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❨ chapter fourteen. ❩
❛ the aftermath ❜

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    THE MORNING'S MOURNFUL stillness cracked as a man appeared out of thin air. Without so much as a glance around his surroundings, he set off down the narrow, winding lane that stretched before him.

    A light breeze whistled through the drooping branches of the lush weeping willows which lined the length of the avenue. Thick fog drenched the air, obscuring his view of the mansion, though it did not matter. He knew what he'd find at the end of the avenue: a great, gothic mansion that had housed one of the oldest Wizarding families for centuries now.

    The foliage under him barely made a sound as he glided over it, his black cloak streaming languidly behind him, unresponsive to the push and pull of the breeze around it.

    He had not done this for years. He had others to do his bidding now, others who would gladly undertake the task he was about to. Still, at times the situation warranted his presence. It would surely move things along much faster if he himself were to tend to this small hindrance. And it was so much easier.

    Purpose and power thrumming through his veins, he moved swiftly down the avenue, through the dense mist so characteristic to this part of Wales, and there. There it lay, a magnificent, olden mansion. Lush vines of ivy and shockingly pink bougainvillea tumbled wantonly over the high, weather-beaten walls. It might have been a thing of beauty once, but even the blooming flora could not disguise the wasted nature of the house. Years of decay and neglect shone visibly in the rusted iron of the gates and the lichen covered steps leading up to the house.

    It was a pity they had not joined him earlier. The family, the house, could all have benefited from the glory and power he could bestow upon them. But no matter, for he was here to set things right at long last.

    He reached the front door, and, without wasting any time, his long, pale fingers reached out from under his traveling cloak and grasped the brass doorknob.

    He knocked twice, sharply.

    There was scuffling inside, the floorboards creaking as someone drew nearer. He could sense them approaching; the hour was upon them at long last. Had they really thought he would not notice their absence? That he would not guess what they were planning to do? Were they, of noble blood and shrewd minds, truly this naive?

    The door swung open.

    "Who is..."

    The question died in the girl's throat, as he had known it would.

    Her eyes grew wide, mouth agape.

    He smiled.

    "Good afternoon." His high, cold voice cut through the dusty, silent hallway beyond.

    The girl continued staring up at him, transfixed, the breeze ruffling her mousy hair as it brushed past her. She looked stricken, her face contorted in surprise and fear.

    The hand around his wand twitched, and, for an instant, he considered whether it would make them more compliant if he. . . but no. No, that would be wasteful indeed.

    "I am here to see Hugo and Isola Harte," he informed the girl instead, "Tell them Lord Voldemort wishes to seek an audience with them regarding a matter of utmost importance."

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    THE FLASHES WERE blinding, nearly as terrifying as the tidal wave of uproar that greeted him the moment he stepped out from one of the fireplaces on the lower level of the Ministry of Magic.

    "What can we expect from the debriefing today?"

    "Hear my words and heed my warnings-"

    "Mr. Moody, can you tell us –"

    "Have you apprehended those behind the attack on King's Cross?"

    "Down with Minister Minchum!"

    "What do the Aurors have to say for themselves?"

    "No justice, no peace!"

    ". . .such disgrace!"

    Moody kept his head down and pushed through the horde of reporters and protesters lining the Atrium. They kept screaming and hissing, their words running over each other to create a disjointed, ugly melody that Moody knew would haunt him for a long, long time.

    "No comment," he barked at a reporter who had had the nerve to jump in front of him. He pushed the lanky man aside with considerable force and hastened to get away from them all. Camera flashes and a slew of questions intermingled with protesting chants followed him all the way down the hall.

    It was only after he'd gotten into an elevator and the doors had slid shut, effectively blocking out all noise raging in the Atrium, did Moody realize he was panting harshly. His hands were clenched into fists, and his jaw hurt from how hard he'd clenched down.

    Willing himself to relax, Moody took in a few shuddering breaths, gaining some semblance of nonchalance just as the lift came to a halt and the doors slid open to reveal the floor where the Aurors resided.

