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The World All Out Of Joint by shuldham [Reviews - 31]

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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. In other words, I don’t own J.K.R.’s characters. Please don’t sue me; I’m not worth it anyway. Once I’m done, I’ll buy them dinner and put them back where I found them.

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A.N.
1: This story is set post D.H. and is canon compliant with the cycle of H.P. books. Compliant with one big exception: Severus Snape did not die. I do not explain how this most desired of circumstances came about, and leave it to you, gentle reader, to pick your favorite theory as back story, unless it involves his rescue by giant purple flamingos, then you should seek professional help.

2: The time line in this story is not sequential, scenes do not follow on from one time frame into the next. Rather they are snapshots, taken at salient points over a number of years. Where you see a dividing line across the screen, you know some time has passed; sometimes this will be hours, sometimes days, sometimes months, sometimes years.

3: The story was driven by an initial series of very strong visual images. The rest of the story built itself around them, hence its structure.

4: Finally, though it starts dark; it gets lighter. Please be as extravagant as you wish with any praise you may have, and gentle with any criticism.

Warnings: Character death, mild to moderate bad language, and one mild sex scene.

Huge thanks and much praise to my wonderful beta, mtnwmgirl.

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THE WORLD ALL OUT OF JOINT

Chapter One

Blood soaks the snow, the red hair a darker halo against the bright red blood. His life pumps out, and his dead blue eyes stare unseeing at the harsh winter light.

There is an agonized cry, ‘No!’

A green flash, another body in the snow, but his killer sprawled by his side is no comfort to his loved ones.

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The sky weeps and soft rain washes the world into a watercolor perspective. A blurred group of huddled figures stand, black against the sky, their outlines shimmering in the rain. The second time they had followed a son to watch as the earth reclaimed him. The first time she had buried a husband.

She stands, small against the skyline, with her five-year-old red haired daughter’s hand in hers. She murmurs soothing words. Her other hand is clenched into a fist around her husband’s ring. Her grip is so tight the bruise will remain for three weeks.

The crows in the leafless trees stir and flap, their harsh cries a mocking imitation of hers.

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A relentless, stifling, black grief sucks all the joy from her world. Normal life continues all around her, and to witness it feels as raw as an ulcerating wound. The occasional flash of the joy of others, whose hearts have not been torn, provokes a burning anger that they should be so happy, and guilt that she would think such awful things.

Discussions, concerned friends’ visits, letters with love-crafted heartfelt words of comfort that taste like ash on her tongue.

Her child, his child, asking, ‘Is it my fault?’

Her heart breaks all over again as she hugs her daughter to her. She finds the words of reassurance.

Then there is more guilt, and later a decision is made, and a job offer is accepted.

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Dark eyes watch her, from his place at the fringes of the High Table, in the Great Hall. Her eyes are too bright for such pallid skin, their dark circles are badly concealed, and her robes are too big for her shrunken frame. Her composure is held as tight as a child clutching at a finger, and she has the same desperation and need. The tension radiating from her is almost a musical note.

A tug at his trousers, a small, untidy, red haired child, her child, is holding a toy bear solemnly out to him. He studies this strange creature who has come to him and is caught by her eyes, a mirror echo of her mother’s and far, far, too old and sad for one so young.

Uncharacteristically he reaches out and takes the bear, holding it like a delicate specimen, and after a short while gives it back, when she once again holds out her hand.

The child’s smile is like a sunburst through a rainstorm.

He feels an odd lurch where his heart used to be.

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A tall man prowls down a dark corridor, they are supposed to be patrolling together but he has not seen her all night. He hears a sound, a muffled sob, he hesitates and half turns away. A louder sob, of the sort he has heard before, speaking of all the pain in the world, hacking its way through a soul.

A decision, an approach, her apology.

‘Sorry to have disturbed you, Professor. I’m alright, I’ll be going.’

There is a hand, his, stopping her, his voice is softer than she ever thought possible.

‘No you are not “alright” and you have not been so for quite some time.’

Her knees buckle at the sudden unexpected soft words. Strong arms hold her up. She howls her anger, hate and grief into the rough black wool at his chest as it scratches her face. No words of false sympathy, no unbearable compassion. Only a cold, hard, man, the last anyone would have thought, holding her, letting her break against him. He holds her tight; the look of shadowed horror on his face at such pain unseen.

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At the end of the next day there is a soft knock at his door.

‘Enter,’ he growls.

She stands awkwardly, halfway across the room, and stammers, ‘Thank you.’

The shrug of his shoulders and a brief glance up is the only response she gets. His hand does not even pause at its work.

A sigh, the sound of her walking away, but he shoots a following glance at her through curtains of dark hair, and an infinitesimal smile touches his face at the improvement in her.

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The sound of laughter causes him to look up from his book in annoyance. His harsh rebuke dies on his lips, at the sight of the woman and her child, throwing a ball to each other. His treacherous mouth wants to smile at the child’s wildly inaccurate throws.

He begins to read again, and a wet, dirty, splodge mars his book as said ball lands in his lap. There is the sound of silent, frozen horror, and he glares his most fierce scowl.

The small girl steps back from him at its intensity, but bravely she says, ‘Sorry, I threw it wrong. My favorite book got broken too, a hippogriff eat it. It was about pirates, I was sad.’

She takes a deep breath and looks him in the eye, the rest of her words coming out in a rush. ‘If you want I’ll give you my pocket money so you can get another.’

She rests her small hand on his much larger callused one. A heart beat, another. His voice, he thinks, saying, ‘There is no need. Scourgify. See it is fine.’

The girl steps closer to look. ‘No pictures.’

‘No.’

‘What’s it about? Pirates?’ the last hopeful.

‘No, Potions.’

‘That better than pirates?’

‘Infinitely.’

‘What’s infinitely?’

‘Lots better.’

‘What’s Potions?’

‘That’s enough Rose Athena Weasley; the professor is very busy, leave him alone.’

‘It is alright, Mrs. Weasley,’ he says and turning to the child he begins. 'Miss Weasley, briefly, Potions is the preparation and mixing of various substances in a controlled and precise manner, so as to achieve a substance which can have a vast range of applications, either advantageous or deleterious.’

Hermione smiles at the manner of his explanation, and her child furrows her forehead in furious concentration, trying to understand. He feels foolish; perhaps he should have gone with the bottling fame speech.

He stoops to whisper in the child’s ear. ‘It is magic, Rose.’

‘Magic and the other stuff about mixing things just right, so you make something good or bad?’

Rather surprised, he raises an eyebrow and nods. Some uncharacteristic, foolish wand waving later, the child is chasing the pirate flag he has conjured for her. He has no idea why he did it, but he sees her mother’s smile widen, and a very small part of him thinks that reason enough.

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His dark eyes watch her dance, held in the arms of Victor Krum. She is happier than he has seen her in a long while. Krum's hand slips to the small of her back, his lips brush her ear, and an odd, tight, twisted feeling rises in the watcher’s chest. He leaves, feeling bitter and old, a sharp retort to Minerva stinging past his lips.


The World All Out Of Joint by shuldham [Reviews - 31]

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