"You Say You Want a Revolution (We All Want to Change the World)" [Amelia Bones, Alastor Moody]
Author: Anonymous
Prompt/Prompt Author: I'd love to see a detective story with those two. Good cop/bad cop, cop who hasn't got her private life sorted out/cop who hasn't got a private life to sort out, cop/intrepid private investigator who answers to nobody ... I think there are great possibilities for friendship dynamics between those two. / tetleythesecond
Title: You Say You Want a Revolution (We All Want to Change the World)
Characters: Amelia Bones, Alastor Moody, Amelia Bones/Pomona Sprout
Rating: R
Warnings: A bit of manipulation
Word Count: 8,334
Summary: Amelia Bones led the investigation into Voldemort’s identity in the 1970s. This is how she got the case.
Author's Notes: Tetley, I really hope you like this. I want to thank “x” and "x" for being absolutely brilliant betas. They did an amazing job Brit-picking for me. Of course, any and all errors are my own.
Amelia is not home when Pomona finally walks through the door of their shared flat, dropping her trunk at the foot of their bed and throwing her travelling robe over the back of Amelia’s desk chair. Another school year has passed, and Pomona is looking forward to three months of freedom with the woman she loves. She has plans for this summer, after all-weekends in Devonshire and weeklong visits to the McGonagall’s in Scotland. Moody’s promised to give Amelia vacation this summer, something he’s denied the junior Auror since she joined his unit fresh out of the Academy six years ago. The best thing about the fact that Moody is still irrevocably and unrequitedly in love with Minerva is that Pomona has some pull over how brutally he treats her girlfriend.
In the kitchen, there are empty tea mugs everywhere. Pomona sighs heavily and starts to clean them, her wand flicking from cup to cup with practiced ease. As the only girl in the Bones household, and the only female after her mother died when she was three, Amelia was never taught basic household charms. Her nanny had tried, of course, but it was pretty much fruitless. Amelia has never been able to learn anything she wasn’t interested in-it’s a blessing she’s endlessly curious and wants to learn almost everything. Except, unfortunately, Cleaning Charms.
Pomona finishes the dishes, starts dinner, and has the clothes clean, folded, and put away before Amelia walks through the door. It’s rare that she gets to be this domestic, and while she’s going to tease Amelia about it for the next few days, it’s a great stress-reliever. She’s curled up on the sofa reading the newest scholarly text on mandrake mating habits, when Amelia walks in, Moody and Rufus trailing behind her.
“I really don’t think this has anything to do with the Inferi breakout in India, Ams,” Moody says, holding the front door open with the toe of his dragonhide boot while Amelia and Rufus balance their takeaway bags. “I mean, it’s four murders in Essex. There’s a whole continent in between the two.” Amelia places the bags down on their counter, not noticing the clean dishes.
“I know,” she replies, opening the bags while Moody shuts the door, “I’m just saying it’s strange that the two things happened simultaneously. We haven’t had an Inferi breakout or a serial killer since Grindelwald.”
Rufus is the first to see her, obviously not as invested in the conversation as his two superiors. “Hey Mona,” he greets, taking a seat on the sofa across from her, “When did you get in?”
Amelia and Moody both freeze, and Pomona smirks as she watches Amelia meet Moody’s eyes before slowly turning to look at her lover. “Mona!” she forces, draping a smile over her teeth with practiced ease. “I wasn’t expecting you until the first.”
“It is the first,” Pomona replies, not bothering to take her nose out of her book, “Has been all day.”
“Oh,” Amelia may be one of the best female agents the Auror Program has ever had, but she is far from graceful under pressure. She looks at Moody in a way that makes Pomona blush, and Pomona wonders if Moody’s going to fold or watch his best mate squirm instead.
“You know what?” Rufus says, from his seat uncomfortably between the two women, “Moody owes me a drink and I haven’t gotten right and proper pissed since your birthday, Mona. What do you say, Al? Wanna buy me a drink? Once we get started on this case, Merlin knows we’re not going to have a shot for a while.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Amelia agrees, shooting Rufus the most grateful look Pomona’s ever seen her girlfriend give someone outside of the bedroom. “Brilliant idea, actually.”
Moody hesitates, and Pomona knows he’s trying to decide if he should leave now or stay to watch the fireworks. Pomona pushes up her reading glasses to lay atop her tawny curls and places the book down on the coffee table in front of her. “Have fun, boys,” she says, looking directly at Moody.
He’s out the door before Amelia has a chance to hug him goodbye. Pomona thinks he may have said, “You’re on your own, kid,” when he walked out, but that could have just been the front door closing.
“We have a new case,” Amelia says by way of apology, “It’s huge, it may get me noticed by the Hitwizards, and it’s frustrating as hell. I just forgot about you, Mona.” She walks over to the sofa, “I’m sorry.”
Pomona pushes off the sofa and looks Amelia in the eye. She works hard to keep her tone angry and not hurt when she says, “You just forgot about me?”
“Er…” Amelia has the decency to look sheepish, but it doesn’t quell the pain burning in Pomona’s chest. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“You know what?” Pomona asks, “Forget it. I’m tired and embarrassed and I’m going to bed. Why don’t you just forget where that is tonight? We’ll try this again in the morning.” With that, she walks to the bedroom and slams the door.
Needless to say, Amelia sleeps on the sofa that evening.
:::
Tiamat wakes Amelia up at six the following morning. The half-kneazle Persian cat was trained by Arabella Figg, the life-partner of the first female Unit Captain in Auror history. Marlene McKinnon is the only woman Amelia has ever really looked up to, and the two have developed a mutual respect and personal friendship during Amelia’s time on the force. Tiamat was her five year anniversary present from Marlene and Arabella, and over the last year she’s been an absolute life saver in making sure her owner is never late for work.
Amelia rolls over and falls flat on the floor, instantly reminded that she spent the night on the sofa. Groaning from both pain and fatigue, Amelia pushes herself to her feet and rubs the crust from her eyes. She has to go into the bedroom to get robes for the day, but there’s still a part of her that’s afraid of entering the badger’s lair. She tiptoes into the room as quietly as she can, but Pomona’s already awake and reading in bed, petting her own kneazle, Raijin.
“I’m sorry,” Amelia says, echoing her last words from the night before, “I really did just get my days mixed up. I was so excited for you the whole week, but then this case dropped onto our laps last night and I just…I forgot. I’m terrible. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Pomona replies, keeping her tone light, “Really. We both screwed up. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. I just wanted my first night back to be special.”
“It was going to be,” Amelia promises, “I was going to bring you flowers, order curry, make your favorite dessert. I promise, the next night I have off, we’ll go out somewhere spectacular. I just…Pomona this case is huge.”
Pomona watches as Amelia strips down to nothing and starts looking through her drawers for clean uniform robes. Her creamy skin is bruised and scarred in a hundred different spots, creating an intricate and beautiful design across the canvass of her body. She wants to reach out and trace the colors, first with her fingers and then with her tongue. It’s never easy for her to stay angry at Amelia for too long, especially when they’re together. “I’ll keep myself busy,” she decides. “Just promise you’ll check in. I hate when you go off gallivanting around England without keeping me up to speed.”
“I’ll Floo-call every chance I get,” Amelia promises, still nude. She walks over to the side of the bed and kisses Pomona fiercely. They melt into one another, and Amelia toys with the idea of showing up late to work.
Outside, there’s a bang on the door. “Ye both better get the make-up shag over and done with. I expect you ready to Portkey to Essex in fifteen minutes.”
Moody’s voice is more guttural than usual, and Amelia has a feeling he’s sporting the hangover from hell. “There goes that idea,” Amelia mutters against her lover’s lips. She kisses Pomona once-twice-more and then grabs a hangover potion off the nightstand. She dresses in record time and is ready to leave in time to grab a thermos of tea and make her Portkey. “I’ll let you know when we’re safe,” she promises, kissing Pomona all over, “Keep the wards tight.”
She leaves just as Moody is exiting his own flat, and they meet in the hallway like they do almost every morning. “Guess she’s not too angry, then,” Moody says, pointing to a fading bite mark just below her ear.
Amelia smirks, “Don’t be terse because you’ve not had a good shag in weeks, Moody.”
“I’m not terse,” Moody replies, opening the door for her. It’s weird that he’s still chivalrous, even though she’s proven time and time again that she’s just as much a man as he is. “Don’ like when you fight with the Missus. Mona’s a good bird. Don’t know what the hell she sees in you.”
Amelia knows he’s joking, but to be honest, she’s not sure what Pomona sees in her either. They barely see each other during the school year, which spans almost ten months. In the summer, Pomona has more time, but Aurors don’t get summers off, and most of her freedom is spent lazing around the flat, reading theory books and visiting Minerva and her family in the Highlands. Even after nine years together, Amelia’s not sure anyone would call what they have a relationship.
“Anyway,” Amelia says, after the Apparate to the Portkey spot. “Get any updates last night?”
“Wiggleswade sent me an owl around three, just as Rufus and I were getting back. Apparently, there’s been a fourth murder. If we get there by eight, we may be able to look around before forensics completely contaminates the area.” Moody looks at his pocket watch and taps his foot impatiently. While Robards and Podmore are both walking towards them, neither Rufus nor Wiggleswade are anywhere to be found.
“DJ said he’d meet us there,” Sturgis Podmore says when he gets within earshot. Sturgis is a burly man with straw-colored hair and a doe-eyed expression. He’s the softest of the unit, and Amelia often finds herself trying to protect him more than anyone else when they’re on a mission.
Gawain Robards is the youngest of their ensemble. He’s fresh out of the Academy and still has so much to learn before either Moody or Rufus will trust him as far as they could throw him, which isn’t very far, considering he outweighs them both. He towers over the rest of the unit and is sometimes used solely for his strength, which is a shame, because Amelia thinks he has the tactical genius to best Crouch, if necessary.
Moody waits until both men are next to the Portkey before he asks, “Anyone hear from Rufus?” Rufus isn’t the type of person to show up late for anything. His Slytherin ambition keeps him from performing at a caliber anything less than perfect.
“Right here,” the familiar scratchiness of Rufus’ voice causes them all to turn around. They wait another moment for him to reach the departure point, and then Moody takes out his pocket watch again.
“Not a minute to spare,” he grumbles at Rufus, placing his hand upon the old shoe they’re using for transportation. The rest of the team follows suit, and as Moody’s watch strikes seven, there’s a familiar tug on Amelia’s navel that makes her happy she decided to forego breakfast for snogging this morning.
:::
“We literally know nothing,” Amelia complains, after surveying the area of the fourth murder for three hours and coming out empty handed. “Literally nothing.”
