Slowly Sharpen, Gently Fade (2/?)
Title: Slowly Sharpen, Gently Fade (2/?)
Author: jadeddiva
Rating: PG-13
Summary:There are those who follow the Ministry, and those who find their allegiance lies a bit closer to their department. Tonks isn’t comfortable with picking a side - she’s such a Hufflepuff - but she knows that day will come, and until then, she will do nothing but wait. Tonks involvement with the Order of the Phoenix. Post-GoF through OotP
Author’s Note: Much love to my brilliant beta joely_jo, who is a fantastic Brit-picker and an all-around wonderful person :)
( One)
When the Aurors go out for drinks after work, they talk about the previous war. Some, like Moody (who comes and goes as he pleases) have vivid stories of fighting Death Eaters. Others were in Hogwarts when it all happened. All seem to remember the constant state of fear the Wizarding World lived under, and attending the funerals of their fellow Aurors.
Tonks doesn’t remember a lot of this: she was seven when the war ended, and she wasn’t even in the country. It’s taken her years to piece together exactly why they left Britain, but from what she’s learned, her mother was afraid that the Death Eaters and her mother’s sister, Bellatrix Lestrange, would come after them because her father is Muggle-born and, well, she’s not exactly normal now is she? They went to America, and stayed there for a month, traveling the country in Muggle cars and driving on the wrong side of the road. She remembers little from the trip except eating a lot of chips that weren’t called chips and having to make sure she didn’t change how she looked around the Muggles. But she does remember her mother crying tears of joy when they stopped in a wizarding community in the South and there was a newspaper telling of You-Know-Who’s downfall.
Of course, that newspaper was followed up with news coverage of the capture of Sirius Black, for aiding and abetting the Dark Lord as he sought to kill the Potters. And, not to be forgotten, the imprisonment of both Black and then Bellatrix Lestrange in Azkaban.
But, needless to say, she doesn’t talk much about the first war.
…
“Think I’m about due for a holiday,” she says out loud one day. Quincy snickers beside her.
“Really now?” he asks with a grin.
“It’s just,” she starts, then stops. “I’m tired,” she finally admits, “so bloody tired all the time. And overworked. And I know I’ve got loads of days saved up.”
“That might be true,” Quincy says, “but they’d never let you go.”
It’s true, and she knows it, and she settles back down to her paper work with an overly-dramatic sigh that fits the occasion perfectly.
Within five minutes, however, paperwork must be abandoned; it’s time for the weekly debriefing, and all the Aurors in the office file into a small amphitheatre, waiting for those in the field to return. She sits at the end of a row, next to Quincy who, she notices, looks very, very tired as well. Rowenna Proudfoot is next to him, and babbling about some petty thief she caught selling diseased frogs to an older witch in Diagon Alley -
“Hey,” Tonks says, leaning over. “Was his name Fletcher?”
Proudfoot’s brown eyes go wide. “Yeah, it was.”
“Caught him during the Cannons came, filching gold from distracted wizards,” Tonks says. Proudfoot smiles in understanding.
“Everyone else had skived off to watch the game so I had to wait until someone paid his bail,” she continues, “and a werewolf came to collect him.” She’s not sure why she throws that part in, but she does, earning an eye-roll from Quincy.
“Petty thieves and werewolves,” he says. “Of course they’d be together.”
“I’ve never actually met a werewolf before,” Tonks points out. “He seemed really sad.”
“Of course he would be, with all the restrictions the Ministry has on them,” Proudfoot points out.
“For good reason, though,” Quincy adds as an afterthought. Proudfoot shrugs.
“Maybe,” Tonks says. She knows that werewolves are classified as Dark Creatures, and that, like every other Dark Creature, restrictions are heaped upon them by the Ministry which limits their employment opportunities as well as accessibility to social services. But she’s never really thought hard about werewolves, especially since she’s got her own regulations and registration, being what she is.
Scrimgeour clears his throat to start the debriefing, and she notices there’s a little toad-faced woman sitting on a high stool in a corner of the room. She recognizes her as a high Ministry official, and realizes this is not an ordinary debriefing, but something very different.
Her name is Dolores Umbridge, and she is Senior Undersecretary. She looks so smug and self-satisfied, and the reason is obvious: Auror debriefings rarely feature senior-level officials other than the Minister, and this is quite the coup.
The meeting begins like normal, with Shacklebolt’s latest news on the whereabouts of Notorious Murderer Sirius Black, which Tonks already knows about because she helped with the paperwork. Then Senior Aurors present their findings, from information about the Muggle InterNet (also her work) and apparent rumblings about giants. Just as the meeting draws to a close, Umbridge clears her throat.
