Wrong Way

The only family that she's ever had

Is her seven horny brothers and a drunk-ass dad

He needed money so he put her on the street

Everything was going fine until the day she met me

Happy are you sad, wanna shoot your dad

I'll do anything I can

It's the wrong way

"Solitaire…" Gale breathed, the syllables tumbling over her tongue. "It is a sad sort of name. Lonely." The Solitaires were not a small family, quite the contrary. Gale was one of seven, and she was the middle child. Romulus never did understand what her childhood was like. He did not understand the business of a big family, the activity of a large family, the love and the hate… Romulus did not understand a lot of things, but he did understand the hate.

Gale raised her family. Her mother had died when she was ten, and she had taken care of the family since. That is a hard burden to carry, for anyone, but especially a ten-year-old girl. She cooked the meals, helped her younger brothers with their homework, kept her older brothers out of trouble, and tucked her father in every night.

After her mother's death, her father climbed into a rum bottle and never had the energy or will to crawl out again. Every night he came home, two or later, and crashed on the sofa. Gale was in bed by eleven, but kept an alarm clock by her bedside. When the clock rung two, she woke up, and waited to hear the crush of cushions and springs. Ten more minutes would pass, and snores would emerge. Careful not to make a sound, she would creep into the living room and cover her father with a thick, wool blanket.

By the age of fifteen, Gale was working a full-time job. When she wasn't working, she was cleaning and cooking. Gale ran away when she was eighteen. Eighteen is not the average age to run away, but if she hadn't, then she never would have gotten out.

Her family had stolen her childhood away from her. She could never go to school, she could never go out with friends, and she could never be a child. And worst of all, the clincher of them all, she could never get revenge. Revenge is a bitch, but Dark Arts family's often breed dark thoughts, and Gale was right in the middle of it. She'd grown and watched the boys she'd raise turn into lying, thieving Death Eaters. She'd seen them leave every evening and swear their souls away, and then return with an empty stare in their eyes. There was no more love; there was no more care. And she'd given up.

She was nineteen now. She'd spent the last year of her life hanging around the wrong crowds, partying every evening, meeting up with a guy every night. There was still a pain, but she was numb to it. Whenever she felt it creeping around again, she inhaled a joint, downed a shot--anything that helped her forget her problems. And the men, oh the guys she met. She had a sex life of fire and brimstone, and was all the more experienced for it. She was tramp, and she knew it. But it had never bothered her until now… Now she knew Romulus. Now she was devoted to one man, now she knew love.

He knew the pain she felt. He was despondent, dejected, and most of all, he was alone. He needed someone--just as much as she needed someone. And somehow, somehow in the cosmic love affair of life, they needed each other.

And he could get her revenge. Not against her family, that was impossible, but against someone else--through someone else.

~+~+~+~

"Clyde! My man!"

Clyde made exhausted hand motions, and dropped his hat on the coat stand. Pulling off his coat, he continued the signals.

"My bad," Seth apologized, and leaned towards Ben. Whispering, "What'd he say? I wasn't watchin'."

Ben swiveled his eyes to meet Seth's. "Di'n cech…" he slurred.

"Work talk," Napoleon answered, "Clyde's work talk, Navarre's unwork talk." Not that Napoleon frequently knew what Navarre was saying, but the mute was decent enough to regularize his signs.

Navarre nodded as he loosened his tie. He knew sign language, quite fluently, but what was the use if nobody could translate it? He resorted to notepads and simple hand gestures. Taking a seat, he tossed a pack of cards on the table.

"Uh gema?" Ben asked with inquiring eyebrows.

"A game!" Napoleon corrected, slapping the table, "It's pronounced game! Damn, brother."

"Hehe…" Ben giggled. "Gots muh A's and E's mixed… heh. Ahh…. An' Uhh…"

"Right-o, Dog."

Ben frowned. "I em humen now."

Napoleon threw his hands up in exasperation and turned towards Navarre. "You hold the deck--what game?"

Seth was intently eyeing Ben, slowing working out the scene. "You got your A's and E's mixed?"

"Navar."

Navarre glanced at Ben and lifted his hand. He waved his finger in a circle and then brought the same finger across his throat in one swift movement.

"Circle of Death!" Bill exclaimed loudly, jumping up with a triumphant swing at the air.

