CHAPTER THREE
dinner and diatribes

𖦹 ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ ⋆｡˚⋆ฺ˚⋆˚ 𖦹

THE NIGHT FEELS A FRACTION WARMER in Bristol, though frost still prickles the landscape with a vengeance. Townhouses and tenements smatter the landscape in a haze, flocked like fireflies as they coruscate in Cove's peripheral vision. The cold cradles the amethyst sky astride its tender palm, spreading in wisps between the stars so they glitter like pearls; supernovas laid beguilingly upon a velveteen atmosphere.

   When Cove lands in Euphemia Potter's hydrangea bush, she has a clear view of the constellations spread out overhead, basking in their serene glow as she strains to recover from the fall. The rise of her chest stutters as she gasps to regain her breath, winded and aching upon the frozen flower bed.

Remus is quick to help her to her feet, their scars intertwining as he shields her from the torrential winds. He shepherds her toward the door with no time to waste, skipping over the unstable tile on the second step and going to twist the handle for entry.

  Only, the door cracks open before he can touch it, revealing the accusatory sliver of an older man's face. Remus shares a puzzled side glance with Cove. The three of them are only separated by hesitation and a chain, buttery lamplight streaming onto the stairs from within as a single emerald eye blinks at them warily.

"Alright, Mont—"

  "What's my favourite flavour of ice cream?"

  "Huh? I—" Remus frowns. "Biscoff?"

  The man sighs in relief. He swings the door open to clap Remus on the shoulder and squeeze Cove's hand amicably, ushering them both to step inside. His eyes dart anxiously around the expanse of his front garden, crystallised by frost, his blurry vision wading through the darkness as if he's expecting something to stare straight back. His eyebrows settle in a heavy furrow as he latches the door behind him, shivering slightly at the chill that invites itself in after them.

She recognises Fleamont Potter from the Christmas party, his crow's feet heralding the absence of a smile and his lips perpetually ghosted by a fading laugh. His grizzled hair is mussed from sleep yet shiny from his own fabled product, his tartan dressing gown cocooning his weedy frame.

  "Sorry about that," he laments, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "Safety precaution. Moody would've incinerated the lot of us if I didn't check it was really you. Awfully cold out tonight, isn't it?"

Cove blinks in surprise. "Aye, it is."

  "Everyone's just through in the dining room," Fleamont continues. "Had to use an extension charm on the table just to fit half the Order around it, ha! Kingsley swears that we're here for something urgent this time." He sucks his teeth. "Better be bloody urgent enough to get us out of our beds this early, eh?"

  Remus offers a tight lipped smile. He parrots his agreement in a low voice that's laced by his sleep depravation, slumping against Cove like he'll crumble to the ground without her as an anchor. She pats his forearm sympathetically, dragging him forward while trying to save him tripping over the hall runner.

Cove hazards a glance at the Potter Manor as she's led through the dark hallways, the only proper light source in the house spilling out onto the creaky floorboards from an ajar kitchen door. The ancestral home is bare of any Yuletide festivities this time around, though the tasteful decorations and antiques make Cove awe slightly. Chatter warms the otherwise hollow silence, distant and echoing, a garbled cobweb of a dozen different voices melting into one another.

When she's ushered across the threshold, she understands why. The dining room is packed full of people she recognises from school and work, mingling around the table as they cradle their hot drinks close to their chests. And, though Cove was self conscious to be in her pyjamas at first — cloaked only by a borrowed jumper and a pair of fluffy slippers — it soon becomes clear to her that almost nobody was prepared to be called out this early in the morning.

   Most of the Order are flocked around the dining room table in their dressing gowns, a few of them having taken the time to comb through their sleep-tousled hair while others are slumped amidst a mane of tangles without a care in the world. A charmed kettle levitates over the table to pour scalding water into people's mugs, the air thick with caffeine as everyone tries to shake off their exhaustion.

