Chapter 20: A Broken Home

"Your first love has no beginning or end. Your first love is not your first love, and it is not your last. It is just love. It is one with everything." - Thích Nhất Hạnh

Kendra's wedding was as big a to-do as Madeline expected, but among the Hogwarts folks, the second-most talked-of part of the evening was Claire: she was no longer dating Charlie Weasley, she was currently dating an American Healer, and Richard was here!

The ceremony itself was traditional, quite similar to Elaine's, with the same pauses, tears and vows. While listening, Madeline was struck by the idea of writing her own vows, instead of repeating traditional lines, and she glanced to Oliver as if to confer the thought—but he was already gazing at her, his expression tender and warm, and his brown eyes bright. He was wearing a fine set of dress robes and looking particularly handsome. His closely-trimmed beard had grown in to cover the patchy areas, and next to the other men, he seemed older and somehow more responsible than the others. Perhaps it was his building their home for them, or perhaps it was how the weight of Weni's offer had settled in his countenance, or perhaps she was too in love to think so well of any other man. She did not rightly know. They both smiled at each other and, after he winked at her, she laughed silently and returned her gaze to the couple.

After the ceremony ended and all the others had proceeded down the aisle, Madeline walked with Oliver, who squeezed her hand as they smiled at the photographer. She glanced at him and grinned. Contentment swelled like a warm balloon in her chest—the usual feeling he inspired.

Then, in a sudden flash of inspiration, Oliver stopped at the end of the aisle, pulled Madeline close, and kissed her. He placed one hand on her waist and one on the back of her head, and she let her arms fall limp at her side, including her right hand, which was holding her small bridesmaid bouquet. She briefly registered the snapping of photographs and noise of people breaking their silence after the ceremony, but she was so wholly focused on Oliver that her surroundings seemed to fade and swirl into one large incomprehensible mess of background sensory information. She felt, for the first time, that she was worthy of his love—as if he had finally conveyed to her how he saw her, and it was overwhelming.

Oliver pulled away to look at her, his whisky eyes bright and clear with pleasure, and Madeline threw her head back and laughed. A delightful calm overtook her, and she followed Oliver into the Hurst home. They found all their friends in a large room off the backdoor entrance.

"That was unnecessary," said Nicolas with a crooked smirk.

"Which means you approve on principle?" asked Madeline, who was still flushed.

Several people laughed, and Madeline gazed at Nicolas as though daring him to challenge her.

"Oh, pay him no mind. He's disappointed he didn't think to do the same," said Margaret. The pale green bridesmaid dress they all wore shimmered beautifully against her tanned skin and black hair.

"I hadn't thought to block the queue from leaving, no," Nicolas replied. "I'm not half so inconsiderate."

"Inconsiderate? Is that why you insisted that the photographers be angled precisely in your direction?" asked Claire with her arms crossed playfully.

"It was the best angle. There's no disputing that," said Nick pertly.

"For the groomsmen, perhaps. Though I'm sure you'll find the women equally anxious to be photographed," said Murray with a chuckle.

"What nonsense!" cried Temperance. "I'd rather be set aflame than have photographic evidence of my wearing this rubbish."

There were tents enough for dancing, eating, drinking, and stepping away from the crowd. Though it was a typically hot-and-humid English summer evening, there were no clouds or chances of rain, and there was a generous breeze roving through the grounds.

Though almost everyone expected Richard's company to be awkward or off-putting, he joined conversations with various groups with his usual ease. To their additional surprise, he and Gabriel seemed to get on well. Madeline was only less shocked than Claire, who pulled her away to get drinks almost immediately.

"They shouldn't be mates," she whispered darkly. "It's weird."

"It's only weird if you make it weird," said Madeline, echoing Amelia's sound advice.

Claire groaned and cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, looking warily at Gabriel and Richard. Even Nicolas, the most stubborn of them all, had forgiven Richard after Madeline's pseudo-meltdown and lecture about friendship. But Madeline could understand Claire's reservations—seeing him chatting casually with Oliver, Nicolas, and Gabriel was indeed a rather strange sight, and it was undoubtedly causing discomfort. But she was the only one who seemed distressed about it.

