teddy tonks.

— * | TED TONKS. do not go gentle into that good night. rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[cissas]

E.

As if a flight to Scotland and a mostly fruitless scene search (with the exception of random observations she noted to tell Tom should he ask if there was anything of note) weren’t tiring enough, Emma was sent to join in the mourning of a person she’d witnessed the death of, and now diverted justice away from. Already physically exhausted, she wasn’t excited to add emotional exhaustion to her already tired demeanor, but she never much had a choice in the matter when it came to her feelings. At least here she could claim to be moved by the heavy energy in the room if she got a little teary-eyed when she was unable to stop thinking about the last moments of Regulus’s life and the role she played in it. She kept to the back of the crowds and sat herself down at the end of the bar, not trying to place herself in the midst of the suffering, part to keep herself away from the suspicion and part because she wasn’t even supposed to know Regulus personally, except for brief meetings with the then-infant when she was a child. She was here out of respect, but especially out of obligation.

A voice surprised her as she sat down, and relief washed over her to know she’d have at least a few moments to chat with Ted alone. Emma couldn’t quite say this was the most relieved she’d been to see Ted, as she often felt this way when he was around. She was relieved to have someone to listen to her. She was relieved to have someone who cared. She was relieved to have a distraction from the sheer stress of her life. Ted was everything and more in a friend. “Hey,” she greeted back with a sad smile, reaching to hug Ted over the bar. But it was work talk as usual, causing Emma to sigh in response. She couldn’t blame Ted for talking about it – it was monumental, right now. “I dunno, my job was just to identify him, not to figure out where he’s at. I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she shrugged. Finding a man who didn’t want to be found sounded impossible – at least, if you’re hiding from Tom Riddle, you hope it very well should be, lest you want to face the deadly consequences of being found. Yes, there was that lead, she thought, but it was a lead she created. While yes, she didn’t agree with the Order, this wasn’t how things should be done. Her conscious knew this well. Emma tried to shake it off with a shake of the head in response to him. “I can’t drink tonight – technically, I’m working.”

Her irritation at having to discuss work is immediately apparent, Ted having become reasonably good at reading Emma’s emotions. He understands why, but the topic remains poised on the tips of everyone’s tongues -- albeit often spoken under hushed voices for the sake of staying respectful to the poor victim they’d gathered for ( or, perhaps more specifically, the poor victim’s brother ). “It’ll all work out,” he tries to reassure her, swerving around the topic despite the strong urge to discuss the strange coincidence of Dumbledore having known that the authorities were onto him and managed to evade capture. A glass already clasped in his hand, he regards her answer with a slow-forming smile. “Right.” With a quick wink that doesn’t look half a slick as it should, he fills the highball with ice and lime, subtly adding a few shots of gin before topping it up with tonic water. “Here’s your very non-alcoholic drink that definitely has no alcohol inside and will certainly not taste of alcohol.” 

He looks pleased with himself, leaning idly against the bar, scanning the various groups of people dotted around the pub. It was a bizarrely mixed bunch, made more so by the distinct lack of Sacred 28 members or grieving teenage friends -- which he assumes Regulus must have had, surely? Not that he was suggesting the absence of rich youth was a bad thing. He highly doubts they’d be the sort to tip and would probably kick-off at the small selection of top-shelf liquors ( most of which were untouched and covered in a thin coat of dust ). “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Life is fucking short. You never know how much time you’ve got left.” The somewhat morbid thought is followed by one of Maya, uncertain as to how long he ought to wait before he reconsiders his attempts to have a serious relationship with her. Ted steals a sip of Emma’s drink only to remember how much he dislikes gin. “What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do? Top of your bucket list. You should make it happen.”

[cissas]

A.

Andromeda can understand the irresistible temptation to entice a loved one away from the corruption of high-society living. She wonders if he sees the same glimpses of good in Maya. What she doesn’t tell him is that Maya loves Narcissa perhaps more than she cares for Ted, their friendship a resolute, bizarre sort of a loyalty that could keep Maya firmly tied to the House of Black. She welcomes the shift in subject matter, not wanting to think about her sisters anymore after such a depressing conversation in the conservatory hours earlier. Instead, Andromeda recognizes that Ted is trying to lighten the mood. The joke manages to straighten her frown. It’s the sentiment following that manages to coax a shadow of a smile, the corners of her lips quirking just a moment. “No,” she admits. It doesn’t justify that Andromeda has effectively dragged Ted into an age-old conspiracy without his permission. “At the risk of sounding dramatic, I don’t talk much to anyone about anything.” So it means something, is what Andromeda leaves unsaid.  

                                                                    - - - - -

Darkness. Gunshots. Screaming. When silence comes, punctuated only by the soft coughs and groans of the injured (and someone is softly weeping, she thinks), she’s on the floor near the window - or at least, it’s what Andromeda guesses by the accidental crunch and prick of glass in her palm when she pulls herself upright. It’s more difficult than ever to think when the retreating roar of the motorbikes - the motorbike - announces the departure of the pub’s assailants. Everything is sluggish as she stumbles to her feet, grasping the window ledge, and then the sight of a crimson-stained collar is what jolt-starts her into crisis mode. 

She nearly drops her phone as she fumbles it out of her pocket, swipes up, manages to activate the flashlight and shines it on the face of…Ted. Her stomach sinks. Seeing him bloody, bruised, and seemingly only half-conscious nearly makes her knees wobbly all over again and it’s almost a saving grace she’s crouching down on her knees at his side. Her fucking funeral heels weren’t made for this. “Ted,” she breathes, setting her phone down on the floor face-up so the light illuminates the underside of the bar. A passerby jostles her, a muffled voice talking to emergency services on their mobile that fades into the background.  “Hi. It’s me. Try not to move. You’re - I don’t know how hurt you are.” A hand briefly touches his cheek - an instinctual gesture, hoping to coax him to the present and pull him farther from unconsciousness. The blood glistening on his chin seems to be coming from a split lower lip, and the tissue around his eye has swollen angrily. She wonders if he can even see her. The palm flattens against his face gently, bruises already blossoming against his dark skin. “Don’t worry about trying to pull that eye open, okay? It seems pretty swollen. Can you tell me what hurts?”

He’d quite like to sleep, he thinks. Closing his eyes is nicer than opening them, blocking out the glare of white torchlight, his mind ticking over sluggishly. He murmurs a sound of gentle protest at the person talking to him, wanting them to stop so that he could rest without having to think about anything. Their voice drifts but the touch of their hand is what convinces him to open one eye, blinking them into focus. Andromeda’s face looks mildly worried, peering at him with a very intense sort of focus. “Hey,” Ted says through a smile that hurts -- which surely couldn’t be right? Brow knitting into a frown as fragments of memory slowly piece themselves together, the tip of his tongue probes at his bottom lip, a subsequent sharp sting sending a wave of awareness through him. His jaw tightens, teeth pressing together, but relaxes as he leans into the warm comfort of Andromeda’s palm. At least she seemed unharmed. “Lucky you’re here.” A breathy chuckle is exhaled, the motion sending a wave of discomfort through his ribs. “Quickest waiting time of any doctor.”

