Amelia repeatedly tapped the edge of her desk with her wand, an idle habit as she read through seemingly endless parchments in front of her. Letters from the heads of other departments, letters from Wizengamot representatives, letters from the press. When she wasn't reading their words she was reading her own, composing and re-composing requests for support in her fledgling campaign. From some she asked money; from others, a public endorsement; from others still she asked nothing, except to keep her purpose in mind.
A knock on her door granted a reprieve, albeit for a different sort of work. "Enter!"
A girl in her early twenties with a short build and thick cheeks entered the office, wearing dull brown robes stitched with the symbol for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement— a letter M with each of its ends resting atop the halves of a scale.
"The Prophet, Miss Bones. You asked me to bring it to you the moment it arrived," said the girl.
"Thank you, Bea."
Amelia summoned the newspaper out of her assistant's hands to conserve time, catching it as it reached her. In the least surprising news Amelia could remember for a long time, the front page was taken up by news of Albus Dumbledore's funeral from the day prior. Specifically, the photo used showed a fiery flower glistening in the air, a black haired man centered in the frame, his wand raised from casting the firework and his eyes downward, on the face of the man they lost.
"It's all a bit fantastical, don't you think Miss Bones?" said Bea. A cousin of the Abbot family, whom the Boneses had been close to for generations, Amelia's assistant was more at ease in her presence than most. Far from minding, Amelia enjoyed being spoken candidly to. If it bothered her she would've corrected Bea a long time ago.
"Quite stunning," Amelia agreed, though her voice was flat. She was reading the first article. "All true, though."
Bea perked up, trying not to look excited. "You mean that man really killed Fenrir Greyback?"
"And pretended it was one of my Aurors who did it," Amelia said, frowning slightly. "Well, I mostly knew that."
"Is he going to become an Auror?" Bea asked. She sounded excited by the idea.
"Merlin, no."
"Why not? If he's telling the truth he'd be the best one we have."
Amelia sighed. She turned the paper around, holding it from the top to show Bea the front page, though the girl had undoubtedly seen it in detail before bringing the paper in.
"Do you see what he's done?" Amelia asked.
Bea squinted. She opened her mouth, hesitated thinking that her answer was too obvious, realized she didn't have a cleverer one, and spoke it anyway, "It looks like he cast a firework, Miss Bones."
Amelia held back a follow-up sigh.
"He's made himself a symbol."
"A symbol?" Bia didn't get it.
"You may not know, as only a girl at the time, but throughout the first war Hogwarts never closed. It remained an active place of learning, even in the height of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's reign of terror. Though some families fled the country, no one who stayed in Britain pulled their children from the school. Do you know why that might be?"
"Dumbledore was there," Bea said.
She got this answer easily, saying it like it was obvious. It was obvious. Everyone knew the role Dumbledore played as a deterrent to the Dark Lord. Amelia put the paper flat atop her desk, linking her hands above it.
"Who is not there now?" she asked.
"...Dumbledore," Bea said.
"The more frightening that times become, the more we chase normality," Amelia said. "It's silly — illogical — but had Hogwarts shut its doors and sent the students home, not only would they have been robbed of its protection, morale across the country would have collapsed. There would have been no choice but to accept that we were a people on the brink."
Bea gulped.
"What will happen now?" she asked.
Amelia tapped the picture of Harry at the funeral.
"Hogwarts stays open. You've read the article, I imagine? If not, you'll at least have heard the quote. Hogwarts is under his protection. Life will not stop."
"He's not Dumbledore though," Bea said. "Will people believe in him?"
Amelia cracked a genuine smile, her first of the day.
"He has a knack for proving himself," she said.
Bea squinted, deathly curious about what seemed like a story, but sensing that her boss wasn't going to explain.
A second later, she cleared her throat, averting her eyes.
"There was something else," Bea said. "Page 3, Miss Bones…"
Amelia frowned and followed the directions. When she got to the page, she found a heading proclaiming, 'Ministers-to-Be?'
A photo was split down the middle, placing Amelia on one side and Scrimgeour's dour face on the other. Amelia's face was turned to position her eyepatch prominently. Whether that was meant to make her look crippled or intimidating, Amelia couldn't tell. She was quite certain it wasn't meant to flatter. Scrimgeour's photo was a head-on portrait, the man seemingly posed for it.
Amelia scanned the first paragraph.