   The only person who seems totally prepared is Alastor Moody, his tatty coat layered over a dark button down and inexplicably muddy trousers. He almost looks out of place in his regular clothes — even Kingsley is in his navy dressing gown and fur-lined slippers, cradling a cup of coffee to his chest as though it's a lifeline.

   "Constant vigilance," Moody gripes at their dishevelled states. "The time of night is irrelevant. You should always be on high alert, no matter the hour."

   "Yes, Alastor," Minerva McGonagall replies exasperatedly, accepting the cup of tea Effie hands to her with a grateful smile. "We heard you the first time. Shall we get on with this?"

Moody clears his throat. "Aye, of course, Minerva," he thunders. "Everyone sit down. This is serious business, there's no time to be pissin' about." His electric blue eye lolls pointedly in the direction of James and Sirius, who shrink down in their seats like school children.

The room's energy deflates as everyone slumps down into their seats and pauses their sleepy conversations, livened by their drinks and budding anxieties. Their anticipation only crescendos as everyone slots into place like pawns across a chessboard, eager to know why they've been called to a meeting so early in the morning.

  Mary and Fallon beckon the couple over to the far end of the table where all their other friends have collected. Marlene's dozing off, balanced between Alice and Lily, while the boys are all muttering amongst one another, too wrapped up in their deliberation to offer the newcomers anything more than a curt wave or a nod.

  Though, as Cove begins to shepherd Remus across the room, her eyes catch on someone at the opposite end of the table. Her shoulders square, nerves gnawing her to the bone as she falters completely.

  The smug upturn of scarlet lips draws her up to her full height. She'd recognise that self-satisfied air anywhere — she's only been choking on it since her Seventh Year of school. She spots that taxidermized elegance from a mile away, those too-perfect robes draped over that overly confident body language. Her blood simmers in her veins at the sight, her lip curling in distaste.

Professor Lamia fucking Rigby.

  "Why is she here?" Cove demands before she can stop herself.

  Rigby's superior expression makes her seethe. She leans forward with her chin propped on her hand, her sable hair frustratingly neat despite the time of day. A chuckle flutters from her lips as if to say, 'what's the matter with her?'

  "I'm here to help," she says plainly.

   "Oh, silly me," Cove mutters dryly. "Never realised you were capable."

  Her eyes narrow to stygian slits. "I don't appreciate your tone."

  "Forgive me, Professor," she replies, voice swimming in sarcasm. Her eyes harden. "I don't particularly enjoy working with people who demean living, breathing creatures and treat them like animals."

"Ladies..." McGonagall warns, trying to mediate while everyone else watches, heads swinging back and forth like it's a tennis match.

Yet, Rigby ignores her and titters infuriatingly, holding eye contact as if presenting a challenge. Her cardinal lips curl in a manner that transports Cove back to her days in that wretched classroom, pinned under the bone crunching pressure of that same smug glare—

  "Don't flatter yourself. I'd rather not work with beasts, either, Henderson."

  There's a moment of silence, calm before the storm, before Cove lunges across the table.

   Cutlery clatters around on the table and exclamations ring out as she jumps at Rigby, her claws glinting in the low lighting. Remus winds his arm around her tight and restrains her from mauling their new ally, kicking and furious.

    "You knew?" she seethes, her hands prying at Remus' arm helplessly. "The whole time?"

   "Of course I knew," she scoffs. "You're not very discreet, Henderson."

   Cove cries out in outrage and Remus' hold strengthens around her in precaution. Her claws have fully extended and they glimmer under the lamplight, splintering her cuticles until they begin to fervently ooze blood.

   "You knew what I was and still said all those horrible, demeaning things about my people? To my face?" She scowls. "What's wrong with you?"

  "I was teaching," she replies curtly.

  "You—" Cove stops short, elbowing Remus softly. More of a warning than an attack. "Let go of me. I won't try anything."

