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assassination

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It’s Amelia who wakes first, gasping, in the middle of the night. Her husband is used to the negotiations of having a shared bed after all these years, both consciously and unconsciously, so his reaction is simply to turn his head, and breathe a little differently. But Amelia Bones, Minister for Magic, ignores this and reaches for her bedside table. It wasn’t a dream that woke her, nor the pressing need of her bladder - instead, it was a sound.

Just a sound, that’s it, that’s all. A sound heard half-awake, at that, so that it could just as easily have been the hoot of an owl as the creak of a footstep upon a stair. But Amelia is not the Minister of Magic for nothing, and she is well aware that she is not living in the safest of times. So she makes her movements as quietly as she is able in the inadequate light, holding her wand tight as she pulls on her bathrobe.

There is nothing more as she makes her way to the doorway of her bedroom, nothing save the sound of her own breathing, which she suppresses as well as she is able. She steps carefully, knowing her own home so well by now, able to avoid each fickle floorboard. When she reaches the door she unlocks it with a soft word, silencing the click that would normally come when she turns the handle; these are the benefits that magic gives these days.

And then - a shape. There, on the landing. Someone lurking, dressed in dark robes, and Amelia sees the wand in his hand. She raises her own and is part way through a curse before the young man turns, and in the moonlight she recognizes him.

“Oh. I thought it was...”

“Everything alright, Minister?”

Because that’s what happens when you’re an important person in a time of war: they fill your house with Aurors.

“Yes. It’s nothing. I thought I’d heard something, but it was probably just you on my landing.”

“Sorry, Minister,” he says, and adds, “What did it sound like?”

Amelia gives a half-shrug, and an embarrassed sort of smile. The kinds of things that she would never do during the day. Right now, however, she’s not the Minister for Magic, she’s Amelia Bones, feeling very old and very tired and very silly, standing on her landing on her housecoat in the middle of the night.

“I think it was just -”

But she never finishes the thought. At that moment, from downstairs, there is an aborted scream.

The Auror immediately pushes her back towards her bedroom: “Minister. Stay here. Go inside, lock the door,” and then he runs, down the stairs faster than is strictly safe. Amelia’s mind is frozen, locked in concern and fear. She wants to help but she knows that she’s too important, too valuable; others may die tonight so that she will be safe, that’s why they’re here. It’s noisy downstairs now, and the walls are flickering with reflected spell-light, green and blue and red. Amelia takes a step towards her bedroom and then pauses, looks back, but it’s a mistake. There at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at her, a Death Eater.

His mask, like bone, so bright in the moonlight, hides his eyes, but Amelia knows they’ve spotted her, knows she’s done for. She makes a strangled gasp and pushes at her bedroom door, but even as she does she knows the movement has doomed not just herself, but her husband as well, and guilt clutches at her. Her charms aren’t strong enough to lock them out, and for all of her composure she’s crying, because her husband is awake now, sitting up in bed, asking her what’s going on? and she can’t answer.

And somewhere she hears the hoot of an owl; and somewhere she hears the creak of a footstep upon a stair.

And a minute later, Amelia Bones finds silence.

A special edition of the Daily Prophet is hastily written and rushed out all over Britain, and then over the world, on the wings of tired owls. The front page headline screams:

Horror in Wandsworth

The Minister of Magic, Amelia Bones, along with her husband and security attachment of five, were murdered in the pre-dawn hours at the Minister's home in Wandsworth. The Dark Mark was in plain evidence, and the Ministry has released an official statement that this was, indeed, the work of You-Know-Who and his followers.

The bodies were recovered thanks to prompt action by Aurors alerted by special security wards linked to the Ministry.

It is not known at this time how many Death Eaters were involved or how they entered the residence, as security was stringent and Anti-Apparation charms were placed upon the home to keep anyone from Apparating into the house or onto the grounds.

Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office, has been named acting Minister of Magic, and is personally overseeing the case. "We have nothing more to say at this time," he said at the official press conference. "Know that we are doing everything in our power to track down the perpetrators of this terrible crime. We ask the wizards and witches of Britain to remain calm whilst implementing the security measures we've promoted in the past year."

No word has been released on funeral arrangements.

