Caradoc Dearborn

Time: 2nd of May Place: Ministry of Magic Status: Closed, semi Self-Para: @dearborncaradoc, @justicebones

spellnbone·:

Even without the message explaining them the situation, it was simple to understand what was happening by the sight of it alone. Silver Masks storming the atrium – too many of them didn’t come from outside – and Edgar pushed Caradoc and Amelia back into the office. 

“What are you doing?!” Amelia hissed, fighting her hands off him. “We have to go and do something!” 

Edgar’s eyes wandered from her to Caradoc, who had drawn his wand and nodded. “There’s no time to lose.”

“But-…” Edgar said and his forlorn gaze wandered further still, to the half-eaten lunch on the table.

Amelia understood and took his face into her hands. She too had already drawn her wand, and he could feel it cold against his cheeks. “If we go now, we’ll have an even better lunch tomorrow.” The inevitable truth behind those words being: if we don’t go now, we might never have lunch together again.

Edgar clutched her hands, looked into her eyes. It had all been so much easier when he had never had to storm into battle thinking those eyes by his side. “I’ll be behind you.” 

“I trust you.” Amelia let go and turned, and by the door, Caradoc nodded, putting his hand on the handle. 

One. Two. Three.

He opened it and they ran out.

Four. 

Whatever happened, Edgar needed to protect them. 

justicebones·:

As they headed out into the hallway, they were already outnumbered. There seemed to be at least four nearby and more on the way. Amelia, for one, wasn’t afraid though; she was sure that she and her boys could handle this. Instead they focused on moving as a team, working together and stunning whichever Death Eater was closest.

People were running by them, afraid and trying to escape, and they were doing their best to protect those who were innocent and knock out those that weren’t. Amelia stepped forward to hit a Death Eater who got too close to Caradoc, and Caradoc did the same, while Edgar sent spells from where he was in the shadows. They kept moving, despite the number of silver masks that felt perhaps too foreboding.

The three of them moved in sync, with the familiarity of people who had fought many battle side by side—in Caradoc and Edgar’s case—and were almost as one—in Edgar and Amelia’s. So far, they had managed to stay close together, never too far out of reach of each other, always one spell ready to cover each other’s back. Yet, as he had told Mary, it didn’t matter how hard one tried to stick together, sometimes you found yourself driven away from your allies—your friends. 

It happened for them, too. One moment, Amelia had been at his left and the next she was all the way across the hallway and Caradoc didn’t know how it had happened. He only knew that he couldn’t get to her to help her because just as her, he could see his own reflection in the Silver Mask staring back at him. 

And Edgar... 

“Edgar.”

Caradoc, at the very least, seemed to take this whole thing seriously. That was good - that was necessary. He did not mention the first two reasons, nor did he seem to judge Regulus like Gideon Prewett had. In fact, it was Gideon that Dearborn focused on and that made Regulus wonder if he wasn’t the first person to share concerns about the enticing nature of dark magic with Prewett.

After all, didn’t Gideon work with dark magic on a day-to-day basis? A person like that could easily get sucked in, if he wasn’t careful. Perhaps Prewett was further gone than Regulus knew.

He considered Caradoc’s question for a long moment before responding. “I am no sure I can answer that with clarity,” he said. “Yes, you are right that Gideon argued to spare Selwyn. It seems he has the bleeding heart of Gryffindors. And I cannot be sure about the intentions of the locket, though I wouldn’t be surprised if it was fighting its way back.”

Regulus leaned forward. “Because, yes, I do believe it has intentions. It has a living piece of someone’s soul inside of it - by that very definition, perhaps it is living itself. As for Gideon… it’s not just the Horcrux that possesses temptation. Dark magic as a whole does that. I’ve lived it - probably much more than you. And given what he surrounds himself with.”

Regulus looked at Gideon square in the eye. “We wouldn’t want another James Potter, now, would we?” 

The answer was ‘no’, of course. There was no desire for another James Potter, another death, another death caused by being blind to a person’s illness—as Edgar called it. And so that was why Caradoc spent the following hour and more, talking with Regulus Black. 

They two discussed first the Horcruxes. What they were, what effect they had or could have on people—Gideon in particular—and what to eventually do with them. How to destroyed them, even. And from there the topics moved to Selwyn and to what had happened at the Potter Estate. Discussing why Regulus had acted the way he did, trying to understand how he felt about taking someone’s life and theorising of future scenarios where maybe their enemy could be captured instead of killed. 

//

Edgar had asked to see Caradoc’s memories to find emotions. To find reasons as to why Amelia was feeling for him the way she did. Had they shared romantic candle light dinners or had they kissed? Or were her emotions rooted in the same moments and silly instances that Edgar remembered and which made Caradoc his best friend? 

If it was the latter, then no one was at fault. There was no such thing as leading a person on, the same way there was no blaming the complicated machinery that was the heart. If, however, it was the former, if Caradoc had spent hours and hours courting Amelia and she had reciproked, if they’d gone on dates specifically designed to be of a romantic mood, but he had discarded them all, taken them out of his mind to focus on the war… Edgar would’ve been angry. To manipulate one’s own emotions by negating them to others, the way Edgar did it, by drinking oneself blind, like Fabian used to do it, or by simply taking them out like memorabilia, like Caradoc was doing it, it was nothing unheard of. It was common, and one couldn’t be blamed for it, especially not in the face of war. But if those emotions were tied to another person, so deeply that they could no longer manipulate them away, and then negate them, drink them away, or simply take them out, leaving the other person alone and hurt – then it was a problem. 

