Circles and circles

Jack was spending a lot more time at work.

She was beginning to feel less like a person and more like a machine, because that was a little bit easier. The battle had not gone at all like she had planned - as if she had planned on it. The fighting had been bad and she had gotten tied up far away from the action. When the dust had settled, Jack felt strange. She cleaned up the mess, helped with the wounded, and limped back home, to crawl into a glass of whiskey, Elliot resting his large muzzle on her knee as she stared at the television.

She had never been such a bystander before. She had always been the one to be in the thick of action, to make one of the final moves. But, her presence that night had changed very little. It wasn't as if she had never "lost" in a battle before. But she had always been there, doing as much as she could, putting every ounce of energy and being to defend those who could not do it themselves.

But she had barely been there.

Was she losing her touch?

This unwarranted retreat from society had done a number to her, and the result was how often she ended up withdrawing to the confines of the Department of Mysteries. Fred Weasley had lost almost all hope for a day in which she did not storm into his office with a brilliant new plan to crack the chest that had been shipped in or with some aggravated rant on why tracing the genealogy of the strange griffin-dragon hybrid wasn't working. Between Max and Charlie, Sunny and Goose were well watched, and nights became the time that Jack rejoined the family. She’d eat the remnants of dinner while her family danced about her, regaling her with tales from their day, before all retired to watch television or play with the baby skrewt that they were fostering or fight an epic battle on the staircase because Goose had decided he was not coming downstairs until Sunny admitted the play he wrote was not the work of genius she claimed it to be.

And so Jack jumped from chaos to chaos. From the smoke into the smother.

Work was becoming a coping mechanism, and home was her coping mechanism for her coping mechanism. So she found herself in a strange state of mind, more withdrawn than the weeks predicating her strange disappearance to Eis, though this isolation did not feel nearly so dangerous. It felt private, something she had always been but never flourished in. Being on her own had begun to suit her well. She was looking a little less exhausted – tired, yes, but not so run down – and she did not need a small glass of whiskey at night, every night, to wind down anymore. Sure, she took some on occasion, but it wasn’t like the old days.

The old days kept trying to interrupt this new vision of peace and solitude however. Gabby and Kip were constantly contacting her about Knight’s Watch, and Ministry contacts, as well as werewolf contacts, and Knockturn contacts were all getting a bit antsy without her obtrusive guiding hand where it once was. She had created a drawer full of mail and memo where these reminders were now locked away, awaiting parole. Ignoring them almost made it like they didn’t exist.

Most people were out of the department today. There had been some Ministrial meeting that Jack had no intentions on going to – not if she could have peace and quiet to finish up looking through confidential files.  She was pretty sure Fred had not been keen on going, but after the morning of her continually popping in to announce her findings on an old case review that she had asked for his cross references on, she was pretty sure he had decided listening to bureaucrats drone about synergy was much more appealing than being stuck in an empty floor with only her for company.

So, she moved out to the main lobby, kicked her feet up on the receptionists desk and tapped her fingers loudly on the desk, clucking her tongue as her hand shifted through the files she had so long wanted to get through.

Identity was such a curious thing.

Well, curious was a very neutral word. Diplomatic, one might say. Identity was a f*cked up thing. And Albus Potter was starting to understand that fact better than most.

He hated labels. This was, in a way, a label he’d given himself. This was him. A guy who hated labels.

He was beginning to reevaluate that little statement.

Because his identity revolved around labels. If he was in a particularly presumptuous mood, he’d venture to affirm that most people’s identities did. They’d carved neat little images for themselves- the way people perceived them, the way they perceived themselves. Or maybe this was just his writer brain talking, during his more non-presumptuous moments. Maybe this was just the way he saw himself. A writer, capable of reducing whole, complex people to cute little personality attributes like ‘faker’ and ‘resentful’ and ‘ambitious’ and what not.

(Albus was trying this new thing. It was called self-honesty. ‘Twas an experiment that had started a long while back, beginning with admitting to himself the true reason why he’d loved Jack Dyllan- the nobility he’d stropped on her shoulders, the qualities he’d freely bestowed upon her because he needed someone to be the embodiment of change. He also could now, in the spirit of this experiment, begin to admit to himself he was a little terrified at how successful this experiment was becoming. Or……well. Success was such a subjective term anyway.)

And speaking of Jack Dyllan…….

“I think you like it. You’re just as bad as me. You say I can’t stand to think I’m good. You can’t stand to think you’re anything but… but this star-crossed villain.”