“If I may,” she says, and Tonks suddenly feels apprehensive about what will happen. Scrimgeour nods, though he doesn’t look happy about it.
“I am so very happy to be here today, and to see the wonderful work that the Auror Department is undertaking. The safety of the Wizarding World has long rested on your shoulders, and your dedication to the Ministry has been very much appreciated.” Her pause is dramatic, and with a sigh she continues,
“There has been much discussion lately of certain dark wizards and dark magic. As Aurors, the Ministry is confident that you will continue to perform your duties with a dedication to professionalism. The Minister for Magic’s stance in these tumultuous times is to maintain a steady course of action with no deviations. And we are confident that the Auror Department will continue to support the Ministry.”
Her smile is chilling, and Tonks skin crawls.
Quincy leans over. “I need a fuckin’ drink.”
“Oi,” Proudfoot elbows him, “me too, after that.”
When Tonks stumbles home that night, mildly intoxicated, she trips over a pair of trainers she left by the door and right into a potted Ray of Sunshine plant she’d been tending so carefully over the last four months. She piles the dirt into a small hillock in the green valley of her shag carpet, and heads to the bookshelf where, shoved between a copy of Which Witch?: A Forty-Year Retrospective of Notable Witches and Quick and Easy Cleaning Spells is a large (and slightly dusty) book. She knows her notes from Auror Training should be in a more prominent and easily-accessible position but, sod it, she doesn’t care right now. She pages through her handbook, past illustrated pictures on the proper way to arrest and detain a suspect, all the way to the back.
There, she finds it: a subsection entitled “Ministry Standards on Dark Creatures and Other Magical Beings.” Herein lies all the Ministry legislature, automatically updated (the reason this book cost a small fortune…) and laying out in complicated language that she can barely understand sober, the rules for Dark Creatures such as vampires, banshees, and werewolves. She stops for a moment to read the subheading (“Dark Creatures are often categorized by their violence and bloodlust -”) but skips past that, to the very back of the section.
There, under “Other Magical Creatures” is a section entitled “Metamorphmagi and Other Shape-Shifters.” She’s read this so many times, especially after she started Auror training but sometimes after commissioning, when she received a dark look and a long glance from a coworker.
The Ministry Standards on Metamorphmagi are as follows: they are rare, and can only be born, and while their gift is indeed valuable to the Magical Community, they must be registered like Animagi. It goes on some more in vague terms about possible threats but how there is nothing, as of now, about the danger they pose to the greater wizarding community. In retrospect, despite the fogginess of the drink, she supposes she should be grateful that she was not called into questioning today, though she almost suspects it in the future. The way things are going, no one will be trusted, let alone a Junior Auror Metamorphmagus with Death Eaters and pureblood freaks dangling off her family tree.
She closes the book and leans her head against the wall, feeling as if all of this is spinning down the drain.
…
Of course, she doesn’t go out with the Aurors all the time: she’s still assigned to Shacklebolt, and she’s working with her regular partners on detail at least once a week. Her desk is piled high with paperwork she’s never sure she’ll finish and she barely manages lunch, let alone breaks. She goes home and has a stiff drink, to cleanse herself from the propaganda, the non-stop litany of offenses against Dumbledore and Harry Potter. She wakes up in the night breathless and scared because of dreams, dreams with faces she’s never met but which glare at her from the pages of history books and wanted posters.
There is a deep uneasiness that seems to fill every pore of her body, a malcontent that makes her unsteady. She’s not sure she understands what’s going on anymore, between the murmurings at work of changes in the laws and the lies that are coming from the mouths of those above her (she tries not to think of them as lies but she doesn’t believe anything anymore and that’s what makes it so difficult).
On Sunday, she goes to her parents for lunch. She pushes the food around her plate and when her mother asks her if she’s been feeling ill lately, she shrugs.
“Did you ever think, just for a moment, that Sirius was innocent?” she asks. She hears rather than sees her mother’s fork fall on her plate with a loud clatter that seems to ring in her ears.
“At first,” Andromeda Tonks says after a lengthy pause, “but I try not to think about it anymore.” She picks up her fork and pushes a potato across the plate. “It hurts too much to think.”
…
She’s working late one night - more paper work (it’s always paper work) when Shacklebolt stops by her cubicle.
“Thanks for the latest update, Tonks,” he says, holding up the latest list of locations of Sirius that she’s given him.
“Ta,” she says, glancing up briefly.
“Look,” he says, pulling Quincy’s empty chair towards her desk (stupid git’s on a stakeout, the lucky bastard) and says, “Moody wants to see me about this Black thing. Tonight. His house. He wants me to bring you.”
“His house. The house that Mad-Eye Moody built?” she asks with a laugh, shocked at this invitation.
