#archmerta

"Mummy," little Ro whispers, trying to shake her mother into looking at her. It’s a fruitless effort as those bloodshot eyes are intent on staring into the space before her not the space occupied by her daughter. Still Ro tries. Exerting a lot of effort she is able to lift her mother’s bruised arm and slide underneath it, some wiggling later and she can press her ear against her mother’s chest. Cordelia hasn’t spoken to her for the past two days, but her heart always has something to say. With strained ears Ro seeks out the much too slow thump in her chest and presses the palm of her hand to her own. They don’t match, the strong heartbeat of the small girl and the slow beat of her mother. They don’t match and though she tries to tell herself otherwise, Ro knows they don’t even compliment each other. 

When she is older, when she is Rosie, she believes her heartbeat to be a solo act.

For someone who doubts the capabilities of such an organ, she relies on it for a great source of comfort. It is her reminder that life goes on. It kicks, wounds, and keeps you down but there is at least one thing in her body that never gives up. Her heart experiences the rush of boys and the calm of laying in front of the fire while Gramps reads the Prophet out loud. It beats on the bad days, enjoys the good days.

She doesn’t get the urge to listen to anyone’s heart in the knowledge that it will only clash with the beat of her own. They are better left alone, she decides. Gets offended when someone claims to have stolen her own, returns whatever is given to her. Her heart continues to beat even when she knows someone is saying something with the intention of bruising it, she protects it fiercely against all newcomers but allows a select few to take root.

She doesn’t realize this, at first.

In fact it takes Rosmerta to figure such a thing out.

He lifts his arms of his own volition, Rosmerta nuzzles in with a few small movements and finds no awkward angles or unresponsive expressions. He smiles because he knows she’s there and she smiles because she feels as though she isn’t trying to force herself into anything she doesn’t belong. There is no strain to hear his heartbeat because sometimes it feels as though it is trying to talk to her, she doesn’t need to work for a message. And when Rosmerta presses an ear to his chest, a palm to her own she finally understands that heartbeats can compliment each other. 

There is always the intention of watching the stars. 

They head out dutifully with a blanket; to a field not far from the Three Broomsticks, a place where the protection of that establishment extends to, a place where she can feel secure to allow herself to reach up towards the sky with him. They go to talk to the stars, to rattle off facts and catch every word simultaneously. They go there to grow and to wish and to dream.

They go with the intention of watching the stars. 

It is only happenstance the stars end up watching Archie and Rosmerta instead. 

Tonight it started with his bow-tie. Or rather the blush she observed when she began talking about his bow-tie. From that point, a natural course of things set into motion. Rosie has a difficult time accepting her eyes could ever be trained to stay up, thinking her gaze is meant to be level with the ground. It feels nice to look up every once in awhile, which is why she figures Archie is nearly a foot taller than she is. Her eyes, she finds, are meant to land somewhere between. As luck will have it, his gaze seems to lock as perfectly with her own as their hands do together. Right in this moment, their eyes are fixed on exactly where they need to be.

She has a knee on either side of him as she rests back on his thighs. The smile she is wearing as she tilts her chin slightly upwards is enough to rival the sleeping sun. A quick glance up assures her she hasn’t made the rest of the stars disappear, though the feeling in her fingertips tells her it is possible. But it is his fingertips brushing against the hollow of her neck that pull her back down to the blue-hued earth. 

Rosmerta leans in and presses her lips to his. Briefly, sweetly.

"You’re distracting me," he grumbles in a uniquely Archie way. His grumble sounds like a happy whisper, like a promise. 

One she seals with another (mostly) chaste kiss. 

"There’s my Clever Boy," she murmurs, leaning back for a moment so he can see the arch of her eyebrow and teasing nature of her smile. “Always three steps ahead of everyone and six steps behind me." 

"We’re not walking," he informs her, “Or even standing for that matter. Leveled playing field, love." When he leans forward and kisses her neck, Rosie gasps and thinks maybe six steps was too much of an exaggeration. She would never want him that far away to begin with, a voice in the back of her mind (one that has been growing in strength as of late) tells her, she likes him right here with her. She’ll tell him too soon. But right now she tilts her head back again and lets him work. “There."

There is right. There is a big gap under his chin because right around Rosmerta’s bare neck is a loose, hanging bow-tie. “How do I look?" she asks as she flutters her eyelashes.

"You were right," Archie tells her, he’s leaning back on his hands now and though he’s doing his best to give her his best scrutinizing face, she knows better. “Only I can pull them off." Before she can muster up an act of an offended gasp, his hands move to her waist and he continues, “You are already cool enough. The coolest. You don’t need to be any cooler, that just wouldn’t be fair to anyone else." Neither are trying to hold any act now, they are beaming at each other.

