baby, i could be your saviour

“Well, who could blame her, if she had lost her common sense?” Sophie knows she should speak more kindly of Granger, as that is what she does in the office, but she likes speaking more candidly, for once. Better in front of Paris than any of their goody-two-shoes colleagues, anyway. “Losing her best friend, being almost framed for it … must take quite a toll.” Augustus Rookwood was a mastermind, Sophie thought, and she did not often give people their due credit. “I’m sure she must be desperate. Poor woman.” There’s some feigned empathy in her voice, but she doesn’t try too hard. She takes another drag from her cigarette, thinks about the state of the Ministry ever since Kingsley’s throat had been ripped out. It was only bound to get worse. Or, depending your stance, better.

“Must be quite a life, to be so ignorant. I do wonder, sometimes, what it must be like.” Though never out of longing, more so out of curiosity. Sophie was clever enough to be able to reflect on her own childhood and pinpoint what had made her into what she was now. Not with pity or glee, but with something detached in stead. “Oh, that I know. It’s why I like you.” She wonders if she would be able to do it, imperio Paris. She almost says, cockily, that she thinks she would be, but thinks better of it. Sophie leans her head on one of her hands as she turns on her side to look at Paris’ a little more closely. “I do love the sound of you desperately wanting to keep me. You should, after all, want to. Perhaps you cheated, but I did not, and now you’re so desperately filled with regret while I’ve made my decision.”

paris looks away for a moment, unsure if she can keep her usually perfectly curated expression of nonchalance. common sense. she can’t say she knows what it would be like to lose a best friend. she can’t say she even knows what it feels like to have one. but she’s seen it. she’s seen them - harry, ron and hermione - she’s seen them all, the three of them, together. like three parts of one body. she remembers that, even fleetingly, from her childhood. watching them, and wondering. “i’m not sure we can call being driven to devastation to that point, lashing out in grief... i’m not sure that’s just losing common sense.” she’d rather hoped to avoid the topic altogether. “i do feel sorry for her.” almost framed. something about the words sits crookedly in paris’ mind. they just don’t feel right. “i’m not one for pity, usually, but that... i don’t know.” and for once, she doesn’t. she has no words, nothing to say.

the lovely-dark fades to a blinding light, and molly lets out a rattling, tortured whine: “nhngh!” it hurts again, but in a newer way then it did (hours? days?) before; it’s dull and aching and all over. for a few heartbeats, she lets her eyes focus on the overhead light, and counts her breaths. ‘i’m alive.’ she thinks in time with each one. ‘i’m alive. i’m alive. i’m alive.’ she has never felt more gratitude for whatever forces guide the universe around her, for the pain she can feel from the tips of her toes to the ends of her hair, to the weird, anti-septic-potion-smell of the hospital room she lies in. 

she looks around the room expecting her dad, expecting her mum, expecting lucy — and the sight of a stranger covered in blood sitting leaning against the window sends a pang of fear that courses through her body and erases her floaty-relief in an instant. “where’s my—” and wow, her throat is on fire. “who are you? where’s my family?!” 

the sheer pain of the sound is grating, and paris is right back on that street again with blood pooling around her knees. it’s hard to maintain neutrality, hard to retain her trademark smugness, her usual smirk. but she keeps it plastered on - for molly’s benefit as much as her own. a look of horror is hardly going to help the girl now, terrified in an unfamiliar bed, the smell of hospital all around her. paris wonders if muggle hospitals smell this bad, or feel this unnatural. she steps closer, towards the bed. best not to make the girl shout across the room at her. she finds herself next to molly’s bed, unsure if she should sit, crouching down instead.

She wonders sometimes, what Paris would say if she knew what Sophie did outside of work, where she stood in this war. Decades ago, their grandfather’s had stood on opposites sides, and it had been the other’s that had killed her own, and here they were again, in another war. She doubts that the other is part of the Order, and knows that if she is, it’s not with pure intentions. But would she disapprove, if she knew of the blood on her hands, and the lack of remorse she feels? Or would she look past it, and try to figure out how she could use it? She hoped the latter. If the Ministry was to fall in their hands soon, she’d like to keep Paris on her side, or at least, something like it. “I’m not sure who she is kidding. She must be involved in some kind of revolution that’s not authorised by the Ministry,” Sophie says, thinking out loud. “The excitement will reach our offices soon enough, I’m sure.”