With Cornelius Fudge cast out of office, Britain turns to a new leader. Two candidates have emerged ahead of the others, announcing their respective campaigns within days of each other. First and foremost, the times call for assurances. People wish to feel safe. So perhaps it's not surprising for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's foremost officials have become Fudge's likeliest successors. Rufus Scrimgeour has spent his career as an Auror, earning his stripes chasing down dark wizards, smugglers, and dangerous creatures alike. Amelia Bones, heiress to the long-standing Bones Family, began with a clerk position in the office of her late father, a former head of the Misuse of Magic division within the DMLE. Bones succeeded her father, eventually climbing to the position of director.
"They're painting me as a desk jockey," Amelia mused. "A hint of nepotism has been added as well. Curious that they forget to mention Rufus' uncle was a head of the entire department… Though the Scrimgeours own a share in the paper. An unconnected detail, of course."
"It gets worse." Bea looked nervous, though there was a clear spark of anger in her eyes.
A distance down the page, Amelia found the point where things took a turn for the more overt.
Everyone in Britain mourns the passing of Albus Dumbledore. The grief only worsens when considering the one responsible for the tragedy, and the manner of this great wizard's death. He warned us. Time and again, Hogwarts' headmaster proclaimed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned, only to be met with censure and ridicule. Certainly, Cornelius Fudge was the worst perpetrator, but he did not act alone. Crime rose dramatically since the end of the Triwizard Tournament (the moment Dumbledore warned us of the disastrous return). The Department of Magical Law Enforcement reacted lethargically. When more aggressive measures were taken, the initial success they showed seems to have been a ruse, lulling the public — and officials — into complacency.
Those in the field sensed something was amiss. Senior Aurors within the department confessed to this reporter that they could tell trouble was brewing. "I haven't seen Werewolves move in a pack that way in fifteen years," stated one. "We made arrests on the scene, but were forced to release them. Orders from above."
In many ways, Cornelius Fudge was allowed to run un-checked. It's little wonder that he beguiled so many to his side, when even the members of his cabinet never raised concerns.
"We failed you," says Rufus Scrimgeour, current Head Auror and challenger for the Minister position. "I won't make excuses. We should have pressed them harder, acting more decisively. Now we enter a war we hardly expected, let alone prepared for. It will be a race against time, but I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to prepare the Ministry."
Madame Amelia Bones, his competitor, declined to comment.
Amelia lifted her eyes, gazing at the mess of papers in front of her. It was possible a Prophet correspondence was mixed in somewhere, having lain out of sight for the last day. Just as likely, no letter was ever penned to her. She checked the author, spotting the name Skeeter. Amelia's lips curled.
Uncharacteristically, Bea offered no comment.
"Leave me," Amelia said.
The girl scurried out. Amelia looked up for a second, watching her heels disappear through the door. Bea seemed to think she was angry, Amelia mused.
She placed the Prophet down carefully on the corner of her desk, on top of a stack of papers she was done with. She left it open to the article she had read last, in case her motivation ever sputtered as she waded through this mess of paperwork.
Amelia stood up, passing the office's false window showing an idyllic hilly scene that didn't truly exist. She reached the wall to the left of her door, stopping in front of a portrait of a grim faced woman to whom she bore resemblance.
Amelia looked up, making eye contact with the silent portrait. Aaralyn Bones, her ancient ancestor, looked back. They shared a nod and the portrait sprung aside, along with a significant portion of the wall.
Inside lay a closet large enough to walk into and even lie down in, if one so chose. Amelia stepped inside, trailing her fingers over endless files, stacked upon shelves that ran from the floor to the ceiling. Tracing a system only known to her, she found what she was looking for in the back right corner.
Amelia swished her wand, the contents of three different boxes flowing into the air.
It was a varied mix. There were photographs of crime scenes, Auror reports, newspaper clippings, interviews with witnesses performed on the record, interviews performed off the record, maps marking every location Aurors had responded to, details of a man's daily routine, reports of Galleon influxes into certain vaults, a family tree, even old articles about grizzled men now passed or retired, and throughout it all one name was recurring: Scrimgeour.
"Shall we play the game, Rufus?" Amelia asked.
A smile graced her lips, not dissimilar to the one she wore when facing a fierce duel.
O-O-O
The day was unseasonably warm, similar to yesterday, when the funeral had been held. Neville was sitting close to the lake on the last bit of solid ground by the Great Lake before it turned muddy. Susan was sat in his lap. Ordinarily they would've blushed about that, but neither of them thought of the gesture that way. They just needed support.
Ron was laying on his back looking at clouds a bit higher up the embankment. Hermione was on the move, pacing circles around the group.
"I can't believe it," she said, not for the first time. "This entire time, Professor Potter—"
She cut off, shaking her head, curly hair bobbing.
"We knew there was something special about him, didn't we?" Ron asked. "He saved our arses in London."
"Language," Hermione murmured, her heart not in it. Ron didn't even look over, continuing to stare into the sky. He wasn't the only one Neville had seen walking around Hogwarts with a blank face this week.