Remus eyes her warily, slowly loosening his grip until he's merely resting his hand on her waist as if to ground her. Everyone around the table seems to be waiting for the dramatic denouement of this argument with bated breath, literally on the edge of their seats as the two women sneer at each other from opposite ends of the table.

Cove takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself as she pinches the bridge of her nose. Her eyes fly open, sea green and raging like the ocean under the manipulation of a gale, her lip curled in distaste.

"You're a slimy, horrible woman. I hope you know that." She throws her hands up in exasperation, pointing an accusatory finger toward Rigby. "Cadal na caorach anns an dris ort."

   She blinks, taken aback. "I don't know what that means," she says primly.

"Tone is universal, so use your brain," Cove snaps. She ignores the way Remus shifts awkwardly at the way she quotes him. "If it still works inside that thick skull of yours—"

    "Ladies, sit down," Moody barks, exhausted. "We have serious matters to discuss."

"Alastor is right," McGonagall says. "There's no time to be bickering like school children. There's a war going on, for Godric's sake!"

Cove sighs. "I'm sorry, Professor."

Rigby remains silent, inspecting her nails.

Her stern expression hardly falters. "Minerva is perfectly fine, dear."

  The tension in the room could be cleaved into quarters like a hot knife sliding through butter, the silence stifling and asphyxiating. Cove feels heat rise to her cheeks, embarrassment wilting the anger that had been coursing through her veins. You could hear a pin drop.

   Effie Potter presses a hand to the worry lines on her face, shaking her head slightly. "I'll go put the kettle on," she murmurs.

Mary rests a hand on Cove's arm as she sits down, leaning over to study her indiscernible expression. She mutters a hasty healing spell to soothe the bleeding of her cuticles as her friend's claws retract under her skin with a sickening crunch, a barely audible wince hissing from between Cove's clenched teeth.

"Alright, babe?" she says slowly. A familiar question, laden with that same worry from all the years gone by.

"Peachy." Cove huffs, burying her face in her palms. "I'm so sorry. That was an overreaction."

Fallon snorts. "No, please don't apologise. That made this meeting so much more interesting already." She lifts her jam-lathered scone in salute. "Cheers to dinner and a show."

Mary flicks her shoulder. "It's not even seven in the morning."

   She rolls her eyes. "Oh, well, I—"

She's shushed by a tired Emmeline Vance, who points toward the head of the table where Kingsley Shacklebolt has positioned himself. They all shut up without much hesitation — after all, when Kingsley speaks, you listen. His chin is held high, his eyes darkened by severity as he folds his arms behind his back. A wave of silence ripples over the room as everyone settles back into themselves: tired, impatient and curious.
 
  "Why are we here so bleedin' early, Kingsley?" Fabian Prewett suddenly heckles, slouched atop his folded arms. "Couldn't it have waited?"

  "Shut up, you twat," his twin brother, Gideon, scolds. "Let the man speak. We wouldn't be here if it weren't for sommat important."

   "Thank you, Gideon." Kingsley sighs. "And, yes, we have gathered you here today for something of utmost importance." He clears his throat. "There's no easy way to say this. It's come to our attention that the Dark Lord has begun recruiting our..." He casts an eye over to Cove and Remus. "Less mortal counterparts."

   "Beings?" Cove supplies, a sudden anger fuelling her confidence. Her eyes slide to Rigby as she sneers. "Beasts?"

   "Cove," Remus warns, squeezing her hand.

   She takes a deep breath through her nose. "Sorry," she says to Kingsley. "Please continue."

   He huffs slightly, nodding his head. "I'm sure everyone here has heard of Fenrir Greyback before?"

   Now, it's Remus' turn to tense at her side. His scars simmer on his skin as if they're aflame, his bones aching and scraping within his mortal prison as he relives a thousand full moons. His knuckles go white around the armrests of his transfigured chair and his legs tremble slightly with a bitter nostalgia. His maker, his damnation. The mention of Greyback's name alone has never been an easy pill to swallow.

