Chapter Text
Euphemia was one of the few people who, despite all the noise around her, remained silent. Voices, shouts and indignation bounced off the walls of the great hall, creating an indistinct roar, yet she perceived every syllable, the words clear despite her advanced age.
They are strangers.
How did they get in?
They are dying for Merlin’s sake.
With every passing minute people rose, taking up more space, as if increasing their volume could make their opinions weigh more. But Euphemia fixed her gaze on the two young people, her brows knitted. Her pupils dilated as if to swallow every detail: her dark, curly, dishevelled hair, their the pale skin, the scar on his forehead. Her stare did not waver even when the firelight flickered. Two unfamiliar figures passed out in her home, a home she loved, a home that had watched her son grow and had kept her safe as she aged.
“My beloved,” murmured Fleamont, seated beside her with a worried look, his hand on her shoulder and the same unconditional love in his eyes they had shared for almost forty years, “what do you think?”
Euphemia remained silent as the very smoke from the fireplace thickened, forming small spirals that seemed to hold the breath of everyone present. Hands gripped the edge of the great table; the flow of sand in the hourglass on the mantle marked each second like a heartbeat. Fingers drummed on the mahogany while those present waited for what in that moment felt like a sentence they had asked her to deliver, as if they were fervent believers and she their God.
“They are only children.” Those were the words that broke the moment and perhaps — Euphemia told herself — the future itself.
“They are strangers who look like they’ve just escaped an attack.” A voice rose from the gathered group. “They have appeared in an ancestral manor surrounded by blood wards and protections without invitation.”
“For Merlin’s sake, look at them,” each word uttered with a little more desperation than the previous, “and tell me how you can even think of not helping them, of remaining inert while they die.”
The answers were not slow in coming, varied and yet all the same in their ultimate meaning. A death sentence, albeit phrased in different ways.
“We must defend ourselves, defend our children,” said Molly Weasley.
“They are enemies we know nothing about; the fact they are children doesn’t change that,” said Alastor Moody.
“Sometimes even good people must do bad things to win,” said Edgar Bones.
“We are at war, my dear” said Albus Dumbledore.
For the first time since she and her husband had joined the Order, Euphemia wondered whether they really were the good ones, whether the blood on their hands could be washed more easily than that staining their enemies simply because they had not cast the first spells. If they were the righteous — and what a terrifying thought that was — and were willing to take the lives of defenseless children, then for what justice was she fighting, for what kind of “good” had she lent the house of her family?
What dark evil had been invited into her home?
“I joined this war to prevent it from degenerating, to stop it before it became so large it would be a problem for the future, for my children.” Her reply was calm, measured but not serene — she had never been serene since that damned silent war began — “I am willing to commit atrocities to stop it, to soil myself so they don’t have to, but here and now I draw the line, my line. I will not kill another person’s children while telling myself I do so to keep mine alive.”
After her declaration everything seemed to freeze in the great room, from the people to the very air, even the hands of the clock seemed to halt, fearful of carrying with them at the next chime a truth no one was yet prepared to hear. Secrets better kept for when it was all over, when they could drown their truths in alcohol and lies that would allow them to keep rising each morning.
We had no other choice. It was the only solution. We did what we had to to win. A few lives to save many others. We killed so we would not be killed. It was the right thing. In war one must take hard decisions.
“It seems decided then,” came a voice, loud and clear among those present. “Andromeda, my dear, if you could heal our guests I would be grateful. I will have them taken by our Queeny to rooms upstairs.”
“Fleamont—” began Albus, watching the house-elf approach the two unconscious adolescents on the floor, but he was interrupted by the master of the house.
“I will not compromise on this, Albus, not even for the greater good.” Fleamont squeezed his hand on the table, eyes fixed on Albus. “I agree with my wife. I will not kill children and for Merlin’s sake I will not allow anyone to do so, not outside of my family’s house, and certainly not inside.”
“I agree.” Andromeda Tonks nodded from the other side of the room, teeth clenched and a flash of resolve crossing her eyes. “I will not allow two adolescents to die when I can prevent it, nor will I allow anyone to harm my patients. Come on, we have no time to lose. They have lost enough blood for my liking, enough to show it’s the same colour as ours.” A brusque reply from her that left everyone momentarily still to watch as the elf and the guests vanished before their eyes with a snap of fingers.
“Queeny will provide everything you need, you can ask her for anything,” Euphemia said as her eyes followed the healer up the imposing staircase. “Please just keep us informed on their progress.”
“My dear guests, please make yourselves comfortable again,” Fleamont steered everyone’s attention away from Andromeda. “I think it’s time to find an agreement.”
Albus Dumbledore was the first to accept the invitation — the command within it barely veiled — and never broke eye contact with Mr Potter as he sat. Afterwards the others took their places, some slower than others, and when everyone was seated again Euphemia’s voice resonated once more in the room.
“Where are my boys, Minerva?”
Professor McGonagall laid a hand on Euphemia’s arm, her fingers cold as marble, and spoke softly. “Messrs Potter, Black, Lupin and Pettigrew arrived at the castle a few hours before moonrise and were already organising for Mr Lupin’s long night. Albus and I are back from our holidays and are expecting to begin the school year at the castle with your boys.” Her calm words soon spread among all in the room. “They are safe, Euphemia. They are happy and they are safe. All of them.”
Euphemia’s sigh of relief filled the hall and Fleamont’s shoulders loosened as if a tightened rope had finally slackened. The couple looked at each other for a few silent seconds, relieved yet still confused by the truth everywhere before them, but which no one could yet explain.