"I suspected something," Neville admitted.
Hermione stopped pacing, albeit just for a moment. "Was it your lessons?"
"He's an Occlumency master," Neville said. "He explained it in ways I'd never heard before. I guess he's a master of more than that, too…"
He didn't stop and try to explain what really fueled his suspicions. Harry knew too much. Not just about the war, but about Neville— whatever he needed to hear, whatever he was going through, Harry was already on top of it. Like he could read Neville's mind without Legilimency.
Hermione had already become distracted.
"That spell!" she said. "He told us that he'd modified one. I never would've expected the Patronus! And to think, he can make one that's tangible! It goes against hundreds of years of research!"
"We saw it, though," Susan said. Her voice was quieter than usual. Neville tightened his arms around her waist.
"I don't mean it's impossible," Hermione said. "I mean that it's unheard of. That spell alone could put a wizard's name in the history books."
"Why's he teaching Muggle Studies, then?" Ron asked.
"Fun?" Susan suggested. She didn't sound sure.
"Keeping close to me, probably," Neville said. "Other than McGonagall and Hagrid, there aren't any Order members on the staff." He wasn't sure if Snape counted. "He was basically battling Umbridge alone. She hasn't tried anything recently, either. If Professor Potter wasn't here, how bad would it have been?"
"The other teachers would've intervened," Hermione said, though there wasn't a lot of passion in her voice. "There have been rumors he visited Dumbledore more than the rest of the staff. I suppose the headmaster was giving him missions."
"That's what he said," Susan said, recalling Harry's speech at the funeral.
It was still fresh in Neville's mind. Harry's voice, calm and fierce at the same time. He'd stood in front of a crowd and painted a target on his back. He was making himself into a myth as much as a man, the way that Dumbledore had. And Neville thought he knew why.
It was for him. With Dumbledore dead, everyone would've looked to the Boy-Who-Lived. Neville was willing to do anything to stop Voldemort's cruelty, but as much as his Aunt would rebuke him for saying it, he didn't feel ready. No amount of lessons could add to his age. He'd felt it among his cowering classmates as Bellatrix stormed the restaurant. There was a line beyond which bravery alone wasn't enough to save anything.
Thinking about similar things, Hermione murmured, "It hasn't settled in that she's gone."
This wasn't a tone of mourning. She was thinking of Bellatrix, the woman with a list of crimes so long only her dark master could boast more. A cruel woman who had cost Neville the chance to know the people that brought him into this world. Voldemort may have cast the final curse, but it was Bellatrix who held the Cruciatus while his parents screamed until their minds—
Neville turned his head sharply to the side. Susan felt it, leaning back, pressing her nape against his face, providing a warm touch.
Hermione was pacing again. "Losing her is a major loss for the Dark Lord—"
"He knew it'd happen."
They all looked over to Ron, who had spoken the least thus far. Neville watched as his best friend's vacant look sharpened into something else. It occurred to him for the first time that Ron wasn't just stunned by Dumbledore's death. He had been thinking.
"You-Know-Who… Voldemort knew she would die." Ron sat up in the grass. "It's like chess. He sacrificed a piece."
"How so?" Hermione asked, her brow furrowed.
"Bellatrix was strong," Ron said. "She'd have been at least a rook. You don't want to lose a Rook… Unless you can get more out of the trade. Voldemort is a queen. So is Dumbledore, and so's Harry, at least that's what Voldemort thinks. You're not going to win against two queens in a normal game. He had to get rid of one. Playing down a rook is a much better position."
"Bellatrix for Dumbledore…" Neville repeated.
Susan sobbed. "I don't want to talk about him that way!" she said. Neville pulled his arms tighter, and Ron shifted.
"Sorry," he muttered. "This way just helps me think. I don't mean it that way."
Neville nodded at him, silently telling him he had nothing to apologize for. Susan wasn't really mad at Ron either. She was just grieving. Almost everyone was. Ron, too— this was how he did it.
Hermione approached Ron, speaking more quietly, so as not to bother Susan, who not for the first time today had started to cry. Neville's ears still picked up her words.
"If the war were a chess match, based on the pieces, who has the better chance?"
"It's close," Ron said. "The forces are similar. It's all about the players."
A feeling distilled in Neville's stomach. It certainly wasn't despair, but it wasn't exactly hope, either.
Determination, perhaps.
Bravery alone might not be enough to get through this, but it was a very good start. And he wasn't alone. Neville looked at his friends around him, then turned his eyes across the Great Lake, toward the castle that lay beyond.
Yes, he was far from alone.
