Three months later...
The City of Lights was sparkling. The streets below were lit with shimmers, the Eiffel Tower like a beacon against the twilight skyline. If it weren't for the ant-like figures shifting hundreds of feet below, Pip could've fooled herself into thinking Paris shined for her alone.
She couldn't remember much of the last time she'd been here – alcohol and drugs were mostly to blame for that. If she screwed up her eyes and tried, Pip got flashes of trashy hotel rooms, shitty bars and drunk melodies from the band she'd followed there.
But this time she was sober. Horrendously sober. Well...right now she was sober.
She was here on Order business, after all.
Paris was the farewell stop on Dumbledore's world tour. Pip had spent the last three months dashing from city to city at his behest – Sydney, Tokyo, Rio, you name it – and had only returned to Europe over the last dying days of summer.
And she was fucking knackered. She hadn't expected how exhausted she would be at the time.
Pip had taken on the task at the first Order meeting after Sirius's trial. The whole lot of them were amassed; even McGonagall hobbled in on a walking stick. Some of the news was foreseeable – Fudge had gotten the sack and been replaced by Rufus Scrimgeour – but other pieces were a little more earth-shattering.
First and foremost, Dumbledore had disclosed the juicy details of the prophecy, the thing Pip had been unwittingly guarding for a year. Harry Potter was the chosen one, after all. Pip didn't put much stock in prophecies. To be fair, she'd been taught Divination by Sybil Trelawney and after bi-weekly doomsday announcements for several years it was hard to keep the faith.
But this one was different. Too much had happened to Harry in his short life. The kid was a doom-magnet.
And he was the reason why Pip was on this little adventure. The Ministry had their emissaries, Dumbledore had said, and the Order needed theirs. Dumbledore was otherwise occupied, so somebody had to dart around spreading the joyous news that Harry was the chosen one to his various acquaintances, who would in turn disseminate the message among their own circles.
It was an international pyramid scheme of the anti-Voldemort movement of which Pip was herald.
It was also her escape; one that'd worked a little too well. She hadn't seen Sirius in three months.
'So what's the plan now?' she'd wondered their last time together, leg propped against the stairwell with packed bags at her feet. Grimmauld Place seemed practically dead. Sirius's own ramshackle collection of belongings joined hers, though bound for a different journey.
He was searching for somewhere he could see the stars, he'd said. Harry and Remus were coming with him. He would've burnt down Grimmauld Place (Pip could imagine him skipping through the smouldering ashes) if it weren't still Order Headquarters. Kreacher – that quote-unquote 'treacherous little elf' – was being redeployed to the Hogwarts kitchens.
As she made to depart, Sirius wore an inscrutable expression. He asked what her plan was. Pip told him the truth; beyond Dumbledore's little quest she hadn't the foggiest. Pip's life was more a set of reactions rather than a plan.
She kissed Sirius goodbye this time. A peck on the cheek, as innocent as their mistletoe kiss, but with a bittersweet sense of sobering regret.
As the days stretched by, it grew more difficult for Pip to convince herself she'd made the right choice. Especially while she was whittling away at Dumbledore's itinerary of semi-sane underground associates and he was doing Merlin knew what.
Or Merlin knew who...
With that unwarranted thought, Pip dropped her cigarette and stubbed it out. A wispy ribbon of smoke curled from her boot heel into the air.
She was currently standing on a curved rooftop overlooking the city, where a rendezvous with one of Dumbledore's old chums had just passed. This one had been nuttier than the rest. He sort of reminded Pip of a French Mundungus. But he'd promised to spread the gospel of Potter to the criminal underworld of Paris' wizarding community.
With a final sweeping look at the view, Pip apparated back to her hotel, as cramped and seedy as the rest she'd stayed in over the past months. She returned a greeting from the deskman and climbed up to her room. But on the top floor, her splintered blue door was ajar. Pip whipped out her wand, holding it close as she pushed past the creaking wood.
The room was empty. The mustard-coloured bed spread was still unmade, the window cracked open an inch to let in the summer breeze. A new sound, though, was mixing with the static buzz of the outdated television set.
Pip clutched her wand and crept towards the en suite. She kicked it open with a bang and Bill Weasley screamed. Pip screamed too and spun around, clasping a hand over her eyes.
'You didn't think to lock the door!' she yelled.
'I didn't think I had to!' Bill shouted against the flush of the toilet.
Pip peaked through her fingers to see a tomato-red Bill re-pantsed. Relief morphed into suspicion. She kindly asked what the fuck he was doing sneaking around in her hotel room, or what he was doing in Paris at all, for that matter.
'I'm visiting Fleur's family down in Lyon. I came to make sure you're still alive - you haven't owled for ages, Pip!'