Words spoken long ago behind the bars of a moss-ridden jail cell, words that should have been forgotten a long time back, but weren’t, just because her words had donned some of the character of the woman that had spouted them, just as bloody persistent. And now, almost a year on, and Albus could retrospect with near perfect hindsight and yet still, only wonder if maybe persistence, at least in terms of words, were characterised by truth. Maybe that’s why they’d sealed themselves so tight beneath his skin, straining to break through at the least provocation. Even if his pride rebelled at the very fact because……….Merlin, how childish would it be. Did he………did he actually view himself that way?

Was this why, after the first initial flush of quiet, but no less giddy for it happiness after the Roo- Goyles had moved into his house (now a home), he’d started feeling restlessness itch under his skin? Started squirming every time he was out in public with the girls and Ceci tugged on his hand incessantly and babbled to him at incomprehensible speeds and Auri tagged along sedately, smilingly behind- because those damned young mothers and singletons and old ladies and hell, even female teenagers wouldn’t stop cooing over the sight and….him? Woke up happy and daisy-fresh for Salazar’s sake, then wouldn’t stop feeling discomfited over that fact for the entire remnant of the day? What the hell was the problem with happiness? What the hell was his problem with happiness? He couldn’t possibly enjoy being miserable, could he?

No. He couldn’t. Contradicted the very definition of miserable. But, but. He could be comforted by it. Resentment had always been an old friend, had nestled close to his heart, flowed in his veins for as long as he could remember. He could know the feeling so well, so intimately, draw bitterness into him and around him like an oft-worn cloak- that the lack of it, no matter how lightening could feel almost……..anchorless. He wasn’t used to feeling this way. This wasn’t who he was. Pseudo father, family man. Albus Potter? What utter dipshit.

(And this could be taken away too. He could waste all his time deliberating over how strange and unfamiliar it all felt, and Athena could be suddenly seized by a whim, or a bout of independence or sudden love for her estranged husband and pack up her bags and the kids in a basket and leave in a whirl of skirts and……it wasn’t permanent. He shouldn’t fool himself.)

And………..wow. He sounded like a teenager. Like bloody bemoaning how……uncool it was to be a parent or something (he wasn’t he was a figure just a figure but but but…)

But it wasn’t as simple as all that, was it? For a man so rocked by uncertainty in terms of his life choices, his magic, his morality…….his identity has been the thing, almost the only thing Albus has never had to demur over. He was the middle child. He was a Potter. He was a Slytherin. He had masks, he wrote, he didn’t like his family, he almost had no real friends, he had a couple of very well-concealed ambitions, he wished to be significant, but never quite succeeded. Never mind that there were many parts to that identity that he wasn’t quite…happy with. He had still…..made peace with it was the wrong term but…….accepted it, in a way. Used the weakest parts of him as shield, propped up the gaping holes, the insecurities, padded them up with pride, reinforced with the cement of ‘the world can go to hell’.

Now that identity was crumbling around him. Now he’d almost done nothing to further his career in months, if only to pursue a fledgling family life that didn’t even properly belong to him, for Merlin’s sake. Now he’d put off Death Eater missions for months and months, hiding behind a disguise that got flimsier with every passing meeting and was getting more and more difficult to hide, with no returns whatsoever. He……….wasn’t quite dissatisfied with where his life was going, he would be idiotic to. But hell if it wasn’t making him feel remarkably unbalanced. Like the guy playing the lead role had taken a sick day, and he’d been abruptly pushed into a day’s practice as substitute, stumbling over the lines, shoddily speeding through the scenes, still not having come to full grips with the opportunity but unable to embrace it completely because of the perennial fear that the guy wouldn’t be sick forever.

The feeling that he was playing someone else’s role and was trying, with limited success, to mould himself accordingly- Albus Potter the crap son and crap brother trying his hand at being a f*cking father, real or not- but before he could decide whether he could do it, whether it was fully even what he wanted, they might take the role away.

Well……he knew how this part went. Admission. Followed by rapid denial, then compartmentalisation- which were all pretty words for ‘shove the truth away, away, away and maybe it’ll vanish. Because wouldn’t it be nice if the world worked that way.’

So, hiding out in Fred’s office working on the next DoM puzzle it was. As frequently as he reminded the Weasley that he didn’t actually work for the Ministry, it was almost funny how often Albus forgot that teensy fact himself. Magical mazes bearing curious resemblances to Pensieves were so much more fascinating than psychologically unhealthy identity issues anyway. Especially self-diagnosed ones.