Thus, Edgar asked to see Caradoc’s memories to find which one it was. He searched memory after memory, plunged into the pensieve again and again, and while so many of these memories were of the latter type, it was never the former type. And so, eventually, he sank against a wall and sighed. “I hate you no more,” he said, because now he knew that Amelia loved Caradoc for the same reasons Caradoc was Edgar’s best friend. It wasn’t his fault. He did nothing wrong. 

After a while, he pushed himself off the wall and began tidying up the memories, then locked them away, securing the key to the cabinet back to his earlobe. All the while, Caradoc watched him silently, with no haste or impatience in his expression. This wasn’t why he had given his friend the key to his memories, but Edgar was grateful he trusted him enough to use it for this anyway. He felt better now. Relieved. There were far more memories in the cabinet now than he’d expected, but he knew better than to scold or reprimand Caradoc for it. After all, that was why he had accepted to take the key, all those years ago; he understood the weight of war. 

“Oh, Radoc,” he asked, almost as if a little mocking of his own paranoia, “what will we do when all this is over? How will we possibly learn to live freely again?”

//

In the next hour, as they had their tea, they talked about the past events, about what they’d done during the attacks and how they thought Bran’s students had handled them. The sore subject that had once been the Fighting Club became now something of a necessity, too important to be polite about, and neither of them seemed to mind. Then, eventually Dearborn asked about Mr Avery. About what he called a murder. And Bran had scoffed and said Mr Avery had had it coming. That he deserved it. Words she had not found within herself but with Mary, and the way Bran said them sounded similar to Mary’s voice as well. 

He’d tried again, a little later, to hear about her motivations, but she didn’t give in. And thus, soon enough, the afternoon was over. They were already on their way back to the Chimney Room, when Bran remembered she too had something to tell him. 

“We’ve found corpses. Fabian and I, at the Rosier Estate, we found corpses that were being kept alive.” And before he could ask why they hadn’t told the Inner Circle right away, she went on. Explained that the two of them had wanted to figure out what it was about without the interference of caution, or long-winded plans. They’d wanted action, and so they’d stepped into action themselves. To find who had done this crime against honor and dignity, to hunt down the soulless man who had ordered such insult, and to end whoever had allowed it and done nothing.

She told Dearborn about how Fabian had researched at Hogwarts and learnt about the Armies of Dead, and how she had searched the whole Wizarding World. Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, the Rosier Estate again and finally even the Central Chimney. How she’d figured out they were all family of Muggleborns and that when she’d sought out these families, those who were still alive, they’d trembled in fear at the sight of her Wizarding robes, and she had felt guilty. For the first time in her life she understood the terror the Death Eaters spread, how evil they were, and she had felt guilty. Guilty for excusing their behaviour and ideas for so long.

She told Dearborn how she’d cried, in the Miller’s home, and how her tears had been hot and how her muscles had trembled in anger and helplessness, and as she told him this, her muscles trembled once more and tears rose to her eyes. With fervor in her voice she continued and told him how she’d learnt, months ago, that her father was a Death Eater, and she had not thought much of it until now, and she was disgusted of him, of her name, of herself for having brushed it off. But now she could no longer brush it off, could no longer be helpless, and with trembling muscles and blind eyes, she’d sworn to leave no face masked until one day she’d take off a mask and find her father’s face behind it. And that was why she had killed Mr Avery. Because they weren’t upholding the honor of the Wizarding World, they were staining it, and she needed to help.

Emmeline was momentarily alone, but when Benjy returned, she frowned, eyes lighting on his leg. His limp on it seemed more pronounced, like something had caused it stress. She hoped it hadn’t been on her behalf. She hoped she was imagining that it was worse.

Caradoc. The name didn’t immediately bring anything to mind, but she thought hard, trying to put a picture together in her mind. By the time a man walked through them, Emmeline hadn’t conjured a face exactly, but his didn’t seem unfamiliar. She trusted him. Not quite the same level as Benjy, and that was a trust she couldn’t explain, but trust nonetheless. Caradoc was someone to believe.

“I’m… confused,” she admitted. “I don’t really know why I’m here, and I can’t… Things aren’t coming to my mind very easily. Benjy told me a little, and I think I’ve picked up a couple bits, but it’s… It’s so fuzzy.”

For some reason, it rankled her to have Caradoc ask Benjy instead of her. She was supposed to answer questions like that. With a certainty that surprised her, Emmeline knew she’d answered it more times than she could count.

benjyfenwiick· / SUMMARIZE TO CLOSE:

It was a good job, almost too good to be true. Which was perhaps why, after the initial shock and exhilaration of being offered the job, apprehension was starting to stir. “You have been more than generous with your money Caradoc.” He said, almost sternly. He still felt bad about taking the ‘wage’ Caradoc gave him for the few jobs he did around the house, but it had ensured he had a small but respectable pile of coins to his name again, and for that, he would always be grateful. “And I wouldn’t say more interesting. Some of the gossip you get in those letters is extraordinary.” A sly smirk and an airy shrug. He knew Caradoc would never read the multitude of letters that had arrived for him, so it was a special delight to tease him about the contents. Whether those details were real or fabricated known only by Fabian himself.

