She placed the bright, white breakfast cups on the Damask tablecloth, admiring their Parian fragility. It was difficult to see where the pale porcelain ended and her fingertips began. Her dull eyes moved across to the worktop and settled on the fly that was crawling across the butter. With a pinched smile she flicked a hand towards the creamy block and sent the insect on its way. Taking a viciously sharp knife, she carefully cut away the tainted part of the butter and spread it onto the perfectly browned toast that she had pulled from beneath the grill just moments earlier. It was a small, petty triumph in her daily war of attrition. Cutting the slice into masculine rectangles, she transferred the pieces to a plate and placed it by the cup that occupied pride of place at the head of the table.
The clock ticked lazily, but, as she opened the kitchen door she felt the gallop of wasted hours, days, years even, as they rushed by her, filling her life with a solemnity that belonged to a much older woman.
It was time.
“Tim?” It was a question. It always was a question, that first word passing between the wife and her husband. The response would dictate the tone of the day. A gruff “good morning” was the best possible start because it opened the way for her to encourage his good humour and tease him gently into the day. A snarled “shut up, woman!” wasn’t ideal, but at least she knew where she stood and could successfully avoid him. The silence “ and silence was what greeted her this morning “ was by far the worst.
Silence could mean a feather-light kiss on the forehead as he passed her at the foot of the stairs, or it could mean the reviving slap of a palm against her cheek as he looked beyond her to a day of frustration.
“Tim?” A second call would just irritate him, but the thought of the regurgitated contents of the fly’s stomach on his toast emboldened her.
Silence reigned.
And then footsteps above her; irritable footsteps that reached the top of the stairs grudgingly. He was a tall man, blessed with good looks but not the grace to carry them well. As he stomped down the stairs, she held her ground, chin high. His blue eyes did not move to her, nor did his mouth acknowledge her call. Her breathing stopped as she waited for his decision on how her day would go. Just as he drew level he stopped and turned his head slowly, bending slightly, pursing his wide lips. She allowed herself to release a little of her breath; it was all right, it was going to be a kiss.
She didn’t really understand until she felt the first trickle of wetness crawl down her face what had happened. He had spat at her. There was a wrinkle of amusement on his mouth as he hissed one word at her. “Bitch.”
And with that he carried on his funereal walk into the kitchen. Suddenly the toast wasn’t a triumph; it was a measure of how she had sunk to his level. Watching his retreating back she was filled with her accustomed loathing. His blond hair rested gently on the back of his collar, a boyish thing that belied the monster within.
Rosa had been married to Tim Dickinson for five years, and in that time she had withered and died on the vine of their marriage. Life had become a daily chore, and one from which she did not have the courage to escape. Her parents had died in the last war with Voldemort, leaving her friendless and without family. There had always been a natural distrust of their family; rumours of dark connections “ completely unfounded rumours “ had always dogged them, ever since they had moved to England from Romania. The loneliness was claustrophobic. And now he had spat at her. In a ridiculous way that hurt more than the pounding of his fists, more than the slap from an open palm, more than the connection of his boot with her ribs as she fell to the floor. Her humiliation was complete and she was at a loss what to do about it.
He grunted as he sat down at the table. From her position she could see him bend his head over his plate as he stuffed the cooling toast into his mouth, watched him slurp his tea recklessly, droplets running down the side of the pristine cup. And her mind took leave of itself. Rosa walked away from the kitchen and down the corridor that led to the front door. She took down her cloak from its peg and felt the warmth of the wool beneath her fingertips. It was old and repaired many times over, but he would not give her the money for a new one, nor did she want one. This was the last gift her father had given her. It was June, and a cloak was really not needed, but it was all she wanted to take from the house.
She opened the door slowly ” he would not be interested in what she was doing now that he had made sure she was here and compliant. In five minutes he would have finished his breakfast, put on his coat and left by Floo to go to his job at the Wizarding Archive. He spent his days surrounded by dusty documents, filing and recording births, deaths, marriages and divorces. It was a job that suited his dogged personality well, but left little room for him to work out his problems. Rosa stepped onto the path and smiled at her little garden. It wasn’t much, just a buffer between the house and the pavement, but it was alive with roses and ivy. She would miss it. She wasn’t sure what was driving her feet, as she walked away from her home and the man that she had put up with for so long. After years of submitting, it seemed rather outrageous to walk out over something as simple as being spat upon.
And with the ghost of his saliva still on her face, she walked away.
Charlie Weasley stood in the reception area of St Mungo’s with a frown on his face and a sling on his arm. The trip into the Carpathian Mountains should have been a simple affair, in and out. But the Ukrainian Ironbelly dragon was a devil to tag, and this particular specimen had managed to get a huge talon straight through his arm. He had been treated at the scene by the expedition’s Healer but further visits to St Mungo’s had been a necessary inconvenience, keeping him from work and play. He was glad he had been transferred back to London; Romania had been too far away to be stationed permanently and the final war had made him see the importance of being closer to his family.
His freckled face was surveying the list of departments as he waited to be seen by the Welcome Witch and he wasn’t paying much attention to his surroundings. The doors opened and closed, people in many states of disrepair flooding in and shuffling out. As he turned away from the sign he wondered why the place was festooned with pink balloons and fluttering, tissue paper hearts that buzzed around certain people’s heads. And then, with a groan, he realised it was St Valentine’s day. Another year without a girl to take home to his mother. Cupid may well have been hovering close by, but so far the little cherub’s arrows had missed Charlie completely.
He realised that the line at the reception desk wasn’t becoming any shorter and wandered off to look at the leaflets that were stacked up on a table by the wall nearest the door. As he did so, he felt a faint prick in his neck and rubbed at it with irritation. They should have better precautions for keeping insects out, he thought to himself, this being a hospital and all. And these fluttering hearts were a damned nuisance.
As he picked up Firewhiskey: How to Recognise When Enough is Enough he looked up, straight into the washed-out face of a woman who had just stepped through the doors. She had an unusual face, small and dainty with dark eyes and brown hair that was wild and unruly. Charlie put the leaflet down “ he didn’t need help with his Firewhiskey consumption anyway “ and moved towards her.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You look a little lost.” He would never let it be said he didn’t help a damsel in seeming distress.
