three more found dead. her grip upon his fingers falters. frank knows that she has done what she needs to do – hell, they all do what they have to do to survive, to protect – but there still rings a certain sharp hollowness within her at the thought that her involvement continues to reach the auror offices. her name and face are not attached to the bodies that they had left in a small flat on the south bank, but her presence is known there well enough. it seems that all her former coworkers, allies, friends are determined to find her in every blood splatter, written in bold on every corpse, a ghost at every crime scene. the thought of it always makes her falter, and now is no different. and so she stands halfway between the bathroom and the hall, pausing halfway through kicking off her boot. her eyes train hard upon a spot on the wall, for at once she finds it far too difficult to meet his eye. 

she had betrayed them, sure – but the death eaters had not been so easy to convince. alice had not merely been welcomed into the fold. she had scars enough to prove that. but she’d gladly take broken fingers, wand-cuts, spell-burns over the feeling of knowing that she had been there, that she had seen them the now-dead three, and that she’d left them for frank to find. 

some couples left each other love notes, flowers, bits and baubles. alice left bodies. but she never regretted it; the information she fed in secret to frank, to moody, was invaluable – even if it meant living in secrecy for the rest of her days. but the one secret she’d keep is of the horrors that had befallen her at the hands of the death eaters, who’d all delighted in their own form of ‘hazing‘. frank had always been too strong to show his weakness; too soft to let it change him. and so she would be, too. 

“i’m sure they’re all having a field day plastering my name all over that one,” alice mutters, shaking her head. she dodges his question, ducking instead into the bathroom and wrenching her fingers from his grasp. she can feel his eyes upon her as she kicks off her shoes, shrugs off her coat. she is bruised and sore, a bloom of purple and green flowers, with blood in her hair and soot on the tip of her nose; but this is the norm now, and his presence is the best form of healing. 

and yet she cannot help but glance over her shoulder at the sound of strain in his voice, her keen, hard eyes softening in a way they only are like to do for him. she is good, but not soft; her proclivity for softness begins and ends with frank. were it so easy as simply staying here forever – and she certainly had given great thought to simply faking her own death and begging him to run away – she would do so. but they were both duty-bound to see their allies through. shrugging out of her rot-stenched blouse, shimmying out of her jeans, she reached forth to run the hot water, purposefully buying time before speaking again, for she knew that he would not simply let his concern wash down the drain with the blood on her hands. 

she steps into the shower and turns to hold a hand out, shuddering as the scalding water cascades over her shoulder. “in you come,” she prods, lacking the conviction of an innocent woman, “i – i didn’t kill them myself, if that’s what you’re thinking. i can see it on your face.” or perhaps it is her own paranoia reflected. “but they – they refused to talk. didn’t give us a lick of information.” and for once, she’s GLAD.

frank had known what it was to love. to swear fealty to someone with every ounce of your being. he had, after all, sworn for better or worse to alice. had stood in front of her, handing him bits and pieces of his heart as they’d scattered the earth together. never together for longer than they could go without the fear of suspicion, their love was never meant to flourish under the guise of fairy tales and what if’s. but instead, burned down buildings and charred corpses. love letters were written with bloody hands, bruised palms and desperation. he’d accepted it as much as she. damning himself every so often that he’d ever allowed such a thing, that he’d believed himself so hopeful once upon a time that their ties with the war could be severed in mere months. however, this was years. days that stretched on, weeks of radio silence from one another if only to remain under the guise of duty, under the wretched grasp of sworn oaths and promises to people who’d never matter as much as one another. 

“let them say what they will.” he leaves it at that, her reputation had been tarnished beyond repair the second they’d allowed her to do such a thing. however, with the likes of alastor moody and kingsley shacklebolt to vouch for her, frank sensed the world would find slight silver linings in the misdemeanours. perhaps, he’d wondered, if rita skeeter were to ever show her face once more, she’d write an atrocious piece on how alice wilkes had managed to overthrow the ministry’s top aurors with her own talented imperius curse. 

he allows her a sanctuary in the form of stolen moments, of silence washing over as his gaze studies every new cut and bruise that marks her skin. feeling anger swell within his core –– it’d never managed to get any easier. he watches steadily, shrugging off jacket, stripping himself of his shirt before stepping free from boots and pants all the same. it was moments such as this, when the sound of the rushing water, the stillness that ached between them, that frank felt most at home. that he’d wondered what it would be like if he could hold her freely, knowing all too well just how much of a dream it had been. how they’d slowly but steadily sewn bits and pieces of one another unto their hearts, unable to free themselves from their entanglement until it’d been too late. moon eyed and in love, that’s all he’d ever been. she, a firecracker that’d taken breath after breath out of him –– and he, the calming presence that’d provided her with a home in which she so rightfully deserved. 

