Fear and Loathing in Romania
Disclaimer: No way, no how, is J.K. Rowling spelled F-a-l-s-e-E-y-e-l-a-s-h-e-s. Unfortunately. If it was, I would certainly be in the money.
Rating: R (language, violence, sex – the usual)
Summary: Tonks is begrudgingly sent to Romania to fetch Charlie Weasley and bring him back to the Order. Everything that can go wrong manages to go wrong and the two find themselves running for their lives, without magic, from both Death Eaters and the Muggle police and somehow manage to re-discover each other along the way.
Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews! Kisses to all. I'm sorry it's taken so long to update. For some reason, I have a far slower time writing this story. But I'm trying. So, please. Do read and review.
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Chapter Three: Robbery of Light and Life
What is this great evil? How did it steal into the world? From what seed, what root did it spring? Who's doing this? Who's killing us? Robbing us of light and life. Mocking us with the sight of what we might have known. – The Thin Red Line
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She's so small. Has she always been this small? So delicate and breakable. He can see himself lunging forward and snapping her arms, relishing the resounding snap.
He doesn't remember her as being this pale. A ghost of her former self. Dark hair hanging in grey eyes. Grey eyes that are scanning his face. Curious. Searching for emotion, a trace of the man beneath the mask.
He knows she won't find what she's looking for. She never did.
Here she is. After all these years. Seven years. Yes. Seven. Seven long, short, terrific, terrible years.
He wonders if she still smells the same.
He wonders if she still feels the same when you hold her.
Her promises himself that he won't be the one to find out.
They've been standing there for what seems now like too long. Her eyes haven't left his face. His eyebrows in particular. She won't look him in the eye. And they both know why. They just won't acknowledge it. Not here, not now. Not when both of them have their wands out, drawn and ready. Pointed directly at each other's hearts.
He clears his throat, the sound gruff. He needs to say something. The silence is making his head spin.
"Um, Tonks. What the fuck are you doing here?" Not the most eloquent greeting he can conjure. But then again, it's always been like this. His tongue refusing to budge, his words not making sense. Saying the things that he's trying so hard to repress.
She frowns, confusion apparent. "What are you talking about?" He realizes that they still have their wands pointed at each other. Poised to kill. Or maim at the very least. He can't bring himself to lower his arm.
"I'm talking about you standing here, in Romania of all places. Covered in dragon shit and not surprised in the slightest to see me, while I am completely floored."
She sighs, runs a hand through her messy hair. Brushing it off her forehead. He can see her eyes now. They're hers. The trademark Black grey. She lowers her wand and murmurs. "Scourgify." She's clean. And shining. But she was always shiny in his eyes. Bright. Exuberant. Sparkling. She's holding a limp piece of hair in her hand. She scrunches her nose up, and her hair morphs into a deep black, cut off at her chin. She looks like those old pictures he's seen. Of those women in the 1920's. In the short dresses, with the funny make-up and dance moves.
He's staring.
She fixes him with a look. He remembers that look. The look that said 'you're-a-complete-prat-and-I-can't-believe-I-actually-waste-time-on-you.'
"You really need to start reading your mail."
What?
Oh. The owl. The note. Where the hell did I leave it?
"They sent me. The Order. They sent me over here to get you. I mean, we couldn't owl you the details. Then we'd have to tell you where Headquarters were, and if the letter was intercepted, that'd be just terrible, and, well then we'd be in a world of trouble, and that was obviously not what we wanted. And I couldn't just apparate over here, or at least that's what your mum says, so yes. They sent me to take you with me to the train station and ride off into London."
This is how she used to always talk. Fast and hurried. Not pausing for breath. Connecting one idea with the next until it was just a tangled mess of thoughts. Her thoughts. Her own re-telling of a story. Confusing the past with the present and the names with the places.
"Did anyone…say why they needed me? Exactly?"
"I am but the lowly messenger." She smirks. Merlin, seven years of trying to forget. All proved to be in vain in the last seven minutes.
Fuck, I need a smoke. He always hated how she did this to him. Reduce him to this blithering idiot. Made him think and feel and say things he didn't mean.
Not this time. No. Not this time.
"Well. I suppose we should get going then. Lead on."
She's staring at him as though he's gone mad.
"Um. Well. Don't you think you'll need some stuff? Namely clothing. And other personal items. And don't you have to tell your…boss or whoever that you're leaving?"
Damn it. Blasted details.
"Right. Um. Yes. This way." He begins to walk. Drudge through the muddy grass in heavy boots. Knowing she's right behind her. Feeling her eyes bore into his skull. And he wants to run and pretend this day never began. Things with her never end well.
Here he is, seven years later. Still acting the teenage boy he once was.
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He called her Tonks. Tonks. Just Tonks. Tonks. Tonks. Tonks.