Her question quietens him, attempting to assess the various aches and pains. “My head. And my eye.” He swallows, his mouth dry with the leftover tang of blood. “My left wrist hurts when I try to move it. And my ribs feel like someone’s been jumping up and down on them. And I-- have you seen Emma? Is she ok?” Ted tries to sit up straighter, straining his neck to search for her, his thoughts leaping frantically. Where had she been when the lights went out? And how had they gone out? Had the attackers managed to cut off the supply? Why had they targeted a remembrance event? Why had it been so premeditated? “Are you ok?” Ted’s gaze returns to Andromeda, guilty at not having asked her sooner. “I don’t understand what happened-- they just came in and-- who the fuck does that?”

[cissas]

M.

“No,” Maya shakes her head adamantly as he apologizes, sniffling quietly, “No, I won’t let you be sorry.” She likes to believe that under any other circumstances she’d be furious with him, daring to come to her apartment at the break of dawn without explanation and without warning so she could properly prep her face and outfit for his arrival. But the longer she looks at him, she can’t bring herself to feel anything for Ted but deep-seeded worry, emotionally-distressing pain that could only be felt secondhand. Blinking her lashes rapidly, she tries her best to chase away her tears before they fall, unsure of exactly why seeing him like this had reduced her to waterworks, but knowing that she never wanted to see Ted like this again. Her hand falls from his face, catching the beginnings of a wince before letting her hands trail carefully over his shoulders, over his chest. “Where? Where were you?” She asks hurriedly, because she needs to know if he was around this neighborhood, if she needs to concern herself with the safety of her community, if she needs to alert Alastor of how suddenly poorly protected they are. But as he grips his hands into her robe and tugs her close, Maya doesn’t even care if he ignores her inquiries, holding him close as she exhaled in relief that he was whole. “You’re okay, Teddy Bear. You’re safe,” she whispers in his ear. Rubbing his back, she runs her fingers through his hair as she hugs him, not wanting to let him go should something worse happen to him. His body shudders in her arms, a single sob wracking through his system more than enough to push her tears over the edge, letting them drip silently into the shoulder of his black shirt.

When he stands to his full height, Maya can’t bring herself to let him go, releasing only one of his hands, to wipe gently at her eye. “You’re hurt, they hurt you,” she murmurs, deeply upset, voice coming out strained as he hisses with the slightest of movements. “No, you didn’t wake me I—I was drawing, sketching stuff,” she explains, before her eyes turn to daggers, glassiness gone at the mere suggestion of him leaving, “No, you’re not going anywhere, I won’t let you. You need to let me take care of you.” Not taking no for an answer was a distinct Zabini behavior, removing his hand from her cheek and dragging him as softly as she could inside. By then, she doesn’t realize that the start of the morning and the sudden voices could have potentially woken Cissa, the blonde’s head peeking out of her bedroom, icy blues staring over in question. ‘Please don’t,’ Maya mouthes to her as she passes, shuffling herself and Ted into her bedroom. “Sit — do you want anything? I can make you tea.” She offers, before deciding for him, “I’ll make you tea.” Disappearing, she fills up the kettle and sets it on the stove to start boiling, before padding to the bathroom for the first aid kit beneath the sink and wetting a rag with warm water. Kneeling on her bed beside him, she places the kit in her lap, manicured fingers plucking up things and putting them back as she didn’t really know how to use them. Tossing it aside, she turns his face to her, holding him steady with her fingers as she dabbed at his split lip with the cloth, wiping at dried streaks of blood along his chin and jaw.

Soft hands and gentle touches soothe the damage done by curled fists. Maya melts the tightness coiled through his body, promising him the safety needed to relax. Quiet words brush against his ear, an already erratic pulse leaping beneath bruised-feeling ribs at the fondly spoken pet-name that leaves her lips. Ted frowns, a small, unhappy thing upon his brow, at the sight of tears tracks, chasing the motion of her own fingertips with the side of his thumb to wipe the damp residue from her cheeks. “It’s ok,” he whispers, not wanting her to share his pain, tangling his fingers with her own. Her confession of having been awake both soothes and troubles, glad to have not woken her but concerned by her lack of sleep -- he attempts to make a mental note to find out whether something was worrying her, chasing away slumber, but his head still feels fuzzy at the edges. No protest is made as she coaxes him into her flat, too distracted by the effort to glance up at the sound of movement. ( Narcissa silently regards the injured stray being ushered in by Maya, lashes narrowing in suspicion at the flash of worn-looking Converse and seemingly label-less nondescript jeans, accepting her friend’s plea to avoid asking questions -- for now. )

Ted lowers himself to sit on Maya’s bed, teeth grit as his body settles. He doesn’t decline her offer of tea, wanting to give her the time to collect herself and have a moment alone. Her room smells of her perfume, familiar and calming. He closes his eyes, only opening them again when the mattress beside him shifts. The distinct feeling that she doesn’t know what she’s doing despite the kit in her lap fills him with an endeared warmth, remaining obliging as she cleans his face. “Thanks,” he utters carefully, quietly, adoration written plainly upon his features beneath purpling injuries and swelling. His gaze falls to the medical kit, offering reassurance that she wouldn’t need to use. “Andromeda checked over the worst of it.” The question posed earlier by Maya returns to him, still-fresh memories pressing down on his chest. He takes a deep breath. “It happened at the pub-- the Bucket. I was working. They came out of nowhere. I don’t--” He shakes his head, no more understanding of what had happened now as he had been then. Agitation brews, angry at the attackers, irritated at himself for not having done more, and confused by the entire incident.

Ted works his jaw, plucking at the hem of his t-shirt to lift over his head, dried blood scratching at his skin, only for a sharp pain to jolt down his side with the motion. Exhaustion and pain make for tumultuous emotions, letting out a noise of frustration. “I know I shouldn’t have come here,” he admits. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this, it’s fucking selfish of me to make you.” He swallows thickly around a lump in his throat, reaching to stroke her hair. “But I was so scared and all I could think about was how much I needed to see you, Maya.”

[cissas]

M.

She’s grateful to have been on the opposite side of the funeral this time. 

The day was filled with far too much darkness. Men and women moving about the Black Manor like well-dressed phantoms, passing around flutes of sparkling champagne like this was a cocktail party and not the wake of a young man’s funeral. Appearances were everything, and God forbid a single member of the Black family display a modicum of sadness for the departed Regulus, allow a single hair to be out of place or mascara to track down a cheek. It wasn’t allowed – everyone was watching them, as if waiting for them to fall apart. They had enough of their fair share of tragedies in the past few weeks alone. The House of Black has become the target of hate crimes and vandalism, members of the family being called into the police for questioning as if they’d killed one of their own – it was only a matter of time before something broke. But Maya was there to prolong it as much as she possibly could, there as Narcissa’s side to give a warm squeeze to her hand to remind her that she wasn’t as alone as she’d been feeling as of late. That while the blonde didn’t feel the familial support of her sisters, she had a third sister that was right at her side. 

They’d arrived back at the penthouse late. Slipping off black Dior heels and stepping out of her Zabini original dress, Maya curled up in her bed after making two steaming cups of tea for herself and Narcissa. Pulling her sketchpad over her duvet, the couturier felt that all-too-familiar pang of guilt, feeling wrong for deriving inspiration from Regulus’ death. But seeing the photographs displayed of him that morning gave her ideas, her pencil scratching in details to the collar of a button-down shirt. She doesn’t know how long she stays up for, staring down at a now finished and colored creation, the dark of night beginning to fade away to day. A knock on the door darts her gaze, scrambling for her phone to check the time before pulling on a robe over her silk slip. Padding cautiously towards the door, Maya lifts onto her toes to peek through the peephole, brows knit together as she recognizes the form on the other side. “Ted, what are you–” But opening the door reveals the horrors that reside on the other side. “Oh my god,” she exhales shakily, hands coming cover her mouth as she takes in the blood on his shirt, the darkened swell of his eye, the split of his lip. I didn’t want to be with anyone who wasn’t you. Her lashes feel damp, eyes glassy as she looks up at him, voice barely above a whisper as she gingerly strokes the tender bruise at his cheek, “Who did this to you?” 

