golden hour.

        They’ve had many arguments, Emma and Dominic, so many towards the end of their friendship that it perhaps couldn’t be called a friendship at all. In retrospect, it had been a grim foreshadowing of what was to come. However, in all that time, in so many occurrences where she had called him a coward, an idiot, a pushover with the wrong priorities, she had never felt so lost talking to him. He’d been her best friend once upon a time, and even if he made decisions she’d never understand, she’d always known who he was. Right now, any step he made or word he said would come as a surprise to her. She doesn’t like not knowing what’s going on. Hates it, in fact. Hates this. 

        It’s only when his eyes change focus, if only for a moment, to focus on the ground beneath them. This is something she can reconcile with- for lack of a better word- her Dominic. The unwillingness to raise to a fight, the part of him that, no matter what she said to him, about him, would never retaliate with the same viciousness, if at all. Then, in a moment, the part she recognises is gone. He’s so much taller than her, somehow even taller now than they were when they last saw each other. “Yes, you do.” She feels steel in her spine as she raises her chin to meet his direct gaze. No part of her wants to back down from this. When she was a teenager, Emma had made an art out of uncertainty; she had pulled boys closer to her and pushed them away again like a child with a yoyo, always knowing exactly where she wanted them to stand. As seems to be a reoccurring theme in this interaction, she doesn’t know if she wants Dominic closer or at the other side of the park. 

        He goes to turn away from her and she’s only just able to stop herself from grabbing his shoulder once more. She’s under no illusion that she’s as calm as she should be, but Emma’s intimately aware with the type of people Dominic associates with now, and knows that even if he had killed every member of the Collier family by hand, the threats she threw against him would be enough for those types of lawyers to get him off scot-free. So she waits, pocketing the notebook out of personal curiosity rather than professional. He’ll notice, definitely, but she doubts he can risk trying to get it back. Part of her feels bad for using that against him, but a stronger part of her needs to see how his art is manifesting ten years later. A memory surfaces, something that would have been soft yesterday; chasing each other around an empty Ravenclaw common room, a ribbon-bound sketchbook held tightly in her grasp. The label addresses it to her, and she’s trying to stay out of his reach whilst trying to untie the bow. “I want to see,” her higher-pitched, almost giggling voice calls out. He’s using his height as an advantage, his much longer legs catching up to her in moments. “It’s not Christmas yet!” He insists, but he’s laughing too. The sound of his laugh echoes in her head, interrupted by the man himself. She’s broken from her reverie by his harsh tone and she lets herself ache for a second before refitting her armour. 

        “Thankfully, yes. He woke up this morning. The rest of his family were dead at the scene, including his sixteen year old sister, Jess.” She says the words to get a reaction out of him, all the while fearful that she won’t. He’s turned back to her now, she knew he would. “I’m not suggesting anything, Dom, I am asking you what you had to do with it. My partner was reading The Prophet, your face bloody front and centre on the front page, and the kid damn near had a panic attack. He’d remembered nothing up to that point, just kept asking for his Mum.” Emma hadn’t meant to reveal that much information, but remembering Toby’s face filled her with a rage once more. His grip on her hand had been like a vice the moment he’d seen the front cover of The Prophet, repeating the same phrase over and over until her partner had had to fetch a nurse. “Why did you scare him so much? Just you, no-one else. Explain that to me and I’ll leave you alone.”

-

    When she speaks, he feels the ice roll down his back. He’s frozen, and it’s so easy in this moment to lose himself to the memories of that night - memories that are clear as day, sharp and sudden and ultimately unwanted, because his hands suddenly feel heavy with the blood he knows they’re stained with. His only comfort is that, against all odds, the spell had worked. Far from being a Healer, he’s shocked that his magic had accomplished its purpose that night - that the blood had stopped flowing, that the coma he’d induced on the poor boy (Tobias, she’d said, Toby) had granted him enough time for the Mediwizards to save him. The boy lives, but the sister - the sister -

    "He’s hardly the only person to have lost someone that night,” he snaps. His eyes narrow; St. Mungo’s was busy for weeks afterward, the Healers attempting all manner of experimental magic to save whoever they could. A cloud of mourning had descended over them all, candlelight vigils lighting up the night sky for weeks, and in many parts of Wizarding London, that mourning continued on. “I suppose you’ll find some way to tie all their deaths back to my whereabouts that night, too? That I’m the evil, I’m the illness in this world that should be locked back up in Azkaban where he belongs?” He doesn’t realize that his voice has risen, that he’s speaking loud enough that a passerby could easily hear without even attempting to eavesdrop. His insecurities rise up in his throat and spill over in his words, the wild look in his eyes unmistakable. “None of this would have happened if - ” if I had done my job, if I hadn’t been soft, if I had just let him die like I was supposed to “ - if his parents had protected him like they should have. We should count our blessings that he still lives and breathes.” 

    The words pour forth without his permission. He’s a cornered animal now, fighting against the look in her eyes - the suspicion, the rage - and he feels it mirrored in himself. He wants to crawl out of his own skin, to disappear, to be anywhere but here, all while he desperately tries to remember why this woman makes the sky feel like it’s crushing him -- “If you were any good at your job, you’d search elsewhere,” he snarls. “Any child looks at an image plastered over the cover of the Prophet, of course they’re frightened. I expected better of the illustrious Auror department than to chase any ghost of a lead they can take, and from a child who’s just awoken no less.” He steps back and looks down at her. His unimpressed sneer twists his features into something unrecognizable. “Where the hell did they find you anyway? Didn’t realize they were getting desperate.”

It was only when she was standing there, alone, waiting for someone to bring Dominic to her that she realized the gravity of the situation. From the moment that she had answered that phone she had been pushing forward, rushing to come to Dominic’s side, and making sure that she brought him home with her. It hadn’t really hit her that they could take him away from her again, and if they did, she was sure that they wouldn’t let him out again. She would be without him again and Victoria didn’t want to live in a world where she didn’t get to be with him. Where they didn’t get their second chance to be happy together. 