Navarre nodded, his eyes shifting periodically from Bill to Ben. He unsheathed the cards, and began shuffling.

"Straight up!" Bill cheered, sitting back to beam.

Napoleon grabbed a shot glass from the nearest counter, and slammed it in the middle of the table, lip down. Navarre stood and spread the cards in a circle around it, face down. Seth strolled to the refrigerator, and retrieved five new long necks. He passed the beer around, and the game began.

~+~+~+~

Romulus had walked a hundred miles in his shoes, and now he was just as old and worn as they.

Gale had kept him up the night before, pounding her entire life story into his head. When she had finally stopped, the sun rose over a cold gray morning, and even the freezing, hazy mist had seemed more inviting than other evening with Gale. He found some time during the day to catch some sleep, but as soon as the showers came, he was out again. The night was used for tracking, and though he was lucky to find his prey, he was also unlucky. He half-hoped he'd be empty-handed by morning and could slither home, where he could waste the day away with sleeping. He was exhausted, and Vala only wore him thinner.

And though sleep called on him with strong, demanding voices, he carried on, and the small, meek voice of Gale continued to resound in his mind.

"Who, then?" Vala asked, for what seemed the millionth time. How could anyone stand her? Least of all a Malfoy. Ah, but old habits die hard, and Malfoys were never taught the graces of losing. But Romulus was no better. As a young boy he was taught to love and to care, and in consequence--listen. And what Gale had said to him could never leave.

"She wants revenge," he whispered, if only to himself, "And I will give it to her."

~+~+~+~

Circle of Death is an easy game. Several versions of the game exist, but whatever the rules, the only existing purpose is to intoxicate young adults and underage teens everywhere. All 52 cards of a deck are laid in a spiral around an upside down shot-glass. Each player picks up a card, and depending on the face value, a consequence is gained. The version the James Gang adopted was played like this: seven and lowers can be "given away" to someone else, and they must take gulps of alcohol corresponding with the card number; Eight to ten's must be kept for the drawer; Jack's are Thumb Masters; Queen's are Rule Keepers; King's are Questionnaires; and Aces are Waterfall.

Currently Bill was Questionnaire, which meant anyone who answered any questions he asked had to swig their drink. Ben was Thumb Master. And Navarre had just pulled a Waterfall, which means everyone must start chugging at the same time and the player on Navarre's left cannot stop drinking until Navarre does, and so on.

Ah yes, and once you are finished with your card, you must set it on top of the upside down shot glass. The game finally ends when someone either knocks the cards off, who must immediately finish his beer, or all the cards are drawn.

Napoleon gave the circle a steady look-around and drew a card. After glancing at it, he reclined back with his arms behind his head. "Rule Keeper, bitch!" he announced, slapping the Queen on the table. Once you were given a title, you kept it until another player drew the same one. "Leader of a nation," he smirked, turning to Bill.

Bill thought for a moment, a distant shine to his eyes. Bolting upright, "The Queen!"

"Which one?" Seth prompted.

Bill stared at him with sparkly eyes. Slowly, he rose his glass and cheered, "To the Queen!"

"Ah…" Seth trailed, and they all followed suit. "To the Queen!"

"To the Queen!"

"To the Minister!"

And a salute from Navarre.

"Ben," Napoleon nodded.

"Oh, uh… Right on the tip of my tongue… hehe… Tony Blair!"

"Seth?"

"Adolf Hitler."

"Interesting choice. Navarre?"

The mute scribbled across a scrap of paper and handed it to Napoleon.

"'Julius Caeser,'" he smiled. "And I pick my grandfather--Napoleon."

Ben's eyebrow wrinkled, and very slowly with great thought he said, "Your grand dad isn't Napoleon…"

"'Course he was. Who did you think I was named after?"

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, brother, but Napoleon's been dead for hundreds of years."

"Not directly, fool! He's a few generations back." Napoleon seemed content with this and sat back.

"But Napoleon, you're-" Ben began, but cut himself short as Seth hurriedly shook his head in the negative persuasion.

"Shit, why else do you think I sleep with Monalisa above my headboard?" he asked, gazing distantly at a dusty corner in the ceiling.

Seth's urging was all in vain--Ben couldn't help himself. "You do what?"

"Sleep with the painting of Monalisa above my headboard," he repeated, directing his gaze back to Ben. "Been handed down for generations."

