Chapter One: A Broken Order
"And I talked a little while about the years
I guess the winter makes you laugh a slower,
Makes you talk a lower
'Bout the things you could not show her.
And it's been a
Long December
And there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last."
Counting Crows, "Long December" (suggested music for listening)
It had been two short days since Dumbledore had appeared on her figurative doorstep, and she was still feeling the surreality of it all. When she had left England, things had been well under control. She had been confident of the eventual success of the Order, and the defeat of Voldemort. Now, things had never looked darker. The England she had left was utterly gone, and in its place was a world riddled by Dark curses and World War I-esque trenches. The Dark Mark seemed to hover perpetually just over the horizon.
Unable to travel by magic, she had flown back into Heathrow with an assurance from Dumbledore that she would be met by an Order member. The plane flight had passed in a blur. She had sat unthinking and unseeing in the uncomfortable economy class seats, unable to make her numb mind sort out why she was there. The past few days had passed in a haze of business as she prepared to leave home for an indeterminate time. She had to arrange for someone to take over her job as barn manager, had to close up the apartment, say a few good-byes ... there had been no time to think. And now afforded the time, she couldn't make the gears of her mind grind out of auto-pilot.
Seeing the Order member woke her up a little. She had climbed off of the plane, feeling disoriented and lost, and claimed her one small bag. She had stood awkwardly by the baggage claim, waiting for someone to pick her up. And from halfway across the room she heard a loud, familiar voice yell,
"Hey, Laura Taylor!" She looked up from the endless revolutions of the baggage claim to see a broad-shouldered, good-natured redhead striding across the way towards her. The man had a weather-beaten, freckled face with a muscular build. She recognized him instantly.
"Bill!" she cried, ridiculously relieved to see a familiar face. Bill reached her in six long strides and enveloped her in a much needed hug which she returned eagerly. He held her away from him by the shoulders and took a good look at her.
"Welcome to hell, kid!" he said boisterously, giving her an affectionate shake. "Where's your bag? Dumbledore's waiting."
Without waiting for an answer, he kissed her on the cheek, picked up her bag, and started walking briskly out of the building. Laura followed at a fast walk. Bill led her to the third floor of the parking deck, where he pulled a set of car keys out his pocket and unlocked a beat-up Camry. Throwing her bag in the backseat, he opened the door for her.
"I didn't know you knew how to drive," Laura said, curiously.
"We've all had to learn. We spend so much time sneaking around incognito as muggles that it was unavoidable." Bill put the car in gear and drove out of the deck.
"Are we going to Grimmauld Place?" asked Laura.
"Yep," said Bill. "Mum's already set up your old room for you."
A ten minute drive put Bill's car in front of Numbers Eleven and Thirteen Grimmauld Place. Laura grabbed her bag and was soon following Bill's agile steps up the stoop. She took in the street a little wonderingly. She had never thought that she would see this place again, yet here she was. It all looked so strangely familiar.
She had almost no time to mull this over, however, as Number Twelve bloomed out between Eleven and Thirteen, like a weed exploding in the cracks of a sidewalk. Bill opened the door without hesitation and marched.
"Well, I've brought home the prodigal daughter!" he yelled without pausing. He continued into the kitchen and Laura followed in his wake, feeling as if she would be crushed by his waves if she didn't keep up. The swinging kitchen door admitted her, and she found Molly and Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter, and Luna Lovegood seated around the wooden kitchen table. They all grinned broadly when they saw her, as if had only been gone a month instead of two years. She had never felt more awkward.
Bill pulled out a chair for her and she sank down into it gratefully – her knees felt like someone had replaced them with jello.
Harry leaned across the table and said,
"So how are you?"
"I'm good," she said, faintly.
"What have you been up to these last few years?" He asked it as conversationally as if there was no war going on, as if she had merely taken a vacation.
"I've been working at the racetrack. With horses," she clarified, needlessly.
"Are you hungry?" asked Mrs. Weasley, kindly. Laura looked over to her, really taking her in for the first time. She was brought up short by what she saw. Molly Weasley had lost a lot of weight and there were hollow places under her eyes and in her cheeks. There was no harassed, merry glint in her eyes. Laura felt as if someone had slipped an ice cube in her stomach. There was something so grotesquely wrong with the way Mrs. Weasley was looking at her that she longed to run screaming from the tense room.
"Um ... no, I'm fine."
"Well, dinner's in about an hour, so you can eat then," said Mrs. Weasley.
"And good thing, too, I'm starved," said Ginny, running a hand through her hay-wire red hair. Her hair color had softened since they had left Hogwarts and was an almost strawberry blonde color now. She looked little like the rest of the Weasleys: her face was rounder and prettier, not ruggedly good-looking like the boys. She did have Mrs. Weasley's brown eyes. And like Mrs. Weasley's eyes, they looked haunted and tired, as if the smile she grinned at Laura had not quite reached them. Laura remembered with a pang the time she and Ginny had hidden in an empty classroom and discussed Draco Malfoy.
Harry, she noted with interest, had started brushing his wild hair off of his forehead, leaving his scar in plain view for all the world to see. She wondered briefly what had brought on this change.
Luna Lovegood alone seemed unchanged. She was still as dreamy looking as ever. She was tracing a knot in the table with her forefinger and her wand was stowed behind her ear.
They were all changed, and she felt like a stranger in their midst. Whereas once she had been a part of them, there was something so vastly different about them now that she could barely comprehend it. All she knew was that they had gone through some hell together, a hell that she had not yet seen. She had a feeling, though, that she would.
"How many people are here?" she asked.
"Well, Fleur is upstairs –"
"Fleur Delacour?"
"One in the same," said Bill, with a sudden, silly grin on his face.
"What's that face?" Laura asked.
"That face means Bill here's in love," said Harry, with a grin on his own face.
"With Fleur?"
"We're getting married as soon as the war's over," said Bill, with a wistful look on his handsome face. He brightened a little, smiling a little wickedly. "But I'm not the only one."
"Who else?"
Harry ducked his head a little and Laura looked at him suspiciously.
"With who?" she asked.
"Parvati," said Harry, blushing a little. Laura couldn't help but smile. Funny, she had expected to come back to only news of death, yet here was life, blooming under her nose.
"So who else is here?"
"Hermione and Ron, with Aidan –"
"Who?"
"Aidan, their son."
"They have a son?!"
"He's almost seven months now."
Laura suddenly laughed.
"Is he named Aidan after who I think he's named after?"
"Who else!" said Ginny, with a laugh. "Aidan Lynch, Irish seeker."
Laura thought back on the Quiddich World Cup before their forth year. She hadn't been able to go, but she had been thoroughly briefed by Harry and Ron afterwards. Ron and Hermione had finally gotten together, to the ultimate relief and amusement of the entire household, a few months before Laura had left. It had only taken years of bickering.
"Anyway, so Tonks is here somewhere, and I think that's it at the moment ... Dumbledore's coming in tonight, and I think Mundungus Fletcher may be wandering through tonight. Moody's not due until tomorrow, but he should be here soon. And of course the usual traffic of people just in for breakfast, or to drop off reports," finished Ginny.
"And George," said Luna, suddenly. "He is upstairs."
There was a sudden, crushing silence. Laura looked about stunned, anxious. Why the silence? Mrs. Weasley was looking pinched, as if she was holding back tears, and Ginny was looking determinedly at her fingernails. Harry stood up.
"Laura, have you been upstairs yet?" he asked.
"N-no," she stammered.