Pip collapsed onto the edge of the stiff hotel mattress. The springs groaned from the pressure. 'Haven't had a chance. Dumbledore gave me a pretty stacked itinerary.'
Bill's eyes shifted towards the empty glass bottles littering the stained carpet. He looked frighteningly akin to Molly. 'Enough time to drink yourself to death though.'
'There's always time for that, my friend.'
Bill's eyes continued to roam over the scene, a frown etched into his features. 'Well it's good to see you,' he said, sitting beside Pip after a few seconds. 'I need to talk to you about something.'
This wasn't an intervention was it? Pip's expression transformed from trepidation to shock as Bill announced he was engaged.
'Bill Weasley's a bachelor no more!' Pip laughed through a gape. She summoned a half-drained bottle of firewhiskey, took a gulp and passed it to him. 'Well congratulations, you've somehow bagged one of the fittest witches in history. Frankly, I'm jealous.'
'Listen, I've asked Charlie to be my best man. But I want you to be my best woman too. What do you think?' Bill asked hopefully, the bottle an inch from his mouth.
Pip quirked a brow. 'Is that a thing? Hmm...I'll have to think abo – of course I will, you git!' She nudged him playfully.
Bill grinned and took a drink. He started chuckling and Pip threw him a quizzical look. 'I want you to remember that you willingly signed up for this later. You may be my best woman but Fleur's planning the wedding. From here on out, you're effectively her slave.'
Pip rolled her eyes and grabbed the bottle. 'How bad could it be?'
Bill cast her a somewhat pitying look, much like he would an overconfident fool juggling Molotov cocktails instead of balls. Well if the jingly hat fits...
Sirius's old bike was beginning to look like itself again.
Hagrid had kept it in once piece over the years but the man was too caught up with his beasts to maintain it properly. What'd once been a bulking, roaring, shining machine had rusted into a hunk of sputtering metal. The leather seat was worn, the black paint chipped. It was beat up, marked and past its best years.
A bit like me, Sirius thought grimly.
He patted the fuel tank and hoisted himself from the ground. He was coated in grease and oil but he didn't mind. He loved the smell of it, and he loved the bike's stirring rumble as he reassembled the engine. He loved the promise of rebirth that came with fixing something as old and battered as he was.
It was a reminder he was free, that he could go anywhere he wanted.
It was also a diversion. From darker thoughts and darker memories. And also from people.
Well, one person in particular...
Sirius peered out into the starry night. He'd found a place for his motley crew – consisting of himself, Moony and Harry, of course – where the horizon seemed endless. Days burned bright, at sunset the sky seemed to be aflame and at night it was pierced by stars.
The white house on the hill was the antithesis of Grimmauld place and for that he was bloody thankful.
A knock against the garage door tore Sirius from his reverie. Harry had grown taller still. Soon he'd be eye-level with Sirius. His godson was the best part of the eclipsed years but fuck sometimes did he look like James. It always took Sirius a minute to shake the haunting resemblance from his head.
'Sirius, everyone's inside,' Harry said. 'Party's already started.'
Sirius grimaced. The dreaded house-warming party. 'Who's idea was it to have this again?'
'Yours,' Harry reminded with a crooked smile. 'Moony says you'd better get inside.'
'It's like having a bloody wife,' Sirius grumbled while whipping his grimy hands on a cloth. He threw it aside and noticed Harry had paused.
'Bill's back,' Harry finally said. Sirius nodded with a tight-lipped smile, understanding passing between them. Both knew who Bill had gone to see, besides his new in-laws.
Sirius loitered in the garage a moment longer and prepared to step into his role as charming host. He was happier than he'd been in a long time but there was something...off. A part in the engine he couldn't get a hold of, a part he couldn't understand.
But she'd been that way from the first time he set eyes on her. Covered in rumpled clothes and smudged makeup, staring at him with those deep brown eyes. He could never guess what she'd do. It was like trying to guess where lightning would strike.
But fuck did he miss the storms.
A week later, Pip was sitting atop her suitcase. The scratched brown square was bursting open, the hinges protesting as she drove her rear into it. She relented with a panting breath and slunk onto the carpet.
The last of Dumbledore's buddies had been crossed off the list and she was going home...wherever home was. The Leaky Cauldron would work well enough until she could figure something out.
That was if she could manage to force her bloody suitcase shut.
With a challenging glare, Pip jumped onto it once more, practically pile-driving the lid. At the same time it made a triumphant click, three tawny owls flew into the room. Pip let out a start of surprise as each owl dropped a letter onto the hotel's worn bedside table.
Her gaze landed on the one bearing Sirius's handwriting.
What the fuck was going on?