The rest of this thin newspaper is comprised of security reminders and brief obituaries on all those assassinated.

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When her wand begins emitting its loud, high-pitched alarm, Nymphadora sits bolt upright in bed, still mostly asleep. There's something wrong, something-- come now, something's happened--

It takes Bernard a few seconds longer to react, and then it's mostly to bury his head in the pillow.

"'S it?"

She fumbles for her wand, knocking it to the floor, and swears as she tumbles down to retrieve it. "Dunno. Something's wrong."

That startles Bernard, and he sits up, rubbing one eye.

"You gotta go?"

"Yeah, I do." Nymphadora stumbles toward the closet, pulling off her pajamas and shortening her hair as she goes. "C'n you get me a thermos of tea, or something?"

"'Kay." Blearily, Bernard shuffles out to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. His eyes flicker to the clock on the stove. "Fuck. 'S four in the fucking morning."

A few moments later she follows, strapping her wand holster to her arm. "I know. I fed Anthony at 1:45, so he might sleep through till morning. If he--"

Scratching at the door interrupts her, but she's been expecting it.

"That'll be the Ministry. Hang on."

She runs out to open the front door, and the rustling of an owl's wings drifts back into the kitchen, following by the ripping of an envelope.

And then, only silence.

Bernard pours the brewed Earl Grey into the thermos, adding a lump of sugar and a dollop of cream. Just as she likes it.

She's awfully quiet.

"What is it?"

Nymphadora walks back into the kitchen.

"It's, um." A breath. "They killed the Minister."

For a moment, Bernard thinks he imagined it.

"They what."

"The Minister, and her husband, and her entire detail..." If possible, she pales further, and tangles a hand in her hair. "Fuck, Bernard, Imogen was on duty tonight."

Bernard bites the inside of his cheek, and puts the lid on the thermos with care.

Then he walks out to the dining room and sets it on the table.

"Then you'd better go, hadn't you?"

"Yeah," she replies quietly, unwilling to let personal grief get in the way of doing her job, just now.

But Nymphadora steps forward and hugs him tightly for a long moment all the same. "I love you. And I'll be home soon as I can. I promise."

And Bernard's eyes slip shut as he holds her tight.

"I love you, too. I'll see you when you get home."

Not 'if.' 'When.'

'If' stopped being an option long ago.

He pulls back to kiss her firmly.

"Go fucking get 'em."

"I will." Then Nymphadora squeezes his hand, offers him a tiny, reassuring smile, and then picks up her thermos and leaves.

And it's only once she leaves that Bernard lets himself shake.

Because, holy fuck. She doesn't do the all-night details much anymore, but they do happen.

Part of the job. And she loves the job, and he loves her.

It's gonna be a long day.

Tom doesn't usually have time to read the papers till after lunch. His snowy owl picks up the Daily Prophet every day and deposits it on his study desk.

Today he is surprised to see two papers. He picks up the thinnest one first and reads the cover story.

Then he reads it again.

With shaking hands, he sets the paper down. He didn't know Amelia Bones, but he did know that 'Dora respects- no, respected- her. He definitely knows that 'Dora is there now, dealing with the aftermath.

Today is a horrifically busy day, what with the May Fair on the horizon in London Below, so he grabs a sheaf of parchment and writes Bernard.

Bernard,

I just read the news. Is 'Dora alright? Are you?

Tom

He attaches the note to the owl's talon and sends him off.

The reply is a little hasty; Bernard's having a time of it, what with Sunny home from daycare because of the assassination and Anthony as fussy as he's been all week.

Tom,

We're okay, I guess. She left about 4:30 this morning. Haven't had time to really think about it.

--Bernard

Tom reads the reply in Door's study, where he's relocated. She's busy writing notes to shuffle their appointments a bit, as she knows Tom will want to check on 'Dora as soon as she returns.

Before they rush off to deal with a dispute at the Temple of Mithras, Tom dashes off a response.

I'm off to rounds early - let me know when she gets back. Don't respond. I know you've got your hands full. Just hang in there.

Tom

He sends off the owl, and tries not to think about the Wizarding world for a few hours. He fails miserably.