Her horror washes over him, too tired to have considered that the current state he’s in might not be quite the best way to turn up on someone’s doorstep unannounced at the crack of dawn and yet to get the chance to look in a mirror. In truth, he’s not sure he wants to. “I’m sorry,” he says again, having never meant to cause her distress. Ted looks at her forlornly, noting the faint silver smudge of what looks like pencil lead decorating the corner of her jaw. His gaze lifts to meet hers, the sight of tears shimmering along her lash line, glinting in the hallway’s light, quick to prick at his own eyes. He reaches for her as she does him, curling his fingers into the soft material of her robe, trying not to flinch as her fingertips graze his cheek. “I don’t know. They just-- they came out of nowhere.” Gunfire. Shattering windows. Heavy boots crunching glass into the carpet. Fragments of memory snag in his mind, the chemical taste of fear yet to leave his mouth completely. 

His other hand mimics the other, fists curling into clothing, using his grip to gently pull Maya closer into him until he can dip his head and bury his face in the curve between her neck and shoulder. Ted closes his eyes, breathing in her familiar scent. The tension in his shoulders drops slightly, tears absorbed by fabric as his body shakes with a single, emotional sob ( upset about what’s happened; exhausted and in pain; glad to be here with her; traces of leftover terror ), unable to summon the energy to cry properly. With a shaky sigh, he straightens up to his full height. A small, grateful smile flickers across his mouth, not quite able to take hold, hissing at the sting of the cut on his lip. “Did I wake you?” he whispers, the pad of his thumb tracking over the smear of graphite on her face. “You should get some sleep. I can go.”

[cissas]

— * | TED & MAYA. MAYA’S FLAT. 26TH JUNE. [ @mzabini ]

He knows he should go home. The dried blood on his t-shirt itches and if he closes his good eye he’s left with a blurry vision of the world made from strange silhouettes and the occasional spread of light that looks like lens flare. It’s late, too -- or early, even. There are people leaving for work, the traffic beginning to grow as he emerges from the underground station, fingers tight around the stairs handrail. Ted swallows down the pain, walking slowly down barely-familiar streets lined with pretty white-painted buildings and wrought iron fences and trees that dapple the early morning sunlight. It’s a far deal nicer than the crumbling cement walls and gum-pocked pavements of his own neighbourhood. Memory helps him find his way to Maya’s, his phone battery having died at some point, abandoning him to a hazy route from train platform to door. He slips into the building on the heels of someone exiting, catching the door before it closes. The elevator is a blessing but the ascent gives him too much time to think about the fact that he shouldn’t have come here. That she doesn’t owe him anything. That he’d be waking her up. 

Ted steps out and approaches the door to Maya’s flat. He hesitates, steadying himself against the wall, only to be spurred on by how much he wants to see her. A jolt of pain ricochets down his wrist as he knocks, knuckles tender, spitting out a curse under his breath. He waits, listening to the silence of the air around him, before trying again, murmuring her name. Time a lost concept, he closes his eyes until the sound of a lock being drawn back rouses him into looking up. The sight of Maya brings a rush of relief, the reason for him being here already forming upon his lips, his expression apologetic. “I’m sorry. I just really needed to--” His voice cracks, the long night and the tug of his heart making his emotions restless. “I didn’t want to be alone. I also-- I didn’t want to be with anyone who wasn’t you.”

[cissas]

A.

Andromeda didn’t come here for this. But it’s impossible to brush the subject to the side, packing it away in a box and taping it shut until two days from now, when Ted’s earnest face is level with hers. The subtle mention of Daisy strikes a nerve that Ted is probably entirely unaware of. Given the events of five days ago, she’s well-aware that her best friend would be very interested to know what information Andromeda has been locking away for the past decade. It manages to off-rail her for just a few moments, gaze flicking over to the back of Daisy’s head, imagining how the detective would react. Angry, perhaps. Thinking less of her for being complicit. “I don’t know. It goes back farther than you think.” But she knows he’s right; with how unhinged politics were lately, she wouldn’t be surprised if the House of Black unraveled on its own in her lifetime. 

The unexpected sensation of his fingers wrapping not tightly, but firmly enough around her wrist nearly makes Andromeda jump. “I’m not trying to upset you,” she explains, honest. “A few days ago I might have, sure. But not now. I just - I want you to - there’s going to be collateral damage with something like this.” Normally articulate, the combination of a difficult, rarely-spoken-of subject and the creeping paranoia make it difficult for her to properly explain what she means. The corners of her mouth pull into a frown, frustrated with herself. Though the height of the counter (or her own lack of height) makes it somewhat difficult to obtain proximity now that he’s retreated to the closest bottle of rum, she leans forward. “I know what it’s like to try to pull someone out, and how disappointing it is when it doesn’t happen. And I don’t want you to hurt like that. Or at least, be prepared for that possibility.” 

You. Andromeda’s brow creases between her eyes. She thinks she cares about Ted more than what makes sense, but in her mind it was always one-sided. As an extraordinarily good-hearted person, Ted seems to be the sort that has an effect on people. But being singled out - presumably as a relative stranger compared to Emma and Maya - confuses her. “Interesting,” is what she mulls aloud. Realizing it’s cryptic, she clarifies, “Unexpected.” The faint warmth of his implication is something she can’t quite explain. “I wasn’t fishing. I was just curious. Who people confide in can say a lot about them, but to be honest I don’t know what it says about you.” She lets out a huff, having absently peeled a strip of label from her beer bottle and now rolling it between her forefinger and thumb. “Ah, now I’m rambling. It’s been a long day. I think my brain’s a bit fried.” 

“I know,” he confesses, sounding somewhat defeated. “The collateral damage is, like, all I’ve been able to think about for the past two days. I’ve been knocking back sleeping pills just to get my thoughts to shut up for a few hours.” He punctuates the confession with a sheepish look, staring at the now empty shot glass as the temptation to down another grows ever louder. Dark eyes lift to meet her own, appreciating her warning but none the less deterred. “I’ve got to try, otherwise I won’t forgive myself if she gets caught up in it all. And besides--” Ted heeds the alcohol’s call, rum splashing into the glass, needing something to wash his following words down with, “--I’m beginning to think hurt and disappointment might be how it’s destined to end between me and her anyway.” The rum stings the back of his throat but not half as much as the truth.