Pip picked Sirius's letter from the pile and hesitantly pulled the stub of parchment from within. She went numb. The letter slipped from her unmoving fingers onto a heap of dirty laundry. She tore open the other two. The same message was repeated in both, each with their own score of condolences.
No, there had to be some mistake. Her aunt couldn't be dead.
Pip snatched Sirius's letter and reread it.
'...Dumbledore thinks...Voldemort himself...didn't go down without a fight...'
She stared at the words until the little symbols blurred into one. It didn't make any sense. Amelia Bones was one of the most powerful witches there was. It didn't make sense...she was Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for fuck's sake!
Outside, afternoon swirled into night. Pip's legs were prickling as she rose. A drink would help her think; help her decipher the hidden meaning in the message. But she'd exhausted her supply.
She ghosted out of the hotel, not seeing the deskman's friendly nod.
She barely registered the muggles grouped along the bumpy cobbled road or the chill in the air as she wandered thoughtlessly through the streets. She didn't hear the jazz music pouring out of cinnamon coloured houses or smell the roses collecting outside of florist stores. She didn't recall walking into the bar.
Pip returned to consciousness only when the burning liquid scorched her throat. Her mind was still a mess. She motioned at the bar-tender for another drink, freezing at the touch of a rough hand around her elbow.
A man with thinning blonde hair and watery blue eyes was smiling at her. He spoke with a grating voice. 'You look tired, sweetheart. Let me buy you a drink.'
Pip replied coldly. 'No thank you.' She pointedly pulled her arm away, her features turning to stone when his unwanted touch returned.
'Come on, don't be like that,' he simpered.
Pip tossed some change onto the bar and pushed off. She wondered what the maximum penalty was in France for cursing muggle men. It didn't matter. Aunt Amelia would –
No, Aunt Amelia wouldn't. Aunt Amelia was dead.
The man's hand was on her hip now and this time Pip didn't think. She drew back her fist and sent it soaring into his face. He pitched from the impact and his own flailing hand connected with Pip's nose.
A surge of pain accompanied the crack. Pip stumbled back, cradling her face. Blood seeped through the gaps in her fingers, down her hands and onto her clothes. 'Fucking hell!'
Ignoring the bartender's outraged squawks, she stalked towards a bathroom marked with a cartoon woman in a dress. Pip savagely locked herself in with one hand, the other still clasping her broken nose. Through watering eyes, she surveyed the damage in a chipped mirror. Her reflection was drowned in pallid yellow light.
She looked like shit. In three months she'd aged a decade. Between the river of blood steadily pouring from her nostrils, a laugh escaped her lips. It seemed the only thing to do. White teeth glinted between wet scarlet.
But Pip's laughter slowly turned into sobs. She clutched the porcelain sink with strained knuckles as blood and salty tears spluttered into the basin and circled the drain. Her ribs racked, her hunched shoulders shook with each cry. It was a foreign sensation. Pip didn't know how long it'd been since the last time she really, truly mourned.
Her aunt was dead. And there was nothing she could do about it.
Pip's cries only caught at the sound of furious slamming against the door. On the other side, the bartender was bellowing in French. Wand at the ready, Pip unlocked it. The bartender stormed in, steam practically billowing from his ears.
'Obliviate.' Pip circled the unmoving muggle, wand still drawn, instructions garbled by her broken nose. 'You are going to forget what you just saw. In fact, you're going to walk out there with a smile on your face and you're going to serve me drinks until I pass out. Understood?'
The bartender gave a short, dazed nod and marched out.
In time, Pip faced the mirror. Bleary eyes not leaving her reflection, she ripped a shred of tissue from the wall and dabbed it against her nose with a mangled swear. The bawled up, blood-soaked paper was tossed aside before she vanished the remaining gore away with her wand. Another swear later, and her nose was magically snapped back into place.
Pip didn't want to think anymore. She wanted to drink until she was dead to the world.
And that's what she was going to do.
It wasn't the first time Pip'd woken up in a jail cell, but it was certainly the most uncomfortable.
It was the jangle of keys that roused her. She pried her cheek free from the hard ground (and pool of drool) it was squashed against and rolled over in a clumsy flounder. Her whole body was rigid from sleeping on cement. Drunk Pip had apparently chosen to forsake the cot a meter away.
A haggard guard with snowy white hair and a matching goatee was eyeballing her with disgust. He was half-obscured by the iron bars of the little cube prison.
Pip groaned and rolled back around. A few days in French jail might make a nice holiday.
'You 'ave been bailed out,' the guard interrupted her brooding. 'Get up.'
