#character death tw
(Unfinished - June 1, 2016)
James can’t sleep anymore.
He’s never been particularly restful, always fidgeting and stretching, even during sleep. His eagerness to move even follows him into his dreams. It hasn’t changed since the war. When it isn’t unbounded energy keeping him on the verge of waking up, it’s unease.
Today, it is the latter.
It has been three days since Voldemort disappeared, and James hasn’t slept since.
In the immediate aftermath, when the relief of finding their family alive had given way to wondering what exactly happened, Lily thought, briefly, that it had been a miracle. That the prophecy lingering over their heads had finally come to fruition, and their son had won. But James knew better. For the first time in his life, he was unwilling to trust in the goodness of the world. It didn’t take long to figure out why.
James cannot find rest in a world where Sirius Black isn’t alive.
They had been asleep, of all things. Finally under the protection of the Fidelius, finally able to ease some of the heavy weight of the worry and fatigue from trying not to be found, they turned in early that night. They did not hear Sirius when he came to check on Harry, or his quiet refusals to move away from Harry’s cot.
“Love magic,” is Dumbledore’s explanation when they ask. His tone sounds almost reverent, and for some reason, that makes James want to hit him.
There is one fact they do know, from the information flooding from the other side. At some point, Regulus Black asked Voldemort to spare his brother’s life. Albus doesn’t have an answer for how an eighteen-year-old boy had risen high enough in the ranks to be able to make such a request of Lord Voldemort. Regulus is dead now, so it’s not as if they can ask him.
All the same, Sirius was given a choice. Step aside and let his godson be taken, or suffer the consequences of standing in the way.
He had not hesitated.
Only the Order mourns. All along the wizarding world, celebrations are breaking out because of the Dark Lord’s fall. No one seems to care that it was at the cost of someone’s life. While fireworks light up the London sky in the daytime, James Potter lowers his best friend into the ground.
Minerva McGonagall is crying. James’s mother is gone, and Walburga Black could care less, but Minerva McGonagall is crying and James cannot look at her without feeling as if he’s forced her son into the grave.
He’s supposed to speak, of course. James is supposed to speak because he’s Sirius’s family, and everyone is looking at him for answers. And he tries.
“Sirius Black,” he says, hoarsely. His throat is too tight to continue, so he begins again. “Was—” is all James manages before he can’t find words.
Lily takes over then, in spite of the tears on her own face. She holds James’s hand in her own and their baby on her hip, and she’s so much stronger than him, because she can bring herself to use past tense.
Exhaustion doesn’t make James any less aware, so it’s not hard to navigate people after the service, speaking when he’s supposed to and nodding when he’s not.
If he were to choose to speak to anyone, it would be Remus, but neither of them can look each other in the eye. Lily, beautiful and unbending to their brokenness, hands Harry over to James and takes Remus into her arms. James looks away when his shoulders begin to shake.
Harry fists his hand in James’s shirt, and James looks down at him. He is smiling, because he does not know any better. There is a scar on his forehead from three days ago, still fresh. It had been Harry’s crying that woke them up moments before the explosion.
His son’s life is a gift from Sirius which he will never be able to repay.
Lily’s hand on his shoulder guides him away from the crowds eventually, and he’s grateful. They walk to Bathilda’s house, their temporary home. It isn’t far, because Sirius has been buried in Godric’s Hollow next to the parents who loved him.
“He was supposed to come over today,” says James pointlessly. Lily knows this. She has been just as excited for it as he has. Still, he feels the need to fill the silence. The world is too quiet now.
Lily nods, eyes downcast. “I was going to make him a cake.”
Sirius Black will never be twenty-two, but they throw him a birthday party anyway.
CW: Ableism, abusive relative, abuse of a minor, pet whump references, BBU, some brief vague noncon references, blood, drowning kinda, death threats, just general ‘it’s gonna get bloody’ below the cut…
Sean Malley previously appeared in the the pieces Sean Malley,Learn to Fly, and Paul Higgs: Baby Daze.
-
“What’s wrong with him?”