    The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was as busy as he'd ever seen it, yet it was eerily quiet too. No one seemed intent upon talking, much less making eye contact. People bustled around the floor, their robes swishing at their ankles, yet not one person spoke to Moody as he made his way towards the Auror Office. This suited him just fine for he never had any desire to exchange pleasantries.

    The Auror Office, a well-lit, high-ceilinged room, however, seemed oddly empty when he arrived. Those Aurors that were in today all stopped to stare at him for the briefest of seconds when he let the door to the office shut behind him with a loud click, but they all returned to their tasks just as swiftly.

    It seemed strange to think that only three days had passed since the disastrous trip to Bulgaria. The last time he was here, the office had been buzzing with nervous excitement. Now, however, it felt as though they were all readying themselves for a particularly dismal funeral.

    Although no one had been mortally wounded in Bulgaria, many had been injured enough to stop them coming into work. Joseph and Ismene McKinnon, for instance, were both still recuperating for their injuries. Longbottom, his leg badly mangled, was at St. Mungos whilst they found him an appropriate treatment. Skye Dawlish, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, and Cliodhna Tobin, on the other hand, had taken the week off to both recover from their injuries and spend time with their anxious families.

    Moody, of course, would have returned to work two days ago, but his damned Healer had not let Moody discharge himself from St. Mungos until this morning. Even then, Healer Shafiq had only acquiesced after Moody had begrudgingly vowed that he'd be heading straight home and take care of work from there.

    They both knew that Moody, though a man of his word, would not bother keeping his end of the bargain in this scenario. They both also knew that each could not wait to be shot of the other's presence. All in all, Moody felt his return to the Auror Office could not have come sooner, and though Healer Shafiq denied it, Moody knew the stoic medic felt much the same way.

    A timid knock on his office door made Moody look around.

    "Come in," he barked as he shrugged off his traveling cloak and draped it over his chair. A young boy, hardly older than a second year trainee, poked his head inside. Moody huffed and fell into his seat with a groan, pulling towards him one of the many piles of paperwork awaiting him and setting about sorting through them.

    "What is it?" he snapped, a little distracted. He flung aside a bunch of dossiers, tossed a fistful of dated memos into the fireplace beside his desk, then grabbed a quill and unscrewed a bottle of ink. It was only after he'd scribbled his recount of the catastrophe that was Bulgaria across half a roll of parchment that he realized the other Auror had not spoken yet.

    He glanced up to find the young man now loitering in the doorway. Vivid blue curls framed his full face, which was pockmarked and currently devoid of all color.

    "Spit it out, boy," growled Moody.

    "Sir. The – the Head Auror," stammered the boy, now looking positively faint, "you asked Mr. Savage about him-"

    "Bloody well did, yes," interjected Moody, "Where's that wretched man gone now? I asked him where MacDonald was ages ago. I swear, Savage is always a day late and a galleon too short."

    "He, uh, he was s-summoned by the Head of MLE t-to stand in for the Aurors at the p-p-press meeting," explained the boy, watching Moody with mounting apprehension, "He asked m-me to tell you that – that. . ."

    Moody had the sudden urge to hurl something at the young Auror, but he summoned his last vestiges of patience and bit back the urge. It wasn't the boy's fault, he reminded himself. The boy had not been involved in the mission, had not believed blindly in the Head Auror's secret tip-off. The boy had not foolishly trusted the establishment thus, and nor was he to blame for the backlash the Aurors were currently facing. He, Moody, however. . .

    "Sit down," grunted Moody, the anger leaving his body as he all but slumped into his chair. Turning his face towards the ceiling, he pointed to the seat before him and added, "Go on, boy, sit. I didn't mean to be short tempered with you. It's those ruddy bastards down in the lobby. They know how to set my teeth on edge, I swear." Moody sighed again and braced his hands behind his head as he peered over at the still apprehensive Auror. "All this paperwork doesn't help matters either, and we still have to locate the fu – anyway. You don't care about all that. Just sit and tell me. What did Savage say?"

    The boy all but collapsed into the seat Moody had indicated and took in a shuddering breath. "Mr. Savage s-said he hasn't seen the Head Auror –"

    Moody frowned. "Not seen MacDonald? How come? He's his bloody secretary."