He never used to call her by her last name. The others did. But the others were different.
She was Dora. Dora. Dora. His Dora.
She remembers how delicious her name would sound falling from his lips. Sometimes tinged with laughter. Other times with lust.
Dora. So much gentler than Tonks.
'Tonks' just sounded clumsy. Awkward. Bulky. It wasn't pretty. But he's not supposed to think I'm pretty. No. Not at all.
He looks good, she muses to herself. Following him as he begins to walk. He always did have a great arse… She's not supposed to be thinking these things. But she is. Thinking about how good his hair looks and how he's almost tanned.
So many freckles…I want to count them all and call them mine…
She's not supposed to feel this way. It's been over for years. Seven of them. It's been closed and shut and sealed and you're just not supposed to keep wandering there.
But seeing him just makes her think of him in all the wrong ways. Horizontal ways, to be exact.
He was always perfect. In her head. Perfect and right and never wrong.
He was always her moral compass. Even now. She wonders what he would have to say on this subject, or that one. How he particularly feels about a given issue and the argument he'd create to defend it. She'll fuck up and ponder as to what his reaction and subsequent response might have been. And it's easy to peg. He was always predictable. Which makes missing him a little easier.
She wonders where they might be now if she hadn't been so stupid.
They've been walking in silence and the lack of communication is killing her. She coughs into her fist and prepares to take the plunge.
"So, Charlie…you like living here?" Lame, lame, lame, lame, lame. She has always wished she was a more eloquent speaker. Now being one of those times.
"Yeah. Sure. Gets a little lonely…but we deal. Pretty rustic. I miss living in an actual house, but I, um, have gotten used to it. All." He sounds just as much at a loss for words as she does.
"Oh. Well. That's just…splendid." Splendid? She was Nymphadora bloody Tonks. When was she ever at a lack of words?
She imagines that he's smiling. But she doubts it. One usually doesn't smile at the one who pierced their heart, stomped on it and ran away. Not as a rule or anything. But smiling usually feels like the last thing one wants to do.
"So, we're, uh, taking the train?" His discomfort evident in his words.
"Yeah. Later this afternoon. Luckily. Otherwise we'd be in…uh, quite the pickle." Oh, Merlin. She really needs to stop talking. She's beginning to sound like one of her father's friends. One of her father's friends with one of the most bizarre vocabularies.
"Quite the pickle…" She can hear him repeating her words. She wonders if he's mocking her. But he's a Weasley and that woman raised her sons right and he wouldn't mock someone when they're just a couple of paces behind them. Would he?
They've arrived at a tent. A boring, burlap looking tent. "So, right," he begins. She wishes she could take comfort in the fact that he doesn't like this anymore than she does. But she doesn't. "I'm going to go get some of my…stuff. You can go wait in there, if you want." Her eyes follow his pointed finger. An even bigger tent. The Mess Hall, she assumes.
"Okay…well. Take your time." She waves. Kind of. Mainly just her arm flopping up and then back down.
She walks away, at a sideways angle. Still watching him. Watching him watch her. And she's moving. And then hits the side of the tent. "Bloody hell…" she mutters. Spinning around. And just walking straight away.
She's afraid he may be smiling.
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Clumsy. Silly girl with silly feet that never seemed to follow the instructions her brain was desperately sending out.
She hasn't changed a bit.
He finds this comforting.
And troublesome all the same.
He's in the room he shares with the others. Throwing clothes into a bag. Not even bothering with magic. Sometimes just doing things the 'normal' way is just as easy. Sometimes.
Basically he just sucks at packing by magic.
He can't find his other glove. And they're his favorite pair. He's not sure he'll need gloves in London, but they're nice to have, and as long as he's thinking about gloves she shouldn't pop into his head. But she just keeps tripping, over and over again, blushing and looking ten years younger.
She's aged a lot…
And it's not just in her appearance he noticed. It was the way she carried herself. Like the world was on her shoulders, and one wrong step and her spine would shrivel.
She is a bloody Auror after all…and Mum thought I chose a stressful career.
He remembers hearing about her. Bill had told him. That Tonks was in the Order. And he had been surprised. Asked him why. And Bill explained.
The Tonks he knew wasn't an Auror. She was a girl with an eccentric talent and equally unique personality. And knack for trouble. She's a woman now. Yes. She most certainly was.
Think about the glove…the glove…the bloody glove…
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Suddenly she feels breathless. Sitting there. In a dank old tent. On a bench. An old and wooden bench that is rotting away beneath her.
She's breathless. Sitting there. Staring into her diluted tea. It was shoved into her hands the second she pushed the flap aside. Hospitable. These Romanian dragon-keepers.
She didn't want the tea. But took it to be polite.