“We have names of all the victims. Their ages, years at Hogwarts, parents, siblings.” Wiggleswade looks around the room again, “You’re right. We have nothing.”
Moody and Rufus went to the local super market an hour ago, picking up supplies to last at least a few weeks. The two-room flat the six of them will be sharing until the case is solved is cramped and impoverished, with a broken window and a clogged bathroom sink. However, it’s not the worst place they’ve ever stayed, so Amelia tries not to mind that she has to pull a warmer cloak around her shoulders in order to keep the draft at bay.
Wiggleswade looks at the clock. “You fire-call the old lady?”
Behind her head, the clock on the wall chimes nine. “Shite. No.” She gathers her robes and moves towards the fire. Pomona is just getting into bed to listen to her favorite show on the wireless, and so they don’t talk very long. After five minutes, three “I love yous” and a promise to get home soon, Amelia severs the connection and turns back to Wiggleswade, “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Wiggleswade replies, turning back to the scrolls. “I still have no idea where to go with this.”
“Okay,” Amelia breathes, placing the scrolls of data back down on the table. “Let’s go over this again. What do they have in common?”
“Rivers and Pallier graduated within five years of each other,” Wiggleswade suggests. He moves on to the third scroll, “But Cleaver graduated twenty years before Rivers.”
“So we can rule out Hogwarts revenge,” Amelia’s good at this, she always has been. Process of elimination requires patience, and while Moody may have the instincts and Wiggleswade the bravery to rush blindly into things, she’s the one with the patience to see everything through to the end. “Do they look anything alike?”
“Rivers is Black, Pallier has black hair and green eyes, Cleaver’s a woman, and Flemming is a ginger.” Dempster Wiggleswade was top of his class at Hogwarts and was Amelia’s Head Boy when she was a sixth-year Hufflepuff Prefect. She admires his Gryffindor bravery and his boyish charm, and they’ve been good mates since they started the Academy together back in 1962. He’s fantastic for figuring out puzzles, mainly because he tempers Amelia’s patience with his curiosity. Together, they’ve cracked over a dozen cases, all of which the Ministry had thought to be unsolvable.
Amelia picks up a scroll and runs through the names of Rivers’ parents and siblings. “He’s a Muggle-born,” she says, “I’ve never heard of his parents.”
“You know the entirety of Wizarding society off the top of your head?” Wiggleswade, who is also a Muggle-born, sounds a bit peeved that Amelia would jump to such a conclusion.
Amelia cuts her eyes at an angle, slicing the smirk Wiggleswade is wearing in two. “Yes, actually,” she replies, “My father made me take Wizarding etiquette as a kid, just like everyone else. The only Wizarding Rivers left in England are in their late nineties. They had three girls-no one left to carry on the family name.”
“All right,” Wiggleswade concedes, “What about Pallier?”
Amelia shakes her head, “I’m not sure about on the Continent, but out here there is no Wizarding family by that name.”
“Cleaver? Flemming?” Wiggleswade hands her the two remaining scrolls and watches as she looks at the names.
Amelia shakes her head. “No.” The answer is firm and resolute. She knows this. Her etiquette tutor was one of the best in all of the United Kingdom. Madame Shafiq, the youngest of the Shafiq family, was the most sought-after tutor in the Wizarding World, and she was famous for being able to rattle off every ancestor of the Sacred Twenty-Eight stretching back to the founding of Hogwarts. Amelia is confident in her knowledge of bloodlines, and she knows for a fact that there are no Cleavers or Flemmings in the Wizarding world. Except for the ones that have just died.
“Okay,” Wiggleswade looks shaken as he puts down the scrolls, “Okay, so maybe our attacker is targeting Muggle-borns.”
Amelia looks at him, “Yeah.”
Wiggleswade breathes out: “Fuck.”
:::
By the time Moody and Rufus get home, Amelia has mapped out a game plan and Wiggleswade is writing owls to the appropriate contacts. The Prewett Twins, sixth years looking to enter the Academy next spring, have already confirmed that Andromeda Black’s Coming Out Ball is taking place on Friday. Sturgis has Flooed to Hogwarts to speak with the Headmaster about accessing their lists of Muggle-born students from 1850 until today. They would go back further, but the age range of their current victims are nineteen to forty-five, so she doubts the attacker is going to assault someone over the age of one hundred. Robards was writing down their field notes, carefully recording every minute of the case. He enjoyed understanding strategy and case development. Already published twice, he was shaping up to be quite the scholar in the field of criminal justice.
“Moody,” Amelia greets, looking up from where she’s writing down a list of the Sacred Twenty-Eight from memory. There are holes, gaping ones, and she really wishes her little brother were here. Eddie’s a prodigy at people and names. He’s a lawyer for the DMLE-prosecutor and the absolute best at it. She couldn’t be more proud if she tried.
He grunts in response, which is typical. Alastor Moody has always been a man of few words, and around his team, the people who know him best, he can get by on grunts and nonverbal communication for pretty much any conversation.
Amelia places her monocle down atop the parchment she’s writing on. It’s an old heirloom, passed down through her father’s side for centuries. Her father gave it to her as a graduation gift once she finished at the Academy. She carries it with her everywhere, and while she used to use it out of reverence, the constant nights reading by candlelight and writing down notes in the middle of investigations, her eyes have begun to feel the strain. She uses it on her right eye, the silver Goblin-spun chain dangling from the sapphire encrusted frame. Every time she wears it, a part of her misses home.
“We’re going to a Coming Out Ball on Friday,” she says, keeping her gaze steady, “I’ve already told Sturgis to grab your dress robes on his way back.”
“No we ain’t,” Moody replies, his face unreadable. However, there’s a slight lift to his lips that makes Amelia aware of the fact that her best mate thinks she’s lost her mind, “I ain’t been to a Deb Ball since 1962. You think yeh’re goin’a git me t’go?”
“Yes,” Amelia says, “Because it’s a major break in the case, and you’re the only other Pureblood I’ve got here.” Moody’s mother was a Yaxley, and since the Moody family could trace magic back eight generations, he was allowed into the Coming Out Ball.
Coming Out Balls had strict etiquette that was required to be observed at all times and by all members of Pureblood Society. Amelia has her invitation to Andromeda’s Coming Out Ball tucked in a desk drawer in her flat, along with every other Coming Out invitation she’s received over the past ten years. Her paternal grandmother’s status as a half-blood had precluded her from having her own Coming Out Ball-thank Morgana-but she’s been invited to every single ball held by a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight since she was seventeen years old.
“Podmore’s pure,” Moody counters, placing three jars of tuna down on the table.
“Yeah,” Rufus agrees, “Except for the fact that his mother’s half-Veela.”
“Okay, so Podmore’s too pretty,” Moody acquiesces, pulling out some pumpkin juice and four six-packs of Butterbeer. “What about Scrimgeour? I know you’re German, but you’re pure, too, ain’t ye?”
“Actually, no,” Rufus replies, “My dad’s got some troll blood in him.”
“So Podmore’s too pretty and Rufus is too dumb,” he looks around, “Wiggleswade is Muggle-born. So that leaves…Bard.” He looks around, “Where the hell is Bard?”
“Inside,” she says, motioning towards the door, “But he’s out, too. His dad is Muggle-born.”
“Oh for the love of Helga,” Moody growls, throwing his shopping basket to the ground, “Fine. But yeh’re wearin’ women’s robes.”
“Yes,” Amelia replies, tightly, “I’m aware of that.”
Moody grabs two Butterbeers and opens them with his bare hands. Rufus, realizing his part of the conversation has passed, walked towards Robards’ room. “I’m going to go get clued in as to why you’re going to this Ball. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Amelia waves him away and clears off the chair next to her. She begins to explain her theory to Moody, careful not to leave out any details. By the time she’s finished, Sturgis is back with both Moody’s dress robes and the lists from Hogwarts. “Dumbledore said be careful. He sounded cryptic.”
“Old codger always sounds cryptic, Sturgis,” Moody tells him, taking the scrolls. The clock reads half-two, and Amelia is almost tired enough to push off locating every Muggle-born in Essex until morning. Hours cost lives in her field of work, however, so she unrolls the scrolls and pulls out her pocket atlas, enlarging it to pinpoint the houses they’ll need to survey and protect.
“Go get some sleep,” she suggests, “Bard and Rufus are in the far bedroom.” With six group members, the sleeping arrangements are usually routine. She and Moody split whatever sofa is available, Wiggleswade and Podmore sleep in one room, and Robards and Scrimgeour take the other. While Wiggleswade is married and Podmore has a different bird every week, Amelia’s learned not to ask about what the two youngest members of the unit do behind closed doors. After all, her own sexual preferences aren’t exactly socially appropriate.
They’re each on their third Butterbeer by the time they finish mapping out the homes of every Muggle-born in Essex. It’s six in the morning and they’re both exhausted, so they wake up Scrimgeour to Floo the Ministry with the coordinates of the houses that need to be watched. Robards and Wiggleswade are told to return to the first victim’s home and see if any new evidence could be found, now that they have a theory. Podmore, as the last one to return, gets to sleep a bit longer. Then Moody enlarges the sofa and they fall onto it, still dressed in yesterday’s robes and feeling slightly buzzed.
Amelia sleeps fitfully. When she wakes up five hours later, she’s partially on top of Moody, who has one arm slung over her hips protectively. When she was younger, she had always hated being the eldest, desperately looking for someone to take care of her. Regardless as to how difficult her relationship with Pomona has been over the last ten years, she is forever grateful to her girlfriend for introducing her to Moody. While he is first and foremost Pomona’s older cousin, he’s also become Amelia’s closest friend and mentor.
“Moody,” she calls him with a normal voice, knowing that a whisper would make him jump just as much as a scream. He jerks once in his sleep before instinctively reaching for his wand. After seventeen years on the force, he’s learned that one can never be too prepared.
“What is it, kid?” he asks, opening first one eye and then the other. He rolls off of Amelia and swings his legs over the side of the bed, dropping into a push-up formation before Amelia can even get her head off her pillows.
She stretches languidly. It’s a well-known fact that Amelia’s the fittest woman in the entirety of the Auror Corps, including McKinnon, who’s getting a bit too old to be in the competition, anyway. While Moody starts with his push-ups, she heads to the kitchen to make some eggs for breakfast. Or lunch. Time seems to lose meaning when they’re on missions.
“I’m thinking about asking Mona to move in with me,” she admits, setting a flame beneath the frying pan, “There’s a flat above Honeydukes that’s for rent and I,” she stumbles over the next words, “I miss her during the school year.”
