On the Turning Away

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” she asked, her voice remaining strong although she was on the verge of an emotional implosion. “Might not be very skilled in the kitchen, but I'm sure I can manage stirring one thing or another.”

“I'm sure you can, but I'm alright. Really,” Adelaide smiled reassuringly. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep? Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day . . . you’re gonna need your strength.”

“I know, I know.” Gwen mumbled. “But you’re going to be up all night, cooking for my guests and I just . . . I don’t know, doesn’t seem, right. Feels like I'm taking advantage of you and I don’t want to.”

Adelaide stopped chopping the vegetables. “You’re not taking advantage of me.”

“Then why do I feel like I am?” she leant against the doorframe. “If it were a handful of people, it wouldn’t be so bad but it’s supposed to be a large crowd, somewhere around a hundred or so. People hire caterers to feed that many people or they borrow house elves from a friend, but I’ve got you working here like a –”

“I offered.” Adelaide interjected, putting down the knife.” And besides, you know I like to cook . . . helps me relax.”

“But it’s just too much. There are too many people and I feel like I’ve been using you to much. You’ve already done enough with sorting things out at the Department and now you’re here cooking at,” she glanced at the clock, “At almost two in the morning! Doesn’t that seem wrong? Especially since you were at work all day,” added Gwen.

“This is what friends do for each other. They help out when the other has a lot going for them. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how much you helped when my dad passed away. If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have been able to get through it.”

“You make it sound like I actually did anything. All I did was stay over. That’s it.”

“And you held me while I cried. That might not seem like a whole lot, but it meant the world to me. And I really want to be there for you like you were there for me and since you’re not one for mourning in front of others, then at least let me do this. Let me make sure that you’re not stressing more than you absolutely have to.”

“But –“

“Not arguing over this anymore. I’ve got lasagnas that need to be cooked as well as casseroles and turkey and some hams, so go on. Off to bed.”

“There’s no reasoning with you.”

“There’s not,” agreed Adelaide, a tired little smile on her face. “Now go. Can’t be distracted if I want to finish everything and get a nap in.”

“Alright, but if you need me just get me.”

“I will.” Adelaide promised, although she had no intention of waking up her friend.

Gwen pursed her lips together, clearly unconvinced by her friend’s halfhearted promise. She was tempted to stay in the kitchen, in some corner where she wouldn’t get in the way just so that Adelaide wouldn’t stay up all night by herself. But she really did need time for herself. Tomorrow, better said today, was going to be hard on her. The house would be filled with old family friends and family members that would want to reminisce about days gone by. She could practically hear the old farts telling those stories, acting as if saying them aloud would offer her some sort of comfort instead of pain.

Why people thought that reciting lengthy stories about a person that just died, to the deceased’s children was beyond her. No one wanted to hear about what their parent did on vacation when they were a teenager or their late night rendezvous. Alright, maybe she would’ve liked to have heard those stories, but she would’ve rather heard them while her mum was alive. Not while, she lying dead in the master bedroom. At this moment, those stories offered no comfort. All they did was make, her miss her mum even more. They made her angry at herself for not having gone back to England when her mum asked her to. Those stupid stories were nothing but torture and after the burial took place, the guests would bombard her with those stories.

And she would be forced to listen to them, to pretend to be comforted by their words. The day was going to be long, one of the longest in her life and she just wanted to get it over with. Once the funeral was over, she’d be introduced to the Order. That was what Dumbledore promised. He claimed that he didn’t want to introduce her beforehand, because she was planning a funeral and her mind had to be on that, not on the dangerous missions that would become an everyday thing for her. Gwen told him that she didn’t mind the added pressure. That it would actually do her good, but her words fell on deaf ears. Dumbledore would not introduce her until after the funeral and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he was discussing her with other members of the Order, to make sure that her addition would be a welcomed one.

That seemed plausible enough. The Order was, after all, known for being a very tight knit organization. So it made sense for there to be discussion about whether or not a new person could be admitted to their ranks. Had Gwen been existing member, she would’ve liked to research the potential member and critically analyze whether or not they would be able to function in the high pressure situations that they could potentially be in. And as she climbed up the flight of stairs to her room, she wondered what the others thought of her. Were they impressed by her record? Did they think her worthy of continuing her mother’s involvement? She truly hoped they did, because not being in the Order wasn’t an option. It was there that she belonged, there that her abilities would be best put to work.

