Ginny walked into 13 Grimmauld Place and felt nothing. There should have been a feeling, or something, anything. Maybe a memory of Harry, Ron or Hermione, with whom she'd spent so much time here. Or perhaps Sirius and his slow descent into madness and despair. But instead, she just felt hollow. Bill and Fleur were eying her suspiciously, no doubt expecting her to struggle.
Part of her wanted to. Wanted to feel and sob, if only so she'd feel closer to the dead yet again. As haunting as the flashbacks of the Department had been, they'd at least kept her connected to her friends, family and more. But lately, there had just been emptiness.
So instead of crying or simply feeling, she just moved through the dusty hallway, skirting that wretched portrait that seemed intent on outliving the whole Order. So far, it was already halfway. Had someone told her Sirius was dead? Would she care, or just crow in triumph?
They drifted through the house towards the basement kitchen, where the Order had held so many meetings. They'd all tried to spy on them, with extendable ears or just old-fashioned trickery. Back then the Order had still only been for overage wizards and witches. Bill didn't care about that anymore, nor had Fleur seemed surprised when Bill told her Ginny would be coming too. She'd just given her a long look, nodded and then pulled her in for a hug. Ginny struggled to remember why she'd once hated her.
A long wooden table stood in the middle of the room as it always had. She could still see the spot where the twins' antics had once almost seen Sirius' hand skewered to the table. He'd still been able to laugh then. Yet as much as she focused on the memory, she didn't feel sad. Just more emptiness.
Bent over the table, resting on his knuckles stood Moody. His one eye was focused on the parchment, the other no doubt had watched them enter. He sighed and looked up, studying Ginny with that swirling eye of his, before shifting his gaze to her brother. "We don't send children to the battlefield, Bill." His voice was rough as always.
Her brother shrugged. "Dumbledore apparently disagreed."
"And look where that got him." Moody rolled up the parchment and sighed again. "Look where that got us." He looked as if he wanted to say more, but then his magic eye shifted, spinning so quickly it made Ginny sick. "Lupin and Tonks are here."
Ginny frowned. "I thought nobody knows where he was. They talked about it back home."
Moody gave her a hard look. "That is because information is dispersed on a need-to-know basis. Compartmentalisation and vigilance go hand in hand. So keep it to yourself," Moody grunted as he hobbled over to the cabinet at the far end of the room and shoved the parchment inside it. The locket had been in one of those cabinets too. She balled her fists in frustration, resisting the urge to break something. So close, and now so far.
The door swung open and Lupin and Tonks marched in. She quickly schooled her face in a neutral expression, though she needn't have bothered. Both looked haggard and didn't even spare her a glance.
Lupin dropped down in the nearest chair leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling as he spoke. "The werewolves are a lost cause."
"Are you sure?" Moody asked, fixing Lupin with a disappointed look. Ginny couldn't help but think that Dumbledore had done that a lot better. When he did it, it stung. When Moody did it, you wondered if he was having a stroke.
Tonks dropped down next to Lupin and put her feet up on the table, clearly equally unimpressed by the look. "Yes we're sure. We've been sure for months." Her pink hair changed to a pitch black. "So Merlin's beard Mad-Eye, if you want to continue negotiations, you can bloody well do so yourself. I'm done risking my life as a chewtoy."
Lupin straightened, seemingly looking to play peacemaker, but then he saw Ginny. "Miss Weasley?"
Tonks followed his look and frowned. "Ginny?"
"We have a special guest today," Moody said as he took a seat at the head of the table.
"What happened to only including overage wizards and witches?" Lupin asked pointedly.
"I made the same point and have been overruled," Moody grunted, giving Bill an irritated look. "I suppose family can choose how to spend their own lives.
Bill looked ill at that, unsure how to respond to that accusation. Fleur bristled, always quicker to respond than any Weasley. "You know very well that if we could, we'd keep everyone safe, Mad-Eye. But we're lacking choices here. Ginny has information crucial to the war."
"As I have known for months," Scrimgeour rasped as he limped into the room. Ginny froze. He'd faced Voldemort and all the rumours had hinted at him being dead. Yet here he stood, looking if not healthy, at least alive. His face was a ruin and there was a tremor to his voice that hadn't been there before. But he lived.
"Minister?" she stammered, wondering if there was something in the air. It wouldn't be the first time in this house.
"Don't look so disappointed, Miss Weasley." Scrimgeour drew back a chair and dropped down. "The rumours of my death were greatly exaggerated. As was unfortunately, my duel with Voldemort. Two spells was enough to do this." He gestured at what remained of his face. He could give Moody a run for his money. "And as I'm no longer fit for an election poster, I've decided to join the clandestine side of the wizarding world." His laugh sounded like it had come into an unfortunate collision with a cheese grater.