“But yes, it is a good job. It’ll be good to stand on my own two feet again.” His smile slipped a little. He didn’t want Caradoc to think he was ungrateful for all this time he’d acted as his crutch. But he resolved that Caradoc already knew how thankful he was. He never wasted a moment to tell him.

He chuckled at Caradoc’s prediction. Some insistence of a celebration did indeed sound like Meurig, and it lightened his heart to think he might have achieved something worthy of the old man’s pride. “I’m sure we can manage a dinner.” Where Caradoc’s tone had been full of resigned annoyance, Fabian’s was only pleased anticipation.

But with Caradoc’s next words, the newfound surety that he was making the right decision slipped. Like he’d gone to take the next step on a ladder and missed the rung. “Well-“ Caradoc had a point, he was starting in the middle of the year, months behind everyone else. “- I’m not one to back down from a challenge. Besides, I only teach the first years, so my schedule isn’t as full as the professors.” He reasoned, sounding more like he was reassuring himself. “I’ve had time to bum about here for weeks.” That had come out wrong. He knew this time had been necessary and worthwhile. He had to stop seeing it as a failure that he’d had to take this time at all. “I mean, the time I’ve taken to get better, I can put that towards something else now.” It almost came out like a question, like he was asking Caradoc to confirm that he was ready.

“You undervalue your work,” was Caradoc’s quick reply to Fabian’s comment about his alleged generosity. “Ah, yes, so you keep mentioning.” This was a familiar tease from Fabian, and he made a point to not rise to take the bait. After all, he wasn’t interested in gossip unless it could turn into something useful for their mission—which was his usually reply to this kind of teasing, and then he’d be there listening to some absurd story it could’ve been the plot of one of Edgar’s plays. “One day I’ll ask you the recite me all the.. juicy.. parts, and then you’ll regret ever teasing me over it.” The quip was out before he thought better of it, not fully a joke, not fully a promise either. A bit of both. Maybe more like a wish.

There it was, this little sting he couldn’t explain. Only that it reacted to Fabian’s words, as if it wanted to shout at him, reminding him that he had been standing on his own two feet for quite some time now. But Caradoc instead only nodded, while his fingers smoothed the collar of his robe as an excuse to brush away that feeling from his collarbone. It was a good job; nod. It'd give Fabian his on independence back in full; nod. They could manage one dinner; nod. And he kept nodding because it all sounded very sensible and agreeable and then it all sounded wrong. Very wrong. But before he could scold Fabian for once again undervaluing himself, the words were rephrased into something that didn’t make him want to protest as much. They certainly stung less. 

“Don’t overthink it. This is a good thing, and you are a good fit for the job,” he said, at last, rather matter-of-fact. “And I only asked to know when to send everyone to sleep at the end of dinner, in case an early day awaits you. My father can be a little too persuasive in keeping people to chat well past their bed time.” 

It was still hard to wrap her head around the whole thing. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it had something to do with the scale of the attack, maybe with the fact there’d been two of them, but whatever it was, every bit of information only had her frown deepening. “That’s bold, even for them. Diagon Alley of all places, no real targets outside those shopowners… I get they’re sending a message, and it was probably a good distraction for us too, but either there’s even more to it or they can just afford to go bigger.” Which was an issue, clearly. Like it or not, the Order was struggling and with Abbott and the traitor – or hell, multiple traitors, why fucking not – things weren’t looking too great. “Do we have any approximates? How many of them were there, how many were taken out?” She didn’t ask about casualties.

However, a lot of the conviction in her voice faded away as she spoke about Pettigrew. “Yeah,” she echoed. If even Dearborn agreed then she had to be right. No one could’ve known. But then she shook her head, as much to herself as to him. “He wasn’t overconfident. He was… I was surprised he wasn’t shitting his trousers. He wasn’t doing that badly,” she added quickly when she remembered you weren’t really supposed to talk crap about the dead, “But he wasn’t doing great, you know? I thought I’d have to look after his arse. And I was gonna. But he ran off.” And maybe Dearborn could deal with not knowing why, but Mary couldn’t. The look she threw him was angry because everything she did was, but there was also something almost desperate to it. “So what’s the point then? Isn’t that what everyone’s preaching, having each other’s backs and shit? What’s the fucking point if people just keep dying on my watch?”

“It was bold, and I think it worked both as a distraction for us and a declaration for the rest of the wixen world. Be with them, or be against them,” Caradoc said, his voice and expression growing more somber. “I can’t say if this will end up work against them, or in their favour,” he admitted, with a sigh following that confession. He could see how people would be angry by having Death Eaters bringing their war on the streets of the wixen world, in the very heart of it. No more isolated to the Muggle world, or the house of Muggleborns and Half-breeds, but right where Wix spent their Sunday mornings with their families. “We have,” he nodded, “but deaths were easier to estimate than total number of Death Eaters present. There were too many of them, anyway,” he said, shaking his head, “they were able to work on two different locations, at the same time. And Diagon Alley is not just a small street. “We will have confirmation of the numbers in the next few days.” As frustrating as it was, they could only wait to see what kind of ripples this particular stone would produce one thrown. 