She didn’t seem to hear him at first, and it was only when he placed himself between her and the atrium that she stopped and looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Charlie Weasley,” he announced, sticking out his good hand to be shaken. She looked at it for a second, as if unsure of how to proceed, and then she offered him her own, pale hand. It was cold as he closed his firm, rough fingers around hers, cold as the grave. “And you are?”
“I’m…” she faltered. “I’m not sure. I think I am lost.” Her voice was watery with confusion and she looked into his rugged face hopefully. “I don’t even know how I got here.” A little flutter of emotion bubbled in her throat. “I don’t even know where here is.”
“This is St Mungo’s. You know what that is, don’t you?” Charlie was beginning to get quite concerned about her state now. She was a pretty little thing, looking a lot like the Romanian women he had spent so much time with while working at the Dragon reserve, and he wanted to help her, but he knew he wasn’t the best man for things like this. “Perhaps we should get a Healer to take care of you?”
“Yes, perhaps.” She looked to him for further guidance and he shuffled his feet a little. “Would they be able to tell me… well… who I am?”
“Have you been hexed?” Charlie asked. “It’s quite possible that you got caught by a rogue curse.”
But she didn’t answer. Her face was focused on the blond man arguing at the reception desk. He had just rudely told the witch behind the desk that he wanted attention right away and that a Bloodsucking Bugbear was no laughing matter, even down there. Charlie watched as the man bobbed his head in the direction of his lower body, but Charlie sensed that the woman he had just met fond nothing amusing in the situation. She merely turned around and pushed her way back through the doors, almost running in her haste to get out.
Charlie was torn now. He really had no responsibility to the woman and he needed to get his arm re-bandaged, but she looked so mournful, so alone. With an inward groan of inevitability, he followed her out of the doors and emerged onto a rainy London street. Glancing quickly left and right, he spotted her just turning a corner and set off at a run to catch up with her. Rain spattered his clothes and he wished he had come out with a cloak that morning. Using magic to repel water would attract a little too much attention on the Muggle street. She was just about to cross the road when he finally got within touching distance and he took hold of her arm firmly, just in time to prevent her from stepping into the path of an oncoming red double-decker bus.
“Hey!” he called. “Slow down or you’ll get yourself killed.”
When she turned to look at him, he saw pure terror in her eyes. She was like a dragon cornered in a pen, torn between fight and flight, and he knew he would need a little caution to prevent her running away. Her arm was stiff and awkward in his grasp, but he wasn’t prepared to let it go just yet.
“It’s okay, calm down. Nothing bad is going to happen. You have nothing to be frightened of.” His voice was low and soothing, his rough face made gentle by years of knowing how to look at frightened or panicking creatures. “Why don’t you step away from the road and tell me what’s upset you? Or better still, we could grab a drink in the Leaky Cauldron. Do you know it?”
She nodded, damp strands of hair falling forward onto her face. “Not there. Away from here.”
“How far away?” he asked gently.
“As far away as possible,” she begged, a fat tear welling up and melting onto her face.
“Hang on then!” he said, with a smile. Pulling her insubstantial form back into the doorway of a disused carpet shop he held her even more tightly and, with a crack, Disapparated.
Rosa blinked at her new surroundings, the man’s hand still firmly clamped to her arm. She staggered forward slightly and felt the bile rise in her throat. With a lurch she rushed towards the huge, white sink that nestled between kitchen cupboards. Apparation was something she only ever attempted in emergencies because it always produced this extreme reaction. Her stomach just wasn’t meant to travel that way. The man, Charlie, was rubbing her back and it brought her some comfort from the retching that racked her body. Once she was sure that she had emptied every last scrap of liquid from her stomach she raised her head and was handed a towel to wipe her face with.
“Sit down,” he said to her, pulling a chair away from the pine table that dominated the room. “I’ll get you a glass of water and then you can tell me what all this is about.”
She watched him move about the kitchen, clearly at home here, struggling slightly with one arm out of action. He ran the tap and clear, cold water splashed into a glass, which he then handed to her, pulling up a chair opposite.
“Thank you,” she said, sipping slowly and shivering as the chilled water hit her throat. “I was confused, I’m sorry.”
“No need to be sorry,” he said with a smile. “I’d just like to know why I have ended up missing an appointment and am now sitting here with a woman who looks like a frightened animal.”
“I’ve been having a little trouble.” Rosa looked at him again and wondered what she was doing here, wherever here was, with a complete stranger. But even so, there was a feeling of calm in her heart that had been absent of late.
“You don’t say.” Again, that easy smile that made his freckles shift and dance along his cheeks.
“With my husband.”
“Oh.” Charlie couldn’t help the way his face fell slightly. She wasn’t wearing a ring, and there was no reason to think she was married. But then, he thought, why should it matter to me if she has a husband or not. But it did matter. It suddenly mattered a lot.
“I left him several months ago.” She averted her eyes. Leaving husbands was not something respectable witches did.
“You must have had good reason,” Charlie said. Why was his heart suddenly lighter?
“I did.”
The kitchen felt colder and Charlie pulled out his wand to light the fire. She would tell him why, he knew, but she needed to do so without prompting.
“Where are we?” she asked, changing the direction of the conversation.
“You are in the Outer Hebrides. This is a cottage that belongs to the Ministry. We use it when we come up here to survey the dragons. It’s always available for us to use, so no one will mind us being here.”
“Dragons?” She looked puzzled and then something seemed to click. “You work with dragons? That explains your hands.”
“My hands?” He looked down at his scarred palms, twisting the bandaged arm a little, and gave a rueful twitch of his mouth. “Yes, I suppose they are a little world weary.”
“They’re fine hands,” she whispered. “Honest hands.” And a vision of a smooth, manicured hand impeded her line of sight. A hand raised in anger with violent intent. She flinched and a cry of “No!” escaped her lips before she could stop it. Blood seemed to fill her vision and a red mist splashed in front of her.