Moody finishes his push-ups and lays flat on his back for crunches. “I think yeh lost it, Ams,” he tells her, not even breaking a sweat, “We both know Mona won’t want ter give up her independence like that.”
“It’s been ten years, Moody,” she stresses, cracking four eggs and throwing them into the pan. She’s never learned how to be domestic, but she can make a half-way decent omelet when called upon to do so.
“Ten years of pussyfootin ‘round each other. How many girls she shag ‘sides you since the two of yeh started?” It’s a sore subject, the type of thing you don’t bring up unless you’re trying to prove a point. Amelia drops one of the egg shells in her hand, and instead of leaning over to pick it up, she pulls her wand from her arm-harness and vanishes the rubbish.
Stiffly, she says, “I don’t ask.”
“Fine,” he allows, changing the question, “How many girls you shag since then?”
The answer is easy. “One. I’ve only ever made love to Pomona since the day we started courting.”
“Bloody fuck, Amelia,” Moody says, standing up and moving towards the kitchen, “Yer righ’ an’ proper whipped now, aren’t yeh? You know she’s been sleepin’ round, don’t yeh?”
“Yeah,” Amelia says, “But we’ve never been exclusive. Between our jobs and the hours we work…it just didn’t seem sensible.” She looks at the eggs as they sizzle, watching as the yolk spits and sputters.
“I’d kill a woman made a fool of me that way,” Moody says, after a moment. “Yeh need ter decide if she’s worth the risk of keepin.”
Amelia sighs and flips the eggs with her wand. “I’m trying to figure out if she thinks I’m worth the risk of staying.”
“Only one way to find out,” Moody answers, squeezing her left shoulder. “I’ll be in the shower.”
He leaves her alone, watching the eggs in the pan. She’s got a ring in her desk drawer at home, charmed invisible so Pomona won’t see it during one of her cleaning marathons. It’s a simple ring, with a diamond encrusted in a silver-band. She’s had it for six years, since her first paycheck as an Auror. She spent the entire paycheck and all her savings on that ring, and it’s spent six years hidden in a desk drawer.
She told Robards about it, while they were on duty together one night a few years back. He had shrugged nonchalantly and spun the ring he wears on this thumb. He never takes that damn ring off, not even when he’s got blood caked into his fingertips and dirt five layers thick covering his hands. It belongs to Scrimgeour, at least that’s the name carved into the band. She doesn’t know how long Robards has worn it, but she remembers seeing it on his finger the day he joined the Academy.
Other than Robards, no one knows about the ring. She trusts Moody with her life, but she’s afraid he’d push her into action if he knew she wanted to make her relationship with Pomona permanent. For all his Hufflepuff loyalty, she thinks he would’ve done much better in Gryffindor. Sometimes, the Hat is too quick to judge.
As the eggs start to crisp, she slides them out of the frying pan and places them on two plates. She goes back to the table and starts going over the lists of Muggle-borns again, trying to decide if any of them are unique in any way. After a few minutes she angrily pushes the scrolls away. The worst part about her job is that sometimes they don’t get a break in the case until somebody else gets murdered.
:::
By Friday afternoon, Amelia is certain of two things. Number one, there’s more than one person killing the Muggle-borns. Number two, she really hates women’s clothing.
“Yeh look like a purple penguin,” Moody comments, as he fixes his bowtie in the mirror, “Yer sure they’ll let me in the this shindig wit yeh as my date?”
Amelia tugs on the fabric yet again, trying to get it to lay flatter over her arse. “It’s the only women’s dress robes I own. They’re from Eddie’s wedding.”
“Yer brother got married years ago, Ams,” Moody points out, “I think yeh need t‘ave laid off the Butterbeers if yeh wanted to fit in to this again.”
“We can’t just have Robards enlarge it?” she asks, hopefully. Her hair looks almost as bad as her dress, but she knows Wiggleswade can sort that mess out. As a father of two daughters under the age of ten, he’s quite adept with a wand and women’s hair. More so, at least, than Amelia’s ever been.
“No,” Moody answers, running a brush through his own reddish mop, “It’s Malkin’s. Yeh know she don’ play games with alterin’ her robes. Yeh’ll just have t’wear the bloody thing.”
Wiggleswade knocks before entering the bedroom. While Moody’s seen her in various states of undress over the years, her other four teammates tend to believe in privacy when it comes to the only female member of their unit. Amelia grunts a welcoming noise and tries not to hide behind Moody when her partner walks through the door.
“You look like a purple penguin, Ams,” Wiggleswade echoes their boss’s sentiments, and Amelia feels like curling up into a ball. “Why does your arse look like a small continent?”
“Small? That thing’s at least the size of Australia,” Robards follows Wiggleswade into the room, equipped with his wand and some extra fabric. “I’ve decided I’m going to cut the robes at the seams and enlarge it the Muggle way.”
“Oh no yer not,” Moody says, disarming Robards with a flick of his wrist. The younger Auror stumbles backwards into a waiting chair and looks at his superior confused. “Yeh know t’ rich an’ fancy Sacreds would notice Muggle stitchin’ in a heartbeat. Bones can go with ‘er fat arse or she ken not go at all.”
“Don’t you try to weasel out of this, Alastor Moody,” Amelia threatens, handing Wiggleswade a brush and some hairpins, “We’re going to this, regardless of what kind of Muggle sea creature I look like by the time we get there.”
As it stands, Amelia and Moody arrive at a quarter past seven, both looking dapper enough to pass security and make their way into the Black Mansion. The mansion was immaculately decorated in a sea of purple and gold, what Amelia assumed to be Andromeda’s favorite colors. A house-elf takes their cloaks as they enter through the front doors, and Amelia tries not to thank the small creature for the service. She isn’t used to this type of grandeur, and without even stepping past the foyer, she already feels out of place.
“I’ve mentioned that I hate these things, right?” she mutters, her head tilted slightly to address Moody. He doesn’t comment, but his eyes are sweeping the room, starting in the far corner and assessing every person they land upon. Andromeda Black is standing at the center of a gaggle of Slytherin Sacreds, each wearing dress robes Amelia would never be able to walk in and twirling their hair in falsely coquettish ways. The eldest Black sister, now Lestrange, is wearing long-sleeve robes, something not even Amelia had the audacity to do. For a moment, she is jealous of how covered Madame Lestrange is. Moody’s voice brings her thoughts back to the subject at hand.
“Thaddeus Nott is in that far corner. Talking to Marius Avery. Yeh think yeh can git him alone?” Moody asks, looking everywhere but Amelia’s face. She knows what he’s asking her to do, and she almost hates him for it. “Ams, I wouln’t ask yeh the do it, if I din’ think we needed it.”
“Yeah,” Amelia replies, her eyes on Nott, “No, it’s fine. Just…” she talks a deep breath, “Just don’t tell Mona, okay?”
Moody nods and walks away from her, towards whom Amelia suspects is Mrs. Nott, but her memory has never been flawless and after a while all of the old money crowd starts to look the same. She watches him for a moment before moving towards Nott, grabbing a shot of Firewhiskey off the tray of a passing House-elf on her way.
“Thaddeus Nott!” she greets, like they’re old chums, like she didn’t shatter his heart into a thousand pieces when they were both sixteen and too young to know any better. “I was so looking forward to seeing you here.”
If he recognizes the statement as a blatant lie, he doesn’t say anything. “Auror Bones,” he says, congenially enough, “May I introduce you to Mr. Marius Avery. He left two years above us. Ravenclaw.”
She curtsies low, in a style much more befitting of a fifteen year old than someone who will be celebrating her thirtieth much sooner than she’d care to admit. Unfortunately, she is not a married woman, and therefore she has to resort to the Maiden Bow taught to her by Madame Shafiq almost twenty years ago. “It is my pleasure, Mr. Avery.”
Apparently, she doesn’t look that much like a purple penguin, because Avery’s appraisal of her chest lasts a moment longer than any of them are comfortable with. “Yes,” he says, bringing his eyes back to her face, “A pleasure.” He looks across the room and adds, “I’m sure you and Thaddeus have plenty to catch up on. Do excuse me?”
He’s gone before she grants permission, which is fine. The sooner she can get this over with, the better. “What are you doing here, Amelia?” Nott asks her, dropping all formalities. She hates how comfortable she still feels around him, but it’s hard to be repulsed by someone who’s shagged you more times than you can count. She places her hand on his shoulder and fights a smirk off her face when he jumps.
“Is there somewhere we could talk?” she asks, looking around. She’s done this before. Seduced unsuspecting men into empty rooms so she can strip search them without any witnesses. This is the first time the man she’s trying to seduce has already had sex with her-and knows she’s a lesbian. “Somewhere,” she runs her hand down his arm, her nail scraping down the soft fabric of his summer dress robes. Like Madame Lestrange’s, the robes are long-sleeved. “Private?”
A part of her thinks she’s attracted to the fairer sex because they produce more of a challenge. Nott looks into her eyes and she forces herself to keep her gaze soft and inviting. As he deliberates, she places mental guards up, protecting her thoughts from nonverbal Occulemency, which she knows Nott has always been interested in. After twenty seconds longer than it has ever taken her to take a man to bed, Nott holds out his arm. “Andromeda won’t mind us using her bedroom.”
He leads the way to the middle Black daughter’s room with ease, and Amelia knows he’s doing this as some way to show that just because she’s left him doesn’t mean he’s turned impotent. They’re halfway down the hallway before Nott pushes her up against a wall. In all honesty, she’d been expecting as much.
“What are you doing here, Amelia?” he asks, using his arms to block her in, “I’ve come to every bloody one of these balls, waiting for you to show up. Why this one?”
“Mr. Malfoy has shown promise in the area of Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Amelia replies, looking Nott in the eye, “I came here with Auror Moody to ask if he would like to enter the Academy. Not enough Pureblood wizards choose my career path, as you know.”
“If you had married me, you wouldn’t have needed a career path,” even after eleven years, he still sounds broken up about it. “I would have given you the world.”
She lowers her eyes to the floor, trying to look repentant. When she is able to swallow down the cold retort and school her face into vulnerability, Amelia looks up at him through hooded eyes and tries to look disappointed. “I know,” she says, just above a whisper, “I know. But I was young, and foolish. I was so headstrong and ignorant of the world. I should have listened to you. You seem so well-established, so comfortable in these high circles.”
“You have no idea,” Nott tells her, lifting her chin with his thumb, “No idea the power I have now, the galleons and the prestige.” He leans close to her ear, and she forces herself not to shrink away from his hot breath against her bare neck. “I could have made you their queen, Amelia.”