That was a colourful way to describe the situation, but Caradoc was used to it. He had heard worse coming from Branwen. Anger, too, he was familiar with. 

untamedmeadowes​:

“Trust you,” Dorcas repeated, her voice gone flat with incredulity. “Talk to you? What would be the purpose of that?” she retorted, hurt and angry and knowing that he was right: she hadn’t thought about Lily or Sirius or Mrs. Potter, not outside the blazing pain of her own heart and knowing – assuming – they had to feel the same and worse; she had thought about acting on their behalf, yes, had born the thought of their pain in mind like a lifting charm to raise her broom higher, but she hadn’t thought about the fact that seeing the name of the wizard they’d loved scrawled in fire might have hurt them, too, not just Ainsley Abbott. Caradoc was right – but he was wrong, too, and it was to that latter part that Dorcas clung in her own hurt and misery. Because she wasn’t like Ainsley. She wasn’t.

“You never listen,” she continued damply, bitterly. “None of you ever listen, so what’s the point? You don’t trust me. You think I’m just some dumb kid and now–” Dorcas’s voice choked-off in a little cry, then came back rough and ragged but strong. “You think I’m like Ainsley?” Her hands balled into fists and she pushed off the wall, the hot flush of anger and pain giving her the support to stand without assistance now. “I’m not. ‘Cause Ainsley you trusted. Me, you just want to stop. Maybe if you’d all spent less time worrying about the fact that I actually want to fight the Death Eaters, and how to stop me doing that, you’d have noticed she was one!”

It was hard to care about the Statute of Secrecy just now; even harder to credit Caradoc’s cruel joke of calling her a leader when he obviously thought her nothing but a recalcitrant child. “Well what would it have even mattered?” she shouted back at him, hot tears stinging her eyes again and spilling down her cheeks unnoticed. “You’re not doing anything at the Ministry that matters anyway, and Muggles are already dying in droves; who cares? The Inner Circle doesn’t have a ‘next move.’ You never do.” Her voice broke, cracked in half like James’s shattered bones. “So what does any of it even matter?”

Caradoc didn’t flinch, didn’t take a step back, but instead stood rooted to the ground, to his own belief. This was not the moment to waver, not when faced with Dorcas’ anger. There was something else in there, mixed with the salt of her tears, but Caradoc was never too good at recognizing pain that didn’t come from a physical wound. 

With careful movements, he took a clean handkerchief out of his robe’s pockets. He offered it to her. Not an order, not even one masked as an offer, but an open gesture for her to accept or refuse. The gesture itself wasn’t empty even if followed a script he had learned in his youth. It was the one thing he could offer her, because he would not be apologising for his harsh words. He stood by them, just as he stood in front of Dorcas. Unyielding.

“I care,” he said, his voice even. “I wouldn’t be here, talking to you, if I didn’t care.” And he truly would have not bothered. Caradoc was not someone who liked to waste time, not when he could use it to work on that next move she so easily accused him of not having. Oh, yes, sometimes it was formless, but there was never a moment when he wouldn’t think of the next thing, and the next, and the next. Keeping his thoughts from running too ahead was a problem, at times, and he had to remind himself that he needed to take this step by step.

Like now. 

Caradoc listened without interruption and Lily appreciated that. Being around the Marauders for her entire adult life meant that wasn’t always the case. She loved them - and they loved her - but they weren’t the best at just stopping to listen. Remus could be, when they were alone, but even he sometimes got caught up in the bustle of the rest when they were all together. James had been the worst of them, but not out of malice. He just had important things to say - had passion when he said them. He was someone who others wanted to listen to… even if that meant he sometimes forgot to listen back.

I’m willing to give him the chance to change. Lily sucked in a soft breath, but didn’t comment. It was more than she was able to give her old friend right now. She’d left him out of necessity - because she could no longer be the exception. Caradoc, a pureblood, would only be able to half-understand that. He could maybe get it without being able to feel it. Because, in the end, it would never, ever happen to him.

Caradoc had the luxury of being able to give chances to people like Severus Snape unlike Lily. “Do what you think is right,” was all she could reply. Because Severus had once killed people just like her for simply having blood just like hers. How could she open her heart to that again? He’d broken it once and, now with James gone, she wasn’t sure she’d survive another heartbreak.

“I understand that,” Lily said slowly at the mention of Bran but, honestly, she was exhausted. She was exhausted of being the token who had to explain to purebloods what it was like to be anything else. She was tired of being the voice of people like her because people who were different couldn’t grasp it. “But words matter too. And I think you’d feel differently if you were the one being called Mudblood.” 

She looked at Caradoc carefully, unsure of how much to press. “She doesn’t have to say it to me for me to know it’s there.” She bit her lip before pressing forward. “Did you know that, in the world I came from, you would be judged in the same way I’m judged here in the Wizarding World? Not because of your blood, but because of your skin. James was - by my sister and her husband.”

“He didn’t understand it until he met them. He’d changed after that - saw me a bit more clearly. I know it’s difficult for you to understand, but Branwen’s actions might be pure and it matters less when her words don’t match them. She needs to do better. And you should hold her to that standard.” Lily tilted her head. “After all, aren’t you holding me to a higher standard than her? I make a mistake and get thrown off the field.”

She smiled gently to soften the blow. “Branwen makes countless mistakes in her words… and yet… she’s the one leading the duelling club.”

It was not the first time that a similar question had been directed at him, and Caradoc once again kept a note of it to reexamine his biases later on. He knew it was easier for him to give Branwen more leeway because of their past, because he believed she was able to change and leave her family’s bigotry behind her. The same was true of Severus Snape, in a way. Except here, it was simply practical. He was a tool, and Caradoc had every intention to use it until it wore out or broke or he had no more use for it. 

And, from one extreme to the other, it was true of everyone who was in the Order of the Phoenix. 

