Number 14 on Ling Road had been quiet for a long time. It seemed rather odd, for until six months ago, the place had been the life of the block. The young couple (unmarried but engaged) that lived there had been happy and joyful, always kissing on the front stoop as the man let the woman slip down the stairs and climb into their tiny car. There was always a laugh - that strange, bark-like laugh that drove the neighbours mad in the mornings.
The man worked at home, they said - he owned a small firm run from the basement of the house, which was cause for the almost constant stream of people. Most of these visits came from a pretty blonde woman accompanied by a taller, more stately looking man with brown hair. Couples’ therapy, the man told the neighbors as they would walk away back down the street, sometimes looking angry and other times acting as if he didn’t care in the world. They’ll get over it.
The woman was training to be a nurse at hospital in the city. Most neighbours considered her mad for making the long commute every day, but she claimed that she didn’t mind in the slightest bit. She left promptly at seven thirty and was home by five - obviously, her hours weren’t long. She’d spend nearly an hour on the front step talking with the stream of people that came and went, but always seemed to have dinner on the stove at six-thirty sharp.
She was on friendly terms with everyone in the community, often going on long strolls down to the park with the couple’s huge black dog - the man obviously didn’t care, for he was never seen when the dog was around. She baked often enough to give cookies to the children playing there two or three times a week, and once a week someone new received a coffee cake.
As pleasant a couple as they were, they were not without the arguments and squabbles that came with relationships. Mornings were often interrupted by the slamming of their door and the man yelling an apology after her. More than not, however, the apology didn’t come, and a biting remark followed her to the car. Neighbours often amused themselves with opening the window and listening to the pair as they spat and hissed at each other on the front stoop.
Of course, arguments with them never lasted long. He was waiting to greet her when her car pulled up, his clients slipping past them as he kissed her endearingly on the front step. There was tears a few times, and other times laughter, but it always ended right - of course, then there would be an argument the next morning, and the whole process would start again.
They had plans to marry the following summer - it was all the woman seemed to be able to talk of when others brought it up. The ring on her finger was stunning - a beautiful platinum band with a diamond tension setting. The younger women in the neighbourhood ooohed and ahhed over it when they passed each other in the streets. The wedding was very nearly planned - very small, only close friends and family, but very lovely nonetheless.
And then they disappeared.
His face popped up in the news a few days later. “Murderer of thirteen Muggles caught, found guilty. Sent to prison out of the country.”
The neighbours were aghast. This man was a murderer? He couldn’t be - he was such a nice young man, so sweet and carefree and so in love with his fiancée. And her? She never would have been with someone who was so horrible. Not for the life of her - she was too wonderful and pretty and kind to be married to such a monster.
But it was his picture, they soon admitted as they gazed at the photograph. This was the man that had almost married that charming girl in number 14. Oh, what was her name - Jenn? No, something with a ‘g’ -
Gwen. Yes, that was it. Gwen Jones. Mrs. Catherine Emerson of Number 17 whispered to her neighbours that she might have been one of the victims. A whole new flurry of gossip rang up throughout the block. That poor, poor girl.
The young man and woman from couples’ therapy stopped by the house often after the first few weeks, knocking for ten minutes or more. They obviously hadn’t heard the dreadful news. Mrs. Emerson stepped up.
“He’s the murderer, you know,” she said in a loud voice as she passed with her tiny dog. “I think he killed the girl that used to live there.”
The woman shook her head, eyes wide. “No, she’s alive. She’s in there. She won’t let us in.”
“Her little car is gone,” Mrs. Emerson pointed out. “She always had her little yellow car sitting in the street. It disappeared the same day they did.”
“She sold it,” the woman answered quickly. “Sold it after… well…” She shrugged, a bitter smile twisting her lips.
Mrs. Emerson shook her head sadly, twisting her Doberman‘s leash around her wrist. “Such a shame that such a nice girl fell into such bad company.”
“Yes, a shame,” the man said quietly, slipping an arm around his companion’s shoulders. “Such a shame.”
“Hush,” the woman said harshly, pulling away from him a bit to scowl at him. “She just-”
“She just needs time,” he said, and Mrs. Emerson heard the mocking there. “We need time, too, but you don’t see us shutting ourselves away in our flats and moping about for weeks. We’re going through the same thing as she, Cas.”
The woman opened her mouth to retort, but seemed to remember that old Mrs. Emerson was there. She turned red immediately and ducked her head. “Oh, how incredibly rude we must seem,” she said contritely. “We’re usually alone, and we fight all the time, that’s why-”
“That’s why you were in couple’s therapy,” finished Mrs. Emerson simply.
The man looked surprised, cocking his head at Mrs. Emerson. “Where did you hear that?” he asked, his brow creasing in confusion.
Mrs. Emerson patted his hand fondly. “Oh, dear boy, the man that lived here used to shout it out to us after you left. Said you could be quite disagreeable but were very much in love.” She smiled at the two of them. “Have you plans to be married?”