From the moment that she saw him she knew that he wasn’t okay. She could see it in his eyes, in the lines on his face, in the hollow look in his eyes. She wanted to do nothing more than throw her arms around him and hold him closely to her, but she wouldn’t do that here, not in front of the Aurors and not in this cold awful room where she nearly lost him again. Victoria wanted nothing more than to bring him back to her place and to show him that she wasn’t going anywhere, and he wasn’t going to go anywhere either. She was going to see to it that he never went back to that horrid place, not when she had done everything in her power to get him out for the past decade. She wasn’t going to let him go that easy, wasn’t going to let him fall back into their grasp. Victoria glanced back at the Aurors that were standing around, watching them, and she wanted nothing more but to tell them off for what they had done. But that was going to be her job for tomorrow. 

When he said her name, her eyes flickered back to his. It broke her heart to see him so broken again. When he apologized for worrying her, she shook her head. “Please, it’s okay,” she said firmly but softly. “It’s okay.” She would come here to get him a million times over. “It’s really me,” she promised him. She reached out and took his hand in hers. “Come on, let’s go. You’re done here,” she said. Victoria looked back over at the Aurors, silently daring them to say something, anything, before she turned back to Dominic wanting nothing more but to get him out of there. She gently pulled him from the room and when the door was shut behind them, she stopped and wrapped her arms around him. “It’s going to be alright,” She whispered to him. Whatever happened, they would be okay. Things would be different this time. Victoria was stronger this time and she had lived a life apart from him and she didn’t want to do it again. When she pulled away a few moments later, she looked up at him. “Do you want to go back to my place or yours?” She asked. 

-

    Her words of reassurance ease the rapid staccato of his heartbeat. Suddenly, the roaring rush of noise in his ears evaporates, her voice like a clear bell to pierce through the awful din - a lighthouse in the storm, her eyes the brightest blue he’s ever seen. Dominic leans into her touch without realizing, seeking the comfort and warmth he’s always associated with her. Warmth, like liquid sunlight, floods through him, and when he feels her arms around him, he nearly shatters. Breathing in her scent, he rests his chin on her hair and nods in agreement. It will be alright. She’s here. They’re together. And he’s not going back to Azkaban. “They wanted to ask me about... about the Collier boy. I didn’t do anything - or maybe I did too much, I don’t know, I --” He stops himself, remembering that while they are out of the lion’s den now, that they are still far from being out of the woods. “I’ll tell you more later,” he murmurs. He feels her pull away and, with great reluctance, releases his embracing hold as well.

    Still, Dominic runs a finger through the strands of her golden hair, his eyes tracing along her cheekbones to the delicate curve of her neck. Even after all these months, he finds it difficult to believe that she’s here - that she still desires his company, that she has not cast him aside, that she does not think lesser of him for what’s happened. Her forgiveness is a miracle, he’s sure of it. He almost answers that they should go to hers - surely, Victoria’s home offers a greater deal of comfort and warmth than his own sparse flat could, but then he remembers that what she has is everything he no longer deserves. How could he sully her home in such a way - from a holding cell to her doorstep? She deserved better than that. “Mine,” he croaks, and hates how his voice sounds weak in the air between them. Dominic attempts to smile, but all he can manage is a half-hearted upward turn of his lips. “It’s closer to here,” he says, by way of excuse. The last thing he wants is her pity; he’s got enough of that by his own supply.

    When they arrive at the door of his flat, he fumbles around in his pocket - only realizing that he’s forgotten his belongings back in the Auror department, in his haste to flee its sterile halls as soon as he could. “Shit,” he curses. “Forgot my keys back at the Ministry... I’m sorry, Vic, this is all my fault...” Wandless, keyless, walletless, Dominic throws his shoulder against the wooden door, and it gives way easily enough, though he’s sure that a bruise will mar his skin tonight. His face is flushed with embarrassment, and he can hardly meet Victoria’s eyes as he welcomes her in. What must she think of him now, after this brutish display? He turns on the light, and when the interior of the flat is illuminated, he’s suddenly grateful that he had decided to tidy up the place this morning. “Can I get you anything? Tea or -- are you hungry? Cold?” He’s starting to sound desperate, and he knows it, but he can’t seem to stop the flood of words that escape him, not in front of her. “Just... anything to make you comfortable?”

Evan couldn’t remember a time he’d last been this fucking exhausted.  He was always running himself just this side of ragged, but after the election it had been even doubly more so.  It was harder than ever to keep everything in check, to keep all of the chess pieces in order.  Especially when he was locked playing both black and white.  

It was even worse hearing Rodolphus give in to his (frighteningly accurate) paranoia about there being spies in their midst.  He had been partner to a few rants on the subject so far, and it was like feeling the walls press in.  But funny too, how he wasn’t even under the least bit of suspicion.  A sign, maybe, that he was playing his role too well.  Still, it was a relief when Rodolphus singled him out with the task to root out the traitor, because at least he could keep everyone he knew was working against Rodolphus and his cronies as safe as possible.

The hard part would end up being working with Dominic.  As much as he’d tried to harden his heart, he couldn’t help the part that was still broken when he looked at his former best friend and saw a stranger standing there.  He couldn’t begin to understand what had happened to him, he knew that, but it still didn’t make sense to him how he’d come back such a blank slate, someone who seemed to not know him at all.  Even had given up trying after a few drops of names and events and things they’d done together fell on deaf ears.  

Now there was just the unending fucking emptiness, and Evan didn’t think there was anything worse than mourning someone that was still alive.  Evan had been confident going into this assignment, but knowing he was working with Dominic and having to live with that oppressive fucking mourning that Dominic wouldn’t even understand made it so much worse.

He could have had Dominic meet him at his new place, but that felt too personal, too close to the reality of who he was, and so he opted to take over one of his father’s studies.  Father was overjoyed of course, having his son conduct “good works”.  Evan had just put on his usual smile and acted the perfect son before closing himself into the study and waiting for Dominic to arrive.

Evan got word that Dominic had arrived and sighed, steeling himself before having him sent in.  “Yes, hello and good evening to you, Dominic,” Evan said with a cold sort of smirk, closing the study door and going to sit against the desk. “You want a drink or anything first?  If we’re going to ruin some lives I’d rather not do it on an empty stomach,” he said tightly.  "Shoot,“ he said finally, pouring a drink just for himself.  "The sooner we get this done and over with the happier Rodolphus will be.”

-

    He nods in greeting to Evan as he enters the study, his eyes immediately scanning the room. As is his habit now, he surveys the room for all possible exits, every option for escape should it be necessary; Dominic is a creature pushed against the wall now, and he’s received very explicit instructions from Rodolphus to take flight, and not to fight unless he is instructed to do so. These are instructions that he happily complies with, that he readily agrees with; it is easier this way, to not have to decide for himself, to place the burden of responsibility, of failure and success, on another’s shoulders.

