How High the Moon
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Chapter Five: Before the Break of Day
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Think I smell the sunset
Think I smell the break of day
People laughing at a funeral
People dancing at a wake
All the seasons blend together
This bird's losing feathers everyday
-'Never Dim', The Waiting
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Charlie drifted off into an uneasy sleep full of nightmares and questions he could not answer, only to be rudely awakened from it with a very painful series of jabs in the ribs.
"Leave off, Mum." He grunted incoherently. "I'll be up in five minutes, I swear."
He turned over, prepared to doze off again, but the poking continued unfairly.
He fought to keep his eyes closed.
"Please?" Charlie nearly whined, never having been a morning person. "Leme be. I'll be down in a fix."
The jabber did not respond to his appeals.
With greatest reluctance, he gave in and slowly raised one bleary eye-lid in defeat, only to find that he was not alone in the bed. His vision was immediately filled with a large, liquid brown eye and a beaky nose.
Neither of them belonged to his mum.
Charlie flew several feet in the air.
"Merlin!" He yelped upon landing, quickly scrambling off the bed to face his assailant.
The wizened little house elf gave him a quizzical look as it straightened the spotless green cushion cover that it wore.
"I is not Merlin, Sir. I is Bimby." It squeaked calmly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
The only house elf Charlie had ever had much contact with was a little male that belonged to Stanislav (a friend and co-worker at Wallachia), but he would have wagered a couple galleons that this one was female. Unlike any that he had seen before, it had quite a bit of hair, all pulled back into a neat little bun behind its enormous ears and as white as the snow that covered Kostya's Peak back in Romania. That, and its squeaky voice was much more shrill than Gitchy's.
The house elf went on without pausing, looking guilty and a bit frightened of him.
"Bimby is sorry to be poking Sir, but Miss Myra told Bimby not to let Sir sleep after ten o'clock."
Despite his wake up scare, Charlie was still too sleepy to think of something to say to it. He just stared at the wrinkled little elf trying to remember where he was. The elf (Buffy, wasn't it?)started to become rather panicked by his lack of response.
"Bimby is sorry!" The little thing looked about ready to cry, and Charlie felt quite sorry for it. "Sir would not wake up when Bimby called him, and Miss Myra said Bimby must wake Sir!"
"Um … ok." He said stupidly.
"Should Bimby punish herself, Sir?" It cringed.
"Huh?"
The elf must have taken his confused reply for a yes, because it sprang into action.
That certainly woke him up a bit. He rushed to the end of the bed to stop the poor thing from banging its head against the footboard.
"No! Don't do that!" He yelped, surprised to see the creature inflict pain on itself. Gitchy had been pretty odd, but not this odd. "It's ok."
The elf looked up at him in disbelief as a humongous tear slipped out of her beach ball eyes.
"Really, don't worry about it." He groped around in robes (which he had forgotten to take off the night before) for something to wipe the little thing's face with. "I'm glad you listened to Stella. I need to go see my brother."
The thought of Bill made his stomach twist with a little knot of worry while the elf loudly trumpeted into his handkerchief.
The tiny female (Bucky, maybe?) looked up at him with adoring eyes when he told her that she could keep it.
"Sir is so kind to Bimby! Miss Myra will be so pleased that her friend is a kind Sir!"
Charlie couldn't think of anything to say to that. He hadn't meant to give her a priceless gift or anything; he just hadn't wanted to put it back in his pocket after the little thing was done with it. But he was kind of warming up to the cute little creature anyway, so why not?
And besides … it couldn't hurt if the elf told Stella what a nice guy he was.
Still a little groggy, Charlie let it take his hand and lead him through the confusing house to a large, dusty kitchen where it set about making him breakfast.
Only one wall had any semblance of being finished, a long stretch of black countertop filled with muggle appliances. Some of the other walls were still just wooden skeletons, and he could see through them into other unfinished rooms filled with tools and lumber. Light poured in through a large group of windows next to a table and chairs at the far end of the space. Almost everything was coated in a healthy blanket of dust. Apparently, Stella wasn't done 'remodeling' the room.
But Charlie's mind was far away from the sneeze-inducing kitchen. Thoughts of Bill had done nothing for his already grumbling innards (although Bimby's superb pancakes fixed that problem with magical speed) and unsettling questions about Stella plagued him like biting marsh flies in a warm Carpathian spring.
As soon as Bimby (who had developed a dangerously motherly attitude towards him since the pocket rag incident) declared that he had eaten enough, Charlie hurried to St. Mungo's hoping to put his fears and suspicions to rest.
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The next few days were tedious and irritating.