"I'll show you up," he said, touching her shoulder. She stood with a feeling of foreboding and followed Harry out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She noticed that the portrait of Mrs. Black was finally gone. She wondered if it had finally come unstuck with the death of the last of the Blacks. Even after eight years, the house still seemed empty to her without Sirius in it.
By the time she had reached her room, she knew that Harry had taken her upstairs to tell her. She didn't know whether she was aching to know the truth, or whether she would rather bury her head under her pillow and never know. But she had to know who still lived and who had died. Putting it off would only make it more painful.
Almost as soon as Harry had shut the door behind them, Laura turned to him.
"Who?" she said.
Harry sighed and turned away from her.
"Fred," he said.
Laura sucked in her breath. She felt a stab of almost physically painful regret and nostalgia as she thought of Fred's quirky, saucy grin, of his sense of humor and his unchecked tongue, of his kisses. They had dated briefly in her fifth year, but it was obvious to everyone that she was a rebound during the many tumultuous periods of his relationship with Angelina. She had been over Fred since before her sixth year began – he had been little more than a schoolgirl crush – but she would always hold a special place in her heart for both Weasley twins. Fred and Angelina had been married shortly after leaving Hogwarts. So he was dead.
"How?" she asked.
"There was a raid in Surrey, about twenty Death Eaters. Fred and Angelina went in, we thought it was only two or three of them. They fought – bravely – but they were outnumbered. Angelina died first – Fred was wounded and she was standing over him. Fred was tortured and killed." Harry's voice was mechanical, as if he were reciting a speech. She knew that it cost him to tell her these things. Laura closed her eyes and sank down on her bed. Fred would leave a hole that no one could ever fill. No one could have his boundless energy, no one could have his sense of trickery that could bring you up in the darkest of times.
"And George is –"
"He's alive," said Harry. "But he is -- not the same." Laura understood without him saying anything more. They had been "the twins" so long, they had been "Fred and George" so long, that she doubted George knew how to be just George. Half of his soul had been ripped away from him.
Harry must have thought his task was finished, because he turned to leave. Laura stopped him, though.
"Who else?" she asked.
Harry froze at the doorway, his body rigid. He turned back in, though, and sank down on the bed next to her. His vivid green eyes looked dull and glassy, as if he was retreating into himself to tell this story. His face looked hollow and sad.
By the end of the night, any illusions Laura still had about the condition of the Order were gone. There had been so many casualties, and so many of her friends had died. Lee Jordan was alive, but in much the same condition as Neville Longbottom's parents. He had been captured on a reconnaissance mission and tortured with the Cruciatus curse by Nott.
Both Creevey brothers were long gone. Their precious over-exuberance had gotten them killed three years ago, when Laura was still with the Order. They had barely been in the Order for a year, still fresh-faced and young. Padma Patil was also dead before Laura had left.
There were other surprises, though. Remus Lupin – the last of the Marauders – had been killed by Draco Malfoy. Anthony Goldstein and Katie Bell were also dead, along with countless others, both Order members and not. Arthur Weasley had also been killed. She knew now the reason behind Molly Weasley's face. She remembered Mrs. Weasley's bone-crunching hugs and felt now, that if she hugged her that hard, she might just turn into dust and blow away. Always Mrs. Weasley's greatest fear had been losing her family: she had, after all, the worst odds of anybody with nine of them to look after. Her face had hurt Laura more than anything else. Mrs. Weasley was a surrogate mother-figure to all the members of the Order, and she remembered clearly the nights Molly Weasley would sit up with her while she cried over Draco.
Dinner that night was a quiet affair. The mention of George, and the look on Laura's face when she came down was enough to put a damper on the entire evening. She looked around the table and took all of it in. She could see the pain and hollowness in all of the Weasley children's eyes, too. They had lost a father and a brother. Two brothers, really, for when Fred Weasley died, George had effectually died, too. He still lived and breathed and did his duty for the Order, but there was no doubt that when he went out on missions, he desired little more than to do his job and not come back alive. Watching him at the dinner table made her realize the mere shell that he was.
So much had been lost that Laura could hardly bear it. She spent the first night of her return huddled under the covers of her bed, shaking, too sad to cry. She remembered Mrs. Weasley used to always fret about her family constantly, but now she seemed to say nothing about them: what she had always feared had begun, and she was losing them one by one. There was nothing she could say to them that would do any good. Laura hated to see her so hopeless.
But the situation was hopeless. She saw as soon as she returned exactly how bad things were and why her job was so vital. There would be two weeks to prepare for it, two weeks in which to gather her emotions about her and do her job. She wondered in despair if Dumbledore had been right to choose her for this all-important task. She wondered if she could do it.
It was nine o'clock in the morning on her first morning at the Order when there was a light knock on her door. She stood up, sleepless for so long that she was already awake, and padded to the door. She was barefoot, dressed in only a nightgown. Opening the door, she saw Ron Weasley standing in the doorway. Twenty-three years old now, he looked years older than his age. There were worry lines creasing his forehead and a perpetual frown on his handsome face. His hair was as red as ever and his eyes were still big and round, though sad behind the glasses he now wore. Laura could see that the years and the death had pushed Ron to grow into an adult by the time he turned twenty. There was little sadness, death, or destruction that his eyes had not seen. He was not the bumbling, awkward teenager he had once been.
There was something about his demeanor, though, that was different. He had just as much cause as anyone else to appear sad and hopeless, yet he did not. He was sad, certainly, and worried, but he was not hopeless. She puzzled over the reason why. He hugged her tightly, holding on to her for a moment.
"How are you?" he asked. His voice had changed. It was slow and deliberate now.
"I'm good," she whispered, wishing that she could spend the rest of her life being slightly crushed by someone who loved her.
"I'm glad you're back."
She said nothing to this. She wasn't sure yet whether she was glad or not.
Ron stepped back and took a seat on the edge of her bed. She sat beside him and there was a long silence. At last Ron asked gravely,
"I suppose you've been caught up on ... everything."
"Oh, Ron," she whispered. "There's so many – so many of them."
"I know."
She took a deep, shuddering breath. Seeing Ron one-on-one, not at that horrible dinner, had made her want to do what she had not done yet, and cry. She clenched her throat and did not let herself, however. Running a hand over her haphazard hair, she asked,
"Is Dumbledore here?"
"No, he was only here for a few hours last night, but he'll be back tonight. He left word that he wanted to see you as soon as he returned." She nodded and reached for her wand. Tapping herself twice on the shoulder, she changed instantly into a pair of Wranglers and a tee-shirt.
"Haven't changed too much, have you?" asked Ron, with a little grin.
"No," she said. "Very little, in fact. You, though ... I barely recognized you." Ron grinned.
"What is that grin?" she asked.
Sheepishly, Ron ran a hand through his hair, unconsciously mussing it.
"Well, ah –"he stalled.
"Spit it out, Weasley!" she said, smiling at his discomfort.
"I – uh, I have a son," he said at last.
Laura laughed. So that was the explanation behind the difference in his mood.
"Aidan. I know."
"Do you?"
"With Hermione. That's wonderful, Ron."
Everyone's marrying their high school sweethearts, she thought. She kept the "except me" part of her thoughts firmly silenced. Harry and Parvati, Hermione and Ron, Fred and Angelina ... The laugher fell from her face as she thought of Fred and Angelina. Ron noticed the change and patted the bed next to him. She sat down heavily and he put his arm around her.
"Oh, Ron –"she sighed, leaning into his shoulder. "I thought that when I came back, things would be different than when I left. And they are. But they're worse. I was talking to Tonks last night – we're so badly outnumbered, and so many of our friends are gone. It's never going to be the same, is it?"