"I need wine—the strongest you've got," she begged the bartender.

Madeline asked for two glasses—one for herself and one for Oliver—and when they returned, he took it with a small smile and a quick "thanks." Claire then claimed Gabriel and gracefully steered him away, and Margaret had taken up a conversation with Temperance and Murray. Madeline noted with a small pang in her chest that Oliver maintained his conversation with Nicolas and Richard—he didn't look or smile at her again or even attempt to include her in the discussion—and Madeline decided to drift towards the edge of the field.

The Hurst's home was situated atop a large hill, and a simple wooden bench overlooked the nearby town that was situated a few hundred metres below. The town was nestled closely between several small forests and looked rather isolated. Once the sun had set, the town had lit up with Muggle electricity, and it was quite lovely to see. Madeline took a seat, smiled to herself, and sipped her wine. She hadn't been alone much in the past few months, and she found that she was relieved to find herself with naught but her own thoughts for company.

A hot coal that felt a lot like guilt settled into her chest as her mind jumped sporadically to the topic of The Order. It had been a little over a month since she had joined, and she still hadn't told Oliver, as she had promised. But with each passing day, she felt more and more distressed by her decision. Yet she had allowed Dumbledore to steer her into this path of anxiety and guilt, and she alone would have to suffer the consequences. She never doubted that Oliver would forgive her eventually, but seeing his cold fury after the gala had been a chilling reminder of his dedication to protecting her.

"May I join you?"

Madeline started and turned, her hand flying to her wand, which was stashed in a secret pocket in her dress.

It was Richard.

"Sorry—didn't mean to startle you," he said, smiling apologetically.

She looked back to see Oliver and Nicolas still talking to one another, and she smiled at her friend.

"Of course—please," she said, indicating the seat next to her.

Richard wasn't drinking, and this gave Madeline an unexpected surge of relief. At least he wouldn't do anything stupid tonight. Madeline, though, continued drinking her wine.

"Nick hasn't changed a bit," said Richard.

"No," said Madeline, grinning wryly. "Not in the least."

"He's still stubborn, audacious, and thinks he knows everything."

"As per usual."

A few moments of companionable silence passed, and then Richard spoke again.

"I hope you weren't too offended at Oliver's shrugging you off."

Madeline's eyes narrowed, and she did her best to repress a grin. She recalled their conversation in the hospital, when Richard had finally gained consciousness. He'd wasted no time in sussing out whether she and Oliver had finally consummated their relationship. Madeline was still surprised at how anticlimactic the loss of her virginity had been. She had always been fed stories of girls 'becoming women', of 'glowing' skin, of noticeable physical and spiritual and emotional alterations. She herself had noticed the difference with Claire the very next day, after she had Richard had first shared themselves. She remembered the exact moment with clarity—they had been studying in the library, and Madeline had gasped and asked for confirmation.

But Madeline didn't feel different, she felt the same as she always had, and so part of her wondered—feared—that something wasn't quite right with her, or worse… that their relationship wasn't quite what they thought.

"I forgot how well you know us, and you've clearly got something more to say."

"Oliver fouled up kissing you like that in front of everyone—Nick's suspicious, I think. So Oliver's going to ignore you for a bit to try to make up for it."

"Is that what he's doing? I'd no idea. I was just happy to be alone for a bit."

"Oh," said Richard, his grin fading. "I'm sorry. You could've—"

"No, Richard, please stay. We haven't really talked in so long."

"Agreed. I've missed you," he said.

Madeline heard and felt the sincerity of this admission, and it rattled in her chest a bit. Her? What about Claire, Oliver, Nicolas, and the others? Richard seemed to notice the trend of her thoughts and gave her a noncommittal shrug.

"I missed the others, too, of course. But I realised this past year how much I relied on you—your opinions, characterisations, everything. I mean… I certainly relied on Claire too, as much as expected. But not having you around was a shock I didn't know to prepare myself for."

"Richard, I am so sorry. I've realised, too, how stupid we've all been, myself especially."

"No worries, Maddie. It'll all work out."