The two exchanged a quick look, and then the woman nodded, a strange dead look creeping into her eyes. “We’ve gotten engaged only last night,” she murmured. “The wedding will be a bit rushed, but we’re not eager for a long engagement.” The man took her hand and squeezed gently, and the dead eyes disappeared.
“They were friends, weren’t they?” Mrs. Emerson said sympathetically. “Not just your therapist and his wife?”
“The best of friends,” the man answered firmly. “We’ve known them since we began secondary.” He gave Mrs. Emerson a bittersweet smile. “They made such a good match, it seemed impossible that he could do anything like this.”
“But she’s a pleasant girl,” the woman cut in. “One of the finest I’ve ever known.”
“Of course she was,” Mrs. Emerson assured her. “She used to bake me cookies and cake every so often, and used to take my Muffins for a walk with her big black dog - the two of them got along splendidly, him being so much bigger than Muffins.” She cooed at her Doberman. “He was a nice doggie, wasn’t he?”
“A big black dog, you say?” asked the woman, curiosity filling her tone.
Mrs. Emerson nodded slightly. “Yes, a huge dog. Knocked over many people in the neighbourhood when he jumped up.” She laughed. “The man never walked that dog, at least not where any of us saw. He was always in the house whenever the dog was out. I don’t suppose he liked the dog very much.”
“Oh, he liked the dog alright,” the man muttered. “Just couldn’t be in the same place it was.”
“Yes, I suppose he was allergic,” Mrs. Emerson sighed, then adjusted her grip on the leash. “As nice as they were, they were a little odd, too.” She laughed and waved goodbye to them absentmindedly. “Once she was waving a little wooden stick at him and he suddenly had a broken nose.” She laughed. “She was ten feet away from him.”
There was so much to fill Mrs. James in on that she didn’t notice the shocked look that passed between the young lovers as she strolled away, humming a dirge to herself.
--
Beep.
“Gwen, love, I know you’re there. Please pick up the phone.
“This might not make you as excited as me, but Remus proposed last night. We’re getting married, and I’d like to ask you something, and in person if you don’t mind.”
Sigh. “Please, Gwen. I really need to talk to you.”
--
Beep.
“Gwen? It’s Cassie. Maybe you didn’t get my message. I’m getting married. You, my best friend, have gone missing for almost a month now. I know you’re upset, I know you’re angry, but you can’t shut yourself away. It won’t make anything better, you know.
“Call me back. I’ll be waiting.”
--
Beep.
“Hi, Gwen. You remember Cassie - you know, curly brown hair, short, in love with a werewolf? Oh wait - she’s also your best friend! Where are you, darling? Are you angry at me? Please don’t be - if this is still about - you’ve got to move on, love. You won’t get anywhere sitting in your flat moping.
“Please call me back, Gwen. I love you. Remus and I both miss you.”
--
Beep.
“Hello, Gwenog Jones. This is Cassie Benson. Again. Reminding you that I’m getting married in less than a month. I think I’ve been nice enough after the last two months to give you space, to give you time to sort through things, to get over losing them - but not returning my phone calls for nearly two months?! What is wrong with you, Gwen?
“If you don’t call me back by tomorrow, I’m going to be forced to take some serious action. Love you, miss you, hear from you soon. By the way - the wedding invitation is in the mail. Mind sending me back an RSVP as a guest since I’ve had to ask my idiot of a sister to be my maid of honour?”
Beep.
Cassandra Anne Benson
and
Remus John Lupin
invite you to be a part of their celebration of love
as they join together as man and wife
On Saturday, the twentieth of March
1982
at two o’clock in the afternoon
Chelsea Physic Garden Centre
66 Royal Hospital Rd, London
--
The night was cold, but any bystander would say it hardly affected her. Her simple twill coat, loose and warm, was left unbuttoned to billow with the biting breeze. The bright knit scarf was so long that it had been wound around her neck multiple times to keep it above her knees, and a matching cap had been jammed onto her head over her mass of dark curls, leaving them to twist and turn like snakes over her shoulders.
It was two months to the day that she had lost everything, and still she couldn’t bring herself to face the harsh truth of the matter. Two months to the day that she had lost her best friends and her fiancée. Two months to the day that her godson had disappeared into oblivion, never to be seen again until he went to Hogwarts.
She kicked at the snow beneath her feet and sighed heavily. She was without parents, friends, or job. She barely had enough money to keep up with her rent - how on earth was she supposed to keep on living like this?
She supposed she could get a job as a secretary in some Muggle office where she wouldn’t be recognised - where no one would know the source of her sadness, and no one would notice if she decided to break down into tears at least once a day before re-emerging above her desk to smile and say a cheerful hello to the next customer.
Oh, stop it, she mentally scolded herself as she stepped out into the square to move towards the little pub across the way. Punishing yourself isn’t going to bring them back. If anything, you should be glad that Harry’s still alive. Why can’t you at least be happy about that?