Charlie froze, his hand almost reaching her glass to re-fill it. “What is it?” he asked, slowly bringing his hand away. But he knew. He knew, with a flash of intuition, why she had left her husband. As she had raised her own hand to deflect his, her sleeve had worked its way down to reveal old scars and fresh bruises.
“So,” he sighed, sitting back down.
“Please, you don’t understand…” She stood up and moved to the other side of the room, tugging her sleeve firmly back over her forearm. “He struggled with things, with himself. We were happy sometimes. But he couldn’t bear to be without me. He wanted “ wants “ to bring me home.”
Charlie wasn’t sure what to say, had never encountered brutality at close quarters like this before. His only experience of bullying of this nature came from the dragons he worked with, and the female always fought back. In most cases the female was the one that ended up having the final word in any trouble between her and her mate. The cut and thrust of warring dragons was one thing, but violence between man and wife was something else, something baffling. “I’m sorry,” was all he managed.
“I should go back, really, but I’m afraid. I have no job, no money, no life. Every time I got work, he found me somehow, created such a scene that I had to leave each job. He wouldn’t let me live without him.” There was a little heave of her shoulders, a gesture of defeat. She was spilling out the most shameful secrets to this stranger, this Charlie, and she couldn’t stop herself. The feeling of relief she got from sharing this burden was all-consuming.
The fire licked at the chimney and she felt its heat on her cold back. This kitchen was so different from the one that she had had. There was comfort here; slate floor and low, wooden beams coupled with grey marble to create a homeliness that carried just a hint of masculinity about it. She should have felt threatened by it, but she wanted to wrap herself up in it, wanted to be shown that men could be different, shown that not all men were capable of her husband’s cruelty. And there was nothing to be afraid of now.
“You would go back?” Charlie stood up slowly, not wishing to frighten her with his maleness. An abused animal could be easily frightened and she was in the same state as the beaten dog or mistreated horse. If she ran off now they would be in trouble ” she would be in trouble.
“I will have to.”
“Even though” “ he was closer to her now and she showed no signs of moving “ “he would do this to you?” He pulled her sleeve up and she allowed him to do it, too weak to move away.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Of course you have a choice!” he shouted, and she cowered a little. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry “ I didn’t mean to frighten you. But you must see, everyone has a choice. You just need to make it.” His brown eyes smouldered slightly, lit by anger at her husband, fuelled by a desire to mete out justice on her behalf. “Make it, for your own sake.”
“What would I do? Where would I go? There is nowhere for people like me. I have no one to turn to, no where to hide from him. He will always find me.” Her small face was a mask of worry and Charlie felt his heart break for her. How could a life change in just a few hectic minutes? He knew he couldn’t walk away from this, knew that at some point that morning Cupid had indeed swept down and taken aim, the tiny arrow finding its target.
“Turn to me.”
“To you?” She looked aghast, the possibility an impossibility in her confused mind.
“To me.”
“Charlie,” she rolled the name across her tongue, testing its worth, “such a solid name for such a solid man. But there is something about you, Charlie Weasley, something a little dangerous but not threatening, something good.” And yet she was still frightened.
“I can keep you safe,” he said, not knowing until now that he could feel this way about anything or anyone. “He will not get to you again. I have family who could look after you. My mother, Molly, would take you into the family home for a time. You would be happy there. It’s not a palace, but it’s comfortable. My dad works at the Ministry. I’m sure there are strings he could pull to get your husband off your back.”
“I don’t know,” she responded, wondering what life would be like just getting up in the morning and facing the day with certainty. What would it be like to wake up with this man beside her, not worrying about what mood he would be in, or whether she would have to repair bruises. What would it be like just to wake up? “You don’t know me. How can you know if you even want to help me?”
“I know enough. I can see everything I need to in your face. I never believed in fate or love at first sight or any of that nonsense, but I believe in what I see when I look at you.” He said the words but didn’t know where they had come from. In his line of work he generally didn’t have much time for endearments and entreaties.
“I don’t believe in those things either,” she said, “but I could be persuaded.” For the first time he saw her lips curl upwards a little into the shade of a smile and it made his heart leap a little. “But it won’t be easy.”
“I know, but worthwhile things never are. Why don’t you stay here for a few days and allow yourself the time and space to recover? There are charms to protect it from Muggles and prying wizards alike; the Ministry likes to keep close control of its properties. Your husband won’t find you here. I have things to see to in London, but I am on sick leave from work and can be here to entertain you, if you’d like that.”
“I think I would like that, Charlie Weasley.” Her smile was wider this time, rust falling away from her heart as it struggled back to life. “I think I would like the chance to be normal and happy very much indeed. I wonder if I will be allowed it?”
“Would you like me to bring you anything?” Charlie looked at her battered dress, its hem darned and the bodice torn here and there, dark stains spoiling the once bright fabric. Wherever she had been, she had not taken care of herself.
“I don’t really have much, not that I would want. I’m okay as I am for now.”
Charlie frowned but didn’t pass further comment. “Okay, well, there is food in the fridge so help yourself. As soon as I am done at St Mungo’s, I’ll be back. Don’t go out and don’t answer the door to anyone, all right?”
She nodded and watched as he walked away, his athletic, stocky figure tensing, ready to Disapparate.
“Charlie?”
“Yes.” He turned his head, red hair glinting in the light from the window and she melted a little. “I’ve remembered who I am.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m Rosa, Rosa Dickinson, but my maiden name was Holzt. I think from now on I’ll be plain old Rosa Holzt.”
“I think that suits you well, plain old Rosa Holzt.” He grinned as the air cracked and transported him many miles away to the busy capital. But for Rosa it felt like he was still there, and she hugged the feeling to her to keep her company until he returned.
He was gone a long time, so long that she began to fret a little. Was this a trap set to fool her? She hadn’t expected to see Tim in the hospital. She didn’t really know what she was doing there herself. The shock of seeing him as he argued with the witch about his bite, a bite she knew to be something else entirely, had shaken her from her torpor and brought her back to reality. And what reality was it? She had prowled the one-storey cottage, smiling at the tiny sitting room and the bedroom at the back that was fitted with a comfortable-looking bed. In her mind she could picture a life here, a little painting, walking along the headland that was visible from the sitting room window, perhaps a dog, some chickens. The laugh that she gave at her flight of fancy was genuine and resounded through the house. Another laugh followed, and another, until she was on her knees laughing hysterically with no way of stopping the madness that was pouring from her. All those years of abuse, all the pent-up emotions, the self-denial, the longing for a touch, some comfort. And then the terror of the past few months, running and running, to be constantly found. It spilled from her, flooding the house with despair.