Ron shook his head.
"No. No, it never will."
She wanted so badly to start crying, to pour out all of her woes. She wanted to cry for Colin, for Dennis, for Mr. Weasley, for Fred and George ... So particularly for Fred and George. She could hardly think of George as living without his twin, though she knew he sat downstairs at that very moment. How would the Order keep its spirits up without their exuberant sense of humor? It had never occurred to her, in all her years of knowing them that they someday might not be there. She wanted to cry for Remus Lupin, whose quiet guidance had always steered her in the right direction.
She couldn't cry, though. Not to Ron. Aidan or no, he carried too many burdens for her to add to them. They all did. They had all seen this death and destruction, had all lived through it. She had merely heard about it. Stiffening her spine, she sat up straight and said,
"I'm sorry, Ron. I didn't mean to go off like that."
"That's all right."
She shook her head.
"I won't do it again." Standing up and squaring her shoulders, she said, "I think I'd better go get some breakfast now. I'll see you later, okay?"
"Okay."
Walking out of her room, she passed down the familiar corridors of Number 12, and into the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley was standing at the stove, prodding some sausages with her wand.
"Oh, Laura, I was just about to bring some breakfast up for you."
"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley." She gave the older woman a kiss on the cheek. "I'd love some." She sat down at one end of the huge wooden table in the kitchen. How many rowdy dinners did she remember at this table? Last night's dinner had been quiet and subdued. Everyone spoke in whispers and the loudest noise was Mundungus Fletcher's chewing.
Turning he mind away from her memories, she studied Mrs. Weasley as she prepared a plate. No, she could never cry, never hurt in front of any of these people. She had lost much, but they had lost more. How selfish would she be, to elevate her own demons over theirs? She remembered the story Harry once told her, when he had walked in on Mrs. Weasley, trying to combat a boggart who was taking turns appearing as a member of Mrs. Weasley's family, lying dead. Two of those visions had already come to pass. How many more would before this war was over?
Stop it, Laura instructed herself firmly. Stop thinking about it. It won't help matters. You'll just turn yourself into a human hosepipe and you know that can only hurt.
Mrs. Weasley plunked a plate in front of her just as the door swung open and Ron stepped in. Laura winced a little, but he behaved as if nothing had happened. She took the moment to study him a little more. He was as tall as ever, though he had finally outgrown the gangliness that had plagued his youth. He was muscular and handsome, and his eyes had darkened a shade or two. They were no longer they eyes of a little boy with a thirst for adventure and a crush on Hermione Granger: they were the eyes of a husband, and a father, and a soldier. He was smiling at his mother in a way Laura had never seen him smile at her. She realized that it was because he no longer feared her. Mrs. Weasley had always been the most feared member of the whole Weasley family, but the death of two members of this family had left her hollow and empty and unable to dole out that anger anymore. Ron, Ginny, Charlie, and Bill were taking care of Mrs. Weasley now, instead of the other way around. George was unable to help anyone anymore, and no knew of Percy's whereabouts. It was a wound Mrs. Weasley had buried deep inside of her years ago, and it startled Laura that she had not remembered the third Weasley child until then.
Ron kissed his mother on the cheek and sat down next to Laura, stealing one of her sausages. Laura mock-sighed.
"Well, I suppose it's back to having my meals filched right out from underneath my nose."
"Right you are," said Ron, helping himself to a bite of her toast. Laura snatched it out of his fingers.
"Ron, I'm hungry!" she said. He shrugged.
"Hey, Mum, you want to scramble up some more of these eggs?" he asked, pointing at Laura's plate.
"I don't know how you're still hungry, you had four earlier," said Mrs. Weasley. Again, Ron shrugged, and Mrs. Weasley started cooking again. While he waited, Ron stole back the toast and for Mrs. Weasley's benefit, asked Laura how she was.
"I'm okay," she said. "It's good to see everyone again."
That was an empty nicety – they both knew there were many whom Laura would never see again – but Ron skated over the unpleasant side to the comment as if it did not exist. It was much easier to pretend she had merely been gone on vacation and had returned home to find things just as she had left them.
She had already begun to notice a pattern, here. They lived from moment to moment, trying not to dwell on memories, either happy or sad. One moment they could be tense and sad, and the next, laughing, and the next merely exchanging niceties. It was a strange way to life, she reflected, but an emotional survivalist tactic.
Before Ron could respond, the door swung open again, and an agitated Hermione Granger stalked into the room.
"Ron Weasley, there you are!" She had a baby with a crop of brown hair the same color as Hermione's propped on her hip, and the baby was making a snatch at Hermione's still-bushy locks.
Ron arranged his face into innocent lines.
"Have you been looking for me?"
"You know perfectly well that I've been looking for you! I cannot look after this child, write up those reports for Dumbledore, and deal with that damned niffler too!"
"Niffler?" asked Laura curiously.
"Yes, niffler!" said Hermione, too distracted to say good morning. Some things never change, Laura thought contentedly. "Ronald ran across one in Bosnia last month and decided to realize his childhood dream of owning one!" Uh-oh, thought Laura. She only calls him Ronald when she's really mad at him. "And now's it's absolutely torn apart the bathroom again! There's toothpaste absolutely everywhere! It has got to go!" Her voice had reached screaming pitch and Laura saw Tonks poke her head in the door, see the source of the noise, and beat a hasty retreat. It appeared that Hermione had taken over Mrs. Weasley's position of Head Shouter And Disciplinarian. Ron, meanwhile, was cringing.
"I'm sorry, Hermione, darling, just as soon as I get out of the house again I'll donate him to SLUMA," he promised. The Society For Lost And Unwanted Magical Animals was roughly the equivalent of the muggle SPCA.
"You'd better!" Hermione said, with a puff. She was winding down and she turned to Laura and said,
"Good morning, Laura. How are you?"
"I'm marvelous," said Laura, laughing a little at Hermione's abrupt change in mood, so much like Mrs. Weasley's. "How's Aidan this morning?" Leave it to Ron to name his first-born after a Quiddich player, she thought with another laugh.
"He's just fine. What have you got planned for today?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "Dumbledore wanted to see me, but I don't think he's coming back until tonight. So I've got a clean slate."
"Wonderful," said Hermione. "You can help me write up these reports for Dumbledore. It will help you catch up on everything you've missed."
"Love to." Popping the last sausage into her mouth, Laura stood up and followed Hermione to the living room that had been converted into somewhat of an office. There were papers piled up haphazardly on every possible open space. Hermione waved a casual arm at them.
"We need to sort all of these into dates. They should all be dated, and when we've done that, they all need to be organized into specific topics and missions. Then, we compile them into reports for each mission. That means writing them over, although I've come up with a handy little charm that will do that part for us."
"Great," groaned Laura, looking at the mountains of papers before her. "See you next year, then."
"Oh, it's not that bad," said Hermione, cheerfully, always voracious when it came to anything involving pen and paper. Setting Aidan down in his playpen, she pulled a large stack off of an arm chair and set to work creating piles. Laura turned her attention to the particularly daunting pile perched precariously on the mantle.
Some of the reports were dated from as far back as June, almost a month ago, so there were soon piles all across the floor. Laura didn't read any of the contents just now; she knew they would get to that later. She began to recognize the handwriting of various Order members as she went, however, as each document was headed with the name of the writer and the date. She knew Harry, Ron, and Hermione's instantly, of course. Mundungus Fletcher's she knew quickly because he consistently forgot to put his name on them at all and she'd had to ask Hermione. Tonks had short, spiky writing, and George's was scrawled and barely legible.