“Interesting and unexpected are actually the exact words used to describe me in bed,” he jokes, lips caught in a grin that swiftly becomes a wince, shaking his head at his own half-hearted attempt at humour. Her efforts to peer inside his brain and figure him out is regarded with a thoughtful hum, knuckles brushing idly against the stubble lining his jaw. “Yeah-- I’m not sure I want to know what it says about me, to be honest.” That he gets attached? That he’s too quick to trust? That he needs a friend who’s a bloke? “I definitely didn’t say your name just to give you a confidence boost, though. That’s why I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us, because you’re the only person I can talk to about-- certain things. And I’m guessing that there aren’t many people you can talk to about it either.” Ted shrugs as if to soften his assumption, ready to dismiss it if she told him otherwise. His attention catches on her fiddling, wondering whether the inability to keep still was habitual or a sign that she’s stressed. “Trust me, you’re not rambling,” he tells her with a breath of laughter. “I had a punter spend ten minutes trying to explain to me why Australia aren’t going to win the Ashes this year. Fucking unprompted. I don’t even like cricket.”

                                                            — * |   🕒   | * —

His head is spinning and the taste of blood in his mouth is thick and metallic. Phone torches dance through his vision like fireflies, squinting into the bright light as someone approaches. Ted sits up and regrets it instantly, his body protesting loudly, adrenaline draining away to be replaced with a variety of aches and pains. “Hey,” he manages to choke out to the figure hovering near him, their face difficult to make out. He tries to open his other eye without success. Leaning backwards, skull knocking against the front of the bar, the tip of his tongue probes the stinging cut on his bottom lip. “Would you mind getting me some water?”

[cissas]

A.

✘ amycus & ted. | the leaky bucket. 06.25.19.

Amycus thrives off this kind of chaos, this kind of calamity.

Bar patrons flee, covering their heads and ducking for cover, scurrying and scrambling with their underpriced watered-down drinks towards the nearest of the exits, stampeding over one another to save themselves. Behind his helmet is a wicked smirk, springing quick into action, hands swiping at all the glasses upon the bar’s counter letting them clatter and crash to the floor. He latches his hands onto the clothing of what he presumes is a man, flinging him into a set of high-chairs and a table, hearing him crash and fall with a grunt. He breaks a bottle of beer over the head of one, kicks at the ankles of another, enjoying the retaliations of those foolish enough to think they could stop him as it only fueled the white-hot adrenaline that coursed through him.

Something whizzes past his ear, smashing against the far wall, stopping him in his tracks. Pulling himself to his full height, his eyes cut to the side as shards of glass slide down the wall by his head. Amycus growls, a low, feral sound as he rolls his shoulders and slowly twists around to look to the source. The figure’s form is tall, features shadowed and darkened — not that what he looked like mattered too much. Amycus was an equal opportunity fighter. Man, woman or child could find themselves on the receiving end of his wrath if they overstepped. And he assumed that this man would have to be shown rather than told what a mistake it was to aim for Amycus Carrow and dare to miss. He slings his gun over his shoulder, flexing his leather-gloved fingers before squaring his shoulders. Charging for the bar, palms plant on the beer-slick surface, lifting and swinging himself over to face who he presumes is the bartender on his side. It’s been too long since he’d had a proper bar brawl, and she was suddenly verymuch in the mood — a hand wraps around the edge of a metal container housing garnish lemon and lime wedges, emptying it on the other with a flick of his wrist as a distraction before swinging his newfound weapon hard until he heard the metallic clang of impact.

@atted​

Darkness. Screams. Something that sounds like bullets and smashing glass but that he can only assume to be such because it sounds similar to the sort of gunfire you see in the movies but different, too. It’s worse. It’s terror-inducing. Ted freezes, watching people scatter through the moon-lit pub, half-crouched behind the bar. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the rush of fear-formed-adrenaline loud in his ears and accompanied by a cacophony of fighting and breaking and noises that make his stomach curl. Motorbike helmets glint with violent motion, the attackers hidden behind visors that reflect the chaos they’ve caused. Are still causing. A deer in the headlights, the flight or fight instinct takes over. Trembling hands reach for an empty pint glass, hurling it across the room at one of the darkly-clad assailants. Glass shatters against the wall, missing his target, and he’s struck by the bone-chilling realisation that he’s not getting out of here unharmed. Ted retreats backwards as he’s set upon, heavy boots hitting the floor on his side of the bar. Bottles rattle at the impact. “Why?” is all he can manage to get out, unexpectedly batting away the damp segments and waxy skins of the fruit that’s thrown at him. 

Something harder hits the side of his brow, flinching away. Pain follows. He attempts to steady himself, instinct kicking in. Snatching at the nearest object that isn’t going to break on impact, he runs at the motorbike rider ( or, at least, it was assumed they had one -- perhaps the safety gear was merely to protect themselves against understandably angry people being beaten up for no reason ) with a cocktail shaker, bringing it down against the helmet visor. He tries again, desperately smashing the cylinder into it, simultaneously kicking at a shin. Was that supposed to be a good part of the body to aim for in self-defence? Fleeting uncertainty makes way for dread, biker gear made to withstand the road proving impossibly solid, weak spots seemingly non-existent. “Fuck off,” he urges, fear and hatred thick in his throat, slamming his shoulder into the other in the hope of-- well, he wasn’t sure what. Something, certainly. Hopefully.

[cissas]

— * | TED & EMMA. THE LEAKY BUCKET. 25TH JUNE. [ @vanityemmas]

He hears Emma before he sees her, busy serving a customer as she approaches. Waiting for the person in front of him to search through their change for the right coins, Ted studies her from afar. She looks drained, although less so than the last time he saw her, cheeks red from crying into his t-shirt. He’s surprised she made it, if he’s honest, her last text message having mentioned a flight to Scotland for work -- which, having stared at the headline in horror a few hours ago, now made sense. Money dropped into his palm, he deposits it in the till and steps over a crate of back-up beers ( Marlene wasn’t wrong to expect that people were going to need a drink tonight, that was for certain ). “I’m going to need to see your ID please,” he says, gesturing for Emma to hand it over. His charade soon slips, uttering a warm “Hey,” stretching across the bar to give her a one-armed hug. 

The soles of his shoes hit the beer-sticky ground as he settles back and attempts to gauge how she’s feeling now that she’s stood closer. He’d heard the news, of course. Felt the ripples of shock and surprise spread across social media, Hogwarts alumni all suitably shaken. “I--” Ted breathes out a speechless exhale. “I don’t even know what to say other than fuck. But hey, at least he’s been identified now, right? How hard can it be to track him down?” Very hard, he imagines, given that Dumbledore had clearly been given some sort of tip-off to know that the police had figured out the murderer was him and was now likely on a train, or a plane, or a boat, or a-- he stops himself, returning to his efforts of making Emma feel better about what had happened. “At least you now have a lead on the Order of the Phoenix, too.” Offering a lopsided smile, he gestures grandly at the various bottles shelved behind him. “What would you like? If you order a spirit and mixer I can throw in an extra shot.” 

[cissas]

A.

The it - Andromeda has to consciously stifle the instinct to peer at their surroundings and ensure nobody is eavesdropping. Nobody in the pub could possibly know what he was referring to, and yet she feels as though her family’s breath is prickling at the back of her neck. The day preceding had done nothing but encourage any pre-existing paranoia. Truth be told, she hadn’t done a single thing to either prevent nor encourage the secret she’d uttered to Ted in the alleyway. The seven days she’d requested ticking away far too quickly, and now the time she’d so desperately negotiated for was essentially useless given she hadn’t the faintest idea what she wanted to do with it. 