She was laughing so loudly, tears gushing onto the rug at her knees, that she didn’t hear the door open as Charlie rushed in. He knelt down and placed his hand on her shoulder, trying to bring her out of her hysteria.
“Rosa,” he said, his voice a command. “Rosa, stop it.”
The tears still flowed, but the laughter came to an abrupt halt as she focused on his steady gaze. She shook her head free of the echoes of her past life, shook away the mirth that had taken hold of her. There was strength touching her, strength to fight when she had thought she had lost the ability.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s okay. I was just… just…”
“Letting go of something?” he suggested, and she smiled her agreement.
“Letting go of it all.” She allowed her head to rest against his body, listening to the beat of his heart as it steadied. “Can you let go so easily?”
“Like letting go of a balloon,” he reassured her, wishing that his other arm was free to wrap around her. They sat together for a little while, as the sun died out on the bay. It was only the encroaching darkness that caused Charlie to move, that and a desire to show her what he had brought up from London.
“Come into the kitchen,” he said, twinkling at her. “There are some things I want you to see.”
She stood up, limbs stiff from their cramped position. “What is it?”
“Come and look,” he grinned. “I wasn’t sure…but…well…”
On the table were several bags bearing the logo “Madam Malkin’s” and Rosa looked at him with consternation. “What did you do? I told you I didn’t need anything. This isn’t necessary. You shouldn’t waste money on things that I don’t need.”
“Shh,” he said, raising a finger to her lips. “You may not think it’s necessary, but I do. I can’t look at you in that rag for the next few days. So, unless you fancy walking around naked, I suggest you accept.” He knew that his wage didn’t really stretch to splashing out on expensive women’s robes, but that little arrow that had stung him was busy making mincemeat of his common sense. And as he watched her open the bags and at first suppress and then give in to squeals of delight, he felt better than he had in a long time. What sort of a brute would crush that bright spirit? What sort of an excuse for a man would have something so incredibly alive and wish to wring every scrap of vitality from it?
“Such a beautiful colour,” she said, holding up the scarlet dress to her thin frame. The red emphasised her own bloodless pallor, dark eyes made prominent by her pale colouring.
“Why don’t you try that one on?” he suggested. “I’ll have a stab at making some dinner, but I’ll be relying heavily on my wand to do it. Go on,” he nodded towards the bedroom.
“Okay,” she said, picking up the other bags and walking across to the door, looking back at the grinning Charlie. “Thank you.”
“No thanks are needed,” he insisted. “It was my pleasure. Now, get changed! I hope the shoes fit, but if they don’t a little magic will take care of it.” He winked and Rosa felt her legs grow a little weak. Was this what it felt like, love? She had never felt like this with Tim. There had just been a dogged determination to get married and leave her humble background behind her. Rushing headlong into a relationship with a man she had not known well hadn’t worked last time, so what one earth was she trying to do it again for? But Charlie hadn’t mentioned a relationship, hadn’t mentioned anything permanent, he had just said he would be here for her to turn to. And she was glad about that. She didn’t have a choice.
The dress sat on her body perfectly, its long sleeves chosen to cover the reminder of her former life. There was no mirror in the bedroom so she had to settle for running fingers through her hair and hoping it didn’t look as unruly as it normally did. Opening the door brought a rush of cooking smells her way and she could see that the table had been set with two places, a small vase of roses had been Transfigured, and two wine glasses were filled with lightly fizzing liquid.
It was everything she had ever wanted from her life. And there were fluttering paper hearts. Where on earth had he got those from, she wondered, her shoes tapping against the stone floor. And then she realised, as he too had realised back at St Mungo’s, what day it was.
“Oh my!” she exclaimed. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”
Charlie turned and watched her across the candlelight. She was transformed from the fragile, frightened girl into a petite, elegant woman. Madam Malkin had been right in her choices. “It is indeed,” he said.
“I hate Valentine’s Day.” The words were out before she could stop them, a measure of how comfortable she was already feeling, losing the need to censor what she said.
“Me too,” he admitted. “I didn’t know…” ” he waved at the hearts and flowers ” “…I wasn’t sure if you would like it. Women generally do.” He made to point his wand in their direction.
“No!” she said. “Leave them. It’s… well, it’s fun, just this once.”
“Watch those bloody hearts, though,” he warned. “They can be devils if they poke you in the eye.”
She smiled and sat down, suddenly self-conscious that this was a meal, over candlelight, and that she was joined by a handsome young man who was not her husband. This would be classed as adultery, she supposed, if they chose to take it further.
“Penny for them?” he asked, placing a bowl of tartare sauce down in the middle of the table.
“Oh, just thinking about…” She hesitated. “About how nice this is.”
“I think not,” he said, now holding a plate containing steaming fish and chips. “It was something else.”
“I was thinking,” she began, “that I am about to have dinner with a man who is not my husband and that I quite like it. Perhaps I could get used to it.”
Charlie put the plate of fish and chips down on the table in front of her, and she smiled at his choice of meal.
“Couldn’t got too over the top on the romance stakes now, could I?” He brought his own plate across and sat down. “And will you?”
“Will I what?” she asked.
“Get used to it?”
“Yes, I don’t think you’ve given me much choice.”
“There’s always a choice, you…”
“…just have to make it, I know. And I’ve made it.” She put a chip into her mouth and looked at him carefully. “I just hope I made the right one.”
“I’d better make sure you had then, hadn’t I?”
They ate and talked, words washing over them as they exchanged backgrounds “ hers dull and northern, his warm and southern “ and spoke of their interests and jobs. Charlie was amazed to find she had never worked, going straight from Hogwarts to her husband, whom she had met there. Even his mother had worked before she had her children. She was excited by his work and listened, enthralled, as he told some of his hairier tales. Their meal finished, they moved through to the sitting room and sat comfortably, at opposite ends of the small sofa. Rosa curled her feet up beneath her and sipped occasionally from her glass as Charlie tried to work out why he did not remember her from Hogwarts.