    "Yes, sir. But. . ." the boy looked at him with wide eyes and swallowed audibly, "Sir, we - I mean to say, he. . . well. You see, it's j-just that no one's s-seen Mr. MacDonald since the Aurors d-d-departed for Bulgaria."

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    SETTING THE MUG of lukewarm tea aside, Sirius leaned back into his pillows. A jolt of pain shot through his leg and up his spine as he shifted, and he winced, swearing under his breath. The pounding in his head had receded slightly since he'd woken up that day, the tea working its magic, but the throbbing pain in his leg still persisted.

    "Finally awake, are we?"

    Sirius looked around to see James appear in the doorway, a large tray balanced in one hand, a damp traveling cloak clutched in the other.

    Sirius grinned. "I was wondering when you'd be back."

    James mirrored his grin and sat down at the end of Sirius' bed, setting the tray bearing a large plate of ham and cheese sandwiches and two bottles of Butterbeer between them. "Mum and I just got home from King's Cross. Dad said you'd been asking after us. When did you wake up?"

    "About two hours ago, I think," Sirius shrugged.

    It was the first time in three days that he felt fully cognizant. He had, as James had informed him yesterday, suffered a bad concussion when the explosion had rocked Platform 9 ¾. His thigh had also been grazed by some sort of a severing charm, but even a graze of the wretched spell had been enough to make Sirius bleed profusely for hours.

    He couldn't recall any of this, naturally, but the looks of worry and exhaustion etched upon the Potters' faces confirmed his suspicion that it must have been bad.

    "How're things at the station?" asked Sirius, hoping to drag the conversation away from himself and the injuries he had sustained.

    "It's all a bloody mess, if ever there was one," yawned James. "We spent half the day vanishing the scorch marks around the station, and the rest of the time, we were just trying to usher the reporters away." James shook his head and made a face. "Gits."

    "I bet they're elated seeing all this chaos," said Sirius darkly. "Gives them so much to write about, doesn't it?"

    James nodded, picking up a sandwich and gesturing for Sirius to do the same.

    "How's the leg?" James asked through a mouthful of bread and cheese, apparently undeterred by Sirius' attempt to distract him.

    Sirius waited until he'd swallowed his bite of sandwich before answering, "It's seen better days. Remus and Pete alright? I haven't heard from them."

    "Remus is home with his dad. Peter's with his family, back in Poplar," replied James, cramming half a sandwich into his mouth. "So what about your leg? Is it hurting bad? It looks dreadful."

    "Thanks, James," scowled Sirius. When James continued looking almost owlishly at him from behind his wire-rimmed glasses, Sirius let out a long suffering sigh.

    "It hurts a bit when I move it so," he said, jerking his leg in demonstration and wincing slightly as the throbbing intensified, "but it's nothing some rest and a few doses of pain potion won't fix. It'll be good as new in a few days, probably won't even scar. Or so your dad says, at least."

    James remained silent for a moment, but then, seemingly satisfied for the time being, he nodded and turned away to look outside the window beside the bed.

    Minutes trickled by as the boys sat eating sandwiches and sipping cold Butterbeer. Sirius had the distinct impression that although James was sitting opposite him, his mind was now miles from the Potter's cottage.

    "So," Sirius began, a little hesitant, after a while, "how are Mr. and Mrs. Evans?"

    One of the many things Sirius had learned since regaining consciousness was that Lily Evans' parents had been amongst those injured. Caught amidst some sort of a crossfire between the Death Eaters and those defending Platform 9 ¾, both of Lily's parents had reportedly taken a handful of stunners to the heart and left severely weakened. They were in a ward deep within St. Mungos and being treated for spell shock almost as much as for spell damage.

    James took a long moment, munching slowly on a bit of crust before replying, "What – oh, them. They're... alright, I guess. Still at St. Mungos. The Healers suspect they'll be able to go home within the next week."

    "They'll make a full recovery then?" asked Sirius, "No, uh, lasting damage?"

    James shook his head. "Nah, they're already mostly healed from the stunners."

