two weeks
You’re losing a staring contest with the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore’s office. Its furrowed brow and forked tongue cement your stinging eyes in place.
You have no idea what to do. What do you even say to him? You haven’t seen the headmaster since Remus’s incident- anger still churns in your stomach at the memory of his placid face staring on as Remus bled. Your knees feel like they’re about to buckle underneath you, and your hands tremble at your sides. Maybe you should just run to the Forest, live out the rest of your days as your animagus, leave everything behind- no Sirius, no Dumbledore, no Voldemort. You can find a pack of centaurs to live with, or something-
You flinch as the gargoyle snaps to attention, its monstrous head tilting as if hearing something you can’t. It gives you a look that almost feels like a “good luck” before crawling up the tower, the circular staircase revealing itself. You uneasily step up. At least the choice has been made for you now.
The office is more occupied than you expected. As you rise up into the tower, muffled arguing seeps through the stone.
“It must be a student-” a gruff voice you don’t recognize asserts before being cut off by a higher pitched tone.
“A student shouldn’t be capable of the imperious curse-!”
“And a student shouldn’t be capable of nonverbal wandless bullshite, but here we are,” the gruff voice snaps just as you come into view. A few people you don’t recognize are spread through the office, all looking equally stressed. A blonde man with expensive-looking robes bites his fingernails as he stares at the ceiling through large glasses; an annoyed-looking woman with silky black hair leans against Dumbledore’s desk, tapping long fingernails on the wood. The gruff voice you heard must belong to the stout, solid-looking man with wispy ginger hair who’s pacing the floor. His thudding footsteps come to a halt, and he turns on his heel to face you. Your eyebrow raises when you notice the large, angry scar over where one of his eyes should be- a whirring glass eye spins to land on you.
“Stealth is a worthwhile skill to have, girl, but knocking would be appreciated,” he scolds, continuing to pace.
“Er, the gargoyle-” you start to explain, gesturing over your shoulder.
“-has grown a soft spot for you, I see.” Dumbledore’s gentle timbre is a stark contrast from the stranger’s tone.
The headmaster’s profile is lit with an unsteady glow from the flickering fireplace. He sits in one of the large armchairs by the hearth, staring deeply into the heat. When he turns to look at you, his spectacles flash with flame.
“I’d say I could come back later, Professor, but this is important-” you start.
“Benjy Fenwick,” the blonde man interrupts, striding over with a smile and an outstretched hand. He's young, maybe in his early twenties. You wearily shake it. He looks oddly familiar. “Just call me Ben. That’s-” he points to the woman, “Abigail Bones, and that’s-” he points to the man in the middle of the floor, “Alastor Moody.”
You give them your name, crossing your arms over your chest. “What’s this about?”
“We’re missing a few members, but this is the Order.” He gives you a warm smile, pushing up his glasses. You almost return it.
“I- sorry, but have we met?” you ask, inspecting his face. There’s something about his nose, the glasses, the shape of his face… It feels familiar. He scoffs, eyes widening, and glances over at the others. You shuffle your feet uncomfortably, feeling idiotic.
“She’s sharp,” Moody mumbles, looking at the headmaster. You tilt your head.
“Er- thanks, I think.”
Ben straightens his glasses, looking ruffled. “Yes, we have met. Recently, actually.”
“Father Fringe died three years ago,” Dumbledore explains. Your eyes widen. “This is his son. He has gathered inside information for the Order by disguising himself as his father with polyjuice potion ever since.”
“Purebloods do love their gossip,” Ben gives you a dry smile. You blink, stunned.
“You’ve been... undercover for three years?”
He nods, adjusting his glasses. “Yes. It’s been lovely making monstrosities of robes for those pricks to prance around in. I added more ruffles to Black’s dress robes, by the way- you were right, it needed it. Wasn’t ridiculous enough.” He grins at you sarcastically. For a brief moment, you’re in awe of the difference between the young man in front of you and the Father Fringe you saw.
Your eyes widen with realization. “Oh, Godric- I’m so sorry about the dungbombs-”
He lets out a chuckle. “Don’t be. That was hilarious. A pain in the arse to clean, but-”
“Enough tittering, we’re at the brink of war,” Moody snaps. You set your jaw. There’s a moment of silence.
“I need to know what happened to me,” you sternly say to the side of the headmaster’s face. He removes his spectacles, rubbing his bushy brow.
“I’m afraid I can only give you the evidence we have- someone used dark magic to will Madam Puddifoot into poisoning you.”
A silence hangs over the room. You cross your arms. “With what?”
He raises his brow, turning to you.