“That is because you see getting take off field duty as it being done solely to punish you,” Caradoc replied, “and Branwen’s leading the fighting club as something of a reward.” He saw them as neither of those things, not fully anyway, and even in the discussion the Inner Circle had over what to do with Lily after Leina Nott’s death, no one had truly wanted to punish her. “But I can’t deny those are my actions and thus I can’t fault you for reading them that way. Can I?” The answer was, of course, in the end he didn’t. Actions mattered, but words did, too. She was right on that.

He had thanked Caradoc countless times since that fateful night in January, too many thank yous to keep track of. He’d had to fight to stop the words from becoming meaningless, because they weren’t. Each time he’d said them, for reasons big or small, he’d meant them in their entirety.

To hear the words now from Caradoc was like a blow to the chest. He didn’t know it was healing to hear, or if it just hurt. His face twisted into something between a smile and wince, between happiness and tears. Caradoc was thankful to him, and all he had to do was remember.

Though Fabian was still convinced that forgetting was not the cure, he didn’t have any suggestions for what might be, so he stayed quiet, a conceding nod. Concede now, in hopes to fight another day. Was winning the war worth it, if the price was that Caradoc must erase himself? That question alone scared Fabian. The potential answers scared him even more. He had never before questioned the worthiness of their cause before. Wasn’t he willing to make any number of sacrifices if it meant some kind of forward motion, some step towards their goal? Had he finally found something he wasn’t willing to lose? No, there were plenty of things he wasn’t willing to lose. His family for one, he would never willingly sacrifice them. He loved his family.

“It is,” he therefore replied. “Very.” It was almost comforting, on a night like tonight, that the moon could still be beautiful and that they could still find beauty in it.

Fabian’s eyes were drawn away from Caradoc at his suggestion. One thing was for sure, and it was that drinking was no longer foremost on his mind. He might still have trouble sleeping, but it would not be for want of a bottle, no more than usual. “Yes, rest, that’s a good idea.” He scooped up his still warm tea and made towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He promised, hoping Caradoc might remember at least that.

—-

Location: Strongarm Cottage

Date: 17th February 1982

“Well?” He asked. He had broken the news of the job offer Dumbledore had given him, perhaps quite unceremoniously as they walked through the corridors of Strongarm, after breakfast, after saying goodbye to Edgar, in the few minutes they had alone together before the separated to start their days.

Fabian had a few letters to reply too, a gutter to repair outside, he’d likely find Meurig later on for some company, and finally, of course, there was the garden to check up on. It was a familiar routine by now, a comforting one. It was with a somewhat heavy heart that he realised it would soon be coming to an end. Obviously he’d known, but now he felt the weight of it. 

“What do you think?” He asked, trying to hold on to his own surety in the decision.

On that morning, it was there again, this feeling of being proud of Fabian and how far he had come since that one night he had dragged himself on Caradoc’s doorstep. Except, of course, that Caradoc did not remember of ever having felt a strong unstoppable urge of saying the words out loud or why it would be important for him to say it there and then. And because there was so much he did not remember, he wasn’t exactly sure why there was this prickling pain in his chest upon hearing the news. 

Maybe breakfast wasn’t agreeing with him. Maybe the realisation that he would have to mind his own mail again once Fabian left. Maybe it was how impossibly long the hallways in Strongarm Cottage were sometimes. 

“It’s a good job,” he said, though, because in the end it was. He had thought it over, trying to see if there could be a chance this new job could come in the way of Fabian’s role in the Order, but he had failed to find any. The offer had been made by Dumbledore himself, and Fabian would always be allowed to get out of the school when he was needed on the field. “It is certainly more interesting than replying to mothers trying to get a date for their daughters. I’m sure it pays better, too." And at least, Caradoc would know where Fabian would be. At Hogwarts, his soon-to-be-former housemate would not be alone, either. A school full of teachers and students would definitely be better for him, too, than to stay in this lonely house with a recluse and someone determined to forget their moments together.

“Yes, that’s what you’re saying now. But just you wait, we’ll be on our seventh date and that’s when I’ll catch you inflagranti with your secretary-turned-maid and it’ll ruin all the wedding plans we’d made already.” 

Arm still around him, she looked disgusted. “Now don’t be crude,” as if she wasn’t the one who had brought up the tickling of certain parts in the first place. The good humor was dropped however alongside their asses dropping down on their seats. It seemed like Dearborn really had wanted her to come here for a reason. A proper reason, not just a pretext. Bran’s grin disappeared. “You know very well what happened. He was at Diagon Alley hiding behind a mask and Artem Tremblay kept me from slicing him right open. Thought we might get more out of him than just organs, so we brought him to the Head Quarters. And when you were done getting what you needed, I finished the job. What’s there not to get?”

Caradoc was not exactly sure what he would be caught doing, in flagrante, with Fabian Prewett, in this imaginary scenario, but he was not ready to admit that. Less because of pride, more because he did not want another graphic description of something that really ought not to be spoken out loud. “I can’t see how that would happen,” he replied, instead, “any and all activities with secretaries and maids would be thoroughly included into the wedding plans and signed off before the seventh date.”

It was almost nice for a moment to pretend there was not more to this visit but some fun banter between old schoolmates, except there was more. “Ah, my apologies,” he said, and let the lighter part of their conversation end there.