    Still, he understands the responsibility he’s been entrusted with today, and Dominic is grateful for the chance to work with Evan to sniff out the rat in their ranks, the wolf in their flock. 

    He hears the click of the study door as it closes behind Evan, watches as the other man sits at the desk. As for Dominic, the wave of uncertainty doesn’t leave him: should he sit opposite of Evan, should he begin pacing the room as his suddenly pent-up legs yearn to, or should he simply remain still and standing, planted firmly like a soldier standing at attention? In the end, he settles for the last one, unsure of himself. Dominic’s hands slip into the pockets of his jeans, hidden away lest Evan sees the nervous tremor in his hands. He nods at the offer. “Sure,” he says, and after a moment’s pause, remembers to add, “Thank you.” Dominic takes the offered glass from him and raises it in a toast. “To our future victory,” he says before downing the contents in one fluid gulp. His words are only slightly sardonic; as if damning one of their own could ever be considered victorious, and not a whole failure on the part of Bellatrix’s, and now Rodolphus’s, leadership in keeping an orderly house.

    The alcohol stings in his throat, and he finds that he likes the burn. Even as the fire slides down his throat, it settles no warmth in his stomach. “You’re certainly right about that - though I wonder if Rodolphus will ever truly be happy or satisfied. His visions for our nation, for our world... he's certainly got plans, but he has to settle the home-front first. This disaster with Moody and Shacklebolt doesn’t reflect well on him - or us,” he concludes.

    His eyebrows furrow as he recalls a conversation in passing, hushed in the dim light of dusk with the toasts of celebration from another room. Evan’s sister - and Evan certainly wouldn’t like what he would have to say next. “Your sister... she...” He searches for the right words. There’s a part of him that tells him to stop, that Penelope Rosier is family, and family is off limits. There’s another part still - the call of a memory, a younger him and a younger Evan and a younger Penelope, bits and pieces, shining as bright as a beacon and as loud as the shrill of a siren, until it’s clouded over once again. He pushes it away and admonishes himself. No distractions; do what needs to be done. And so he soldiers on. “ — has expressed some sympathy for their plights.” Then, he considers his own role in the conversation, that he had been the one to initiate. A more strategic, a more devious man might think to omit his role. Dominic has always been a mismatched shame to Slytherin. "I wouldn’t be surprised if there are quite a few in our ranks who harbor sympathy for them, to be honest. Count myself among them; Azkaban is...” His voice trails off; there are no words that he can assign to the horror that sinks his heart. “I’d consider those close to the Undersecretary to be suspect. Not someone high-up, but one who slinks and lurks in the shadows where they shouldn’t. Someone who thinks they’ve gone unnoticed. Low members, ones who want to climb like...” He searches his mind for names, for the social climbers, for the ones desperate to prove something, until his mind settles on  “— Crabbe.”

    When he’d first been tasked to run product for one Frank Longbottom, he’d refused, aggressively and vehemently. Dominic had a few choice words for the other man that he only just barely held back, mindful of his position relative to the others, always recalling his place. It took only a word from Rodolphus - a pull on Dominic’s leash, reining him back in line - and the matter was settled: he, along with a few others, would branch out to deliver the sale of Longbottom’s clandestine operation, all in the name of further lining the pockets of the Death Eaters.

    Still, he’d dragged his feet, taking much longer than was necessary covering someone else’s route, and his last stop tonight called for him to meet a dark-haired woman behind a pub at exactly 8 o’clock. By the time he arrives, it’s seven minutes past, and Dominic hopes she hasn’t already left.

    He spots a lone figure against the brick walls of the pub. The aftermath of the new year festivities renders the streets of Diagon Alley deserted, few daring to brave the cold for a drink when the warmth of a home proved much more appealing. Dominic breathes a sigh of relief, and the air that escapes his nostrils visibly dissipates around them. He pulls a cigarette from the pocket of his coat and lights it with a Muggle lighter before venturing closer to the woman. He leans against the wall for a moment, waiting for any passerby to be far enough away, before he murmurs to her, “Apologies for being late. Got caught up.” Dominic glances at the woman for just a moment, unable to quite make out her features in the dim moonlight. “You know what you’re here for?”

    “Don’t let me see you again,” Dominic mutters. He shoves the man - a boy, really, just barely graduated from Hogwarts but with an arrogant look in his eyes, eager to prove himself to the Death Eaters, eager to make himself useful despite being so completely and utterly useless - against the filthy brick wall. Dominic smirks as he watches the boy’s eyes widen in fear. He leans closer still, pinning him against the jagged stone, hoping it digs and cuts into his back. “Or I promise, you’ll live to regret it.” He releases the boy, watches him all but scramble away with his tail between his legs.

    His eyes follow the retreating figure and he straightens up, adjusting his coat to settle more comfortably around his broad shoulders. He turns in the opposite direction, and the sight that he sees - the person he sees - gives him pause. With near-silent steps, he moves closer to the woman, and for a moment, he thinks she’s simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that’s an easy enough mistake to correct. Until he looks closer. Until he gazes into her light blue eyes and sees a clear summer’s day, until he sees her light brown hair and thinks of warmth and sunlight, a home and a family that’s long since slipped from his grasp now. And then all of that shatters, replaced only by the taste of ashes in his mouth. His blood turns to ice in his veins, and he freezes.

    "Gemma..." he says, without even realizing. Dominic prays that she doesn’t recognize him - that she'll turn and forget what she's seen, a kindness to them both - but he knows that he’s run out of luck a long time ago. His face becomes a cool mask of indifference, and the words that come from his mouth are level, even, emotionless. “I think it’s best if we both agree that we didn’t see each other here.”

    They’ve all been given their respective tasks. There are a thousand pieces to control on this endless chess board, and Dominic does not envy his leaders at all - for their responsibility, for their power. He’s happy to take orders, happy to execute them, provided that they come only from Rodolphus. After all, he owes Rodolphus his life, and perhaps that loyalty might extend to the man’s brother Rabastan, but for all others, he gives only a sneer and a snort of derision for any request. Find someone else to do your dirty work. He refuses to play the role of an errand boy for any other.

