XX. Fallout
A shrill siren pierced the flat's tranquillity, startling Hermione. Her grimoire slipped from her lap, landing on the floor with a muted thud. Crookshanks, her large tabby cat, alarmed by her sudden movement, scurried under the table, quivering.
She cast a sympathetic look towards the terrified animal while the ceaseless siren shrieked on. The piercing wail finally ceased after what felt like an eternity to Hermione.
She was growing accustomed to the disruption. The blaring siren signalled the start of the city's oppressive curfew, enforced primarily in districts teeming with the underclass. With its wail, venturing onto the regime's controlled streets became a perilous act, punishable by hefty fines or imprisonment for repeat offenders. Death Eater patrols stalked the darkened streets, enforcing the curfew and verifying the blood purity of anyone unfortunate enough to be caught outside.
In the wake of the Hellebore ball's catastrophic explosion, the regime's iron grip on the Unbloodeds tightened considerably. Repression escalated, and the scant freedoms once enjoyed were now severely curtailed. Hermione was on edge, haunted by the fear of attracting Death Eaters' attention, which left her in a constant state of cold dread.
Just the night before, on her way back from work, she had witnessed a horrifying scene: a lower-ranking merchant, targeted by a mob of enraged civilians, enduring a torrent of vicious insults and brutal violence. Unbloodeds faced constant prejudice. They were denied individuality, and the actions of one could bring repercussions upon the rest.
For Hermione, who had returned to her position at Macmillan's Great Librarium after her stint at Damasus the Decadent's Theatre, life had grown more difficult. The hostility from her colleagues had intensified, surpassing what she thought possible. She endeavoured to remain inconspicuous, completing her tasks quietly and without complaint, speaking only when spoken to, and making a swift return to her flat after her shift, staying put until the next day. Drawing attention to herself was a risk she could not afford in these unstable times.
Yet another ring—this time echoing from within her own flat—startled Hermione anew.
"I know. I'm sorry, Crookshanks," Hermione said, casting a remorseful look at her cat still concealed under the coffee table.
A frown creased her face as her gaze drifted towards the front door. Ginny wouldn't be returning tonight; she was staying with her brother Bill, a temporary arrangement following the arrival of her new niece.
Apprehension gnawed at her as she neared the door, unlocking it with caution. Who could possibly be visiting at this hour? she pondered. Her mouth fell open in shock upon recognizing her visitor.
"Theodore?" she gasped, her eyes widening in shock.
"Good evening, Hermione," he replied softly, anxiety etched across his face.
An awkward silence stretched between them as their eyes met. His unexpected arrival threw her into disarray. Their last interaction had soured after a disagreement involving the theatre director, who had threatened to report Hermione for her 'lack of professionalism' citing her association with Theodore. In the tense aftermath, she'd rushed to complete her archiving duties at the theatre library, desperate to finish her assignment as quickly as possible.
They hadn't spoken since then. Their last encounter had ended in a heated argument, her words laced with accusations. She'd blamed him for failing to understand the danger her association with him posed. Fuelled by fear and frustration, her outburst had been harsh. Later, regret gnawed at her, leaving her unsure whether pride or shame kept her from reaching out. Sensing her hesitation, Theodore hesitantly asked:
"May I come in?"
His request, tinged with a hint of nervousness evident in his intense gaze, was met with a nod from Hermione, who stepped aside to allow him entry before she shut the door.
Her cheeks flushed as his presence suddenly overwhelmed her. Her dishevelled state, a thick, mismatched pyjama set and hair haphazardly bundled in a messy bun, betrayed her earlier plans for a quiet evening curled up with books.
"Sorry, I wasn't expecting company," she stammered, her wand instinctively levitating the scattered books across the sofa and depositing them back on the shelf beside the bricked-up fireplace.
"Don't worry about it. I apologize for the surprise visit," he responded. "I wanted to write, but finding the right words proved difficult, so I thought it better to meet in person."
The question of how he had obtained her address briefly crossed her mind, but she dismissed it as trivial.
"Still, it's not as straightforward as I hoped," Theodore admitted, running a hand through his now shorter jet-black hair.
Observing him, Hermione realized just how much she had missed him. The recent turmoil within the regime, coupled with Ginny's abrupt absence, had served as a stark reminder of how fragile life could be. She wouldn't let pride sabotage the connection blossoming with Theodore, a connection that had sparked unfamiliar emotions within her. For the first time in a long time, she dared to hope for something more.
"I should be the one apologising," Hermione expressed with genuine remorse. "I let my frustrations get the better of me, unfairly taking them out on you. You didn't deserve that. It was wrong, and I'm sincerely sorry."
"If I'd known it would be this simple, I would have come by earlier," Theodore admitted, a flicker of surprise dancing across his features.
His comment made her smile.
"I owe you an apology as well. For making you feel as though your concerns don't matter to me. I admit that it's difficult for me to grasp something I've not personally faced," Theodore confessed. "I don't want to pressure you into doing things you're uncomfortable with. You must know, you can always share your worries with me."
His words eased her tension.
"I'll try to be more transparent in the future," she declared, her face lighting up with a smile.
"Turns out, it was far simpler than anticipated," Theodore remarked, mirroring her smile. "I was concerned you wouldn't even let me speak. The thought of you closing the door on me crossed my mind."
Hermione quickly shook her head in dismissal.
"Ginny will be ecstatic to learn we resolved our differences through mature and effective communication," Hermione remarked with a hint of sarcasm, rolling her eyes playfully.
Ginny had reprimanded her over her fallout with Theodore in their last exchange, even making her practice a hypothetical dialogue between them to ensure she communicated her grievances effectively. Though she'd initially found the exercise rather ridiculous, Hermione secretly acknowledged her friend's influence. Ginny's intervention had created the space for her to have an honest conversation with Theodore, preventing pride from further complicating the situation.
Bridging the distance between them, Theodore moved closer and softly cupped her cheek with his hand. His thumb traced a tender caress across her skin, his gaze holding hers captive. Hermione's heart fluttered in her chest.
"I've missed you," he whispered, leaning in to kiss her.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into a firm embrace.
Allowing herself to melt into the embrace, Hermione relished the warmth of his touch after their time apart.
"You shouldn't be here," she abruptly withdrew, the harsh reality of their situation crashing down.
Theodore's expression turned to one of puzzlement at her sudden change in tone.
"The curfew's just started. We're not supposed to be out," she explained.
Comprehension flickered in Theodore's eyes, followed by a nonchalant shrug.
"That rule doesn't quite apply to me," he responded in a hushed tone. "Plus, having Death Eaters as escorts comes with its perks. They won't arrest one of their own."
"They're here?" Hermione inquired, a wave of unease washing over her.
"Yes, downstairs, with my carriage," Theodore confirmed, unyielding. "It's been weeks since we've spent any time together. They can wait, no matter how long it takes."
Hermione found no reason to object this time. To deny her yearning for his presence would be disingenuous.
"Please, take a seat. I'll brew us some tea," she suggested, feeling a lightness in her mood.
Theodore settled onto the sofa, casting an appreciative look around the cosy living room.
"It's no palace," Hermione conceded with a lighthearted chuckle. "But it's home."
"It has a certain charm," Theodore replied, his voice sincere.
"Even though she guessed his praise might be out of politeness, his kind words were still warmly received. Knowing he resided in a grand manor, she couldn't help but imagine his home exuded an air of opulence far exceeding the modest comfort of her own flat.