Charlie could not, for the life of him, seem to catch Stella alone. She never seemed to stay in the flat for more than a quick bite to eat, coming back late from shifts and leaving early to see to critical patients. During the day she checked on Bill for a few minutes every couple of hours, chatting with Fleur and trying to butter up his mum when she could (though the later seemed to be a pretty hopeless cause), but was always gone again before he could talk to her in private. He couldn't exactly follow her on her rounds, but he couldn't ask her about his secret fears in front of his family either.
A very cynical voice in his head gave him no peace about the question that was eating him alive.
Late that sleepless night while remembering all of the good times that he had shared with Stella, Charlie had begun to wonder what their lives might have been like if he had known her back at Hogwarts. Would acquaintance have grown into affection? Could there have been something more between them if they had been friends longer?
But as he lay there imagining frustrating futures that would never come to be, he had realized one very important thing that Stella had never told him. If she hadn't gone to Hogwarts, then where had she gone to school?
At first, it seemed like a very harmless question, but it quickly grew into something more when Charlie realized that there was only one place she could have attended.
He knew from one particularly hilarious incident at Wallachia (involving a rubber hose, a rouge niffler, and several bottles of butterbeer) that Stella couldn't speak French if her life depended on it. It had been an inconsequential bit of information at the time, but one that had dire repercussions as he considered it now. If she couldn't speak French, then Stella could not have gone to Beauxbatons either, and that left only one other option.
Durmstrang.
Durmstrang, the school with a spotty past. Durmstrang, the school once headed by a death eater. Durmstrang, the school where the dark arts were taught and practiced.
Charlie felt icy suspicion gnawing at his heart. He had to know. Had Stella gone to Durmstrang?
His reasonable side argued that there had to be some logical explanation. Maybe she had really gone to Hogwarts, and Charlie had never noticed her! It was definitely possible, he agreed. He had never really noticed Tonks, a good friend from the Order who had been in his very own year at school, while they were in Hogwarts together. Maybe he had just never noticed Stella!
But that sly, harassing voice whispered in an all too knowing fashion that he would have at least seen her once or twice. After all, you can't exactly live in the same tower, use the same commons, and take the same classes every day for seven years without at least bumping into each other once or twice. Can you?
Common sense told him that Stella, grouchy, good-natured, fun-loving Stella, could not practice the dark arts any more than he, Charlie Weasley, could dance the samba.
Common sense said that he was making something out of nothing.
Sometimes, common sense seemed about as helpful as one of Fred and George's fake wands.
There were times over those next few days when it felt like it was all Charlie could do not to grab her, drag her into a broom cupboard, and ask her plainly if she was a death eater. (This line of thought unfortunately lead to other activities that could take place in a broom closet, namely snogging, doing little to decrease his frustrations on any level.)
Charlie was about ready to bite something.
In the mean time, Bill did not wake up. He did seem to be healing, from Charlie's limited perspective of things, and the constant nagging worry that something might happen to his big brother was slowly fading, much to Charlie's relief. Yet after the first few hours of sitting in the little wood-paneled ward with nothing but Fleur, Mum, and a copy of the Prophet to keep him company, Charlie was getting restless.
A guy could only listen to endless twittering and wedding plans for so long!
After a week went by without any chance to talk to ask Bill's advice or confront Stella about his suspicions, Charlie could hardly take any more. So when Mr. Weasley handed him a letter for Stella, explaining that a friend at the office had asked him to pass it on, Charlie leapt at his chance. His dad had been so busy at the Ministry lately with his new position that he was never around when Stella was, so Charlie knew that it was a perfect excuse to talk to her.
He also knew that he would have to be tricky if he wanted to talk to her alone. It was almost as if she knew that he wanted to ask her something important, and had been avoiding him on purpose. She was good, he had to admit, but not nearly as good as he was.
So Charlie planned and plotted, and cooked up a scheme to make sure they would have some privacy. It took all of his Gryffindor courage to creep down those unsteady stairs at three in the morning to wait for Stella to wake up and come into the kitchen.
He didn't have long to wait. At three thirty, a bedraggled looking Stella slunk into the kitchen. She was really something. Even that ungodly hour, Charlie could hardly keep from staring.
The small, bleary-eyed witch wore a blue terrycloth robe that had seen better days and large fuzzy slippers that made her feet look as big as a Yeti's. As she stumbled over to the countertop, yawning and oblivious to his presence, Charlie happily took in his first glimpse of Stella with her hair down. Disheveled, uncombed, and strongly resembling a rat nest, it was a beautiful sight, he decided.
She fiddled with one of the strange muggle appliances for a moment, and soon the smell of coffee pervaded the cold, unfinished room. He knew that he should probably just cut to the chase and do what he came to do, but he couldn't help himself. He had hardly seen her at all lately, and it didn't hurt that Stella had forgotten to secure her bathrobe as tightly as she should have. The view was certainly not an unwelcome one.