“Tonks,” Shacklebolt says, “just - please.”
She puts her quill down. This must be important, and she feels foolish enough to trust both Shacklebolt and Moody. That doesn’t stop the obvious thoughts - what if they’re Polyjuiced Dark Wizards out to kidnap and kill her? What if they’re Ministry moles, planted to see if she doubts? What if what if what if?
“All right,” she says without much deliberation.
“Great,” Shacklebolt says with a smile. “Now, you need to meet me outside the Leaky in fifteen minutes. We’ll catch up.” He stands, and she realizes he’s trying to play it safe. Whatever trap he might be trying to lure her in…
Curiousity killed the cat. “Right. Fifteen.”
And in fifteen minutes she’s outside the Leaky, watching as Kinglsey Shacklebolt slinks out of the shadows and nods at her.
“Can you change your hair a bit?’ he asks. “I don’t want people to know we’re together.”
She nods, and turns it mousy brown, at the same time lengthening her nose. Shacklebolts smiles.
“Well done.”
The House that Mad-Eye built is a lopsided creation on a Muggle street. They can’t draw too close, Shacklebolt tells her, because the charms detect magic (their wands) and so they must signal Moody so he can disarm them.
Shacklebolt takes out his wand and, with a wave, sends a small cat-like Patronus towards Moody’s house.
“Nice,” she says. “What animal is it?”
“A lynx,” he responds.
“Mine’s a turtle. I feel sort of stupid about it, but it’s one of those massive sea turtles so it’s got wicked flippers and a scary-looking beak,” she says in a rush, but the smile on her face relieves her fears about the inadequacy of her Patronus.
Fairly quickly, a silvery Mastiff comes down the street towards them. She recognizes it as Moody’s, and Shacklebolt nods.
Moody ushers them in quickly, recasting security charms before he closes the door. She’s not surprised that his house smells like dusty parchment, and that said dusty parchment occupies most of the floor and the bookcases on the wall, and that a great majority are not books but copies of The Daily Prophet and old Auror Department newsletters. There are photographs of a younger (and still grumpy) Moody lining the narrow hallway to the kitchen, photos with him being presented medals because of his deeds and there, at the end, a group shot with some people, one of which looks vaguely familiar -
“Mad-Eye,” she says, “why do you have a photo of yourself and Sirius Black?”
Moody, who has been busying himself at the stove, returns to the hallway.
“That, Nymphadora, is the Order of the Phoenix,” he tells her. “Dumbledore founded it to fight You-Know-Who.” His eyes linger on the photo, and she wonders if he’ll take it down but instead he turns away. “Black was a member, at one time. That’s James Potter he’s standing beside.”
“Oh,” she says, turning away and entering the kitchen. “I never heard of the Order of the Phoenix before.”
“Of course you’ve never heard of it,” Moody replies. “It was a secret society.”
“Oh,” she says. She takes a seat at the rickety wooden table, and soon a glass of firewhiskey is in front of her.
“Cheers,” she says, picking it up as Moody and Shacklebolt sit down.
There is small talk at first, with Shacklebolt telling Moody about Umbridge’s appearance at the department meeting, and Moody uttering some choice curse words in response.
“Ridiculous,” Moody says, draining his glass. “That Fudge continues to ignore the evidence is completely ridiculous.”
“You know how much Fudge dislikes Dumbledore,” Shacklebolt points out. “Fudge is afraid that Dumbledore’s right, and he’s been bribed for years into thinking men like Lucius Malfoy can be trusted.”
She listens to the discussion without any real input. She’s often thought the Ministry’s stance on former Death Eaters has been too lenient, especially since no one found You-Know-Who’s body, but hasn’t dared criticize it because she considered that the consensus opinion - at least in the Auror Department.
Moody turns to her, and studies her carefully.
“Nymphadora,” Moody says, leaning across the table, “where do you stand on all of this?”
“All of what?” she asks, uncertain what he’s talking about.
“The Ministry’s present position of denying You-Know-Who’s return,” Moody says.
“And the presumed innocence of Sirius Black,” Shaklebolt adds.
“Where do your allegiances lie?” Moody asks. She shrugs.
“I’m not sure how I feel,” she admits uneasily. “I do what the Department tells me to because that’s my job - ”
“But you’ve wondered if maybe things aren’t as they seem? That perhaps Dumbledore is right?” Moody presses on. She remembers that Dumbledore and Moody are close and wonders if that has anything to do with this.
“Well, yeah,” she says. “Of course I believe Dumbledore over Fudge.” She covers her mouth with her hands, like she said the wrong thing, but Moody just smiles.
“Nymphadora,” he says, leaning towards her.
