February 1996
I turn nineteen this month.
Do I look forward to my birthday? No. I had nice birthday parties when I was little, before my grandparents died, but after that the gathering of my relatives in my family's cottage—the crowd would spill out into the garden—stopped. Several still sent cards with galleons taped to them, others visited with a gift, and some of my older-young cousins climbed or apparated over the ridges to haul me along to explore. Hell, even before things went to shite, we did that. Those were my best days, sliding down shale covered slopes with my cousins, us girls cutting up our bare legs as our robes slid up, caught as they would inevitably be on the rocks. We rode horses—often saddle-less, and sometimes three kids to a back—miles from our homes, sometimes daring each other to get in sight of the nearest Muggle hamlet. Yes, we rode broomsticks, but we always returned to the horses.
I wonder if I'll ever feel that happy again.
Yesterday, I'd thought to take Ffionwen home, but the Malfoys insisted that, "she just as well spend another night at the manor." Then Mr Malfoy dropped a few extra coins into the purse he'd filled for Ffionwen's birthday and told me to buy something for myself. I went to Hogsmeade again and bought a long, wool overcoat, the fallback garment of most magical person's when they must go where Muggles are. Mine is dark-brown and heavy. Later, Mrs Malfoy surprised me by telling me how good she thought it looked. "You are lucky—browns and earth colors complement you well." When I returned from shopping, Ffionwen was being taught to eat a scone properly, and had been dressed in a lacy white robe with a pink sash. As I entered the drawing room and sat, Mrs Malfoy began to tease Ffiony in an obvious stage whisper: "Your sister is so loud when she walks into a room—she must be like your father—her father, I mean. . ."
I wait until today's afternoon tea has finished, when both Mr and Mrs Malfoy have left the manor to visit friends; then, I take Ffiony back to the apothecary. Gwenyn and Afon ogle Fflam the cat, and Ffiony graciously shares her hoard of Honeyduke's sweets. She talks excitedly of the cake she was given at dinner, and of the color-changing trick candle. She describes in a six-year-old's words how 'enormous' the room I sleep in is. Well, compared to the room we used to share here above the shop, it is. Compared to the bedrooms the Malfoys sleep in, it's tiny.
Downstairs at the door, I glance at Donius, who opens his mouth as though to say something to me, but when he falters, I exit the shop.
The walls of Knockturn Alley, like those of Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley, are covered in the wanted posters of the escaped Death Eaters. Black and white photographs of sneering, frowning—some are even grinning—wizards (there's only one witch) stare down on passersby like so many hungry vultures, the kind you see in books of scary stories, sketched in black. I know who the one witch is: Bellatrix Lestrange, who is really a Black. And yes, I recognize her features in Narcissa Malfoy's, worn down as Bellatrix Lestrange's are. I haven't the bollocks to ask Mrs Malfoy, or even Mr Malfoy, about her, though. It isn't like they've ever mentioned her around me, anyway.
Mr and Mrs Malfoy are already back when I return to the manor. Mr Malfoy wants to know what I've done with Ffionwen and is surprised when I tell him I've taken her back to the apothecary.
"Why ever would you do that, Miss Burke?"
"Erm . . . why wouldn't I, sir?"
"Wouldn't you like her to stay here for a little while longer?"
Yes. It's nicer here than in Knockturn Alley. But—
"Come now, Miss Burke, don't you think this is a better place for her to learn good behavior and nicer habits—for a while, at least?"
Of course it is, but it was also—it was as though—as though there were something a-brew beneath Ffionwen's presence here. Certainly not by her doing, but something felt underhanded.
"The other ones will get jealous of her, sir." I don't look at either of the Malfoys; I pretend instead to be preoccupied with the seams of my new overcoat, as though I'm checking for frays. The leather chair I've sat in creaks beneath me.
For a moment, Mr Malfoy doesn't have anything to say, but I hear his wife try to stifle a sound of contempt, as though the balance between my siblings can't possibly be of any importance. The only sound in the drawing room is the occasional pop from the fire.
"I can appreciate that, I suppose," says Mr Malfoy.