    After all, it was only Rodolphus who’d cared enough to free his chains in the first place.

    So when Rodolphus had commanded him to sniff out the traitor, to root out the mole in their midst, Dominic had agreed without another word. He’d been glad to learn that he’d work alongside Evan, even if a note of apprehension had filled him. Like with so many others now, whenever Dominic attempts to recall the memories of their lives together, the images shimmer with a near-blinding and painful brightness, giving him only glimpses of the memories they had shared together, before Dominic forces himself to bury the thoughts away. And so, while he can recall little of their lives together, a fondness still lingers, and given Evan’s position in their ranks, he finds it easy to trust the other man. They’ll find the traitor, and Rodolphus will be pleased, and all will be as it should.

    He knocks on the large door, the wood paneling and the inlaid designs both familiar and foreign. I’ve been here before, he notes in the back of his mind. It must have been a happy memory, if he’s lost it now, he decides. The door opens and he’s let inside, where he’s told to sit and wait in the sitting room off the main door. Dominic bristles at the command, biting the contrarian urge to refuse orders, and settles for wandering the room instead, taking in the paintings upon the walls and the delicate china on the mantelpiece. He hears the approach of footsteps, and Dominic turns to face Evan. He nods in greeting to the other man, and, with dismay, finds that he is suddenly unsure of himself and his place here. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Dominic wastes no time with small talk and niceties. “I think I’ve got a couple of leads on the rat,” he says. “Do you have a minute to go over them?”

WHERE: Outside Dominic’s Flat WHEN: Late New Years Night WHO: @dominicgreengrass​

There were very few people Alastor Moody went out of his way to locate for personal reasons— especially when they didn’t want to see him. Granted the man never had a chance to ask his nephew because shortly after hearing about the news of Dominic’s release, Alastor found himself in the same spot. But after writing letters for years and never getting anything back that’s all the man could assume, not that it stopped him. Because there he stood, in the rain leaning back against the fence behind him as he waited. He had tried the door several times, but he hadn’t heard a single sound. 

Patience wasn’t a virtue Alastor had been blessed with. Grumpy, irritable, and easily frustrated were all better descriptors, but he had no idea how long he had been waiting there. Seeing his nephew was on the top of his list to do, and it probably would have been the first if Gemma hadn’t insisted he go back to the Order safe house to check in with everyone. In all honesty she was right and that was what he was supposed to do, but he’d always hated being told what to do. Especially since he thought he’d waited long enough to see someone who’d been like a brother more than anything else ever since Alastor could remember. He might not have been born into the family, but they’d welcomed him with open arms at one point. 

Sluggish footsteps was enough to draw his attention upwards— it was too late for most people to be out and about just enjoying an evening stroll. That, and the weather made the idea less than desirable. No, it was the exact person he had been waiting for to come home, and just when Alastor had almost been ready to call it a night. “You’re out rather late. I thought the New Year festivities were celebrated last night,” he spoke, pushing the soaked hood from his sweatshirt back. “You need a fucking chair out here, mate.” He stood, stretching his arms up as he did. “My back is killing me.”

-

    He spends more time away from his flat now than inside of it, the four walls oppressive and confining. Even as the weather grows colder and the lakes and ponds around the countryside freeze completely, he finds himself falling asleep at the base of a tree and waking to chapped lips and a shiver to the bone more often than he should. The sun has almost set by the time he’s returned home - as if a flat purchased under another man’s name could ever be called home. Dominic hears him before he sees him, and when his mind registers the familiar timber of the voice, an ice-cold chill runs down his spine. He peers up from his hood, already soaked from the rain, and his fists clench in his pockets. If his ears had not deceived him, then it must mean - but it couldn’t be -

    He blinks once, then twice. He closes his eyes for a brief minute longer because surely, this must be a trick of the light? Surely, he simply hasn’t had enough sleep and his mind has decided to conjure up the memory of a man he hasn’t seen in a decade? His uncle, the man he’d once happily called his brother. A thousand questions run through his mind - how did you find me? who told you where? why have you come looking for me? what do you want from me? - but in the end, the words that fall from his lips are, “You shouldn’t have come here.” 

    Dominic glances around. This must be an ambush. Any moment now, and he’ll be hit with a stunning spell, bound and gagged and taken to ransom in God knows where. Or, even worse still, it will be eyes from his own side, another minion of Rodolphus’s, ready to report back that he’s been seen fraternizing with the enemy. Dominic steps closer, around Alastor, to reach his front door. Alastor, his uncle. Despite himself, he’s longed for this moment for so long, that he finds he doesn’t quite know what to do now that the other man is in front of him. His heart feels like lead in his chest. He unlocks his door and all but throws it open. “Get inside,” he snaps, both an invitation and a plea. Away from prying eyes. Please. “Got plenty of chairs for you, and we have a lot to talk about.” Then, with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, he adds, "And happy new year, by the way. Nothing quite tastes like freedom, does it?"

When: Middle of the night after Dom’s arrest Where: Ministry homicide department  @dominicgreengrass​

Victoria had been asleep when she got the phone call from Dominic that made her blood run cold. She couldn’t believe that they had taken him into custody for questioning. Hadn’t he been through enough already? She had promised that she would be there shortly and had quickly changed out of her pajamas and into a pair of pants and the first shirt she found. She glanced in the mirror and sighed, pulling her hair out of the messy bun that she had thrown it into to sleep in, and ran a brush through her hair and put on her signature red lipstick, she sighed. It would have to do, she thought to herself. Victoria Delacour could never be spotted in public looking less than put together, it would hurt her brand. She grabbed her black cloak with the hood and her sunglasses, you never knew who was watching, even in the middle of the night, and made her way to the Ministry.

Her heels clacked on the deserted flooring of the Ministry as she found her way to the homicide department. She walked in and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and gave a cool stare at the man sitting behind the desk. “I’m here for Dominic Greengrass,” She said coolly, leveling him with a stare that conveyed that she wasn’t going to wait very long for them to get him and than turned away from him. She glanced around the room, glancing at the wanted posters on the walls in idle boredom as she idly tapped her fingers on her side. 

When she heard footsteps, she turned her head and was relieved to see Dominic uncuffed and looking tired, but no worse than the last time she had seen him. “Dominic,” She breathed out, relieved and immediately went to him, placing a hand on his arm. “Did anybody hurt you?” She questioned softly, shooting a glare at the detective hovering over them. “Are you alright?” 

