Fear and Loathing in Romania
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling I am not.
Rating: R (language, sex, violence)
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: Sorry for the update delay. First week of college is a bitch. But I'm here now. And moderately settled. So we'll see how the updating train moves along here. Thank you for the reviews. You people…shock me. And please me incredibly. This story is my great epic. My opus. My…whatever you want to call it. So, please. Continue the reading and the reviewing and making me feel like something special!
Chapter Four: Two Drifters
"Two drifters, off to see the world;
There's such a lot of world to see
We're after the same rainbow's end
Waiting 'round the bend…"
- "Moon River" – Henry Mancini
They take off. Running. She hears the lone Death Eater yell. Yell and she feels something hit her back. Hits her. And knocks the wind right out.
She feels funny for a second. Weak. Tired. Like she's missing something. Inside. It's gone. But she's not sure what it is.
They keep going. Charlie still by her side.
She's running. She's running. Running running running. Running with the wind to her face and the dirt to her shoes. Running. And panting. And there's a stitch in her side and she swears that she could just pass out and die. Right there and then. But wouldn't that defeat the purpose of all this? Running and breathing heavily.
She's running and it hurts. She's running and knows that she left her wand back there. Broken. Into shards and splinters. Laid to rest among the dead. The dead and pale. And gone.
She wonders if they're next. And knows that for once it's not a morbid thought. Rather, it's a rational observation and question.
She's running. And feels vulnerable. A witch without her wand. She might as well be screaming and waving her arms about. Jumping up and down in the air. Begging for them to find her. She may be stronger than she looks. But considering she looks almost fourteen, that's not saying a whole lot. She's scrawny. And she knows it. She's petite. And she prefers that term to "small."
Long black hair whips past her face. Long. Black. Long. Her hair wasn't long a little while ago. Did I change without realizing it?It's possible...but why would I? It's happened before. Long ago. When she was young. Young and immature.
She's running. And trying. Trying to change her appearance. To anything. She's panting and trying. And realizes it's not working. And knows exactly what she was hit in the back with.
A spell. A spell that's merely spoken of and hardly ever used. She's not even sure it has a name. It's just The Spell. Not even found in the Restricted Section of Hogwarts. A spell. That strips a witch, a wizard. Strips them of their magic.
She's without a wand. She's without her magic.
She's never been so scared before.
He can hear her panting. And wonders if they should stop.
He has a bag slung over one shoulder. His bag. And how he remembered or managed to grab it on his way out is completely beyond him. But he did. And is plenty grateful.
He knows they're in deep shit. And he hasn't a fucking clue as to how they'll get out of it.
They've been running for what seems like forever. She, running too fast for her own good. He, running at her pace. He could go faster. He knows this. Feels it in his legs. The steady burn creeping up his calves. Trying to fight its way to his thighs. Make him burn. Make him burn and want want to break away. Sprint off through the woods. But he'd rather be behind than in front. Behind her. Keeping with her stride.
He's refusing to look any deeper into this.
He can see light. See it drift through the trees and illuminate their path. He can see light. We're almost there…almost out of here…almost…
They reach the edge. The edge of the woods. The edge of the trees. The edge of reason.
There's a clearing. A clearing overrun. By weeds and grass and those flowers that really aren't flowers but everyone calls them that anyway.
She's doubled over next to him. Clutching her side. Trying to hold it all in. Hold herself together.
She's red in the face. Flushed. Face half hidden by dark hair. Dark, dark hair. Darker than she's ever worn it. Dark and long and hanging past her shoulders. She never liked long hair. She told him this once. Made her feel too feminine. Too typical. She'd be the girl with short hair. For no other reason than to spite the others.
He wonders why she chose to make it long.
He likes it though. Likes the way it cascades around her. Likes to imagine what it'd feel like. Spilling through his fingers. Rolled up in his fist.
No.
And it's enough. To silence him for awhile.
"What…now…?" She's looking at him. Still gasping. Waiting for him to answer. He thought Aurors were in better shape than this. He knows better than to say it out-loud.