Sorting the papers by date took them the better part of two hours, and it was another one to get them all in order by names within the dates. At two o'clock, Hermione had to stop and go feed Aidan, so Laura sat down by herself to start organizing the reports into specific missions.
Here was one George had been on, spying on a man they suspected to be a Death Eater. He was indeed one, and George had recorded as much information about the man as he could. It appeared that he gone on that mission alone, but there were several other dates scrawled at the bottom, obviously other dates he had spied on the man. Also that day had been a far more dangerous mission to rescue an Order member Laura didn't know from the hands of Crabbe and Goyle, senior. He had been captured and was awaiting Voldemort's arrival when Order members snatched him from the jaws of certain death.
There were other kinds of reports, too. There were sheets upon sheets of attacks on Order members, muggles, and wizards alike.
And sheet after sheet bore the phrase "murdered by Draco Malfoy". She counted unconsciously, hardly able to bear that the number was six by the time she had finished. And that was only for a month.
When Hermione had returned, Laura was still working feverishly. A strange, angry glow had come over her features and her posture was rigid and uncomfortable. It was as if a demon had possessed her, driving her to work without pause for breath.
"Slow down, Laura, Dumbledore's not due back for a few hours, at least."
"I'm fine," she said, shortly.
Hermione sat down and shook her head, pulling the last pile towards her. She didn't know what had set Laura off like this. Very few people did know that Laura had once been attached to Draco Malfoy – Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, and Dumbledore, in fact, were the only ones.
By four-thirty, Hermione was casting the spell to recopy all of the reports, and the two women sat back tiredly. Laura cracked her neck and looked over to Hermione with studied nonchalance.
"Hermione, do we have dossiers on all the Death Eaters still?"
"Of course."
"Are they still in that closet?" She indicated one half-way across the room.
"Yeah, help yourself. What do you want to see?"
"Just wanted to browse a little," Laura lied. Hermione shrugged.
"Alright. I'm going to go try and clean up that bathroom."
"Okay. Goodbye."
"Bye."
As soon as she was sure that Hermione was out of the room, Laura hurried over to the closet and pulled it over. Running her fingers over the shelves of folders, she located the one, nearly bursting at the seams, labeled Draco Malfoy. Locking the door, she settled herself on the floor with the folder in front of her.
She poured over the folder with a sense of guilty fascination, though she knew technically she did no wrong. But how badly she needed to know, wanted to know. The more she read, however, the more she wished she had never known. But she could not stop herself.
She searched frantically for some signal, some sign that some good remained in Draco Malfoy. She hunted in vain, however, for murder after murder piled up in front of her eyes, Remus Lupin and Katie Bell among countless others. Both muggles and wizards, and Order members. All had disappeared without a trace, destroyed without mercy. Only the very first, a muggle-born wizard, a single mother by the name of Carolyn Moorer, had been found and buried, her face still open in a silent scream. Her two children, strangely, had been left untouched, but they had died anyway: left alone in the flat, they had starved, for no one learned of Moorer's death for almost a week. Laura's face twisted in pain when she thought of that particularly display of cruelty.
This she remembered clearly, for Malfoy had killed Moorer three years ago, when Laura had still been with the Order. Eight more had followed before she had broken. She had been able to hold her professional mask on, to do her job well and keep her mind an emotional blank, when Draco had remained inactive, presumably still completing his training. Then, there had still been hope that he might turn back, might still fight his way free of Lucius's grasp. But when the murders began, that hope had been extinguished as easily as a candle, blown out as quickly as it took to perform Avada Kedavra. He didn't even have the sympathy to leave the bodies for mourning families. Knowing he was lost had destroyed Laura's ability to function in the world of wizards. If there was no hope for the person that she had been so sure had been good at heart, then certainly there was no hope for any of them. And she had made the decision to snap her wand and leave the wizarding world forever.
For some reason or another, however, she had been unable to destroy her wand. She had paced her room for hours that long night when she made the decision, trying to force herself to break it across her knee, but she couldn't do it. So the next morning, a dry-eyed but exhausted looking Laura had given her wand to Dumbledore, asking him to hold it for her. And she had turned and left, flying out of England, back to America, without even looking back. She had turned her thoughts away from Malfoy, Voldemort, and anything that reminded her of the wizarding world, and turned them to horse racing, allowing the work she did to suck up her entire life, as horse racing is apt to do. She became immersed in a professional life, became immersed in horses again, and worked hard at forgetting the past.
It had almost worked, too. But with Dumbledore's return, all the memories had come crashing back onto her.
There were thirty-six murders total. Thirty-six and counting. In the beginning, they had been few and far between, but as time continued to pass, they were drawing closer together.
She closed the folder with a heavy sigh, and she straightened her back with resolve. She could not allow herself to be plagued by memories and emotions concerning Draco Malfoy. He was no different than any other Death Eater. She had a job to do here, and by God she would do it. There was a war to be won, and there were people to be saved. She mustn't permit her own emotions to get in the way, particularly when the emotions of other people were so much more fragile, and in need of care.
As she returned the folder back to the closet, she vowed silently not to allow herself to look at it again, not unless absolutely necessary to her work. Checking the clock, she realized it was almost eight, and that Dumbledore ought to be back soon. Her stomach grumbled, and she realized she was hungry as well. Laura slipped into the study, where Dumbledore sat behind a gigantic mahogany desk. He looked up benignly when she entered.
"Ah, good evening, Laura."
"Good morning, Dumbledore. You wanted to see me?"
"Yes, I did. I wanted to discuss your assignment. I would not ask you to jump in so soon, but time is precious to us. We have fourteen days exactly."
"You needn't worry about me. When I came back, I came back to do a job, and I intend to do it."
Dumbledore nodded, noticing the distinct change about her. The woman he had fetched from Virginia had been weak and recuperating. He had begun to have second thoughts about her ability to do what he asked of her. All his doubts vanished as he saw her now, however. Something that he did not know had stiffened her resolve. Something had made her refuse to be frail and emotional. She was thoroughly professional now. This was different even from the strong, professional woman that she had been six years ago when she began her training as an auror, and four years ago when she had begun to work for the Order. There had always been a twinge of emotion about her then, always a hint behind her eyes that she was holding down tears. There was also always a sense of hope. Now, there was nothing. There was no sadness, and no hope, either. Her eyes were emotionless orbs, waiting patiently for him to begin speaking.
"As I said, we have two weeks. You will need to gather all of the information that you possibly can prior to this. You will be planning and leading any countermeasures."
She nodded, absorbing the information and storing it away mechanically to be dealt with at the appropriate time. Dumbledore had thought he would do anything to see the perpetual pain in her eyes go away, yet he liked even less the emptiness that had appeared in lieu of it. He did not like to think that the pain had gone away at the price of losing her hope as well.
"We have folders of all the information we have collected, and it would behoove you to research it thoroughly. Time is very short here." He peered at her over his spectacles for a short moment.
"There is little more that I can tell you. Do you have any questions?"
She pulled the folder of information across the desk to her and shook her head.
"Good. Then good luck."
Laura made to stand up, but he stopped her.
"How are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm doing fine," she said, casually. Dumbledore shook his head.
"Don't close yourself off, Laura," he said gravely. "You will exhaust yourself. Putting off feeling will only make it that much more difficult when you must feel."
She shrugged.
"I'm fine, Professor, really. Don't add me to your worries." She was out of the room before he could respond.
Shaking his head sadly, Dumbledore pulled the piles of reports on his desk towards him and began to rifle through them.