-

    He takes a deep breath, focuses on his breathing, forcing himself to be calm. He’s been here before. He remembers it like it was yesterday - 18 years old, and the fluorescent light shines on him with accusation while the stale air threatens to suffocate him. Eyes that have already determined his guilt, have already decided that his fate is not worth their consideration, their effort, their time. It’s not like before, he reminds himself, trying to ground his mind in reality, to not fall down this hole again. If it was, he’d already have been locked up again.

    A second inhale, pause, then exhale. He should have never helped the Collier boy. What had that woman said? Tobias? Toby? Yes. Should have left him there, let him carry on to an afterlife beyond the Veil with his family. Should have walked away, patted himself on the back for a job well done. Why did you stick your neck out for someone who you don’t know? Who doesn’t even know you? His fists are clenched by his side. No one’s coming. No one’s coming. Why would it change this time? Nothing’s changed. He’s nothing, and he’s no one, and he’ll die nothing, lost to the pages of time as no one. He’s fucked up the glorious second chance at life that Rodolphus had granted him, because he could not silence that damned voice in his mind that forced him to save, to protect. It’s over.

    He’s ripped from his reverie when the door bursts open. Dominic hardly hears the words from the Auror - something about no charges filed, something about release - and he follows without a word, keeping his eyes to the ground. Don’t look at them, don’t acknowledge them, he chants to himself. It’s easy to slip back into this trance, the one that kept him alive all those long and lonely years. It’s only when he hears her, feels her, that he looks up, jumping as if he’s been scalded by the touch of her palm on his arm. “Victoria,” he breathes, and her name is choked on his tongue, a mess of syllables. He blinks, trying to remember where he is and how he’s gotten here. “I’m fine,” are the words that fall from his lips, an automatic response, easily disproven by the wide look in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I... I didn’t mean to worry you.” His voice is filled with awe as he takes in her features - the familiar halo of golden hair, the bright sky-blue of her eyes. “Is it really you?” he whispers.

.

The transitional time at the Ministry was proving to be more of a headache than Emmeline had previously believed it would be. She had already gone through two meetings, one firing, and two small-scale promotions by the time that she saw Dominic’s text. She had internally cursed remembering the plans for the evening and knowing that her plans for movies and take-out with Dorcas would need to be rescheduled. 

The rest of the day passed quickly, a blur before the chaos of the night. 

The faint sound of her stilettos on the pathway and the rustle of her cloak were the only sounds in the night as she approached the meeting point. Her own path was lit faintly with her wand and surprisingly, she actually felt a stir of something in her chest. So far, most of her own job had consisted of behind the scenes work– her hands had been clean. 

Seeing Dominic’s figure ahead, Emmeline tossed the hood of her cloak back from her face, swiftly unbuttoning the clasp that kept the material around her. It had been a gift and she was rather fond of it, no need to sully it. “No such luck for you tonight,” she told him, her lips curving up into a small smile. “I want in on all the action. So,” she glanced around them then, “Where’s the body now?”

- 

    He watches as she flings the hood of her cloak back, her face in shadows in the rapidly-retreating light of evening. The sun sets, and so their work begins. The hood of his own sweater remains over his head; he’s taken to adopting a more Muggle form of dress, nondescript coats and faded jeans, a rather dull departure from the hand-tailored robes and cloaks that other witches and wizards often wore. For their work tonight, he’s chosen an old pair of boots to go along with it, dusted with dirt and use. Dominic gives her a rueful smile. “Lucky us,” he murmurs.

    After another drag from his cigarette, he drops it underfoot, extinguishing the embers as he rises to his full height. He nods to the back garden behind the house. “Follow me,” he says as he unlatches the gate leading to the rows of roses, a well-manicured lawn, and, underneath the awning, a tarp-wrapped sack. Dominic clears his throat. “The preservation charm... well, preserved it, I think. No smell. No suspicions from the neighbors - at least, no one’s been snooping around here. None of the alarm charms I set around the property were triggered.”

    They come to a stop in front of what remained of the dearly-departed bureaucrat. “I’d say we’ve got two options here: stage it as an accident in his house and leave it there for someone to find eventually. The preservation will throw off forensics, make it hard to determine when he bit it. The second option is...” Dominic’s eyes lift, coming to rest on the woodlands behind the property. “I scouted the woodlands behind the property. Lots of caves, pits, ravines.” His eyes meet hers, and not for the first time, he’s startled for a split-second by their shining bright-blue intensity, undimmed even in the darkness around them. “Lots of places to get lost.”

__

What Dominic wanted to talk to her about, Nellie had no idea, but she could hardly deny him anything. As it was, ever since Dominic had been released, he had been spending more time with her than most other people. On one hand, Nellie was grateful for it, as it allowed her to keep an eye on him and make sure he was doing alright. On the other, she felt guilty for spending so much time with Gemma’s brother when she knew they were in such a bitter place. Having been best friends with Gemma since childhood, it was difficult to understand just how her and Dominic had fallen apart throughout all of this. They had been as close as she and Evan were growing up, so to see them fall to pieces made her heart ache. Nellie could understand his anger with Alastor and even his feelings of being indebted to Rodolphus, but she couldn’t understand his total flip in morals, or pushing Gemma away. Still, whatever the reason, Nellie knew she couldn’t trust him 

As he spoke, Nellie kept her guard up tight. “What do you mean? I know it’s not conventional, but the Order is a terrorist group. Something had to be done,” she responded, trying to keep her tone sympathetic but firm all the same. “They might not have absolute proof, but we all know they’ve been either leading the Order or heavily involved with it,” Nellie murmured. The words felt like poison leaving her mouth, but she knew that any perceived weakness could be used against her. 

However, it was almost relieving to see that Dominic cared. It was the first time since he’d come out of Azkaban that she’d seen a snippet of the old him, the real him, and Nellie wondered if there was more of him in there. Frankly, she wanted to be able to help as well, but she knew she couldn’t be overt about it. There was a plan, and Nellie knew that if she stuck to it, they would have Alastor and Suri out free soon enough. However, she wanted her role in it to be traced back to her, and Dominic approaching her with this put her in a tight spot. “I can see what I can do, but Dom -” she paused, giving him a quiet shrug, “this is just how things are. I mean, I know it isn’t necessarily right, but it is the way.” As the words left her, she felt like she was reciting a line from a cult, but she ignored that particular feeling and carried on listening intently. Nodding her head, Nellie gave a soft hum, “That’s a fair point. I mean, it does look like we’re afraid of them, and that they hold a certain power over us. Look, I agree that locking people up without following proper procedure is a slippery slope, so I’ll look into it, but Dom I can’t make any promises.”