"What d'you think of Gabe?"

"The Healer bloke?" asked Richard.

Madeline couldn't quite tell if the casual curiosity in his tone was intentional or not, but she decided to ignore it.

"He seems alright. You know him better—what d'you think of him?"

"Gabe's great," said Madeline with a shrug. "At the hospital in New York, he was the only one who wasn't an arse. Well, him and Jamila."

Richard laughed at this.

"Nick hated him at first, and Oliver warmed up to him pretty quickly. Charlie, though…"

Madeline then grimaced and glanced at Richard, who laughed peaceably.

"Maddie, I'm not here to try to win Claire back. I'm at peace with it. I just hope everyone else can be."

"I'm sure it's only a matter of time."

"True. I still can't imagine it… Claire and Charlie Weasley."

"It was… OK, listen, Richard, you can't tell anyone about this," said Madeline. "It's… Merlin's beard, it sounds weird to say aloud."

"Go on, Maddie," he said.

"It was sort of like… like Charlie was her version of Oliver," said Madeline, grimacing again.

This information gave Richard plenty to think on, and his eyebrows contracted and lips pursed in concentration. Madeline's grimace slowly faded. She didn't know why, but this suspicion had been paining her, and finally discussing it with someone who knew Claire as well as she did was an unexpected relief.

"That's a thought, isn't it?"

"It is, isn't it? Mind, I would never say that to her…"

"No, no. I wouldn't either. She'd resent the thought."

"Exactly! And he and Oliver got on so well, were such good friends… I know they miss each other."

"What did Nick think about Charlie?"

"Thought it was the funniest shit he's ever seen… and then he didn't like it at all, not when he started spending the night."

Richard nodded and made an assenting noise, his eyebrows still pressed together in deliberation.

"That's an interesting pattern," said Richard quietly.

That was all it took—all he needed to say—for Madeline to immediately understand what exactly he was thinking.

"Richard, please, don't be dense," said Madeline.

She glanced behind her to look for Claire, who was, as if the heavens had aligned, dancing with Nicolas. To her horror, they were both laughing and grinning, arms aloft and hands clasped, their bodies moving along to some formal dance. They were incredibly well-balanced, both tall and brilliant, like night and day had united.

"It can't be surprising. First you, then Margaret, then Claire… why wouldn't he get the chance to be with all of you?"

"That's a ridiculous accusation, and I'll absolutely not have it."

"Maddie, I'm just noticing a pattern of behaviour and—"

"And inferring conclusions from incomplete data," said Madeline, turning her own scholarly mind on. "Nick never liked Charlie, not ever. That's not surprising. And yes, he has grown more defensive of Claire now that they've gotten to know each other better. And yes, he thought Gabe a weird addition at first, but he's American. And—and Nick's still mad about Margaret. They've been doing really well the past few months."

"How d'you know?"

"Well, they've stopped fighting, for one. Besides—you were the one who thought they were such a great pair. Remember what you said? Nick and Margo—just think about it."

"Yes, well, Claire and I were still together then," said Richard.

"Merlin, you're off your rocker! Nick doesn't have feelings for Claire!"

"Just an observation," said Richard, all sign of amusement gone. "Let's leave it. How is Margo doing?"

"Fine, I suppose. I never talk to her as much as I'd like, really."

"Too busy shagging?"

They both burst out laughing, and Madeline felt that they could've been atop the Astronomy Tower, talking about Charms and Arithmancy and Cedric Diggory.

Cedric.

The thought of him hit her heavily, like a punch in the gut, and Richard was quick to notice.

"Maddie? What is it?"

"I just… talking and laughing with you made me feel like we were back at Hogwarts, talking nonsense about Charms class and Cedric… and then I remembered…."

"No, Maddie, I'm—I'm so sorry. I'd heard… well, I read about it."

"I was there."

"What?"

"It's a long story," said Madeline, who stood and let the humid breeze course through her hair.

"Another time, perhaps," said Richard.

"Aye, if you don't mind."

"Of course."

"You know… I did love him, in a way. The best I could."

Richard stood and took her hand, and she grasped it.