“I was in Hufflepuff,” she explained. “I started in1987. We must have been there together for some of the time. But it’s a big school, easy to miss someone. Especially when the years haven’t been as kind as they could have been. Living the life I have isn’t good for the complexion.” She gave a rueful smile.
“You look perfectly all right to me. How unfortunate I missed you,” he said. “If I hadn’t…”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t meant to be. You can’t go back with what ifs. We didn’t meet and I married Tim. But here we are anyway.”
“Yes,” he muttered, “here we are.” The wine and the firelight gave the room a golden feel, trapping them in its heady snare. Charlie had spent evenings with women before, not too many, but enough to be practiced at it. This was different though ” it needed to be on her terms or it would not happen at all. And he wasn’t sure he wanted anything to happen anyway, but as he looked at her lips as they sank to the rim of her glass he found himself wondering what they would taste like, what they would feel like?
She looked up and caught his longing glance. A shiver of anticipation disturbed her spine and she felt hair rise across her body. It wasn’t possible to feel this safe, this comfortable, with another human, surely? Not after all that had happened. He placed his glass down on the coffee table and the shift distressed the air, sending sparks of desire and restraint into the atmosphere. This wasn’t like him, to be so tentative and unsure. Charlie Weasley was a straightforward man, a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it, so why was he shaken by this woman? Was it her fragility, the fact that he had to let her make the decisions? Of was it just her beautiful face and soft eyes, eyes that were doe-like and ensnaring.
“Perhaps it’s time you were getting to bed,” he said, breaking the tension. “You’ve had an upsetting day and I think sleep would do you good.”
“Ah, Charlie,” she whispered. “I’ve been sleeping for a long time. I’d like to stay awake for a while longer.”
“Well, if you’re sure. Top up?” He nodded to her glass.
“That would be nice, thank you.” She handed him the long-stemmed glass and felt the briefest brush of his fingers on hers. Static spun between them as he tried to hold two glasses in one hand.
“Would you like me to help you?” she asked, sitting up. He gave her a wink and shook his head.
“I can manage a few glasses.” Charlie moved to the kitchen and she left the sofa to follow him. Now that she had him here, Rosa was reluctant to let him out of sight, and he didn’t hear her pad into the kitchen behind him, her shoes having been kicked off earlier.
“I think,” she began, startling him, “that we should just forget the wine and take a walk.”
“Erm.” His eyes wandered over to the window and peered into the darkness beyond. “You do know there are dragons out there, don’t you? And it is rather late.”
“Scared of a few dragons, Charlie?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “But I don’t think a wild Hebridean walk is a good idea. The wind’s getting up and there’ll be all sorts of things out there. You’re better off inside.” What he was really thinking was that she looked so fragile; the wind would whip her away from him and out into the night.
She joined him by the sink and peered into the moonlight. “But it’s a full moon. There’ll be light enough for us. Please, Charlie, just a quick walk.”
He looked down at her dress and lack of shoes and a sceptical expression settled on his face. But Cupid, being impish, twisted the arrow and Charlie found himself digging around in the cupboard to find a pair of suitable Wellington boots for her. Five minutes later, he opened the front door and a fresh breeze entered the cottage. Rosa clomped out, her boots incongruous with her fine dress, and felt the rush of the air against her face. In a day of adventures, this felt like one more, and she bounded down the small path that led to the gate. Charlie grabbed two cloaks from behind the door and called for her to wait for him, but she turned and her hair streamed around her. “Come on, Charlie, let’s run away.”
“You’re mad!” he called after her. She was already through the gate and jogging along the road, laughing and allowing the wind to buffet her along. He had to sprint to catch her, and when he did, she sped up too until they were running pell-mell towards the cliff tops. “Slow down!”
“I don’t want to slow down!” she called. “I want to run forever!” Laughter bubbled up again and Charlie found it to be infectious, so he joined her and they skirted the headland, jumping through scrub and heather, Rosa occasionally shrieking as a bat swept past her.
Finally they reached a breach in the cliff that they could not cross easily and Rosa came to a halt. From their position they could look out across the tireless water and watch as the moon dappled it with light. The wind sensed the excitement and continued to play with them, catching at clothes and hair mischievously. And it seemed to the pair of them that they were the only creatures alive in the world, standing there surveying their kingdom.
“It’s all ours, Charlie,” she smiled. “For as long as we need it.”
“It is,” he agreed, not wanting to spoil the moment.
She leant into his body and he shifted so that he could take her into the crook of his good arm, where she nestled comfortably. When she did look up to him, he knew what she wanted, could see the longing in her eyes, and he was ready to give it to her.
“Are you sure?” he muttered.
“I have never been so sure of anything in my life.”
He brought his face to hers slowly, wanting to lock this moment into memory forever. The softness of her lips was delicious as he touched them with his own, and a small murmur of pleasure escaped her. He pressed down with more force, parting her lips with his tongue and she allowed the pleasure to drip through every nerve and sinew. Nothing in her life could compare to this moment, this wild, unrestricted joy that could never be replicated for either of them. A gull screeched from across the bay, breaking the enchantment.
Charlie looked out anxiously at the bird. “That creature should be sleeping,” he said nervously, looking around them. “Come on, let’s get back.”
She nodded and allowed herself to be chaperoned back to the safety of the cottage with the promise of another glass of wine and a night slept safe and sound in his arms. She knew that he wouldn’t demand anything of her, couldn’t, not with that arm.
Morning brought more gulls, wheeling and screeching above them. Charlie awoke first and felt the lightness of her against his chest; she was little more than a waif. He stirred and in doing so, woke her. She blinked against the light filtering through the curtained windows and he caught a look of wonderment on her face that he couldn’t understand.
“Another day,” she breathed. “Who could have known?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, struggling to sit up.
She smiled enigmatically. “Every day is a gift, Charlie. I wonder when we come to realise that.”
He laughed, an undemanding sound to start the day with, she thought. “Well, now I have you to remind me of it. Would you like breakfast?”