Of course he only 'supposes'—he was an only child, and so is his own brat.
"Don't you think it would be better for her, anyway?" Mr Malfoy has softened his tone, as though that ought to convince me.
"I can't have the others bullying her, sir."
"I see."
I still haven't looked at him, but I can almost hear him thinking of what to say next.
"So, you would rather she spent all her time in Knockturn Alley," sneers Mrs Malfoy, "living in that pathetic excuse for an apothecary, sleeping in the same bed between all those other stinking children, like dogs in a litter?"
I'm certainly not going to dignify that with an answer. I stand up. Mr Malfoy stares wide-eyed at his wife, whose glower has put that wrinkle in her nose, the one that indicates she's especially upset or disgusted. Probably, something else happened to set her off today—not that I give a damn. Not her punching bag, am I?
"Where are you going?" Mrs Malfoy demands sharply.
Mr Malfoy attempts to placate his wife. "Narcissa—"
"No, Lucius—I want an answer! Why are you being so stupid, girl? How can you even think to keep even one of your siblings away from here?! What other hope do any those bastards have of improving their lot?!"
"Narcissa. . ." Mr Malfoy's tone is firmer, now.
"I suppose she wants them to be like her! To be other common cobs who sleep in ditches and cook rat meat with their meals!"
"And why would I want my sister to be like you?!" I shout back, I can't help it anymore—I've wanted to say this for a while. "All I ever see you do is wait around for your husband to come home and fuck you!"
Mrs Malfoy is standing now. "You are a louse," she shrieks. "A blood-sucking little wretch who had to become my husband's servant despite being a pureblood!"
Mr Malfoy, who seems stuck in his chair, glances back and forth between me and his wife, his mouth slightly agape.
I yell back in kind. "And you are a useless, soured cunt! Is it your time of the month or what? Get another fucking rag and shove the used one into your mouth—"
Mr Malfoy launches himself out of his chair, but I waited until my hand was on the doorknob to talk back. I sprint Across the hall, over the broad front steps, and down the gravel drive. Freezing rain that'll eventually turn to sleet lashes at my face and neck. The great iron gates burst open at my approach. I curve with the yew hedge and dive into the brambles on the other side of the lane. Ow. But even with the pain of the bramble bush's thorns poking into me, I feel oddly elated as I listen to Mr Malfoy angrily shout my name into the dark, demanding that I return. 'Punch-drunk' I think is what I am. I can hear him standing at the foot of his drive, waving his lit wand about for a glimpse of me. But the rain is cold, and he didn't have his cloak on when he ran after me; after only a minute, I hear him stomp back up the drive. I wait another minute, maybe two, before I drag myself from the brambles. My face, neck, and hands are scratched and weeping; my robe and stockings will have little tears, but all that's better than whatever Mr and Mrs Malfoy had in store for me.
On the lane that separates the Malfoys' stately yew hedge from the wicked thicket, I hurry into my warm coat, which was still in my hands when I got up to leave the drawing room. Still feeling punchy, I look in the manor's direction and begin to laugh.
I shut my mouth when I hear a rustle in the brambles. The noise stops. Then I hear the noise again, only this time, it's accompanied by the unmistakable intake of human breaths.
Remus
At six o'clock they would relieve Kingsley. Tonks had originally been paired with Moody for tonight, but Remus, who felt unusually energetic despite it being only two days before the full moon, had offered to take one of their places. And so, he found himself huddling beside Tonks in a scrubby patch surrounded by thorn bushes, beneath a bone-chilling winter drizzle, across from Malfoy Manor. They couldn't see directly up the drive—they were perhaps two yards from the entrance's left side.
Kingsley hadn't yet disapparated when things began to happen.
First came the sound of a heavy door being thrust open. Next, there was the crunch of gravel beneath running feet, and then the metallic creak of the gate's hinges as it opened—burst open, by the sound of it. Kingsley dashed back into the brambles, several feet from where Remus and Tonks were hidden. Then a girl appeared, running, heaving, not even balking as both Auror and werewolf watched, astonished, as she leapt into a wide-set bramble bush, too close to Kingsley's position.