Caradoc, as ever, got straight to the point. Regulus did not know the man very well but, from what he’d seen and heard, Caradoc was not a beat around the bush sort of wizard. That made things easier for them both. Because, while people often felt Regulus was speaking in riddles whenever he talked of The Truth, he actually was fairly straightforward himself.

He only believed in using words when they were meant to be spoken and, it seemed, Caradoc Dearborn did the same. 

Caradoc stood and greeted Regulus in a very pureblooded way that came second-nature to Regulus to reciprocate. He ducked his head in mimic a moment before he sat down opposite Caradoc at the table, in the proffered seat. It also seemed as though he wasn’t planning on murdering Regulus today - at least, not yet - so that, too, was a good thing.

“That is a fair question,” Regulus replied agreeably, leaning back in his chair to look at the older man. “And I intend to answer it honestly. He saw my face and the idea that he might’ve gotten away with that knowledge was not one I was willing to allow. That being said, that wasn’t the only reason…” 

He glanced to both of his sides, as though expecting someone to be listening. It was just the walls of the House but, perhaps, that was even worse. “There is another. Selwyn saw the necklace - and the only reason the Dark Lord hasn’t yet come for me is because he does not know I took it. I couldn’t risk him discovering that, had Selwyn gotten away.”

“And then there is the matter of Gideon Prewett,” Regulus continued. “I do not trust him. I believe he’s been enthralled by the Horcrux. I saw it in his eyes. I was afraid of what he might do with that trance, particularly had Selwyn lived in that room with us for much longer. Dark Magic can be… addicting. It does not seem like Prewett knows what he’s gotten himself into.”

While trying not to make too many assumptions, Caradoc couldn’t help at first to think that this conversation would go the same way many conversations with purebloods went: in elegant circles. Or at least, graceful curves that would eventually lead to a point but first you had to take in the view. Yet, luckily, Regulus Black was not that kind of pureblood. 

Both of the offered reasons were ones Caradoc could not fault. He had also taken drastic measures—though not as drastic as Regulus’—to ensure someone’s anonymity, and he could understand the importance of keeping the locket’s location hidden from their enemies. Yet, Regulus had acted with what was basically blunt force, where maybe something more finer could’ve sufficed. It was something they could work on, but for now he put it aside to focus on the rest. 

Because what worried him was the third reason that Regulus offered. It was not the first time that someone had brought up concerns over Gideon, and Caradoc couldn’t just ignore it. Not as a member of the Order or as a friend. 

When other people said something along the lines of, it managed to spill almost along the whole district, Mary usually assumed they were exaggerating. Coming from Caradoc, it made her let out a sharp breath. “Shit.” Obviously Voldemort had numbers, that wasn’t news, but the reminder of exactly how many goons he had at his beck and call was infuriating. “Were you there for the beginning?”

The confirmation of Pettigrew’s death was exactly what Mary had expected to hear, and yet it felt a little like her heart dropped at Caradoc’s words. At least his stupid poker face helped; she could almost pretend they were talking about the weather. Except they weren’t, and she wasn’t sure how to answer. “No. Yeah. Sorta. I didn’t– No.” She huffed, frustrated at her own fumbling. “I didn’t see it happen, but he was with me for a while. We fought, I dunno, eight, nine Death Eaters together? And- He was doing fine, okay? How was I supposed to know…” That was the whole point, wasn’t it? She couldn’t have known so blaming herself was fucking stupid. She shook her head. “Some of ‘em ran off and he followed. I guess that’s when they got him.”

Caradoc nodded. “Though I was not close to the explosions, I still heard them,” he said, remembering how what had seemed just another day in Diagon Alley had been shaken to descend in such frenzy. Where once had been just the buzz of people talking, laughing, and arguing over the price of the latest beauty potion or broom model, there were screams of confusion, fear and despair. “Once I was out into the street, it didn’t take long for me to run into my first Death Eater.” He had to pause a moment at the memory of Elleanore Avery, laying unconscious, a moment before he took away her memories as if they were nothing more than weeds. “And not the last, of course. Most of them were going around attacking and terrorising as many people as possible. If they targeted someone in particular it seemed more by chance than design, aside from the targets of the explosions,” he explained, speaking from his own experience. “My first close encounter was like that.”

“That’s… probably a good idea,” Sirius admitted, almost surprising himself that he was being agreeable about it. But he needed them, so he could only assume the others needed him. Since he hadn’t seen Peter, he should start with him. It was only right to make sure Peter knew he wasn’t being forgotten, that he still mattered to his friends.

He nodded a few times, unsure what else to say, then tipped his head to say he was leaving. This conversation had been an odd one, and Sirius wondered what expectations would come with this dueling team. But he’d try it. If Sirius could finally do something of use and show that he knew what he was doing, he’d try it.

“Oh, come on,” Bran frowned, disgust showing on her face. “Did you really have to cut his balls? He was a good man, Dearborn. Proud! Why did you-…” She shook her head. “I tell you, if I ever have to see my best friend cry because you gave him one too many maid’s jobs to do, I’ll personally come for you. Demand a refund or something.” She was clearly joking. Or half-joking. Whatever. But she wasn’t fully serious. She knew that Fabian sobering up would mean he’d have to face his full range of emotions again, and still she thought it was better for him. She’d miss her drunk Fabian, of course, but she knew better than to be angry about it.

