Passion - John Dawlish
The funeral was on a Wednesday, for some odd reason that John Dawlish could not understand. It disrupted the lives of those who worked at the Ministry, although, he reflected with a smirk, that seemed somewhat fitting for a woman who had spent her life ensuring that nothing remained stagnant for long. What did not seem to fit was the location; a wide, open field, green and lush but nondescript, a few headstones dotted here and there. There were family graves nearby, someone had mentioned when the questioned had been raised, and nothing else had been said. John didn't know why, but he had always imagined that Amelia would be enshrined somewhere large and ominous, looking over and down upon the world she left behind. It had never occurred to him that she might be laid down somewhere quite so peaceful.
There was a huge number of people there, but that was not surprising; Amelia had a certain, unexplainable way of drawing people towards her. He looked around at the crowd of mourners and noted amongst them the men she had somehow coaxed into her following, a few of the many who were, through no conscious effort of her own, devoted; Rufus Scrimgeour, the solemn and sober veteran who had secretly and silently adored her. Yaxley, the one who matched her in inconstancy, but could always be counted on to be constant for her. Kingsley Shacklebolt, her young and brilliant protege, a student who viewed his teacher as nothing short of a god. John had no doubt that there would be many more, within the masses, who he could not put a name to. And it amused him, in a slightly bitter and sardonic way, to think that Amelia probably never knew; this queen, walking among commoners, who could never comprehend what it was she did to people. Although, in fairness, was there a person alive or otherwise who could confidently say that they could comprehend Amelia Bones? He was certainly not among them. With another pang of bitter amusement, John realized that he too was one of the blind following, his current state of heightened observation an obvious attempt to cover up the aching that had spread throughout his body over the last week. He had adored her, just as much as the others.
As his eyes stared at the coffin, the intensity of his gaze seemingly trying to raise her from the dead, John inadvertently thought of the last time they had spoken outside of work. He had been having a drink at The Leaky Cauldron. It was late evening, the day beginning to catch up with him as he watched the amber coloured liquid swirl around his glass. He was not in the mood to make small talk when Amelia walked in, looking frazzled and yet undeniably cool, but, as she sat with a sigh, just along the bar from him, he acted against his better judgement and spoke.
"You look annoyed," John commented, his voice low and bored.
Amelia started, clearly unaware of his presence. When she saw who it was, she scowled, a look that, to John's mind, was still incredibly attractive.
"We are just cogs within a paranoid and corrupt bureaucracy," the witch barked, running a hand through her short, greying-blonde hair, "Gin and tonic."
The barman brought her the drink in question and Amelia downed it in one. John raised an eyebrow; in his limited experience of the woman, she was not a heavy drinker. Leaning one arm on the bar, Amelia turned to face him.
"I mean," she said, "does anyone actually think that Albus Dumbledore was attempting to overthrow the Ministry with a student army?"
John shrugged.
"There was sufficient evidence with which to accuse him of the crime."
"Sufficient evidence!" Amelia exclaimed incredulously, "Is there any part of that sentence that you truly believe, John?"
The wizard looked down at his drink. It did seem like a bit of a stretch. But Fudge was a man who liked to pull things to the limit, John had learnt that fairly quickly.
"I am now under the direct control of the Minister," he commented finally, "I believe whatever aligns with his policy."
He knew this wouldn't go down well with Amelia and he was right, her mouth opening in disgust.
"We all answer to the Minister," she said, signaling for another drink, "That doesn't mean we all have to be as stupid."
John nearly laughed, but he managed to stop himself.
"You've never liked him," he said.
"That as may be," Amelia said, dismissing his remark with a wave of her hand, "but I was willing to put up with him until he started making ridiculous decisions. If he's the man who said that Dolores Umbridge should be set on children, then I think it's time to consider a change in leadership."
This time John did not laugh. He put his glass down on the counter.
"I can't let you keep talking like that," he said quietly.
Amelia's eyebrows went up.
"Is that the Minister's official policy on free speech?" she laughed, a hard edge in her voice.
"Shut up," John said, his eyes moving up to meet hers directly.
He hated when she laughed at him, he'd always hated it. It made him feel so small, so stupid, like whatever he said didn't matter at all. Amelia was like that; people tended to see the bright, fair, caring woman, but she could be cruel when she wanted to be. At that moment, she seemed unable to speak. She put down her glass, the clunk against the surface a pointed one, highlighting the silence, and then she just gazed at him. It wasn't a glare, but it made John uncomfortable.
"What?" he snapped.
Amelia gave a sad smile.
"I was just looking in your eyes," she said, "and thinking what a pity it is that the man I used to know doesn't live there anymore."
That statement hurt John more than he cared to admit. Whatever he liked to pretend, it mattered to him what Amelia thought. The problem was that the man she knew had never lived in him, not really. Amelia was outspoken and passionate and a game changer. She cared about issues and had opinions and wasn't afraid to act on them, even if it set her in the minority. John was not like that; the only thing he felt passionately about was her. On an everyday level, John was built to follow.
"What do you want from me, Amelia?" he sighed.
"I've been asking myself the same question for years," she said.
"Me too," John laughed bitterly, "me too."
"Really?" Amelia said, sounding genuinely surprised "I thought you would've worked it out, you were always so good at noticing things."
"Was I?" he asked, "I never noticed."
They laughed, cautiously at first, and then loudly and clearly. It was kind of laughter that had been the soundtrack to the best moments of their relationship. It was that memory that left John with a heavy feeling in his stomach. Amelia too seemed to be thinking about it.
"We weren't sure who we were when we were together, were we?" the witch said, "It took us this long to work it out and now it's too late to make those two people compatible."
"I'm not sure I understand what you just said," John replied.
Amelia smiled another sad smile, although there was something else around the edges of it; fondness, a genuine feeling for the person it was directed at. Maybe John saw it because he really was good at noticing. Maybe he saw it because it was what he wanted to see. The witch got off her seat, reached into her pocket, took out a few coins and threw them onto the bar. Then she moved closer to John and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was gentle and warm, and the wizard secretly wished that she would never move it.
"I'll be seeing you, John," Amelia whispered.
Then she turned and walked out of the bar.
That was how she ended all of their conversations. I'll be seeing you, John. But it was so much more than simply a goodbye; it was a promise, that they would meet each other again, but not as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement or the personal Auror to the Minister. They would meet as Amelia Bones and John Dawlish, two people with history that they weren't quite ready to put into the past. But they never met again.
John had tried to direct his anger at something other than Amelia, but he had not been able to; looking now at the coffin, his rage was worse than ever. Why did she have to leave like that? It wasn't her fault, of course it wasn't her fault, he had been telling himself that for days, but he couldn't move away from the idea that his was just so typical of her. Typical in that it just ripped open another hole that was unable to be filled. That was what made John the most angry; all his memories of Amelia were framed with this blurry line, this inexactness, this refusal to be pinpointed and explained. Although he had loved her with all the energy that existed in him, John had never really known Amelia Bones. And now, he reflected with resentment, he never would.