“mm–-” he muses, biting his tongue at the request. once again, digits settle into space between her own as he steps forward, slight shudder as the water nips at his bare skin. he closes his eyes, takes in the scent of her hair once more before wrapping arms round her slender bodice. wishing to do nothing more than to press lips against every rough edge, every sharpened corner, ever purple stained galaxy that’d found its way unto her. in a far off land, he’s certain that the water could wash it all away if he wills it enough. that she’d be stripped of every deepened cut, he’d be free of the blood caked beneath fingernails. hands moving upwards from her back, he listens with intent as she speaks. he knows. she’s swathed in their scent, in their bidding, enough that she’s become something of an extension of them. she bore the mark, yet to him she was still alice. hands reaching the front of her face as he cradles face gently beneath his grip. pressing his lips against those of her own steadily as water flows. 

a promise. every kiss had been such a thing, had it not? a promise to avoid death, to remain as whole as one could hope to be. a promise to find one another. that one day, they’d make it. 

peppered kiss gently against corners of her lips as he pulls away, wishing nothing more than to allow himself to remain drunk off the taste of her for more than a night. hands gliding from cheeks, through her hair. “they won’t.” it’s the same old story. everyone, so disaster wrought and hopeless, that they’d no real information to give. “regulus black still remains with us, dumbledore left strict orders.” a beat, hollow as arm extends past her. gently squeezing out remnants of shampoo before digits work their way back into her matted tresses. “mcgonagall is going to hold a meeting, an attempt to get everyone back together. it’s been long enough.” a sigh escapes him. he dare not mention her name, a loss that stung deeply in the hearts of the pair of them that he’d found better to tread lightly. “figure out the next step –– answers.” in which he would never ask of her, in which he was certain they’d known for the most part. death was inevitable, what came after was the harshened reality in which they’d all been living in. 

“the ministry –– the anniversary gala ––” it’d been one year. to him, it’d felt like decades. battle scarred and broken, he’d picked up pieces of a shattered man, wrought with guilt over not paying closer attention. of not –– he shakes his head free from the thought, gaze searching for reassurance in her own. “make sure you’re there, al.” translation : i need you there. read : i don’t want to do this without you.  “i’ll talk to alastor about it but –– it’s an excuse to get you there, to let you back in the office while the lot o’ them get drunk and tell themselves it’s helping.” 

The world was still in disarray almost a year later, and Narcissa too had felt the need to continuously look over her shoulder anywhere she went. There’d been safety in the Dark Lord’s presence, to stand united with someone in his inner circle. She’d been careful not to reveal her own direct connection to the Death Eaters, paid off those that needed to be silenced and ensured their downfall if they let out so much as a breath of their names. Everything she did was for her family, initially the Black family and then the Malfoy’s, specifically Lucius. Then the birth of Draco and Narcissa realized just how hard the two would need to work in order to ensure their son’s safety in a dark world full of those who wished to plague and defile everything they’d obtained. Squandered, destroyed and Narcissa was beginning to feel desperate.

Few people made her feel sane, and one of those was Cecelia Avery, an extension of herself now and considered sister by association rather than blood, a desire to show the world that it could be run by women rather than men. Awaiting the arrival of the Death Eaters, Narcissa was attempting not to pace, wine goblet clenched tightly in her hand, a prop to keep herself steady, almost like a Queen’s scepter. A soft smile at the mention of Draco, turned toward Cecelia. “He’s a good boy that seems to sense that there are moments when he needs to do what he’s told. Much like Lucius.” She flashed a knowing smirk over at the other, brow lifting in slight disapproval over Evan working late. “You know you’re always welcomed here at the Manor. But I do think it’s high time you convinced Evan to upgrade from atrocity to a house more suited for your tastes.” 