“Do you?” she prompts, though this time it isn’t malicious - she doesn’t think she could be angry with Ted today even if she tried. “I’d lose everything.” Disliking how melodramatic she sounds the moment the words leave her lips, her nose scrunches. “Not everything. But I haven’t alienated myself entirely because there are, erm, some parts that feel - redeemable.” Now Andromeda’s having difficulty being vague. How can she articulate to Ted that the very people he despises have glimmers of good in them, that sometimes she still catches a glimpse of the sisters she’d once known and loved in the first place? “Sometimes you can’t help who you love. Maybe you can relate.” Perhaps a stretch to imply that Ted loves Maya Zabini, but it’s a thinly-veiled hypothesis based on the way he’d looked talking about her outside of the House of Black. “Which, speaking of - maybe you can understand. It’d hurt her, too.”

 It’s difficult to skirt around such an honest display of emotion when Ted’s dark eyes are boring into hers, gleaming with a concern that simultaneously stumps her and leaves her uncertain. “I know.” It’s as close as Andromeda can get to accepting his apology. She worries the edges of her bottle’s label with her thumb. “Who do you talk to? I get the impression you want to look after everyone - what does that leave you with?”

A part of him is glad for the people surrounding them. It forces him to catch himself before he can utter something too honest, focusing his words while trying to keep his tone even. Whispers sounded too obviously like they were conspiring, although in the noise of the pub he doubts many are listening out for anything that isn’t idle chatter. Another part of him is frustrated by it, ducking his head for a moment of respite from Andromeda’s gaze and all the things he can’t currently say aloud. “You’d gain just as much as you’d lose,” he attempts to convince her, leaning into the bar, arms sticking to damp laminate, raising his chin to look at her from her own height. “Everything about your life screams freedom. Besides, you could still lose anyway. Stuff like this always comes out in the end. Surely it would be better if you were involved than--” Ted looks pointedly at an assumedly off-duty Daisy Hookum, doing his best to remain covert, “--letting them uncover it themselves at some point, right?” He holds his tongue on just how much could be redeemable when it comes to drug traffickers in positions of power. 

His features shift into a faint expression of grief at Maya’s unspoken name, unhappiness clawing at his chest, the reminder of how he feels about her an unwanted one ( as if he didn’t think about it enough ). “Hey.” The warning is spoken under his breath, impulsively clasping Andromeda’s wrist. “She’d be better off away from it all. Safer, too. So don’t-- please don’t bring her into this.” He lets go just as abruptly as he’d grabbed her, reaching for a shot glass to fill with the nearest spirit, knocking back the liquid with a wince, his paycheck beginning to look as though it would end up back in the tills. 

He nods, a hint of tension dropping from his shoulders, not wishing for Andromeda to blame him but just as unkeen for her to blame herself. The ones guilty were those she didn’t want to hold accountable. Her question and the observation that accompanies it takes him by surprise, mouth parting to answer. “My friend, Emma.” Only, he couldn't talk to her about this and he certainly couldn’t talk to her about Maya, not without risking an argument. “Maya, sometimes.” But less than he’d like -- and again, the two topics troubling him were out of bounds, as much as he wants to discuss the latter properly with her. He toys restlessly with the hair by his temple, only able to name one other person. “You.” 

[cissas]

A.

A newfound, awkward sort of discomfort barricades Andromeda from the ease she’d once felt in Ted’s company. Before, she might have been relieved to see the tall, scruffy-haired reporter after the parade of Sacred 28 members she’d entertained all day. Now, she feels very unsure of how to proceed, tip-toeing around the subject that seems too monstrous to address in the middle of the buzzing pub. Or, at all. And then there’s the memory of how he’d looked at her when they’d had the conversation. The image has inevitably warped and exaggerated over the course of the past few days, ending with Ted staring at her like she’d slain an innocent teen herself. 

She accepts news of Sirius’ unknown location with a curt nod, the fleeting sense of purpose she’d grasped onto so desperately only moments ago now slipping through her fingers. The brief silence is filled with the hefty clink of a full bottle against laminate. Andromeda’s eyes steal a proper glimpse at him before she accepts the offering, the glass already slick with condensation. “Thanks,” she replies. Before she can consider retreating to search for Sirius he adds an assurance that catches Andromeda entirely off-guard, leaving her staring at him for perhaps a moment too long before she raises the beer to her lips (if only to occupy her hands). “You probably shouldn’t be,” is what she says finally. The man across the bar should be angry with her, or at least giving her some degree of a cold shoulder. What Andromeda thinks she really means, though, is that Ted has already been dragged into her mess without asking. He doesn’t deserve to drown in it. 

She’s right, he supposes. He probably shouldn’t be offering emotional support to someone who has plagued him with a truth he’s struggling to know what to do with, not after she’s requested seven days -- five now -- during which time she could quite easily erase the mistake of letting slip a family secret with a quick call to whoever it was she warned him could hurt him and his family. And yet, he still feels as though he has some responsibility to ensure that she’s ok. Journalists, good ones at least, were meant to work with their sources, not against them. His current inability to publish anything that she’s told him set aside, it was his prompting and his apparent lack of desire to screw her over which had led Andromeda to share what she knew. What he now knew. What they both knew. “Maybe,” he replies, his words feeling sluggish with the weight that hangs in the air between them, the tension of unspoken emotion winding its way around beer pumps and bottle tops. “But I probably shouldn’t do a lot of things, so--” His shrug is half-hearted, staring at a mark on the bar’s surface that he rubs at idly with the pad of his thumb. 

“I don’t--” Ted speaks before thinking, cutting himself off only to restart, the furrow of his brow faint. “I want to do something. About it. But I don’t want to do it alone, Andromeda. That’s what I meant, before-- when I suggested that you could help me. I get that it’s a difficult decision, though. And,” he exhales, wanting to get his thoughts out, having spent the last two days with them fogging up his mind, “I just-- I want you to know you can still talk to me. I meant what I promised you.” He forces himself to meet her gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards briefly into a sorry excuse for a smile that barely lasts a heartbeat, uncertain that he’d ever be able to regain her trust but stubbornly good-willed enough to not know when to stop trying. “I really am sorry. For everything.”

[cissas]

A.

— 25th of june. 11:30 pm. the leaky bucket. @atted

It’s been a day. 

Sacred 28 gatherings are always an affair, and funeral processions are no exception; this is hardly Andromeda’s first run around the block, and yet she still finds herself winded once she finally extracts herself from the Black estate. Exchanging niceties about her dead cousin, tension crackling between and only visible to the Black sisters, the stupid House of Black dress her mother had guilted her into donning: it all leaves Andromeda queasy. And if that doesn’t do it, the notification on her phone that Albus Dumbledore has been pinned as Regulus’ murderer does. 

Andromeda feels herself slipping through her own grasp with every passing hour, and it irks her to feel so vastly out-of-control of her own circumstances. The last thing she wants to do (for once) is drown at home alone. Busy hands, she thinks, couldn’t even distract her from the her  cousin’s death and the resulting ripple effect. And more than usual, the company of the other Sacred 28 members seems to suck her dry of any residual sympathy. Regulus Black is dead, but his legacy - and the press, the funds it’ll garner - matter the most. 

Lily Evans’ invite to The Leaky Bucket after the wake manages to stick, and Andromeda finds herself appearing at the threshold of the pub late in the evening, primarily with a mission to set eyes on her living cousin. Sirius, she thinks, serves as a reminder that their genetic pool is not entirely incapable of full human emotion but also hope that survival after severing ties is possible. At any rate, Andromeda is one of few people who could understand how Sirius could be feeling. Checking on him is the least she could do. 