Seeing him unleashed something. Something deep within her. Unlocked a door she thought was long buried and swept away. Releasing images and snippets of memories that matter only to her. She's drowning in nostalgia and choking on the guilt. Bittersweet… She's learning the meaning of that word. And it's a rather painful lesson.
She hadn't realized how much she had missed him. There had been no good-byes exchanged between the two of them before he left. He was just gone. And she was supposed to move on.
The guilt clawing at her chest makes her want to scream. But that may scare the dragons and she really doesn't want to get trampled. Not today. She can only imagine Moody's reaction. Constant vigilance!
She starts to chuckle to herself. Thinking of the grizzled old man. She snorts, her cheeks flushed. She looks up and finds herself eye to eye with him. Charlie Weasley.
He's looking at her funny. She sobers up quickly, taking a sip of her tepid tea. Disgusting…how does he live on this shit?
She smiles at him. Mouth closed. "Ready?"
He merely nods. She stands. Knocking over the bench. "Sorry…sorry…" She goes to step over it, catching her foot on the edge and pitches forward. And smacks someone in the chest. Hard. That someone grips her wrist, preventing her from bashing her head on the table behind her.
"Cor, you all right there?" Her head whips around, her own hair blinding her for a second.
She doesn't recognize him. At all.
She merely smiles. Untangles herself from the bench, her cloak. And the stranger.
He has quite the blinding smile. "Don't believe we've been introduced as of yet. Name's Will." He extends a hand. She takes it into hers, blushing at her chipped black nail polish.
"Tonks," she offers. He looks confused.
"Pardon?"
"My name. Tonks. Actually it's Nymphadora Tonks, but like only two people in the entire universe get away with calling me that. So, it's Tonks. Yes. Tonks." He seems amused. But then again, that may just be his normal expression.
"So, Tonks, fellow dragon-tamer?"
She opens her mouth to speak, but is beat to the chase. "No, no. She's with me actually. Quite the surprise, actually." She's with me…Her heart shouldn't speed up like that. And it's not. Nope. Not at all.
"Oh! Blimey! She's with you, eh? Why didn't you say anything, Charlie-boy?" She's blushing. Flaming red. Oh, Merlin. Could this be any more fucking awkward? "Didn't know you had a girl all your own, you sly –"
"We're not like that." She finally looks up. He's oddly pale. Compared to her reddened state. His jaw is set. She can hear his teeth grinding.
Fix it, Tonks. Fix it.
"No! No, no, no! We're, um, old friends. Went to school together. But that was bloody ages ago. But I was in the area, and I thought I'd stop over and, you know, say hello. And then we thought, wouldn't it just be brill if he came back to London with me?" She's on a roll. Lying as always come easy to her. This he learned the hard way. "I mean, he's got his mum and his whole family over there, and they haven't seen him in forever…so he's taking a little trip with me."
Will claps an arm on Charlie's shoulder. "Excellent, mate. You need a fucking break." He laughs. Loudly. Uproariously. Charlie does as well. A little. But there's no humor there. She can tell.
She's not sure what's so bloody funny.
"Unfortunately, not all of us are so lucky. I'm 'fraid I've got to get my arse back out there. See you when you get back, Weasley. And nice to meet you, Tonks." He waves and then he's off.
She turns to Charlie. "Well. He's…colorful."
And he laughs. A real laugh. Not the pretend one from seconds before. The Weasley laugh. His laugh. The noise she used to be able to draw out of him. It's beautifully familiar.
"That is quite the understatement…"
She just smiles. She doesn't want to ruin the moment.
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They're outside again.
It's an ugly day. Sad and dreary. Grey skies and threatening clouds. Nothing about it is picturesque.
He's leading the way. Bag slung over shoulder. Walking down the earth path, footprints baking it into the ground.
He can't bring himself to turn around. He's afraid of what he may do. To her.
He inhales. The cold air creeping into his chest. He loves it here. He really does. And cannot believe he's heading back to London. With her. Her of all people.
She's half the reason he ended up here…
He's musing to himself as they wind their way through tents and trees and dragon paddocks. And then he hears it. A deafening crack that echoes through the trees and in his skull.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
He spins around. To her. Clutching her wand in one hand. Her stance displaying her readiness.
He can see the same question mirrored in her eyes.
And then they hear it. The shouts. The screams. The curses.
She's running and he's following. The underbrush clutching to his pants, branches clawing at his arms. He can hear his breathing and he can hear their yelling. He sees the smoke and the fire and her back.
We're under attack…we're under attack…but why?
He can't make sense of it. His hands are sweaty and he can't figure it all out. Why they'd come here. To Romania of all places.
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This is what you trained for…this is what you trained for…this is what you trained for…
She's nervous and scared and hates the fact that she doesn't have the upper-hand in this situation.