“Am I in trouble? Oh god, did you slip Veritaserum in my drink? Are you going to turn me in?” she asks, suddenly very frightened. She can imagine the smile on that little troll Umbridge’s face when she sees that Metamorphmagus and fallen branch of the House of Black brought to justice, and -
“Tonks.” That’s Shacklebolt’s hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her down. “We’re not going to turn you in.”
“Then what are you going to do?” she asks, sinking back into her chair.
“Do you trust us?” Moody asks. Of course she trusts Moody, and Shacklebolt is a career Auror, and she very much doubts he would risk his job.
She nods.
“Good.” Moody pushes back from the table, grabs his walking stick, and heads for the door. “Tomorrow night. Meet here at seven o’clock.”
“What if I have to work late?” she asks, realizing this is the cue to leave.
“You won’t,” Shacklebolt says. “I’ll see to that.”
“Okay,” she says, putting her jacket on.
She is a fully-trained and fully-qualified Auror. Nothing should frighten her. Nothing but whatever scheme Moody has concocted.
On the way back from his house, she tries to ask Shacklebolt what’s going on.
“That’s Moody’s business,” he says.
“So, you don’t know what Moody wants with me, or what’s going on tomorrow night?”
“No,” he says, “I know. I just can’t tell you because it’s Moody’s business.”
She stops walking. “Why me?”
He smiles. “Moody’s got faith in you - when the time comes, you’ll do the right thing.”
She rolls her eyes.
Shacklebolt asks her to step in for a drink at the Leaky, but she turns his offer down, as she needs to process this new information. When she arrives home, she makes herself some tea and sits down. It’s all almost too much to process: a secret society - founded by Dumbledore - where Moody and Sirius Black fought side by side (assuming Black is innocent, which is another issue itself); Moody and Shacklebolt in apparent accord (not really that surprising, though); the possibility that the Ministry has concocted this plan to catch her and try her for treason and sedition.
She snorts into her tea. She’s seen the upper echelons of the Ministry, and very much doubts that they would be able to come up with a secret society, let alone speak the name Sirius Black without a sneer. But really, she trusts them, because Merlin knows the last time that Moody actually went along with someone else’ plans was the last time she was off duty, and it’s gotten so she can’t even remember that far back.
…
“Bloody cold for July,” she says, and Moody hits her shin with his walking stick. “Oi!”
“Quiet,” he says. “Watch for the Muggles - and stop rolling your eyes, Nymphadora!”
“I hate to tell you this,” Shacklebolt says, “but three wizards in robes would be far less suspicious than talking shrubbery.”
She can’t help but laugh then, and stumbles out from behind the bush which Moody carefully chose as a hiding place. They’re in a grassy square near somewhere in London (where, exactly, Moody refuses to tell her, believing Side-Along Apparation not at all degrading for a fully-trained Auror). With a quick look around, Moody checks to make sure there are no Muggles in sight, and surprisingly, the streets around the square are clear.
“Come on,” he says, hobbling off across the pavement, Tonks and Shacklebolt behind him. He stops in front of a row of houses.
“Which is it?” she asks.
Moody hands her a piece of parchment. “Read it to yourself,” he tells her. “Don’t say anything out loud.”
She nods, unfolding it. There is a phrase, written very clearly on the bit of parchment.
The Headquarter of the Order of the Phoenix is located at Number 12, Grimmauld Place.
And suddenly, the earth shakes. Bricks realign as a new home appears, windows and trim and everything. The noise is so loud that she looks around them, hoping no Muggle has heard.
“Unplottable,” Moody says. “With a Fidelius charm. Only apparent to those who know what they’re looking for.”
“Oh,” is all she can say. The noise has subsided, and Moody starts up the stairs. He touches his want to the doorknob, and after a few mechanical noises, the door swings open.
“Keep silent,” he says. “Follow me. Watch your step.”
She rolls her eyes again, but finds he’s right - it’s very dark in the hallway, and Moody’s walking very slow, as if to avoid detection. Adrenaline rushes through her as she considers the possibility that this is a raid on Death Eaters or some other fool plan that only Moody in his paranoia could concoct. Hand on her wand, wand at the ready, she follows him into the hallway, almost tripping but immediately thankful that Shacklebolt catches her. Then, down the stairs, and into - a brightly-lit kitchen full of people.
There is a red-haired woman she recognizes immediately as Mrs. Weasley, Bill and Charlie’s mother. Bill is also there, as is a red-headed man who must be his father. McGonagall and - Snape? - are also there, along with some chubby dark-haired witch and the man who came to bail out the petty thief the night of the Cannons match.
“Kingsley Shacklebolt you already know,” Moody says, “and this is Nymphadora Tonks.”