"And I talked a little while about the years
I guess the winter makes you laugh a slower,
Makes you talk a lower
'Bout the things you could not show her.
And it's been a
Long December
And there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last."
Counting Crows, "Long December" (suggested music for listening)
It had been two short days since Dumbledore had appeared on her figurative doorstep, and she was still feeling the surreality of it all. When she had left England, things had been well under control. She had been confident of the eventual success of the Order, and the defeat of Voldemort. Now, things had never looked darker. The England she had left was utterly gone, and in its place was a world riddled by Dark curses and World War I-esque trenches. The Dark Mark seemed to hover perpetually just over the horizon.
Unable to travel by magic, she had flown back into Heathrow with an assurance from Dumbledore that she would be met by an Order member. The plane flight had passed in a blur. She had sat unthinking and unseeing in the uncomfortable economy class seats, unable to make her numb mind sort out why she was there. The past few days had passed in a haze of business as she prepared to leave home for an indeterminate time. She had to arrange for someone to take over her job as barn manager, had to close up the apartment, say a few good-byes ... there had been no time to think. And now afforded the time, she couldn't make the gears of her mind grind out of auto-pilot.
Seeing the Order member woke her up a little. She had climbed off of the plane, feeling disoriented and lost, and claimed her one small bag. She had stood awkwardly by the baggage claim, waiting for someone to pick her up. And from halfway across the room she heard a loud, familiar voice yell,
"Hey, Laura Taylor!" She looked up from the endless revolutions of the baggage claim to see a broad-shouldered, good-natured redhead striding across the way towards her. The man had a weather-beaten, freckled face with a muscular build. She recognized him instantly.
"Bill!" she cried, ridiculously relieved to see a familiar face. Bill reached her in six long strides and enveloped her in a much needed hug which she returned eagerly. He held her away from him by the shoulders and took a good look at her.
"Welcome to hell, kid!" he said boisterously, giving her an affectionate shake. "Where's your bag? Dumbledore's waiting."
Without waiting for an answer, he kissed her on the cheek, picked up her bag, and started walking briskly out of the building. Laura followed at a fast walk. Bill led her to the third floor of the parking deck, where he pulled a set of car keys out his pocket and unlocked a beat-up Camry. Throwing her bag in the backseat, he opened the door for her.
"I didn't know you knew how to drive," Laura said, curiously.
"We've all had to learn. We spend so much time sneaking around incognito as muggles that it was unavoidable." Bill put the car in gear and drove out of the deck.
"Are we going to Grimmauld Place?" asked Laura.
"Yep," said Bill. "Mum's already set up your old room for you."
A ten minute drive put Bill's car in front of Numbers Eleven and Thirteen Grimmauld Place. Laura grabbed her bag and was soon following Bill's agile steps up the stoop. She took in the street a little wonderingly. She had never thought that she would see this place again, yet here she was. It all looked so strangely familiar.
She had almost no time to mull this over, however, as Number Twelve bloomed out between Eleven and Thirteen, like a weed exploding in the cracks of a sidewalk. Bill opened the door without hesitation and marched.
"Well, I've brought home the prodigal daughter!" he yelled without pausing. He continued into the kitchen and Laura followed in his wake, feeling as if she would be crushed by his waves if she didn't keep up. The swinging kitchen door admitted her, and she found Molly and Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter, and Luna Lovegood seated around the wooden kitchen table. They all grinned broadly when they saw her, as if had only been gone a month instead of two years. She had never felt more awkward.
Bill pulled out a chair for her and she sank down into it gratefully – her knees felt like someone had replaced them with jello.
Harry leaned across the table and said,
"So how are you?"
"I'm good," she said, faintly.
"What have you been up to these last few years?" He asked it as conversationally as if there was no war going on, as if she had merely taken a vacation.
"I've been working at the racetrack. With horses," she clarified, needlessly.
"Are you hungry?" asked Mrs. Weasley, kindly. Laura looked over to her, really taking her in for the first time. She was brought up short by what she saw. Molly Weasley had lost a lot of weight and there were hollow places under her eyes and in her cheeks. There was no harassed, merry glint in her eyes. Laura felt as if someone had slipped an ice cube in her stomach. There was something so grotesquely wrong with the way Mrs. Weasley was looking at her that she longed to run screaming from the tense room.
"Um ... no, I'm fine."
"Well, dinner's in about an hour, so you can eat then," said Mrs. Weasley.
"And good thing, too, I'm starved," said Ginny, running a hand through her hay-wire red hair. Her hair color had softened since they had left Hogwarts and was an almost strawberry blonde color now. She looked little like the rest of the Weasleys: her face was rounder and prettier, not ruggedly good-looking like the boys. She did have Mrs. Weasley's brown eyes. And like Mrs. Weasley's eyes, they looked haunted and tired, as if the smile she grinned at Laura had not quite reached them. Laura remembered with a pang the time she and Ginny had hidden in an empty classroom and discussed Draco Malfoy.
Harry, she noted with interest, had started brushing his wild hair off of his forehead, leaving his scar in plain view for all the world to see. She wondered briefly what had brought on this change.
Luna Lovegood alone seemed unchanged. She was still as dreamy looking as ever. She was tracing a knot in the table with her forefinger and her wand was stowed behind her ear.
They were all changed, and she felt like a stranger in their midst. Whereas once she had been a part of them, there was something so vastly different about them now that she could barely comprehend it. All she knew was that they had gone through some hell together, a hell that she had not yet seen. She had a feeling, though, that she would.
"How many people are here?" she asked.
"Well, Fleur is upstairs –"
"Fleur Delacour?"
"One in the same," said Bill, with a sudden, silly grin on his face.
"What's that face?" Laura asked.
"That face means Bill here's in love," said Harry, with a grin on his own face.
"With Fleur?"
"We're getting married as soon as the war's over," said Bill, with a wistful look on his handsome face. He brightened a little, smiling a little wickedly. "But I'm not the only one."
"Who else?"
Harry ducked his head a little and Laura looked at him suspiciously.
"With who?" she asked.
"Parvati," said Harry, blushing a little. Laura couldn't help but smile. Funny, she had expected to come back to only news of death, yet here was life, blooming under her nose.
"So who else is here?"
"Hermione and Ron, with Aidan –"
"Who?"
"Aidan, their son."
"They have a son?!"
"He's almost seven months now."
Laura suddenly laughed.
"Is he named Aidan after who I think he's named after?"
"Who else!" said Ginny, with a laugh. "Aidan Lynch, Irish seeker."
Laura thought back on the Quiddich World Cup before their forth year. She hadn't been able to go, but she had been thoroughly briefed by Harry and Ron afterwards. Ron and Hermione had finally gotten together, to the ultimate relief and amusement of the entire household, a few months before Laura had left. It had only taken years of bickering.
"Anyway, so Tonks is here somewhere, and I think that's it at the moment ... Dumbledore's coming in tonight, and I think Mundungus Fletcher may be wandering through tonight. Moody's not due until tomorrow, but he should be here soon. And of course the usual traffic of people just in for breakfast, or to drop off reports," finished Ginny.
"And George," said Luna, suddenly. "He is upstairs."
There was a sudden, crushing silence. Laura looked about stunned, anxious. Why the silence? Mrs. Weasley was looking pinched, as if she was holding back tears, and Ginny was looking determinedly at her fingernails. Harry stood up.
"Laura, have you been upstairs yet?" he asked.
"N-no," she stammered.