They're not supposed to be here…there's no bloody reason for them to have come here…
She has no supervisor. No commander. No superior. No one barking orders at her and telling her what to do.
She's in charge.
They're out of the woods and into the clearing. And they're everywhere. Hooded figures in black, shooting lines of green into the crowds. Dragons are screaming and shooting fire. Yelling and shouting and collapsing and dying. The world is falling down.
She swallows. Willing courage to course through her.
She turns to him. And his ashen expression. They're not supposed to be here…
"Take them out. Stun them. Petrify them. Do whatever you have to do." She's amazed she kept her voice so calm. Amazed she's not shaking.
She meets his eyes. And knows that he understands.
And then they're in the thick of it. Dodging curses and throwing out their own. Her voice is hoarse and she's lost count of how many she's been able to stun. "Avada Kedavra" circling all around her. Stepping over the dead. Leaping over the fallen. She almost feels sick.
And then she feels it. Cold. Icy fingers gripping at her soul. Trying to deprive her of life.
The scene is falling away from her…"What an ugly little girl…""That's Aunt Bella…we don't visit with her anymore…""Mudblood…filthy little wretch…""You whore…you lied to me! Fucking lied!" "I'm sorry, doll…she's…she's gone…Mum is…oh, Jesus…"
"NO!" She's cold and she's shaking and she can feel the sweat dripping off her forehead.
She looks over. Over to the woods. And she sees them. Gliding towards them. Dark shadow-like figures sweeping down on them.
Dementors.
No no no no no no no… It's gone from bad to worse. Much worse.
There are so many and they're so close and there are so many of them and they won't make it and they'll be dead and she'll be dead and he'll be dead…
She has to pull herself together.
Breathing heavily, she braces herself. Throws her head back and remembers. Remembers everything… "Expecto Patronum!"
She watches it, the silver mist morphing into what everyone calls a lizard. But it's not! It's a chameleon and it's so bloody clichéd it makes me sick…
She watches them hit it, watches them bounce away. Fly away. Swirling and dancing and swooping and gone.
Chest heaving she looks up, pushing the hair out of her face. The field is decorated with bodies. Cold, still, lifeless. The black figures still there, the Death Eaters. Wandering among the dying and those struggling to live. Picking them off. One by one.
She feels sick and dizzy and wants to leave. She has a gash in her robes by her left shoulder. She can feel the blood oozing its way down her arm. She can't feel the pain though. Shock. It's the shock.
She sees him. Sees him being backed into a corner. Backed into a corner if that's possible in this clearing. But he's up against the wall of the dragon compound and there's three of them and they are all pointed at him. Three of them and one of him.
She doesn't know how she got there so quickly. She's not sure what happened next. She does know she rolled over and was face to face with a cold, grey Death Eater. Standing, she realizes there are two left.
She can't find her wand…
"He wants them unharmed. He said he wants them to still be alive." The voice is slippery, sickening. Oddly familiar.
Where the fuck is my wand?
She takes a step back. And hears a crunch. A crunch that breaks her heart in half.
My wand…
They all look to her. The two Death Eaters. And Charlie. Who is covered in blood. She can feel the bile rising in her throat. She's going to puke she's going to die she's going to be sick and die and so will he.
Charlie doesn't have a wand either…
Oh, Merlin.
No. We can't die yet. He wants us. Unharmed. That means alive. Of course it means alive. But I'd rather die than be sent to him…
She's realizes that at this moment that is entirely possible.
It's a strange face-off. Like those films her father used to watch. Westerns. So American. With the cowboys and the boots and the guns and the duel in the town square. Walk ten paces, turn. And shoot.
She wonders which of them will take the bullet.
The tense moment is shattered.
"Stupefy!" The cry comes from behind her left shoulder. She looks carefully.
It's Will. And he's hit one of the two Death Eaters.
But then it's as though time sped up, going in hyper-speed. People moving way too fast and words coming out way too slow.
They shout at the same time.
"Stupefy!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
She's diving for his feet and Charlie's lunging forward. She hears a body fall and hears a grunt from above her.
She's not sure where Charlie got the knife. But it's now firmly embedded in black cloth. And flesh.
She turns around. Knowing what she'll find.
She hates it when she's right…
Charlie sees it too. Will. Face first in the grass. Immobile. Cold. Dead.
He's just staring and staring. And staring. And she hurts for him. She's been there before. And is sure she'll return there sooner rather than later.
But this place is too much and they shouldn't be here. Not now. Not when the enemy is slowly coming to and when you're wanted by the Dark Lord himself.
"The power…to…the Dark Lord…"
She shoves it to the back of her mind. She doesn't have time to think about the ramblings of a dying old woman. Not now at least.
She knows what they have to do now.
Run.
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