"Good save."

"I know."

She unravels the cloth and swings it back over his neck. This time she doesn’t distract as she watches him tie it. Stars are lovely but watching Archie doing even the most menial tasks are enthralling, the stars are nothing compared to him. Her knees shift against the blanket, and Rosmerta thinks that the stars shift against their dark blue blanket above with her. They want to get the best look at him as well, they must. “Cooler," she agrees as his hands fall away and reveal that there is no longer that gap under his chin. He blushes and her smile wides as she traces the outline of the heat radiating from his cheeks. “Warmer," she teases. 

He gets her, though, as he is known to do. He kisses her. She wonders only briefly if the stars feel like they are intruding on something, and then she thinks of nothing at all. 

"Gotcha," is what she hears next.

It takes a moment to open her eyes, and one after that to feel his finger tracing lines on her skin but she knows what he means, she feels the heat right away.

Rosmerta’s eyes shoot open to a bedroom that glows shades of blue, purple, and red; open to the sound of banging and screaming. 

Banging at her door. 

She’s alone. Alone in a heavily charmed Inn that only barely gives her a sense of security, which she now knows has always been false. She isn’t safe, and now there is no means of escape because of the charms. She’s trapped.

Her eyes flood with tears as she collects herself. A robe which will soon become useless trying to warm a cold body, a wand which will do nothing against the size of the crowd, tears for people who were just going to kill her anyway.

She walks slowly down the stairs, breathing heavily and saying her goodbyes. Because this is what happens, this is the stories that everyone says in hushed tones. The purification of towns has been happening in towns across the United Kingdom. She has gotten lucky, but now it’s her time. She can only thank the heavens that Gramps is at St. Mungo’s and everyone else has been occupied for the night. She won’t be much of a show to tell anyone about, she’ll be a whispered sentence. Another cautionary tale of a pureblood being with a muggleborn. They like to avoid spilling magical blood, they say, but to protect against any sort of contamination they go after the ones who will send a message.

The banging persists. The shouting persists. The words are muffled in a swell of emotions that overcomes her. A swell of emotions that leaves her in a sob when the door swings open violently and she meets the mob sooner than she expected. 

But they aren’t cloaked. And the sky is still glowing an unnatural hue, but it isn’t the signature green of the dark mark. When Cornelius Fudge rushes to her and throws his arms around her jubilantly, Rosmerta understands that the crowd isn’t screaming. They are cheering. They aren’t here to kill her and the guests staying in the Inn, they are here to celebrate. As she is hoisted from the stairs, and swung around in the embrace, Rosie’s wide eyes survey the group. Grown men are weeping for joy, a tired little boy clings to his mother as she swings him around in a similar way that the landlady has found herself to be. 

To go from certain death to this kind of unadulterated joy is a bit jarring. Rosmerta needs a moment to settle in before she can get the story. Even as she passes out mead and butterbeer and firewhiskey she can only gather bits and pieces. 

The boy who lived! they shout, Rosmerta raises a glass and looks to an off duty auror who is laughing manically. She gathers what she can and what she knows is that no one would want to be in this large of a group if the war was still on. People had isolated themselves for fear of secrets being divulged or a Death Eater attack. The war is over. It’s done. She was so sure that it would only end badly for everyone, so certain that it would never be over. But here everyone is, celebrating, weeping, hugging. It’s over. 

“On the house!” she calls to the wild whoops of the crowd.

Immediately Rosmerta wants to find Archie. Of course she does. This is a good thing, a very good thing and the only conceivable way to make it better would be to share it with him. Her mind races with plans, her heart pounds against her chest.

Tomorrow, she has promised him for too long.

Sometime past midnight on the first of November 1981 and it seems tomorrow is finally here.

Rosie has to find him. She has to tell him she loves him, tell him they can do whatever he wants now. If he wants to run they can see how far their legs to can take them. If he wants to go to Peru or Poland or one of the Poles she will be ready and packed. If he wants to get married she will start looking for a dress and they can dance and people can marvel about how they are going to make it, how good they are together. They can get a house. Or stay here. They have the whole world waiting for them and without any threat hanging over their heads it would be stupid to wait any longer. Now they have nothing but time. They have been in hiding but Archie has talked about it and now they can finally take the boy out on an adventure, she can meet -

Harry Potter!

The boy who lived!

Rosmerta freezes in her rushing thoughts, her smile freezes to her face. “Who?” she asks, much too quietly to illicit an answer from anyone.

Shame about the Potters.

A worthy sacrifice!

Martyrs! Heroes!