-

    He nods along vehemently. He finds that when Penelope speaks, it’s hard to disagree, her firm tone setting him at ease, even if he does not necessarily agree with the words that fall from her lips. Are they a terrorist group? Dominic wonders. Perhaps his negligence, his selfish regard for only his own affairs, has blinded him from the truth of the past few months. From his memory, from his own evaluation, it’s always seemed that the only escalation in conflict has come from their own side - and of that, Dominic himself has played no small role in. He swallows the lump in his throat and tries to clear his mind. “Of course they are, and they should be held in questioning,” he agrees. His eyebrows furrow as he attempts to explain himself, to conjure an alternative solution. “A fair trial - make it transparent, that’s all I’m saying. Let them bury themselves alive, or let the court of public opinion damn them. Not us.”

    He aims for the middle ground - advocating for their release from that hell on Earth, while condemning them all the same - but he realizes that his only reasoning for speaking at all is for the state of his own conscience, his own absolution. Not us, he’d said. Don’t let me be part of the reason that another is condemned to Azkaban. Don’t let me play a role in this, too. 

    Her words bring a rush of calm over him, and he knows that it shouldn’t. That, like the others who’d left the room, he should be thanking his lucky stars for this gift from fate, that karma had finally turned her hideous and unwelcome face on another. But if there was anyone here, within their ranks, who understood the horrors that his uncle, that the Shacklebolt girl, were now set to endure, it was him - and that pain and suffering was not something he would wish upon his worst enemy. "Thank you,” he says, and to his surprise, he finds that he means it. Simply the idea of looking into the matter further was enough to bring a sense of calm over him. The low rank-and-file of the Death Eaters were filled with incompetent fools - glory-seekers and thrill-chasers who amounted to little more than attention-hungry brigands - but at its top, they were lucky to have both Penelope and her brother at its helm. For the first time in a long time, he finds it in himself to give her a small smile - and this one is genuine, without an edge of cruelty or malintent. “Thank you,” he repeats. He takes a step back, and his voice returns to a normal volume, no longer the hushed tone he’d adopted. “I’ve kept you long enough. Please, join the others for the celebration.”

.

     He looks different. And she hates that that’s her first thought. Beauty is part of who she is, not integral, but important, a standard she holds herself to at all times. But she quite pointedly does not hold other people to those standards. Beauty is- subjective. Looks are unimportant, or they would be in a world that they don’t live in. The train of thought was instilled into her long ago by parents who knew how the world would treat a beautiful girl. Yet, she can’t help assessing him. His hair is gone, buzzed down to the scalp. He looks more tired, older. She looks older, too. Still, they haven’t aged in the same way. His eyes, the same ones that had always warmed her in a way that had nothing to do with the fire they sat beside, are lifeless. Cold. Dom had never been cold. She was the cold one- the ice queen, the one who struggled to let people get close long before she’d been heartbroken. He’d balanced her out and now- she doesn’t think she could ever be warm enough for the both of them. 

    It’s only then, after her wandering mind ponders the change in his eyes, that she notices the look in them. He’s staring at her, figuring her out as if she were a particularly difficult jigsaw puzzle, and she recognises the expression. Pére deemed it ‘the Veela look’ long ago. Dad had slapped his hand, told him to hush, whispered that it wasn’t any particular look. Pére had pressed on, ensuring his daughter watched out for men who looked at her in that way, “Mon coeur, you want a man who looks at your mind, not your face.” She’s used to the look; is no longer offended by it the same way she was at fifteen. This is the first time it hurts. 

    Ten years is a long time, but she hasn’t changed the way he has. Her age suits her. She’s grown into it, and it shapes her comfortably. Her hair is darker than it was at school, her eyes sharper. The red lipstick she’d preferred in school is swapped out for more muted tones. Emma no longer has to use her beauty as a weapon; she’s legally allowed to carry one. Still, she hasn’t changed enough that he wouldn’t even know who she was. Her wand digs further into his neck unconsciously. His hands are raised, a surrender. There is no legal reason she can justify her threat with. But she doesn’t drop her wand. “No, I don’t. I’m not going to forget who you are, Dom-inic.” She hopes he doesn’t catch the hint of hesitation between the nickname and the name. “Don’t play stupid with me. Was it on purpose?”

    Though she hasn’t seen him since his release, she knows enough from sitting opposite criminals in interrogation rooms everyday, that prison is enough to change someone. If it’s changed the way he looks at her then- There’s no use going down that path once more. If he’s going to pretend like he doesn’t know her, call her miss like she’ll appreciate the politeness, she’ll treat him as the man who almost killed a child. Nothing more. “There were many convicts nearer. I work surrounded by them. None of them, however, were mentioned by a child in a statement.” Separating him from her Dominic seems to be doing her some good, at least professionally. When she’s angry, the French portion of her accent becomes stronger. Growing up there for much of her adolescent life, any strong emotion can do that. “The child of the Collier family. Tobias. Toby. He’s the only one who survived- and all he can remember is that ‘the man from the newspaper’ was there.” She tries to preempt his next sentence. “Of course, there are many men in newspapers, but none whose face frightened him so much as yours.”

-

    He wants it to stop. He needs it to stop - to make the light go away, to fade away and leave him back in the safety of darkness, a darkness he’s made a home out of, now. But looking at her only seems to pull the light ever-center to his vision, and he can’t seem to tear his eyes away, unable to shake the feeling that he should know something. You should remember this. He forces himself to hear her words, to make sense of them. Focus. Pay attention. Whoever she is - who is she?, his mind screams - she’s dangerous, and he knows it. He doesn’t catch the pause when she says his name, as he’s finally able to tear his vision away from her eyes. Dominic looks instead to the waters behind her, at the sunlight shimmering on the ripples of the waves, praying for them to center him again, to grant him peace.