Pip took her sweet time following him out of the cell and into a harmless hallway with nondescript grey tiles and cream wallpaper. The processing room smelt of cheap plastic. She didn't have the energy to guess who her saviour was as another guard booked her out. Public intoxication, he informed Pip, was her crime.
She yawned. Minor leagues.
The guard handed Pip her things, questioning stare lingering on her wand. She only bothered with a monosyllabic grunt. A fellow detainee with a large gash on his jaw jeered as Pip slugged out into the sunshine.
She shielded her eyes against the blinding day, only spotting Dumbledore when she dropped her hand. Oh bugger.
He was waiting on a metal bench across the lane. Passerbyers barely spared a glance at the kooky old man in orange robes whistling and feeding pigeons breadcrumbs. Paris was filled with stranger people.
Pip offered Dumbledore a meek smile and dropped into the seat beside him. She searched through her belongings and put on a familiar pair of heart-shaped sunglasses. 'How much do I owe you for the bail? Thanks for that, by the way.'
'It is of no consequence,' Dumbledore said, fixing her with his piercing stare. Her smile faltered. It was like being examined under a microscope. 'I fear I may have opened you up to some of your more self-destructive tendencies with this mission, Pip.'
'Old habits,' Pip muttered, readjusting her sunglasses. No one had the power to make her feel guilty like Dumbledore. The man should've written a self-help book.
'You have some blood on your nose, my dear.'
Pip sniffled and rubbed her sleeve along her upper lip. Crusts of dried blood flaked off. Before she could say anything, Dumbledore asked something she wasn't expecting: if she was alright.
'Yes,' Pip said slowly. Was this an intervention?
'I was most sorry to hear about your aunt,' Dumbledore continued, sounding sincere. 'She was a wonderful witch and a wonderful friend.'
Pip swallowed against the lump in her throat and nodded.
'I'm afraid, however, I have not travelled here simply to offer my condolences. You have done marvellous work over the summer, Pip – although I do question your...other activities. I have another favour to ask of you, if you will accept it. You see, my Muggle Studies professor, Charity Burbage, has been commissioned by the Ministry to aid in muggle relations during this war we find ourselves in. I was hoping you would fill the post?'
A few seconds passed - cricket noises wouldn't have been out of place - before Pip burst out into raucous laughter. She threw her whole head back, guffawing loudly. The laughter died though when she realised Dumbledore wasn't taking the mick. He observed her with a small smile. Not for the first time, she wondered if he really was going senile.
'You're serious?' Pip balked. 'Me? A teacher? No one in their right mind would put me in charge of children! And I don't know the first thing about muggles!'
'It is a strange set of circumstances,' Dumbledore granted, still smiling. 'However, this is a matter of security. Hogwarts needs some trustworthy eyes watching over it this year. It is of the utmost importance.'
'You really don't care for teaching qualifications, do you?' Pip asked with a bizarre look.
'Not in this instance. You are a member of the Order, I would trust you with my life, my dear. Likewise, I would trust you with the lives of my students.'
So this was more of an intense babysitting request than an educational one...
But still, Pip as a teacher was the most ludicrous concept in the world! And Muggle Studies of all things! What she could teach them? Music, she guessed. That was where Pip's knowledge of muggles began and ended. Well, that and muggle alcohol. She supposed she could always bullshit the rest...
What were her options here? Decline the invitation and try to land a job back in London? She'd basically told her last two employers to sod off, so Pip's recommendations weren't exactly glowing. And she didn't want to starve...
But could she really subject the students of Hogwarts to a year with yours truly?
Maybe I wouldn't be so bad, Pip reasoned. Better than Umbridge at least...And how many students actually take Muggle Studies? A handful at most, surely...It's not like it's something important like Defence Against the Dark Arts...I couldn't fuck them up too badly, could I? I would really be a glorified body-guard, that's all...and if Snape can do it, why can't I?
Was she really talking herself into this?
As always, Dumbledore seemed able to read her mind (bloody legilimency) and parroted back the same assuaging stream of encouragement. The whole thing was fucking ridiculous.
Like most of Dumbledore's plans, it made little sense to Pip. Also like most of Dumbledore's plans, she found herself agreeing to it. She half-suspected he tricked her into doing so.
What've I gotten myself into...
It was only later when Dumbledore collected his bag of breadcrumbs that Pip cringed at his hand. It was withered, dead flesh clinging to a skeletal structure. She swore aloud and asked how he'd managed it but Dumbledore disregarded it in his typical mysterious fashion.
'Nothing to worry about,' he breezed.
But Pip had the foreboding sense that there was much to worry about. Why the fuck would he have asked her – clearly the last resort – to watch over Hogwarts if not?
Now seems like a good time for the obligatory 'I don't condone drugs or alcohol abuse.' Make good choices, people.