August 22nd, 1890 — The Leaky Cauldron

He had killed somebody.

It was an accident, of course—he'd never kill anyone willingly—but that didn't change how brutal, how public the killing was. The bludger was found embedded in her skull. Her skull. She was killed instantly, and her husband had been seated right beside her to watch the horrific scene play out. The thought of it sent a shiver down his spine.

And Tilda. If knowing he'd caused a death wasn't bad enough, the bruises that had covered his little sister's arms when he visited her in the hospital had been enough to send a wave of absolute helplessness through him. He'd tried to tell himself that it was an accident, but those thoughts were immediately replaced with ones of self-hate and sorrow.

He was now off the lineup for the rescheduled match, and he would go down in history as the beater who shot a bludger into the stands during the fucking Quidditch World Cup. Would he be allowed to play for the Cannons next season? Would Gallivan think on it and pressure him to retire?

(And if so, what was he going to do with his life? Herd dragons for a living?)

Too many thoughts, too many questions. There was no one answer, no one solution, but there was the numbing stream of alcohol to soothe his worries, if only for the moment. It was late, and the pub was mostly empty, and Lach sat at the far-end of the bar with a glass of whiskey in hand and his eyes glued to the bar top.

He heard a glace clink next to him, and he ignored it, hoping the person would move on their own accord. They did not. He made a vaguely threatening grumbling noise.

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@"Fallon Abernathy"

  

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— way too attractive set by mj <3 —

It wasn't until Fallon stopped into her third pub of the night that she was willing to admit she was looking for him. She shouldn't have been, really, considering they were acquaintances at best. In fact, the odds of Mr. MacFusty tolerating a conversation with her were slim to none. However, Fallon couldn't sit on her heels and do nothing. Not when she knew the horror he likely felt.

The first time Fallon lost a civilian was during a situation entirely out of her control. She was in training, her fifth time ever in the field, and her colleagues was negotiating a hostage situation. One mistep, one wrong phrase, and the hostage taker had followed through on what Fallon insisted was an empty thread. The guilt lingered still to this day.

She walked through the doors of The Leaky Cauldron determined that it would be her last stop of the night. Regardless of whether or not he was there, she needed to sleep before work in the morning. Fallon had sold her soul to attend the game, and she was already paying the exhausting price.

All thoughts of work and sleep vanished as she spotted him in the corner of the pub. Merlin, how had no one thought to accompany him tonight? How had his teammates abandoned him like so? Fallon quickly ordered two tall glasses of firewhiskey and made her way over to him. Everyone else might've abandoned him, but she wasn't about to. Even if he was grumbling and definitely not in a pleasant mood. "Drink," she directed him as she nudged the glass firewhiskey in his direction. "It won't help in the long run, though."

  

It was her. Of course it was. She had a way of showing up, didn't she? If the day had been any different, he might have joked that she was following him—or something. Maybe he wouldn't have. He definitely wasn't going to now. He did spare her a glance, his eyes red from both the exhaustion and the tears he'd shed in the privacy of the British team meeting room after everyone else had left for the day (and a few times after that, but he wouldn't admit it, much less to her).

"Never claimed it would," he grumbled, bringing the glass to his lips to take another sip. How many glasses would it take for him to forget? Three? Five? Or was this a memory that he'd have to drink himself to death to get rid of? "I take it you heard?" She'd told him last time that she wouldn't be attending, that she had work to do.

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She took from her own glass and pondered just what she hoped to achieve here. Nothing short of some memory charms would take the pain of his actions away, but Fallon wasn't very well versed in memory work. Plus, doing so on an unwilling (she assumed) participant would be even more difficult. What, then? It wasn't as though she could escort him home (where did he live, anyway?) or request someone else help him. Hell, he wasn't even going to talk to her it seemed.

"I was there," she admitted. "I, uh, won box tickets at the last minute." It was a whole tale, one Fallon suspected he wouldn't be the least bit interested in presently. A long silence stretched then, for what was there to say? In lieu of continuing on, she took another sip of her drink.

  

He released an audible breath.

"You were there," he deadpanned, a statement of fact. She was there, and she'd presumably seen him swing the fatal shot. What must she think of him? "I take it you're here to arrest me, then? What are my charges?" Accidental manslaughter? Careless misconduct? Doing his fucking job, albeit poorly? His expression darkened and his gaze dropped to the swirling liquid in his cup.

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— way too attractive set by mj <3 —

"No, no. Nothing of the sort," she assured him immediately while resisting the urge to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. They were nowhere near friendly enough for that to be a welcomed gesture. She placed her glass down on the bar and shifted to better face him. "It wasn't your fault," Fallon continued, her voice softer than before. "A hit like that could've happened to anyone out there today."

  

He chuckled a shallow, bitter chuckle. If she wasn't here to arrest him, she was... what? Giving him a pep-talk? She may have been an auror, and she may have been under dangerous, stressful situations before, but none that came with this sort of public scrutiny. He opened his mouth to disagree, to argue that it was his fault and nothing she could say would change that, but his mouth snapped shut and he reached for his glass instead. He didn't need to be impulsive right now. Not with her. They'd just gotten back on good terms (literally that morning, actually) and he didn't need to start something with her considering she was trying to be supportive. Or while she was pitying him. There wasn't a discernible difference in this situation, was there?

"Yes, but it happened to me," he said, "and now what's done is done. Some woman is dead. I nearly killed my sister." The words left his mouth thick with anger and hatred—but he wasn't sure who it was directed towards. Himself, definitely, but he couldn't help but feel anger towards everyone involved. The league. The aggressive Moroccans. Prewett, even if they were friends.