When she reached her room, she didn’t bother turning on the light. Instead she wandered towards her bed, stripping off her clothing as she did so, and climbed under the freshly washed blankets. She lay under them, her eyes half opened as she stared out the window. It was raining outside, had been all day, and as she lay there, listening to the sound of the rain, she found herself drifting off to sleep. The sound of rain had always been special to Gwen. It had the power to sooth her, even in the foulest of moods and at that moment, it ushered her into a deep slumber from which she would not wake until the following morning at a quarter to eight. She would’ve slept longer if Adelaide hadn’t woken her up.

“Gwen.” Adelaide stood beside the bed, slightly hunched over. “Gwen. You need to wake up. It’s almost eight.”

“Fuck off.” Gwen muttered into her pillow, her eyes shut tight.

“Wish I could, but given the circumstances, I won’t be able to fuck off until this day’s over. So get up. There’s still a lot that needs to be done and I can’t do it alone.”

Gwen lifted her face from her pillow. Her eyes opened just a crack as she glared at her friend. “Don’t you see I'm trying to sleep? How would you like it if I just showed up at your house and woke you up? Think you’d have a laugh?”

“Forgot how unreasonable you are in the mornings,” she muttered. “Look, Gwen. You need to get out of bed, throw on some clothes and grab your wand so we can start setting up for the funeral.”

That did it. Her eyes snapped wide open and she leapt out of bed, her light brown hair an absolute mess. “What time is it?” she asked as her eyes adjusted to the light.

“Quarter to eight.”

“Bloody hell!” she cursed. “Service starts at ten. People will start arriving at nine . . . oh no. Nothing’s set up! Damn it. Can’t believe I overslept on a day like this,” she muttered angrily.

“Calm down. The foods set up. Its warm and I have all the plates and stuff in the dining room area. So the guest can just come in and serve themselves. Plus, it won’t take long to get the outside area ready for the service. We’re witches, remember?”

“Right . . .” she picked up a shirt from her suitcase and slipped it on. The same was done with a pair of pants. “Sorry for that. It’s just . . . not going to be a pleasant day. And I think my mind might be threatening to shut off on me.”

“Happens to everyone,” Adelaide reassured softly.

“Rather it, not happen today.” Gwen slipped on her trainers, a pair of sensible black walking shoes. “Get any sleep?”

“A bit,” Adelaide lied.

“Sure about that? You look tired.”

“When have I ever not looked tired?”

“Let me rephrase that, you look more tired than usual.”

“That’s because I'm not wearing any makeup. Once I throw some on, I’ll look alright. Now let’s go. Saw your dad roaming when I was walking up and we can’t let him set things up. He’s not . . . he’s not all there. Looks really torn,” she whispered the last bit softly.

“Hope he won’t do anything rash today. Keeps talking about how he’s lost his better half. It’s romantic. Know it is. But I don’t like seeing him that way. My dad’s always been very put together. Very ready for life, but doesn’t seem that way anymore . . . seems like he’s just going through the motions of it all.”

“What else can you expect from him?”

“Don’t know. Suppose he could keep a stiff upper lip. That’s what everyone says Brits are good at.”

“Maybe if he loved her less, he could.”

“Sometimes I wish he did. This whole thing would be easier, more reasonable if he did. I mean. Who keeps a dead body in their bedroom for a week? That’s just mental.”

Adelaide nodded in agreement. “I can’t defend that. That is pretty crazy.”

For a moment, Gwen closed her eyes, the image of her father sobbing wildly into her mother’s hair striking her. He’d spent all of Thursday in that fashion. Refusing to eat or sleep, just so he could hold her awhile longer, because Saturday was fast approaching and they would soon have to part. She worried about what the future held for him. About what he would do with himself. He’d promised to help the order with potions and droughts, but he no longer seemed to be up for it. His thoughts were on his deceased wife and she feared that he might do something incredibly rash just to be with her. Oh. Gwen truly hoped he wouldn’t. Losing both her parents would be more than she could endure.

“We should smoke.” Gwen spoke.

“Right now?” asked Adelaide.

“No. Not right now. Once everything’s been set up, let’s just smoke. Need it or else I’ll hex someone today. I can feel it. The magic’s restless in me. Being cooped up in here hasn’t done any good. And if something says or does something stupid or annoying. I’ll be liable to hex them with something real nasty.”

“Well, in that case let’s go. I’ve been itching for a smoke as well. And it’s always better to smoke with a friend.”

The following thirty seven minutes were spent readying the garden area for the service and burial. Her mother was set to be buried underneath the massive willow tree that she loved so dearly. And since the tree was to be such a vocal point, it was decorated with beautiful white roses that made it seem like a massive rose bush instead of a willow tree. The entire garden was decorated in the same fashion; there white roses and white fabric everywhere. Had a stranger stumbled across it, they would’ve thought a wedding were taking place and not a funeral.