She turns towards his mouth, ghosting the side of his cheek with her lips. “I want to come back, Thaddeus,” she tells him, her voice steady, “I want to come back to you.”
He turns and captures her lips, and she’s thankful that he’s shaved recently. It’s a bruising kiss, nothing like the ones she and Pomona share. Nott captures her lips in his own, refusing any reciprocity and simply taking control. She surrenders to him, making her mouth pliant and wrapping her arms around him. Hopefully, this won’t take long.
He wraps one hand into her hair while the other grabs her hips. It’s the same routine moves he’s been using for more than a decade, and she almost pities his wife. She moans at the right times and rolls her body enticingly, angling them more and more towards the empty bedroom at the end of the hall. His left hand is already clawing at her breast by the time she can kick the door shut with the heel of her four-inch court shoes.
The next thirty seconds work out as seamlessly as they always do. She twists out of his grip, her wand now in her hand and the tip pressed against Nott’s throat. “Turn around,” she tells him, her voice seductive instead of commanding. They used to play games like this in Hogwarts, maybe she can keep up the charade until he’s completely defenseless.
He turns, a salacious smirk on his face. She kicks his legs apart and uses a nonverbal Expelliarmus in order to slide his wand from its harness on his left leg and up into her hand. She pats him down manually, knowing that her wand could miss too much to be safe. He doesn’t realize he’s a pig on a skewer until she says, “Petrificus Totalus,” and his entire body stiffens.
She starts with his shoes. Once she’s removed the Aethonan leather shoes that probably cost him more than she makes in a year, she peels off his socks and moves her hands up his robes. There’s a gash on his left side, scabbed over but from the way the scab gives she’s pretty sure it’s less than a week old. She prods it, knowing he can feel the pain even if he can’t physically react. Satisfied that it’s a young wound, she moves her hands up his ribs, feeling two give right above the scab. She moves her hands back down and starts to pull the robes up over his head, careful not to move his arms. She knows they’ll break if forced to move too much. The fabric comes off carefully, and she takes off the under-robe as well. Unlike the three dozen other men she’s stripped-searched over the last six years, Nott has no reason to be embarrassed. She’s already seen this all before.
Except for this.
On Nott’s left arm, there’s a black tattoo that looks like it was sewn into his skin, rather than painted on using elaborate spellwork. The tattoo is black, blacker than even the kohl she used to line her eyes this evening. She traces it twice, trying to burn the image into her mind while also trying to unsee the intricate form.
“You have a skull eating a snake on your arm,” she says to Nott, her eyes not leaving the tattoo. “Are you aware of this?” she pokes it with the edge of her wand. “Were you drunk?” She traces it slowly. “Is it Muggle?” She tries a simple vanishing spell, one that erases Muggle ink. The tattoo burns red and the light is swallowed by the black of the skull.
“You’re under arrest, Thaddeus Nott,” she tells him, pulling out a Portkey to the station, “For the murder of Greg Rivers, Giuseppe Pallier, Scarlet Cleaver, and Kevin Flemming.”
He says nothing, even after she releases the body-bind.
:::
Scrimgeour and Moody do the interrogation. Moody has the patience for them and Scrimgeour can get inside someone’s head better than anyone Amelia’s every met. They spends six hours in the interrogation room, grilling Nott with everything they have and a few things they don’t. When Moody walks out of the room, asking for water and a cigarette, Amelia needs to know what went on in there.
“Voldemort,” her boss says, lighting the cigarette.
Amelia blinks twice, “Is that French?”
“I have no fookin clue,” he admits, breathing deeply, “I ain’t never heard of the son of a bitch. Apparently he’s big though.”
Amelia grabs her own cigarette from Moody’s proffered hand. “Who is he?”
“The leader of some new gang,” Moody says, “Has a thing against Muggle-borns and blood traitors. And blondes, from what Nott says. Don’ know what that ‘as to do with anythin’.”
“So what are we doing about it?” Amelia asks.
“Locking up Nott. Sendin it to the lawyers. What’re we s’pose to do about it, Ams? I don’t even have a picture of the guy.” He sounds annoyed, irritated. She conjures a glass of water and hands it to him.
The lights flicker, then, making the flat eerily dark. Amelia and Moody look at one another and pull their wands slowly. They turn, facing opposite directions. “On my count,” Moody whispers, his wand pointed at the interrogation room. “One, two,” he doesn’t get the chance to finish.
“Protego!” Rufus’ spells are always too loud, always a little over pronounced. He sounds confident, though, and Amelia doesn’t turn around while Moody storms the door. She knows someone has to watch their backs.
The duel is neither quick nor clean. Amelia can’t see anything from where she’s standing in the dark, but she can hear Moody and Scrimgeour holding their own. Then she hears Moody curse, and she knows that Scrimgeour has gone down. It sounds like more people are entering into the bedroom they were using to interrogate Nott, and Amelia really wants to know who destroyed their wards-wards Amelia herself had put up only an hour before.
She runs into the room, knowing that she’s more useful in the middle of the fight than she is protecting the flowerpots and the sofa cushions. She throws spells in a way that could be considered careless, but is actually more strategic than anyone else on the force. Each curse hits it target, each jinx is perfectly placed. She and Moody dance around each other, their feet in step, their spells the melody that sets the pace. They have danced this dance together a thousand times, and every time they have walked away victorious.
The final body crumples to the ground, and Amelia feels the magic thrum through her. Dueling is meditation for her. She lowers her wand and takes a deep breath in. As she exhales, she hears a voice in the corner.
“Auror Bones,” she hears the voice but can’t see a body. Instead, it’s omnipresent. “Auror Moody. Bravo.” The man who is speaking sounds neither patronizing nor impressed. “You have taken down some of my finest men.”
The man at her feet is dressed in a robe as black as Nott’s tattoo, with a mask hiding his face. She toes the mask with her boot. “Please do not do that, Auror Bones,” the man says, “My men rely on their anonymity.”
“Yer men are cowards, then,” Moody spits out, blood dribbling down from the side of his eye, “An’ yeh are too, if yeh won’ show yerself.”
A wave of fear catches Amelia off guard, whoever this disembodied voice may be, he’s got to be pretty terrifying if he can lead half a dozen men into the headquarters of two of the best Aurors in the Department. She looks around, her eyes scanning every inch of the room. “I have no qualms showing myself,” the voice answers. With a flourish, the far corner billows into swirling robes, and a man in a mask walks towards them. “My name is Lord Voldemort. I am here to speak with you about a Revolution.”
Amelia forces herself not to take a step back as he walks towards them. A Hufflepuff never abandons her friends, and that is what keeps her at Moody’s side, much more than any misplaced Gryffindor courage. “We have no interest in a Revolution that involves killing Muggle-borns.”
“The Revolution is not about killing anyone, Auror Bones,” the voice says from behind the mask. “These Muggle-borns, as you call them, are stealing the magic of true wizards. We are ruining our bloodlines through intermarriage. In another century, which is within your life time, magic will be so depleted that we will be able to close the doors of Hogwarts forever. Why allow Muggles and those with impure blood to suck us dry when we could use them to build an Empire and save wizarding kind?”
Amelia looks at Moody out of the corner of her eye, begging him not to laugh. “I’m a halfblood,” Moody tells him, instead of laughing, “Bones has got Muggle blood in her too. So I think you’ve come to the wrong people?”
“What’s passed is past,” the man says, “The Revolution is about the future.” He pauses, removes the mask. Beneath it, there is a handsome man who looks less than fifty. He black eyes bore into Amelia’s when he says, “I could make you both very powerful.” He turns to Moody, “I could make you a god,” he tells the older Auror. Then he turns to Amelia, “I could make you a queen.”
“Does that line actually work?” Amelia asks, before she can bite her tongue. Steeling herself, she continues, “I mean, you’re the second person to offer me a throne in less than a day. Do I look like the type of bird who would look good in a crown?”
Her false bravado is all that Moody needs, “We’re passin on yer offer,” he says, pointing his wand at Voldemort, “But we’re takin you in fer murder.”
Moody’s quick, but for the first time since Amelia started working for him, he isn’t quick enough. “I understand,” Voldemort says. His robes billow around them, the darkness creeps at her feet. She is so entranced by the exit that she doesn’t realize all six of the people they’ve just disarmed have now disappeared. From the corner, the voice tells them, “I will have you both,” they both point their wands at the origin, but there is nothing to shoot at.
Amelia takes a deep breath and tries to stop her hands from shaking. She looks at Moody, “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know,” Moody answers, “But Crouch is goin’ the have our arses fer losing the attacker.”
Amelia sinks to the ground, thinking about the Revolution. “Moody,” she tells him, “I think that’s going to be the least of our problems.”
:::
Crouch lectures them for an hour. It’s long and painful and makes Amelia question why the hell she didn’t decide to become a high society housewife. Then he dismisses Moody, looks Amelia in the eye, and says, “I’m making you lead on this case,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I need to know everything and anything about this Lord Voldemort. His likes, his dislikes, where he lives, who he shags.” He pauses and looks at her, “His bloody name, for the love of Salazar.”
Amelia nods. “Is that all, sir?”
He dismisses her with a wave of his hand. She leaves through the back door and finds Moody leaning up against the wall, smoking a cigarette and staring off into nothing. “He gave you lead, din’ he?”
Amelia wants to know how Moody figured that out before she did, “Yeah.”
“Excitin,” Moody allows, stubbing out the cigarette, “You ready?”
Amelia’s already thinking about how she’s going to gather information. She’ll have to infiltrate more of those bloody balls; have Podmore secure more information from Hogwarts; talk to Pomona about taking vacation in the winter instead of now; convince Robards that spending hours upon hours pouring over bloodlines and family history isn’t a waste of his time and-
-Pomona. Shite.
“I can’t,” Amelia tells Moody, hugging him quickly and then walking in the opposite direction. “I have to go find Pomona.”
Moody looks at her like she’s lost her mind. Scrimgeour, Robards, and Podmore are already at the pub, waiting for them to arrive. They always go out the night after a case is finished, but as the case isn’t finished, Amelia thinks she deserves some leeway. He stares at her for a moment, and then finds words. “What? Why?”
Amelia looks at him, smiles brightly, and then winces at the pain caused by her fresh cut on her lip. She thinks about the ring in her desk at home, of Pomona’s smile, and of the hell she’s sure the next few weeks are going to turn out to be. She takes a deep breath and says, “I have a question to ask her.”
While Moody laughs, she walks away, pretending that the sound of his barking laughter isn’t the one thing she needed to hear to know that everything is going to turn out all right. Crazed Muggle-born killer be damned.