Just as Charlie was beginning to enjoy watching her, however, Stella turned around and realized that there was someone else in the room.
She jumped backwards with a little cry of surprise and dropped her coffee mug, shattering it on the sub flooring.
"Whozawhah? Charlie?" She squinted. "Is that you?"
"Yeah." He stifled a yawn.
"Just what do you think you are doing in my kitchen?" Shrieked his beady-eyed friend, obviously a tad more grouchy than usual.
"Calm down, you nutter! Can't a guy get up and share breakfast with his friend?"
Stella just glared at him for a minute before huffily turning her back and fumbling around for two more mugs.
"I suppose." She muttered suspiciously as she sat down and passed him a steaming cup of coffee.
They sipped their drinks for a few minutes in without speaking as Stella slowly woke up. The silence was only interrupted by Bimby's entrance with a mop and pail, at which point Stella removed her glasses from the pocket of her robe and objected to the elf's presence.
"Bimby, what do you think you're doing?" There was a tinge of exasperation to her voice.
"Bimby is cleaning, Miss Myra." The little thing said stoutly, as though trying to defend her actions.
Charlie was completely lost. Wasn't that what house elves were supposed to do?
"I meant what I said last week. You are getting too old for this sort of stuff, you crazy elf." She got up and began to pick up the fragments of the shattered mug herself, physically barring Bimby from interfering.
"Bimby is not too old! Bimby lives to serve her masters. Bimby is a good elf!" The frantic looking little creature proceeded to burst into tears.
Stella set down the ceramic shards with a sigh of tired frustration and scooted over to where her house elf sat crying.
"Of course you are a good elf, Nana. There's not a better house elf in the whole world." She scooped the tiny thing up into her lap and patted its head.
"Then why –hic- does Miss tell Bimby not to? Does Miss not want Bimby?" She sobbed. "Bimby is a good –hic- elf. Bimby is not too old to serve Miss Myra!"
"I told you before, Bimby." Stella spoke with more patience than Charlie had ever seen her display with anyone. "Just because you are getting too old to clean and carry things doesn't mean I don't want you anymore. I will always keep you, Nana, even when you can't lift a finger. I would never send you away."
"Truly, Miss?" Bimby gulped down another soft cry, her abnormally huge eyes shining with elation.
Charlie decided that it was best not to ask. If he had thought human women were confusing, then female house elves were right up there with Arithmancy.
"Of course, you silly thing. Besides, if you left, who would cook?" Stella smiled fondly.
"No, Miss mustn't cook!" Said the elf with a soggy, lopsided grin. Most traces of her tears were already gone, and she gave a strange little giggle. "Miss would set fire to her house."
"Yes, Miss probably would." Stella agreed with a little ironic grin as she stood up and finished disposing of the broken cup. "Bimby, why don't you make something for Charlie to eat? That would be very helpful."
The elf immediately jumped at the opportunity to be useful, and began to set out what had the promise of being a five star breakfast. Charlie's stomach rumbled happily at the prospect as Stella rejoined him. So intent was he on the brilliant aromas drifting off of Bimby's cooking that at first he didn't register that Stella was talking to him.
"Charlie? Charlie! Charlie, are you listening to me?"
"Not really." He yawned.
"Ass."
"Probably." He replied flippantly, knowing it would piss her off to no end.
"You are impossible."
"And proud of it."
"Mpf." She grunted, obviously still a little too tired to be her brilliant, cocky self. "Well, before you rudely interrupted me, I was asking you why you are down here."
As soon as he remembered his mission, Charlie froze. He needed to know … but what if she really was from Durmstrang? Could there still be anything between them? Could he still look at her the same way?
"Oh come on, Charlie. There's no way in all of Merlin's magic that you are down here just for shits and giggles."
Crap, she was onto him!
"Whad'you mean?"
Stella shot him a look of pure unadulterated cynicism.
"It's a rule of the natural order of things. There are no snowballs in hell, there are no wings on pigs, and there most certainly are no people named Charlie Weasley in my kitchen at three AM. Not without a damn good reason at least." She quipped dryly, rolling her eyes. "So are you gonna tell me why or not?"
He couldn't do it.
He, brave Gryffindor Charlie Weasley, was too terrified to complete his mission. So he chickened out.
"My dad asked me to give you this." He pulled the letter out of the pocket of his robe. "Its hard to track you down these days, so I figured now was as good a time as any."
Stella gave him a short, unconvinced stare before warily breaking the seal of the letter to find two pieces of parchment.
"Besides, I haven't seen much of you lately. I … I've missed you." He stuttered out honestly before he could think.
"Why did I say that out loud?" He thought franticly, wishing he could bang his head against something. "Brilliant, Charlie! Just sodding brilliant."
Stella didn't seem to notice his inner turmoil.