Not a second later, Lucius Malfoy appeared. He stood at the end of his drive, squinting in the rain, one hand pulling his robes closed against the cold while the other held his wand aloft, its end lit. His pale face was visible, and he looked furious. Beside Remus, Tonks stirred; she had pulled out her wand, and Remus quietly did the same. If Malfoy waved his own and said Homenum revelio. . .
But he did not. They watched him lower his wand, shake his head in annoyance, and turn back up the drive. Neither breathed until they were sure they'd heard the slam of the manor's front door. Some yards to their left, where the girl had hidden in the brambles, came the sound of breaking twigs. They watched with eyes that had adjusted to the darkness as the girl pull herself from the bush. They could make out that she was short, wearing robes, and had very long hair from which she was pulling twigs and sharp brambles.
Remus and Tonks shared a look: What the hell. . .?
The girl began to giggle, the sound clear through the pattering of the rain. Remus's stomach lurched.
Now the girl was stifling a laugh. Remus thought he could see her sway a bit, as if she were slightly drunk.
Both Tonks and Remus heard it, the rustling in the brambles where Kingsley was. The girl had stopped laughing.
Another crunching noise made the girl step forward, towards Kingsley's hiding place. Her wand was now lit. Tonks and Remus held their breath. When the girl saw Kingsley, the adrenaline exploded, thick, rushed, and frightening. Kingsley leapt up and grabbed the girl before she could react. At the same time, both Tonks and Remus abandoned their position to rush to Kingsley's aid. Startled, the girl yelped, then, afraid, she screamed before Kingsley brought a hand over mouth. He hauled her back into the brambles where the others met him as he struggled to hold an equally struggling Branda. Remus had recognized her. He wished he hadn't.
"Let's go further back; it's more open over there!" whispered Tonks. The rain was drumming against the ground, now. Whispering was unnecessary.
Kingsley nodded and began to back up. Tonks pointed her wand at Branda, who continued to thrash in her captor's arms. She was still trying to scream, and Remus heard terror in the muffled sounds. She could not have understood anything.
"Don't!" he hissed at Tonks, who stared at him. Remus pled with her, silently. Somehow, Tonks understood, and lowered her wand to her side.
"Help me!" Kingsley was still fighting Branda, who'd managed to release an arm.
"Where's her wand, Kingsley?" asked Tonks.
"Dropped it somewhere—stop, girl. . ."
Remus approached the struggling pair. "Branda. . ."
Kingsley's hand slipped momentarily, and Branda wailed out a resounding, "No!" before he clapped his palm back over her mouth.
"What are we doing, Remus?" asked Kingsley, his tone commanding and calm.
"Branda . . . Branda. . ."
"Oh!" exclaimed Tonks. "I remember her."
Branda continued to fight; she squealed desperately through Kingsley's fingers. Remus couldn't help the pity he felt for her. He held out his arms.
"Here—let me take her."
Kingsley handed her over, and now Remus was the one grappling with a terrified young girl. He too had to cover her mouth with his hand, and with a strength he'd have not known otherwise, was forced to wrestle her to the ground. It killed him to do it to her.
"Shhh . . . Branda . . . It's Lupin . . . Shhh! It's Lupin. . ."
Branda was strong; he had to press himself against her to keep her down. The others moved to help him, but Remus waved them away. At last, Branda ceased to fight. Now she shivered like a small animal that had been caught in a trap. Remus kept his hand over her mouth.
"Remus. . ."
Kingsley stood with his palms turned outward, silently questioning Remus.
"Kingsley, do you trust me?"
Kingsley stepped nearer the pair on the sodden ground. Remus gazed up at the Auror. Could he make Kingsley understand, or would they be forced to modify Branda's memory? Remus couldn't stand the thought. He felt he owed Branda an out.
Light blinded him for a moment—Kingsley had lit his wand; for a moment he held Remus's gaze, then he looked at Tonks, who nodded to Kingsley, and then Kingsley nodded to Remus. "I trust you."