The warmth of the Leaky Bucket envelops her the moment she steps inside. It’s distracting just for a moment, and Andromeda hesitates, feeling both out-of-place but also like she could stand there for at least an hour, just listening to orchestra of laughter and clinking glass. Then, her goal manages to creep its way back in. Grounded with a newfound sense of purpose separate from her own flimsy stability she weaves through the milling crowd to the bar, eyes searching for Marlene’s familiar shaggy hair bobbing behind the countertop. What Andromeda finds instead actually seems to clear the breath straight from her lungs, surprise settling in and threatening to upheave her. In the wake of their last conversation, Ted is one of the very last people Andromeda wants to see tonight. Face-to-face with the journalist whose easy smile shifts with her appearance, she’s at a loss for words before she manages to scrounge something up. “Hey. I’m, uh, looking for Sirius. Have you seen him around?”

People tend to utter a rightfully confused sounding oh whenever they piece the seemingly unbalanced facts of Ted’s life together: a journalist for a small news organisation; living in London; living alone in London in a flat that isn’t great but also isn’t in the basement; makes minimum wage; takes public transport. He doesn’t often tell people of his on-the-side employments, plural, but mostly because they’re so sporadic and prone to changing. Working the odd evening shift at the pub, though, was perhaps his favourite. Marlene is good to him and the punters are too, the occasional coin clinking into the tip jar that he’ll graciously refuse to take at the end of the night for the sake of the more permanent staff. Wiping down the beer-slick surface of the bar, he offers the occasional sympathetic smile but can’t help wondering just how many people here actually new Regulus. This was far from the fashion house heir’s crowd if assumptions served him well. But that particular train of thought is swiftly derailed (and consequently proved wrong), however, as Andromeda emerges in front of him. 

“Hi,” he says back, the response lost in her own words as she makes the very clear point of not being here for any form of conversation with him about -- well -- the elephant that had wandered into the room with her. He discards of the rag in his hands, dropping it into the sink. “No, he-- I don’t know where he went. He was here. Not working, just-- talking and drinking.” Dark eyes flick to the black of her outfit and then to the difficult to read expression on her face before turning his back to her to grab an IPA from the fridge. “Here.” The bottle is set down in offering, tentative in the wake of their last discussion. She hadn’t wanted to talk about Regulus then so he makes the assumption that she won’t want to now -- only to worry that she might assume he doesn’t care (about her cousin, about what's happened, about her ). “I’m still here for you, you know. If you need me.”

[cissas]

M.

Okay, he says. Ted relents, for now. Successfully, she’s warded him and his desires for a real relationship off. But something that feels like guilt curls itself inside of Maya’s chest as she wonders just how long she can keep this up. How long could she keep pushing away Ted’s wants in favor of her own until she pushed him away completely? That was the last thing she wanted, but this was also a matter that tomorrow Maya would simply have to handle for her because she didn’t want to do it right now. Not when Ted was still warm beneath her palms and fog was still fading from her windows. He pulls her closer, presses his lips into her hair, and Maya curls into him, nuzzling her cheek into his shoulder, pressing a tender kiss there before settling.

“Ted,” Maya cuts him off sternly, emoting her head from beneath his chin to fix him with her fiery stare. “Why do you do that? The press, The Order, everyone’s always so quick to criticize House of Black and I never understood it.” A company where she has done nothing but flourish was difficult for her to find faults in. “Am I sure? Of course I’m sure. They’re the top fashion house in London. I’m a designer, Ted. This is my life, my dream, not everyone gets this opportunity I happen to have. Me.” Her words propel forward with heated determination, not allowing him and his opinions to trample on her work, “And one day I’m going to have a fashion house of my own, and having connections to the Blacks will help me do that.” An unhappy frown makes itself at home on her face the thought of being the Order’s next target upsetting her, uttering a deliberate and guilt-tripping, “Stop, you’re scaring me.” But then…then, Maya’s memory produces a thought, bringing it to the forefront. Ted’s words triggering recollection of a text she’d received days ago. Pulling away from him, she reaches into the driver’s seat for her purse, grabbing her phone and unlocking it. “Did—did you send me this?” She turns her phone around and rests it in his palm. “If you wanted me to leave the Blacks you could have just said, you didn’t have to be all cryptic and weird.”

She feels to roll her eyes, but doesn’t. All this talk of conclusions and potential reconciliations not really what she wants to talk about. “If,” Maya reiterated once more, even after he presses a kiss to her lips, transparent for a change as she wants him to know it’ll be her choice alone that will bring her and Emma together. She wouldn’t do it simply because he asked it of her. “I suppose we’ll have to see.”

Maybe people were quick to criticise her employers because they could smell the corrupt rot from here. Maybe they were quick to criticise the House of Black because the rich would always have too much power and from that stemmed too few restrictions. Maybe they were quick to criticise because some of them knew the secret that Andromeda had unceremoniously shared with him, making him feel a lot like Pandora -- only instead of being told not to open the box, its contents had been scattered for him before he’d even had a chance to realise what was inside. “Maya,” he says back to her firmly, unmelted by her heated stare. “They’re what’s wrong with society. They’re greedy and selfish and they buy out all of the smaller competition and they don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves.” Ted aches with the urge to tell her, to ask her what she knows about the narcotics supposedly being trafficked by the company, but the risk of the threats uttered to him by Andromeda has him swallowing his words. “Please be careful,” is all he can think to utter without drawing too much attention to his worrying. “I know this is your dream but I don’t want them to take advantage of you.” He buries his worried expression back into Maya’s hair, shutting his eyes, eased by the fact that she was safe for the time being here in his arms. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” It’s half a lie. He did want to scare her for the sake of his newfound horror towards the House of Black, but simultaneously he didn’t want to scare her enough that she’d actually be afraid.

He exhales a sigh that tastes of guilt and regret and longing and concern and every other emotion currently lurking in the cavity of his chest. Fingers grab his discarded t-shirt from the vehicle floor when Maya shifts, pulling it on over his head. A hand is run anxiously through his hair once. Twice. A third time, only to be interrupted by the phone being placed into his grasp. “What’s--” Dark eyes scan the text, blinking at the bright glow of the phone in the otherwise dimly lit car. Ted frowns, glancing up at Maya and then back down to the screen. “No, I-- fuck. This wasn’t me.” The bitter taste of worry continues to claw its way up his throat. “Maybe-- maybe you should listen to them though, Maya. Or at least discuss it with the police. After what happened to Regulus, do you really want to be ignoring something like this?” He locks the device and passes it back to her, stretching his legs out to keep his knee from bouncing with nerves. If he shared what Andromeda had told him with the world, Maya could end up getting hurt. Yet, if he didn’t share what she’d told him with the world, Maya could still end up getting hurt. Or worse, involved. Shit. He hated this. “I should probably get going,” he attempts to muse with a certain nonchalance, ducking his head to lean in and plant a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll see you soon.”

[cissas]

R.