“In a little while, perhaps. I’d like to greet the day properly first.” She bounded from the bed and tore back the curtains, smiling into the face of the sun. “It’s going to be a lovely morning.”
“Would you like me to walk into the village and get some fresh bread and eggs for breakfast?” He grinned at the happiness she took from the bright dawn. “It’s not far. I’d only be gone half an hour. I don’t like to Apparate up here; frightens the wildlife.”
“That would be nice,” she said, gliding her feet into the slippers that he had bought for her. “I’ll stay here and sit in the garden with a cup of tea.”
They dressed and, once Charlie was sure she would stay in the garden and not wander, he set off for the village. The morning was indeed a fine one, and Charlie found himself feeling rather younger than he had in some time. The wounds of the last war had been slow to heal, and scars still remained. But the Weasley family were recovering gradually, thanks in the main to his brother Bill’s latest addition to the clan, Posy. He had two nieces now; Posy and Emily, both bearing the signs of their mother’s Veela heritage. Delightful things they were. And Ron had been seeing Hermione Granger for several years, their mother egging them on to tie the knot. Although Ginny, his sister, hadn’t need any encouragement to marry her Harry. They had wed soon after Voldemort had fallen.
He passed by the first house and old Jess, the shepherd, waved to him from the garden, where he was busy trailing some sweet peas up a trellis. “It’s a fine one!” he called.
“That it is, Jess,” Charlie called back.
“Saw you out on the headland last night, fair running, you were. Thought you were away to throw yourself off the edge.”
Charlie grinned as he continued to walk, knowing full well that if he got into conversation with Jess, he wouldn’t make it to the shop until closing time.
“We were clearing some cobwebs,” he replied cheerfully, leaving Jess to mull over this piece of information.
He met no one else until he reached the small cluster of houses that formed the village of Rothsay. It was rather an ambitious description for the small pocket of humanity that collected on the rough coastline, only the church saved it from being a mere hamlet. The shop was open, and a few newspapers were displayed on the counter. Charlie picked up a loaf of bread, still warm from Mrs McDougal’s ovens, and asked young Sheena to put him half a dozen eggs and a packet of bacon in with the bread.
Sheena grinned and began to place his purchases in a carrier bag. “Didn’t know you were back,” she commented, blushing fiercely. She had always harboured a soft spot for Charlie Weasley, ever since his first visit here eight years ago. “How long are you staying?”
“Not sure,” he replied. “Maybe until the wind changes.”
“Go on with you!” she laughed. “The wind’s always away and changing. You’ll be here a wee while?”
“Maybe,” he said, a slight smile playing with his mouth.
“And will you be wanting your special paper?”
“Of course.” While Rothsay was a Muggle village, the owners of the shop had been wizards for as long as anyone could remember. They had also owned the cottage that the Ministry had bought from them some years previously.
Sheena dipped behind the counter and handed him a copy of the Daily Prophet. She grimaced at the headline as he started stuffing it into the bag.
“Terrible business, that,” she said, her face puckering in disgust.
“What?” Charlie seldom read the front page, reserving his attention for the sport and nature pages that were tucked away at the back.
“There’s been a murder down south. Some bloke stabbed his wife in the chest and buried her in a wood. Someone out trying to catch a rogue Hippogriff found the body. Turns out he beat her up a lot and she was trying to get away from him.”
Charlie shuddered a little, thinking of Rosa back at the little house, waiting for him. That could have been her fate had she not got away when she did, had he not stumbled across her at St Mungo’s when he had. He heartily agreed with Sheena that it was a dreadful thing, paid for his purchases, and left the shop. His pace quickened on the way back, news of the distant murder having rattled him somewhat. They would have to make doubly sure her errant husband did not find her if that was the kind of thing that these brutes were eventually driven to. He would not lose her now, not after having just found her.
The little gate was swinging jauntily when he arrived back, and he clicked it shut on his way in, reminding himself to fix the latch at some point. He walked around the back of the house and found the table she had been sitting at bare except for her empty teacup. Hurrying inside, he called her name as he tipped his purchases out onto the table. He placed the bacon and bread on the worktop and unfolded the paper, being one-handed made the operation difficult. Lifting the eggs out of the bag, he glanced at the front page.
The broken eggs formed patterns on the grey slate, their shells cracked and the yoke spewing out. All about him became still as Charlie stared at the image that looked out at him; the grim, defeated face of someone he knew, someone who he had kissed for the first time last night. Someone who had been murdered by her husband just five days ago and whose body had been covered by moss and branches in Epping Forest. And yet, if she was dead, what was she doing here?
He slumped against the table and read the report. Tim Dickinson had been arrested after a young man named Eddie Smith had uncovered the remains of Rosa Dickinson, nee Holzt, on the outskirts of a popular haunt for walkers and cyclists. There had been some trouble with a Hippogriff and the Ministry were worried that the Muggle public would soon be treated to a bite from the creature. Hence the unfortunate Eddie being in the area. Tim Dickinson, it turned out, was a Squib, and a particularly nasty one at that. All his work colleagues had been eager to describe him as ‘surly’, ‘uncommunicative’ and ‘a man with no sense of humour whatsoever.’ None of them expressed surprise when told about his suspected crime, indeed, some had said it was only a matter of time and that since his wife had left him he had become very unpredictable and liable to fits of temper.
He had stabbed her several times in the torso, discarded the knife, and abandoned her to the wildlife, going home to eat a meal of sausage and egg, washed down with a glass of beer. Charlie threw the paper down in fury, wondering why the newspapers were so fascinated by the trivia of such stories. Sausage and egg, as if anyone were interested?
But who was his Rosa? She clearly couldn’t have been the woman in the newspaper. Had Polyjuice been used perhaps? Was she a Metamorphmagus practising her skills? But then why the story? Why the bruises? And why was she so unconcerned with material things…material… Why did that prick at his memory? The dress!
He rushed through to the bedroom and quickly looked through the drawers and small wardrobe, to no avail. He tore at the bedclothes, jerking his wounded arm in the process, and pulled back the sheets, and there, poking from beneath the mattress, was a flash of grubby material. He pulled it free and held it up to the light, counting the holes that he had thought were wear and tear. Five thin, jagged cuts had torn the fabric, and around each of these cuts spread the dark stain that he had believed to be ingrained dirt.