Prompt/Prompt Author: I'd love to see a detective story with those two. Good cop/bad cop, cop who hasn't got her private life sorted out/cop who hasn't got a private life to sort out, cop/intrepid private investigator who answers to nobody ... I think there are great possibilities for friendship dynamics between those two. / tetleythesecond
Title: You Say You Want a Revolution (We All Want to Change the World)
Characters: Amelia Bones, Alastor Moody, Amelia Bones/Pomona Sprout
Rating: R
Warnings: A bit of manipulation
Word Count: 8,334
Summary: Amelia Bones led the investigation into Voldemort’s identity in the 1970s. This is how she got the case.
Author's Notes: Tetley, I really hope you like this. I want to thank “x” and "x" for being absolutely brilliant betas. They did an amazing job Brit-picking for me. Of course, any and all errors are my own.
Amelia is not home when Pomona finally walks through the door of their shared flat, dropping her trunk at the foot of their bed and throwing her travelling robe over the back of Amelia’s desk chair. Another school year has passed, and Pomona is looking forward to three months of freedom with the woman she loves. She has plans for this summer, after all-weekends in Devonshire and weeklong visits to the McGonagall’s in Scotland. Moody’s promised to give Amelia vacation this summer, something he’s denied the junior Auror since she joined his unit fresh out of the Academy six years ago. The best thing about the fact that Moody is still irrevocably and unrequitedly in love with Minerva is that Pomona has some pull over how brutally he treats her girlfriend.
In the kitchen, there are empty tea mugs everywhere. Pomona sighs heavily and starts to clean them, her wand flicking from cup to cup with practiced ease. As the only girl in the Bones household, and the only female after her mother died when she was three, Amelia was never taught basic household charms. Her nanny had tried, of course, but it was pretty much fruitless. Amelia has never been able to learn anything she wasn’t interested in-it’s a blessing she’s endlessly curious and wants to learn almost everything. Except, unfortunately, Cleaning Charms.
Pomona finishes the dishes, starts dinner, and has the clothes clean, folded, and put away before Amelia walks through the door. It’s rare that she gets to be this domestic, and while she’s going to tease Amelia about it for the next few days, it’s a great stress-reliever. She’s curled up on the sofa reading the newest scholarly text on mandrake mating habits, when Amelia walks in, Moody and Rufus trailing behind her.
“I really don’t think this has anything to do with the Inferi breakout in India, Ams,” Moody says, holding the front door open with the toe of his dragonhide boot while Amelia and Rufus balance their takeaway bags. “I mean, it’s four murders in Essex. There’s a whole continent in between the two.” Amelia places the bags down on their counter, not noticing the clean dishes.
“I know,” she replies, opening the bags while Moody shuts the door, “I’m just saying it’s strange that the two things happened simultaneously. We haven’t had an Inferi breakout or a serial killer since Grindelwald.”
Rufus is the first to see her, obviously not as invested in the conversation as his two superiors. “Hey Mona,” he greets, taking a seat on the sofa across from her, “When did you get in?”
Amelia and Moody both freeze, and Pomona smirks as she watches Amelia meet Moody’s eyes before slowly turning to look at her lover. “Mona!” she forces, draping a smile over her teeth with practiced ease. “I wasn’t expecting you until the first.”
“It is the first,” Pomona replies, not bothering to take her nose out of her book, “Has been all day.”
“Oh,” Amelia may be one of the best female agents the Auror Program has ever had, but she is far from graceful under pressure. She looks at Moody in a way that makes Pomona blush, and Pomona wonders if Moody’s going to fold or watch his best mate squirm instead.
“You know what?” Rufus says, from his seat uncomfortably between the two women, “Moody owes me a drink and I haven’t gotten right and proper pissed since your birthday, Mona. What do you say, Al? Wanna buy me a drink? Once we get started on this case, Merlin knows we’re not going to have a shot for a while.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Amelia agrees, shooting Rufus the most grateful look Pomona’s ever seen her girlfriend give someone outside of the bedroom. “Brilliant idea, actually.”
Moody hesitates, and Pomona knows he’s trying to decide if he should leave now or stay to watch the fireworks. Pomona pushes up her reading glasses to lay atop her tawny curls and places the book down on the coffee table in front of her. “Have fun, boys,” she says, looking directly at Moody.
He’s out the door before Amelia has a chance to hug him goodbye. Pomona thinks he may have said, “You’re on your own, kid,” when he walked out, but that could have just been the front door closing.
“We have a new case,” Amelia says by way of apology, “It’s huge, it may get me noticed by the Hitwizards, and it’s frustrating as hell. I just forgot about you, Mona.” She walks over to the sofa, “I’m sorry.”
Pomona pushes off the sofa and looks Amelia in the eye. She works hard to keep her tone angry and not hurt when she says, “You just forgot about me?”
“Er…” Amelia has the decency to look sheepish, but it doesn’t quell the pain burning in Pomona’s chest. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“You know what?” Pomona asks, “Forget it. I’m tired and embarrassed and I’m going to bed. Why don’t you just forget where that is tonight? We’ll try this again in the morning.” With that, she walks to the bedroom and slams the door.
Needless to say, Amelia sleeps on the sofa that evening.
:::
Tiamat wakes Amelia up at six the following morning. The half-kneazle Persian cat was trained by Arabella Figg, the life-partner of the first female Unit Captain in Auror history. Marlene McKinnon is the only woman Amelia has ever really looked up to, and the two have developed a mutual respect and personal friendship during Amelia’s time on the force. Tiamat was her five year anniversary present from Marlene and Arabella, and over the last year she’s been an absolute life saver in making sure her owner is never late for work.
Amelia rolls over and falls flat on the floor, instantly reminded that she spent the night on the sofa. Groaning from both pain and fatigue, Amelia pushes herself to her feet and rubs the crust from her eyes. She has to go into the bedroom to get robes for the day, but there’s still a part of her that’s afraid of entering the badger’s lair. She tiptoes into the room as quietly as she can, but Pomona’s already awake and reading in bed, petting her own kneazle, Raijin.
“I’m sorry,” Amelia says, echoing her last words from the night before, “I really did just get my days mixed up. I was so excited for you the whole week, but then this case dropped onto our laps last night and I just…I forgot. I’m terrible. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Pomona replies, keeping her tone light, “Really. We both screwed up. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. I just wanted my first night back to be special.”
“It was going to be,” Amelia promises, “I was going to bring you flowers, order curry, make your favorite dessert. I promise, the next night I have off, we’ll go out somewhere spectacular. I just…Pomona this case is huge.”
Pomona watches as Amelia strips down to nothing and starts looking through her drawers for clean uniform robes. Her creamy skin is bruised and scarred in a hundred different spots, creating an intricate and beautiful design across the canvass of her body. She wants to reach out and trace the colors, first with her fingers and then with her tongue. It’s never easy for her to stay angry at Amelia for too long, especially when they’re together. “I’ll keep myself busy,” she decides. “Just promise you’ll check in. I hate when you go off gallivanting around England without keeping me up to speed.”
“I’ll Floo-call every chance I get,” Amelia promises, still nude. She walks over to the side of the bed and kisses Pomona fiercely. They melt into one another, and Amelia toys with the idea of showing up late to work.
Outside, there’s a bang on the door. “Ye both better get the make-up shag over and done with. I expect you ready to Portkey to Essex in fifteen minutes.”
Moody’s voice is more guttural than usual, and Amelia has a feeling he’s sporting the hangover from hell. “There goes that idea,” Amelia mutters against her lover’s lips. She kisses Pomona once-twice-more and then grabs a hangover potion off the nightstand. She dresses in record time and is ready to leave in time to grab a thermos of tea and make her Portkey. “I’ll let you know when we’re safe,” she promises, kissing Pomona all over, “Keep the wards tight.”
She leaves just as Moody is exiting his own flat, and they meet in the hallway like they do almost every morning. “Guess she’s not too angry, then,” Moody says, pointing to a fading bite mark just below her ear.
Amelia smirks, “Don’t be terse because you’ve not had a good shag in weeks, Moody.”
“I’m not terse,” Moody replies, opening the door for her. It’s weird that he’s still chivalrous, even though she’s proven time and time again that she’s just as much a man as he is. “Don’ like when you fight with the Missus. Mona’s a good bird. Don’t know what the hell she sees in you.”
Amelia knows he’s joking, but to be honest, she’s not sure what Pomona sees in her either. They barely see each other during the school year, which spans almost ten months. In the summer, Pomona has more time, but Aurors don’t get summers off, and most of her freedom is spent lazing around the flat, reading theory books and visiting Minerva and her family in the Highlands. Even after nine years together, Amelia’s not sure anyone would call what they have a relationship.
“Anyway,” Amelia says, after the Apparate to the Portkey spot. “Get any updates last night?”
“Wiggleswade sent me an owl around three, just as Rufus and I were getting back. Apparently, there’s been a fourth murder. If we get there by eight, we may be able to look around before forensics completely contaminates the area.” Moody looks at his pocket watch and taps his foot impatiently. While Robards and Podmore are both walking towards them, neither Rufus nor Wiggleswade are anywhere to be found.
“DJ said he’d meet us there,” Sturgis Podmore says when he gets within earshot. Sturgis is a burly man with straw-colored hair and a doe-eyed expression. He’s the softest of the unit, and Amelia often finds herself trying to protect him more than anyone else when they’re on a mission.
Gawain Robards is the youngest of their ensemble. He’s fresh out of the Academy and still has so much to learn before either Moody or Rufus will trust him as far as they could throw him, which isn’t very far, considering he outweighs them both. He towers over the rest of the unit and is sometimes used solely for his strength, which is a shame, because Amelia thinks he has the tactical genius to best Crouch, if necessary.
Moody waits until both men are next to the Portkey before he asks, “Anyone hear from Rufus?” Rufus isn’t the type of person to show up late for anything. His Slytherin ambition keeps him from performing at a caliber anything less than perfect.
“Right here,” the familiar scratchiness of Rufus’ voice causes them all to turn around. They wait another moment for him to reach the departure point, and then Moody takes out his pocket watch again.
“Not a minute to spare,” he grumbles at Rufus, placing his hand upon the old shoe they’re using for transportation. The rest of the team follows suit, and as Moody’s watch strikes seven, there’s a familiar tug on Amelia’s navel that makes her happy she decided to forego breakfast for snogging this morning.
:::
“We literally know nothing,” Amelia complains, after surveying the area of the fourth murder for three hours and coming out empty handed. “Literally nothing.”