“DARLING TED.” she greeted, her tone ever-present with a patronising trill to it. “speaking of z-list, how is it going over at the quabbler? qriller? what’s it called again?” she kept the polite smile on her features, eyeing him from underneath her glasses briefly before turning back to her computer and tapping a full-stop with a bit more vigour then necessary. she would never admit it, but she slightly enjoys ted’s company. he’s always so… light. teasing. he never takes anything she says as a reason to get angry. rita enjoys a squabble as much as the next person, and ted is especially fun to banter with. plus- he’s not hideous to look at, either. she sighs, as if in the middle of something extremely important, and ted is taking up her precious time, before closing her laptop and folding her hands neatly atop each other. “let’s cut straight through it, shall we? i heard the auror team questioned you and your little… squad-” she says that word as if it causes her physical pain, grimacing. “- about the murder of mr regulus black.” she’s already reaching into her pocket, yanking out her phone and pressing RECORD before even asking ted, thrusting the phone closer to him. “how did alecto and rabastan get away with it, exactly? and when will they murder again?”

Ted laughs, the chuckle forced for the sake of showing Rita just how little he cares about the Z-List ( he has no doubt that he’d proudly be on the minus-Z-List if a negative alphabet was such a thing ). “Quibbler,” he corrects, fishing around in his pocket to pull out a very dog-eared, very thin-looking wallet. A business card is pulled out and slid across the tabletop towards her, the online publication’s logo printed jauntily across the top alongside his details. “I wouldn’t want you to forget about us, Rita. How else will you know what’s actually going on with the world beyond break-ups and scandals?” A hint of curiosity flashes across his expression as she sets her work aside, settling his chin into the curve of his palm patiently -- she has that sharp look in her eye, the very same that tends to act as a precursor to a question that he’s more typically audience to rather than the recipient of. “Are you checking up on me and Xenophilius, Rita?” A smile toys across his lips, amused by her antics. “As fun as it would be to point fingers at random people with you, we both know that I don’t have a flying fuck of a clue as to who it is the police think did it. I also don’t have a time machine-- but I promise you that when I do, the first thing I’ll do is head into the future to give you a decent scoop on the next murder.” Reaching for his own phone, he hits record himself and waves the device in her general direction. “How does it feel to work for a tabloid that makes up false facts for the sake of cashing in on the tragic death of a teenager, Miss Skeeter?”

[cissas]

A.

“No, I’m not fine with it,” she contests insistently. “It’s why I’m not involved.” Because Andromeda far from approves of the House of Black side business, much less the terrible ripple effect it has. But she understands what Ted means. By not severing the hold the House of Black has on her entirely, keeping quiet and letting them stifle her for the sake of love, it makes her complicit. She’s quickly reminded of the last conversation she’d had with Narcissa. Ted only drives the stake deeper, stirring up all of the suppressed remorse and discontent she’s harbored for years. The sting of his betrayal smarts, now in the context of knowing she’d pulled him into a dark secret so flippantly. 

He fires question after question, and Andromeda can’t decide if she’s angry, sad, or something in-between. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to fan her own animosity when Ted looks so upset. “I don’t know what they’ve done. But it’s possible,” she says finally, a hand briefly raising to rub the back of her neck. That makes it that much harder, she thinks; on the surface it’s best to remain oblivious, but her imagination is dangerous when left unbounded. The moment of calm is something Andromeda seizes and holds onto desperately, unable to quell her thumping heartbeat but at least able to regain some glimpse of composure. Now, Andromeda is only panicked. Fearful not only that Ted will end up on some hypothetical hitlist, but that her family members will end up on a very different but equally terrible hitlist. If Regulus was harmed for being adjacent to the Black crimes, publicizing what happened behind closed doors would be a chaos.

Even if it’s what they all deserved.

Now very still, Andromeda takes in another deep breath. Fear tastes metallic on her tongue. “I wasn’t thinking when I told you. I was angry with you, but you aren’t the only one I’m angry with, and it was…spiteful. I’m the one who should carry it, not you.” She winces, hating how self-righteous she sounds. But now she needs to deal with the consequences of her actions. A problem in need of a solution. She trudges on. “There’s a lot you don’t know, especially with what’s happened recently. If you can’t keep quiet, I get it, just…give me a week.” A week to figure out how Andromeda is going to fix this - or how she’s going to dismember her personal life. “One week, and you can do whatever you need to do. I’ll owe you.” 

As defensive as she is of him keeping quiet in order to ( what he can only assume is ) protect them, there’s an underlying current to the entire situation that sets Ted even more on edge than someone who had just been told that a very famous, very influential fashion company was trafficking drugs typically would be. For all Andromeda’s uncertainty in her answer, there lies a jarring fact: she’s scared of them. It twists his stomach, palms clammy despite feeling cold. What did it take to make someone believe that their own kin was capable of murdering anyone who shared their secret? Was she scared for his life or -- worse, given that she shared the same blood as those accused -- her own? He feels sick. And sad. And there’s a headache creeping through the back of his skull that feels like it’s settling in for the long haul unless he finds some paracetamol to take soon. “Yeah, well--” He rubs at a temple in vain. “It’s a bit late for carrying it alone now that I do know. I mean, that’d be worse, right?” He’s not sure he’ll know what to do with this information if Andromeda ends up disappearing on him for the sake of keeping him out of it. Whatever it was exactly. He assumes it’s more than the occasional cannabis smuggling across county lines, that’s for certain. 

“A week,” he echoes, searching the green depths of her eyes, uncertain of what she would achieve in seven days. Would she get her family to hide all that they can? Would she erase all traces of their apparent illegal activities? Ted exhales, uncertain of how they’d managed to get here -- but only half-regretting it, if he was honest. Despite the vocalised risks that still circle his mind like sharks, this was the sort of knowledge that could dethrone the rich from their prided positions of power. Sure, it would take a lot of time, effort and money to truly get any justice, but at least he could start by hitting them where it hurts: their reputation in the public eye. “One week.” He nods in agreement, accepting her request. “I won’t tell anyone until then. I won’t utter a word of it.” Their trust in one another has been worn thin by this conversation so he tacks on a small smile that wavers slightly before disappearing again. “I promise.”

[cissas]

A.

He doesn’t have to say it aloud for Andromeda to hear the implication behind his words. At one point, Ted seems to have thought she didn’t deserve to be lumped into the same elitist, classist, and pretentious category as the rest of the Sacred 28. She can practically see his opinion of her chipping away to nothing before her very eyes. It seems only fair; only moments ago she’d been internally writing him off as a greedy reporter. But Andromeda’s stomach twists unpleasantly, and she realizes just how much she cares about what he thinks. She is accustomed to being liked by most people who have gotten to know her, and disliked by those who don’t. Before he turns away, Ted’s eyes seem to stare straight through her. Like he does know her, and he doesn’t like what he sees. 

It manages to deflate Andromeda a smidge. She inhales through her nose, holds, and exhales slowly, a habit she’d picked up as a student suffering from the pre-surgery jitters. Anger still coils behind her ribs like a cat waiting to pounce, this time self-directed. “You’re not understanding,” she says, frustration bleeding audibly into her voice even if her words are no longer razor-sharp. “I don’t agree with what they do. But they’re family.” She thinks of her sisters, her love for them intertwined with resentment and detachment and hurt but still love all the same. A relationship that Ted couldn’t understand even if she tried to explain it, not when he’d seemingly come from something far less complicated. 