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Well, at least he was talking, even if they were angry bitter words. Fallon frowned but still made no move to touch him or leave him to his sorrow. Again, she wondered how anyone thought it prudent to leave him to his devices tonight. The hurt and anger he was obviously struggling to cope with could easily lead to worse things.

Fallon sighed. Nothing she said tonight would break through, of that she was certain. He was too caught up in the horror of the situation. Still, she couldn't resist trying. "It did happen to you, you're right." No use in denying the facts. "But...it was just a faulty hit, Lachlan. The woman wasn't who you were aiming for." Or so she hoped. Merlin, Fallon hoped he didn't confess any ill intent to her.

  

Did she hear what she was saying? He knew she wasn't stupid, but the words that left her mouth were. He should give her the benefit of the doubt; she'd likely done some work, gone to the game, and then done more work before heading out to coincidentally the same pub as him, and on top of that she'd called him Lachlan. It gave him pause, if only for a moment.

"That's exactly why it's so horrific," he said, feeling his facial muscles tighten up. Thank Merlin for thirty years of being taught not to cry; he'd be bawling if he'd been anyone else in the same situation. "I hit a woman. A married woman, mind you. She was an innocent." The words stuck with him, and all he could do was envision the state of the body. He'd been spared the image of the actual body, but the description had been... gory enough.

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This was why she wasn't a grief counselor. Fallon's skills at comfort left much to be desired, and she was positive he was falling further into the pit than climbing out of it. Merlin, what was she thinking approaching him tonight? Anyone but her — Malou in particular — would've been a better pick.

"Unsuspecting victims are always innocent, that doesn't make you an evil person. I've seen evil and ill intent. You're not it." Fallon fully believed Lachlan never would've swung had he known where his bludger was going, and that made all the difference. "An awful thing happened. To her. To your sister. To you. But it doesn't mean it's your fault."

  

He looked up at her, hazel eyes meeting brown ones. She really ought to shut up, but he had to admit to himself, at least in that moment, that her voice was more comforting than the silence (even if what she was saying was making it worse). Anyone's voice would have been more comforting, he reasoned, despite his insistence that he head to the pub alone that night.

"I don't think I'm evil. Just... not good." No good person ever killed an innocent. Not in pursuit of a game, especially one that required him to aim to hit people. It was... not good at all. "I'd like to see who everyone will place the blame on if not me. But really," he grumbled, pausing to take another sip, "I'm not worried about what other people will think of me. I just can't get the thought of the woman out of my head." Dead.

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"The Ministry, the Moroccans, Mr. Prewett," she rattled off alternatives despite knowing none were as striking as the obvious. Lachlan had swung a bat and directly led to the death of an innocent woman. Such drama made for great headlines.

She sighed again and looked from him towards her drink. "She'll be there for awhile," Fallon said. "You'll think of her and her husband and the future they missed out on." Her kids, if she has them, though Fallon was smart enough not to mention that fact. "Eventually it won't be as fresh in your head. That takes time, though." Memories of the hostage's dead form flashed through her mind as her sad gaze met his once more. "So for now, we drink."

  

Lach shook his head. It was easy to pin the blame on someone else now, but he remembered how he felt the moment the bludger hit his bat, the moment when he realized it was not going in the right direction. The horrifying ringing that filled his ears when the first scream rang out and the bludger struck the railing as it entered the box. It was his fault.

"She'll always be there. It's not like I do something like that every day. I don't kill people." She'd be there more than any other woman be, and he didn't even know what she looked like. Blonde, brunette, or red-headed, she'd fill his mind day and night, whether he was bedding a woman or marrying one or cradling a child. He'd always see the woman, with a bludger for a face. He suddenly felt ill.

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'I don't kill people.'

The statement echoed between them as Fallon struggled not to vehemently dispute it. Aurors didn't kill people, not even dark wizards who decidedly deserved it. Was that what he thought of her? She reached for her drink as another means to stall her reaction. Tonight wasn't the night for this conversation.

She shrugged. If he was determined to insist his trauma was the end all be all with no relief in sight, well at least Fallon could say she tried. "Neither do I," she commented calmly.

  

"I know you don't," he said immediately, because he knew she didn't. "I only meant that my job doesn't typically involve decisions that could end or save a life. These aren't... it's not something I think about. Death." Usually the worst he worried about was breaking bones or knocking players off their brooms—both which were typically resolved by an official or an onsite mediwizard.

He turned back to his drink, sloshing the liquid around as a means of calming himself down. Surely she wasn't going to pick a fight with him tonight. This wasn't about her. It wasn't her life that would be affected by this, self-pity aside.

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"Accidents happen in quidditch," she replied, her tone still calm and not argumentative. Another fight would only serve to sever their acquiantanceship, and Fallon wasn't ready to permanently say goodbye to him. Besides, she said what she had to and he addressed it. The issue was solved, for now anyway.

"In the last quidditch cup a player fell from his broom and died. Others are permanently injured. Again, the ministry should've had some sort of protection on the stands." They could debate this all night, a fact she didn't particularly relish.

She reached into her pocket to fish for her watch, frowning as her fingers touched the key they bickered over. Funny, Fallon could've sworn it resided on her small vanity table. Her fingers curled around it, intent on pulling it out to examine, when the familiar pulling sensation began.

Fuck.

In the split second she had before disappearing from the pub, Fallon reached to grab onto the bar but landed on Lachlan's thigh instead. They landed with a thud onto a thick layer of wet snow.

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   Lachlan MacFusty