Hermione came back holding two mugs of steaming tea, each bearing the Holyhead Harpies' emblem—a nod to Ginny's staunch support for Quidditch—and set them down on the coffee table. Crookshanks emerged from his hiding spot and began weaving between Theodore's feet, purring insistently. Theodore, surprised by the feline's sudden affection, leaned down to offer a gentle scratch behind the ears. The cat, basking in the unexpected attention, vibrated with an even louder purr.
"It's odd," Hermione remarked, a hint of surprise in her voice. "He's usually quite wary of strangers."
"Does he? He seems rather friendly," Theodore observed.
"I found him abandoned on the streets three years ago," she shared, her gaze softening as she looked at Crookshanks. "He was frightened and traumatised. I suspect he was mistreated."
She scooped up the cat, setting him comfortably on her lap and caressing his thick fur.
"Now, you might just be the happiest cat there is, right, Crookshanks? Though perhaps also the heaviest," she teased, a playful glint in her eyes as she gently lowered him back to the ground.
Crookshanks ambled off towards his water bowl. Turning back to Theodore, Hermione caught him looking at her with a mix of surprise and affection. She offered a sheepish smile, acknowledging her emotional attachment to her pet. To Hermione, Crookshanks was far more than a pet; in the absence of family and the loneliness imposed by the regime, his presence offered profound comfort. Like her, he had endured hardships but was on the mend. She believed they provided mutual comfort, although Ginny jokingly suggested he was only there for the consistent food and affection. Her flatmate's relationship with Crookshanks was, at best, contentious. Lately, another cat had started to enter their flat, much to Crookshanks' displeasure, seeing it as an intrusion on his territory. Whenever Crookshanks acted up, Ginny playfully threatened to swap him for the stray cat that had claimed their rooftop as its lounging spot.
Theodore's hesitant voice snapped Hermione out of her reverie.
"Regarding what I mentioned last time... about meeting my mother," he started, visibly uncomfortable. "I didn't intend to pressure you. If you're not ready or if it makes you uneasy, I completely understand."
Picking up on his discomfort, Hermione offered a swift reassurance. "I would be happy to meet her," she said, her tone warm and encouraging.
A smile bloomed on Theodore's face at her words.
"There's something I need to ask you first," she began, adopting a more serious tone as she positioned herself to face him squarely on the sofa.
He gestured for her to proceed.
"Perhaps it's wiser to keep our relationship under wraps for now. I'm concerned about the repercussions if people find out, especially given the current climate," she confessed. "It seems safer to avoid being seen together publicly."
The incident with the theatre director served as a stark reminder of the need for caution.
"You're right," Theodore conceded, letting out a deep sigh. "Given what's happening outside, I wouldn't want to jeopardize your safety."
The societal divides were stark, and Hermione, already navigating a tense work environment, didn't want to further complicate matters by making her relationship with Theodore public knowledge.
"Are you planning to tell your mother about my status?" she asked.
"I'm unsure. What do you think is best?"
Despite Theodore's reassurances, Hermione remained wary. The potential reaction of his ailing mother to such news was unpredictable, and the last thing Hermione wanted was to add to her burdens.
"For now, I'd prefer to keep it between us, unless it's brought up by your family," Hermione decided, biting her lip with apprehension.
Theodore nodded, respecting her decision.
"How is she doing?" Hermione asked, changing the subject.
Theodore provided an update on his mother's condition, which, to their surprise, had recently improved. He confided his anxieties about the end-of-life arrangements facilitated by the doula. While opening up to a stranger about such personal matters felt awkward, he found solace in discussing them with Hermione. She listened attentively, offering silent support with a gentle caress of his hand.
Faced with the vulnerability he was showing her, Hermione couldn't help but feel guilty. She wasn't entirely honest with him. She was torn between the desire to share her own burdens and the fear of his possible reaction. Their relationship had progressed so rapidly she hadn't considered how to approach this delicate matter, fearing it might disrupt what they had built. Sensing her emotional shift, Theodore reached out, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.
"You seem troubled. What's on your mind?" he observed, his voice laced with concern.
She shook her head, a forced smile flickering on her lips as she wrestled with her inner turmoil. Theodore leaned in again, his kiss deepening in intensity. Hermione responded with equal fervour, instinctively pressing closer, their bodies melding together. His hand slid down to her waist, holding her firmly.
Lost in the heat of their kiss, she shivered as his touch trailed down from her waist, igniting a warmth within her. Withdrawing from her lips, Theodore trailed kisses down her jawline, his touch feather-light as he descended to her neck, leaving a path of fluttering sensations in his wake.
The unexpected shift in Theodore's boldness sent shivers down Hermione's spine, her body awakening with a yearning for more. Gently, he lowered her back onto the sofa without halting their intense kiss. Pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, his eyes held a depth of emotion that stole her breath for a moment. Her cheeks flushed, her breath coming in shallow pants.
"I've missed you more than you know, Hermione," he whispered, causing her to shudder anew.
Drawn by an irresistible pull, she wrapped her arms around his neck, her lips seeking his once more with a newfound urgency. The heat of his kisses and the press of his body ignited a fire within her, awakening sensations she had never known before. Theodore's fingers dipped beneath her tee, tracing a light path up her stomach before lingering at the hem. With gentle care, he lifted the garment over her head, his gaze fixed intently on hers. A flicker of nervousness danced across Hermione's features as she found herself exposed in her bra, yet his touch, which drifted down to her collarbone and slowly explored her chest, calmed the fluttering in her stomach.
As his hand skimmed down her leg, tracing a gentle path beneath her trousers, Hermione's breath hitched in her throat. When his touch ventured further, unexpectedly bold, she stiffened instinctively. Her eyes snapped open, locking with Theodore's, who paused, his expression a mixture of surprise and concern. Heat radiated from her cheeks, flushing them a crimson that mirrored the turmoil within her.
"I'm sorry," she stammered, pulling back abruptly and scrambling to sit up, creating space between them.
Confronted with Theodore's confused look, she found herself fumbling for words, "I... I've never..."
Realization dawned on Theodore's face, a flicker of surprise softening his features as he swiftly straightened his own clothes.
"I'm sorry... I had no idea. I wouldn't have gotten so carried away if I'd known," he apologized, his discomfort evident as he awkwardly scratched his head.
"It's okay," she rushed to reassure him. "I...I was enjoying myself; I'm just not ready to...to take the plunge yet."
Take the plunge? She inwardly cringed at her own choice of words. The air was thick with embarrassment on both sides. Hastily, Hermione picked up her top from the ground and slipped it back on.
"Maybe we should just get this awkward conversation out of the way and clear the air, once and for all," she tried to joke.
Theodore raised an eyebrow, puzzled.
"Yes, I am still a virgin. No, it's not an issue, even at my age, despite common misconceptions. And no, I'm not holding out for marriage. It's simply that the right moment hasn't come along," Hermione stated plainly, her frankness leaving Theodore momentarily speechless.
Noticing his surprised expression, she added, "Those are typically the first questions people ask. I figured I'd tackle them head-on," she said, managing a wry smile.
She could still vividly recall Ginny's shock upon learning of her inexperience, followed by a barrage of intrusive questions as if her virginity were some kind of anomaly. During one particularly tipsy evening at their flat, Ginny had even let this slip to Luna and Neville. This sparked a peculiar and somewhat awkward discussion, with Hermione trying to navigate Ginny's relentless questioning, Luna's peculiar probes, all under Neville's intensely embarrassed watch.