Jo looked over at her older sister, eyebrows raised in perfect arches. She’d lined them herself this morning - the whole eyebrow plucking thing had been a fucking disaster, and now she had to draw them on every day.
“What?” Ronnie looked up. Her sister, not even quite twenty yet, was hovering over a pot of water that would hopefully eventually boil for pasta. She looked older, and tired, and Jo picked at her own fingernails every time she visited to avoid bringing it up.
Two years ago, Ronnie had been seventeen and beautiful - now she was nineteen, nearly twenty, and she hadn’t slept well since before Paul’s stupid baby was even born, and it showed. Ronnie did smile more, Jo thought, a little grudgingly. Since she’d been kicked out of their parents’ house for refusing to give up Paul’s baby, she’d moved in with his parents during the pregnancy and now the two of them had an apartment and a stupid marriage, and Jo had to admit Ronnie smiled so much more.
Their parents hadn’t gone to Ronnie’s high school graduation, but Jo did. Ronnie had hugged her so tightly it hurt, having to sort of awkwardly shift her hips back so her huge pregnant belly could fit between them.
He wasn’t even born yet and the stupid shit was already ruining things.
There had been photos, a million of them. Jo had gone home that night and told her parents, “Ronnie looks amazing,” and they had turned to each other and kept talking like Ronnie - and anything Jo said about her - didn’t exist.
Because of Paul’s stupid. fucking. baby.
But now, two years later, the stupid fucking baby was a stupid fucking toddler, and Ronnie and Jo together watched him - wispy red hair floating like feathers around his head - as he made a low hum, again and again, holding a small plastic dinosaur and repeatedly opening and closing its mouth, staring fixedly at the sharply-formed plastic teeth inside.
“Oh,” Ronnie said, as if it was totally normal, nothing to worry about. “I don’t know, exactly.”
“You don’t know? I’ve never seen a baby just stare at something that long. Aren’t they supposed to have, like, no attention span? Or pretend it’s biting him or something? I don’t think I have ever seen that kid play pretend.”
Ronnie took in a deep breath. “They are,” She said, hesitantly. “Supposed to. But Tris… I don’t know. He does pretend play sometimes, he really does. Not when-… when it’s just us, or just the three of us, he does, he just… doesn’t, so much, when other people are around. His doctor says it’s nothing to worry about yet.”
“… yet?”
Ronnie dumped the pasta from the box into the water, and they talked about something else.
Joanne Botham comes home - to her sweet little bungalow, snapped up for a pretty penny in a good neighborhood around the outskirts of Berras, perfect for commuting into work at WRU - and dumps her purse on the floor, exhaling in a rush. She kicks off her sensible work heels into the little shoe tray she bought at some home goods store where everything cost about fifty dollars more than it should, but she’s got money to burn, these days.
Or she used to.
In any case, it could be worse.
Luckily, this is more or less a WRU company town, and things aren’t so bad here. The Olympics had aired while she was relaxing in the pool at a hotel in Sao Paulo, and she honestly hadn’t paid them any attention. She’d been vaguely aware of a commotion, a sudden rush of Portuguese from the staff and just about every language on earth from the hotel guests, but when someone said it was a press conference at the Olympics, she’d lost interest.
It wasn’t a terrorist attack or anything important - so she didn’t care. She was on vacation, and nothing was going to ruin her visit to Brazil. She had been taking a guided tour while some pet libbers tried to torch the WRU daycare and “free” the workers, leaving the poor things terrified and clinging to each other, running to the handlers who came to help them.
One of them was still missing, and probably had wandered off and died somewhere, and wouldn’t that be just what those fucking libbers deserved. To be responsible for that.
A handler had gone missing, too. There were rumors the daycare worker had offed him and he just hadn’t been found, but Joanne found that hard to believe. She’s worked on the copy for commercials with those placid little cow-people for years. None of them have a single brain cell not dedicated to childcare. None of them could swat a fly, let alone murder the handlers who keep them safe.
In any case, all of that had happened while she was still gone, had her work phone off, and ignored anything and everything sent her way.
When her plane touched down, though… that’s when Joanne realized the absolute pile of epic shit WRU had just been thrown into.
