–Cornelius Fudge, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
‘Minister, what is this?’
Amelia Bones’ deep, disapproving boom of a voice and the sharp tapping of a silver monocle against a desk was enough to stop anyone—the Minister of Magic included—dead in his tracks. Cornelius Fudge, who was already halfway through the door, tensed guilty and turned to face the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at a glacial pace. His hands were twisting his bowler hat into a knot; his eyes were anywhere but on the crumpled piece of paper before her.
‘Ah, my dear Amelia, that is…well, as you can see, it is a death notice for Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Jr.’
‘I can see that,’ she said, frowning. ‘And I would like to know what business Mr. Crouch had dying a year ago when he’d already died nearly ten years previously, and why this has only just found its way to my desk.’
Fudge flushed. ‘It appears he hadn’t. Died, I mean, of course. Yes, well, unfortunate really, turns out he was helping He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named come back, but—well, how was I supposed to know that?’
Amelia leaned forward slightly, her eyes widening in disbelief. ‘The mere fact that the man was still alive wasn’t reason enough to take him into custody for questioning, Minister? Mr. Crouch was most likely in possession of valuable information concerning the Dark Lord—’
‘Amelia, how—I didn’t ask the dementor to—to—the Diggory boy had died! Would’ve been mad to go up there alone, but yes, well, there were a lot of mistake made that night by a lot of people…’ Fudge sighed heavily. The strain of the last few weeks had taken its toll on him, and it showed in his lined faced, the slump of his shoulders, and the defeat in his voice. ‘If I could do it over…but I’m afraid it’s too late.’
She flicked her wand at the notice, which folded itself and flew into one of the many filing cabinets on the right wall. She held his gaze unblinkingly for several moments before sighing as well. ‘You’ve made some grave mistakes, Minister. It’s never too late for an apology, and if I were you, I think I would start with Harry Potter.’
‘Harry Potter,’ he repeated, his eyes suddenly speculative. ‘That’s a thought. Yes…yes, Harry Potter.’ He walked back towards the door, stopping in the doorway long enough to say, ‘We’re lucky to have you, Amelia. Yes. Well, that’s all, then. Good evening.’
Amelia watched the empty doorway long after he’d left, her brows furrowed. Finally, she turned back to her desk with a sigh.
An idle flick of her wand was enough to set the items on the desk to organizing themselves, odd papers to file themselves away, and old memos to soar into the wastepaper basket. The dark blue traveling cloak draped itself around her shoulders when she rose, and the monocle flew into her outstretched hand. She pocketed them, along with her wand, and fastened the clasp of her cloak by hand. It was nine o’clock.
Amelia walked down to the lift and nearly collided with Nymphadora Tonks, who was coming out. Mousy brown hair hung lank around the young auror’s heart-shaped face, and her arms were laden with files and overstuffed envelopes. ‘Wotcher, Madam Bones!’ Tonks said, attempting a grin and failing miserably. ‘Did you get Kingsley’s memo?’
‘I sent the blank warrants over an hour ago,’ said Amelia firmly, getting into the lift. ‘and you tell Shacklebolt to follow protocol with those, or I swear by Morgan le Fay I’ll have his head.’
She heard Tonks laugh before the golden grates clanged shut and the lift descended to the Atrium.
The Atrium was deserted. Amelia paused at the security desk long enough to prod a sleeping Eric Munch awake, and then Flooed from the first fireplace into her own living room. A silent incantation shook the soot from her robes, and she slung the blue cloak over the closest armchair.
A cold wind swept in through the open window, making the curtains dance in the semi-darkness. She hadn't left the window open, and the protective wards were down. Her fingers curled automatically around her wand.
‘Good evening, Madam Bones,’ said a high, cold voice behind her.
Without giving it a second thought, she turned on her heel and blasted away the living room wall.
The flames exploded in every direction, singeing the furniture and carpet. A serpent-shaped column of smoke curled around the dark figure standing in the corner. A chilling laugh, a wave of a wand, and the flash of green light barely missed her. The fireplace behind her exploded in green flames.
She knew what it meant. The Floo Connection had been severed.
Enraged, Amelia levitated a paperweight from the little couch-table and banished it at the Dark Lord with a sweep of her wand and a silent, vicious ‘Engorgio!’