Her last romantic encounter dated back to her teenage years, before the regime's constraints took over her life. Ever since, survival had taken precedence over romantic pursuits. It wasn't that she lacked desires—she was a 24-year-old woman, after all, and had managed alone so far.
With Theodore, Hermione experienced a depth of connection unlike any before, and for the first time, she found herself contemplating intimacy. Yet, despite a burgeoning desire and a surprising sense of readiness with him, a flicker of hesitation lingered within her.
Turning to Theodore, she sought some sign of understanding or response in his eyes. "Please say something, or this is going to become even more awkward," she half-joked, half-pleaded.
His response took a moment, but when it came, it was unexpected. "I'm just relieved you're not holding out for marriage."
The absurdity of his comment caught her off guard, and she found herself laughing nervously, the tension finally breaking.
/
"You seem preoccupied tonight, Draco."
Draco's gaze shifted, locking with the probing eyes of a woman with long, brown hair that cascaded around her shoulders. Her sharp green eyes bore into him, filled with inquiry.
She was clad in a sheer silk robe, loosely knotted at her waist, revealing hints of her bare form beneath the delicate material. Gliding closer, she offered him a glass before settling beside him on the plush bed. Draco took a long sip, the liquor burning a welcome path down his throat.
Her words carried a note of scrutiny. Daphne Greengrass was not one to easily concern herself with the emotional states of others. Their priorities aligned closely, with personal ambitions taking precedence. This shared perspective was likely why Draco had kept her company for years.
Their acquaintance stretched back to their Hogwarts days, both having been sorted into Slytherin. Daphne had once been close with Pansy, until an silly quarrel in their final year severed that bond.
Romance had never figured in the equation between Draco and Daphne. Their relationship was purely physical, a convenient arrangement catering to their sporadic needs as schedules permitted.
Draco valued her discretion and the uncomplicated nature of their encounters, free from emotional entanglements. Given his standing, Draco was selective with his associations. Daphne represented a secure, discreet choice.
"I thought the point of these meetings was to escape our worries. Or have I not met your expectations tonight?" Daphne questioned, her voice laced with a hint of mockery as she lifted the glass to her lips.
A playful edge tinged her words, bordering on provocation. He recognized the familiar tactic in her question. Daphne Greengrass, much like Pansy, exuded an unshakeable self-confidence.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're thinking of someone else," she remarked, arching an eyebrow in amusement as her fingers trailed across his chest in a suggestive caress.
"That's absurd," he dismissed coolly, placing his glass on the nightstand.
Of course, his denial was a facade, delivered with the ease that came from a lifetime of mastering deceit. Lying was an art form in the Malfoy household, and Draco wielded it effortlessly.
"Then what hinders you from pursuing my sister?" Daphne pressed, draining her glass in a single, fluid motion.
The source of her pique became clear to Draco. Their association extended beyond mere physicality; both were heirs of esteemed bloodlines and they understood the weight of strategic alliances.
"I've had other concerns, as you're well aware," Draco replied tersely.
Daphne was momentarily taken aback by the chill in his voice, her expression softening as she carefully navigated his temper. She nodded, a gesture of diplomatic concession, though Draco doubted its sincerity.
"I understand. But you should know, Astoria has started seeing a colleague from the hospital. She's losing patience with your indecisiveness, Draco. Without a clear sign of commitment from you soon, Father will allow her to marry someone else," Daphne warned, visibly repulsed by the thought.
"I'm fully aware of the stakes. And I wouldn't dream of compromising your ambitions to ascend to Governor," he said, his tone thick with irony.
"The burden of being denied the privilege of maleness," Daphne retorted sharply, her frustration clear in her icy tone.
Daphne and Astoria, daughters to Georgius and Renata Greengrass, had no brother to carry forward the family name. After repeated attempts and with Renata beyond childbearing age—also battling mental health issues, a subject Daphne seldom discussed—their family faced a predicament common among the Sacred Thirteen. In this elite circle, marriages transcended conventional matrimonial ties to what was known as 'sacred unions'—a magical ritual that forged an unbreakable bond between partners, severable only by death. Only children born from such unions were recognized as legitimate heirs, reinforcing the sanctity and permanence of these bonds.
Should both sisters marry outside the bloodline, the Greengrass name would be banished from the Coven upon Georgius's passing. Considering neither sister could produce heirs to continue the Greengrass name, Daphne chose to remain unmarried, thereby becoming the final guardian of her family's legacy. As the last bearer of the Greengrass name, she would uphold it through her lifetime, assuming the role of governor for her clan.
Within the Greengrass family, it was determined that Astoria would be the one to marry into another Sacred Thirteen lineage. Daphne, particularly keen on securing an alliance with the Malfoys, spearheaded this mission with unwavering zeal. Such unions were instrumental in solidifying the delicate power dynamics within the Coven.
From a young age, Daphne refused to be relegated to the role of mere childbearer for a superior bloodline. She possessed her own ambitions, setting her sights on the prestigious position of Governor, a role that necessitated retaining her power and influence. Draco was acutely aware of Daphne's unwavering seriousness regarding her future.
His interactions with Astoria, Daphne's younger sister, were scarce. In stark contrast to Daphne's assertive nature, Astoria embodied quietness and self-effacement, rarely commanding attention at social gatherings. Recent news placed her on the path to becoming a Mediwizard, her upbringing meticulously crafted to mold her into an ideal match for someone of Draco's calibre: refined, dedicated, and discreet. The prospect of a union with Astoria Greengrass left Draco feeling indifferent; it held neither allure nor aversion.
Narcissa, his mother, advocated for patience, underscoring the importance of his decision. His future wife would not only be his lifelong companion but also a partner in ensuring the Malfoy lineage thrived. Unlike women constrained by societal expectations, Draco was not immediately pressed for time. Within their society's patriarchal framework, he enjoyed the unrestricted privileges accorded to his gender.
"I could set up a meeting to reconnect you both. If Astoria sees potential future with you, she'll sever ties with this other man," Daphne proposed with conviction, her focus seemingly drifting as she contemplated possible outcomes.
"And you're sure she would welcome this arrangement?" Draco inquired, his tone laced with a casual scepticism.
"Astoria is aware of her responsibilities. She understands what's expected for our family's benefit. And she'll comply with her sister's wishes," Daphne declared, a note of triumph in her voice.
Draco listened, his interest waning as Daphne delved deeper into her self-appointed role as his personal matchmaker.
"Through a union with Astoria, you'll fulfil your obligations by producing heirs. Meanwhile, I'll secure my position as Governor. Perhaps, you and I might even maintain our current arrangement," she hinted, her voice adopting a seductive undertone as her hand trailed suggestively down his chest.
As she began to unbutton her blouse, revealing herself, a tattoo – the Greengrass family motto – was visible on her right ribcage, etched in elegant script:
- Unfettered by Fear, Untouched by Reproach -
As Daphne pressed closer, her warmth enveloped him, and Draco's thoughts drifted unexpectedly to another woman: Ginny Weasley. Her fiery red hair and the way her sleek black dress at Inferno accentuated her figure with precision, flashed in his mind. The memory of that night flooded his mind with startling clarity: her intense gaze meeting his across the dimly lit club, their fleeting yet charged conversation that danced on the edge of flirtation, and the accidental brushes of skin that stirred something deep within him. It fuelled his desire with an unexpected intensity.
An internal curse escaped him. Why was Ginny Weasley intruding on his thoughts now, of all times? And more perplexingly, why did the thought of her replacing Daphne in this very situation intensify his arousal?