She grabbed the shoes and put them on, letting out a groan of relief when she took her first stand in them. “Morgana that’s good,” she sighed, rolling her shoulders, grateful despite not saying so. And because she felt less irritated now, she could focus on Caradoc fucking Dearborn joking around. “Aye, aye, aye,” she grinned, catching up with him and putting an arm around his shoulder. “Cheeky bastard, you are. You in a good mood today or did something just tickle your humor-organ? Please know I’m not gonna do any tickling of any of your organs any time soon, but I will sure as Hel make sure not to let you forget you have one.” 

She was still pissed at him, yes. For letting her mother know about all this, but also for the whole Fighting Club affair. But the truth was, well, Fighting Club was going well. She had fun teaching, and her students seemed to be getting better by the day, and in a way it made her feel proud. Glad, that she’d gone through with the deal. So even if she thought Dearborn was a two-faced Goblin for tricking her like this, she couldn’t fully hate him for where it had gotten her. She let go of him and sank down into a couch. “Yeah. Black.”

Caradoc couldn’t help but frown at Branwen’s question. At least at first, when he was still trying to understand if she had meant it literally. She didn’t. Luckily. But he still answered it with a degree of seriousness to it that masked a very dry form of humour. “Now, answering letters is more the job of a secretary or an assistant, both of which do not require certain... modifications. But I’ll make sure to keep him from any maid jobs, or outfits, so nothing gets cut or lost.”

It was a comfortable old sweater for Edgar, and now it was comfortable shoes for Branwen. Not that he imagined she would come here as often as Edgar did, but better to be prepared. Especially because the shoes seemed to have put Bran in a better mood than when she arrived, so much better that she had draped her arm around his shoulders so casually as they made their way to the library, and that had to be worth keeping the extra pair of shoes ready in the foyer.  “Well, I do appreciate you refraining from tickling anything on my person,” he said, because it was one of his physical weaknesses that he had yet to learn to control, and more importantly he hadn’t so far exactly because it was the one way that Edgar and Amelia had to let him relax from the tension brought on by the war. “Not sure if I will appreciate the reminder, I guess we’ll have to see.”

With Bran settling on the couch, Caradoc took care of getting their teas ready. Both black, no sugar, no milk. While handing her her cup of tea, he offered her something to eat to accompany the tea, demonstrating that if her mother could see their exchange it would look all perfectly proper. Though, maybe a bit scandalous for the lack of a chaperone. But all rituals of greetings a guest and making them feel comfortable was exhausted, Caradoc took his seat on an armchair. 

Edgar recognised Amelia’s old apartment almost immediately. It was the room he had sought out again and again; when he was happy to share his joys, when he was sad to find solace. The first time the war had overwhelmed him with grief and guilt, the first time Edgar had called it a war, he had come here. And he brought Caradoc. He hadn’t known Caradoc well yet back then but he’d brought him here anyway, certain that in all this chaos and arbitrary, haphazard pain, there was at least one thing, one person, capable to soothe and make the world feel all right. Make it make sense. Amelia. 

Edgar remembered well that she hadn’t been overly fond of him bringing Caradoc to their cave of togetherness. But she’d thawed, and they’d become friends, and eventually Caradoc felt like someone who belonged in this togetherness. Nights were spent cuddling, mornings were spent chatting, tears were dried with kisses to cheeks, and frowns were eradicated by tickling hands to sides. And when the moment of departure came, their chests felt lighter. The same way Amelia had always alleviated Edgar’s darkest sorrows, and how Edgar had always brought peace back into Amelia’s stormy soul, they eventually allowed themselves to do it for Caradoc. At least that was what Edgar had always thought.

But Caradoc had taken out this memory. While Edgar treasured each of his memories of Amelia, knowing that they were what got them through this war, Caradoc had just … thrown it out. Logically, it made sense because it wasn’t his coping mechanism, it was Edgar’s. Edgar’s illness. Needing Amelia to survive was Edgar’s, taking memories out of his mind was Caradoc’s. And yet. It hurt. Perhaps because this memory was also more. It was a proof of friendship. A brick in a wall that allowed a roof to shelter them, and if you took it out, how was the wall going to stand, how was the roof going to shelter? How many bricks had Caradoc taken out? How did the friendship even still exist if he didn’t know what it was based on? This was what hurt. That Edgar loved him, like Amelia loved him, so earnestly and deeply, for all those moments they’d joked and laughed and hugged, and Caradoc could no longer do the same in return.

On purpose. Because of an illness, but on purpose all the same. 

The memory ended and Edgar was back in Caradoc’s old childhood room. 

He stood still for a while, then found his fingers running down the light stubble on his jaws. When he noticed, he buried them into the pockets of his cardigan instead. A cardigan he’d borrowed from the cloakroom in Caradoc’s entrance hall. Like he always did. An old, ever-repeating ritual for him, but perhaps foreign to Caradoc each time. Like enjoying dinner with Amelia in the evening. Like sleeping while curled up around Caradoc at night. Like the terrible fight that it was, each time, to get either of the twins up and out for work on time in the morning. It was a haunting thought. A hollow one. Like a cavity of which the walls were smeared with poison. 

Edgar turned around to Caradoc. “Do you know why I sometimes call you my best friend?”

Caradoc waited as Edgar relived his memories. His gaze moving over a room that was familiar yet foreign at the same time, where he knew everything was there for a very important reason but couldn’t remember what that reason was and so he could only look on his own life with confusion.