Charlie was beside himself now. This could not be happening. It was not possible. The only way to disprove what was happening was to find her and shake the truth form her. Was she a twin? Did Rosa, the real Rosa, the dead Rosa, have a twin? He rushed from the house and through the gate, calling her name, letting the word spread itself onto the wind and be carried for all to hear.
He ran for the headland, recalling her giddy face from the previous night, knowing that if she was to be found anywhere, it would be here. His feet pounded against the rough ground, punishing his legs for their urgency to get to her. He vaulted hedgerows to save time and was soon in full view of the cliff edge, but could see nothing. She wasn’t here, no one was here. And then a flash of scarlet caught his eye and he found his eye resting on her as she leaned out to the wind, allowing it to hold her back from tumbling over the edge.
“Rosa!” he screamed. “Rosa, move back! I need to talk to you.” He kept running until he thought his heart would leap from his chest and fail. He had to reach her, he had to know. What was she? Was she a figment of his imagination? But that kiss hadn’t been imagination.
“Go away!” Her voice was distressed beyond measure. “Go away, Charlie Weasley, and be safe.”
“You’ll get hurt!” he yelled back. “Come away from the edge.”
“No, go home! He’s here… Don’t you understand? He came back for me. I told you he would. Charlie…go home. Be safe.”
“This is stupid!” He was now just a few feet from her and could see the tear tracks that had worked a passage down her cheeks. Phantoms didn’t produce real tears, ghosts didn’t cry, did they?
“There is nothing stupid about this,” she insisted, the sight of him making her heart crack. “He’s here, and he’s come for me. He’ll hurt you, Charlie, if you don’t go.”
“He can’t hurt me,” Charlie laughed. What could a Squib do against a man with a wand, a wand that was now out of his pocket, ready for use?
“He can, and you can’t hurt him. Go AWAY!”
“He’s just a Squib, Rosa. I have my wand. What can he do? Please, take my hand.”
“You can’t stop him,” she cried in despair. “You can’t stop either of us. We’re both dead, Charlie! Don’t you understand? He killed me and then he killed himself, and that’s why he’s here for me now. And he’s not going to let you stand in his way. He found me because we occupy the same world, and it’s not your world.” The wind dropped a little and she hovered towards the edge, the force of nature momentarily bemused by her words. Charlie moved but she screamed at him to get back, hysterical again, but not with laughter. This time terror was at the root of her hysteria.
“I’m sorry I involved you in this,” she sobbed. “I didn’t know, when I met you in the hospital, that’s what had happened. I woke in a dark place and somehow I made it to you and you freed me for a little while. But I know now that I died, knew when the old man wandered past and started talking to me. He had a copy of the paper under his arm and I saw myself… saw the headline. And then he came… and he’s come for me, Charlie. And I don’t want to go.” She glanced below her at the crashing waves and her sobs regrouped and pounded her chest anew. “I can’t even throw myself off, because you can’t kill someone who is already dead.”
“Rosa, you aren’t dead.” Charlie managed to get every ounce of conviction he had into those words. “Come to me and we can talk properly.”
“If you touch me,” she gasped, “he will be able to get to you.”
“You can’t be dead!” Charlie shouted. “You ate dinner with me last night, you ran with me across the fields. Rosa, you kissed me, and your lips were real. I know ghosts, knew them at Hogwarts, as you did. Do you feel like a ghost?”
The wind moved mournfully around them, tugging at her, touching her flesh with its wish for a decision. “I’ve never been a ghost before! I don’t know how it feels. He stabbed me…I have these!” She tore at the fabric of her dress, nails gouging holes that revealed her bare torso and five thin slits of dried blood. “Those are the wounds that killed me. I DIED!”
“Please, Rosa. If you fall you will die and there is nothing I will be able to do for you. Come to me. If he can get to me through you then let him try! I’d rather die than see you go over that cliff.”
“I can’t die twice. Go home… forget about me. I have made my choice.”
Charlie watched her feet tangle in the dead roots of long gone trees and realised that if she moved her feet she would tip herself over the edge. She was insane with fear and he didn’t think she knew what she was saying. With a swift lunge he reached for her, her eyes widening with alarm as his arms fetched up around her shoulders. The pain as he wrenched his shoulder free from its binding was intense and the cry that he gave made her forget her own terror for a moment. She was faced with a horrible decision; to tumble back with him attached to her, or to allow him to pull them back, straight into the clutches of her dead husband. With a wail of fear at the inevitability of what him meeting with her husband would bring, she stepped forward, but the roots clung to her and she stumbled. The ground disappeared from beneath her and Charlie lost his footing, clinging tightly to her arms as his wand fell from his grip and down to the welcoming waves below.
She scrabbled at the cliff’s side with her feet, trying to gain some foothold. His fingers dug into her flesh and she winced with the pain. Blood was seeping up from grazes on her arms caused by the rough stone that was hidden by the grass. Blood. She looked from her arms to Charlie’s pain-wracked face.
“Charlie,” she hissed. “I’m bleeding.”
“I know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Join the bloody club.” Blood from his own wound was weeping through what was left of the bandage and running onto his bare forearm.
“I’m bleeding, Charlie… dead people don’t bleed!” And the wind withdrew, rushing away from its victim, knowing that the battle for her was lost. She had woken up to what was real. “Oh my God! Help me, Charlie!”
Her feet were panicked into renewed action as she pushed and thrust herself at him, trying desperately to remove herself from the danger that she had put herself in. With a super-human effort, Charlie managed to ignore the terrible pain from his shoulder and with one last haul, pulled her free of the air that wanted to claim her and dragged her roughly over the rocks and onto the softer grass.
They lay panting together, looking up at the bright sky and waiting for their breathing to steady. Charlie was the first to speak, as he raised himself up on his one good arm.
“Is your husband about six feet tall, with blonde hair and a face like a slapped arse?”
“Yes,” Rosa breathed, “why?”