As the wave of pleasure washed over him, Draco found himself engulfed in a tumult of emotions – shame, confusion, and an intense frustration over his hidden longing for a woman whom societal norms dictated he should view with disdain, if not outright disgust. The very notion of his desires being ensnared by someone deemed entirely off-limits was abhorrent to him.
Could the illicit nature of his attraction be the very reason it held such an irresistible pull on him? With agonizing clarity, Draco recognized that his fixation on Ginny Weasley would relentlessly torment him until he unravelled the enigmatic hold she possessed over him.
Exiting Daphne's residence shortly thereafter and settling into his carriage, Draco retrieved his two-way mirror. With a flick of his wand, he activated the device, and after a brief wait, Pansy Parkinson's face materialized.
"Pansy, I need another favour," he declared, setting in motion what could potentially be his most audacious scheme yet.
/
The piercing shrieks tore through Ginny's slumber, yanking her abruptly from the depths of her dream. Muffling a groan in her pillow, she scrambled for her wand as the cries grew louder. A quick spell silenced the clamour at the bedroom door, bringing a semblance of peace back to the room.
Her gaze settled on Victoire, cocooned in blankets, her steady breathing a sign of deep sleep. Settling back into her pillow, Ginny's eyes fixed on the ceiling, enveloped by the fog of sudden wakefulness. A flush of embarrassment crept up her neck as the vivid dream from earlier that night replayed in her mind. She found herself back at Inferno, lost in a dance with Draco Malfoy, their bodies pressed close together, mirroring the fleeting moment of intimacy they shared at the Hellebore Ball.
Determinedly shaking her head, she tried to dispel the persistent images haunting her mind. The reason behind her recurring dreams about Draco Malfoy remained a mystery. Any message her subconscious might be trying to convey about him was one she resolutely chose to ignore.
Suppressing a yawn, Ginny mused over the recent sleepless nights, marked by her newborn niece's incessant wails. The silencing charm, albeit a temporary fix fading after an hour, offered brief respite. She empathized with Bill and Fleur's exhaustion who alternated in attending to the newborn.
Just a fortnight ago, Dominique Weasley, affectionately nicknamed Nickie, made her entrance into the world. Her arrival, unlike Fleur's first childbirth experience, proved remarkably smooth, bringing a wave of relief to the entire family. Ginny had offered her support by temporarily relocating to Shell Cottage. She took charge of Victoire's care and household duties, alleviating some of the immense pressure burdening Fleur and Bill.
Adjusting to life with a second child presented its challenges for the family. Ginny, working part-time at Burke's apothecary and recently forced to take a leave of absence from the Ministry, found herself with more time to lend a helping hand.
Barely a day after Dominique's arrival, Bill was forced to return to work, a harsh reminder of their precarious situation. Contrary to their privileged peers, Unblooded individuals such as Bill were deprived of basic rights, including paid parental leave, exposing them to financial vulnerability. Missing work meant no pay and potentially severe penalties, including job loss.
The job market was cutthroat, with employers holding the upper hand. They readily exploited the desperation of the lower-status workforce, offering meagre wages, knowing there would always be someone willing to work for even less. Bill, burdened by the responsibility of providing for his growing family, had no choice but to endure this relentless work schedule.
Unable to drift back to sleep, Ginny decided to leave the temporary confines of her bed in Victoire's room. She tiptoed downstairs, careful to preserve the silence her spell had restored, slipping by Bill and Fleur's ajar door. Inside, Fleur gently swayed Nickie back to sleep.
Stepping into the kitchen, Ginny was startled by the sight of Bill hunched over the stove, bleary-eyed and battling exhaustion as he attempted to brew coffee. His eyelids hung heavily, on the verge of surrendering to sleep. Ginny's heart went out to him; his appearance, nearly ghostlike from exhaustion, starkly opposed the energetic brother she knew. The clock showed it was only half-past five in the morning.
She cleared her throat to announce her presence, startling Bill. He blinked away his drowsiness and, recognizing her, eased slightly.
"Oh, it's you," he mumbled, his voice laden with a weariness that went beyond the physical.
Since Ginny's controversial involvement with the Ministry came to light, a palpable tension had hung between them. Their interactions were reduced to terse exchanges, strictly limited to practical matters. The unresolved issue lingered like a spectre, neither willing to confront it amid the chaos of daily life. Ginny approached him.
"Sit down," she said softly, her tone firm but threaded with concern. "I'll take care of this. You look like you're about to fall over."
Silently, Bill shuffled to the table, yielding to a series of irrepressible yawns. Ginny, taking charge, resumed the breakfast preparations and soon placed a hearty meal in front of him. A flicker of silent appreciation crossed his face as she took her seat beside him, cradling two steaming mugs.
"Fleur's got an appointment at St. Mungo's today," Bill announced, breaking the tense silence as he continued eating.
"I'll get off work early to go with her," Ginny assured.
Bill nodded gratefully. They ate in silence, the occasional sound of cutlery against plates and distant seagulls the only break in the quiet.
Bill's weariness extended beyond the physical; it was the exhaustion of a man burdened with worries he tried to shield from others, especially his wife. Fleur's postpartum sensitivity added another layer of concern he navigated daily, striving to maintain a semblance of stability in their strained environment.
With Bill gone, Ginny tackled the accumulating household chores, the ever-growing pile of laundry a constant reminder of the demands of a newborn. Repurposing Victoire's outgrown clothes for little Nickie provided a much-needed financial relief.
As the clock struck seven, Victoire stirred awake. As Ginny prepared breakfast porridge, she was bemused to see her niece quickly turn the living room into a chaotic playground of toys.
"Vicky, please tidy your toys before breakfast," Ginny instructed.
A few minutes later, as Victoire nibbled on her breakfast, swinging her legs back and forth, Ginny's thoughts drifted back to her charged and tantalizing dream of Draco Malfoy. A slight blush coloured her cheeks at the memory and her fingers tightened around her mug.
Victoire's eyes sparkled with anticipation as she asked, "Can we play Quidditch after I finish?"
Using her mini broomstick without adult supervision was out of the question for the little girl.
"Not today, sweetheart," Ginny replied gently. "I have to go to work soon."
"Why doesn't Mummy play with me now?" Victoire's lower lip quivered as her face crumpled into a pout.
"Mummy's busy taking care of Nickie right now, sweetheart. Remember what Daddy told you about how babies need a lot of attention, just like you did when you were little?" Ginny explained gently.
With a flick of her wand, she set the cleaned dishes to store themselves away.
Victoire tilted her head, a furrow etching itself between her brows as she inquired seriously, "Did I cry all the time when I was a tiny baby?
A soft chuckle escaped Ginny's lips at the innocent question. "Oh, you were quite the little cryer," Ginny admitted, "but the sweetest one at that. You'd stop fussing the moment someone picked you up, just like you always wanted all our love."
Gently stroking her niece's blonde hair, she promised, "We'll definitely play Quidditch when I get back," she conceded.
Ginny stepped out shortly after, bracing herself against the rain's chilly grasp. Reaching Scarlet Promenade, she unlocked the apothecary shop, ready for another day of work. She had recently negotiated a schedule adjustment with her employer, allowing her to start earlier and return home before the stringent Unblooded curfew. This change, reluctantly accepted by her colleague Ruth due to Burke's lack of options, provided Ginny with a much-needed sense of normalcy amid her tumultuous personal life.
Ginny busied herself restocking the shelves with freshly filled potions, her movements practiced and efficient. The arrival of the shop owner, however, ushered in a wave of his usual complaints. The muddy mess at the shop's entrance, which she hadn't yet tended to since the departure of the last customers, became the target of Burke's particular ire.