"Maddie, that's all any of us do—the best we can."

Later in the evening, when Oliver had consumed far too much firewhisky and Madeline too much wine, they ran into the Hurst home and collapsed on the nearest sofa, mouths and hips pressed together in a flurry of passion. They eventually decided to go upstairs for more privacy, but as they ascended to the first level, they saw Margaret and Claire exiting a bathroom together. Claire was unconscious and being supported by only Margaret.

"What's going on?!"

"She's sloshed, what's it look like? Even after her precious Gabriel told her to take it easy. What are you two doing?" Margaret demanded.

"Nothing," said Madeline quickly, though it was the worst possible response, and they all knew it.

Highly unamused, perhaps because of Claire's weight, Margaret rolled her eyes.

"Oh, please, you don't have to lie to me. I know you've been shagging. I'm not an idiot, and I haven't told anyone."

Madeline breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thanks, Margo."

"No worries. Oliver, would you mind—"

"Sure."

Oliver carried Claire downstairs, walking slowly and carefully, and after she was safely placed on the same sofa where Oliver and Madeline had previously been snogging, Margaret glanced outside.

"I'll go find Gabriel. You two—get out of here. Don't shag upstairs," warned Margaret.

"As if you've not shagged in weirder places," said Oliver saucily.

"I have, you cheeky bastard, and that's why you should heed my advice: go home and enjoy falling asleep next to each other in your own bed."

Two days later, they were standing near the loch close to their childhood homes, a crumpled plastic water bottle in their hands, a portkey to their holiday destination. Madeline felt the cold wiggling of nerves in her stomach, but when she saw Oliver's self-satisfied smile, she breathed deeply. He was smart and responsible and would not knowingly lead them into danger, not for a bloody holiday. Both their parents, along with Claire and Nicolas, apparently knew how to reach them if an emergency arose, so Madeline knew she ought not to worry, but her anxiety had peaked this summer in a way she scarcely knew how to manage.

As the portkey activated, the usual feeling of being pulled by the navel followed, and they began swirling through space-time; when their vision cleared, they began moving their legs, and soon they were walking along a beautiful beach—in this new location, it was early morning, so they would have the whole day to explore.

"It's absolutely gorgeous," she breathed.

Oliver had chosen to rent out a beach-side cabin rather than a room in a resort, and Madeline could not have been more relieved. She needed a few days to be truly away and alone with him—they both needed this. The cabin itself was simple and clean, but it had everything they would need for a week's stay. Madeline could tell by the aesthetics of the place that it had been designed by Amelia: it was brightly lit and featured soft colours, various textiles, and loads of bright green Muggle plants.

As they entered the main room, a pamphlet flew up to them, floating mid-air, and spoke in Amelia's voice.

"Oliver and Madeline, welcome to my secret beach-side cabin. There is some important information in this pamphlet, so please take the time to read all about the protective enchantments and detailed instructions for entering and returning from the local Muggle areas. You'll find the kitchen well-stocked. When you're finally ready to return, please see to the cleaning charts and lock-up directions. I hope you find some peace here, and feel free to stay the whole seven days. All my love, Amelia."

Madeline turned to Oliver and gave him a wry grin.

"She promised me that we'd have the beach to ourselves. That's all I wanted."

He nuzzled his nose into her neck in the most wonderful way, and Madeline felt so immensely thankful for her friends and family and Oliver that tears brimmed in her eyes—joyful, grateful tears.

They wasted no time in exploring the cabin, learning its quirks, and testing the firmness of every mattress and sofa with a jump or plop. Oliver wanted to test the mattress of the master bedroom more thoroughly, but Madeline wanted to explore outside first.

For four days, the pair spent time walking and lying on the beaches, exploring some of the highly-populated Muggle areas of the island, and learning about snorkelling and scuba-diving. To her deep amusement, Oliver could not stop snickering and making cheeky comments during one of the Muggle informational sessions. They also tested their swimming skills by going into the bright blue ocean.