    It should center him again. It always has before, but now it doesn’t. It doesn’t, because it brings the light back again, stronger this time. He’s afforded a single glimpse - this woman before him, but younger, her hair lighter but her eyes no less sharp, the turn of her lip no less clever, and he knows what she feels like, what she tastes like, where when why how - and then it’s gone. He balls his fists in frustration, swallowing back the swear on his tongue. Dominic settles on turning his eyes to the dirt beneath their feet instead, focusing on the feeling of the wand at his throat, at the heavy weight of the threat behind it. His patience runs thin, fraying at the edges. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he all but snarls, rising to his full height. He’s used to towering over others, is now used to using it to his advantage to intimidate another into submission, but before this woman, even as he straightens his spine, he knows she’ll not fall for such simple tactics.

    He eyes his canvas notebook in her hand, wants to snatch it back - and knows he’ll earn a hex or two for his efforts, if she hasn’t already cast one. After all, how else could he reason the sunspots that dance across his vision now, if not some cruel curse that emanates from her very presence? All he wants is to get out of here, to get away from her and whatever spell it is that she’s cast on him. Dominic turns and begins to walk away from her, a dangerous gamble, considering the wand at his throat. He’s not under arrest; his freedom of movement hasn’t been taken from him yet, even if all has. It’s only at the mention of the family name that he pauses. Collier. He tries to remember why it’s important. Collier. Commonplace enough, a name that fits an ordinary family in an ordinary house. Mother father, brother sister. Younger brother. Younger boy. A well-lit sitting room, a crackling fireplace. All the better to illuminate the blood, the savagery, the tragedy left behind. The younger boy is bleeding and he’s kneeling and he’s pulling his wand out and -

   “What about the Collier boy? Heard he’s been recovering in St. Mungo’s after what happened to his family, God rest their souls,” he snaps, even as a touch of curiosity and dread crawls into his voice. He moves with the speed and grace of a predator, turning back to the woman and stalking towards her with deadly precision. He narrows his eyes, even as he searches her own for a hint of what’s happened to the young boy. He needs to know, even if just looking at her makes the sunspots in his eyes grow tenfold. Did I do enough? he wants to ask. Instead, what he says is, “Are you suggesting I had something to do with it? The Prophet runs dozens of articles a day with all sorts of bastards, and you’re so certain it’s me? You’ve lost your damn mind if you're taking the word of a boy who’s been dead to the world the last three months.” 

    “Still on for tonight?”

    A simple message, sent earlier that day. In the flurry of activity of Rodolphus Lestrange’s election, Dominic’s had the luxury of fading away to the shadows. After all, now came the work of public congratulations, of endless political machinations at the Ministry - work for those more qualified, more talented, more intelligent than he could ever hope, could ever aspire to be. He kicks at the stones underfoot, turning them over in the damp evening mist as a rueful smile crosses his features, gone as fast as it had appeared.

    He knows his lot in life.

    Still, they need to finish what they’d started. He’d made sure to wrap what remained of the man - so honorable in his service at the Ministry, such a hard worker - clean away. All that’s left now is to put the pieces in place, to let nature reclaim what was left behind and let history tell the tale of what happened to such a great man. What a shame he’d lost his life to drink and a tragic accident. 

    He lights a cigarette as he waits and watches the sun sink low on the horizon. His stomach growls as the day grows darker, and he pulls the phone from his pocket - a gift from Severus, another so-called required tool as he adapted back to life outside of the four walls of his cell - and prepares to call her. That is, until he hears the footsteps behind him and he turns, slipping the small device back into the back of his jeans. “There you are - was afraid you were going to let me have all the fun.”

.

       She doesn’t think she’s ever been so angry. Her wand twitches in her hand, the red nail of her pointer finger digging into the white wood. The briefcase that can usually be found in her left hand is missing; left in her office in the rush. Emma is not a forgetful person, but the cloud of rage that has been amassing since her interview with the Collier boy had blinded her vision somewhat. It’s been four hours. Four hours of busywork, and writing reports, and sitting through interviews with witnesses. Four hours of getting through the day so that she could argue that she put professionalism before her own goals. 

     Still, her reluctance to wait another minute before finding Dominic means she comes straight from work. Her tailored charcoal-grey pantsuit is immaculate; the heels she wears sound loudly on the gravel path as she approaches the canvas. As she reaches closer, one would consider the logistics of walking on grass in heels, but a simple charm on each pair of shoes had cleared up a problem such as that long ago. 

     As Dominic comes clearly into view, all she can see is the bruised, tear-stained face of the little boy in the bed at St. Mungo’s. How his voice trembled, and she’d had to hold his hand throughout the interview. He had no one left. No Mum to hold his hand; no Dad to ask the detectives to leave because his boy was upset. He had been alone and frightened. The only clear thing they’d been able to get out of him were words that would fucking haunt her for weeks: “the bad man from the newspapers.”

     With this image in her head, all the poise and elegance Emma is known for possessing is lost as she rips the canvas from his hands. His words completely ignored, within seconds, the tip of her wand is pressed just above his Adam’s apple. She’s over a foot shorter than him, only slightly helped by her heels, but she feels dangerous. “Did you hurt that boy on purpose?” The words are seethed, said quietly enough for only him to hear. Emma always begins quiet with her anger. 

-

    He looks up just a moment before the cool wooden tip of a wand meets his throat. Instantly, the frown lines of his developing headache vanish, only to be replaced by a cool mask of indifference. Dominic wills himself to not swallow the lump in his throat, forces himself to reveal no sign that he’s caught off guard by this - this woman who stands a full head below him, who with just a whisper, could send him into a world of unimaginable pain.

    He gazes upon her features - the sharp dark eyes, the porcelain skin - and tries to identify a name with the face. A hundred names run through his mind, and his eyebrows furrow as each passing face grows brighter and brighter. He’s getting closer. Crackling firewood, the frayed sleeve of his sweater, a forgotten melody from a record player in the corner - and then light, too bright to be natural, and he pushes the fragmented memory away. A stranger, he concludes, probably met during one holiday or another. A husk of a memory, any remnants of joy and happiness stolen by the sentinels of his time in Azkaban, no doubt.

    It’s problematic that he doesn’t know who this woman is, or what she wants. It’s more problematic that he finds it difficult to look away - there’s a captivating radiance to her, a shine that he knows cannot come from the overcast skies above them. Still, he knows that his next words can entangle him into a deeper web than he’s already ensnared himself in, or grant him the freedom and absolution he so desperately needs. “You’ve got me mistaken for someone else,” he huffs, but raises both his palms either way. It’s a gesture of surrender, of innocence he knows that he can no longer lay claim to. “Been here all morning, miss.” 