Taking her lunch break, Ginny ventured to a cozy café tucked away in Diagon Alley, seeking solace from the shop's confines. As she entered, a familiar glint of blonde hair caught her eye. Katrina Street-Porter waved enthusiastically from a nearby table.
"Great to see you again, Ginny," Katrina beamed as Ginny settled into the seat across from her.
Seeing Katrina, particularly after the harrowing Hellebore Ball events, was a comforting sight.
"I've gone ahead and ordered for us; I hope that's alright. I've got a Ministry meeting soon. How have you been holding up?" Katrina inquired, her concern apparent.
Before Ginny could formulate a response, Katrina launched into her own experience. "Honestly, I've been a wreck. It took me three nights and an unhealthy amount of calming potion to finally get some sleep."
Ginny only nodded, her reluctance to dredge up the memories of the attack palpable. Draco's memory-extraction spell, a godsend in disguise, had allowed her to temporarily bury the traumatic experience beneath. The birth of Nickie along with the ensuing family obligations had occupied her mind entirely.
Switching topics, Ginny asked, "How's everything at the Ministry?"
"Complete chaos," Katrina confided, her expression darkening. "Rumours are flying, and frankly, it's a disaster. I was really scared for us, to be honest. Of course, it had to happen during our event. Thankfully, the Aurors are the ones taking the blame for this one."
Her face darkened at the mention of the casualties. "Such a tragic loss... May they find peace. May they rest eternally, as Voldemort's will permits," she uttered.
Katrina shifted the conversation, "The cabinet's been in total disarray," she confided, "and I've been buried in damage control. As you know from my letter, the bill we were working on has been suspended until further notice."
Ginny, understanding her non-essential role, couldn't help but feel a pang of exclusion after being placed on a temporary leave from her consultative role on Governor Warrington's bill. With the project suspended, the other cabinet members resumed their usual Ministry roles.
"To be perfectly honest," Katrina began, her voice laced with barely concealed disdain, "a certain individual – no prize for guessing who – expressed discomfort at continuing to work with someone of 'lower standing' after the ball's incident."
Ginny couldn't hide her irritation. "Let me guess, a certain Mandy Brocklehurst is behind this?" she speculated, her voice tinged with sarcasm.
"Exactly. Even Cormac McLaggen gave her the side-eye after that. She's been rather dramatic about her supposed safety concerns," Katrina relayed, her annoyance bubbling to the surface.
Mandy Brocklehurst was notoriously antagonistic towards Ginny, always seizing opportunities to undermine her.
"Utterly ridiculous," Ginny retorted, her frustration simmering with each revelation.
"I know," Katrina sighed, her face grim. "Given the pressure at the Ministry and Mandy's complaints, Governor Warrington was left with no choice. This could seriously jeopardize the bill's approval. She is keeping a low profile for now, but things might change for you in a few weeks or months."
While Katrina's words aimed to offer comfort, Ginny couldn't shake the underlying truth in her assessment. However, the enforced suspension presented a silver lining – a temporary escape from the Ministry's current toxic environment. This unexpected hiatus, although putting her arrangement with Draco Malfoy on hold, could be seen as a blessing in disguise.
Katrina's expression transformed entirely as she leaned closer to Ginny, her eyes gleaming with conspiracy.
"But enough about that," Katrina said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Let's discuss something else entirely. I noticed you with Governor Malfoy's son at the ball," she added, her voice carrying a playful undertone.
Ginny tensed, feeling a knot of apprehension twist in her stomach. Katrina's keen eye likely captured more than she cared to admit, and Draco's insistence on whisking her away from the ball hadn't gone unnoticed.
"You know, Ginny..." Katrina began, her tone tinged with both surprise and admiration. "When I suggested expanding your connections, I never imagined you'd set your sights so high. You're certainly bold."
"I just prevented him from getting caught in the crossfire with that deranged woman," Ginny replied, attempting nonchalance. "He was grateful and suggested we leave for a safer spot."
"Yet, I'm fairly certain you were dancing with him beforehand," Katrina noted, giving her a knowing glance.
Ginny fabricated a quick response, "He was unaware of my identity or background."
"Beauty transcends status, as I've always said," Katrina responded, her smile revealing a sense of validation in her beliefs.
After a pause, her expression grew more serious. "Listen, Ginny," she started, her voice imbued with concern. "I've never hidden from you that I advocate playing to your strengths to get ahead. However, tread carefully here, Ginny. You probably don't know much about them, but the Malfoys are very powerful people. They're not the sort of family you want to be associated with, especially not in secret. They're dangerous, both as individuals and as a family."
Katrina's sudden seriousness took Ginny aback, casting a shadow of unease over her.
"Find yourself a high-ranking Pureblood at the Ministry instead, one who could leverage his contacts to clean up your record over time. It will be slower but safer for you," Katrina advised.
A quick glance at her watch sent a jolt of panic in Katrina's eyes, "In Voldemort's name, I'm running late for my meeting! Must dash. Oh, and I nearly forgot," she exclaimed, handing Ginny a bag. "I was able to recover our belongings from that night."
This was the bag Ginny had left behind in a room at the Chimera Palace, filled with her personal items. She thanked Katrina warmly, and as they parted, promised to keep in touch regularly.
At the end of her workday, Ginny accompanied Fleur at her postnatal check-up at St Mungo's.
"It's nice to have a change of scenery," Fleur mused in the waiting area, gently soothing Dominique in her pram.
Fleur's gaze darted towards Victoire, who was engrossed in conversation with a little boy whose skin had morphed into an unsettling shade of purple. "Goodness, I hope that child isn't contagious," she muttered, her nose wrinkling in distaste.
Despite juggling motherhood and her many responsibilities, Fleur radiated effortless grace. Her beauty remained undimmed, her skin glowing with a healthy radiance, and her silvery-blonde hair, styled into a perfect French braid, cascaded elegantly down her back. Observers would be astonished to learn she had recently given birth. Her unaltered beauty and glow were a clear benefit of her Veela heritage.
Her gaze then softened as she turned towards Nickie, who was babbling happily in the pram. "Thankfully, she's calmer than Victoire at this age," she remarked, chuckling.
Ginny looked affectionately at her niece. "She's absolutely adorable," she gushed, her eyes alight with fondness.
Fleur's brow furrowed as she inquired, "So, how are things with Bill? Have you two had a chance to talk things through?"
Ginny shook her head, a note of defeat on her face. The odd detachment from her brother, despite sharing the same roof, felt increasingly alien.
"Has he not mentioned anything to you?" Ginny replied, disappointment coloring her voice.
Fleur's head shook vehemently. "Not a word. I've stopped bringing it up altogether. He simply brushes it off, claiming it's none of my concern because you're his baby sister," she shared, rolling her eyes. "Clearly, this situation is taking a toll on both of you."
"It's like we're speaking different languages," Ginny conceded, frustration evident in her voice. "He refuses to even consider my perspective. It's utterly infuriating."
Bill had always viewed her through the lens of a protective older brother, a stance that hadn't softened over time. Ginny recognized his protectiveness stemmed from their shared bond as the remaining siblings.
Shortly after, a Healer appeared, calling Fleur for her appointment. She quickly got up, wheeling Nickie along. Moments later, Victoire came bounding back, proudly thrusting a rough drawing towards Ginny.
"This is me, and this is Nickie," she said enthusiastically, pointing at the doodles.