“What?” she asks, her voice gaining volume as it loses strength. The Potters. Harry. Sacrifice. The boy who lived. The boy. The little boy. Rosmerta’s mind swims again, but not of any coherent plans of everything she has been holding back from. Her thoughts verge on desperate instead, but it’s hard to get answers out of such an excitable crowd. Suddenly needing air, Rosmerta pushes her way back into the kitchen. 

Blake is there. Waiting for her, apparently.

No.

Not waiting. 

Mourning.

She runs her hand through red hair as she gets the story. Gritted out, as if Blake is trying to contain herself from exploding, but the facts are there. Black sold them out, You-Know-Who found them at Godric’s Hollow. Only one person survived after he stepped into that house. 

Harry Potter - the Boy Who Lived.

Lily Potter - the woman who died.

Lily Potter. Archie’s Lily. The first. The Lily. His Lily. Rosmerta has only had a sip of mead but suddenly she feels as though she is ready to keel over. 

Her palms press into her eyes, hard enough that she sees the colors that illuminate the sky. “I have to find him,” she murmurs, but Blake clutches her hand. In the other room, the crowd cheers and sings. Soon, Rosmerta finds herself out there again. A man missing an arm comes up and kisses her, she doesn’t even have the energy to hex him and even smiles slightly when he tells her he promised himself he would do that if he lived through the war. It barely registers, her mind is on him. Archie. The man can go without missing another arm for such an affront, she’s too dazed.

He’ll still be asleep, she tells herself. Off. Off where he is. Where is it he said? Why wasn’t he with her? Why would she let him out of her sight? 

No.

He’s sleeping, she tells herself. She can find him as soon as the crowd disperses. She will find him. She’ll hold him and kiss him and tell him they can do all the things they wanted or they can hide away from the world for awhile as he adjusts. She’ll find him in the morning, Rosmerta swears. 

Except she doesn’t find him in the morning. 

Or the day after.

Or two weeks from that point. 

Not for a lack of trying, of course. She wakes up every morning to something that sounds like the shouting of Lily Potter. Odd. There isn’t (wasn’t, she corrects herself) any kind of possessive nature in the two women’s relationship. They are (were) friends. James is (was) great for a laugh. But Archie. To Archie they were enormous parts of him, of his world. And now it seems as though he has disappeared with them. 

She searches in every place she can. She goes to The Rose Café and asks their favorite server if she has seen him, walking away as the girl asks in a concerned tone if they were doing alright. She asks everyone, finds every spot she knows to hold significance (which, anyone knowing Archie would understand, is a very long list) and searches it thoroughly. Gramps is released from Mungo’s the day of the funeral, another opportunity to find him slips through her fingers but then the old man gets in on the search with her. 

Desperate times call.

Rosmerta answers by finding herself in the painfully muggle town Archie’s parents live. Her last visit here with him was a success by all accounts, all except their plans for him. She shouldn’t be here, it’s wrong to be here. She doesn’t even want to see them but somewhere inside Rosmerta knows.

Lily Potter, his Lily, the first. She is the reason Archibald retreated and Archie prevailed. She is the major reason why he became the person Rosmerta fell in love with. Without her around, Archie would stumble. Archibald would come back. Quiet, lonely, sad Archibald. A boy that belonged in such a stuffy house with such uncomfortable furniture. 

“If you are in some kind of trouble we won’t give you money,” they tell her. Rosmerta can barely register the fact that they are talking about an unplanned pregnancy and fleeing father. But when she does, she looks at them sharply.

“No,” she snaps. Positively scandalized that they would even suggest he would do such a thing. Funny. Usually her stomach would turn at even the possibility of her becoming pregnant. Rosmerta knows she’s too harsh with them, knows they will be unwilling to help without her compliance. So she breathes, “I - uh - I was just wondering if you’ve seen him. If you know where he is.” 

Sitting on the mantle she sees a picture of a little boy who she can just barely make out. Someone she knows, but not quite finished yet. Not quite the person that she belongs with. Archie looks like a stranger in that picture. 

Is he a stranger now?

They don’t know where he is, and Rosmerta can not be bothered to answer the questions they have for her. She rises on unsteady legs, her eyes still fixed on that picture, she stumbles from the room, then the house. Apparates right in the driveway, lands in Hogsmeade in a heap. 

For weeks she has been operating on a false sense of hope, much like that false sense of security the charms on the Three Broomsticks brought her. Now it’s over. 

Now she knows he’s a stranger. 

People are cheering in the Three Broomsticks. She can’t crawl under her bed and sob the way she wants to, someone will find her. Someone who isn’t the person she wants. 

So she runs.

But there isn’t anyone to hold her hand, so she stumbles in desperate gasps for air. She runs until she finds a tree, feels something like a shadow tugging her back down to earth as she claws at the bark and scrambles up. Her elbows bruise, knees scrape, and as she thinks of a picture she once took with Lily of her sitting on a tree branch to make up for their height difference she loses her footing completely. 