However, convenient not-really solutions to issues often came with catches such as this one.

“Dyllan’s bothering me. Go shoo her away.” Were the last words Albus heard before he was magically propelled out of the door, swinging shut behind him, almost wrenching his ankles in the process.

He blamed the shock, and his distractedness due to earlier mentioned psychological issues for the lame, though incredibly loud response. “She never listens to me anyway!”

“Go be emotional at her again! She’ll take to her heels!” Came back the yell, following which
was a stage-mutter. “You’re allergic to each other now anyway.”

Snick came the rapidly following sound of a Privacy Ward descending, and Albus bit his tongue mid-way through opening his mouth for another, highly well-deserved yell. Jack was staring at him now anyway, half buried in mountains of files. Well hello, reminder of how Albus Potter was a spectacularly crap friend too. She'd never seen him really raise his voice before though, even if she'd seen the damage it could inflict, in normal and quieter tones. Probably shouldn't begin a demonstration.

……wow. Even his thoughts were skilled at deflection from the real issue now. Which was Jack Dyllan being the only other occupant of the same room as him. Admittedly, the issue was a lot diminished than it would have been…….say several months ago. But still no less awkward.

“That was a really inappropriate thing for him to say. Very Fred, in retrospect.” Splendid. Way to state the obvious here. “I’m not going to blow up emotionally at you. That is not, in fact, the only thing I do when I meet people. Ha.”

.

.

A round of applause, ladies and gentlemen, for the most groundbreaking comedian to ever set foot in the magical world: Albus Potter. His jokes should be written in gold plate and framed on plaques. If only to commemorate their utter, sheer stupidity.


“We’re not actually allergic to each other, are we?”

Jack found it strange the sudden "fame" she had come into since her graduation from Hogwarts. Between the Order, the Ministry, and Quidditch, she had gone from nobody to Somebody so quickly that she had never properly adjusted, never graciously accepted the new truth to her reputation. Because, regardless of how many people recognized her or even how many people told her they were rooting for her, Jack clung to the old notions of isolation that had become her bedfellows at Hogwarts. That lone wolf that people didn't necessarily dislike, but people certainly would not ally with. She was on her own, only ever tolerated for her usefulness or the entertainment that she provided. She supposed she could account her sudden 'popularity' to the fact that she had become more useful and more entertaining. It seemed to fit better. Because once people looked past her resume and arrest records and got to know the woman behind it all, it didn't take them long to flee.

Strangely enough, she had been dreaming a lot recently. She wouldn't say the nightmares had returned, because these weren't the bloodsoaked dreams of Vito murdering Chase or of Ne'Os coming after her. No, these were much calmer and all the more terrible. There were dreams of the Quidditch House Cup. Dreams of playing video games in Matt's office. Christmastime with Nemo. Potions class with Ari. Brownies and Loch Ness with Chase and Andrew.

The worst part was sometimes, upon waking, the dream didn't immediately register as a dream. It wasn't until she looked into the mirror, at the hair that had nearly outgrown the childish frump, the face that was becoming more worn and lined with worry, the strange hue to the once lively eyes that the time between these memories and the present registered and she realized she did not have plans with Chase or Nemo or Ari later that night. She had work. She had practice. She had dinner at home.

If adolescence was all about learning from your mistakes, maybe adulthood was about learning to miss the opportunity to make them.

The exchange between the two men who had, at one point, been the most promising relationships in her life incited some sour nostalgia from her Hogwarts days. There always seemed to be a tussle when it was time to partner up in one of the more tedious classes, and people realized she was in need of a partner. She had never really been sensitive to these sorts of exchanges, as she knew how difficult of a woman she could be and was not going to be offended that people were clever enough to realize it.

So she lifted her eyes and waited for Albus to turn around and make eye contact with her, for the first time in however long it had been. And finally, he did, and she gave him no help whatsoever. Just stared, waiting for him to make the transition since she had been innocently minding her own business. And boy did he make a try for as smooth and natural of a transition. And boy, did he fail.

She tapped her pen against the desk and considered the allergy theory. It might explain some part of it, but didn't feel completely fitting. "I mean, it'd have to be akin to a chocolate allergy. Something people with the allergy would continue to expose themselves to, despite doctor's orders. I don't know though. Sounds more like a case of Fred trying to sound clever and interesting."