Ginny offered a smile of encouragement, though it was evident Victoire's talents resided elsewhere.
"When I go to school, I'll have a magic wand like Mum and Dad so I can protect Nickie if anyone bothers her," Victoire declared with conviction.
"And why would Nickie need protection?" Ginny chuckled, amused by her niece's solemn declaration.
"Mummy says as the eldest, it's my job to look after my sister," Victoire asserted with determination.
Ginny found herself momentarily lost for words, touched by the naive yet sincere sentiment.
"Auntie Ginny? Why are you crying?" Victoire asked, puzzled.
Ginny managed a smile, dabbing away her tears.
"It's just... your drawing is incredibly special, darling," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion.
Gently touching Victoire's cheek, she affirmed, "You're right. Looking after your sister is very important."
A bittersweet smile graced Ginny's lips as she contemplated the simple wisdom embedded in Victoire's words. Perhaps Bill's perspective held more merit than she had initially acknowledged.
The following day, as Ginny meticulously sorted through empty potion vials, the shop door burst open, breaking the afternoon's tranquility. In the doorway stood an unexpected visitor: Pansy Parkinson. Clad in a pristine white skater dress, which accentuated her towering heeled boots, she exuded an air of calculated confidence. Next to her, Galileo loomed, resembling a menacing shadow.
"Well, well, Red," Pansy drawled, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness.
She strode towards Ginny, her high heels clicking against the floor, and bestowed a forceful kiss on her cheek. With a disdainful gaze, Pansy surveyed the shop, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against a nearby shelf.
"This is your little workplace, then?" she remarked, her voice laced with condescension. "It's rather dreary, isn't it? You should consider brightening up the place, injecting some positive energy. Spending an entire day here must be utterly depressing."
"I'll be sure to pass your comment on to the owner," Ginny retorted, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
Pansy, misreading Ginny's sarcasm as earnestness, appeared pleased with her own suggestion. Leaning in conspiratorially, she lowered her voice to a husky whisper. "Speaking of brightening things up, if you ever feel the need for a little pick-me-up, my dealer sells this amazing concoction. Pure euphoria in a vial, I tell you."
Ginny offered a noncommittal nod, recalling Pansy's less-than-discreet indulgence in illicit substances back at Inferno.
Curious, she ventured, "Not to pry, but what brings you here, Pansy?"
Pansy shrugged nonchalantly, "Just out and about, you know. I was shopping in the area and remembered you mentioned working nearby. Thought I'd pop in before heading off to my beauty treatment, of course."
Their conversations during their unintended confinement had covered a broad range of subjects, mostly fuelled by Pansy's incessant chatter. Ginny couldn't help but be mildly surprised that Pansy had actually remembered the details of her employment.
With dramatic flair, Pansy announced, "Speaking of unexpected turns, I've got an exceptional proposition for you. How would you fancy working for me?"
Ginny was taken aback. "Excuse me?" she managed to articulate.
Pansy elaborated, a hint of impatience creeping into her voice, "I'm in need of a secondary assistant, on a part-time basis to begin with. I'll send you the details. You start next Monday."
Ginny, speechless, remained rooted to the spot, momentarily paralyzed by the sheer audacity of the 'offer'.
Interpreting Ginny's stunned silence for agreement, Pansy added, "Splendid! It is settled, then. Until next time, Red!" before sashaying out the door.
With that, Pansy made a swift exit, leaving Ginny to process the whirlwind visit. She hadn't even managed to voice her consent—or lack thereof.
Ginny let out a deep sigh as she returned to the counter, mulling over the day's sudden developments. It appeared she had become a magnet for the unexpected.
/
Alastor Moody paused at the entrance to the dining hall within the Defiant Ghouls' headquarters, taking a moment to collect himself. A film of sweat beaded on his forehead, which he hastily mopped away with his sleeve. The day had been interminably long and fraught with frustration. It served as a harsh reminder of how much he despised feeling out of control.
A sharp pang shot through his right hip, a familiar grumble after days like this, brimming with relentless activity. He adjusted his prosthetic leg with a subtle movement before stepping into the room. Age was steadily making its presence felt, his body serving as a persistent reminder of the relentless march of time.
The days of Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody's prime, a formidable Auror revered for his fiery temper and imposing presence, felt like a distant echo. For nearly three decades, his exceptional skills and unwavering ability to rally others around a common cause had earned him immense respect among the Aurors, as well as a fair share of adversaries.
His life spiralled into tragedy after a grave injustice struck his family. His wife, Cecil, faced wrongful accusations of falsifying her blood status, culminating in a horrific night when Death Eaters raided their home. Mistaking them for intruders, Cecil fought back, only to meet a lethal counterattack. Amidst the turmoil, their fourteen-year-old daughter, Alyse, became an unintended victim of the ensuing onslaught, a misplaced curse sealing her fate. She battled for survival in the hospital for several agonizing days before succumbing, with her father by her side until the very end.
Moody was on assignment away from home during the attack, a deliberate ploy to guarantee his absence. This revelation ignited a fiery rage within him that nearly led to violent retribution against those he once considered allies.
That tragedy shattered his world. Once a staunch advocate for the regime, he now loathed the very laws that had orchestrated his family's destruction. Despite his dedication and the sacrifices made in the line of duty, the regime and his superiors failed to extend the courtesy of doubt or support in vindicating his wife's name, a betrayal that fuelled his disillusionment and resentment.
A decade ago, Alastor Moody had thrown his lot in with the Defiant Ghouls, then a ragtag band of rebels. His intimate understanding of the regime's machinations and his unparalleled tactical genius propelled him to a leadership role within the group. He instilled a sense of discipline and order, transforming a group of zealous but scattered rebels into a formidable faction.
Under Moody's guidance, the Defiant Ghouls had blossomed into a cornerstone of the Resistance. He had witnessed their entire journey - the initial stumbles, the internal struggles, and now, the rise of the enigmatic figure known as the Phoenix.
Despite his influential role, Moody remained frustratingly oblivious to the Phoenix's true identity. This gnawed at him, for he craved complete knowledge of every player on the board, friend or foe. Nevertheless, he kept his doubts and frustrations buried deep, keenly aware of the power of discretion and the strategic advantage of silence.
Limping into the common room, Moody found the room buzzing with the usual evening activity. He made his way to Tonks, who seemed unusually pensive and troubled.
"There you are," Tonks greeted, her smile not quite reaching her eyes—a rare sight for the ever-optimistic witch. "Been looking for you."
Tonks, usually the vibrant heart of the Defiant Ghouls, radiating infectious cheer even on the bleakest days, appeared uncharacteristically troubled. Her approach to morale, far gentler and more personal than Moody's strict discipline, made her a beacon of hope for many.
"What's the trouble?" Moody inquired, easing himself down and adjusting his leg for comfort.
"I'm at a loss over this while Dean situation... It's simply unimaginable that he would lash out at Higgs like that," Tonks shared, her face etched with concern. "I know he doesn't like him, but to resort to physical violence without any tangible proof? That's not like him."
Moody grunted in agreement. "Dean's been off his game for a while now. The pressure of living underground is taking its toll," Moody observed. "He narrowly escaped his last mission intact."
Tonks sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I know... I worry things might escalate. He seems to have grown quite fond of that girl. You should have seen him before he confronted Higgs... He was so distraught."
Moody's reply was curt. "Guilt, perhaps. He did vouch for her when she arrived."
A heavy silence followed their exchange.