“How’d they poison me? Could it be brewed in the castle?”
“Huntone,” the silky-haired woman says. She pushes off of the headmaster’s desk, taking a few steps to you. Huntone, you remember, is a scentless, tasteless poison that can kill in seconds with only a few drops. “They used huntone. The supply room just so happened to be missing a few of it's ingredients.”
“That takes weeks to brew,” you say, eyebrows furrowing. “And skill. And ingredients that we don’t have- expensive ingredients. We could ask Hog’s Apothecary if anyone has bought them recently.”
Abigail nods, taking a small roll of parchment out of her robes and grabbing a quill from Dumbledore’s desk. She starts scribbling away, the quill flying across the page. “I’ll take care of that.”
You dip your head in thanks, biting at your lip. You can’t tell if the stabbing in your stomach is from the Huntone or from nerves.
“Winter break cannot come sooner,” Dumbledore murmurs. “I assume you’ve planned to spend Christmas at the castle, yes?”
You nod.
“Once break has begun, we will have intensive daily training for your safety. Whoever is threatening your life is only getting more aggressive with their attempts.”
“Your surname- your family is one of the Twenty-Eight.” Moody sneers. Your nose twitches with distaste and you nod again.
“It’s obvious I’m not necessarily welcomed with open arms,” you say, staring at his twirling eye.
Moody snaps his head to face Dumbledore, but the eye stays fixed on you. “You recruited a child of the Twenty-Eight?” he barks. “Are you mad? What would happen if they realize they have a member of the Order right underneath their snotty noses?”
“And what would happen if the Twenty-Eight realized they have a weapon of this magnitude underneath their 'snotty noses'?” the headmaster says, pushing out of his chair to face Moody.
“‘A weapon of this magnitude?’” you drawl, eyebrows furrowed. A beat of silence falls over the room. “Don’t talk about me like I’m your artillery. And they won’t realize what I’m a part of- they barely glance in my direction.”
Dumbledore tugs at his beard, looking pained. He pulls a letter out of his cloak. You instantly recognize your mother’s stationary. A wave of nausea crashes over you as he presses the parchment into your palm. Your shaking hands unfold the paper.
“I understand if you refuse,” the headmaster begins as you slowly sink into a chair by the hearth, “but this could be an opportunity to gain some insight.”
“Or a trap,” you weakly let out, your eyes stuck on your mother’s perfected script- Malfoy Christmas soiree and mandatory and much to discuss in elegant letters. You were expecting this- the dress robes were a dead giveaway. Why does it still feel like a kick in the gut? “Definitely a trap. I haven’t been in years. They hate having me around. It doesn’t make any sense- why would she want me to go now?”
“This is beyond suspicious,” Moody insists. “We’re walking right into their hands-”
“Would I have backup?” you cut him off, looking at the others in the room. They all have a vaguely shocked expression on their face, save for the headmaster, who has a tiny grin curling his lips. A twinge of annoyance at his smugness makes your nose twitch.
Ben clears his throat. “I’d be there as Father Fringe,” he says. “But you truly shouldn’t feel any pressure to pursue something as serious as an undercover mission- you’re young-”
“I’m capable,” you cut him off, not unkindly. “Thanks for the concern, but this is too important to dismiss. This may be our only chance.”
There’s a pregnant pause before Abigail speaks up. “She’s right. When’s the next time we’ll have all of the Twenty-Eight in one building? I’m not saying we shouldn’t be cautious- we’ll find a way to get you more security than just Ben. No offense.” She nods to the man, and he gives her a small smile. “Maybe we can take one out of his book- are there any human servants at these… parties?” she asks you.
You tilt your head from side to side. “Sometimes. It’s mostly house elves, but they’ll hire people for bigger events like this. Makes them look richer.” You blink, your mind suddenly racing. “Sirius is going to be there. He’s not an idiot. He’d surely put two and two together if something happens and I’m in the middle-”
“Sirius Black is suspicious of your motive?” Moody cries, looking at you with a wild expression. You furrow your brow at him.
“No. He’s- we’re friends. He thinks I have an internship at Mungo’s. But that lie will only stretch so far, and he’s… difficult. He’d involve himself if he found out.” You take a shaky breath, trying to control your frustration.
“Is everyone else in this bloody room deaf?” Moody roars, “We have two children of the Twenty-Eight involved-”
“Sirius isn’t- he’s sharper than he makes himself out to be- he won’t be an issue if we’re careful, but we have to consider-” you rush, your words getting caught in your throat with every stumbling syllable.