“So,” Albus’s voice rang, “what do we want to do with our two young guests?”
The air tightened again and furtive glances passed between the members of the room as they began to shift discreetly; soon the reality of the matter was clear. Some sat beside the Potters, others on the opposite side next to Albus. Alignments in yet another silent war had been drawn.
Trust or suspicion.
Enemies or allies.
“They’ll be, at most, about the age of our children. Probably haven’t finished their education yet,” Fleamont replied promptly. “Right, my dear?”
“Oh absolutely.” Mrs Potter had many qualities that made her husband's heart fall for her years ago, one of which was her skill at playing the refined game of politics. “A pity. They’ll probably only be missing their seventh year. Everyone says it’s the best and I’m inclined to agree. We became engaged that year within the walls of that old castle. Do you remember, dear?”
“How could I forget. Best days of my life, certainly.” he replies.
“I understand what you’re saying and I agree. Education is important, especially for young minds,” the headmaster responded thoughtfully, “but the circumstances of their arrival are rather mysterious and we are at war. We cannot take these decisions lightly.”
“Albus,” the householder began, only to be interrupted by the headmaster.
“I’m not saying take drastic measures, Fleamont, and I’m not saying no across the board, but we can’t leave them like this, not without a bit more information first. I must consider the welfare and safety of hundreds of students old friend — including yours — and I won’t put them at risk.”
“What do you propose then?” Euphemia’s voice was partly understanding, partly suspicious, yet ready to listen.
“Well,” the headmaster’s uncertain voice betrayed how unsure he was of his own solution, “we have two weeks before the new school year begins and if they wake and recover enough by then we will simply ask them questions. Who they are, where they come from, why they are in such a state. If their answers show they are not a danger, for themselves or others, then I will be happy to welcome two more students to Hogwarts this year.”
“Veritaserum,” Moody intervened before anyone else. “We will ask them directly under its influence so they cannot lie.”
The Potters exchanged uncertain looks. Euphemia’s eyes narrowed like blades and as the debate grew hotter her hands moved slowly along the table seeking her husband’s. Fleamont, an Auror through and through, had often used that very substance on prisoners. On dark wizards, terrorists, madmen but not on children. Never children.
“I am a mother too,” Molly Weasley’s hoarse but steady voice rose in the room. Young, yet so tired, with the shadows and wrinkles only children can give, “like many other women here. When I look at them I think of my own, but precisely because I think of them I would agree to do such a thing. We don’t know who they are or if they are dangerous. Being barely more than lads doesn’t mean they’re innocent and I won’t risk the safety of Order members or my family because the boy on the floor looks frightfully like your James, Euphemia. We do not take this decision lightly and if we do it, it’s because we truly believe it’s the only way.”
At last the truth no one had yet dared speak aloud had been brought to light and the Potters had no longer any dark corners in which to hide. As much as they truly opposed treating young teenagers in such a way, it was also true their resolute refusal stemmed from the fact that that boy resembled their child so much. Euphemia was ashamed to admit even to herself that perhaps if only that young girl had appeared in her sitting room it would not have been so hard to convince her to accept the plan.
She probably would have proposed it herself.
But that boy looked too much like James for her to look at him without seeing her son.
“Molly,” her voice sharp and fixed Euphemia Potter was not a woman who ran away, not even from the most uncomfortable truths “perhaps you are right. I’m not impartial. But that doesn’t change the fact that using that potion would completely invade their privacy and deny them any choice from the start. Perhaps they would tell the truth without having to drug them.”
“Perhaps,” Abus took up again, “but perhaps it’s not enough, not in wartime at least.”
By the end of that war even Euphemia and Fleamont would have their own personal and abhorrent truths to drown in alcohol and lies that would let them go on getting up in the morning.
It was only a dose of Veritaserum.
Fleamont nodded and his face hardened. “Very well,” he said, voice low but firm, while the fire cast a long shadow across his face, “but the questions we’ll ask will be decided in advance.”
We are no better than them, thought Euphemia with a broken heart.
“You’ll have time to decide them,” Andromeda Tonks’ voice rang from the stairs, her robes once the colour of the sky now stained with blood not her own. “They’re in bad shape. Both malnourished and dehydrated, with various broken bones. The boy has a cranial trauma and a long cut on his right leg that will leave a scar, one of many. But overall he should wake between tonight and tomorrow; the only thing to watch is potential internal swelling of the brain. The girl, however, is another matter. She shows clear signs of the Cruciatus curse but the worst is definitely the scar on her arm. Most of the blood lost was hers. We can’t be certain of long-term consequences the curse may have caused without knowing how long it was inflicted. She too should wake in a few days.”
A general sigh filled the room. They were alive, injured and exhausted, but alive.
By the end of that long night a hesitant consensus had been reached.
“The questions will be asked,” Euphemia declared, rising slowly from her seat, “…but not before the children’s wounds have healed. Let them sleep at least this night.”
Her cloak, white as the first snow of winter, billowed with the decisive step of the woman. Each step towards the great marble staircase was another step into an uncertain future. The hearth’s fire still burned and its flickers danced over the white fabric, turning it into a living flame that seemed to burn the darkness itself. Above her head an invisible crown, heavy as a life of mistakes and remorse, settled silently.
Euphemia, mother and judge in a war that continued to advance, felt in that moment, for the first time, the true weight of her years pressing down on her shoulders. It was no longer just the wisdom of a life lived, it was the burden of decisions that could change the course of a war that every day wiped out entire families.
Once more the crackle of the fire joined the rustle of her steps, and the house’s silence filled with an interminable waiting.