Ginny gave Bill a look, who just shrugged.
"Compartmentalisation, as I said," Moody muttered. "And good fighters are hard to come by." It sounded almost like that had been a joke, but it was always difficult to say with Moody's unreadable patchwork face.
"Yes, somehow the Death Eaters seem to be more successful at recruiting than we. Must be because they control the Ministry pension fund. I knew I should have abolished it," Scrimgeour laughed again. "But given her presence tonight, I suspect Miss Weasley has finally deigned to come clean?"
She took a deep breath, even as Bill placed a hand on her shoulder. The offer to let him handle it was clear and the tremor in her right arm was an unambiguous sign that this was what she wanted. But then she'd let someone else fight her battles again. Susan had kept the DA together as much as she had, Bill and Fleur were on top of the Gringotts Horcrux and Tom had kept Snape from her mind. It was time for her to pull her own weight.
"Not exactly," she admitted. She shifted her gaze to Lupin when frustration and anger appeared on Scrimgeour's face. Her old professor had always been a kinder audience. "But I do need your help with something."
"That would have been easier when I still had the power of the Ministry behind me," Scrimgeour muttered.
Bill gave him an angry glare. "She was acting under Dumbledore's orders."
"And look where that got us." Scrimgeour flicked his wand at a nearby armoire and a glass and bottle of Firewhisky drifted his way. He poured himself a glass. "Down on our luck and out for the count. Thanks Albus." He raised his glass in a toast and downed it in one. Only then he seemed to notice everyone was staring at him in annoyance. "But alright, we'll do as Saint Albus asked. Continue, Miss Weasley." He gestured at her with his empty glass.
She took a deep breath, and explained. Not all of it, not even half of it. But she did tell them she was on a mission for Dumbledore and for that, she needed Kreacher, or at the very least a Black heirloom that had once been carelessly thrown away.
"And what is this heirloom?" Lupin asked, his voice kind and calm, like he'd posed his questions during class.
She exchanged a look with Bill and Fleur, replaying the endless discussions they'd already had. If Voldemort were to find out what she was looking for, they'd never find it. If the Order didn't know what she was looking for, they might never find it. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
Like your struggle at the Department of Mysteries. No matter what you'd have done, you were doomed the second you walked into the Hall of Prophecies, Tom chuckled.
"That is… confidential for now," she said.
"How helpful," Scrimgeour said as he studied the bottle, seemingly more enthralled by its pedigree than the meeting.
"I believe that is what Moody called compartmentalisation," Fleur said finely, giving Ginny a supportive smile. Even if Fleur had advocated full disclosure prior to the meeting, she still had her back now.
"Well, yes, but it does limit what we can do," Moody protested.
"Now you realise how annoying that is, Mad-Eye?" Tonks said, trying to force a smile and failing. "Besides, we have a clear goal. Find Kreacher. Or Sirius, I suppose."
Ginny cast a look at Bill, begging him not to put that particular burden on her again. He gave her an answering nod and then cleared his throat. "Snape claims to have killed Sirius. To keep his cover," he spat out.
Moody was as unreadable as always, but Lupin went pale, his mouth opening, but offering only silence. Tonks placed a hand on his knee, but he hardly seemed to notice. Ginny wondered if he felt guilty like she did. If he too wondered if there hadn't been something he could have done to pull Sirius back from the brink of self-destruction. She'd been repeating Astoria's and Dumbledore's words inside her head for a while now, how both had basically deemed Sirius irreparable.
"So just the Elf then," Scrimgeour said, finally looking up from the bottle. With a flick of his wand he sent bottle and glass towards Lupin. "Next point on the agenda?"
#
The meeting dragged on after that, bad news after bad news that left Ginny feeling more hopeless by the minute. She had thought her search had been a wild goose chase, but the rest seemed equally lost. Muggleborns were disappearing, their support base was eroding and Yaxley was tightening his grip on the Ministry day after day. The last saw Scrimgeour scoffing.
"I really should have killed him when I had the chance. Only, I was afraid Voldemort would have given the Ministry to Malfoy otherwise," he admitted. "And I have invested too much of my life in the Ministry to see it fall in the hands of Lucius Malfoy."
"What is he even up to nowadays?" Bill asked.
"Throwing victory parties, mostly. We're not invited for some reason," Scrimgeour said, looking like he regretted giving up his bottle to Lupin. The latter meanwhile still hadn't drunk anything, but instead had been staring at his glass for the last half hour, twirling it between index finger and thumb. Tonks and Mad-Eye had both tried to engage him, without success.
The meeting ended not long after that. Scrimgeour and Mad-Eye left together, conversing in a low voice. Given by the lingering look they both gave her before leaving the room, Ginny suspected she was the topic of discussion.