    Sirius let out a low whistle. "That's a relief."

    "You've no idea," said James as he shifted and leaned back against the bedpost. "But they're still in shock. Terribly frightened by what happened at King's Cross. Jump at the slightest sound. . ."

    Sirius noticed how weary James was looking. There were dark circles under his eyes, as though he had not slept a wink since they'd returned home. For three days now, ever since the attack, James had been going along with Mrs. Potter, now a retired Auror, to King's Cross. They had both volunteered to help clear up after the devastation that had been unleashed upon it. Sirius had had to stay back at the Potters, though he'd had little say in the matter seeing as he had been unconscious for the better part of three days.

    "I don't think Lily's herself either."

    Sirius looked up at those words and stared at James, who stared resolutely at his hands.

    "What's wrong with her?"

    "Mum says she's in shock too," James explained, but there was something about his tone that told Sirius James did not agree with his mother.

    "But you don't agree?"

    "No, I think she's thinking."

    Sirius frowned. "What about?"

    "That's just it," sighed James, finally looking up at Sirius, "I don't know what's going on through that head of hers. She's dropped out of Auror training, did you know?"

    "You're joking!"

    "Nope," said James, "I'm dead serious right now. She's dropped out of training, isn't joining the DMLE, not accepting the job at the Muggle Liaison Office, and she's refused Mum and Dad's offer to help her find work elsewhere."

    Sirius goggled at James. "What in the name of Morgana. . ."

    "I know," groaned James, gulping down half the bottle of Butterbeer. "It's driving me mad."

    "What's Evans going to do then?"

    "Your guess is as good as mine, mate, because I have no idea what she's up to. Although. . ."

    "Yes?"

    "Well, she did say this morning that she'll be too busy with the war to focus on any other job. What she'll be busy with, though, is a whole different question."

    "You didn't ask?"

    James grinned wryly. "She didn't say."

    Unbidden, the image of Bellatrix looming over him swarmed before his eyes; the Death Eater robes shrouding her, her harsh whisper in his ear. He swallowed the lump in his throat. The image had been haunting him ever since he'd regained sense. But he hadn't told anyone about that, about her – he couldn't tell anyone. Not yet anyway.

    "She'll tell you when she's ready, James," said Sirius quietly, finally breaking the silence in the room. "She's just. . . a lot's happened in the last few days. Especially for her. She just needs time to think things through and figure out what she wants to do next."

    "That's what Marlene says too."

    "You've seen Marlene?"

    "Yeah, she's practically living at St. Mungos, isn't she?" answered James, frowning, "What – hasn't anyone told you? About her dad?"

    Sirius sat up straighter, wincing as pain shot through his injured left leg. Swearing, he rubbed at it absentmindedly. "He's not –"

    "No!" James shook his head quickly, "No, he's alive, thank heavens. He went to Bulgaria on that Auror mission that's been in the papers, you know? I don't know if you've read them actually. See, the Aurors were appa-"

    "Yes, yes," Sirius interjected, waving a hand impatiently, "I know all about that cock-up. The poor idiots, honestly. But what about Mr. McKinnon?"

    "Well, turns out he was badly hurt there. Marlene said something about a poisonous gas or something. I think Marlene's mum was hurt too, so she can't go into work either."

    Sirius swore under his breath. "Anyone else we know hurt?"

    "Well, you already know Peter's brother was injured, right? Yeah. But Patrick got out of St. Mungos yesterday though, so all's good. Remus got a few burns, but he was patched up in minutes. Aspen ended up with a few nasty scrapes, but she's alright too. And. . . oh, Mary MacDonald! She was struck down by some fever-inducing charm. Lily mentioned that. She said the Healers were having a tough time keeping Mary's fever under control."

    "Huh," replied Sirius, "A fever charm? That's not something I'd've expected the Death Eaters to do."

    "No, it isn't."

    "And no one's dead?"

    James shook his head. "Not that we know of. A few people are missing though."

    "It was in the papers too," muttered Sirius, swirling the contents of his Butterbeer around in the bottle. Finally, he asked the one question that had been on his mind all morning. "So the attack. . . was it all. . . what was it all about?"