Knockturn Alley
Gwenyn did not know how to read tarot cards. That hadn't stopped her from digging into her sister's stash of Dark Arts' notes, magazines, and Divination things to pull out a stack of colorfully illustrated cards. She could not remember ever seeing Branda use them, but Gwenyn had watched witches—usually in Knockturn Alley—offer readings to passersby. Most of those witches were old and scary looking. One of the wizards who begun frequenting the apothecary since the summer (since that Mister Malfoy had showed up) once laughed to tell Gwenyn that those were the witches you wanted to tell your fortune!
On the bedroom floor beside the bed, in no particular order and with no particular intentions, Gwenyn pulled three cards and lay them out before her. From her left to her right, the first card, which was upside down, showed a woman dressed in robes with a cross on her breast and a headdress that rose up like a bull's horns. The woman held a scroll in her lap, and at her feet lay a curving crescent moon. She sat between two pillars, one black and bearing the letter B, the other white with the letter J. The label at the bottom of the card read—at least as much as Gwenyn could read—hig-huh pry-est-ess—whatever that was. The second card, the one in the middle, was also upside down. It featured an old man with a long white beard, dressed in armor beneath a red robe. He sat upon what looked to Gwenyn like an uncomfortable stone throne in front of a range of cliffs and a little river. He held an orb in one hand and a staff in the other. His card was labeled Emperor, and this time Gwenyn knew the word from a children's book on animals that had included emperor penguins. The final card was the only one right side up. On it, atop a high hill, a tower had been set ablaze by a jagged bolt of lightning, which also appeared to have knocked off a crown that the tower had been wearing. Two people were falling from the tower—or had they jumped? The Tower, read the label. It was certainly more exciting to look at than the Hig-huh Pry-est-ess and the old Emperor, thought Gwenyn. But what did it mean, that ruined tower? What did any of the cards mean? And were the ones that had come out upside down supposed to be that way? Gwenyn couldn't remember if the creepy fortune-teller witches left some cards in reverse or if they turned them upright.
A commotion downstairs drew the children from their rooms—Ffionwen and Afon from the boys' room, already dressed in their nightclothes though it was hardly past seven, and Gwenyn with the mysterious Hig-huh Pry-est-ess card in her hand. They recognized Lucius Malfoy's angry tones, and Donius's servile, placating ones.
". . . see her, the minute you do, you will inform me! I mean it, Donius!"
"You have my word, sir! Of course. . ."
Curious, Gwenyn bounded down the stairs. Mr Malfoy was upset alright, with his face flushed pink and his gray eyes flashing as he spoke to Donius, who stood stooped as he always did when Lucius Malfoy was present.
"Go upstairs, Gwenyn!" Donius snarled as Gwenyn drew near.
"Shall I send for some tea, then?" Gwenyn asked.
"Shut up!"
"And who exactly will you 'send' for tea, Miss Gwenyn?" asked Lucius. "Have you fallen into possession of a house elf, recently?"
"No."
"Get!" Donius fingered his belt as he glared at Gwenyn, the threat clear.
"Awrigh,' awrigh'! Wha's this mean?" Gwenyn held up the tarot card she'd carried with her.
"What?" Lucius took the card. He'd hardly glanced at it when he handed it back to Gwenyn. "It's the High Priestess."
"Oh." It certainly wasn't 'hig-huh pry-est-ess.'
"Since when do you read tarot cards?" asked Donius.
Gwenyn ignored him. She looked up at Mr Malfoy, who was inhaling and exhaling at a rather forced, steady pace. "You know what it means, then?"
God knew he did! Lucius's mother, a practical witch in most aspects, had refused to start any serious venture without first reading her cards. Well, she'd not brought the family to ruin, so Lucius had kept his mouth shut about it.
"If I recall correctly, the High Priestess symbolizes intuition, understanding, and mysterious knowledge."
"Wha's 'in-too-wish-in'?"
"Intuition is like your instincts—things you feel and understand automatically," said Mr Malfoy patiently. He seemed to have calmed a bit.
"Oh." Gwenyn looked down at the card. It was reversed, again. "Does it mean anything different if it's upside-down?"
"Yes: it's more a lack of intuition, then, or being—easily swayed, I suppose. It also means you don't know some things—secrets abound, you could say."