"Flattery won't get you anywhere, Gatito." She grinned before going back to her letter.
The smile slipped off Stella's face as she grew more and more engrossed in what it said. Her eyes grew wide as she quickly scanned the page, and a sad little frown started to grow at the corners of her mouth.
"Stop looking at her mouth, you idiot!" He told himself as familiar images of broom closets began to dance in the back of his head. "Easier said than done."
"What is it Stella?"
"Don't call me that." She mumbled by rote, not paying attention to him.
"Come on Stella, talk to me. What's it about?"
"Hmm?" She looked up as though seeing him for the first time that morning. "Oh, this? My letter of dismissal."
"Your WHAT?"
"My letter of dismissal. Deaf today, are you?"
"Stella…"
"Urg. Charlie Weasley! Don't ever call me that again if you value your furry little life!"
"Right. Sorry… Um, but about that letter … What'd you mean, they're dismissing you? Who's dismissing you?"
"Oh, yeah. It's Mungo's, Charlie. Just a letter saying that my temp position is up at the end of next week."
Charlie was stunned. Stella seemed to be an excellent healer. Why was she being turned out? … And who would take care of Bill?
As though she could read his mind, Stella quickly put at least one fear to rest.
"Oh, Charlie. Are you worried about Bill? Don't be, gatito. I still have jurisdiction over any of my previous patients. It's not like I didn't know this was coming, after all. I was never hired as a full time healer after I graduated the training program. They just kept me on for a while because of my work with werewolves and creature injuries. The administration at the hospital doesn't care for me much anyways." She feigned a little laugh. "Something about my treatment policies being too radical."
Even though she was trying to make light of it, Charlie knew that Stella was hurt. She was still a terrible liar.
"I'm sorry Stella. I know this meant a lot to you." He put his hand over hers from across the table. It was hard not to let his thoughts wander while touching her, but he couldn't let other things cloud his judgment right now. Stella needed him, and he was not going to mess this up.
"What are you talking about? This is nothing, you silly ass." She tried to brush off his words, but held his hand tighter for a moment before letting go.
Knowing that there was nothing else to say, Charlie tried to take her mind off the subject. "What's in that other letter, Stella?"
"Hmm? I dunno." She tentatively unrolled the parchment and read through it, but this time a tiny smile returned to her pretty face.
"It's Auntie A. She wants me over for lunch today, since it's the weekend. Says something about a little mission for the Order, too." The tiny smile expanded into a warm, glowing beam that Charlie couldn't help but mirror. He knew how it felt to be useless, and the joy that came with finding new purpose again.
"Says you lot are invited to come along, but she doesn't say why. Probably more Order stuff." Stella was nearly bouncing on her toes, and didn't notice Bimby covertly moping up the coffee spill behind her back. "Well, I've got to look in on a few people this morning, but I guess I'm going. How about you?"
"Sure. Always up for a little excitement." He said, exchanging sly, humorous glances with the self-satisfied house elf as she finished her mission.
"Really?" Stella tapped her chin thoughtfully as a certain gleam sprang into her eyes. "A little excitement, huh?"
It was only then that Charlie realized his big mistake.
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Authoress's Notes: Stanislav is a Romanian name that means 'Glory of the camp'. Kostya is Slavic, meaning 'faithful'. You will quickly learn that I am an obsessive nut when it comes to name meanings in my writing. I often use them as really blatant bits of foreshadowing (Stanislav is an exception, but there are other names that will be).
The line about snow in hell and flying pigs is based loosely off something I read by some author or another that I vaguely remember having read somewhere on FF, and who I vaguely remember as being a real riot. If you know who that author is, please let me know. I would love to ask their official permission to use it.
Last chapter's research notes have been posted. I would advise you to take a look at them, because if you look carefuly you may be able to find a few hints on upcoming chapters.
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Possum- Review Nazis? Que? No comprendo. But congrats on escaping them, whoever they are! Thank you for the compliment, as well as the excelent recomendation. Your reviews make Quex and me very happy. (Quex hisses) Ok, so they make me very happy. Don't mind Quex. He doesn't even like Charlie, so his opinions are moot here.
HarryPotterMagic- Ok, the weird review problem should be over. Feel free to review away! Thank you for the sweet review. I was happy to hear that you enjoy my style. I tend to get mixed reactions to it from different readers. I am quite fond of little Charlie, so it makes me warm and fuzzy inside to know that he is loved. Yes, Charlie and Stella -DON'T CALL ME THAT!- are in for the ride of their lives (along with a few other charecters, I might add.)
Fenix- Thank goodness (wipes persperation from concerned brow) I was so worried about those riots, being low on tear gas lately and all.
Anon.- If you are going to say something negative, please be constructive. I would really apreciate it next time.