“We have names of all the victims. Their ages, years at Hogwarts, parents, siblings.” Wiggleswade looks around the room again, “You’re right. We have nothing.”
Moody and Rufus went to the local super market an hour ago, picking up supplies to last at least a few weeks. The two-room flat the six of them will be sharing until the case is solved is cramped and impoverished, with a broken window and a clogged bathroom sink. However, it’s not the worst place they’ve ever stayed, so Amelia tries not to mind that she has to pull a warmer cloak around her shoulders in order to keep the draft at bay.
Wiggleswade looks at the clock. “You fire-call the old lady?”
Behind her head, the clock on the wall chimes nine. “Shite. No.” She gathers her robes and moves towards the fire. Pomona is just getting into bed to listen to her favorite show on the wireless, and so they don’t talk very long. After five minutes, three “I love yous” and a promise to get home soon, Amelia severs the connection and turns back to Wiggleswade, “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Wiggleswade replies, turning back to the scrolls. “I still have no idea where to go with this.”
“Okay,” Amelia breathes, placing the scrolls of data back down on the table. “Let’s go over this again. What do they have in common?”
“Rivers and Pallier graduated within five years of each other,” Wiggleswade suggests. He moves on to the third scroll, “But Cleaver graduated twenty years before Rivers.”
“So we can rule out Hogwarts revenge,” Amelia’s good at this, she always has been. Process of elimination requires patience, and while Moody may have the instincts and Wiggleswade the bravery to rush blindly into things, she’s the one with the patience to see everything through to the end. “Do they look anything alike?”
“Rivers is Black, Pallier has black hair and green eyes, Cleaver’s a woman, and Flemming is a ginger.” Dempster Wiggleswade was top of his class at Hogwarts and was Amelia’s Head Boy when she was a sixth-year Hufflepuff Prefect. She admires his Gryffindor bravery and his boyish charm, and they’ve been good mates since they started the Academy together back in 1962. He’s fantastic for figuring out puzzles, mainly because he tempers Amelia’s patience with his curiosity. Together, they’ve cracked over a dozen cases, all of which the Ministry had thought to be unsolvable.
Amelia picks up a scroll and runs through the names of Rivers’ parents and siblings. “He’s a Muggle-born,” she says, “I’ve never heard of his parents.”
“You know the entirety of Wizarding society off the top of your head?” Wiggleswade, who is also a Muggle-born, sounds a bit peeved that Amelia would jump to such a conclusion.
Amelia cuts her eyes at an angle, slicing the smirk Wiggleswade is wearing in two. “Yes, actually,” she replies, “My father made me take Wizarding etiquette as a kid, just like everyone else. The only Wizarding Rivers left in England are in their late nineties. They had three girls-no one left to carry on the family name.”
“All right,” Wiggleswade concedes, “What about Pallier?”
Amelia shakes her head, “I’m not sure about on the Continent, but out here there is no Wizarding family by that name.”
“Cleaver? Flemming?” Wiggleswade hands her the two remaining scrolls and watches as she looks at the names.
Amelia shakes her head. “No.” The answer is firm and resolute. She knows this. Her etiquette tutor was one of the best in all of the United Kingdom. Madame Shafiq, the youngest of the Shafiq family, was the most sought-after tutor in the Wizarding World, and she was famous for being able to rattle off every ancestor of the Sacred Twenty-Eight stretching back to the founding of Hogwarts. Amelia is confident in her knowledge of bloodlines, and she knows for a fact that there are no Cleavers or Flemmings in the Wizarding world. Except for the ones that have just died.
“Okay,” Wiggleswade looks shaken as he puts down the scrolls, “Okay, so maybe our attacker is targeting Muggle-borns.”
Amelia looks at him, “Yeah.”
Wiggleswade breathes out: “Fuck.”
:::
By the time Moody and Rufus get home, Amelia has mapped out a game plan and Wiggleswade is writing owls to the appropriate contacts. The Prewett Twins, sixth years looking to enter the Academy next spring, have already confirmed that Andromeda Black’s Coming Out Ball is taking place on Friday. Sturgis has Flooed to Hogwarts to speak with the Headmaster about accessing their lists of Muggle-born students from 1850 until today. They would go back further, but the age range of their current victims are nineteen to forty-five, so she doubts the attacker is going to assault someone over the age of one hundred. Robards was writing down their field notes, carefully recording every minute of the case. He enjoyed understanding strategy and case development. Already published twice, he was shaping up to be quite the scholar in the field of criminal justice.
“Moody,” Amelia greets, looking up from where she’s writing down a list of the Sacred Twenty-Eight from memory. There are holes, gaping ones, and she really wishes her little brother were here. Eddie’s a prodigy at people and names. He’s a lawyer for the DMLE-prosecutor and the absolute best at it. She couldn’t be more proud if she tried.
He grunts in response, which is typical. Alastor Moody has always been a man of few words, and around his team, the people who know him best, he can get by on grunts and nonverbal communication for pretty much any conversation.
Amelia places her monocle down atop the parchment she’s writing on. It’s an old heirloom, passed down through her father’s side for centuries. Her father gave it to her as a graduation gift once she finished at the Academy. She carries it with her everywhere, and while she used to use it out of reverence, the constant nights reading by candlelight and writing down notes in the middle of investigations, her eyes have begun to feel the strain. She uses it on her right eye, the silver Goblin-spun chain dangling from the sapphire encrusted frame. Every time she wears it, a part of her misses home.
“We’re going to a Coming Out Ball on Friday,” she says, keeping her gaze steady, “I’ve already told Sturgis to grab your dress robes on his way back.”
“No we ain’t,” Moody replies, his face unreadable. However, there’s a slight lift to his lips that makes Amelia aware of the fact that her best mate thinks she’s lost her mind, “I ain’t been to a Deb Ball since 1962. You think yeh’re goin’a git me t’go?”
“Yes,” Amelia says, “Because it’s a major break in the case, and you’re the only other Pureblood I’ve got here.” Moody’s mother was a Yaxley, and since the Moody family could trace magic back eight generations, he was allowed into the Coming Out Ball.
Coming Out Balls had strict etiquette that was required to be observed at all times and by all members of Pureblood Society. Amelia has her invitation to Andromeda’s Coming Out Ball tucked in a desk drawer in her flat, along with every other Coming Out invitation she’s received over the past ten years. Her paternal grandmother’s status as a half-blood had precluded her from having her own Coming Out Ball-thank Morgana-but she’s been invited to every single ball held by a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight since she was seventeen years old.
“Podmore’s pure,” Moody counters, placing three jars of tuna down on the table.
“Yeah,” Rufus agrees, “Except for the fact that his mother’s half-Veela.”
“Okay, so Podmore’s too pretty,” Moody acquiesces, pulling out some pumpkin juice and four six-packs of Butterbeer. “What about Scrimgeour? I know you’re German, but you’re pure, too, ain’t ye?”
“Actually, no,” Rufus replies, “My dad’s got some troll blood in him.”
“So Podmore’s too pretty and Rufus is too dumb,” he looks around, “Wiggleswade is Muggle-born. So that leaves…Bard.” He looks around, “Where the hell is Bard?”
“Inside,” she says, motioning towards the door, “But he’s out, too. His dad is Muggle-born.”
“Oh for the love of Helga,” Moody growls, throwing his shopping basket to the ground, “Fine. But yeh’re wearin’ women’s robes.”
“Yes,” Amelia replies, tightly, “I’m aware of that.”
Moody grabs two Butterbeers and opens them with his bare hands. Rufus, realizing his part of the conversation has passed, walked towards Robards’ room. “I’m going to go get clued in as to why you’re going to this Ball. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Amelia waves him away and clears off the chair next to her. She begins to explain her theory to Moody, careful not to leave out any details. By the time she’s finished, Sturgis is back with both Moody’s dress robes and the lists from Hogwarts. “Dumbledore said be careful. He sounded cryptic.”
“Old codger always sounds cryptic, Sturgis,” Moody tells him, taking the scrolls. The clock reads half-two, and Amelia is almost tired enough to push off locating every Muggle-born in Essex until morning. Hours cost lives in her field of work, however, so she unrolls the scrolls and pulls out her pocket atlas, enlarging it to pinpoint the houses they’ll need to survey and protect.
“Go get some sleep,” she suggests, “Bard and Rufus are in the far bedroom.” With six group members, the sleeping arrangements are usually routine. She and Moody split whatever sofa is available, Wiggleswade and Podmore sleep in one room, and Robards and Scrimgeour take the other. While Wiggleswade is married and Podmore has a different bird every week, Amelia’s learned not to ask about what the two youngest members of the unit do behind closed doors. After all, her own sexual preferences aren’t exactly socially appropriate.
They’re each on their third Butterbeer by the time they finish mapping out the homes of every Muggle-born in Essex. It’s six in the morning and they’re both exhausted, so they wake up Scrimgeour to Floo the Ministry with the coordinates of the houses that need to be watched. Robards and Wiggleswade are told to return to the first victim’s home and see if any new evidence could be found, now that they have a theory. Podmore, as the last one to return, gets to sleep a bit longer. Then Moody enlarges the sofa and they fall onto it, still dressed in yesterday’s robes and feeling slightly buzzed.
Amelia sleeps fitfully. When she wakes up five hours later, she’s partially on top of Moody, who has one arm slung over her hips protectively. When she was younger, she had always hated being the eldest, desperately looking for someone to take care of her. Regardless as to how difficult her relationship with Pomona has been over the last ten years, she is forever grateful to her girlfriend for introducing her to Moody. While he is first and foremost Pomona’s older cousin, he’s also become Amelia’s closest friend and mentor.
“Moody,” she calls him with a normal voice, knowing that a whisper would make him jump just as much as a scream. He jerks once in his sleep before instinctively reaching for his wand. After seventeen years on the force, he’s learned that one can never be too prepared.
“What is it, kid?” he asks, opening first one eye and then the other. He rolls off of Amelia and swings his legs over the side of the bed, dropping into a push-up formation before Amelia can even get her head off her pillows.
She stretches languidly. It’s a well-known fact that Amelia’s the fittest woman in the entirety of the Auror Corps, including McKinnon, who’s getting a bit too old to be in the competition, anyway. While Moody starts with his push-ups, she heads to the kitchen to make some eggs for breakfast. Or lunch. Time seems to lose meaning when they’re on missions.
“I’m thinking about asking Mona to move in with me,” she admits, setting a flame beneath the frying pan, “There’s a flat above Honeydukes that’s for rent and I,” she stumbles over the next words, “I miss her during the school year.”