“Wotcher,” she says quietly.
Author: jadeddiva
Rating: PG-13
Summary:There are those who follow the Ministry, and those who find their allegiance lies a bit closer to their department. Tonks isn’t comfortable with picking a side - she’s such a Hufflepuff - but she knows that day will come, and until then, she will do nothing but wait. Tonks involvement with the Order of the Phoenix. Post-GoF through OotP
Author’s Note: Much love to my brilliant beta joely_jo, who is a fantastic Brit-picker and an all-around wonderful person :)
( One)
When the Aurors go out for drinks after work, they talk about the previous war. Some, like Moody (who comes and goes as he pleases) have vivid stories of fighting Death Eaters. Others were in Hogwarts when it all happened. All seem to remember the constant state of fear the Wizarding World lived under, and attending the funerals of their fellow Aurors.
Tonks doesn’t remember a lot of this: she was seven when the war ended, and she wasn’t even in the country. It’s taken her years to piece together exactly why they left Britain, but from what she’s learned, her mother was afraid that the Death Eaters and her mother’s sister, Bellatrix Lestrange, would come after them because her father is Muggle-born and, well, she’s not exactly normal now is she? They went to America, and stayed there for a month, traveling the country in Muggle cars and driving on the wrong side of the road. She remembers little from the trip except eating a lot of chips that weren’t called chips and having to make sure she didn’t change how she looked around the Muggles. But she does remember her mother crying tears of joy when they stopped in a wizarding community in the South and there was a newspaper telling of You-Know-Who’s downfall.
Of course, that newspaper was followed up with news coverage of the capture of Sirius Black, for aiding and abetting the Dark Lord as he sought to kill the Potters. And, not to be forgotten, the imprisonment of both Black and then Bellatrix Lestrange in Azkaban.
But, needless to say, she doesn’t talk much about the first war.
…
“Think I’m about due for a holiday,” she says out loud one day. Quincy snickers beside her.
“Really now?” he asks with a grin.
“It’s just,” she starts, then stops. “I’m tired,” she finally admits, “so bloody tired all the time. And overworked. And I know I’ve got loads of days saved up.”
“That might be true,” Quincy says, “but they’d never let you go.”
It’s true, and she knows it, and she settles back down to her paper work with an overly-dramatic sigh that fits the occasion perfectly.
Within five minutes, however, paperwork must be abandoned; it’s time for the weekly debriefing, and all the Aurors in the office file into a small amphitheatre, waiting for those in the field to return. She sits at the end of a row, next to Quincy who, she notices, looks very, very tired as well. Rowenna Proudfoot is next to him, and babbling about some petty thief she caught selling diseased frogs to an older witch in Diagon Alley -
“Hey,” Tonks says, leaning over. “Was his name Fletcher?”
Proudfoot’s brown eyes go wide. “Yeah, it was.”
“Caught him during the Cannons came, filching gold from distracted wizards,” Tonks says. Proudfoot smiles in understanding.
“Everyone else had skived off to watch the game so I had to wait until someone paid his bail,” she continues, “and a werewolf came to collect him.” She’s not sure why she throws that part in, but she does, earning an eye-roll from Quincy.
“Petty thieves and werewolves,” he says. “Of course they’d be together.”
“I’ve never actually met a werewolf before,” Tonks points out. “He seemed really sad.”
“Of course he would be, with all the restrictions the Ministry has on them,” Proudfoot points out.
“For good reason, though,” Quincy adds as an afterthought. Proudfoot shrugs.
“Maybe,” Tonks says. She knows that werewolves are classified as Dark Creatures, and that, like every other Dark Creature, restrictions are heaped upon them by the Ministry which limits their employment opportunities as well as accessibility to social services. But she’s never really thought hard about werewolves, especially since she’s got her own regulations and registration, being what she is.
Scrimgeour clears his throat to start the debriefing, and she notices there’s a little toad-faced woman sitting on a high stool in a corner of the room. She recognizes her as a high Ministry official, and realizes this is not an ordinary debriefing, but something very different.
Her name is Dolores Umbridge, and she is Senior Undersecretary. She looks so smug and self-satisfied, and the reason is obvious: Auror debriefings rarely feature senior-level officials other than the Minister, and this is quite the coup.
The meeting begins like normal, with Shacklebolt’s latest news on the whereabouts of Notorious Murderer Sirius Black, which Tonks already knows about because she helped with the paperwork. Then Senior Aurors present their findings, from information about the Muggle InterNet (also her work) and apparent rumblings about giants. Just as the meeting draws to a close, Umbridge clears her throat.
“If I may,” she says, and Tonks suddenly feels apprehensive about what will happen. Scrimgeour nods, though he doesn’t look happy about it.