   "Well," Kingsley continues unaffectedly, "he has been rallying fellow werewolves to join his ranks. From what we've been told, Greyback has been contaminating more innocents than usual — targeting muggle villages and leaving them to die without proper healing, or..." he stops abruptly, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "Or worse."

  Remus squeezes his eyes shut. He tries not to feel offended but a creeping bitterness nestles itself beneath his tongue, stinging the back of his throat and burning behind his eyes. He doesn't have to be told that the release of death would be better than the life he's forced to life. No, he's known the truth behind that ever since he was four years old.

"A werewolf army?" breathes Molly Weasley abruptly, clutching at her husband's arm in fear.

   Nobody can quite blame them — they'd had two more boys only the year before, an endearing set of twins to join their three older brothers. Worry for their children dominates everything else in their lives, especially with the state of the wizarding world as it crumbles around them. Cove feels her heartstrings twist into a clove hitch at the idea of those boys growing up in such a conflict stricken environment, especially with dangers like this on the rise.

  Kingsley's expression slumps. He's only a few years older than them, the weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders. He clears his throat and shakes off the tension in his body, resuming his commanding position at the head of the table with a passive expression. It's not like he has any other choice.

   "We have reason to believe that these werewolves are allies of the Dark Lord," Kingsley states. "The numbers show that they're mainly targeting muggleborns and half-bloods, sometimes muggles if they're particularly unruly—"

It's then that chaos breaks loose in the Potter's kitchen. Everyone erupts into worried murmurs, hands pressed over hearts and agape mouths covered by knuckles as this sinks in. The Order has its fair share of muggleborns and half bloods, people with muggle family members — she can see Lily go white as a sheet in her peripheral vision. Every passing day just seems to bring a new threat to their lives.

   Moody's quick to thump his gnarled staff against the kitchen floor, drawing everyone back in line, his glare alone enough to quieten the room. Kingsley thanks him with a curt nod before continuing with his speech.

   "Remus." He looks up, eyes pleading. "I know it's a lot to ask and I can't deny the risks, but I implore you to hear me out." He takes a quavering breath. "Having a double agent in the werewolf army, someone on the inside to help us calculate all their next moves..."

Remus can't help the way sweat beads along his brow, coasting down his nape and weeping into his calloused palms. Everyone is waiting for an answer. Expecting the one they want to hear. Their stares curl under his skin and their invasive scrutiny clouds his thoughts, crowding his blood vessels whilst his heart rate quickens in his chest.

   "No."

   He looks taken aback. "No?"

   Cove hadn't registered that the words were leaving her mouth until they were out, festering in the open. She meets his eyes with a frosty look that feels out of place on her face, a tight furrow forming over her brow.

   "Cove," Remus interjects again. "It's okay."

   "No, it isn't," she says. "You'll get yourself killed—"

    Moody grunts. "Hear the man out, Henderson. He hasn't finished yet."

    She sinks back into her seat, eyes downcast. Maybe she has a lot of pent up rage building from Rigby's snarky prescence and the past few weeks combined, but she isn't stupid enough to challenge Mad-eye Moody. ( Cove really resents that nickname — he can't control the way he looks and it's unfair to insult him to his face the way that people often do. She digresses. )

   Instead, her hand grapples for Remus' under the table, interlocking their fingers in a death grip and squeezing tight to keep him as close to her as possible.

"I'll think about it," Remus mutters, his own voice sounding distorted and foreign to his ears.

"Thank you," Kingsley says, nodding in understanding.

  An unsettled buzz hums between the members of the Order. Several people are eyeing him with caution, while others are rubbing their temples and trying to cope with all this new information. Remus shrinks down into his seat and tries to make himself seem smaller.

  "There's something else, isn't there?" Fleamont states. "That's not the only reason we're here."

    "Yes. I'm afraid it's not just the werewolves that are the problem," Kingsley says. "There's another leader on the rise—"

   "Just as deadly," Moody interjects. "Almost twice as bloodthirsty. A real threat."