Rosmerta’s back slams into the ground with a loud, pathetic whine leaving her. Her chest rises and falls in quick, pained succession and tears fall into her dark locks. She stares at the sky, thinking of the shadow that is now beneath her, and cries. The false sense of hope is gone entirely now.

Lily Potter is dead.

She took Archie with her.

He left her. He’s gone. He isn’t coming back. 

As a little girl, you are afraid of your own shadow.

It’s difficult to believe that there are things in the world which are not out to get you. Every person you have encountered is not to be trusted, you learn this either by being told (No, Ro, don’t speak tot the men in the uniform or they’ll take you away from me forever) or through a painful experience. 

There is only one person to trust, and she has shadows. Under her eyes, in her eyes, she is what happens when your shadow catches up to you so you can’t trust it. It is the darkness that tries to creep it’s way into you, starting at the feet. If you climb enough, if you move quick enough, you might be able to avoid those shadows. If you stay still, if you let someone near you, you’ll be held down. Your shadows will merge and that darkness will eat you right up to your eyes. 

You learn how to climb trees and fire escapes, you learn how to make your small legs strong enough to carry you quickly away. You learn how to hide and be soundless as to avoid being found, even when you have tears streaming down your face and a sob trapped in your chest. You follow, you obey, you don’t dream of anything. Because dreaming is for princesses who have been placed under some sort of curse and who are waiting for someone to come rescue them. No one is coming for you. 

As an adolescent, you harden. 

Fear and magic is all you know. You find a way to control both, but you no longer let anything define you. You meet people who are not out to get you, but who teach you how to defend yourself against those who are (which is still a very large majority). You learn how to properly curse, which amuses the old man from across the way greatly but makes yours frown (after his own chuckle of course). 

You learn not to run away from your opinions, but express them with feet planted on the ground. You find out what your actual, proper birthday is. You learn how to add and subtract and multiply. When you dream it is of recipes and a full pub of laughing people who want nothing more from you than a refilled mug. You learn how to make a bed the proper way, and how to make the perfect stew. You settle, you obey when necessary and grow when allowed. Home is a concept you can understand now, but you don’t wander away because you know those good feelings rarely last and if you move too far it might not be there when you return.

As a teenager, you develop.

More ways than one. Your shadow remains at your ankles, waiting for a moment to spring up into you. One which you do not present. No one touches you without your permission, no shadow comes to merge with your own. Shadows disappear in the dark, you come to learn, and that becomes a satisfying way of keeping the dark at bay. You learn how to charm, dazzle. You learn to clean up your mouth, saving those dirty words for opportune moments of pure frustration. You learn how to walk in heels, how to decipher people’s drinks of choice. Not only are you stationary, but you allow roots to take hold completely. Dreams are plans now, a future that you are certain of. 

He comes at the beginning of the teenage years.

“Fitz isn’t here, cutie,” you tell him when he comes bursting through the doors like a lanky boy possessed. 

“No, no, no,” he tells you as he grabs you by the hand, “I know that. C’mon!”

Your legs are small but they are strong. No longer from running away but from lifting crates of bottles and riding a broomstick and dancing with boys with pretty smiles. Still, they get the job done and keep up with him sufficiently.

This boy has a pretty smile, but he wants you to run with him before you dance. Eventually dancing comes, but even that feels like running. Exhilarating, dizzying, quick, fun. You run and dance and talk like there is a purpose to it all. He does it like he is trying to learn everything about you and the world but doesn’t mind when you decide to say nothing at all. 

Running doesn’t have to be away from something, you learn.

You learn this with him because it is drilled into you through adventures of running through abandoned corridors and after armies of cats towards the most gorgeous sunset you have ever seen. 

You run because he asks you to, and you don’t know why you agree to it but it always seems like the best decision you ever made. 

You run because you want to. 

And once you start running, you start to forget, slowly.

You forget how afraid you are. You forget how to hide, properly, because now there is a part of you that always wants to be found. You dream in vivid color of lives that you want to live and tell stories about. You forget about those helpless princesses but begin to remember that they had a happily ever after. You soften. Maybe you even forget that home might not always be there, but you start to understand that home might now just be a building. You forget to remind yourself that good things never last, instead wish for forever. When you are frustrated, you don’t try and convey it in a dirty word because you forget that no one wants to hear that. You rant. Your climbing ability wanes slightly, you lose the desperation to get away from whatever is on the ground.

You forget how to defend yourself against the shadows. Once, while looking a sunset, you turn around and see that your shadow is holding hands with his, just as you are with him - your shadow looks just as content to stay in that same position as you feel. 

As a woman, you forget.