But she couldn’t be happy - it wasn’t as if she would ever find the little boy that had stolen her heart with those green eyes of his. Her godson - why, oh why, couldn’t she have taken care of him?
“He’ll be safer away from the magical world, Miss Jones,” she recalled Dumbledore saying gravely, only a few days after the deaths of James and Lily Potter. “Think - famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won’t even remember. It’d be enough to turn any boy’s head. Can’t you see how much better off he’ll be, growing up away from all that until he’s ready to take it?”
His logic made sense, she bitterly thought as she unwound the long scarf from her neck and hung it up with her coat by the bar. She slid into a seat and rapped on the counter with her knuckle.
The bartender turned to her, fixing her with a glance she received far too often. “And what can I be gettin’ you, miss?” he asked in a low voice as he leaned forward towards her.
She made sure that he could see the sparkling ring on her left hand as she answered, “Beer,” she answered shortly. The man scowled and moved away to help someone else, only pausing to slide her glass full of amber liquid.
She wasn’t usually very keen on going into Muggle pubs, but she supposed it was cheaper than wizarding establishments. She couldn’t very well get beer in the wizarding world, and Butterbeer was extremely expensive. Besides, the bitter taste of beer seemed like just the thing she needed - and it was only one. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt anything.
She ripped the cap off her head and shook out her dark hair. She seemed to remember another hand running through her hair in the exact same manner - that hand was large and strong and immensely tender on her head. The ghost of a smile seemed to curved on her mouth as she sipped her drink, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. Those thoughts had been put away two months ago, as well as any other memories that included the past eleven years of her life.
She downed the rest of her drink, threw a few notes on the counter, and snatched up her things. Winding the scarf around her neck again, she shrugged into her coat and jammed the hat on her head again before venturing out into the chilly December air.
There was a large crowd in the street now, only a mere ten minutes after she had entered the pub. Most of them were young couples, party hats crookedly placed on their heads and kazoos in their hands as they prepared to ring in the New Year with a kiss and a fireworks display. Oh, she remembered having someone to kiss - she grimaced. There were those blasted forbidden memories again.
She joined the throng of people on Barking Road, shivering against the now nearly bitter cold as she checked her watch. One minute to midnight - a new year was about to begin.
Without Lily. Without James. Without Cassie and Remus. Without Peter and Marlene. Without little Harry.
Without him.
She choked back a sob, but there were already tears on her face. She lifted her scarf to her eyes and wept bitterly into the soft fabric.
I’d do anything to have any one of them back, she thought desperately as the clock in the square struck midnight, and cheering couples shared long kisses in the dark. The first firework shot up, covering them all in a purple glow.
Anything.
--
As 1982 dawned cold and bitterly for Gwenog Jones, Fate watched.
Fate, it seemed, was a very peculiar being. Although full of compassion and sadness for mankind, she offered them no help during the course of their lives. She was the spinner, the weaver, and the cutter. She often amused herself by spinning a new thread and cutting it away as soon as it was off the spindle. She hated perfect strings - she liked them full of flaws, full of unique qualities. After all, it was a boring world in which every string looked and felt and acted the same.
She knew exactly where to put her strings, as well. A little boy string was called Jimmy and was born into the All-American family in the seventies. He wanted for nothing. Another little boy string, on the other hand, was named Henry and was born into the slums of Chicago in the sixties. He wanted for everything.
And so, Fate turned out to be a silly little creature that enjoyed watching human life play out the way she set them.
Some strings, however, tugged a little more at her heart than others.
She paced and pondered and wrung her hands over poor little Gwenog Jones. How unfortunate for this girl, to have everything in life taken away from her in two years - first her parents and brothers, then two of her best friends, her lover, her godson, the rest of her friends. It would be enough to drive a person mad!
Madness, for Fate, wouldn’t do.
With careful and practiced fingers, Fate proceeded to rework the weaving of some of her threads. It happened without a second thought on her part. There was no way that she could leave that girl to suffer. She’d go through her whole life wondering what she could have done differently, and then Fate would have a suicidal witch on her hands before she knew it. The string would cut itself.
She’d find him. He’d get out. They’d be hated for awhile. They’d be suspicious. America seemed a good option for them - or maybe Canada. Yes, Canada would work nicely. She’d join them soon. And maybe a he - oh, the little blonde would be perfect. He’d compliment the rest of them beautifully.
They’d be free. They’d be happy. They’d be loved. They’d be without a care in the world. Memories would grow, families would come together, and everyone would feel the joy that she felt as she watched the picture shape before her.
Oh, it’d be marvellous, she thought to herself. She couldn’t wait to share it with Chance. He’d be furious as she took away his role in their lives. But he’d find his way back in somehow - she’d have to put a stop to it, of course. No meddling Chance in Fate’s arena.
This path would work out just perfectly for all parties involved - Chance be damned.
Well, except for the guilty. But that was another story.