"if that’s one of the traits he’s carried over from his father, then perhaps there’s hope for him afterall.” it’s a comment stemmed from love, from a place so deeply pressed into her heart that not even cecelia had known the extent in which she’d gone. for narcissa malfoy, there was little in which the woman wouldn’t do. perhaps, she’d told herself, it was because in her she’d seen something likened to the same fire, the same spark. a flame awaiting to burn down forests at mere moments notice if they were hunted, they were haunted, enough. where cecelia had known she’d never want children, she’d all the same admired narcissa’s motherhood. wearing well upon the woman. “–– he’s a busy man, high demand and the like.” she waves the comment away without so much as another thought. evan rosier, to cecelia, was someone who could promise financial stability, who could promise her a future. something in which she’d been all too willing to hold onto, despite everything. the promise of another tomorrow, of more time. “he’s putting so much into it, becoming quite the philanthropist. it’s no wonder the ministry allows me to get away with half the shite i do.” a scoff escapes her lips lightly.

she’d never been afraid of the confrontation that came with being engaged to evan, of being a piece of a puzzle of sorts. that he was a supporter of the ministry, that he’d given his money and his time to various projects and all consuming missions in which they’d needed funding for. he was, after all, one of the richest. a descendant of the rosier fortune, a cousin to one of the most notoriously loyal families in their circles. the avery’s, whilst well off, had never managed to fall under the same spectacular reputation that seemed to follow the blacks, the rosiers, the carrows. her family was riddled with secrets, harboured so deeply within themselves that even cecelia had managed to break free if only to allow herself a moment to breathe. “he loves london. i fear he’d end up quite bored if we were to make the move to the countryside.” there’s a slight fear that awakens inside her, that somehow he’d find it in him to beg her, plead her, to stop her work entirely. that he’d the power to do such a thing and she, unable to cause a scene, would in turn bend to his will and wishes. “i’ve been working too much as is, i certainly know he doesn’t enjoy it.”  

when: october 9th, 1982, 8:57 pm. where: Rosier Mansion, London. who: evan rosier & @monstrousaints​ ( cecelia )

He didn’t care for the little games Cecelia preferred to play. Bending her to his will was a chagrin Evan would have to give into, but he preferred the more astute option of her coming to him willingly. That his wife remembered no matter what, she belonged to him. Finding himself bound to their marital home, as Evan crossed the threshold. With the approach of his House elf as he kicked it out of his way. He had a set of standards he expected of the woman who he called his wife. That she show some respect. That she fall into line if she wanted his respect. How pitiful women within their world—the one that mattered—were weak-willed. If only he could’ve married someone of the likes of Bellatrix, a formidable woman. Her sister, not far behind. The middle—he could’ve clicked his tongue at the thought of her. Not worth it. One hand pushed open the door to his study in the gratuitous way he always entered a room with such gusto, as eyes settled. Her. His beloved, his Cecelia, his wife. “You’re home.” He murmured, moving to the cart of expensive liquor, crystal containers more expensive than half the things in the room as he poured himself a glass. There was an inkling of control—to keep her where he could see her, at any preference to his calling he wanted to see her. Settling that side, that dark and monstrous emote that could’ve come to light at any time, as he lifted both glasses. Her, seated behind his desk was enough to have him sitting opposite her after placing the glass before her, rounding the back of his chair. Momentary movements paused, leaning down to kiss the curve of her neck lightly, as he moved once more. Undoing the button of his suit jacket, Evan sat, glass lifted to his lip. “Where have you been?” He posed it like every loving husband would. Like he meant it gently, not menacingly. “I was hoping we’d have dinner together. But that’s far gone, now isn’t it, my love?”

HOME. it remained to be such a foreign word to the woman, home was meant to be warm, was meant to be filled with memories best suited for that of a fairy tale. or, at least, that’s what she’d been told from the time she was a girl. now, however, she’d known much different. in the comfort of evan rosier’s presence, she’d found something likened to security. he’d looked the part enough, hadn’t he? dashing in every sense of the word, philanthropic enough to keep her in the good graces of her department heads at the ministry. evan rosier was, at one point, surely london’s most eligible bachelor. now, however, she bore a ring ‘round her lithe digit that said otherwise. she was his, bound by promise after promise. and he, in turn, was hers all the same. however, she was certain he’d rather lay a dying corpse than admit to such a thing. 

she purrs at his touch, delicate in all its nature. breathing in chaste kiss placed against her throat. wondering how many galleons she’d had to pay to wish for it to be a knife instead. 