Two former pets - two people who should be current pets, actually - had spoken at a surprise press conference, and more than twenty Olympics athletes from fifteen countries had shown photos of people they claimed had been coerced, abducted, or otherwise forced into the pet system.
It was all fucking bullshit, but…
Well, it wasn’t allbullshit.
One of the speakers, turns out, had been none other than Paul’s stupid fucking baby, all grown up. He’d given out his real name, which the dumbass wasn’t even supposed to remember any longer, and it had been enough information for journalists to dig up who he was, what had happened to him, and most importantly, who his living relatives are.
There was an article in TIME magazine. Unlikely Voices - how two runaway human pets from WRU became the face of a movement and the cry for justice from a lost generation.
They’d done their research, all right. Tristan’s entire life had been laid bare in that article, in excruciating detail, up until… until he’d disappeared into WRU.
Which meant there had been a mini-profile in a little sidebar. Who is Joanne Botham? A shadowy figure from Tristan Higgs’ past… There’d been a photo of her, taken without her consent, but her attempt to sue had been dismissed.
His little stunt had been making Joanne’s job - and life - hell. She can’t even go into work in her own car any longer, there are reporters camped out who know her make, model, and license plate. She has to catch rides with different coworkers. She can’t go out to a simple restaurant without someone yelling at her, without discovering protesters at her car when she tries to go home. She can’t get her haircut without her stylist - someone she’s been going to for years! - suddenly refusing to cut her hair any longer.
Mysonis autistic, her stylist had said, voice cold. You’ve listened to me talk about Gabe all this time, how could you do that when you did what you did?
It’s not the same-
It’s exactly the same! Get out of my salon!
No one cares about Joanne’s side of the story.
Not that anyone ever has. Everyone’s always blindsided by Ronnie being obsessed with her kid or Tristan being pretty adorable when he wasn’t being terrible. Everyone’s always got wool pulled over their eyes, and only Jo has ever seen it for what it really is.
Tonight didn’t go any better than the last few weeks had. She’d been recognized while picking up takeout Thai food for dinner. The pet lib assholes had to be breeding like fucking bunnies, they seemed to be everywhere now. One of them had followed her from the restaurant to her car, asking her if she had any regrets.
“Yeah,” She’d said, her voice rough and harsh. “Talking to you, that’s my biggest regret.”
He was probably recording that. They’re always recording her, now.
At least her house is paid off, this little bungalow bought with cash from her finder’s fee after Tristan’s application had been accepted by WRU. Her car’s paid off, her house is paid off, her 401k looks amazing…
Maybe she should just retire now, and disappear.
How long would it take the pet libbers to pick some new target, if Joanne Botham wasn’t an easy enemy to find?
She drops the takeout container on the kitchen counter, the smell of cilantro, fish sauce, and chicken rising through the air, making her mouth water. She can’t even remember what she ordered, but it doesn’t really matter. She’ll barely taste it, anyway.
She grabs the remote and turns on the TV, checking the news channels with a nervous new habit. Nothing new, though, it looks like. Nothing too big.
Nothing to worry about.
She pulls down a bowl, dumping the takeout into it, looking at the chicken and shrimp swimming in noodles, sauce, and sauteed vegetables. They left the mushrooms in, she realizes. She had specificallyasked for no mushrooms-
“What a lovely little home you have, Miss Joanne,” says an older man’s voice from behind her, slightly creaky with age.
FINALYYYYY
I HAVE WAITED YEARS FOR THIS. FINALLY. FINALLY. FUCK YOU, JOANNE
The fact that if she hadn’t been such a horrid bitch and had kept some photos she could have lived… hm. Unfortunate, really
CW: DEATH, GUN VIOLENCE, MILD GORE, REFERENCED HOMOPHOBIA, REFERENCED CHILD ABUSE
@amonthofwhump Mafia Madness
Family Business,Kidnapping, Vendetta
Olsan Huntley died the way he lived - violently - in a deserted alley off of 45th and Holly. It was quick. One moment he’d stepped out of the car, enraged at the driver who’d wisely fled the scene and the next, with the deafening crack of a gun, his life was taken from him.