A part of you wants me to act on it. Andromeda’s inner turmoil, she’s realized, is cyclical; a crack in her familial relationships turns into a split and is swiftly mended only to crack again. And Ted manages to hit her innermost weakness straight on the nose, shattering it to pieces. The resulting guilt is nearly overwhelming that she’s dragged Ted into the ring at all. It doesn’t help that when he’s turned back to look at her again, he appears clearly tormented. The pressure of Regulus’ safety, the distress of finding him splayed on the concrete, and the crushing responsibility she’s felt since threatens to come to a head the longer she stands there. “I need you to listen. I don’t know why I said what I said,” she lies firmly. “But consider that it might be better for everyone if it went forgotten. When we stir the pot, even more people turn up dead. I’m not willing to take that risk. You shouldn’t be, either.” Her words catch in her throat and she has to look away from him, shifting her gaze to the faded brick behind him. Initials have been etched into the clay, barely legible and visibly weathered. “Not now. You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

She’s right -- he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand quite what’s happening because, if he’s frank, he hadn’t anticipated being told a truly ground-shaking truth from the lips of someone who, up until this point, had kept her cards close to her chest and had been difficult to read at the best of times. Her loyalty towards her family only serves to confuse him further, the crease in the centre of his brow growing deeper as he searches for something to say. For anything to say, given that he was stood here opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. “So what-- because they’re family, you’re fine with sitting back to let them fund and fuel the city’s drug trade forever?” Worse, she’d be asking him to do the same. He holds no for the Sacred 28, nor for abuse of power. She knows this, that’s what really stings. “I guess you got me back pretty quick for the shit about befriending you for a story, huh? Now we both feel manipulated and hurt. Fun times.”

Ted drags a heel across the concrete beneath his shoe, scuffing at the rubber trim, the urge to fidget through his sense of distress growing with every passing second. He should have swallowed his earlier concerns and visited Maya. Even if it had culminated in an argument, at least it would have been an easier one to deal with in comparison to this. Except-- except he would have been in the jaws of the monsters and none the wiser. If Andromeda wasn’t going to help him look for evidence, perhaps he could do it on his own with a briefly and very gratefully borrowed security pass that bears the image of a woman he adores. “Fuck.” He lets out the curse on the breath of an exhale, slumping back against the wall feeling drained. “I’m listening,” he manages to promise, although he does so tentatively, uncertain as to whether he wants to hear anything else that leaves Andromeda’s lips. It turns out he doesn’t, but he learns that too late. “You’re not willing to risk others finding out because they might end up dead? Great. I guess I’m just -- what -- collateral damage? Did you get tired of being the only one with a so-called conscience who knows and decided it’d be great to dump some of the weight of it on me?” 

He hates everything about this. From the request for secrecy to the fact that they’re both incapable of looking one another in the eye for more than a couple of seconds. “They’ve killed people before, haven’t they? That’s why you want me to stay quiet.” Ted shakes his head, half-defiant half-apologetic. “I don’t know if I can do that, Andromeda. I know there are risks but, shit-- this isn’t something I can just ignore.”

[cissas]

R.

“ — IF you’ve got a problem with my latest article, you’ll have to talk to my editor.” rita said, not even looking up from her laptop where she was tapping away, furiously. “but you’ll have to join the line. we don’t offer retractions for HURT FEELINGS.” 

Rita sticks out in coffee shops. He knows this because, despite the various Starbucks and Costas and Prets and Joe & the Juices, and the bizarrely named independent coffee houses that come and go with that good old London lack of reliability, he always seems to find the one she chooses to grace her presence with after a press event. She’s as sharp as the shark-like businessmen in grey suits that surround her, staring glumly into their flat whites, and twice as likely bite the head off of anyone who crosses her. Ted likes her, he thinks, just about as much as he dislikes her. “Hiding behind your editor so that the haters don’t egg your house?” He slumps down into the seat opposite Rita, tired after concentrating on the latest House of Black PR conference whilst his mind buzzes over a hundred and one different things. “Which Z-List celebrity couple did you cause the break up of this time?”

[cissas]

E.

She wants to tell him no. She wants to tell him she does know that, for she knows what happens if she opens her mouth and more than just a stream of expletives comes out. Emma always told people how she felt – that was something she could not prevent – but lately, she has not been able to describe the reasons behind those feelings. She expresses to Ted that she’s upset, and doesn’t correct him when his assumptions are wrong. It’s easier to allow Maya to be the scapegoat for her heaving sobs than to explain she watched Regulus Black take his final breath and then stained her hands cleaning his blood that followed – and that wasn’t even 24 hours before she arrived here. It was easier to let him think she cried over a broken friendship than broken morals. That Maya’s upturned nose struck this fear in her and not Tom Riddle’s judging eyes. “It’s more complicated than that,” is all she mumbles, worried that if she raised her voice, her breath would get caught on a word and it would send her into those sobs that left her gasping once more. “Thank you. I know. I know you are.” She can’t help that tears still well up in her eyes, that the heat of them run down her skin every time she blinks. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Ted. I dunno why you’re here after it all, but thank you.”

Emma rolls reddened eyes at that, her head shaking slightly against his chest. “You’re ridiculous.” It was quite obvious that her tone was endearing despite the threat of sobbing if she raised her voice too much again. It became harder and harder to keep things contained as he continued to bring Maya up, for though she wasn’t the true reason for these emotions, it was one hell of a valid outlet for them, if Ted was going to keep bringing her up. “If she wants to talk to me, I’ll talk.” Maya knew how she felt – everyone knew how she felt. But Emma knew reaching out to someone so high up in the House of Black who wasn’t as deep into the darker side of things as Emma was wasn’t the best idea, not with all she’s been feeling lately. Maya was just another name on the list of people who could never understand. Besides, she didn’t need to put herself through all this only to have Maya turn her nose up at her again. If Maya wanted to please Ted, too, then she could make the first move. “Please,” she answered softly, looking up at him.

“Don’t,” he says, wincing as if her self-inflicted criticism has somehow ricocheted off of her own chest and hit his instead. “Don’t say stuff like that, Em. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be here. You’ve not done anything wrong-- fuck anyone who leaves you behind.” Ironically, he supposes a few seconds too late, he has. There’s something almost funny to the fact that he’s simultaneously slept with his dead best friend’s widow and his current best friend’s ex-bestie, and by funny he means altogether ridiculously not-funny. It’s the sort of plot he expects to see in Eastenders or a comedy on Netflix that flops spectacularly because they released it at the same time as a season of Stranger Things. Unfortunately, it’s also exactly the sort of thing he’s expected to happen in his life given his poor ability ( read: inability ) to make decisions based on logic and not on feelings of the heart. He hums in response to her thanks and buries his face back into her hair, closing his eyes as he breathes in the scent of her shampoo and idly reminds himself that he needs to buy some shower gel next time he’s out. 

“Ok.” That was fair, he supposes. Something tells him that trying to talk to Maya when she’s in no mood for conversation would be a bit like trying to wrestle a fish from the jaws of a crocodile: unnecessary given the amount of fish in the world, dangerous given the risk of a bite, and all-round a highly unadvised idea. “I’ll try and broach the topic with her. See if she’ll agree to meet you or something.” Nerves already begin to weave themselves into a sense of dread, far from scared of Maya but certainly not too fond of the idea of having his first-ever argument with her. Slowly, Ted uncurls himself from around Emma and stands up, stretching out long limbs before collecting their barely-touched beers to return to the fridge. He pauses in the doorway, turning back to give her a soft smile. “I’m harder to get rid of than you think I am, you know.”