"Oh." It was a bit much for little Gwenyn to comprehend; mostly, she understood Mr Malfoy's words to mean the High Priestess meant either knowing things or being kept in the dark— 'secrets abound,' he'd said.
Lucius returned his attentions to Donius, though with less vexation than before. "Anyway—the moment you see her, Donius, I want to know."
"Yes, sir." Donius bowed, and Lucius turned to exit the shop.
"Where you ga'n?" Gwenyn asked.
Lucius stopped with one of his hands on the doorknob. He smirked at Gwenyn. "Wouldn't you like to know, lass?"
Behind the counter, Donius was sputtering. "Gwenyn, you—"
"Maybe I fancy a walk," said Gwenyn quickly. "You'd 'ave to escort me then—otherwise it'd be, like, un-gentlemanly of you."
Lucius stared at Gwenyn a moment, then he barked out a laugh. "I say! All right then, Miss Gwenyn—get your cloak if you fancy a walk with me!"
Before Donius could say anything to stop her good luck, Gwenyn dashed upstairs for her shoes and her new winter cloak. She shoved the card with the High Priestess into a pocket, and then, without really thinking about it, grabbed the other two cards as well. Mr Malfoy held the door open for her, and with Donius watching in some confusion, the two stepped out into the brisk winter night.
"So, where is it I'm escorting you to, Madam?"
Gwenyn shrugged, her thick brown cloak bunched about her neck. "Where were you ga'n to, guv?"
"Ha! I'm not taking you anywhere I'd be going at night. Besides, you're the one who said she wanted to take a stroll."
Gwenyn sighed. "It's Sunday, innit? On'y thing happenin' is punters and tarts."
Lucius raised an eyebrow. "And what do you know about those people, my dear?"
"All those ugly cows go down the alley where the rooms are, and their plastered boyfriends go right in and out like planks every time."
"My dear Miss Gwenyn, we need to find you a hobby." Lucius said this with some amusement, but really, it was alarming to hear a nine-year old talk of the things as Gwenyn did. "Do you go out after dark here?"
"'Course I do—what the bloody 'ell else is there to do?"
"I'm sure there are plenty of things you can do besides getting yourself into trouble at night, which is what will happen eventually if you don't smarten up."
And he was right, thought Lucius; people nabbed little girls like Gwenyn, even with a mouth like hers. Perhaps it was mere luck that had kept her safe thus far.
"I saw a dead body there once." Gwenyn pointed to a narrow alley between two shops.
"Really?" It didn't surprise Lucius that some people died on the streets of Knockturn Alley—this was where down-and-out witches and wizards came when polite society didn't want them.
"I saw some whores get into a fight over there—one of them got stabbed. . ." "The creepy old lady 'at sells stuff there keeps telling me to come over. . ." "An old lady wanted me to let 'er cut some of my hair in there, once. . ."
"You didn't let her, did you?"
"'Course not! She were scary!"
"And you still think it's all right for you to walk alone here at night?"
"Well, I live here, don't I?"
Lucius sighed. "Have you finished with your stroll, now?"
"No."
"Well, come on then; let's go into Diagon Alley. Have you had supper, yet?"
There was a shabby little café that operated twenty-four hours. Lucius rarely went there: it wasn't so bad during the daytime, though once night settled it was frequented by night workers, drunks, and the occasional off-the-clock prostitute. Still, you were mostly left alone. Lucius bought Gwenyn a plate of fish and chips which he made her eat with a knife and fork. She grumbled at the start, but proved a quick learner as she was soon devouring her food as though she'd always eaten battered haddock with cutlery.
"So, who looks after you all now that your sister's gone?"
Gwenyn didn't look up as she answered him. "No one."
"Looking after yourselves, eh?"
Gwenyn nodded. "Yes."
"Does Donius see that you've all eaten each day?"
"Sometimes." Gwenyn cut a forkful of chips in half, smearing ketchup on her cheek when she lifted them to her mouth.
