it didn't go much beyond their involvement in the Order. Even now, within his own house, he didn't speak to Sirius much except greetings and small talk.
The man had filled out quite nicely since his days of wrongful imprisonment, but he still seemed to lack the color, the humanity one usually expected from, well, humans. It wasn't his fault, obviously - but the misery and dark chill that this man seemed to radiate was always a little disturbing.
"I can't decipher the transcript," Arthur sighed, showing Sirius. "It's as if I'm reading another language, but only when Archangel's physical features are being described."
"That is torturing my brain," Sirius said, frowning at the parchment before putting it back. "I wonder where this Archangel comes from."
"He definitely used magic, didn't he? So that must mean he comes from a world like ours, perhaps even a mirror world," Arthur smiled.
"Hopefully it's not another Voldemort," Sirius growled, and Arthur managed to hide most of his flinch. "We've already got enough on our hands with one dark lord."
"Hopefully," Arthur agreed solemnly. There weren't many people that could match Albus' magical strength; of those, You-Know-Who was the most obvious. "But Albus did say that he wasn't hostile to Nymphadora and Kingsley, even when they were acting as Aurors."
"It's a glimmer of hope," Sirius agreed.
The two men remained quiet for a bit. Eventually, they began discussing what Harry's summer might have been like. Sirius didn't really have a high opinion of the Muggles that Harry lived with, and Arthur was inclined to agree. Hopefully, they left Harry alone for the most part.
Soon that question would be answered, for the front door had opened. Sirius grinned wide and rushed to the entrance hall, Arthur following shortly behind. The thought of the young man who was by all but name his adopted son brought a smile to his face.
"Sirius," Harry breathed, and charged into Sirius' arms.
He didn't seem particularly happy yet, but he was also safe. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. He'd had his doubts, especially with this Archangel character on the loose, but Harry was safe and would be safe so long as he remained here.