When the pair finished getting everything ready, they climbed up to the old tree house that Gwen had spent much of her childhood in. It was there that they smoked three tightly packed bowls of marijuana. They didn’t bother lacing it with tobacco. It was pure. It was strong. By the time that they finished smoking, Gwen felt substantially calmer. She was ready to endure what lay ahead.

At a little after nine, the first guests arrived. It was her Uncle Luke, his wife and their three children. They all gave her their deepest sympathies and then took a seat in the living room where Uncle Luke – for the first time in his life – held his brother’s hand. The sight of the two grown men holding hands was enough to reduce his wife to tears. His children also began to tear up, but Gwen, oh Gwen; her eyes remained dry for the precious plant had numbed her. And that was fine by her. She didn’t need to cry. Because crying always led to breaking something . . . it always led to destruction.

As time went on, more and more guest arrived. Everyone was dressed in black, with their finest expressions of mourning, fashioned onto their faces. There were diplomats, Aurors, secretaries, shop owners, homemakers; witches and wizards of every rank. They’d all arrived to pay their respects to a witch whom was always firm but fair. Each carried a few words of comfort for the widower and the daughter, hoping that it would be enough to convey their deepest sympathies and to inspire hope for them to continue living. And as they began to file into the garden, they knew that this funeral would be the first of many to come.

The funeral services were officiated by Dumbledore, whom expressed his desire to do so on the day he visited with Remus. His words were lovely as ever, comforting even, but not a single one was given attention to by Gwen. She merely sat beside her father in the front, with a pair of dark sunglasses shielding her eyes from those of others. She was lost deep in thought. Wondering where Voldemort was and what he was doing. He was probably relishing in the fact that Amelia Bones was being buried. He probably thought himself brilliant for having murdered the head of the Auror department but his satisfaction would be short lived.

Everyone connected with him would be killed. There wouldn’t be a Death Eater that crossed her path that would be allowed to live. Not unless she had strict orders to take them in for interrogating, but after that, she’d kill them, because although the others might shy away from killing due to thinking it immoral, she would cast morality aside and kill without batting a lash. That’s what needs to be done to win wars. The other side had to convince that they would be mercilessly hunted down and killed if they didn’t surrender. Their fear would eventually lead to their demise. That’s how America won their wars. That’s how she intended to win this one.

To her right sat Adelaide, whose face was slightly tilted downwards, allowing her hair to act as a shield that kept others from seeing her tears. She hated funerals. They reminded her of her father’s absence in her life and although it’d been almost three years since he passed, she couldn’t go to a funeral without feeling that it was his.

To the left of Gwen sat her father, whom was struggling to remain in his seat. He’d been weeping long before the service started. It’d been an ongoing thing for him. Weeping and drinking, weeping and drinking, that’s all he’d really been doing during the last two days. He kept getting awful headaches so he figured that firewhiskey would numb it. He could have taken a drought. That would’ve done a much better job, but he didn’t just want the headache gone. He wanted his feelings gone as well so he’d drink and drink and drink until he’d pass out. Because if he blacked out, he wouldn’t be awake, he wouldn’t dream. Was horrible, so bloody horrible, and as he sat there, trying desperately to remain seated, he wished he hadn’t drank so much, because he was beginning to feel himself slipping into the abyss.

“Now for her husband, Henry Reynolds, to say some words . . .”

Say some words. How could he be expected to say some words when his body was began to sway in the morning breeze? The only thing he could be expected to do was pass out. Well. That wasn’t truly the only thing he could be expected to do. He could also be expected to vomit. Right there in front of everyone. So they could all see the firewhiskey and stomach bile . . . and toast. Yes. There had to be a few chunks of toast in there. That’s all he’d had to eat.

“Henry . . .”

From her thoughts, Gwen was roused back into reality. Her eyes darted to her father, watching to see if he made a move. He didn’t. He just sat there. His eyes bloodshot, his face stained with tears. He wasn’t going to move. There wouldn’t be any touching words from the widower. Not with the way he was.

“Not talking.” Gwen mouthed to Dumbledore.

“Forgive me,” he apologized to the crowd. “I misspoke. We are not to hear words from Henry but instead from Gwyneth, the daughter of Amelia Bones.”

As steadily as she could, she walked up the path to the altar. She could feel everyone’s gaze burning into her back. She could imagine the thoughts buzzing around in their minds. Poor thing, they’d say . . . poor thing.

When she reached the altar, she slowly turned to face the crowd, overwhelmed by the sea faces that stared at her. She parted her lips to commence. There was no sound. Again she parted them, willing herself to say what needed to be said.

“My mother was an extraordinary woman . . .”