“I am so very happy to be here today, and to see the wonderful work that the Auror Department is undertaking. The safety of the Wizarding World has long rested on your shoulders, and your dedication to the Ministry has been very much appreciated.” Her pause is dramatic, and with a sigh she continues,
“There has been much discussion lately of certain dark wizards and dark magic. As Aurors, the Ministry is confident that you will continue to perform your duties with a dedication to professionalism. The Minister for Magic’s stance in these tumultuous times is to maintain a steady course of action with no deviations. And we are confident that the Auror Department will continue to support the Ministry.”
Her smile is chilling, and Tonks skin crawls.
Quincy leans over. “I need a fuckin’ drink.”
“Oi,” Proudfoot elbows him, “me too, after that.”
When Tonks stumbles home that night, mildly intoxicated, she trips over a pair of trainers she left by the door and right into a potted Ray of Sunshine plant she’d been tending so carefully over the last four months. She piles the dirt into a small hillock in the green valley of her shag carpet, and heads to the bookshelf where, shoved between a copy of Which Witch?: A Forty-Year Retrospective of Notable Witches and Quick and Easy Cleaning Spells is a large (and slightly dusty) book. She knows her notes from Auror Training should be in a more prominent and easily-accessible position but, sod it, she doesn’t care right now. She pages through her handbook, past illustrated pictures on the proper way to arrest and detain a suspect, all the way to the back.
There, she finds it: a subsection entitled “Ministry Standards on Dark Creatures and Other Magical Beings.” Herein lies all the Ministry legislature, automatically updated (the reason this book cost a small fortune…) and laying out in complicated language that she can barely understand sober, the rules for Dark Creatures such as vampires, banshees, and werewolves. She stops for a moment to read the subheading (“Dark Creatures are often categorized by their violence and bloodlust -”) but skips past that, to the very back of the section.
There, under “Other Magical Creatures” is a section entitled “Metamorphmagi and Other Shape-Shifters.” She’s read this so many times, especially after she started Auror training but sometimes after commissioning, when she received a dark look and a long glance from a coworker.
The Ministry Standards on Metamorphmagi are as follows: they are rare, and can only be born, and while their gift is indeed valuable to the Magical Community, they must be registered like Animagi. It goes on some more in vague terms about possible threats but how there is nothing, as of now, about the danger they pose to the greater wizarding community. In retrospect, despite the fogginess of the drink, she supposes she should be grateful that she was not called into questioning today, though she almost suspects it in the future. The way things are going, no one will be trusted, let alone a Junior Auror Metamorphmagus with Death Eaters and pureblood freaks dangling off her family tree.
She closes the book and leans her head against the wall, feeling as if all of this is spinning down the drain.
…
Of course, she doesn’t go out with the Aurors all the time: she’s still assigned to Shacklebolt, and she’s working with her regular partners on detail at least once a week. Her desk is piled high with paperwork she’s never sure she’ll finish and she barely manages lunch, let alone breaks. She goes home and has a stiff drink, to cleanse herself from the propaganda, the non-stop litany of offenses against Dumbledore and Harry Potter. She wakes up in the night breathless and scared because of dreams, dreams with faces she’s never met but which glare at her from the pages of history books and wanted posters.
There is a deep uneasiness that seems to fill every pore of her body, a malcontent that makes her unsteady. She’s not sure she understands what’s going on anymore, between the murmurings at work of changes in the laws and the lies that are coming from the mouths of those above her (she tries not to think of them as lies but she doesn’t believe anything anymore and that’s what makes it so difficult).
On Sunday, she goes to her parents for lunch. She pushes the food around her plate and when her mother asks her if she’s been feeling ill lately, she shrugs.
“Did you ever think, just for a moment, that Sirius was innocent?” she asks. She hears rather than sees her mother’s fork fall on her plate with a loud clatter that seems to ring in her ears.
“At first,” Andromeda Tonks says after a lengthy pause, “but I try not to think about it anymore.” She picks up her fork and pushes a potato across the plate. “It hurts too much to think.”
…
She’s working late one night - more paper work (it’s always paper work) when Shacklebolt stops by her cubicle.
“Thanks for the latest update, Tonks,” he says, holding up the latest list of locations of Sirius that she’s given him.
“Ta,” she says, glancing up briefly.
“Look,” he says, pulling Quincy’s empty chair towards her desk (stupid git’s on a stakeout, the lucky bastard) and says, “Moody wants to see me about this Black thing. Tonight. His house. He wants me to bring you.”
“His house. The house that Mad-Eye Moody built?” she asks with a laugh, shocked at this invitation.