Moody finishes his push-ups and lays flat on his back for crunches. “I think yeh lost it, Ams,” he tells her, not even breaking a sweat, “We both know Mona won’t want ter give up her independence like that.”
“It’s been ten years, Moody,” she stresses, cracking four eggs and throwing them into the pan. She’s never learned how to be domestic, but she can make a half-way decent omelet when called upon to do so.
“Ten years of pussyfootin ‘round each other. How many girls she shag ‘sides you since the two of yeh started?” It’s a sore subject, the type of thing you don’t bring up unless you’re trying to prove a point. Amelia drops one of the egg shells in her hand, and instead of leaning over to pick it up, she pulls her wand from her arm-harness and vanishes the rubbish.
Stiffly, she says, “I don’t ask.”
“Fine,” he allows, changing the question, “How many girls you shag since then?”
The answer is easy. “One. I’ve only ever made love to Pomona since the day we started courting.”
“Bloody fuck, Amelia,” Moody says, standing up and moving towards the kitchen, “Yer righ’ an’ proper whipped now, aren’t yeh? You know she’s been sleepin’ round, don’t yeh?”
“Yeah,” Amelia says, “But we’ve never been exclusive. Between our jobs and the hours we work…it just didn’t seem sensible.” She looks at the eggs as they sizzle, watching as the yolk spits and sputters.
“I’d kill a woman made a fool of me that way,” Moody says, after a moment. “Yeh need ter decide if she’s worth the risk of keepin.”
Amelia sighs and flips the eggs with her wand. “I’m trying to figure out if she thinks I’m worth the risk of staying.”
“Only one way to find out,” Moody answers, squeezing her left shoulder. “I’ll be in the shower.”
He leaves her alone, watching the eggs in the pan. She’s got a ring in her desk drawer at home, charmed invisible so Pomona won’t see it during one of her cleaning marathons. It’s a simple ring, with a diamond encrusted in a silver-band. She’s had it for six years, since her first paycheck as an Auror. She spent the entire paycheck and all her savings on that ring, and it’s spent six years hidden in a desk drawer.
She told Robards about it, while they were on duty together one night a few years back. He had shrugged nonchalantly and spun the ring he wears on this thumb. He never takes that damn ring off, not even when he’s got blood caked into his fingertips and dirt five layers thick covering his hands. It belongs to Scrimgeour, at least that’s the name carved into the band. She doesn’t know how long Robards has worn it, but she remembers seeing it on his finger the day he joined the Academy.
Other than Robards, no one knows about the ring. She trusts Moody with her life, but she’s afraid he’d push her into action if he knew she wanted to make her relationship with Pomona permanent. For all his Hufflepuff loyalty, she thinks he would’ve done much better in Gryffindor. Sometimes, the Hat is too quick to judge.
As the eggs start to crisp, she slides them out of the frying pan and places them on two plates. She goes back to the table and starts going over the lists of Muggle-borns again, trying to decide if any of them are unique in any way. After a few minutes she angrily pushes the scrolls away. The worst part about her job is that sometimes they don’t get a break in the case until somebody else gets murdered.
:::
By Friday afternoon, Amelia is certain of two things. Number one, there’s more than one person killing the Muggle-borns. Number two, she really hates women’s clothing.
“Yeh look like a purple penguin,” Moody comments, as he fixes his bowtie in the mirror, “Yer sure they’ll let me in the this shindig wit yeh as my date?”
Amelia tugs on the fabric yet again, trying to get it to lay flatter over her arse. “It’s the only women’s dress robes I own. They’re from Eddie’s wedding.”
“Yer brother got married years ago, Ams,” Moody points out, “I think yeh need t‘ave laid off the Butterbeers if yeh wanted to fit in to this again.”
“We can’t just have Robards enlarge it?” she asks, hopefully. Her hair looks almost as bad as her dress, but she knows Wiggleswade can sort that mess out. As a father of two daughters under the age of ten, he’s quite adept with a wand and women’s hair. More so, at least, than Amelia’s ever been.
“No,” Moody answers, running a brush through his own reddish mop, “It’s Malkin’s. Yeh know she don’ play games with alterin’ her robes. Yeh’ll just have t’wear the bloody thing.”
Wiggleswade knocks before entering the bedroom. While Moody’s seen her in various states of undress over the years, her other four teammates tend to believe in privacy when it comes to the only female member of their unit. Amelia grunts a welcoming noise and tries not to hide behind Moody when her partner walks through the door.
“You look like a purple penguin, Ams,” Wiggleswade echoes their boss’s sentiments, and Amelia feels like curling up into a ball. “Why does your arse look like a small continent?”
“Small? That thing’s at least the size of Australia,” Robards follows Wiggleswade into the room, equipped with his wand and some extra fabric. “I’ve decided I’m going to cut the robes at the seams and enlarge it the Muggle way.”
“Oh no yer not,” Moody says, disarming Robards with a flick of his wrist. The younger Auror stumbles backwards into a waiting chair and looks at his superior confused. “Yeh know t’ rich an’ fancy Sacreds would notice Muggle stitchin’ in a heartbeat. Bones can go with ‘er fat arse or she ken not go at all.”
“Don’t you try to weasel out of this, Alastor Moody,” Amelia threatens, handing Wiggleswade a brush and some hairpins, “We’re going to this, regardless of what kind of Muggle sea creature I look like by the time we get there.”
As it stands, Amelia and Moody arrive at a quarter past seven, both looking dapper enough to pass security and make their way into the Black Mansion. The mansion was immaculately decorated in a sea of purple and gold, what Amelia assumed to be Andromeda’s favorite colors. A house-elf takes their cloaks as they enter through the front doors, and Amelia tries not to thank the small creature for the service. She isn’t used to this type of grandeur, and without even stepping past the foyer, she already feels out of place.
“I’ve mentioned that I hate these things, right?” she mutters, her head tilted slightly to address Moody. He doesn’t comment, but his eyes are sweeping the room, starting in the far corner and assessing every person they land upon. Andromeda Black is standing at the center of a gaggle of Slytherin Sacreds, each wearing dress robes Amelia would never be able to walk in and twirling their hair in falsely coquettish ways. The eldest Black sister, now Lestrange, is wearing long-sleeve robes, something not even Amelia had the audacity to do. For a moment, she is jealous of how covered Madame Lestrange is. Moody’s voice brings her thoughts back to the subject at hand.
“Thaddeus Nott is in that far corner. Talking to Marius Avery. Yeh think yeh can git him alone?” Moody asks, looking everywhere but Amelia’s face. She knows what he’s asking her to do, and she almost hates him for it. “Ams, I wouln’t ask yeh the do it, if I din’ think we needed it.”
“Yeah,” Amelia replies, her eyes on Nott, “No, it’s fine. Just…” she talks a deep breath, “Just don’t tell Mona, okay?”
Moody nods and walks away from her, towards whom Amelia suspects is Mrs. Nott, but her memory has never been flawless and after a while all of the old money crowd starts to look the same. She watches him for a moment before moving towards Nott, grabbing a shot of Firewhiskey off the tray of a passing House-elf on her way.
“Thaddeus Nott!” she greets, like they’re old chums, like she didn’t shatter his heart into a thousand pieces when they were both sixteen and too young to know any better. “I was so looking forward to seeing you here.”
If he recognizes the statement as a blatant lie, he doesn’t say anything. “Auror Bones,” he says, congenially enough, “May I introduce you to Mr. Marius Avery. He left two years above us. Ravenclaw.”
She curtsies low, in a style much more befitting of a fifteen year old than someone who will be celebrating her thirtieth much sooner than she’d care to admit. Unfortunately, she is not a married woman, and therefore she has to resort to the Maiden Bow taught to her by Madame Shafiq almost twenty years ago. “It is my pleasure, Mr. Avery.”
Apparently, she doesn’t look that much like a purple penguin, because Avery’s appraisal of her chest lasts a moment longer than any of them are comfortable with. “Yes,” he says, bringing his eyes back to her face, “A pleasure.” He looks across the room and adds, “I’m sure you and Thaddeus have plenty to catch up on. Do excuse me?”
He’s gone before she grants permission, which is fine. The sooner she can get this over with, the better. “What are you doing here, Amelia?” Nott asks her, dropping all formalities. She hates how comfortable she still feels around him, but it’s hard to be repulsed by someone who’s shagged you more times than you can count. She places her hand on his shoulder and fights a smirk off her face when he jumps.
“Is there somewhere we could talk?” she asks, looking around. She’s done this before. Seduced unsuspecting men into empty rooms so she can strip search them without any witnesses. This is the first time the man she’s trying to seduce has already had sex with her-and knows she’s a lesbian. “Somewhere,” she runs her hand down his arm, her nail scraping down the soft fabric of his summer dress robes. Like Madame Lestrange’s, the robes are long-sleeved. “Private?”
A part of her thinks she’s attracted to the fairer sex because they produce more of a challenge. Nott looks into her eyes and she forces herself to keep her gaze soft and inviting. As he deliberates, she places mental guards up, protecting her thoughts from nonverbal Occulemency, which she knows Nott has always been interested in. After twenty seconds longer than it has ever taken her to take a man to bed, Nott holds out his arm. “Andromeda won’t mind us using her bedroom.”
He leads the way to the middle Black daughter’s room with ease, and Amelia knows he’s doing this as some way to show that just because she’s left him doesn’t mean he’s turned impotent. They’re halfway down the hallway before Nott pushes her up against a wall. In all honesty, she’d been expecting as much.
“What are you doing here, Amelia?” he asks, using his arms to block her in, “I’ve come to every bloody one of these balls, waiting for you to show up. Why this one?”
“Mr. Malfoy has shown promise in the area of Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Amelia replies, looking Nott in the eye, “I came here with Auror Moody to ask if he would like to enter the Academy. Not enough Pureblood wizards choose my career path, as you know.”
“If you had married me, you wouldn’t have needed a career path,” even after eleven years, he still sounds broken up about it. “I would have given you the world.”
She lowers her eyes to the floor, trying to look repentant. When she is able to swallow down the cold retort and school her face into vulnerability, Amelia looks up at him through hooded eyes and tries to look disappointed. “I know,” she says, just above a whisper, “I know. But I was young, and foolish. I was so headstrong and ignorant of the world. I should have listened to you. You seem so well-established, so comfortable in these high circles.”
“You have no idea,” Nott tells her, lifting her chin with his thumb, “No idea the power I have now, the galleons and the prestige.” He leans close to her ear, and she forces herself not to shrink away from his hot breath against her bare neck. “I could have made you their queen, Amelia.”