He's about to answer, when he hears something. Cracking branches behind them. His hand goes to his pocket. He feels sick. Sick with dread and realization. He doesn't have a wand. And he remembers…she doesn't either.
We are so fucked. So completely and utterly fucked.
He watches a rabbit race across their forest scene. Feels foolish for his fear. Foolish for forgetting his wand. But remembering a bag of clothes.
He knows that she's watching him. And he's afraid to face her.
"You don't have one either, do you?" She poses it as a statement. Rather than a question. Stating the facts and knowing the answer.
He nods. And turns to her. She looks like a doll. A child's little doll. A porcelain doll. Pale skin stained pink. Wide grey eyes framed by lashes that reach to her eyebrows. Dark hair hanging. A few strands swept across her forehead.
She looks so young and he feels so old.
And he knows. Knows that she's real. That this is the real Nymphadora Tonks. He just wonders why she chose now of all times to display herself.
"We don't have magic anymore," she whispers. Looking at him. With those big eyes and heavy lashes.
He doesn't understand. Understand her meaning. Understand how she knows. Understand how she can be so calm.
"You felt it, didn't you? When we left. He hit us. In the back." He's never seen her so subdued before. And decides it doesn't suit her.
But he remembers what she's speaking of. The strange pain. And the way nothing has felt right since. And he knows she's right. He just never thought it was possible. The spell. And for her to be right.
So he just nods. Nods his head in a circle. Surveying the field before him. And he spots it. The corner in the horizon. A building. Or at least a roof.
"There…" He's talking to himself, and she has decided to listen in.
"Where?"
"There. Over there. There's a building." She's looking where's he pointed. She doesn't look appeased.
"What's there?"
He hasn't thought this far ahead. For some reason, just seeing the building made him think there they would find help. She apparently doesn't follow the same stream of consciousness.
"Well…" He realizes how ridiculous he is in that little moment. How bloody ridiculous.
"You do realize that Muggles most likely live there? We're out of our world, Charlie.What were you expecting to do, march in there? Ask if you could nick a spot of floo powder?"
Which was exactly what he had been expecting. But he won't tell her this.
Charlie has always been a quick thinker. Good on his feet. Mentally and physically. Now is no exception.
"I was thinking we could find a way to Bucharest and hop the train to London. Once there, we'd get to Headquarters and go from there." He's quite proud of himself. His spur of the moment plan sounds almost plausible.
He can see her considering it. Trying the idea on for size. Letting it roll around her head for a little. Realizes that she's actually a little surprised. He's offended. Slightly.
"I guess…well, it does seem to be our only option, now doesn't it?"
He swallows his pride. And lets her lead the way.
She wonders how far they've gone. How long they've been traveling on foot. The building seemed a lot closer way back in the woods. And looked a lot more promising. The closer they get, the more decrepit it appears. And in all actuality it's a gas station. Local fill-up station. She wonders when the last car ever even drove through here.
Charlie's been asking questions ever since they left. Random, nervous little questions. How far London is from Bucharest. She wasn't sure. How big the wizarding community is in Romania. She wasn't sure. And felt he was probably more likely to know the answer than she was. What they would do about money. And for once she had an answer for this.
"My dad set up a Muggle account for me. Long time ago. Back in…You-Know-Who's first reign. A "just-in-case" kind of thing. He was always a bit paranoid like that. Was convinced the wizarding world was going to fall to shambles, and he wanted us to be ready in case. So, um, I've got money. Not sure how much. But it's there."
Her rambling seemed to calm him down. This surprised her.
The dirt road they've been walking along side became paved at some point. She's not sure when they passed into civilization. Must have been recent.
They're getting closer. She wonders how far off Bucharest is. She wonders where Bucharest even is. The city I arrived in this morning? She hadn't seen anything but the inside of the train station. And not much at that. She misses the ability to apparate.
She hears tires squealing and an engine running. She senses Charlie's apprehension, how he's just been shocked out of his thoughts. She always forgets how sheltered the Weasley boys are. How knowledgeable she apparently is in comparison.
"It's a car."