“Tonks,” Shacklebolt says, “just - please.”
She puts her quill down. This must be important, and she feels foolish enough to trust both Shacklebolt and Moody. That doesn’t stop the obvious thoughts - what if they’re Polyjuiced Dark Wizards out to kidnap and kill her? What if they’re Ministry moles, planted to see if she doubts? What if what if what if?
“All right,” she says without much deliberation.
“Great,” Shacklebolt says with a smile. “Now, you need to meet me outside the Leaky in fifteen minutes. We’ll catch up.” He stands, and she realizes he’s trying to play it safe. Whatever trap he might be trying to lure her in…
Curiousity killed the cat. “Right. Fifteen.”
And in fifteen minutes she’s outside the Leaky, watching as Kinglsey Shacklebolt slinks out of the shadows and nods at her.
“Can you change your hair a bit?’ he asks. “I don’t want people to know we’re together.”
She nods, and turns it mousy brown, at the same time lengthening her nose. Shacklebolts smiles.
“Well done.”
The House that Mad-Eye built is a lopsided creation on a Muggle street. They can’t draw too close, Shacklebolt tells her, because the charms detect magic (their wands) and so they must signal Moody so he can disarm them.
Shacklebolt takes out his wand and, with a wave, sends a small cat-like Patronus towards Moody’s house.
“Nice,” she says. “What animal is it?”
“A lynx,” he responds.
“Mine’s a turtle. I feel sort of stupid about it, but it’s one of those massive sea turtles so it’s got wicked flippers and a scary-looking beak,” she says in a rush, but the smile on her face relieves her fears about the inadequacy of her Patronus.
Fairly quickly, a silvery Mastiff comes down the street towards them. She recognizes it as Moody’s, and Shacklebolt nods.
Moody ushers them in quickly, recasting security charms before he closes the door. She’s not surprised that his house smells like dusty parchment, and that said dusty parchment occupies most of the floor and the bookcases on the wall, and that a great majority are not books but copies of The Daily Prophet and old Auror Department newsletters. There are photographs of a younger (and still grumpy) Moody lining the narrow hallway to the kitchen, photos with him being presented medals because of his deeds and there, at the end, a group shot with some people, one of which looks vaguely familiar -
“Mad-Eye,” she says, “why do you have a photo of yourself and Sirius Black?”
Moody, who has been busying himself at the stove, returns to the hallway.
“That, Nymphadora, is the Order of the Phoenix,” he tells her. “Dumbledore founded it to fight You-Know-Who.” His eyes linger on the photo, and she wonders if he’ll take it down but instead he turns away. “Black was a member, at one time. That’s James Potter he’s standing beside.”
“Oh,” she says, turning away and entering the kitchen. “I never heard of the Order of the Phoenix before.”
“Of course you’ve never heard of it,” Moody replies. “It was a secret society.”
“Oh,” she says. She takes a seat at the rickety wooden table, and soon a glass of firewhiskey is in front of her.
“Cheers,” she says, picking it up as Moody and Shacklebolt sit down.
There is small talk at first, with Shacklebolt telling Moody about Umbridge’s appearance at the department meeting, and Moody uttering some choice curse words in response.
“Ridiculous,” Moody says, draining his glass. “That Fudge continues to ignore the evidence is completely ridiculous.”
“You know how much Fudge dislikes Dumbledore,” Shacklebolt points out. “Fudge is afraid that Dumbledore’s right, and he’s been bribed for years into thinking men like Lucius Malfoy can be trusted.”
She listens to the discussion without any real input. She’s often thought the Ministry’s stance on former Death Eaters has been too lenient, especially since no one found You-Know-Who’s body, but hasn’t dared criticize it because she considered that the consensus opinion - at least in the Auror Department.
Moody turns to her, and studies her carefully.
“Nymphadora,” Moody says, leaning across the table, “where do you stand on all of this?”
“All of what?” she asks, uncertain what he’s talking about.
“The Ministry’s present position of denying You-Know-Who’s return,” Moody says.
“And the presumed innocence of Sirius Black,” Shaklebolt adds.
“Where do your allegiances lie?” Moody asks. She shrugs.
“I’m not sure how I feel,” she admits uneasily. “I do what the Department tells me to because that’s my job - ”
“But you’ve wondered if maybe things aren’t as they seem? That perhaps Dumbledore is right?” Moody presses on. She remembers that Dumbledore and Moody are close and wonders if that has anything to do with this.
“Well, yeah,” she says. “Of course I believe Dumbledore over Fudge.” She covers her mouth with her hands, like she said the wrong thing, but Moody just smiles.
“Nymphadora,” he says, leaning towards her.