Lucius considered Gwenyn as she ate. She took after Eira the most with her sharp, foxlike features, fair coloring, and hazel eyes that drooped at the outer corners, not to mention they shared the same mouthiness and irreverent attitude. All Lucius could see of Nicander was his strong brow, and maybe a certain stockiness, though Gwenyn's age made it difficult to tell yet. Of the lot of them, Gwenyn was Lucius's least favorite child, but she was still Nicander's: ought that not mean he should look out for her more?
"Gwenyn. . ." He had to wrap his knuckles on the table to get her attention, absorbed as she was in her food. "If I ever asked you, do you think you could perform little tasks for me, and for acquaintances of mine?"
Gwenyn hesitated before asking, "What sort of things?"
"Oh, nothing serious—carrying messages back and forth by floo, or even here, in Diagon and Knockturn Alley; a good opportunity for tips, I'd say. Of course, you'd have to stop at calling anyone a cunt if they didn't give you anything." He winked at Gwenyn; the girl looked rather curious.
"I'd get to keep the money they give me?"
"But of course."
Gwenyn thought for a moment; while she did, Lucius picked up a napkin and wiped the ketchup from her cheek. Really, it wasn't her fault she'd been dealt a bad hand; she was just a little girl.
"Will I get to set my prices first?"
"Ha! Nothing gets past you, does it, Miss Gwenyn? I suppose we could arrange a set fee for your services."
"Okay then. I'll join your gang."
Lucius snorted. Gwenyn returned to eating.
"Lucius! What are you doing here?"
He looked up to see Crabbe, Goyle, and Avery entering the café.
"Engaging in a little negotiation. You know, I don't think they serve liquor here. . ."
They all moved to the long bench against one of the walls so they had more room. No one would let Gwenyn leave on her own, and Lucius decided listening to them natter would be a good exercise in patience for her. But even after two mugs of heavily sugared tea, and loaded down with greasy fish and chips, Gwenyn fell asleep on the bench with her mouth hanging open and an arm dangling over the edge until Goyle, smirking, flopped it back onto her stomach.
"What time is it?"
From the bathroom, Macnair answered that it was just after nine.
Eira sat up in the bed and considered her options for the night. "Are you going to go out, d'you think?"
She was referring to Macnair's disappearances in the evenings and at night, usually around the time respectable people got into bed. He might not return for several hours, or he might climb into bed beside her—when she was there, which was increasingly more often than not—after only an hour away. Every time, she heard him hurry out of his robes, which he would then stuff inside the wardrobe that stood across from the bed. Eira wasn't stupid enough to ask him where he went, nor what he was doing.
Macnair came out of the bathroom, running a comb through his wetted black hair. "I reckon I'll go out for a pint, yeah."
"Right. I'm off then." Eira threw the covers off and began to dress. "I need to eat something."
"Why don't you just stay here again?" Macnair asked.
"You've got no food, Wal!"
Walden Macnair, never married, holder of a job that paid well, lived in a house that was very much that of an older bachelor. It sat at the very edge of the village, on a street where the houses, some small, others mid-sized, one or two quite big, had spacious gardens that set each property widely apart. His was one of the medium sized houses. Decorated with the glass-eyed dead-heads he collected from his trade, it was mostly clean, with good furniture, an upstairs and a garret, and two sheds in the back garden where he kept his broomsticks, blades, and anything illegal. The only thing he'd never seemed to figure out how to do was keep up with his dwindling food supply, unless you counted wine, liquor, and beer as sustenance. Currently, there was a loaf of bread, butter, eggs that needed to be thrown out, and some pickled snacks in the cooler. Eira suspected that the only times Macnair ate actual meals outside of breakfast were when he ate out or visited a married friend's house, or the house of a friend who had a house elf. She cooked for him sometimes, but with his limited supply of ingredients, it had become impossible.
While she searched for her underwear, Macnair suddenly said, "I'm actually meeting some bloke to buy a poison off him. You come with me and grab us a bite while I do that, we can come back here and eat."
Eira thought for a moment, then decided that sounded all right. "That's fine with me. D'you see my knickers anywhere?"
In Knockturn Alley they separated, and Eira walked into one of the little cafés in Diagon Alley that catered to the wizarding world's night owls.