“Because he’s standing here watching us. And I think he really is dead.”
Rosa sat up quickly, dizzied by the sudden movement. The ghost of her husband was frowning at her, a thick, ugly welt around his neck evidence of his own remorse at what he had done. Through him, they could see the vague shapes of hedgerows and the occasional, slow moving sheep. Now that she had realised she wasn’t actually dead, Rosa seemed to have lost a little of her fear and glared at him.
“Leave me alone, Tim!” she called, scrabbling to her knees and then her feet. Charlie tried to do the same, wincing at the pain from his arm. “You can’t touch me any more. I don’t know how I survived what you did to me, maybe I’ll never know… But I did survive. You killed yourself for no reason and then tried to make me believe I was still dead.”
The sickly-looking man appeared to be about to walk towards them, but as Charlie drew himself to his full height, standing protectively by her, he seemed to falter and shrink a little. “I loved you.” The words were strangled by the damage he had done to his throat. “I wanted to keep you. Couldn’t face my life without you.”
Charlie moved in front of the woman that he had known for just twenty-four short hours and faced the ghost of her past life. “You killed her!” he snapped. “You spent your life bullying her, hurting her. What woman would want to stay with you? And when you had done your worst you couldn’t even stay alive and face what you had done!”
“It wasn’t like that,” the ghost protested, the wound on his throat growing more pronounced, as if the man was now reduced to this ring of pain. “I wanted to be with her. It my way of joining her… so that I could say I was sorry for what I had done. For what I had put her through.”
“Sorry!” Charlie was livid. “You can’t just say sorry for a life of hell. You can’t tie a knot around your throat and attempt to chase her through eternity. She ran away from you because you sickened her… because you were a weak, lily-livered bloody fool!”
“Charlie, no.” Rosa touched his arm and he stopped mid-diatribe, looking at her with concern.
“He needs to hear it. You never told him and he needs to understand what he did.” Charlie looked from her to the ghost that hovered dolefully at a distance.
“I can tell him now.” She squeezed his arm. “I can tell him, not you. It is my job, and my choice.”
With hesitant steps she walked across to the glum Tim and looked into his opaque eyes with sorrow. “You fool,” she whispered. “You ignorant, brute of a man. What power did you think it gave you, to beat me? What did you think you achieved by belittling me at every turn? Did you feel more like a man? Did you feel worth something because one little piece of humanity was under your wicked thumb. I kept quiet for years and never really told you what I felt. Tried to make what love I had for you cover up the fact that you were slowly eating away at my existence!” Her voice had risen, but softened as she looked at the shade of her husband. “Although perhaps I must bear some of the blame for letting you get away with it for so long. I was never the prettiest girl, or the cleverest. I was never destined for great things and I was grateful for your attention, for your love. I didn’t realise then, was too young to understand, that it wasn’t love you felt for me, but need.”
Charlie shifted uncomfortably as her wounding words made the ghost’s head drop to his chest, covering the wound that had killed him. He moved slowly towards her, ready to take her away from the despairing thing that she was finally able to confront.
“And it took me running away to make me realise that I could have a life without you, but you even ruined that, didn’t you? Chasing me around the country, not letting me be, disturbing my world with your violence and jealousy. Until finally you killed me. Do you have any idea of what it is to die at the hands of another? To have that vast chasm of emptiness opened up with only pain between this and the next world. Do you know what it is like to look your lover in the eye and wait for the cut that will sever you from your life? I felt every piece of my flesh breathe terror, and I pleaded with you, begged you for my life, and you took it anyway. That final act of malice in a life filled with the stuff. And yet here I am, alive, while you are dead. And the dead can’t hurt us. I’ve won, Tim. By some blessing, I won. Perhaps something higher than us decided I deserved a second life.”
She felt the rough warmth of Charlie’s hand as it slipped into hers and knew that he had decided enough was enough. Whatever had breathed life back into her dead body and propelled her along to St Mungo’s yesterday would remain hidden from her, but she would be forever grateful.
“Goodbye, Tim,” she said, and this time she knew it really was goodbye.
They walked back to the cottage in silence, two people linked forever by events and circumstances they couldn’t hope to understand. As they reached the gate, Charlie bent down and tipped her face to his.
“I think I’m never going to see the back of you, Rosa Holtz. And there’s going to be an awful lot of explaining to do when they realise you aren’t tucked away waiting to be buried. Let’s put off making that explanation for a few more days.”
“I think I can live with that,” she grinned. “But only if you promise me you’ll get that arm seen to first.”
“I think that can be arranged,” he promised, placing his good hand on her white cheek and moving his mouth to hers. And this time they both knew that the kiss was real and would last forever, if that’s what they chose. And they did.
The following day Sheena McDougal picked up the Daily Prophet from beneath the counter to read. Charlie Weasley hadn’t been in the shop that morning and she was beginning to think he had returned to London without saying goodbye. Although old Jess had said he’d seen smoke coming from the cottage and that some young woman had joined Charlie. Sheena was trying to block that piece of information out. She settled down onto her chair to read the headlines and her eyes widened.
In a quite remarkable and macabre twist to the story of wife-murderer Tim Dickinson, his wife’s body was yesterday found to be missing from the morgue beneath St Mungo’s hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Mr Dickinson was found hanging from his cell at the Ministry the previous day, so no foul play on his part is suspected. A spokeswitch for the hospital gave a short statement in which she said that every effort would be made to find the body of Rosa Dickinson, but that due to the indeterminate creatures that could sometimes be found prowling beneath St Mungo’s, there was a possibility the body may never be found. She also pointed out that this is a very rare occurrence, and that the last body that went missing was that of Thwackem Mallory, the notorious adulterer in the seventeenth century. The department for Magical Law Enforcement said that the matter was now closed as far as they were concerned and that the matter was now for St Mungo’s to deal with.
The door rattled open and Sheena hurriedly shoved the Prophet under the counter. As she did so she could have sworn that the picture of Rosa Dickinson winked at her. Shaking her head free of such a notion she reached up to get Hamish McBain’s pack of Silk Cut down of the shelf and immediately forgot about the news story as he began telling her about the night he had had as he delivered a calf up on the moor.