“Am I in trouble? Oh god, did you slip Veritaserum in my drink? Are you going to turn me in?” she asks, suddenly very frightened. She can imagine the smile on that little troll Umbridge’s face when she sees that Metamorphmagus and fallen branch of the House of Black brought to justice, and -
“Tonks.” That’s Shacklebolt’s hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her down. “We’re not going to turn you in.”
“Then what are you going to do?” she asks, sinking back into her chair.
“Do you trust us?” Moody asks. Of course she trusts Moody, and Shacklebolt is a career Auror, and she very much doubts he would risk his job.
She nods.
“Good.” Moody pushes back from the table, grabs his walking stick, and heads for the door. “Tomorrow night. Meet here at seven o’clock.”
“What if I have to work late?” she asks, realizing this is the cue to leave.
“You won’t,” Shacklebolt says. “I’ll see to that.”
“Okay,” she says, putting her jacket on.
She is a fully-trained and fully-qualified Auror. Nothing should frighten her. Nothing but whatever scheme Moody has concocted.
On the way back from his house, she tries to ask Shacklebolt what’s going on.
“That’s Moody’s business,” he says.
“So, you don’t know what Moody wants with me, or what’s going on tomorrow night?”
“No,” he says, “I know. I just can’t tell you because it’s Moody’s business.”
She stops walking. “Why me?”
He smiles. “Moody’s got faith in you - when the time comes, you’ll do the right thing.”
She rolls her eyes.
Shacklebolt asks her to step in for a drink at the Leaky, but she turns his offer down, as she needs to process this new information. When she arrives home, she makes herself some tea and sits down. It’s all almost too much to process: a secret society - founded by Dumbledore - where Moody and Sirius Black fought side by side (assuming Black is innocent, which is another issue itself); Moody and Shacklebolt in apparent accord (not really that surprising, though); the possibility that the Ministry has concocted this plan to catch her and try her for treason and sedition.
She snorts into her tea. She’s seen the upper echelons of the Ministry, and very much doubts that they would be able to come up with a secret society, let alone speak the name Sirius Black without a sneer. But really, she trusts them, because Merlin knows the last time that Moody actually went along with someone else’ plans was the last time she was off duty, and it’s gotten so she can’t even remember that far back.
…
“Bloody cold for July,” she says, and Moody hits her shin with his walking stick. “Oi!”
“Quiet,” he says. “Watch for the Muggles - and stop rolling your eyes, Nymphadora!”
“I hate to tell you this,” Shacklebolt says, “but three wizards in robes would be far less suspicious than talking shrubbery.”
She can’t help but laugh then, and stumbles out from behind the bush which Moody carefully chose as a hiding place. They’re in a grassy square near somewhere in London (where, exactly, Moody refuses to tell her, believing Side-Along Apparation not at all degrading for a fully-trained Auror). With a quick look around, Moody checks to make sure there are no Muggles in sight, and surprisingly, the streets around the square are clear.
“Come on,” he says, hobbling off across the pavement, Tonks and Shacklebolt behind him. He stops in front of a row of houses.
“Which is it?” she asks.
Moody hands her a piece of parchment. “Read it to yourself,” he tells her. “Don’t say anything out loud.”
She nods, unfolding it. There is a phrase, written very clearly on the bit of parchment.
The Headquarter of the Order of the Phoenix is located at Number 12, Grimmauld Place.
And suddenly, the earth shakes. Bricks realign as a new home appears, windows and trim and everything. The noise is so loud that she looks around them, hoping no Muggle has heard.
“Unplottable,” Moody says. “With a Fidelius charm. Only apparent to those who know what they’re looking for.”
“Oh,” is all she can say. The noise has subsided, and Moody starts up the stairs. He touches his want to the doorknob, and after a few mechanical noises, the door swings open.
“Keep silent,” he says. “Follow me. Watch your step.”
She rolls her eyes again, but finds he’s right - it’s very dark in the hallway, and Moody’s walking very slow, as if to avoid detection. Adrenaline rushes through her as she considers the possibility that this is a raid on Death Eaters or some other fool plan that only Moody in his paranoia could concoct. Hand on her wand, wand at the ready, she follows him into the hallway, almost tripping but immediately thankful that Shacklebolt catches her. Then, down the stairs, and into - a brightly-lit kitchen full of people.
There is a red-haired woman she recognizes immediately as Mrs. Weasley, Bill and Charlie’s mother. Bill is also there, as is a red-headed man who must be his father. McGonagall and - Snape? - are also there, along with some chubby dark-haired witch and the man who came to bail out the petty thief the night of the Cannons match.
“Kingsley Shacklebolt you already know,” Moody says, “and this is Nymphadora Tonks.”
“Wotcher,” she says quietly.