a smile rested on his lips as he got up to his floor, keys making some noise as he spun them around his finger. he couldn’t shake off the smile - no, the GRIN - no matter how hard he tried, and oh, how he hoped it’d stay there indefinitely. his feet were so light, his chest was so light, and even in the dark night, nothing seemed to weigh him down. when the hell had that happened ? he remembered the moments amelia’s presence had brought him more than amusement, the first proper conversations, but couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he’d fallen so head over heels. how could one kiss bring him such unfiltered joy ? as he opened the door, he imagined the next morning. they’d decided to meet, properly, just the two. he hoped they wouldn’t talk much ( sturgis wasn’t quite ready for that yet ) but all he could think of was the warmth of her lips back on his, her smile, her eyes, her everything. he had half a mind to go back in that very moment just to steal another kiss, but before he could notice, he was on the other side of the door.
sturgis left it open as he took in the scene. the lights, electrical, wouldn’t turn on, but the lights from the city outside shone through the windows, illuminating broken furniture, open drawers, a hole on the wall to the kitchen. the shock, worlds away from the bliss he had been living in just a heartbeat earlier, took his breath away. someone had done this. “ RITA! ASTRA! “ sturgis didn’t know what he’d do if he found one of his roommates’ bodies somewhere in the house. panic clogged up his throat as he reached for his wand, every bit of training from the order ringing loudly in his head. every room he entered seemed to be empty, but destroyed. the journalist rushed to the bathroom, finding a hole in the tiled floor there, and answers rushed in immediately. under it, he had been hiding a crucial piece of evidence. in his room, another hole in the wall. his desk, blown up. three weeks earlier, at st. mungo’s, he and benjy had gotten photos proving a high level ministry advisor, mulciber, was a death eater. three weeks earlier they’d painted the targets, and at last, mulciber hit them. his fingers shake a bit as he grabs some of the shards, smelling slightly burned - the spells has been cast recently. the feeling that he truly wasn’t alone dawned on him, as did one urgent thought: if they got to him, they got to benjy.
with his back to the door of the room, he doesn’t see the figure just outside, but hears the curse. barely dodging it, sturgis rolls on the floor and behind his bed, eyes wide, sweat on his skin. they found him, they found him, they found him. there was no time to overthink it all, but to simply grasp onto his wand with all he could and fire back. it missed, hitting a lamp, which fell to the floor, and the cloaked figure fired back - sturgis knew just who was behind the mask and hood. “ MULCIBER. “ he waits for confirmation, and it comes in the form of curses, just as expected. the man ducks for a moment, before rising up, another spell thrown in the other’s way. the contrast is stark. mulciber is casting to kill, every dodged spell burning big holes in the surrounding area. sturgis is trying to disarm him. damn him and his morals, his light conscience, his clean hands. such spells were never enough of a match.
something hits him, shards of a broken window, cutting deep gashes on his skin from which blood pours. with a wince, and warmth in his eyes from the sudden pain, sturgis’ wand is unwavering. sturgis’ courage is unwavering. was this why they placed him in gryffindor, lifetimes ago ? to not run, to not crawl, to not cry ? was this the bravery he had been searching for ? his spells make mulciber take a few steps back, and once he notices, the battle has been moved to the living room - but it stops abruptly as his wand is ripped from his hands with magic. “ no, no. “ the sounds escape his lips with grief, the sudden realisation that he’s alone, unarmed, bleeding. he wonders, in that moment, if mulciber got to benjy first, or if he’s on his way to the other man right after him. he wonders if he too bled. he hopes he didn’t.
it turns into a chase. sturgis, dripping red and sweat, running from spells and from the other man, hiding behind doors and furniture. the small flat seems three times bigger to him, but there’s a clear goal: the door. still open, he hopes. if he could only reach it, run out, contact the order. aurors. anyone. every new hiding place comes with thoughts so overwhelming they make him feel sick. one is that, if he kills him and benjy, and takes away the evidence, the truth will be buried. who knows how many decisions he’ll be able to influence from his government position ? how much access he has is terrifying. that brings a sort of ambition he often forgot he had - there’ll be no big story. all of it will have been in vain.
a shaky hand touches the side of his face lightly, wincing in pain at the results of the glass, some of it still there. his fingers come back deep red. this is what he signed up for when he joined the order. this is what he signed up for when he became a reporter, bringing truth in the middle of a war. his job, his pursuit, his passion, his MISSION. the curse which just passed him by was a killing curse, and he knows it. clinging to life behind that door, one thought is louder than the rest. it’s too soon. his life, in shambles for as long as he could remember, seemed to be finally taking shape, and he had so many plans for it. he was quitting drinking soon. he was finishing his investigative pieces. he was kissing amelia one more time. the people in his life flash by, as he invisions their futures, which he had truly believed he’d live to be a part of. amelia, a first date, a wedding, a first child, a future. benjy, growing old and cranky right by his side, but still having the same smile that could rival the sun. daisy, with her stories on every front page, achieving the glory he swore he could see in her. edgar, as a minister, fair and kind, the sort of political hero history remembers fondly. astra, old, fulfilled, still with a heart bigger than what everyone could see. moody, head of the auror office. andromeda, with the peace she so deserved ( perhaps they’d talk one day about the way they’d participated in each other’s destruction, enablers of the worst kind, but how they’d gotten stronger together, in a journey long and painful but oh, so worth it ). mundungus, clean, sober, redeemed. even all those he wished no good to, he’d hoped to see their fall with his own eyes. rodolphus lestrange and lucius malfoy in jail. mulciber’s trial. the rest of the order flickered by his blue eyes too, fleeting memories. james, lily, emmeline, mary, peter, alisa, sirius, frank, molly, diggle… spells hit everything around him as he ran and hid some more, but the names kept going. what if they grew old, war scarred but OLD, and he was another sad paragraph of their tales ? ‘sturgis podmore was killed in 1980 ‘. what legacy was he really leaving for them to speak of ?
1980. he’d die at twenty seven. he’d die younger than his mother. the thought hits him like a sharp knife, taking away his breath, distracting him enough for something to hit him, sending him back against the wall with a painful thud. not dead, not dead. with one hand holding onto his side ( he’s certain something’s severely injured there ), he manages to escape into the hall, the open door right there. it’s too soon. he has so many regrets. he needs to stop drinking, find out what holes he’s filling with vice. he needs to have another big story. he needs to help more people. to make a good effort for the war. he’s never been outside of the country, he wants that. he wants a dog, maybe. a house to call his own. learn how to make a better pie. little things fill his mind. funny. he never thought his last moments would be like that, running around in a nearly all broken house, in the dark, a shimmer in his eyes, trembling hands, thinking about how he wanted to bake better desserts. those little parts of life he’d never cherished before felt like the most important things.
the door is right there. if he could only reach it, leap down the stairs, run until the outside world is loud, he can almost feel the breeze, he can almost taste the air, violent against his injuries, he can almost feel the light under the streetlamp, he can almost - the curse hits him in the same way one holds their breath. it’s quick, sharp, unexpected, and regardless of how much he wants, how much will there’s in him, it’s too late. that breath is released, but none is taken back.
sturgis podmore is murdered on his doorstep, spells hindering the noise of the commotion to reach bystanders. he’s found by his roommates as they arrive at their floor and see the open door, the corpse lying there, one hand fallen just outside of the exit - he almost made it. he dies without knowing if benjy did too. he dies without knowing if the truth will ever get out, if it was worth something. he dies with one last soft memory, and with bitterness for all those that will never be.