And, of course, they spent a great deal of time kissing and making love whenever and wherever they wished. They stayed up late watching Muggle television and films that Amelia had stored, and while Madeline slept in late, Oliver would go for a swim in the ocean, the convenient Bubblehead Charm keeping him from swallowing lungs full of seawater. He would make breakfast, Madeline would easily tempt him back into the bed, and they wouldn't leave the cabin until around noon. Then they would then spend the afternoons exploring and sunbathing and the evenings cooking, dancing, walking the beach, and just existing with one another.

In these and other ways, their intimacy grew deeper, their love stronger. They talked of anything and everything—everything, of course, except The Order. Madeline always felt a bubble of guilt and shame at the thought of this secret, but she continued pushing it aside, focusing instead on the present moment, on how so very much in love they were, on the newer dimensions of their love, on the desire for connection that often overtook them.

Though they cherished their retreat, the time passed quickly. On the fourth night, Oliver had a proposition.

"We can stay here for three more days, or we can travel to the next location," he said.

"I suppose the next location is a secret as well?"

"Of course," he said.

"Can't I tempt you into telling me?" she asked, tracing her fingers along the top of his thigh.

"No," he said, his tone and expression going stern.

But Madeline she saw the mirth and pleasure in his eyes, and she was undeterred.

"Oh, I think I can," she said, grinning and moving to straddle him on the sofa. She pressed her hips in close, kissed his neck teasingly, and whispered into his ear. "I'll let you take me on the beach again."

Oliver kept his resistance up for a few moments, but as Madeline felt herself aching for him, he finally gave in. He picked her up and carried her outside.

"Tell me!" she cried, laughing.

"Oh no, not so fast," he said.

Soon they were lying in the soft sand and sharing a long, deep kiss. As their urgency grew, Oliver revealed the next destination: Rome. Madeline assented to the change in location with glee, and then she moved atop him, wishing to express her appreciation and celebrate their last night on the beach.

Rome was even better than they expected. Oliver had applied to Margaret for suggestions, and she had provided them with a list of a few non-touristy spots to eat, all of which were magnificent. The fountains, the museums, the cathedrals, the Coliseum—all of it was spectacular. After four days of rather a lot of rest, they spent three days doing a lot of standing and walking and even more heavy eating and wine drinking.

Oliver was certain he had died and gone to heaven—the food and drink and desserts were otherworldly, and Madeline had never looked more joyful and beautiful. Her skin was still sunburned from their beach excursions, and her hair had been bleached by the sun. Though he tanned well, Madeline's skin always burned and peeled if the sun exposure was not gradual. Then there was how intimately he now knew her body and how much closer they had grown in the past few days. Though he did not plan to tell Amelia, he and Madeline had shagged in multiple locations both in the house and around it. They also truly rested for the first time in months.

Oliver also knew how desperately she needed a reprieve from her work, from her responsibilities, from the business and frenzy and worry of adult life, from all the grief. Now that he knew her even better—he had thought this impossible, but she always managed to surprise him—he wanted to create a life for them from which they would not need such a desperate reprieve. He did not yet know what that would entail, but he was determined to try.

The first step, he knew, would be to host a wedding of their own. The night of Kendra and Peter's wedding, he'd been so overcome with love for Madeline that he could not help but kiss her—he didn't care who knew. In fact, he wanted everyone to know. Yet the thought of asking her to marry him filled with dread. He could not reconcile those feelings—he desperately wanted to call Maddie his, to be wedded to her in every way, but the idea of planning a wedding—he could not imagine Madeline planning a wedding—made his stomach twist painfully.

He remembered the conversation he'd had with his own father and with Henry, months ago, when he had discussed plans for the house and had asked why it all felt so terrifying, even though he was certain she would say yes. Oliver had no doubt of her love, and yet… and yet.

"It's terrifying because marriage is terrifying," Paul Wood had said. "You could do as I did—pick a date, and have it done by that date, no matter what."

"Or, alternatively," said Henry, "talk with Madeline about it. You know her better than most, but I'd wager she wouldn't mind having a discussion first."

Yes, but discussions with Madeline didn't always go to plan. What if she wanted to wait? What if she didn't want kids? What if she was expected something different? What if she wanted to be surprised?