    Murmurs ring out, fearful of this sudden disadvantage that's leering at them from the darkness. Kingsley shoots an exasperated look at Moody for scaring everyone, shaking his head as he tries to mediate and bring order back into the meeting.

   "Who is it?" Hestia Jones is the first to ask, her tawny eyebrows furrowed.

    A grave look overtakes the grisly indifference on Moody's face. His grip tightens on the head of his gnarled wooden staff, his eye lolling with a newfound vigour as his lips part to supply everyone with the answer they're on the edge of their seats for, fervently anticipating.

  "It's—"

"—Cathal Calleary," a wizened voice says. "A chieftain as old as time. His colony are recruiting selkies along the Irish coasts and their influence is growing as we speak, my friends."

Everyone spins around to find none other than Albus Dumbledore lingering in the door frame, yet to cross the threshold. His hands are clasped behind his back and his azure irises glisten with something inexplicable. The knowing twinkle in his eye only makes his unexpected presence feel all the more off putting. Silken robes drape off his shoulders, skimming the floorboards as he ambles over to take Kingsley's place at the head of the table.

   Though, the whole time, his focus rests on one person in the room. His thin lips quirk in a small smile that puts her on edge.

"Might you know something of him, Miss Henderson?"

Now, every head in the room snaps around to her all over again. Her face burns from the intensity and she sinks down even further in her seat, fingertips curling into the soft fabric of her pyjama top.

"I've only heard of him in passing," she replies meekly. "Selkies are territorial, especially toward our own kind. We're warned of chieftains like him when we're wee to keep us from straying too far from our parents. I... I've heard horror stories of what he does to the people who cross him."

"You'd do well to listen more closely to those stories, Miss Henderson," Dumbledore says. "You may learn a thing or two."

Her eyebrows furrow. "Are they no just... fairytales, though? Myths to scare the weans into behaving?"

He chuckles. "Oftentimes, fairytales teach us valuable lessons. They're interwoven with truths."

Cove shares a bizarre look with Fallon across the table as if to say, what does that even mean? Her friend shrugs, pulling a face and looping her index finger next to her head to make Cove laugh.

Dumbledore looks over at Moody pensively, a few bony fingers stroking his beard. "Alastor, my dear friend," he says. "Do continue."

Moody dips his head in a nod. "Calleary has been seen in various places along the Irish coast. We have reason to believe that he's also allied with the Dark Lord and his followers." His head hinges to face Cove. "Any information you have on him is crucial, girl."

She swallows thickly. "My grandfather might know something. He's coming ashore for Burns Night next week, I can ask him then."

Moody grunts. "Report back as soon as possible. Calleary is an unpredictable enemy. We need to know as much as we possibly can before he gets the upper hand — same goes for Greyback." He leans forward on his walking stick. "Everyone has to be on high alert from now on. These unexpected allegiances have put us at a great disadvantage, there's no denying it."

Everyone stills, allowing for that to sink in. The news of Voldemort's growing influence has put everyone on edge, the idea of even more danger shattering any liveliness that might have existed within them.

   Dorcas Meadowes leans her elbows across the table, wringing her hands. "But what does this all mean?" she wonders. "For the Order? For us?"

   "We don't know," Kingsley says simply.

Cove shares a worried look with Remus, grazing his split knuckles with the pad of her thumb. A heavy pit forms in her stomach, sinking like lead in her underbelly. Her breath quivers in a hard sigh as she closes her eyes, pressing her seashell necklace over her thudding heart for security.

   We don't know...

author's note!

this feels like one of those chapters where so much yet so little happens

i've been in like writers block purgatory and my motivation has been all over the place so pls excuse any mistakes or clunky parts

i've never written an order meeting before so i lowkey have no idea what i'm doing 😭 it's just a lot of yapping and drama and random name drops — they probably won't all be as melodramatic as this one