Before the feeling could threaten him to become overwhelming, Edgar was once again back and Caradoc couldn’t help but wonder if this time it was the right memory. But Edgar’s question didn’t proved a clue to his own, and only left him with his little frown of confusion on.

Now, if he were to be absolutely fair then he would say he couldn’t possible know, could he? He was not in Edgar’s mind and thus couldn’t know of Edgar’s feelings. Except that, the honest answer to that question was... 

“Because we understand each other. We accept and trust one another for who we are,” he said, knowing that while he was far from being the warm and comforting presence that Amelia was, he was still someone that could understand Edgar for who he was. More important yet, Caradoc did not need many memories of Edgar to know him and recognise him as the one person that he could always trust. He couldn’t think of no other person who he would ever given the key to his memories, to his own mind, to all the versions of himself that he had to kill during the years. Nor did that many to know he was the one person who knew when Caradoc needed to let go of the war even for just one night, or the span of time that it took to drink a cup of tea.

All of this was of course Caradoc’ point of view on their friendship, it was why he considered Edgar his best friend. But he couldn’t help but think that it had to be the same for Edgar, too. Caradoc had seen his best friend’s illness but he had never turned his back on him or pitied him for it. Instead, he had waited for all the things that Edgar needed to count to be counted. He had gone to get him every time his friend had withdrawn himself in his own world made of love and warmth to pull him back in the outside world. And he knew how deep the bond between Amelia and Edgar ran, how tied to one another they were, how important it had been to give Edgar even just a single day before letting Amelia go down his same path in the Order of the Phoenix. 

Wasn’t that what best friends were for? 

“Good,” Lily said, raising her chin slightly. “Because I won’t.” While she thrived on forgiveness for most things, it was hard for anyone to gain back her trust after they’d lost it. It took a lot for her to end things with a person but, when she did, her mind was set. It was why Severus could never get back in her good graces. When she’d said those words about choosing paths, she’d meant them.

Lily sighed. Of course he didn’t know. Of course Severus wouldn’t share. “Yes, there is so much more,” she said and her tone held a weary weight to it. She sat back farther in her chair, getting more comfortable, but continued to look at him all the same. She wouldn’t tell him everything - some things were just for her heart… hers and Severus’, anyway - but she would tell him enough. It was only fair. If she were proving honesty, she would do it right.

“Severus and I lived in the same town growing up, just down the street from one another. He was the first to discover my magic and told me all about Hogwarts. I loved him.” She said the last part simply, but did not elaborate on what kind of love. She has never had romantic feelings for Severus, but that didn’t matter. Love was love was love. It was all important. “He’d left out the part about being a Muggleborn, of course, so I was surprised by a lot when I finally got to school. He was sorted into Slytherin, I to Gryffindor and, despite everything, we managed to stay friends for a while.”

She’d never had to tell this story to anyone. She could feel her heart quickening, her mouth dry. “He and James… they had a history, just as Severus and I did. They hated one another, to be honest. James could be… cruel… sometimes. But I watched as Severus changed. It was Slytherin - it was the Death Eaters. But maybe it was more, too. Maybe it had always been there.”

“When I realized that we valued different things in this world, I ended our friendship for good.” She didn’t mention the incident by the lake or the word Mudblood from Severus’ lips. It was that, yes, but it was more than that. Their distance had grown even before he shouted that foul word in her direction. “He might’ve been in love with me. James seemed to think so, but I’m not sure. I think we just… understood one another. For a while.”

Lily sighed, gave Caradoc a serious look. “I think he’s here for me and I’m not so sure he should be trusted. One person isn’t enough to change years of dark magic.”

She nodded about the fighting club, then. She would do what she had to. “Branwen’s words aren’t distracting… they just show her character. It’s the same reason I left Severus, after all. But, yes, I can do that. And, if I must, I’ll work under her. I won’t be someone you have to worry about, despite my impulsive friends.”

Caradoc admired Lily for her honesty, both when it came to her feelings for Ainsley and for sharing her past with Severus Snape. In his admiration, he listened carefully to what she had to tell him. It wasn’t simply the content of it, though that was also greatly important, but the reason why she had chosen to share this part of her own personal story with him. 

Even with all the details missing, only vaguely hinted in her tale, it was easy to understand the why. The way she spoke of her relationship with Severus made him think of his own with Edgar. ‘I think we just… understood one another,’ she said. Best friends, he thought, even if he didn’t mean to jump to any conclusion. But he understood that going from loving someone and understand them, to breaking your relationship, it was not done for trivial reasons. 

And Caradoc had seen what Severus Snape was capable of, the lengths he could go, the kind of evil he could infuse in his own magic. So, he understood why Lily had made her choice even without knowing what had exactly pushed her to severe that tie. More importantly, he understood that she wanted to warn him about Severus.

“I agree that he is not a person to be trusted lightly,” he said, with a nod. “He still has a lot to prove about where his loyalties lie, and I don’t pretend to believe he’s wholly sincere about his reasons to be here.” After all, hadn’t Lily just offered him and explanation that Severus never had even mentioned? “Even less so now that I’m aware of your past together. But I’m willing to give him the chance to change.” It wasn’t an easy thing to do. Caradoc often times had to force himself from falling to its own prejudices and challenging them instead.  “If you are indeed what brought him here, then I can only hope he can find more reasons within and outside of the Order to abandon those beliefs that have led him to the Death Eaters in the first place.” Because Lily was right, one person wouldn’t be enough to change years of hate. “For that to happen, I need to give him a chance.”