He glares at her. "I know." Biting words. Angry tone. She suddenly wants to laugh.
It's a cab. A taxi. With the little triangle thing on top. Advertising topless dancers at a Bucharest strip club. A fancy hotel on the other side. Classy…
It pulls into the station. Dust billowing behind it. Screeching to a halt.
She watches him get out. Watches the driver step out. And head towards the closed doors. And realizes he left the keys in the car.
She can feel the smile. Feel the smile creeping its way across her face.
She whips her head around to look at him. He sees her excitement. And he has bewilderment written all over him.
"How the fuck do you plan on affording to pay for a ride?" Hmmm, not as sheltered as I thought. She's impressed he knew it was a cab. Impressed, but remembers her original idea.
"Who said we were going to just ride in it?" She's bordering on hysterical laughter.
She likes watching shock on other people's faces. Especially when she's the source of it. "What…" He's sputtering. "You…you can't just go and drive a bloody car! You need lessons and…and…a license."
"Yeah. That's what Dad said too. But I convinced him to teach me anyways."
She loves it when he looks like this. Wants to frame it. And keep it. And pull it out when she needs a good smile. Or chuckle.
She grabs his arm and pulls him. Half dragging him to the car. Desperately trying to remember her stealth training. The engine is still running. She thanks Merlin for all the stupid people that ignorantly roam the world. They're finally good for something.
"Tonks…seriously…we can't…I mean, come on…"
They're up against the car now. Squatting low on the driver's side.
"Charlie. You are a fucking dragon keeper. You deal with monsters that eat guys like you for snack. I'm sure, no, I'm positive, you can handle stealing a car."
She's always been very persuasive.
And the two find themselves buckled in. And with her hitting the gas far too hard.
They've been driving for a while. He wishes he could say he felt calmer.
Knowing Tonks, knowing her nature, her personality. Knowing all this, he should have known.
She is one crazy driver.
She slams on brakes. Careens around corners. Makes him feel all sorts of motion sickness. He's white knuckled and queasy. And wonders why Bucharest has to be so far away.
They pass their first car. It's been miles. And a half hour or so. Of silence. Just the landscape whipping by. The air blowing in through the semi-open window. He watches it muss her hair. Watches it flutter behind her. And her trying to keep it under control. She's failing miserable.
The silence is excruciating. Painful. Tense and nervous. Maybe even angry.
He needs to make it stop.
He wishes he knew what to say.
"So, uh…how's your dad been?" She can feel the slight awkwardness lingering behind the question. He can tell. Her shoulders tense slightly. Her hands clutch the wheel a little harder. She clears her throat, distracted for a moment by oncoming traffic.
Two more cars go passing by. Red and blue.
"He's – he's good. Really good." She turns a corner, slowing around the bend. The silence is uncomfortable. "He still asks about you, you know. 'How's that old chap Charlie doin'?'" She pictures him, her dad, Ted Tonks, lounging in his big red chair. Reading the Muggle papers. He liked to, as he called it, "stay on top of things." The silence returns.
"And what do you say?" "I tell him you're good. That you're still in Romania. Taming dragons. Playing the part of the regular hero. And he laughs." She chuckles a little. "Then he'll say "Dragons. Boy better be careful! Don't want to lose an arm.' And then he'll pause, cock his head to the side and add, 'or anything worse.'" She'd adopted his voice. A master of disguise, even without her Metamorphugus abilities.
Charlie laughs a little. She continues. "I'd ask you how your mum and dad are, but considering I see them more than you do, it'd probably be more appropriate if you asked me." She has an impish grin spread across her lips. She looks a child, playing games with the next-door neighbor.
Charlie laughs harder. "Alright. So how are Mum and Dad?"
"Oh, they're good. Your mum's nerves are just about fried, what with the Order business and all. She doesn't fancy me much. Sees me as a royal klutz." She laughs a little. Slightly self-consciously. "Your dad's pretty good. Tired a lot. The Ministry's got him bending over backwards. The Dementors and the Death Eaters. Always looking like he's about to fall asleep in Molly's shepherd's pie. Damn good stuff. Your mum's shepherd's pie."