    There are a thousand things she could accuse him of, from the dozens of crimes he’s committed in the name of loyalty and fealty. Not one from his little project with Emmeline, he thinks. Their tracks have been hidden well in that regard. Perhaps this is one of Crabbe’s friends? He’d certainly left the eldest Crabbe boy in a sorry state the last time he’d seen him. There are few who’d know where to find him; here, of all places, this Muggle park, a refuge of his youth that he returns to now. Who is she? His eyes are wide with feigned ignorance, even as a small smirk, tinged with chagrin, pulls at the corner of his lips. “I know it’s easy to point your finger - or wand, rather - at the nearest convict, but my crimes were nonviolent, miss, and I mean neither you nor anyone else any harm. I'm sorry to hear that someone's been hurt; perhaps I can help you find who you’re looking for.”

    He scratches at his beard with one hand, a piece of charcoal grasped in his other. His knee bounces in a staccato rhythm - which is to say, no rhythm at all. Erratic and untethered, like the strokes across the parchment that his hand creates. Dominic swallows the lump in his throat as he peers down at his progress before clutching the charcoal even harder in his hands, until crumbs begin to fall and smudge against his canvas as he colors the eyes - where they should be, where they aren’t, where there rested only hollow misery - darker and darker.

    His hand presses the charcoal as he circles where the face should be in darkness until it snaps. With a scowl, he throws the now-splintered chunks of charcoal into the still water, his hands now stained in black too, like rotted flesh. His eyes survey his handiwork in the notebook on his lap and he sighs.

    Try as he might, he’ll never capture what It looked like. He wonders if they look different for every person - a personalized nightmare, a living Boggart.

    He hears the footsteps on the grass, rapidly approaching his direction, and he closes his eyes, throwing his notebook over to the side. He already knows who it is, who it must be. There are few in this world now who would seek out his presence. With his clean hand, he clasps his forehead as a headache begins to pierce his skull. “Not now, Severus,” he mutters, “I did what you asked me to do and besides, it’s my day off.”

__

Being at the Lestrange manner used to feel like home. It used to bring her some semblance of peace and comfort as a kid. Even if Nellie hadn’t been any closer to her aunt and uncle as she had her own parents, she had been close to the boys, and had grown up here. She had broken into the liquor cabinet at fourteen, found all the secret places to hide and disappear to within its walls, and spent countless hours getting up to no good with the three people she considered to be her brothers. Now when she was walked into the manor it left nothing but an empty ache in her chest. A hollow for ghosts to live where fondness used to be. If Nellie hadn’t grown up perfecting the art of wearing a mask, she might have let it showed how much the others celebrations were bothering her. Instead, she smiled at the right comments, laughed at the horrifying jokes, and bit her tongue when it threatened to lash out at their ignorance. 

Being here is vital though, especially when they’ve just won the election. Everyone within the Death Eater’s ranks were expecting to see her there by Rodolphus’ side, backing him up as she always had. Penelope had a part to play, and she deserved an Oscar for her performance. 

It isn’t until her eyes meet Dominic’s that Nellie briefly wonders if maybe she’s not the only one that isn’t thrilled with the turn of events. Ever since he’d come out of Azkaban, he’d been decidedly different, but then Penelope hadn’t expected him to be the same. He was locked up for too many years for nothing to have been changed, and Nellie could have some grace with him over it. However, something in his eyes looked familiar, maybe for the first time since he’d gotten out. Nodding, she gave a soft hum, “Always. What can I do for you, Dom?”

-

    How can he say this? How does he summon the words to untangle the torrential storm of emotions that he feels when he thinks about what remains of his family? When Dominic attempts to conjure up the image of his uncle again - only three years older than he, more a brother than an uncle - all he can see is a cold shoulder, a face turned away while standing next to the figure of a young woman, his sister, and then they both walk away from him, and the bright bright bright shine of a light that burns with such brilliant intensity that he has no choice but to look away. How can he speak in defense of a man who’d left him to rot?

    And in truth, he doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know why. All he remembers is the cold emptiness of a dank cell, the scream of the sea around him, the desolate moon above him, and them - endless, unmerciful, and hateful them, and he knows that no one deserves that fate.

    “Why did they -- ” he starts, and finds he doesn’t know what he can say, or what he can ask for them to do. But she’s the Undersecretary; surely that has to mean something against Rodolphus’s rampage against the Order. Surely, law and order and a just trial still meant something. “It’s not right.” He struggles to find the words; he’s struggled to say anything since he’d come back, those years in solitude all but obliterating his ability to articulate himself. “What they did to Unc - to Moody and... and the Shacklebolt girl. Isn’t there something that you - that we can do?” Why? he asks himself. Why are you sticking your neck out like this for people who couldn’t give a damn whether you lived or died? He shakes his head and runs an errant hand through his already-messy hair. Dominic lowers his voice and casts his eyes around the room, remembering himself. He clears his throat. “If they deserve it, then I understand, but locking them away says that we fear what they might have to say, more than what they’ve actually done, doesn’t it?”

   He’s torn in two, unsure how to feel as the words wash over him. Since his release, he’s been relegated to the role of the silent sentinel, dark eyes trained to scan every face for a flicker of emotion, for the slightest tell of a lie. But now he’s the one under the scrutiny of the assembled audience, as the proud proclamation of the arrest and sentencing of Alastor Moody echoes against the wood-panels of the room, against the polished silver and marble. How does he feel? they wonder. Surely, he must be elated for this divine retribution against the man who took everything from the Greengrass family. Dominic doesn’t move, though his shoulders tense and his eyes grow even harder. His uncle, now sentenced to the same fate that he had endured. Cold and desolate and despairing, empty and isolated.

   He should celebrate Fate’s cruel sense of humor. He should smirk, should square his shoulders and toast to their good fortune. Instead his stomach drops to his feet and he stays carefully still, unmoving and uncaring, as if he had not heard the words at all. He feels the reverberated disappointment of the crowd as they move on.

   When the room clears at last, he lingers behind as the others move to the parlor, prepared to celebrate the favorable turn of the tide with Firewhiskey and idle gossip. As they file from the room, he clears his throat and meets Penelope’s eyes. “Got a minute?”