“i’m afraid i had to catch up on the work that rookwood’s been demanding –– “ arching a brow, she watches him with a careful gaze as liquid is brought up to his lips. she needn’t cower against him, she needn’t fear the words that seep into the air between them. no. evan rosier was not her knight in shining armour, and she’d never settle for something as abysmal as a damsel in distress. however, it was amusing to pretend. “you’d think he’d be capable enough on his own, yet he leaves earlier than the me on more than one day of the week. although, it doesn’t help that longbottom has his nose digging ‘round as of late either ––” she muses, biting her tongue any further. secrets held near and dear to her chest if only because of her confidentiality agreement. although, she’s sure evan has toyed with the idea of her being unemployed, gliding across the house they’d shared if only to keep track of her –– lovingly. 

“i’ll make it up to you.” sweet nothings linger within her tone, gaze softening as lips curl into a smile. she bites her tongue long enough to drown any thoughts of an apology to remain at bay. time, what a fickle thing. “i’ve got quite a craving for something sweet, perhaps a treacle tart from the kitchens ––” 

& .   ≺   ›  GIDEON PREWETT 

when: october 2nd, 1982. where: the burrow. who: arthur weasley & @monstrousaints​​​ ( gideon )

for the millionth time that night, arthur weasley was utterly grateful for his wife. how she can manage all of the kids at once, alone throughout the majority of the day?? she’s an absolute saint and arthur is really going to need to step up. he wasn’t even aware of how much he was missing until this time off of order duty, but that’s another thought for another day, right now, he’s struggling to get one of the twins, he really needs to mark their feet to remember which one is which, to drop all of the mudpies in his hands instead of bringing them into the house —- and the toodler arguing came to an erupt halt when they caught sight of ‘ uncy gidy! ’ squeals of the young boys filled his ears. arthur turned around to catch sight through the window of his favorite brother-in-law flooing into the open fireplace. 

at least fred —- george ?? —- dropped the mudpies as he bolted inside to tackle the young lad, despite him already being surrounded by his various boys coming from who knows where in the house, bill carrying the youngest. arthur followed closely behind the twins, already knowing there would be mudsplats to clean up later but at least no mudpies. that’s one win to him. “ i reckon molly owl’d you in my behalf for help? ” merlin knows he needs it.

the second his gaze caught sight of sea of familiar red locks, he’d felt at home. his sisters god damn little bombarding him enough to make gideon feel a familiar sense of happiness that arose only ‘round the likes of the burrow. there’d been nothing like family to keep gideon grounded, to remind him of the things most important. more now than ever, with fabian missing for months upon months, he’d managed to feel more alone than ever. yet, in the comfort of his sisters home, seeing the faces of his nephews –– well , words couldn’t really describe how fucking happy it’d made him. a grunt escaping him as children circled him, hands ruffling through percy’s curls before sights set upon arthur. “couldn’t quite miss out on you and the –– litter.”  it’s a hearty laugh that escapes him as he takes a step towards his brother. there’d been no qualms with accepting the likes of arthur into his family, their friendship had only managed to grow stronger. 

arms pulling the man in for a tightened squeeze before he’d clapped palm upon shoulder. “fatherhood takin’ the light out of your eyes, mate.” rustling through coat pocket, he pulls out multiple “toys” ( read : things he’d knicked ) to hand out to the boys. “you tellin’ me you ain’t got this under control, arthur? your mum ever teach you how to read a bloody bed time story?” tone laced with jest if only to keep the pain at bay, if only to not come home to only deliver the same news over and over. that they’d been unsuccessful, that fabian was still nowhere to be found, that as much as he’d been damned determined to hold onto hope, he’d felt as of late that it’d been futile. “let’s hope this lot gets not only the prewett good looks, but the smarts as well ––”

when: october 3rd, 1982, 10:17 pm. where: Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade who: james potter & @monstrousaints​ ( gideon )