Moody eventually broke the silence, "All our efforts are likely to be undone by this attack. The regime will interpret it as a declaration of war. They finally understand we can do some serious damage."
"I still can't believe she could do something like that," Tonks sighed, still in shock.
"Higgs can be a brute, but I doubt he manipulated her into acting. When she first came here, I looked into her mind. She was deeply troubled. I saw some harsh things in her past. Things that might explain her drastic actions," Alastor assured, grimacing.
"Poor Dean… The toll this takes on him worries me. I don't know how to support him," Tonks admitted, helpless.
"He'll probably need someone to keep a close eye on him. Who knows what his grief and guilt could lead him to do. He's been in low spirits, and this might just tip him over. You, better than anyone, know how fragile he can be," Moody suggested.
"We'll have to keep him away from Higgs, for sure," Tonks agreed, biting her lip anxiously.
The conversation shifted towards another pressing matter— the impending arrival of the Phoenix delegation for a critical briefing. Just as they began strategizing, the hall doors burst open, revealing a distraught woman, her voice choked with sobs, ushering in yet another crisis.
"Help... Dean... He..." The woman's voice, barely audible through choked sobs, conveyed her immense distress, sending a wave of apprehension through the room.
Tonks, her face etched with concern, rushed towards the distraught woman, whose sobs made her words almost unintelligible.
"Dean..." the woman choked out, her voice thick with despair.
"Where is Dean, Lisa?" Tonks pleaded, her eyes wide with alarm.
"In... the infirmary," Lisa stammered, pointing a trembling finger down the hall.
"Moody! Dearborn!" Tonks yelled, throwing a frantic look over her shoulder.
Without hesitation, Moody followed suit, Caradoc Dearborn, another leader, close behind. They reached the infirmary within seconds, the door hanging slightly ajar. Tonks, her hand trembling, pushed it open, seemingly fearful of what she'd find inside.
The moment Tonks stepped inside, her bloodcurdling scream ripped through the infirmary, sending shivers down everyone's spines.
The scene that unfolded before their eyes was one of utter horror: Dean Thomas, suspended lifelessly in mid-air, a cruel rope digging into his neck. In a desperate surge of adrenaline, Dearborn and Moody lunged forward, attempting to hold his weight. With a practiced flick of his wand, Moody severed the rope, allowing them to gently lower Dean to the ground. Tonks, lurched towards him. Her trembling hands held his face, her voice wracked with pleas and denial that echoed through the room.
"Dean! Dean! Dean!" she cried repeatedly, tears streaming down her face. "No, no, no... please, Dean..."
Dearborn, with a sombre expression, performed a diagnostic spell, only to confirm the worst moments later: "He's gone," he stated gravely.
Tonks, overwhelmed with grief, wept over Dean's still form. Moody, in a rare gesture of comfort, knelt beside her, offering a supportive arm. She collapsed into his embrace, her cries deep and heart-wrenching.
Dearborn, his voice thick with grief, choked out, "I'll fetch Pomfrey." He cast a heavy look at the scene before turning to leave.
"Let's keep this quiet until we've pieced together what occurred," Moody advised him in a low tone.
Dearborn nodded. "I'll secure the area," he assured before leaving the room, the weight of the situation heavy on his shoulders.
As Tonks clung to him, wracked with sobs, Moody noticed the telltale signs of death settling in on Dean's body. Rigidity had begun to set in, and Moody knew a coldness would soon seep into his skin.
When Dearborn returned with Pomfrey, she visibly braced herself at the doorway, taking in the sombre scene. She steeled herself, her professional demeanour masking the tremor in her hands, and approached Dean to commence the examination.
Tonks, her voice barely a whisper, choked out, "What... what happened?"
"I need to conduct some examinations. Please, leave the rope as it is," Pomfrey urged Dearborn, who had started to untie the noose. "I need it to determine the cause of death."
The hours that followed were marked by a heavy quiet. Tonks was inconsolable, her tears unending. Grief hung thick in the air as Moody and Dearborn exchanged sombre glances. Finally, Pomfrey emerged from the infirmary, her face etched with sorrow.
"It's clear the cause of death was hanging. The way the body was positioned, it's unmistakable he did this to himself. The marks on his fingers suggest he was the one tying the noose. And the last spell cast from his wand was a Sticking charm," she explained in a trembling voice. "He most likely used that to secure the rope to the ceiling."
Tonks' sobs intensified into heart-wrenching wails upon hearing the confirmation.
Later, Dearborn and Moody shared the tragic news with everyone assembled in the mess hall for a hastily called meeting. As they shared the details of Dean's passing, gasps and cries of disbelief filled the air. Tears streamed down many faces. Dean had been a cornerstone of the Defiant Ghouls, cherished for his willingness to lend a hand and his infectious cheer. He had been there before many of them and his absence would leave a void that would be deeply felt.
With a grave look, Moody addressed the gathering. "Some of you may not know this, but these past few months have not been easy for Dean. He was in a fragile mental state, and the recent incidents were too much for him to bear."
After a brief pause, he resumed, his tone resolute with conviction, "Today, we mourn the loss of not just a fellow rebel, but a friend, a brother in arms. Dean may be gone, but his spirit lives on within each of us. We honour him by carrying the torch, by pushing forward with even greater determination. We fight not just for ourselves, but for the dream he shared – a world free from oppression, a world where liberty and dignity prevail. Rest in power, Dean. Liberty and Dignity,"
He raised his wand towards the ceiling, and light burst forth from its tip, illuminating the arched ceiling of the mess hall. One by one, his companions mirrored the action, each voice joining in a unified chant, "Liberty and Dignity."
The vigil lingered into the early hours, a space for collective grief and reflection. As the hall gradually emptied, Moody retreated to the secluded tranquillity of the underground gardens. He found Terrence Higgs there, his demeanour a chilling counterpoint to the prevailing despair. With a resolute click, Moody locked the door behind him.
With a swift stride, Moody closed the distance between them and, without a moment's hesitation, delivered a forceful punch to Higgs' face. The sound of impact echoed, and Higgs crumpled to his knees, howling in agony as Moody's fist connected with his already injured nose—a remnant of his earlier altercation with Dean.
"You complete fool!" Moody bellowed, anger boiling over in his voice.
"It wasn't me, I swear!" Higgs sputtered, his voice laced with fear. "I just roughed him up a bit with the others earlier, that's all."
To most, Higgs cut an imposing figure, but in Moody's presence, his usual bravado melted away, revealing a man clearly racked with fear. Moody was the one person in the entire base who truly terrified Higgs.
Moody had first encountered Higgs fleeing from the Death Eaters. Recognizing a shared hatred for the regime, Moody saw him as a potential asset for the resistance. Higgs' past as a Death Eater in the Security Division was an undeniable advantage, too valuable to disregard. However, it soon became clear that Higgs was a solitary wolf, prone to erratic behaviour and difficult to control.
"This is the final straw. I'm not covering for you again, you Dementor offspring, understand?" Moody's voice was laced with a chilling warning.
Higgs' eyes widened in shock. "Boss, wait… did you do this?" he stammered, his confusion palpable.
Ignoring the question, Moody unleashed a torrent of rage:
"Did you stop to think even for a moment before you acted, you dolt? I had just about convinced everyone he was unhinged after your little scuffle, and your brilliant idea was to retaliate with those two fools of yours?"
"I only meant to teach him a lesson," defended Higgs with a grimace. "You think I'd let a git like that who punched me in public get away with it?"