"I'll show you up," he said, touching her shoulder. She stood with a feeling of foreboding and followed Harry out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She noticed that the portrait of Mrs. Black was finally gone. She wondered if it had finally come unstuck with the death of the last of the Blacks. Even after eight years, the house still seemed empty to her without Sirius in it.
By the time she had reached her room, she knew that Harry had taken her upstairs to tell her. She didn't know whether she was aching to know the truth, or whether she would rather bury her head under her pillow and never know. But she had to know who still lived and who had died. Putting it off would only make it more painful.
Almost as soon as Harry had shut the door behind them, Laura turned to him.
"Who?" she said.
Harry sighed and turned away from her.
"Fred," he said.
Laura sucked in her breath. She felt a stab of almost physically painful regret and nostalgia as she thought of Fred's quirky, saucy grin, of his sense of humor and his unchecked tongue, of his kisses. They had dated briefly in her fifth year, but it was obvious to everyone that she was a rebound during the many tumultuous periods of his relationship with Angelina. She had been over Fred since before her sixth year began – he had been little more than a schoolgirl crush – but she would always hold a special place in her heart for both Weasley twins. Fred and Angelina had been married shortly after leaving Hogwarts. So he was dead.
"How?" she asked.
"There was a raid in Surrey, about twenty Death Eaters. Fred and Angelina went in, we thought it was only two or three of them. They fought – bravely – but they were outnumbered. Angelina died first – Fred was wounded and she was standing over him. Fred was tortured and killed." Harry's voice was mechanical, as if he were reciting a speech. She knew that it cost him to tell her these things. Laura closed her eyes and sank down on her bed. Fred would leave a hole that no one could ever fill. No one could have his boundless energy, no one could have his sense of trickery that could bring you up in the darkest of times.
"And George is –"
"He's alive," said Harry. "But he is -- not the same." Laura understood without him saying anything more. They had been "the twins" so long, they had been "Fred and George" so long, that she doubted George knew how to be just George. Half of his soul had been ripped away from him.
Harry must have thought his task was finished, because he turned to leave. Laura stopped him, though.
"Who else?" she asked.
Harry froze at the doorway, his body rigid. He turned back in, though, and sank down on the bed next to her. His vivid green eyes looked dull and glassy, as if he was retreating into himself to tell this story. His face looked hollow and sad.
By the end of the night, any illusions Laura still had about the condition of the Order were gone. There had been so many casualties, and so many of her friends had died. Lee Jordan was alive, but in much the same condition as Neville Longbottom's parents. He had been captured on a reconnaissance mission and tortured with the Cruciatus curse by Nott.
Both Creevey brothers were long gone. Their precious over-exuberance had gotten them killed three years ago, when Laura was still with the Order. They had barely been in the Order for a year, still fresh-faced and young. Padma Patil was also dead before Laura had left.
There were other surprises, though. Remus Lupin – the last of the Marauders – had been killed by Draco Malfoy. Anthony Goldstein and Katie Bell were also dead, along with countless others, both Order members and not. Arthur Weasley had also been killed. She knew now the reason behind Molly Weasley's face. She remembered Mrs. Weasley's bone-crunching hugs and felt now, that if she hugged her that hard, she might just turn into dust and blow away. Always Mrs. Weasley's greatest fear had been losing her family: she had, after all, the worst odds of anybody with nine of them to look after. Her face had hurt Laura more than anything else. Mrs. Weasley was a surrogate mother-figure to all the members of the Order, and she remembered clearly the nights Molly Weasley would sit up with her while she cried over Draco.
Dinner that night was a quiet affair. The mention of George, and the look on Laura's face when she came down was enough to put a damper on the entire evening. She looked around the table and took all of it in. She could see the pain and hollowness in all of the Weasley children's eyes, too. They had lost a father and a brother. Two brothers, really, for when Fred Weasley died, George had effectually died, too. He still lived and breathed and did his duty for the Order, but there was no doubt that when he went out on missions, he desired little more than to do his job and not come back alive. Watching him at the dinner table made her realize the mere shell that he was.
So much had been lost that Laura could hardly bear it. She spent the first night of her return huddled under the covers of her bed, shaking, too sad to cry. She remembered Mrs. Weasley used to always fret about her family constantly, but now she seemed to say nothing about them: what she had always feared had begun, and she was losing them one by one. There was nothing she could say to them that would do any good. Laura hated to see her so hopeless.
But the situation was hopeless. She saw as soon as she returned exactly how bad things were and why her job was so vital. There would be two weeks to prepare for it, two weeks in which to gather her emotions about her and do her job. She wondered in despair if Dumbledore had been right to choose her for this all-important task. She wondered if she could do it.
It was nine o'clock in the morning on her first morning at the Order when there was a light knock on her door. She stood up, sleepless for so long that she was already awake, and padded to the door. She was barefoot, dressed in only a nightgown. Opening the door, she saw Ron Weasley standing in the doorway. Twenty-three years old now, he looked years older than his age. There were worry lines creasing his forehead and a perpetual frown on his handsome face. His hair was as red as ever and his eyes were still big and round, though sad behind the glasses he now wore. Laura could see that the years and the death had pushed Ron to grow into an adult by the time he turned twenty. There was little sadness, death, or destruction that his eyes had not seen. He was not the bumbling, awkward teenager he had once been.
There was something about his demeanor, though, that was different. He had just as much cause as anyone else to appear sad and hopeless, yet he did not. He was sad, certainly, and worried, but he was not hopeless. She puzzled over the reason why. He hugged her tightly, holding on to her for a moment.
"How are you?" he asked. His voice had changed. It was slow and deliberate now.
"I'm good," she whispered, wishing that she could spend the rest of her life being slightly crushed by someone who loved her.
"I'm glad you're back."
She said nothing to this. She wasn't sure yet whether she was glad or not.
Ron stepped back and took a seat on the edge of her bed. She sat beside him and there was a long silence. At last Ron asked gravely,
"I suppose you've been caught up on ... everything."
"Oh, Ron," she whispered. "There's so many – so many of them."
"I know."
She took a deep, shuddering breath. Seeing Ron one-on-one, not at that horrible dinner, had made her want to do what she had not done yet, and cry. She clenched her throat and did not let herself, however. Running a hand over her haphazard hair, she asked,
"Is Dumbledore here?"
"No, he was only here for a few hours last night, but he'll be back tonight. He left word that he wanted to see you as soon as he returned." She nodded and reached for her wand. Tapping herself twice on the shoulder, she changed instantly into a pair of Wranglers and a tee-shirt.
"Haven't changed too much, have you?" asked Ron, with a little grin.
"No," she said. "Very little, in fact. You, though ... I barely recognized you." Ron grinned.
"What is that grin?" she asked.
Sheepishly, Ron ran a hand through his hair, unconsciously mussing it.
"Well, ah –"he stalled.
"Spit it out, Weasley!" she said, smiling at his discomfort.
"I – uh, I have a son," he said at last.
Laura laughed. So that was the explanation behind the difference in his mood.
"Aidan. I know."
"Do you?"
"With Hermione. That's wonderful, Ron."
Everyone's marrying their high school sweethearts, she thought. She kept the "except me" part of her thoughts firmly silenced. Harry and Parvati, Hermione and Ron, Fred and Angelina ... The laugher fell from her face as she thought of Fred and Angelina. Ron noticed the change and patted the bed next to him. She sat down heavily and he put his arm around her.
"Oh, Ron –"she sighed, leaning into his shoulder. "I thought that when I came back, things would be different than when I left. And they are. But they're worse. I was talking to Tonks last night – we're so badly outnumbered, and so many of our friends are gone. It's never going to be the same, is it?"