She turns towards his mouth, ghosting the side of his cheek with her lips. “I want to come back, Thaddeus,” she tells him, her voice steady, “I want to come back to you.”
He turns and captures her lips, and she’s thankful that he’s shaved recently. It’s a bruising kiss, nothing like the ones she and Pomona share. Nott captures her lips in his own, refusing any reciprocity and simply taking control. She surrenders to him, making her mouth pliant and wrapping her arms around him. Hopefully, this won’t take long.
He wraps one hand into her hair while the other grabs her hips. It’s the same routine moves he’s been using for more than a decade, and she almost pities his wife. She moans at the right times and rolls her body enticingly, angling them more and more towards the empty bedroom at the end of the hall. His left hand is already clawing at her breast by the time she can kick the door shut with the heel of her four-inch court shoes.
The next thirty seconds work out as seamlessly as they always do. She twists out of his grip, her wand now in her hand and the tip pressed against Nott’s throat. “Turn around,” she tells him, her voice seductive instead of commanding. They used to play games like this in Hogwarts, maybe she can keep up the charade until he’s completely defenseless.
He turns, a salacious smirk on his face. She kicks his legs apart and uses a nonverbal Expelliarmus in order to slide his wand from its harness on his left leg and up into her hand. She pats him down manually, knowing that her wand could miss too much to be safe. He doesn’t realize he’s a pig on a skewer until she says, “Petrificus Totalus,” and his entire body stiffens.
She starts with his shoes. Once she’s removed the Aethonan leather shoes that probably cost him more than she makes in a year, she peels off his socks and moves her hands up his robes. There’s a gash on his left side, scabbed over but from the way the scab gives she’s pretty sure it’s less than a week old. She prods it, knowing he can feel the pain even if he can’t physically react. Satisfied that it’s a young wound, she moves her hands up his ribs, feeling two give right above the scab. She moves her hands back down and starts to pull the robes up over his head, careful not to move his arms. She knows they’ll break if forced to move too much. The fabric comes off carefully, and she takes off the under-robe as well. Unlike the three dozen other men she’s stripped-searched over the last six years, Nott has no reason to be embarrassed. She’s already seen this all before.
Except for this.
On Nott’s left arm, there’s a black tattoo that looks like it was sewn into his skin, rather than painted on using elaborate spellwork. The tattoo is black, blacker than even the kohl she used to line her eyes this evening. She traces it twice, trying to burn the image into her mind while also trying to unsee the intricate form.
“You have a skull eating a snake on your arm,” she says to Nott, her eyes not leaving the tattoo. “Are you aware of this?” she pokes it with the edge of her wand. “Were you drunk?” She traces it slowly. “Is it Muggle?” She tries a simple vanishing spell, one that erases Muggle ink. The tattoo burns red and the light is swallowed by the black of the skull.
“You’re under arrest, Thaddeus Nott,” she tells him, pulling out a Portkey to the station, “For the murder of Greg Rivers, Giuseppe Pallier, Scarlet Cleaver, and Kevin Flemming.”
He says nothing, even after she releases the body-bind.
:::
Scrimgeour and Moody do the interrogation. Moody has the patience for them and Scrimgeour can get inside someone’s head better than anyone Amelia’s every met. They spends six hours in the interrogation room, grilling Nott with everything they have and a few things they don’t. When Moody walks out of the room, asking for water and a cigarette, Amelia needs to know what went on in there.
“Voldemort,” her boss says, lighting the cigarette.
Amelia blinks twice, “Is that French?”
“I have no fookin clue,” he admits, breathing deeply, “I ain’t never heard of the son of a bitch. Apparently he’s big though.”
Amelia grabs her own cigarette from Moody’s proffered hand. “Who is he?”
“The leader of some new gang,” Moody says, “Has a thing against Muggle-borns and blood traitors. And blondes, from what Nott says. Don’ know what that ‘as to do with anythin’.”
“So what are we doing about it?” Amelia asks.
“Locking up Nott. Sendin it to the lawyers. What’re we s’pose to do about it, Ams? I don’t even have a picture of the guy.” He sounds annoyed, irritated. She conjures a glass of water and hands it to him.
The lights flicker, then, making the flat eerily dark. Amelia and Moody look at one another and pull their wands slowly. They turn, facing opposite directions. “On my count,” Moody whispers, his wand pointed at the interrogation room. “One, two,” he doesn’t get the chance to finish.
“Protego!” Rufus’ spells are always too loud, always a little over pronounced. He sounds confident, though, and Amelia doesn’t turn around while Moody storms the door. She knows someone has to watch their backs.
The duel is neither quick nor clean. Amelia can’t see anything from where she’s standing in the dark, but she can hear Moody and Scrimgeour holding their own. Then she hears Moody curse, and she knows that Scrimgeour has gone down. It sounds like more people are entering into the bedroom they were using to interrogate Nott, and Amelia really wants to know who destroyed their wards-wards Amelia herself had put up only an hour before.
She runs into the room, knowing that she’s more useful in the middle of the fight than she is protecting the flowerpots and the sofa cushions. She throws spells in a way that could be considered careless, but is actually more strategic than anyone else on the force. Each curse hits it target, each jinx is perfectly placed. She and Moody dance around each other, their feet in step, their spells the melody that sets the pace. They have danced this dance together a thousand times, and every time they have walked away victorious.
The final body crumples to the ground, and Amelia feels the magic thrum through her. Dueling is meditation for her. She lowers her wand and takes a deep breath in. As she exhales, she hears a voice in the corner.
“Auror Bones,” she hears the voice but can’t see a body. Instead, it’s omnipresent. “Auror Moody. Bravo.” The man who is speaking sounds neither patronizing nor impressed. “You have taken down some of my finest men.”
The man at her feet is dressed in a robe as black as Nott’s tattoo, with a mask hiding his face. She toes the mask with her boot. “Please do not do that, Auror Bones,” the man says, “My men rely on their anonymity.”
“Yer men are cowards, then,” Moody spits out, blood dribbling down from the side of his eye, “An’ yeh are too, if yeh won’ show yerself.”
A wave of fear catches Amelia off guard, whoever this disembodied voice may be, he’s got to be pretty terrifying if he can lead half a dozen men into the headquarters of two of the best Aurors in the Department. She looks around, her eyes scanning every inch of the room. “I have no qualms showing myself,” the voice answers. With a flourish, the far corner billows into swirling robes, and a man in a mask walks towards them. “My name is Lord Voldemort. I am here to speak with you about a Revolution.”
Amelia forces herself not to take a step back as he walks towards them. A Hufflepuff never abandons her friends, and that is what keeps her at Moody’s side, much more than any misplaced Gryffindor courage. “We have no interest in a Revolution that involves killing Muggle-borns.”
“The Revolution is not about killing anyone, Auror Bones,” the voice says from behind the mask. “These Muggle-borns, as you call them, are stealing the magic of true wizards. We are ruining our bloodlines through intermarriage. In another century, which is within your life time, magic will be so depleted that we will be able to close the doors of Hogwarts forever. Why allow Muggles and those with impure blood to suck us dry when we could use them to build an Empire and save wizarding kind?”
Amelia looks at Moody out of the corner of her eye, begging him not to laugh. “I’m a halfblood,” Moody tells him, instead of laughing, “Bones has got Muggle blood in her too. So I think you’ve come to the wrong people?”
“What’s passed is past,” the man says, “The Revolution is about the future.” He pauses, removes the mask. Beneath it, there is a handsome man who looks less than fifty. He black eyes bore into Amelia’s when he says, “I could make you both very powerful.” He turns to Moody, “I could make you a god,” he tells the older Auror. Then he turns to Amelia, “I could make you a queen.”
“Does that line actually work?” Amelia asks, before she can bite her tongue. Steeling herself, she continues, “I mean, you’re the second person to offer me a throne in less than a day. Do I look like the type of bird who would look good in a crown?”
Her false bravado is all that Moody needs, “We’re passin on yer offer,” he says, pointing his wand at Voldemort, “But we’re takin you in fer murder.”
Moody’s quick, but for the first time since Amelia started working for him, he isn’t quick enough. “I understand,” Voldemort says. His robes billow around them, the darkness creeps at her feet. She is so entranced by the exit that she doesn’t realize all six of the people they’ve just disarmed have now disappeared. From the corner, the voice tells them, “I will have you both,” they both point their wands at the origin, but there is nothing to shoot at.
Amelia takes a deep breath and tries to stop her hands from shaking. She looks at Moody, “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know,” Moody answers, “But Crouch is goin’ the have our arses fer losing the attacker.”
Amelia sinks to the ground, thinking about the Revolution. “Moody,” she tells him, “I think that’s going to be the least of our problems.”
:::
Crouch lectures them for an hour. It’s long and painful and makes Amelia question why the hell she didn’t decide to become a high society housewife. Then he dismisses Moody, looks Amelia in the eye, and says, “I’m making you lead on this case,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I need to know everything and anything about this Lord Voldemort. His likes, his dislikes, where he lives, who he shags.” He pauses and looks at her, “His bloody name, for the love of Salazar.”
Amelia nods. “Is that all, sir?”
He dismisses her with a wave of his hand. She leaves through the back door and finds Moody leaning up against the wall, smoking a cigarette and staring off into nothing. “He gave you lead, din’ he?”
Amelia wants to know how Moody figured that out before she did, “Yeah.”
“Excitin,” Moody allows, stubbing out the cigarette, “You ready?”
Amelia’s already thinking about how she’s going to gather information. She’ll have to infiltrate more of those bloody balls; have Podmore secure more information from Hogwarts; talk to Pomona about taking vacation in the winter instead of now; convince Robards that spending hours upon hours pouring over bloodlines and family history isn’t a waste of his time and-
-Pomona. Shite.
“I can’t,” Amelia tells Moody, hugging him quickly and then walking in the opposite direction. “I have to go find Pomona.”
Moody looks at her like she’s lost her mind. Scrimgeour, Robards, and Podmore are already at the pub, waiting for them to arrive. They always go out the night after a case is finished, but as the case isn’t finished, Amelia thinks she deserves some leeway. He stares at her for a moment, and then finds words. “What? Why?”
Amelia looks at him, smiles brightly, and then winces at the pain caused by her fresh cut on her lip. She thinks about the ring in her desk at home, of Pomona’s smile, and of the hell she’s sure the next few weeks are going to turn out to be. She takes a deep breath and says, “I have a question to ask her.”
While Moody laughs, she walks away, pretending that the sound of his barking laughter isn’t the one thing she needed to hear to know that everything is going to turn out all right. Crazed Muggle-born killer be damned.