"The tradition?"

"The painting, you Squib."

Ben shook his head. "I'm lost."

Seth pinched the bridge of his nose. "In France, there is an art museum--The Louvee. It has most of the world's most famous. Napoleon lived there for a number of years. A painting--Monalisa--was kept hung above his headboard."

"And come World War II when the Naxis invaded France," Napoleon took over, imparting a little World History. "The French feared the paintings would be stolen or destroyed, so they hid them--in the homes and cellars of brothers like you and me. After the war ended, most of the paintings came back."

"Most, but not all," Seth finished, hearing the history of the Louvee one too many times.

"That's exactly right, my man! And that painting is hanging over my bed!"

"That can't be right," Ben interrupted. "The painting's in some posh museum."

"The Louvee," Napoleon clarified. "And no it isn't. That, my friend, is a well made copy--the best money can make. As if my grandfather would return something as precious as Monalisa."

Navarre scratched heavily across a piece of parchment and waved it under Napoleon's nose.

"'Bugger that, let's get on with the game, you sobered bastards.' Navarre! I'm shocked!" Navarre replied with a one-fingered gesture, and Napoleon carried on, "Alright then. Bill, your turn." And without a second thought on the current discussion, they feel back into the game.

"Cleopatra… Mmm."

"Ew," Ben followed up, "Marc Antony."

Seth opened his mouth to answer, and closed it again. He opened his mouth a second time, and paused. Finally, he answered, "Jesus."

A silence blanketed the drinkers.

"Did you really just say, 'Jesus'?" Bill smirked.

"Jesus wasn't the leader of a nation," Ben followed.

"The fuck he wasn't."

"Well, he wasn't."

Seth slapped the table, "Jesus lead a nation of Christians, you heathen bastard!"

"I'll have you know I am a born Catholic," Ben said with pride.

"Born into Catholicism and living it are two separate things, you incompetent pagan."

Ben crossed his arms. "That's religious discrimination, I'll have you know, you… you… Hitler lover!"

Seth stared aghast. At length, "Hitler lover?"

"You said Hitler was a leader of a nation!"

"He bloody well was!"

"Discrimination against Jews!"

Again, Seth's features fell blank as he stared at Ben's threatening advances. "You're trippin', brother," he confirmed sitting back.

Everyone, Navarre most of all, kept their eyes to themselves.

Finally, as a half whisper, Ben said, "Drink."

Seth denied his mind of his ear's proof. "Excuse me?"

"Bloody Jesus? Fuckin' drink!"

"Fuck you!" Seth gave his friend a look of disbelief and stubbornness.

"Leader of Christians or not, Jesus was not the bloody leader of a nation! Caeser Augustus, Cleopatra, Marc Antony--even Napoleon--all reasonable answers! But bloody Jesus? Bugger that!"

Seth bolted to his feet, and smacked the shot glass. A crash indicated it cracking against the wall and falling in jagged jigsaws across the floor, the cards raining down around it. "No, bugger this! Bugger this game! Bugger you!"

Ben leapt to his feet just as quickly. "No, bugger you!"

Finally, Napoleon unfolded into his strong, persuading 6'2'' self. He placed a calming hand against his brother and friend. "Now, now… cool down, brothers. We could argue till day's breaking about what our Lord did and didn't do, but I know just as well as you that it's all in vain. You're both hard-headed, stubborn buggers, and I'll be damned if either of you ever believes what the other says."

"Bugger that," Ben cursed, smacking Napoleon's hand from him. He circled around the table. "I sit around this bloody hellhole and take your bloody orders and like a bloody dog I skip out and follow along with everything you bloody well say. I'm not a fucking dog, I'm living human being, and you, well you can just bloody well bugger that." And like a true intoxicated fool, he grabbed his hat and left.

"An enraged Billy the Kid," Napoleon cursed. "Great one, Seth, that's just what the town needs."

(A/N: I love you, I love you, I love you!!! Please forgive me! Sorry… I took a month or two off. Not intentionally, but I was rather busy with the new school year and everything. Actually, I really shouldn't be writing this now because I have a lot of homework to do… of course, I'm sure you shouldn't be reading this right now for the exact same reason. Well, I'm extremely sorry for my idolness, but I hope to make it up to you. -Vouivre)