"We'll just go through the house one final time. Just to make sure Kreacher didn't leave it lying around here," Fleur said.
"I'll join." Ginny shoved her chair back, but Bill held up a calming hand.
"Leave it to us, the place still isn't fit for habitation." Ginny wanted to protest, but then Bill gestured with his head in the direction of Lupin. Her heart sunk to her stomach, but he had a point. In all likelihood, she'd been the last friendly face to see Sirius before he'd died. Yet again, the world kept asking her to choose between what was right and what was easy.
It wasn't a choice, really. Lupin had come to her after the Department of Mysteries, had sat with her and tried to talk to her about it all. Not that it had helped all that much. His kind understanding hadn't brought them back, nor had it helped her sleep or stopped the tremors. She just hoped she'd be able to do more for him.
"Professor Lupin?" she asked in a small voice, part of her hoping he wouldn't hear. But of course, a deathly silence always lingered in Grimmauld Place—at least when Sirius' mother wasn't screeching. So he looked up and tried to grace her with a wan smile, even as Tonks rose and removed herself, though her hand lingered on Lupin's shoulder as long as possible. Only as she left did Ginny realise that for the first time since she'd met Tonks, she hadn't smiled even once.
"Ginny. I hope your first Order meeting wasn't too trying. It was a glum one, even by our standards." He gave the glass and bottle a final long stare and then sent them back to the cabinet with an aggressive jab of his wand.
"I'm sorry about Sirius, Professor."
He gave her a mournful look. "So am I."
A silence fell over them, leaving Ginny's mind racing for what to say. Should she broach a different subject and try to distract him? Or keep talking about Sirius, at the risk of ripping open even more wounds? Lupin had lost Sirius to betrayal and Azkaban for more than a decade, then he'd gotten back a shade of Sirius' former self. And after Harry, it had gotten worse, only for him to now be lost forever. What could you even say at a time like that?
In the end, Lupin beat her to it. "Still, I wonder."
She waited for him to continue, but he seemed lost in thought again. All his focus was devoted to a cut in the table. Finally, she cleared her throat. "Wonder about what, Professor?"
"Severus… did he have any proof for his claim?"
"Professor—"
"I'm not your Professor anymore, Ginny. I haven't been for a long time."
"Remus," she amended, and Merlin did that sound strange. "Why would he lie?"
"Because he could. Not that I'd put it beyond him, the act. There was only hatred there, no matter Albus' attempts at reconciliation, but I just can't imagine Sirius giving Severus the satisfaction of dying by his hand. No matter how far gone he was…."
Could he be on to something? Snape had sounded incredibly certain, but then again, he thrived on deception. Survived because of it. And at some point, lies became as familiar than the truth, if not more. It was much easier to say what you wanted to say, than what you should say. And Snape hadn't exactly been stable either. So perhaps Remus was onto something. Or perhaps he was just grasping at straws. She was intimately familiar with that. Those first weeks, she'd been certain that—if not the rest—at least Harry would resurface. That one day he'd break through one of her flashbacks and come walking into the Burrow, perhaps a scar or too richer, but as indomitable as always.
But he never had.
Still, until she'd given up, it had been a comforting illusion. The idea that it could get magically better, that suddenly everything would be, if not alright, at least better, it had seen her through plenty of storms. A self-deception required to keep dreaming, to keep falling asleep in those dark, terrifying nights. The childish belief that any injustice could be rectified, that any error could be set right, that the right path would never be fully closed off.
Perhaps she should rob Remus of that, but she couldn't.
"Perhaps. Snape was trying to unnerve met at the time," she conceded. And there was truth in that.
Remus smiled weakly at that. "I suppose this would have been more effective than threatening you with detention. I probably shouldn't admit it, but Neville's boggart, well, that was my favourite memory of my year teaching," he chuckled softly and then turned sombre again. "I know Severus probably was telling the truth. And even if he was lying, Sirius was already lost to us at that point. But what is lost can still be found." Impossible as it seemed, he winked at her at that, looking his actual age for once.
"Just like we'll find Kreacher."
"Exactly. Ten points to Gryffindor. It all seems dire right now, Ginny. And neither Scrimgeour nor Mad-Eye are the best motivators around. But it's not over. And as long as there is at least one of us left, it won't be over." He pushed his chair back and rose. "Thank you, Ginny."
As Remus walked out, she realised she was still terrible at consoling people. But he had helped her, and equally, he'd helped himself. Perhaps that was what Mum meant when she emphasised the importance of listening.
She walked away with a spring in her step. Kreacher and the locket were lost, sure. The whole Order was lost, as lost as Dad whenever he tried his hand at the Tube again. But he'd always found his way back. And so would they.