"Do you think that's the problem, you dimwit? When I found him, he was babbling about you admitting to messing with Hannah Boot! How could you be so recklessly stupid? I've drilled it into you about leaving no traces, haven't I? How many times does it take? Moody raged. "Was your brain also a casualty of the Death Eaters' torture?"
"I'm sorry, boss. I made a mistake," Higgs pleaded, shrinking back.
"Your mistake could have blown our cover. If I hadn't found him before the others, they would have suspected you, and all our efforts would have been in vain," Moody growled. "You had one job. To persuade that woman to cause an attack. Nothing else. But no, you had to show off and blab like a buffoon. I'm beginning to question whether keeping you around is even worth the trouble."
"Boss, please… I'm sorry. I assure you, it won't happen again. Give me another chance," Higgs begged, his desperation evident.
Moody wasn't just a leader to him; he was a mentor, a figure of awe and reverence. Higgs embraced Moody's ruthless pragmatism in their fight against Voldemort's tyranny. He, too, saw it as a necessary evil, a war where aggression and ruthlessness were the only weapons that could dismantle the oppressive regime.
Pacifism, in their eyes, was a dangerous fantasy. Many within the resistance clung to the naive ideal of nonviolence, blind to the harsh realities of their struggle. They refused to grasp the necessity of adopting forceful measures to dismantle the oppressive regime. To Moody and Higgs, the path to freedom was paved with difficult choices, often teetering on the edge of morality. They understood that achieving their goals necessitated getting their hands dirty, undertaking actions deemed reprehensible by those clinging to outdated ideals. In this brutal war, sacrifices were inevitable, however heavy the burden.
Moody was acutely aware of the role he played in this narrative, accepting the mantle of the antagonist if it meant securing a better future for the generations to come. He wasn't alone in this conviction. His like-minded comrades kept their deep-seated ideas to themselves, not wishing to stir the waters among the more moderate thoughts of the F.L.I.P. This clandestine group was ready, waiting for the opportune moment to strike and shatter the regime's illusion of invincibility.
The recent assault was a bold statement, a declaration of war that signalled to the regime the presence and capability of the resistance to inflict significant harm. This audacious act irrevocably altered the course of their fight, forcing even the most hesitant within the resistance to acknowledge the unavoidable reality of armed conflict, fuelled by the regime's intensifying oppression.
Neither the Phoenix nor the pacifists of the resistance could avoid the conflict.
"This is your final warning," Moody affirmed, his voice ominous. "Next time, you will be at the end of this rope."
Higgs, understanding the gravity of Moody's ultimatum, offered a submissive nod.
"Leave my sight," Moody commanded, his gaze piercing through Higgs with an intensity that underscored the seriousness of his warning.
Higgs hurried away towards the basement staircase, leaving Moody alone with his thoughts, his jaw clenched tight in frustration. The situation had spiralled disastrously out of control, and Moody was acutely aware of what could have transpired if he hadn't intervened with Dean.
Earlier in the infirmary, Moody had found Dean battered and bruised, the aftermath of an assault by Higgs and his cronies vivid on his face.
"I was right, Moody! It was Higgs! He admitted to manipulating Hannah and masterminding the explosion. We need to inform everyone, stop him!" Dean had insisted, his voice hoarse with pain and exertion, even as he coughed up blood.
Moody, focused on treating Dean's injuries with essence of dittany, remained silent. He cast a charm to mask the telltale signs of the beating on Dean's face.
"Moody, what are you doing? Why aren't you untying me?" Dean questioned, confusion written all over his face.
Moody's silence was heavy, laden with a decision he wished he hadn't had to make. "I'm sorry, lad. I really wish it hadn't come to this. But I have no choice," Moody finally announced, his face grave.
Dean looked at him with a mix of bewilderment and confusion.
"Unfortunately, few people here understand that we can't just sit on our hands and wait for these bastards to hunt us down like rats and slaughter us one by one. But we're at war. In war, hard choices are unavoidable. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good. This attack was the best thing that could happen. It compels the Phoenix and the resistance to move, to act. We can't delay any longer," Moody assured.
Dean's reaction was one of shock and disbelief, unable to comprehend Moody's rationale. "What on earth are you saying, Moody?" he implored.
"You understand perfectly, Dean. I'm as much an extremist as Higgs and others in our ranks. But I can't expose this truth to everyone. They're not ready. Not yet," Moody admitted.
The revelation seemed to strike Dean like a physical blow, leaving him reeling.
"I'm sorry about the mess with Higgs. You weren't supposed to be caught in the crossfire. He was merely supposed to involve Hannah," Moody confessed, a flicker of remorse crossing his features.
"You're behind this? You orchestrated it through Higgs?" Dean gasped, the shock evident.
The physical marks had vanished, yet the emotional torment was now palpable on Dean's face. It was as if Moody's words were tearing him apart.
"How… How can you live with yourself? How can you face anyone after this? How dare you look at them in the eye? How dare you lie to them every single day?" Dean's voice rose in a mix of anger and despair, his betrayal by Moody cutting deep. "HOW?"
Moody faced Dean's vehement reaction with stoic detachment.
"You might not grasp this, but those of us who've been ravaged by the regime understand there's no room for mercy. They show us none, so why should we offer it? You, lad, you've been in a free zone until you joined our ranks. You don't understand the true cost of this war. Higgs does, though. Even that girl, Hannah, understood it."
Dean could only whisper a disbelieving "No…" as he shook his head, unwilling to accept Moody's words.
"I'm sorry, lad. Know that I take no pleasure in doing what I'm about to do. You're a decent chap, alright, but too soft, too weak. And weak men, well, they're just playthings for the strong," Moody affirmed. "Know that your death will serve the cause, after all."
With a flick of his wand, the bindings around Dean's legs dissolved. Terror flooded Dean's eyes, his scream morphing into a choked gasp as the silencing spell settled over the room.
"No point, lad. No one will hear you," Moody said.
"I beg you, Moody, don't do this," Dean pleaded, desperate.
Dean's pleas fell on deaf ears. Moody raised his wand, meeting Dean's terrified gaze. "Imperius," he muttered.
The fear in Dean's black eyes flickered out, replaced by a blank, vacant stare.
"Fetch a cord from the cabinet, lad," Moody instructed, his voice devoid of emotion. "Use your wand to secure it to the ceiling. Then hang yourself with it."
Moody observed with steely detachment as Dean, under the influence of the curse, followed his orders without a flicker of hesitation. Years as an Auror had honed Moody's skills in leaving no trace. His experience investigating murders, a grim irony, now served him in meticulously crafting the illusion of a suicide.
The charm he'd cast masked Dean's injuries, effectively erasing any evidence of Higgs's brutality. With no fingerprints to link him to the cord, a cursory examination would paint a convincing picture of self-inflicted demise. Granted, a sharp medic might suspect internal bleeding from the blows, but their remote outpost lacked the resources for a thorough investigation.
His gaze remained emotionless as Dean conjured the cord skyward, one end securing itself, the other tightening around his neck. With a chair as his launchpad, Dean fell into the abyss. The cord bit deep, his body jerking spasmodically, the throes of asphyxiation contorting his form. Then, he stopped moving.
Moody didn't have a choice, he thought. The information that Dean possessed could have harmed him. Using a Memory charm wouldn't have been sufficient. Moody knew that these charms weren't always reliable. A person's memories could return. He couldn't afford to take even the slightest risk.
"I promise you that your sacrifice won't be in vain, lad. Liberty and Dignity," were the last words that Moody addressed to Dean Thomas's lifeless body before leaving the room.