He was tired. He was tired and exhausted and James didn’t want to think. It was one of the reasons he called on Gideon, someone who understood. Fabian was just as gone as Lily was. A pill too hard to swallow for most, but for James, he took comfort in the idea that for once someone would be here to just let him handle things, as the anniversary approached, on his own. As he saw fit. And right now, with his son safely under the watchful eye of Marlene and Dorcas at Marlene’s flat, he wanted to drink. Unapologetic in his motives, a numbing as he once encountered in those days of pure panic, only a couple months after she was gone. “Mate,” he motioned with a hand clapped against Gideon’s back as he sat down, the pint waiting and welcoming in the spot next to his friend. “I’ll buy the next round.” But he didn’t wait for much leeway of conversation, chugging back the contents of the glass, setting it down with a thud and wiping his hand against the back of his mouth. “Anything new?” He asked, half in intentional need to discover if either of them were lucky enough to find their loved ones safe.

to look at james potter was to look at a ghost. where fabians disappearance remained unsolved, a mystery that ate away at gideon in the middle of the chill autumn evenings, james’ had an answer in plain sight. the loss of lily, from what gideon gathered, a brilliant witch too damn good for sod, struck him down so hard he’d barely managed to pick himself back up again. he’d lost something so deep that in turn, gideon believed, he’d lost more than just bits and pieces of himself. digits curl ‘round pint as he takes another gulp. “next rounds on you, mate.” he agreed, allowing silence to fill the air as he observed. one swift gulp and he’d been done for. never one to pry, he’d distanced himself from the sorrow filled sob fests that everyone seemed so damn intent upon shoving down their throats, savouring himself for moments like this instead. “just returned from one hell o’ a trip to egypt –– “ his work had become something of a habit, willingly diving in too deep in order to distract himself from the world closing in around them. “was trailin’ behind this clueless bloke, found himself in a bit o’ trouble with the bank you see, caught thievin’ artifacts from the wrong persons vault and well, they hired me to go take it back.” naturally, grin widened upon his features as he leaned back slightly, shifting comfortably as he told another tale of deception. “so o’ course, i took it back and sold it to someone else. reckon they’ll come lookin’ for me but, well, i think my odds are pretty good these days.” he’d known what james had meant, had known he’d been looking for answers as much as the rest of them. however, guilt trickled through his veins, coursed through his blood and bled into his heart. “–– in terms o’ the other thing, i ain’t got a damn clue. scoured france till the bloody trail went cold and since then –– radio silence.” 

when: october 1st, 1982, 9:14 pm. where: level two, ministry of magic who: marlene mckinnon & @monstrousaints ( frank )

There was mutual respect for those who toed the same dangerous lines of life as you. Frank Longbottom was one of those. He worked the same tiresome hours as she, suffered the losses they all unfortunately did, and painfully—stayed as late as she did at the office. At some point she’d convince herself not to live there, rather than to go home. But Marlene didn’t have much of a home as much as a place she slept. Too focused on the next task, the next thing to be done, the fight that still stood strong within the witch—no matter what. Gathering her items, a pit stop as it was considered more so a job to do. Black being discretely hidden by the Order was the biggest kept secret. One they’d all need to die with before expelling to anyone else. Moving towards the lifts, long legs coming into equal strides with Frank, as she looked over her shoulder. “Have you been in there all this time?” She asked, clutching her bag a bit tighter as she moved inside of the lift. “Thought I was alone.” Not that it mattered. “Any plans tonight?”

"couldn’t seem to make it home much this week, what with –– “ words hang heavy in the air between them, it’s a welcome interaction. one better than running into the likes of dolohov or hopkirk. “everything going on. extra paperwork.” he chalks it up to an excuse, unable to face the reality that returning to an empty flat, save for his dog, wasn’t something that frank particularly enjoyed. whilst others had walked eggshells ‘round marlene, her terrors having carried a weight in which he wouldn’t dare allow her to bare alone, he’d never allowed himself to do such a thing. “catchin’ up on your own work, were you?” he raises a brow, curious as to why it was she’d managed to stay behind. usually out the door with dorcas, the pair of them something of a nuisance to alastor, and a source of entertainment to frank. “stoppin’ by the leaky cauldron for a pint if you care to join me, then go home to my boy –– “ soft chuckle escapes him. “maybe get a few hours o’ sleep if i’m really lucky before alastor calls me in to bust my arse. what about you?”