He remembers this is how it used to be. She'd ramble incessantly. And he'd smile. Nod. Listen to what she had to say. "How's everyone else?"
"Fine. Bill's still mooning over that French girl. Fleur…something or other. Only met her once. She didn't quite take to me." She shrugs, taking her hands of the wheel. He fears for his life for a second. "But Bill writes her letters by the parchment rolls. Hopelessly devoted, that one. And Percy's still not on speaking terms with…you guys." He notices how she speeds through that part. "And Fred and George are down in Diagon Alley with their joke shop. Apparently doing really well. Talking about working for the Order though. Makes Molly really antsy." She turns a corner, roughly, sending Charlie into the window. "And Ron. He's been with Hermione mostly. She's been around most of the summer. Not sure what they get up to. And Ginny's been fun. She misses you a lot." Tonks immediately regretted that last statement. Made it sound like she talked about him with her. "I mean…not that we sit around… talking about you or anything. She…just misses you."
There's a lull in the conversation. A giant vacuum, sucking them in. Leaving them in an empty silence that is neither comfortable nor desired. Driving both of them mad as the seconds tick on, adding up into minutes.
"Right. So, how's the rest of the Order?" He's figured that a Question and Answer round is the way to go. His safest bet.
She remembers then that he has never been to Grimmauld Place before. He's never been to Headquarters, never met the members of the Order.
"Well, there's Dumbledore, of course. He rarely shows up. Always off being all Headmaster-y or…doing whatever else it is he does. And there's McGonagall, who I must say, hasn't changed a bit since we left Hogwarts. Looks exactly the same too. Quite bizarre. And then there's Moody, who's convinced we're all either going to die today, tomorrow, next week, in an hour, or were supposed to die yesterday. Oh, and Dung. Your mum hates Dung even more than she dislikes me." She catches the confusion on his face. "Mundungus Fletcher. Real shady fellow. Likable, but shady. And a bit smelly. Nicks everything he sells. There's Kingsley, Kinglsey Shacklebolt, sounds like he belongs in one of those Muggle films. Looks like it too. Good man though. I work in his department at the Ministry. Too serious though. Doesn't smile nearly enough if you ask me. And there's Snape…who's just Snape. Remus is still around. Remus Lupin. Werewolf, you know. Poor guy. Him and Sirius were such close friends. Brothers, really. He's taking it really hard. Pretty poorly now that he's..."
She falls silent. He forgot that she lost someone too. Sirius. Her cousin. He never seems to remember that they're related.
"I'm sorry. About Sirius." This is his idea of comfort. But it's enough for her.
She smiles. "Thanks. Now where was I...?"
"So…this is it…" They're in the city. Tall buildings. Old buildings. Russian. French. A hodge-podge of architecture surrounding them.
"Bucharest." He remembers the area. From the days when he first arrived here. That was a long time ago. He hasn't been back since.
"Yeah." As if that answers everything for her. "Right. Should we find a place to stay?"
He nods. Probably the best plan of action. But he can't imagine staying in the same room with her. It's making him nervous.
She slows a little. Driving, turning the wheel in slow motion. Somehow finding their way to the dodgy end of the city. Figures…
They're driving in silence. And not a comfortable one at that. They're tired and bloody and in general a mess.
He sees blinking lights ahead. Must be that eckleckicity Dad's always talking about…
He sees the words "Vacancy" illuminated against the night. It's a motel. And it's open.
"Should we…stop here?" He's asking her. Begging that she says yes. All he wants to do is sleep.
"Um…yeah. Sure." She looks just as uncomfortable as he does.
She pulls off to the side of the road. Puts the car in park. And they sit there. Sit there. She, staring straight ahead. He, watching her out of the corner of his eye.
"Open the glove compartment." Her voice shatters his tiny realm of concentration he was holding on to. Glove compartment…what the fuck? When did she get so smart…
"The door, right there. By your knees. Open it." He can hear the impatience. Misses the usual jovial lilt to her words.