"Just a minute on that fish, love," the waitress smiled at Eira and went into the back of the kitchen while Eira waited at the counter. She hadn't noticed the sudden hush that had fallen over one side of the café.
Avery, Crabbe, and Goyle had not seen Eira in fourteen years, and now here she was, standing casually in a dingy night café while one of her brats lay asleep just beside them. Lucius leaned across the table and mouthed silently, "Don't. Say. A thing!"
The waitress returned and handed Eira her order. "'Ere you are, love, fresh batch for ya—ink might be on the food, it's so hot!"
"Cheers to that, makes it taste better. Ta!" Eira rolled the top of the paper bag further down as she always did and turned to leave, but halfway across the shop, someone made a loud shushing noise that distracted her.
First, she saw Lucius. Then she recognized Avery, then Crabbe, and Goyle last. Lucius looked away and concentrated on sipping his tea, and the others followed suit, though they wanted desperately to say something to her. No one stopped Eira from walking closer, from stopping mere feet away once she could see her daughter stretched out on the bench. Not a word was spoken between her and the Death Eaters while she stared at her little girl, whose blonde hair had gotten longer and yellower, and who still managed to sleep spread out when even on a narrow surface.
Lucius let her stand there like that, pretended to ignore her whilst the others cast surreptitious looks at the half-done Glasgow smile that had been cut into her face. Eira made no move to get closer to her daughter. After a hushed two minutes, her presence began to grate.
"Get lost, Eira." Lucius didn't bother to look at her as he spoke. He didn't owe her a thing—not a glare, not a sneer, not a single last, contemptuous glance. She could cry over her lost chance at motherhood elsewhere. He supposed he was lucky she left quietly, without any fuss. Through it all, Gwenyn slept soundly.
Macnair met Eira outside the café. He hadn't entered because he'd not told Lucius or any of the others he was seeing Eira again, but he'd certainly witnessed what had happened through one of the windows.
"Are you all right?" He took the packaged food from her and led her up the street. Eira didn't answer him; he thought her to be in a state of mild shock until she pulled him into a shadowy alcove.
"Whoah—what's this about, now?"
Eira took the food from his hand, set it atop an overturned barrel, and began lifting his robe.
"Oi—what're you—Eira—"
She was practically tearing at his trousers now. When he tried to make her stop, she made it clear to him she wanted him to fuck her right there. In the end he relented and took her against the brick wall of the building behind her, thrusting harder and harder to elicit some reaction other than the grip she maintained on his shoulders. It was barely satisfying for him, and Eira made none of the customary noises that signaled her own pleasure, or even displeasure. Macnair suspected she would have let him take her in the alcove until she'd bled.
Branda
He takes me to his home, a run-down stone cottage on a scrubby moor. Are we in Yorkshire or Lancashire? Cumbria or Northumberland? Perhaps we're further south in Derbyshire? It doesn't feel like the West Country—I know it doesn't. We're in the north, somewhere. . .
In Wiltshire it pissed cold rain; here, the sleet drips down the outside of the windows in miserable half-ice globules.
I don't understand what is happening. My wrists are tied in front of me—of course I tried to run when he let me up in the brambles! He snatched me back immediately, and while his friend bound me with his wand, and that Auror, Tonks, watched on, he begged me to stop struggling.
"Branda. . ."
He kneels in front of me now. He's lit several candles and a lantern. The dim umber light makes the lines of his face looked carved—premature lines, they are—like what my father must have, now—fucking werewolves.
"Are you hurt?"
I don't answer. I look around his small home—this is his sitting room and kitchen. Stairs lead upward. He's sat me in an old wooden chair against a wall. My eyes come back to his face. He looks at me with concern.
"I won't harm you Branda—I promise you. Are you cold? We can sit closer to the fire, here. . ."
He pulls me gently—not at all how he was in the brambles—from the chair to a threadbare green sofa in front of the fireplace. My hands remain bound.
"Your coat is soaked through—do you want it off?"
My coat is indeed soaked through. Still, I say nothing. I don't nod or shake my head. He would have to untie my hands to remove my coat.