O-O-O
A circle of fabric hung in the air, surrounded by spools of thread. Anastasia moved her wand down, then up. The movements were controlled and practiced. A spool of thread unwound, snaking through the fabric, completing a scene of a snake laying among tall grass. The symbol of her family.
"—return is public knowledge now. The Ministry themselves have acknowledged it. They had no choice."
Anastasia didn't look at her husband as he paced their lavish sitting room. He didn't look at her either. His fists swung at his sides during his brisk walk. Anastasia's fingers stung as she moved her wand through the delicate final touches.
"We should have been approached by now," Aquinas Greengrass said. "It bodes ill that no contact was made. They barely consider us allies to the cause. They question our loyalty."
He was doing gradual laps around the low table in the middle of the room. At one point, he had stopped to stare out the window, looking over the grounds of their lakeside manor, but he'd not been able to hold still for long.
"No matter. I will work with this," Aquinas said. His hands formed fists with a mind of their own. "Bellatrix is gone. I've heard nothing of the Carrows. Snape has stayed nestled safely inside Hogwarts, the Dark Lord is bound to be cross with him. There are only two in his confidence."
Anastasia's eyes flickered up at a moment when her husband's back was turned. His voice was low and proud, satisfied with his process of elimination. Anastasia cut and tied with the last stitch, grasping her work out of the air and studying the design.
"I must get into his confidence. I must!" Aquinas said. "With Dumbledore dead he's as good as won. I'll win over those that retain his trust. Corban Yaxley and Lucius Malfoy… We've gold that the Yaxleys will want, and breeding fit for the Malfoys. I've seen the way Lucius' heir looks at my daughters. We'll give him Astoria, I think. Daphne will go to Virgil Yaxley."
"Corban's son is near forty," Anastasia said.
Aquinas' head turned sharply toward her. He turned away almost as quickly, acting as if he hadn't heard.
"The men will be pleased with the arrangement." Aquinas had a bit of doubt in his voice. "It's a good offer. The girls have grown shapely."
"Virgil Yaxley has been married before." Anastasia was slightly louder this time. "It was a cousin of the Beauforts. She passed from poor health. But her health was never poor before him."
This time, when Aquinas turned to her, he did not turn away.
"I am trying to earn our survival," Aquinas said. "We are considered fence-sitters. You must know this. The line is thin between us, and the mudbloods that will be put in the ground. Are you ready to die with them? To die with that scum? I am not. So do not sit there and demean my plans!"
Anastasia's hands were no longer moving her wand but they ached nonetheless. Her husband was spitting in his anger.
She pictured the face of Virgil Yaxley, bloated in both cheeks with teeth that had never fully straightened, his hair retreating up his scalp, and something amiss behind his eyes.
"Find a new plan," Anastasia said.
She was wrenched from her chair a second later. The sewn art flew to the floor, while Anastasia was reduced to her knees, her hands laid out on the central table palm-up. She could not move her arms.
Aquinas didn't lower his wand, but raised it higher. A length of rough leather appeared from the tip.
"I!"
He swung down, cracking it against Anastasia's fingers. She cried out.
"Am!"
Another blow, another cry.
"Trying!"
Tears welled as Anastasia was struck again.
"To!"
Blood was welling, in both bruises and cuts.
"Save!"
Anastasia closed her eyes shut. This was where it usually stopped, but Aquinas was moving his arm again.
"US!"
Crack!
Anastasia screamed. To go with the snap of the whip, something within her hands had gone wrong. Three fingers spaced across the ten were full of liquid fire, their straightness forced off-kilter. Aquinas looked down, breathing heavily. The length of leather attached to his wand disappeared.
"I will bring a healer tonight," Aquinas said stiffly. "There is an important ball next week. We will be in attendance."
He left quickly. Autonomy returned to her arms, though the pain didn't lessen. Anastasia did not linger on the floor.
She picked up her sewing project, holding it gingerly, and approached a bureau on the far side of the room. Opening the drawers was a challenge, but she managed.
Anastasia slid her newest project into the drawer alongside a line of copies. All with the same patterning, all perfectly stitched. She shifted to close the drawer, but pain briefly gave her weak legs, and her hip thudded against the piece of furniture.
Another drawer was jarred open, this one holding her collection of coats. Anastasia found herself staring.
The end of a rubber handle protruded from among them. Anastasia looked around the room.
She seized the handle, pulling an umbrella free. For a long time, she stared at its innocuous black surface.
All at once, she undid the strap. Despite her screaming fingers, despite the cloudless weather, she opened the umbrella, unwittingly relaxing at the sound of it unfurling.
Anastasia held it above herself, and for the first time, let it shield her from the sun's rays as they leaked through the window.