It isn’t a promise, but it’s something. She chuckles a little, taking a deep drag from her cigarette. “Even the most cynical of them are wearing rose coloured glasses, if you ask me.” And how thrilling it was, to face them all with a world that was less than kind. Sophie has always known that the world is cruel, after all, and she thinks it’s made her stronger. Softness only suits her when it’s feigned. “I’d love to meet the fellow who manages to imperius you,” she says, giving the other a wink before sipping her wine glass. She’s glad, that Paris is giving her this: it’s something she’ll remember. “Ah, thank you. I can’t say I disagree.” Sophie is quiet for a moment, hums in thought. “So, why should I break your heart? Did I find a new lover? Are we just a lost cause, and do we need to stop trying before we run ourselves into the ground?”

she knows enough of the weasleys to know that it’s bullshit - the idea of an unauthorised revolution. hermione granger had been there and done that. she wouldn’t want the same again - but she’s not about to disagree. if paris had ever had doubts about sophie’s loyalties, they were answered now. not that she cares, really - sure, there’s a bad taste in her mouth at the thought of the death eater’s creed, but it is no so different from her own. and holding sophie in her pocket may well help, given her own family name. the world has always expected her to pick a side - the right side, her father would say - but she cannot see the point. better to be alive. sophie knowing her sheer indifference would be useful. she shrugs. “or she’s just lost her common sense in her middle-age. i’m betting on the latter. why bother starting a revolution from inside office?”

She doesn’t mind the work she does, if only because there’s the promise of there being more. Obliviating is one thing, but once the Death Eaters’ thickly planted roots start sprouting and taking over the Ministry, she will climb. Kick Percy Weasley off his throne, and pull the pieces to her side to the board. She’s sure Paris has the same kind of ambition, though none of the involvement in the war. She’s a good ally, but a good enemy too. That’s why Sophie likes her. Paris isn’t easily satisfied, and neither is she, and they will both go over bodies to get what they think they deserve. What that is? Only the world. Sophie fills her glass, and then reaches for Paris’ pack of cigarettes, slipping one out for herself. “One would think that a new Minister would bring a little more excitement.” She places the cigarette between her lips, moves to the other side of the bed where she sits down, filling her own glass and placing the bottle on the floor. 

She lets out a soft laugh. She’s sure Paris has her reasons to want to stir the pot and create a little drama, and she hardly cares for them. For her, it’s Alya, always in the back of her mind, but also a desire to see her colleagues on edge. Disturb the easy lives they live, in whatever which way she can without losing her innocent facade. “People see what they want to see,” she says. “They see us –– a pair of young, pretty, accomplished women who know when to smile and when to be sharp. Where does the truth fit in, with an image like that?” She shrugs, takes a drag from her cigarette. Then, she rolls her eyes. “Oh, please, you’ll be able to take it, I’m sure. It’ll humanise you.” Sophie shoots Paris a smirk. “Besides, after our chaos of last year and George breaking my heart, I simply need a win. I refuse to be known as a dumpee.”

it’s not really boring - she’s part of the core team dictating wizarding england’s place in the world, dictating the rules, the laws, all of it. but paris has always wanted more. and she’s never found herself to be enthralled by routine. wake up, go to work, do work, come home, go to bed. that’s not enough. some turned to war for their excitement. paris turned to something more dangerous, and infinitely more exciting. manipulation. power-seeking. statecraft. she doesn’t even duck out of the way as sophie leans over her - pratically atop her - to retrieve a cigarette. she takes a sip of wine. “the excitement is all happening outside the ministry, these days. it’s not surprising our beloved minister merely wants to stay the course.”

he smiles, not from a sense of humour over the situation, it’s a defense, a trait he notices in his father. “ it has the ability to catch some people off guard. the kinds of people that can’t be held back by a few charms.”  they shrug, eyes darting to the crowd on the streets consistently, clearly not relaxed to be standing in such a busy place but making no move to relocate. “ international affairs—”  it leaves their mouth before they can catch it, but they can’t stop now. dae refuses to fumble in front of paris, it would be like a gazelle offering it’s neck to a lioness. “ don’t you go mad talking to.. people like that all day?”

where: st. mungo’s hospital [ft molly weasley ii @strvngemagics​]

there’s a knot in her neck from the weight of heaving molly’s limp form around, and from the stiff, unyielding chair she fell asleep on. paris moody is not the kind of woman who falls asleep in hospital chairs. she is not the kind of person who saves another’s life, not when the situation would put her at risk. but she’s done both those things, now, in the space of just a few hours. remember it’ll be worth it, she reminds herself to cool down. you saved a weasley’s life. that’ll be worth something, in the months to come. she left the room only when the family arrived. she knew them all from childhood. she wonders, with the hint of a smirk, if they’d be disappointed in her now. disappointed in her lack of desire to fight. it’s pragmatic, she might tell them. my family lost so much skin. why should we lose more? the sight of molly crumpled, the sight of her in the hospital bed, future uncertain - life uncertain - solidifies that. but it also makes paris wonder who she might have been, had she chosen a different path.

she’s back in the room, now, leaned up against a window, staring at her nails. she doesn’t dare look at the bed again. “you’d better wake up soon, sweetheart. work’s going to be a shit show, and i’d really love a shower before i get there.”