“This is a horrible idea, Albus. Horrible,” the ragged wizard spits, pacing manically. “She’s not ready-”
“Will you just listen to me?” you snap, glaring daggers at the back of Moody’s head. He spins on his heel, his real eye widening at the sight of you. The room falls silent and tense, the rest of the Order staring at you with an unreadable expression- unease, or shock? Concern? Fear? The only sound you can make out is the ringing in your ears. “It doesn’t matter if I’m ‘ready’ or not- this is greater than me, than all of us, and you obviously need the information only I can get you, so I’m doing this.”
“Child,” Dumbledore begins, taking a step in your direction, his hands raised in a placid manner.
“Don’t call me that.” Your head snaps in his direction as you take an uneven breath, pushing your shoulders back. “Don’t call me a child. Don’t treat me like a child. What you need from me is more than what a child can give.”
The headmaster’s eyes are fixed to a spot over your shoulder. You glance over, letting out a sharp gasp. A glimmering letter opener levitates beside you, pointing directly at Dumbledore. Your hands fly to your mouth as you scramble away, the blade falling to the ground with a ringing clang. There’s a moment of deafening silence.
“I- I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Albus,” Alastor Moody growls. He digs a handful of dark ash out of his coat pocket, steps onto the hearth, and mumbles a location before throwing the floo powder at his feet. He disappears in a swirling, arching green flame that flashes the room with a sickly glow.
Your wide eyes stay fixed on the fallen blade before you blink the dryness away, mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
“I… I should go,” you stutter, turning on your heel. You can’t look at the other’s faces- your eyes are glued to your shoes. You run down the spiral staircase, and rapid footsteps against stone echo in the silent office.
---
Exams are this week. It’s been two weeks since you’ve spoken to Sirius.
It hurts to admit that it’s been a horrible, lonely, boring two weeks.
You feel like a caged animal, lurking behind the bars of your enclosure, desperate for something, anything new. Sirius avoids your eyes at all costs, swapped seats with Remus in potions, and locks himself in the boy’s dormitory when he isn’t at class. Even James and Lily are starting to drift away- they’ll stop whispering suddenly and stare at you with guilty faces when you pass by- but you understand. You’re standoffish, snappy. Mute, for the most part. Remus, as always, has stayed by your side. That’s not to say he hasn’t given you hell.
“What the fuck could he have done to make you act like this?” he yells from behind you. His croaky voice echoes over the Black Lake. You throw a smooth, grey stone, watching it skip away. Your breath billows in front of you. “God, would you just look at me?”
You turn around, working your jaw. Your throat is sore and your tongue feels foreign in your mouth. “Remus, I can’t tell you, I’m sorry, I really am-”
Remus steps forward quickly, grabs your shoulders, and ducks down to meet your gaze. His eyebrows are furrowed tightly over furious hazel eyes. It hurts to see; you focus on the tip of his red nose instead. “I’ve told you everything. Everything, every embarrassing thing, every good thing, every bad thing- and I thought you did the same. I thought- I thought we didn’t keep secrets. I thought we helped each other.”
Your lip trembles, but he cuts you off with a look.
“Don’t,” he seethes. “Don’t make me feel bad for being angry.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Let me help you. Please. It kills me to see you like this, to see Sirius like this- you’re killing me.”
You finally meet his watery eyes, and your mouth twists in an effort to choke back a sob. He looks awful- pale, exhausted, sickly. You’re killing him.
You tell Remus everything.
The Order, the little blue vial, the lessons, the nightmares. Your fight with Sirius. The letter opener. That you’re terrified of what you’ve become. That he can’t tell anyone- anyone- that it’s putting him in danger to even say this. It comes out of you in a whispered flood of emotion, tears freely streaming down your cheeks. You can feel them freezing on your neck. Remus’s face contorts with confusion, sympathy, fear.
“-and I know it’s selfish of me to tell you this, but Remus, I can’t lose you, I can’t do this without you, I thought I could, but I can’t, Rem, I’m so sorry, I feel like I’m going mad-”
He cuts you off with a tight hug, pulling your head to his chest. “Shut up. Let me think,” he says in a distracted whisper. You squeeze your eyes shut, praying that you’ll wake up. Remus’s warmth and rapid heartbeat says otherwise.
He pulls away, holding your shoulders, eyebrows still taught. He inspects you for a moment.
“You look like shite.”
You crack a small smile. “So do you.”
He shakily smiles back. He grabs your hand, pulling you in the direction of the castle. “We’re going to the Room of Requirement. We shouldn’t talk out here.”
You nod, swallowing thickly. “Okay.”
There’s only the sound of your shoes crunching through the snow. A steady beat of one foot in front of the other.