"Maddie doesn't like surprises," Oliver had said, nodding thoughtfully.

Oliver looked over at Madeline, who was asleep next to him in their hotel bed. It was their last night in Rome, the last night of their holiday, and he was suddenly regretting all those tender moments when he could have said something, when he could have just asked her, when he could have started the conversation. But his courage had failed him—each time, every doubt he'd ever had resurfaced. He recalled an image of Madeline flirting with Alex Mulroney, and then a more painful image of Nick snogging her rather emphatically, and then a fabricated image of that bloke Seti making love to her on a beach somewhere. Oliver's veins ran cold, his heart shuddered with anguish.

Oliver stood from the bed and paced for a bit, rubbing the back of his neck as he did so. He couldn't do it anymore—he couldn't keep hovering in doubt. He needed to ask and be done with it!

He silently summoned the ring box from its hidden place in one of his trouser pockets. He then lit the candle on either side of the bed, slid back under the blankets, and then gently shook Madeline awake. She stirred slowly, sleep crusting her eyes, her expression one of adorable bemusement.

"Maddie?"

"Mm?"

"I need to ask you something."

"Wha?"

"Are you awake?"

"Not really," she mumbled. "Whassa matter?"

Oliver sat up and helped her sit up, too. He needed her to be at least mostly conscious for this decision.

"Maddie, open your eyes," he said, opening the ring box and putting before her face.

He hoped the ring was in good taste; he had spent months searching for the right one. He wanted a ring with some history to it, some substance. Though he took pleasure in the idea of designing a ring uniquely for her, that felt like too much pressure. He had travelled all over Europe looking for the right engagement ring, and when he saw this one, he knew. This particular ring was made of silver, and the band featured delicate filigree patterning about a quarter of the way around and featured a round emerald in the middle and two triangular peridot jewels on either side. Oliver had felt certain that Madeline wouldn't want anything too ostentatious, and he knew she didn't care a jot about diamonds. She rarely wore jewelry at all, and she especially hated bracelets, but she would hopefully want to wear this ring all the time.

She rubbed her eyes and blinked hard several times, looking from him to the box. After a few moments of staring blankly at it, she turned her gaze to him.

"Ol, what is this?"

"It's an engagement ring."

"You really want to marry me?"

"Aye," he said. "Will you marry me, Madeline?"

"Yes," she said, smiling sleepily. "There's no one else I'd rather spend my life with."

Oliver kissed her then, and kissed her rather harder than she expected. Though Oliver had enough joy and adrenaline to fly through two or three Quidditch matches, and though he desperately wanted to continue kissing his bride—Madeline was now his bride—he had to settle for letting his fingers drift lazily across her face, her arms, the top of her head, her fingers, her lips. She flashed him a lovely smile before falling asleep, and he felt a warm balloon of relief swelling in his chest as he joined her in sleep.

The next morning, when Oliver awoke, he found that he had slept in for once and that Madeline had woken and packed all their items into her magically extended cross-body bag. He could smell coffee and doughnuts—his nose never failed him. Madeline was washing her face in the bathroom when he finally spotted her, and she smiled when he saw him sitting up.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," she said, crawling into the bed and lying atop him. She kissed him happily, and he eagerly welcomed her weight, her lips…

"You're all dressed," he said, looking at her and frowning.

How were they supposed to celebrate their midnight engagement with her fully dressed?

"We've got to be to the portkey in about 45 minutes, love. You slept so hard—I couldn't do anything to wake you. I would've feared you dead if I weren't a Healer and hadn't known you the whole of my life."

Oliver cursed creatively and shot out of bed, dressing quickly with the clothes she had left out for him.

"I was afraid I'd have to resort to sleep-seducing you," he said, smirking at him.

"I wouldn't have minded," he mumbled.

After drinking some coffee and eating a few of the remaining doughnuts—she had gone down to the market to procure some breakfast while he slept—they gave the hotel room a final look-over. As they descended and waited for their portkey, Oliver caught her smiling at her ring finger at a few inconspicuous moments. He smiled too—if she had hated the ring, she would have already said so. He knew Maddie would be honest with him about everything.