Ron shook his head.
"No. No, it never will."
She wanted so badly to start crying, to pour out all of her woes. She wanted to cry for Colin, for Dennis, for Mr. Weasley, for Fred and George ... So particularly for Fred and George. She could hardly think of George as living without his twin, though she knew he sat downstairs at that very moment. How would the Order keep its spirits up without their exuberant sense of humor? It had never occurred to her, in all her years of knowing them that they someday might not be there. She wanted to cry for Remus Lupin, whose quiet guidance had always steered her in the right direction.
She couldn't cry, though. Not to Ron. Aidan or no, he carried too many burdens for her to add to them. They all did. They had all seen this death and destruction, had all lived through it. She had merely heard about it. Stiffening her spine, she sat up straight and said,
"I'm sorry, Ron. I didn't mean to go off like that."
"That's all right."
She shook her head.
"I won't do it again." Standing up and squaring her shoulders, she said, "I think I'd better go get some breakfast now. I'll see you later, okay?"
"Okay."
Walking out of her room, she passed down the familiar corridors of Number 12, and into the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley was standing at the stove, prodding some sausages with her wand.
"Oh, Laura, I was just about to bring some breakfast up for you."
"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley." She gave the older woman a kiss on the cheek. "I'd love some." She sat down at one end of the huge wooden table in the kitchen. How many rowdy dinners did she remember at this table? Last night's dinner had been quiet and subdued. Everyone spoke in whispers and the loudest noise was Mundungus Fletcher's chewing.
Turning he mind away from her memories, she studied Mrs. Weasley as she prepared a plate. No, she could never cry, never hurt in front of any of these people. She had lost much, but they had lost more. How selfish would she be, to elevate her own demons over theirs? She remembered the story Harry once told her, when he had walked in on Mrs. Weasley, trying to combat a boggart who was taking turns appearing as a member of Mrs. Weasley's family, lying dead. Two of those visions had already come to pass. How many more would before this war was over?
Stop it, Laura instructed herself firmly. Stop thinking about it. It won't help matters. You'll just turn yourself into a human hosepipe and you know that can only hurt.
Mrs. Weasley plunked a plate in front of her just as the door swung open and Ron stepped in. Laura winced a little, but he behaved as if nothing had happened. She took the moment to study him a little more. He was as tall as ever, though he had finally outgrown the gangliness that had plagued his youth. He was muscular and handsome, and his eyes had darkened a shade or two. They were no longer they eyes of a little boy with a thirst for adventure and a crush on Hermione Granger: they were the eyes of a husband, and a father, and a soldier. He was smiling at his mother in a way Laura had never seen him smile at her. She realized that it was because he no longer feared her. Mrs. Weasley had always been the most feared member of the whole Weasley family, but the death of two members of this family had left her hollow and empty and unable to dole out that anger anymore. Ron, Ginny, Charlie, and Bill were taking care of Mrs. Weasley now, instead of the other way around. George was unable to help anyone anymore, and no knew of Percy's whereabouts. It was a wound Mrs. Weasley had buried deep inside of her years ago, and it startled Laura that she had not remembered the third Weasley child until then.
Ron kissed his mother on the cheek and sat down next to Laura, stealing one of her sausages. Laura mock-sighed.
"Well, I suppose it's back to having my meals filched right out from underneath my nose."
"Right you are," said Ron, helping himself to a bite of her toast. Laura snatched it out of his fingers.
"Ron, I'm hungry!" she said. He shrugged.
"Hey, Mum, you want to scramble up some more of these eggs?" he asked, pointing at Laura's plate.
"I don't know how you're still hungry, you had four earlier," said Mrs. Weasley. Again, Ron shrugged, and Mrs. Weasley started cooking again. While he waited, Ron stole back the toast and for Mrs. Weasley's benefit, asked Laura how she was.
"I'm okay," she said. "It's good to see everyone again."
That was an empty nicety – they both knew there were many whom Laura would never see again – but Ron skated over the unpleasant side to the comment as if it did not exist. It was much easier to pretend she had merely been gone on vacation and had returned home to find things just as she had left them.
She had already begun to notice a pattern, here. They lived from moment to moment, trying not to dwell on memories, either happy or sad. One moment they could be tense and sad, and the next, laughing, and the next merely exchanging niceties. It was a strange way to life, she reflected, but an emotional survivalist tactic.
Before Ron could respond, the door swung open again, and an agitated Hermione Granger stalked into the room.
"Ron Weasley, there you are!" She had a baby with a crop of brown hair the same color as Hermione's propped on her hip, and the baby was making a snatch at Hermione's still-bushy locks.
Ron arranged his face into innocent lines.
"Have you been looking for me?"
"You know perfectly well that I've been looking for you! I cannot look after this child, write up those reports for Dumbledore, and deal with that damned niffler too!"
"Niffler?" asked Laura curiously.
"Yes, niffler!" said Hermione, too distracted to say good morning. Some things never change, Laura thought contentedly. "Ronald ran across one in Bosnia last month and decided to realize his childhood dream of owning one!" Uh-oh, thought Laura. She only calls him Ronald when she's really mad at him. "And now's it's absolutely torn apart the bathroom again! There's toothpaste absolutely everywhere! It has got to go!" Her voice had reached screaming pitch and Laura saw Tonks poke her head in the door, see the source of the noise, and beat a hasty retreat. It appeared that Hermione had taken over Mrs. Weasley's position of Head Shouter And Disciplinarian. Ron, meanwhile, was cringing.
"I'm sorry, Hermione, darling, just as soon as I get out of the house again I'll donate him to SLUMA," he promised. The Society For Lost And Unwanted Magical Animals was roughly the equivalent of the muggle SPCA.
"You'd better!" Hermione said, with a puff. She was winding down and she turned to Laura and said,
"Good morning, Laura. How are you?"
"I'm marvelous," said Laura, laughing a little at Hermione's abrupt change in mood, so much like Mrs. Weasley's. "How's Aidan this morning?" Leave it to Ron to name his first-born after a Quiddich player, she thought with another laugh.
"He's just fine. What have you got planned for today?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "Dumbledore wanted to see me, but I don't think he's coming back until tonight. So I've got a clean slate."
"Wonderful," said Hermione. "You can help me write up these reports for Dumbledore. It will help you catch up on everything you've missed."
"Love to." Popping the last sausage into her mouth, Laura stood up and followed Hermione to the living room that had been converted into somewhat of an office. There were papers piled up haphazardly on every possible open space. Hermione waved a casual arm at them.
"We need to sort all of these into dates. They should all be dated, and when we've done that, they all need to be organized into specific topics and missions. Then, we compile them into reports for each mission. That means writing them over, although I've come up with a handy little charm that will do that part for us."
"Great," groaned Laura, looking at the mountains of papers before her. "See you next year, then."
"Oh, it's not that bad," said Hermione, cheerfully, always voracious when it came to anything involving pen and paper. Setting Aidan down in his playpen, she pulled a large stack off of an arm chair and set to work creating piles. Laura turned her attention to the particularly daunting pile perched precariously on the mantle.
Some of the reports were dated from as far back as June, almost a month ago, so there were soon piles all across the floor. Laura didn't read any of the contents just now; she knew they would get to that later. She began to recognize the handwriting of various Order members as she went, however, as each document was headed with the name of the writer and the date. She knew Harry, Ron, and Hermione's instantly, of course. Mundungus Fletcher's she knew quickly because he consistently forgot to put his name on them at all and she'd had to ask Hermione. Tonks had short, spiky writing, and George's was scrawled and barely legible.