He's always been obedient. He opens the hatch. And stares. At the Muggle bills laying there amid a pack of cigarettes and what appears to be the car manual.
"Excellent," she mutters. Reaching over. And snatching the money up. Her hand accidentally brushing against his knee.
He shivers. Without meaning to.
She opens the door. The car flooding with the artificial light. Too bright against the darkened evening. He has to squint for a moment.
He steps out. And begins walking. A couple paces behind her.
They reach the place. The letters aligned vertically, spelling out "Braserie," flickering every few seconds.
They're staying at a motel whose name could double as a woman's undergarment.
He refuses to look at her. He knows he'll laugh.
Oh, Merlin. Grow the fuck up.
He opens the door. And the last few letters black out, leaving the first three letters glowing.
He can hear her snickering as they step inside.
The place reeks. Of stale alcohol. Cat piss. And sex.
Low hanging ceilings and peeling wallpaper. She feels dirty just standing there. In the hallway that leads to a front desk. Crooked sign saying "Reception" hanging off the edge.
She's uncomfortable already. And her arm's beginning to throb. Tentatively, she pokes around. Big mistake.
"Ow…" Hissing in the lobby. If you can even call the dank room that. Peeling wallpaper and only a third of the lights seem to work.
He glances at her. She wants him to turn away. He of all people should never see her in pain. It's just not right. No. Not at all.
"What's wrong?" She's imagining the concern in his eyes. She has to be. He doesn't care about me. No. No no no no no. Not now. Not ever. No. I'm just extra baggage for him right now. Baggage he'd rather check than claim.
But her arm is aching and she should really do something about it. Now, rather than later. He's still gazing at her. A funny look on his face. A cross between curiosity, annoyance and exhaustion.
"Nothing…I – I'm fine."
He doesn't believe her. She can tell. But he lets it go at that. And starts walking over. To the sad woman behind the desk.
Charlie smiles. One of those pseudo-polite, obviously forced half smiles.
She just stares. Stares back at the couple before her. Tonks knows exactly what she's thinking.
He clears his throat. A rough, gruff sounds. That makes her feel more than it should. "Yeah, hi. We'd like a room for the night."
"Two rooms!" She doesn't know why she said it. It was an impulse. But she knows. Knows what staying in a room alone with him entails.
He has an angry smile. Looking down at her. She hates that she feels so tiny next to him. Height and otherwise. Snapping his head back. To the irritated receptionist. "How much are your, uh, rooms here?"
She names her price. And Tonks wants to shriek in outrage. This isn't the bloody Ritz…
She fingers the bills in her hand. She can count. Quite well, actually. "One room will be fine."
She's met with a condescending smile. Courtesy of their helpful hotel employee. She reaches a key off the wall behind her. "Room Eighteen."
Tonks reaches for it. Using the wrong arm. She feels dizzy. Dizzy from the shrieking, screaming, angry pain shooting through her. She has to do something about it. You're supposed to use alcohol…alcohol sterilizes it? Was that it?
She has the key in her fingers, but they're shaking and she's having a difficult time holding onto the metal. She can feel his eyes. She knows that he can see she's not well.
"Where can I find the nearest liquor store?"
Room Eighteen. What a piece of shit.
The "lobby" was apparently a clear indication as to what they should expect from the rest of the building. The door squeaked on its hinges. The carpet was stained and fraying at the edges. Some windows were boarded up. Some wood appeared to be rotting.
They had traveled the three blocks and purchased a bottle of vodka. For her arm.
She wouldn't let him see it. Wouldn't let him near her. Let him touch her, try to help her.
He turns to her. Smiling slightly at her look of revulsion. It pleases him for some reason.
"Do you want me to…your arm, do you want me to fix it?" He's helped out at the hospital wing at the camp before. He knows how to mend broken bones, clean out burns. Help those in pain.
She looks angry. "I can do it myself." Stubborn wench…
He gruffly shoves the bottle in her hand. The cold bottle. The bottle that made his fingers freeze the entire journey up the stairs. She frowns.