He summons the chair from its spot against the wall and places it at an angle before me, seats himself in it to face me. The chair's angle keeps him from blocking the fire.
"Shall I take it off you?" Slowly, he reaches out his hands, reaches for a top button. He undoes it quickly and shoves the top half down to my elbows; it can go no further. He chews his lip, thinking. "We'll get to that later. I'll make us some tea."
Outside, the wind begins to howl, lashing more of that heavy sleet against the windows while he prepares the kettle.
"Here you are—I've charmed the mug so that it can't burn you." He maneuvers a clay mug between my bound hands. It is pleasantly warm. He sits in an armchair that has been gnawed by mice in some places. "I'm sorry I haven't any milk or sugar, but as you know, being a werewolf comes with limited opportunities for employment." He tries to smile at me.
I drink the tea, and he continues to speak about little things that have nothing to do with what lead him to bring me here. He talks about the weather, the leak in the upstairs ceiling, the fox that sneaks around outside some nights for scraps—he hasn't the heart to chase it off, he says. He talks and talks until I realize he's stopped talking and is once again in front of me.
"Branda, I'm sorry we frightened you back there. I'm so sorry." He sounds—honest. His eyes are honest.
"We were never going to hurt you—we wouldn't. You startled us when you ran out of the manor." He pauses before continuing. "What were you doing there, Branda, at Malfoy Manor?"
Why was I there? Why was he—why were they there? A werewolf, an Auror, and a wizard with some sort of authority (I heard it in his voice—that Kingsley bloke is a man with prestige, the kind you've earned, and which has been proven to all others).
"Were you in some sort of trouble? It certainly looked like it. Did the Malfoys mean you harm?"
I give no replies, though with little intent to refuse him—it's almost like I can't talk. He remains as he's always been: kind and sympathetic. He does not prod me for information—verbally or physically. He pours me more tea. He asks me if I'm hungry, though he says he only has bread and butter and a little jam left. He continues to ask me, in his gentle way, what was I doing at the Malfoys', and was I in danger from them. Even as I remain mute, he speaks to me with kindness.
"I can't let you leave yet. I'm afraid that if I untie you, you'll try to escape—to run away."
Too late, he's said 'escape.' Prisoners and captives escape.
"Branda?" He hesitates before allowing himself to touch my shoulder.
I just look at him. I do not know what I would do if he were to untie my hands now.
"We have to wait for me to allow you to go. No one is going to hurt you—I promise. But we must wait, I'm afraid." He sighs. "I really do want to untie you, but the floo is right here! I know you aren't foolish enough to go out in this weather, and without your wand, you couldn't disapparate. I—" He hesitates again. "I have to be sure won't run—if I untie you. Do you think you can promise me that, Branda?"
He removes the mug clasped between my palms and covers the magicked cords that bind me. "Branda? Please promise me you'll—" He stops suddenly, as if he feels his words can't actually mean anything, then he shakes his head and begins tugging at the cords around my wrists. When they've loosened and fallen to the floor, he takes my wrists in his hands to squeeze them gently, which I don't like, so I pull them from his grasp without a word of thanks or protest.
He clears his throat to speak. "You'll feel better if you rest awhile. You've had quite a shock tonight." He takes me by the elbow and leads me upstairs, which isn't much more than a loft.
"Wait here." He disappears a few minutes and returns with a stack of blankets and a pillow. He draws out his wand to conjure a thin mattress on the floor. "There you are. I'm afraid I never mastered the ability to conjure a proper bed, but I promise you, these blankets have never failed me." His smile is warm.
I lay down as I assume I'm expected to, more to appease him than because of tiredness.
"You haven't taken your boots off," he says lightly, like I'm a child that hasn't mastered the process of preparing for bed properly.
He removes my boots for me, then he ensures my feet are covered by the blanket. He tells me I am safe. He reminds me again that no one will hurt me.
I can't close my eyes. I can't stop shivering, though I'm not cold at all. I don't understand.
So many questions about who, what, and why push at the layers of my mind, but I am afraid to let them take shape.
What is happening?