Sorting the papers by date took them the better part of two hours, and it was another one to get them all in order by names within the dates. At two o'clock, Hermione had to stop and go feed Aidan, so Laura sat down by herself to start organizing the reports into specific missions.
Here was one George had been on, spying on a man they suspected to be a Death Eater. He was indeed one, and George had recorded as much information about the man as he could. It appeared that he gone on that mission alone, but there were several other dates scrawled at the bottom, obviously other dates he had spied on the man. Also that day had been a far more dangerous mission to rescue an Order member Laura didn't know from the hands of Crabbe and Goyle, senior. He had been captured and was awaiting Voldemort's arrival when Order members snatched him from the jaws of certain death.
There were other kinds of reports, too. There were sheets upon sheets of attacks on Order members, muggles, and wizards alike.
And sheet after sheet bore the phrase "murdered by Draco Malfoy". She counted unconsciously, hardly able to bear that the number was six by the time she had finished. And that was only for a month.
When Hermione had returned, Laura was still working feverishly. A strange, angry glow had come over her features and her posture was rigid and uncomfortable. It was as if a demon had possessed her, driving her to work without pause for breath.
"Slow down, Laura, Dumbledore's not due back for a few hours, at least."
"I'm fine," she said, shortly.
Hermione sat down and shook her head, pulling the last pile towards her. She didn't know what had set Laura off like this. Very few people did know that Laura had once been attached to Draco Malfoy – Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, and Dumbledore, in fact, were the only ones.
By four-thirty, Hermione was casting the spell to recopy all of the reports, and the two women sat back tiredly. Laura cracked her neck and looked over to Hermione with studied nonchalance.
"Hermione, do we have dossiers on all the Death Eaters still?"
"Of course."
"Are they still in that closet?" She indicated one half-way across the room.
"Yeah, help yourself. What do you want to see?"
"Just wanted to browse a little," Laura lied. Hermione shrugged.
"Alright. I'm going to go try and clean up that bathroom."
"Okay. Goodbye."
"Bye."
As soon as she was sure that Hermione was out of the room, Laura hurried over to the closet and pulled it over. Running her fingers over the shelves of folders, she located the one, nearly bursting at the seams, labeled Draco Malfoy. Locking the door, she settled herself on the floor with the folder in front of her.
She poured over the folder with a sense of guilty fascination, though she knew technically she did no wrong. But how badly she needed to know, wanted to know. The more she read, however, the more she wished she had never known. But she could not stop herself.
She searched frantically for some signal, some sign that some good remained in Draco Malfoy. She hunted in vain, however, for murder after murder piled up in front of her eyes, Remus Lupin and Katie Bell among countless others. Both muggles and wizards, and Order members. All had disappeared without a trace, destroyed without mercy. Only the very first, a muggle-born wizard, a single mother by the name of Carolyn Moorer, had been found and buried, her face still open in a silent scream. Her two children, strangely, had been left untouched, but they had died anyway: left alone in the flat, they had starved, for no one learned of Moorer's death for almost a week. Laura's face twisted in pain when she thought of that particularly display of cruelty.
This she remembered clearly, for Malfoy had killed Moorer three years ago, when Laura had still been with the Order. Eight more had followed before she had broken. She had been able to hold her professional mask on, to do her job well and keep her mind an emotional blank, when Draco had remained inactive, presumably still completing his training. Then, there had still been hope that he might turn back, might still fight his way free of Lucius's grasp. But when the murders began, that hope had been extinguished as easily as a candle, blown out as quickly as it took to perform Avada Kedavra. He didn't even have the sympathy to leave the bodies for mourning families. Knowing he was lost had destroyed Laura's ability to function in the world of wizards. If there was no hope for the person that she had been so sure had been good at heart, then certainly there was no hope for any of them. And she had made the decision to snap her wand and leave the wizarding world forever.
For some reason or another, however, she had been unable to destroy her wand. She had paced her room for hours that long night when she made the decision, trying to force herself to break it across her knee, but she couldn't do it. So the next morning, a dry-eyed but exhausted looking Laura had given her wand to Dumbledore, asking him to hold it for her. And she had turned and left, flying out of England, back to America, without even looking back. She had turned her thoughts away from Malfoy, Voldemort, and anything that reminded her of the wizarding world, and turned them to horse racing, allowing the work she did to suck up her entire life, as horse racing is apt to do. She became immersed in a professional life, became immersed in horses again, and worked hard at forgetting the past.
It had almost worked, too. But with Dumbledore's return, all the memories had come crashing back onto her.
There were thirty-six murders total. Thirty-six and counting. In the beginning, they had been few and far between, but as time continued to pass, they were drawing closer together.
She closed the folder with a heavy sigh, and she straightened her back with resolve. She could not allow herself to be plagued by memories and emotions concerning Draco Malfoy. He was no different than any other Death Eater. She had a job to do here, and by God she would do it. There was a war to be won, and there were people to be saved. She mustn't permit her own emotions to get in the way, particularly when the emotions of other people were so much more fragile, and in need of care.
As she returned the folder back to the closet, she vowed silently not to allow herself to look at it again, not unless absolutely necessary to her work. Checking the clock, she realized it was almost eight, and that Dumbledore ought to be back soon. Her stomach grumbled, and she realized she was hungry as well. Laura slipped into the study, where Dumbledore sat behind a gigantic mahogany desk. He looked up benignly when she entered.
"Ah, good evening, Laura."
"Good morning, Dumbledore. You wanted to see me?"
"Yes, I did. I wanted to discuss your assignment. I would not ask you to jump in so soon, but time is precious to us. We have fourteen days exactly."
"You needn't worry about me. When I came back, I came back to do a job, and I intend to do it."
Dumbledore nodded, noticing the distinct change about her. The woman he had fetched from Virginia had been weak and recuperating. He had begun to have second thoughts about her ability to do what he asked of her. All his doubts vanished as he saw her now, however. Something that he did not know had stiffened her resolve. Something had made her refuse to be frail and emotional. She was thoroughly professional now. This was different even from the strong, professional woman that she had been six years ago when she began her training as an auror, and four years ago when she had begun to work for the Order. There had always been a twinge of emotion about her then, always a hint behind her eyes that she was holding down tears. There was also always a sense of hope. Now, there was nothing. There was no sadness, and no hope, either. Her eyes were emotionless orbs, waiting patiently for him to begin speaking.
"As I said, we have two weeks. You will need to gather all of the information that you possibly can prior to this. You will be planning and leading any countermeasures."
She nodded, absorbing the information and storing it away mechanically to be dealt with at the appropriate time. Dumbledore had thought he would do anything to see the perpetual pain in her eyes go away, yet he liked even less the emptiness that had appeared in lieu of it. He did not like to think that the pain had gone away at the price of losing her hope as well.
"We have folders of all the information we have collected, and it would behoove you to research it thoroughly. Time is very short here." He peered at her over his spectacles for a short moment.
"There is little more that I can tell you. Do you have any questions?"
She pulled the folder of information across the desk to her and shook her head.
"Good. Then good luck."
Laura made to stand up, but he stopped her.
"How are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm doing fine," she said, casually. Dumbledore shook his head.
"Don't close yourself off, Laura," he said gravely. "You will exhaust yourself. Putting off feeling will only make it that much more difficult when you must feel."
She shrugged.
"I'm fine, Professor, really. Don't add me to your worries." She was out of the room before he could respond.
Shaking his head sadly, Dumbledore pulled the piles of reports on his desk towards him and began to rifle through them.