He watches her. Steps back. Sits in the armchair. Located across from the bed. The bed she lays the bottle of vodka on. His chair has lost some stuffing. He can feel the springs. Poking at him.
He watches her try and take off her robes. He forgot they had been wearing Wizard apparel. No wonder they received such strange glances. Well, that and the dry blood. She's struggling. Tangled up in the fabric. Trying not to move the injured arm. From here he can see the blood on her shirt.
She groans. Freezes. And takes a giant swig from the bottle. He can hear her swallowing. She inhales deeply. He realizes he did too.
And the battle continues. Her against her clothing. He's had enough. And moves over to help her.
Stands behind her. Pulls the robes gently off her shoulders. Notices how she tenses. How her breathing ceases for a second.
They don't speak. They don't speak as he rips her shirt. And pulls it off her. They don't speak when she's standing there. Clad in jeans and her bra. Black bra. So dark against such light skin. They don't speak as his fingers brush the wound, when he douses it with drink. Or when she recoils. Breathing heavily.
He still has his bag with him. And uses a shirt of his own. To wrap around her arm. Stop the bleeding. Make her all better again.
They don't speak. Or make eye contact. They've already said too much.
He throws another shirt at her. "You can wear this. I'm going to go wash up."
He closes the bathroom door behind him. Stares at the mold and mildew. And lets his heart rate return to normal.
It's her. And him. Her and him and they shouldn't be together. No. They shouldn't.
But they are...
He washes his face. Washes off the day and its grime and dirt that went with it.
Dries his face on the threadbare towel. And throws the door open.
She's sitting on the bed. Wearing his shirt. A button-down of his. It reaches past her thighs. She's sitting cross-legged. Knees in the air. Holding onto her feet. She's wearing only his shirt.
I can't do this…
Tiny legs, skinny legs. Tiny hands tracing patterns on her feet. She looks at him. Having noticed the shadow he cast across the bed.
He notices the vodka next to her. And how it's lost a considerable amount of its contents.
"I think I'll go to bed." He can't figure out why she reminds him of a child. Maybe it's the way she said those words. The simplicity of it all. The fact that he could sense fear behind it.
"Okay."
She looks at him. Waiting for a second. Then she stands. And he realizes his shirt is a lot shorter on her than he thought and he's having a hard time thinking clean thoughts and he just needs some sleep.
He rubs his eyes. Watching her pull down the sheets and gingerly climb in.
She's left a spot for him. Next to her.
"Ummm, I was, uh, thinking that I'd…just sleep on the floor."
She looks at him. Incredulously.
"You can't sleep on the floor!" She looks ridiculous. Sitting half-way up in bed, hair already a mess, arm cradled around her body, heavy bandage protruding above the shirt.
"And why not?" He doesn't understand her. He never has. Especially now.
"Because." As though that's enough of the answer. "I mean, look at it. It's filthy. With my luck, you'll sleep down there and in the morning be ravaged by some incurable and utterly contagious disease. And I'll have to go find a gas mask and sit there, next to you, while you roll around, covered in boils, moaning in pain and hacking up a lung. And I'll feel too bad to say "I told you so" and then you'll die or go all comatose and I'll be forced to wander alone, all by my lonesome, through treacherous Romania. Things are shitty enough as it is. I don't need you to be a walking health-code violation."
This is the Tonks he knew. The Tonks he had loved. The girl who rambled when nervous and always jumped to the extreme. And never realized how ridiculous she was being.
But he wonders if it's her talking. Or just the vodka.
He decides its some combination of the two.
And he's too tired to argue with her. The drunken pixie. Inviting him into her bed.
"Fine. You win." He walks over to the bed. Feeling slightly nervous. Apprehensive.
"Good." She points at him, mock anger on her face. "But you better not hog the covers, Weasley. I will kick you out and leave your sad arse on that infected carpet."
"Deal," he murmurs, sliding under the covers. Being careful not to bump her leg with his. Avoiding any sort of physical contact.
" 'Night." He feels too close to her. Like he's about to explode, multiply, melt. And be all around her. Inside her. Among her.
" 'Night…" he trails off.
Praying he falls asleep before she does.