It was no time at all before they were walking back up the trail to their own cabin, their home. Oliver smiled again—one day soon, they would be living here together as husband and wife.

But as they entered the house and began getting settled, Madeline stared at her ring again, her expression unreadable. They were in their bedroom, and Oliver had begun unpacking their clothes.

"Maddie, what's the matter? If you don't like the ring, we can find you another."

"I can't do this anymore," she muttered.

She spoke as though talking only to herself, but the words cut through Oliver's chest like an icy blade.

"Beg pardon?"

When she finally looked up, there were tears in her eyes, and her expression was resolved—like there was something dreadful she needed to tell him. He knew that look; he had seen it before. He recalled the painful memory with ease and clarity:

"Spit it out, Maddie."

"Nick kissed me on Thursday. Yesterday."

Oliver felt his whole being rupture at this memory and at the prospect of it occurring again. There was a pair of trousers in his hand, and he threw them to the ground as hard as he could.

"I know that look, Maddie. Is this the bit where I'm to learn that you've been kissed by Nick, again? Or that you've cheated on me with some fucking—"

"I've never cheated on you. Not ever," she said, her voice throaty with emotion, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing! And Nick? Really?"

"What is it, then? What could you possibly have to share with me the morning after I've asked you to marry me?! What can't you do anymore?!"

She was crying freely now, her face scrunched with distress.

"You won't understand—I don't know how I could—"

Oliver felt fury flowing through his veins like white-hot acid.

"Yes, Madeline, go on—tell me—what is it that I couldn't possibly understand?!"

"It's not about us!" she cried, throwing her hands up. "I mean—it sort of is, but not like you think—"

"Are you in love with someone else?!"

"No! Oliver, how could you—"

"Do you still want to marry me?"

"YES! Would you fucking let me talk, please, and stop making irrational accusations?!"

This silenced him for a moment, and he let her catch her breath. She still loved him, and still wanted to marry him… so what was there to fear?

"Oliver—if you don't know by now that I am yours and only yours, then I don't know how else to prove myself and my love to you. What I have to tell you has nothing to do with my feelings for you or my loyalty to you."

He nodded—this mollified him, though he wouldn't feel at peace until they had worked through whatever it was.

"But—I was sworn to secrecy, and it has been tearing me apart, not being able to tell you. After Cedric died..."

At these words, she sobbed again, and Oliver felt certain that she was being fully honest and forthright. If it had to do with the events at Hogwarts, she would not lie to him.

"I couldn't possibly go into our engagement with this between us. I've been fighting myself all morning, trying to work out if I should tell you…."

"Get on with it."

She took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded, her face all splotchy from crying.

"Dumbledore asked me to join a secret organisation designed to fight You-Know-Who. He asked just after Cedric died, when I… I would have done anything to…. He said that he was reinstating the group and that he wanted me to be his eyes and ears in St Mungo's."

It took a few long moments for this information to fully sink into Oliver's mind. Though he had always been a smart lad, he wasn't as quick of mind as others, and by the time he began realising the implications of her words, she was already speaking again.

"I was furious when they asked me to keep this from you, and I told them I couldn't. But they insisted on secrecy, and I told them that if my assignment was changed, if I was to do something more dangerous than simply go to work, then I would have to tell you immediately. They agreed to—"

Though he registered that she was speaking again, he couldn't quite hear her anymore. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but this seemed—this seemed so much worse than anything he could have guessed.

"Madeline."

At the sound of her full name, fresh tears sprang to her eyes. If she recognised the tone, she would know that he was barely keeping it together.

"I need to think about this," he said, grasping at the bed frame for support.

She approached him and tried to touch him, but he swatted her away.

"Ol, please…"

"I SAID I NEED TO THINK!"

Madeline staggered backward, flinching as though he had physically hit her, and then—before Oliver could think to say another word—she disapparated. There were tears on the floorboards where she had stood, but nothing else.

She was gone.

Chapter 21: Fictionalise

"What, my Charlie?"

"Yes. They're good friends, and I think Charlie would understand. If that's alright."