Times Of Her Blood

Sixty Four | Solid Ground

Thoughts a mess, heart in her mouth and her mind a storm, she burst out of that room like it was on fire, ignoring the Minister of Magic calling her name as she went. 

Once that glass shattered, there really was no going back.

She was soon winding her way down a dimly lit road she had yet to recognise, vaguely aware of the rain hammering down on her body as she moved through the night.

She was all alone now, probably already named a fugitive for running when questions were asked. The bastard was out, she was his daughter. It all made sense- hell, she'd even believe whatever lies the Daily Prophet would be spinning in that very moment if they were about anyone else. The whole damned world would be against her, her friends and whatever family she might have had left too.

She'd done this to herself, but she no longer cared. If the Ministry was going to make a fool out of her, she'd sit back and laugh at their attempts. What more could they do to her? How much more could she be ruined?

When she stepped out onto the next street, she felt like she'd been falling, and falling, and falling. It had all happened so fast. She'd been thrown up in the air, drawn out and accused or implicated or whatever it was that man was plotting, and now she was hurtling back down into the reality of that deathly cold street in the middle of absolutely nowhere in particular. 

She hit solid ground. Hard. 

And she hit that ground running.

***

The man had long since abandoned his waistcoat, now dressed in an entirely different attire. His shoes were kicked off, feet taking the front lines of the heat from the fire. In his hand was a mug of coffee, not as strong as he'd usually take it but strong enough. He'd long since abandoned his soft brown woollen jumper, now left in his untucked white shirt and grey trousers.

On the chair beside him, the grey haired man was slumped with a half empty glass of shandy in one hand, wand in the other. He wouldn't relax without it close by and, every so often, his hands would begin to shake and he'd glance at the portrait of the girl before looking away and taking another sip.

Both men sat in a silence neither minded, one merely enjoying the other's company and the other gratefully accepting any distraction from the horrific feeling in the pit of his stomach.

After a few hours, one finally spoke.

"Them dementors aren't crawling about the place by accident."

A huff, followed by a sigh.

"I figured."

The silence continued for another minute, and then, 

"In retrospect, Aberforth, it can only mean one thing."

The other man grumbled quietly, shaking his head, "It's never heard of."

"Until now. Don't get me wrong, it's absolutely impossible but-"

"Nothing's impossible," his light blue eyes drifted back to the painting, "If there's a will there's a way, s'long as that will is strong enough. It has to be high security, none of the other lot have got the nerve."

Remus's Adam's apple was suddenly caught in his throat, and he set his mug down, reaching for Aberforth's glass and draining it of its contents. 

"Hey-"

Remus grimaced at him, and Aberforth sighed, heaving himself up and off the chair.

"I'll just get another, I suppose."

"Get two," Remus muttered, "Make it three, I'm feeling extra spontaneous tonight."

"As long as you pay for it," Aberforth chuckled as he manoeuvred around him.