WHO: Imogen Montague, Graham Montague, Gawain Robards. WHAT: She confronts her brother about his Death Eating. WHEN: 19 December. WHERE: Imogen’s flat, then St. Mungo's. WARNINGS: None.
It was a strange scene, to be hosting the former Head of the Auror Office in her cramped apartment as she sat down on the edge of Graham's sofa-bed while a Christmas tree twinkled in the corner, still decorated with the spray-painted gold dinosaurs as ornaments.
"He couldn't," she insisted with her mouth, even as her mind meticulously ran over the endless hints from the last few months alone. "That's not him. Maybe someone polyjuiced to look like him! He's not--" a murderer, she wanted to say, but the words stuck like a lump in her throat.
“His injuries will confirm that was him. He’s likely at Mungo’s, or seeking treatment from a healer within the Death Eaters’ ranks,” Gawain explained, tone calm with and injected with sympathy. He did feel bad for Imogen Montague: no one deserved to find out their little brother was a genocidal terrorist.
"You can't be a Healer and a Death Eater, those are diametrically opposed!" Which was entirely besides the point, but Gawain was too calm, and too professional, and Imogen was quickly running out of ways to ignore the part of her brain that acknowledged that perhaps he was speaking the truth. He had no reason to come to her home and lie.
“That’s a matter for another evening. I would point out that not at healers are as serious about their oaths as you yourself are,” Gawain answered, but he didn’t let this get bogged down over whether there was a Death Eater healer. “I’m sorry, Ms. Montague. I know this is difficult to come to terms with.”
"You're claiming he tried to kill you, I mean, I respect you and -- he's just not a killer. I mean, he's mean at times, but those are just stupid pranks. Or him reacting, or…"
No one wanted to believe someone they cared for was capable of such a thing, Gawain knew, and he didn’t blame Imogen for not readily agreeing her brother capable. “He was there, one of three, in full Death Eater regalia. I unmasked him myself and confirmed his identity with the aide of a Pensieve,” he reiterated, slowly, calmly.
It took her a beat to push past the auto-response of denial and disbelief. "I need to see it."
Had the world been normal, Gawain would have refused. But then, had the world been normal, he would have been arresting Graham Montague this very second. With Death Eaters in control the rules had changed, and if he didn’t convince people that others were a danger he’d be failing the public. After a moment’s silent deliberation with himself, he reached, ignoring the discomfort, into the interior pocket of his robes and pulled out a small flash containing a silvery thread of a memory.
“I’m sorry again, Ms. Montague,” he said while handing it over to her.
***
She'd walked down the hallways of St. Mungo's a million times by now, and the stale hospital musk penetrating the entire building stopped bothering her two days into her Training program, but tonight was different. Tonight it stuck in her nose, reminding her of death and every patient she couldn't help, and the spell damage she couldn't heal.
Imogen didn't know why she was still carrying the flask containing the memory that Gawain had given her. There wasn't exactly a public Pensieve floating about in the wards that she could use, but there it was, clutched between her fingers like it was the only thing reminding her that this wasn't some horrible nightmare she was trapped in.
It wasn't too late to turn around, she wanted to tell herself. She could throw the flask in the bin and walk away and pretend that she hadn't heard anything, but she was here now, outside Graham's door. She scanned his charts looking for the exact injuries -- all of them accounted for as Auror Robards had described -- and her heart sank.
Graham was, despite everything, not feeling bad about anything right now. Okay things could have gone better at Robards’, but they’d injured him and burned down his house. His injury was fixable, the smoke inhalation and other scrapes he had were fine. Maybe they hadn’t killed the former Auror, but they’d certainly done some damage.
And Bellatrix didn’t seem pleased with what happened, so it clearly wasn’t a complete failure.
He heard someone at the door and he looked over, pressing his lips together when he saw Imogen. He was both surprised and not, maybe she hadn’t heard anything yet. Robards couldn’t have gotten to her already, could he?
“Hey Immy,” he called out, pulling up a sheepish smile. What excuse could he use this time?
Usually the old childhood nickname, started when Graham couldn’t get all three syllables out of his mouth as a toddler, softened her. But not today.
“Hi,” she began, approaching his bed. “Another duel?”
“Yeah,” he replied with a shrug, sitting up in the bed and wincing slightly. How did that slight movement manage to use seemingly all the muscles around his wound?
Her instinct was to reach out for him, make his life easier somehow, check his wound for herself -- but all she could do was hover woodenly beside his bed. "What happened?"
“A door exploded and a chunk of it got buried in my leg. Wish I’d gotten it on camera.”
"Don't," she warned. "What happened?"
“That is exactly what happened!” Graham protested. He wasn’t lying. For once.
"You wished you'd gotten your attempted murder on camera, Graham?" Imogen pushed, ignoring her voice cracking as she looked at him, searching for a reason to believe the best in him just... One. More. Time.
So she had heard. His smile faded away, lips pressing together as he looked away from Imogen.
“Sure, why not? Other people could do with the same warning.”
He couldn't. she'd said. That's not him. A shiver crept down her spine as she stepped back. "It's true?" she asked softly, still clutching to the proof that it was. "You're a…"
“I’m a Death Eater,” Graham finished defiantly.
The defiance in his voice scared her, the way that he looked as he said it, like he was proud of his decision -- it terrified her. Instantly, any justifications in her mind that he'd been pressured into it, that it wasn't his choice, that he hadn't meant to… all vanished.
"When? When did this start?" she braved at last.
“Earlier this year.” Graham shrugged, not interested in elaborating further.
"So. This whole year you've been--" Her breaths grew shallow, frequent, panicked. "Would you hurt me? If they wanted you to."
“They wouldn’t ask it like that,” Graham replied. “If they thought you were a problem then they’d just tell me to deal with you myself.”
"Graham," Imogen broke, her voice cutting through this exchange as she realised she didn't want to ask anymore questions. She didn't want to know how far he could go. She just didn't want to know. "I don't want you to come back home anymore."
“What?” Graham wasn’t surprised, but still… he’d hoped that Imogen’s usual patience with him would hold out.
"I'll leave your things at Mum's," she continued, pushing past the panic into a matter-of-fact mode. "You can collect them from there in the morning."
“At Mum’s?” Graham whined. “Can’t you leave it with Uncle Lawrence?” He’d MUCH rather deal with him.
She was about to agree when she caught herself -- and looked up at him. "You don't get to ask me for anything anymore." She paused, her voice quieter as she struggled with the next part. "We're done."
Graham frowned, staring at Imogen for a few long moments. He then turned on his side, presenting his back to Imogen and staring at the wall. He wasn’t going to let her see him cry.