The boulder was thrown back suddenly at her, transformed into a dozen steel knives. She dove aside as they embedded themselves into the wall, and blindly shot a barrage of hexes at the Dark Lord from behind the sofa. She heard the lamp smash, and barely managed to get away from the sofa before it imploded in a ball of blue light and disappeared. Her wand slipped from her fingers. Desperate, she rolled to avoid a purple flash and found herself at the feet of the Dark Lord.
‘Amelia Bones,’ he said softly, his eyes glowing red. ‘You were very efficient at putting away quite a few of my followers after the Ministry fiasco last month.’
‘I thought you, of all people, would appreciate efficiency,’ she gasped heavily, fumbling in the darkness for her wand.
‘Crucio!’
The pain burst in her chest, in her limbs, and in her head, and she was screaming and shaking. It hurt more than anything could ever have hurt, it burned like eternity, but it never stopped bursting, the worst part!—And then it slipped away.
Panting and livid, Amelia rolled to onto her side and barked, ‘That’s at least one lifetime in Azkaban I can personally vouch for you deserving.’
His crooked smile mocked her. ‘But, my dear Madam Bones, I shall live forever.’
‘Then you’ll rot there forever,’ she spat, fumbling in the darkness for her wand. Her fingertips found the base of it as he laughed again.
‘I might almost be sorry when you’re dead,’ he sneered, raising his wand.
‘Incendio!’ she shouted, and the carpet went up in flames. She scrambled to her feet and ducked into the kitchen.
The wall between the kitchen and the living room fell apart with a bang like a gunshot, and the ceiling caved. She fended off the flying chunks of plaster with a series of protective charms as the Dark Lord advanced through the debris.
She couldn’t win. She had to get away.
Destination, Determination, Deliberation—NO! Light flickered in her eyes as she felt the familiar pressure of an Anti-Disapparition Jinx and nearly fell. She shot a quick succession of Stunners over her shoulder as she fled down the hall, the roar of destruction ringing in her ears.
‘You think you can run from me?’ The Dark Lord’s voice echoed through the entire house, shaking few walls that still stood.
She ran into the sitting room, slammed the door, and shouted ‘Colloportus!’ The click of the lock was lost as the door was blown out of the frame. The high, cold laugh jolted her into action again.
Everything she could levitate, she hurled at the Dark Lord: the books of magical international law off the bookshelves, the bookshelves themselves, quills that morphed into arrows, the ottoman, the large writing desk—which did force the Dark Lord back a few steps before he transfigured it into a flaming dragon that dove at her, breathing fire.
It wasn’t until she leapt back with a cry of ‘Aguamenti!’ that she realized she was in a corner.
‘Sometimes about now,’ the Dark Lord remarked conversationally as he stepped forward through the shredded remains of her literary collection, ‘I offer the person who is about to die the opportunity to join me instead, but I think I’ll just save you the trouble of refusing.’
‘No trouble at all,’ said Amelia darkly, and made for the adjacent corner while firing off rapidly a full body-bind, a blasting curse, and a binding hex. Thin, fiery cords coiled around the Dark Lord’s black robes.
He snarled as he deflected each and turned the ropes to smoky snakes. She saw him mouth the word ‘Confringo!’ and barely had time to throw up a shield before—
The roof exploded.
The time it had taken her to react had been too long. The Dark Lord’s wand was angled at her as soon as the weak shield broke, and he cried in a ringing voice, ‘Crucio!’
The silver monocle slipped from her pocket and struck the hardwood floor with a clatter as she fell. She was writhing—writhing—and it hurt! Every fiber of her being was freezing, burning, shaking, throbbing—screaming! Her wand escaped her fingers, which curled in on her palms and drew blood—why wouldn’t it stop—illegal—had to stop—
‘Morsmordre!’
The Dark Mark shot through the open roof and glimmered in the sky. The instant it appeared, the pain stopped. Weak and dizzy, Amelia staggered to her feet and looked about for her wand.
It was balanced between two pale, skeletally thin fingers, and it was pointed at her.
‘Damn,’ said Amelia Bones furiously.
There was murmur and a flash of green light, and then everything was gone.
justicia, defleo vestri filia.
Justice, weep for your daughter.