    James stared at him, then he shrugged. "No idea, mate. Mum thinks it was all a ploy to create hysteria. Threaten the children, frighten the parents, you know? Many of the families might not stand up to Voldemort, now that they think he can easily reach their children."

    "The Daily Prophet claims it was the Ministry's oversight that caused it," remarked Sirius, "I read about it this morning. They're saying such an attack was always a possibility, but it wouldn't've happened if the Aurors and the DMLE weren't as thick as a bunch of trolls."

    James snorted. "Yeah, well, even the Prophet occasionally gets things right. To a certain degree, at least."

    They lapsed into a thoughtful silence then. It seemed odd to him that barely a week ago, they had all been happily chattering away in the Great Hall, ensconced within the safety of Hogwarts and Dumbledore. And now, here they were, already wounded and scattered across the country. Try as he might, Sirius could not help but dwell on the fact that the darkness they had kept at bay all these years was finally seeping in, surrounding them, pressing in on them.

    Perhaps it was merely an after effect of his first real brush with the war, but only now was he beginning to appreciate the full magnitude of the dangers they were facing. That was to say nothing of the risk of them all laying six feet under by the time this war came to an end.

    "So, what about you?"

    With some effort, Sirius pulled himself away from his tumultuous thoughts and schooled his features into what he hoped was a blank expression. "What about me?"

    James gave him a searching look. "Something's bothering you. You've been oddly quiet lately."

    "You haven't been home enough to know that," retorted Sirius dryly.

    "Don't use that trick with me," said James in an even tone, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, "you know it won't work. So, what is it?"

    Sirius glanced up at James and felt a twinge of guilt. James, if possible, looked more worried than ever before. A part of Sirius wanted to tell James what was on his mind, to confide his fears, his dismay. In his family; in himself. But he couldn't. The words would not rise to his tongue, and Sirius wasn't sure if he could bring himself to say it even if they had.

    "Sirius?"

    James sounded worried.

    Sirius, glancing at his concerned, weary best friend with a mix of pity and frustration, forced himself to grin. The muscles in his face pulled upwards almost painfully.

    "It's nothing, Prongs, really," Sirius told a bemused James, hoping to ease the blow of his words by use of the old nickname. "You know me, I'm fine."

    It was clear by James' expression that he did not buy Sirius' feeble attempts at nonchalance. In fact, he looked like he was rearing up to prod the matter further when, to Sirius' incredible surprise and equally intense relief, Mrs. Potter appeared in the doorway.

    "Boys," she began, sounding a little out of breath, "Peter's here to see you two. He just arrived. Shall I send him upstairs, or –"

    "Upstairs would be perfect, thank you!" Sirius exclaimed before Mrs. Potter had even finished speaking. She looked momentarily taken aback by Sirius' sudden enthusiasm, but then smiled.

    "Of course, darling. I'm sure you've all been worried sick about each other."

    Sirius nodded eagerly. "Yes. . ."

    She disappeared from the doorway, and James, now scowling, picked up another sandwich and stuffed it into his mouth with much more aggression than the situation warranted, Sirius felt.

    "We're not done talking," James whispered angrily as the sound of Peter's footfalls echoed up the stairs.

    Sirius shrugged, running a hand through his hair and combing out a few stray tangles.

    Peter's unannounced appearance meant James had had to drop the topic, albeit he did so looking extremely resentful. Sirius, on the other hand, was secretly thankful for the interruption, and, for the first time in seven years, extremely glad of Peter's ill-timing.

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A/N.
has the pacing picked up significantly in recent chapters? I guess it has. I've finally found my footing in this fic so to speak, so yes, there may be a noticeable shift in pace from now on. We've spent enough time in Juliette (and Sirius') head to know what they're thinking and what headspace they are in right now, and moving forward, there's definitely going to be a lot more action.

Also, this chapter technically included a scene with Juliette, but it was kinda long and this chapter is already 3.8k words strong so... next chapter, sooner update! yay! And as always: don't forget to vote and comment to let me know what you thought of the chapter or the story so far :)