It is a troubling thing, to understand the ways of the world, and to understand that expecting the very worst, living with the scales of fantasy permanently torn from one's eyes, is the only way to survive and soldier on.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
Because then, one isn't surprised when the unfortunate happens.
O when may it suffice?
Then, one is even prepared for what comes.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
This is not to say that it is pleasing, or even right. But it is expected.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And profoundly disappointing.
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
Grey-faced with resignation, Albus Dumbledore sits at his desk and reads the article for the twenty-third time, noting the names that are written, knowing whose names are not. Remembering the faces of all, for they were his students, once.
I write it out in a verse -
Bones.
MacDonagh
St. John.
and MacBride
Harkney.
And Connolly
MacConnell.
and Pearse
But now is not the time for mourning. Now is the time for action.
Are changed, changed utterly:
Dumbledore takes up his quill, and his ink, and begins writing letters. To Remus, in code. To Mrs. Bones' sister, in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. And to Rufus Scrimgeour himself.
each changed in his turn,
There is work to be done.
A terrible beauty is born.

Kingsley doesn't sleep very well, most nights.
You-Know-Who and his followers sent the Dark Mark into the air whenever they killed
He hasn't really slept well since that horrible night so many years ago now, when he came home from work to find his wife in his - their - bed, staring wide-eyed and unseeing at the ceiling, lovely face frozen forever in a rictus of pain and terror, her blood - and their unborn child's - soaking the mattress.
the terror it inspired...you have no idea...
He moved, after that, but a new house did nothing for the memories.
just picture coming home....knowing what you're about to find inside...
He doesn't sleep very well.
everybody's worst fear....the very worst...
So when his wand goes off, he's awake in a second, reaching for it, and when the owl appears, he's dressed and ready to go.

The news, when he reads it, staggers him, and for a moment all he can do is stare.

Amelia. God. He'd liked her, a lot. Hard not to. A nice woman, but strong, no-nonsense...had a habit of calling him 'whippersnapper,' something that never failed to amuse him.

And now...now she was gone. Gone forever.

He isn't even aware, really, of the punch he's throwing, until the sting in his knuckles reminds him that walls are solid.

He inhales, once, sharply, and then Apparates out.

He has a job to do.

It's the tapping of an Egyptian Nightjar's beak against the glass window that wakens Bill in the middle of the night: it's such an unusual sight that he sits bolt upright and hurries to let the curious bird in.

His surprise doubles at the newspaper clutched in its talons; quickly, he rummages around for a treat and offers it up. The graceful bird gobbles it down and perches on the window ledge without a further sound, but Bill gets the feeling the bird is watching him.

"Lumos." Careful not to awaken Fleur, Bill spreads out the paper as quietly as possible. He doesn't often take the Prophet at this place; it must be something important. Scanning the article, he stops, frozen.

"This can't be."

It's worse than he thought. With a quick glance at his sleeping wife, he reads the article again and again, hoping it might be some sort of cruel joke but with each reread, his hopes are dashed.

"Fuck."

He doesn't -- didn't -- know Amelia Bones but still, it's the work of Voldemort. Voldemort. The one he knows as Tom.

Tom with a snake inside in this or any other timeline, and suddenly the stakes for all of them are too huge to be imaginable. And on a personal level it's their life here and their life there; it's there and London; it's Ottery St Catchpole and Hogwarts: it's everywhere.

None of them are safe.

Not a single one.

Fuck. Blindly, he reaches for quill and parchment and scribbles a note to his parents. Mum, Dad, all right, then? We're good. Just checking in. Love from Bill and Fleur.

He motions over the Nightjar. "Here. Can you find a way to get this to London as quickly as possible?" The bird extends a talon and waits patiently while the parchment is tied to its leg. "Thank you, friend. I owe you."

The article calls to him; he reads it again and again before finally setting it down and turning to study Fleur's sleeping form.

No. No one touches you, Fleur. I'll do whatever I must to keep you and our baby safe.

It isn't until hours later, when Bill is making tea, that she wakes up. She doesn't find the paper until after she had to run to the bathroom because her morning sickness does come in the morning.

Fleur sits down on the bed once she reads the headline. Bill had folded the paper so she would have to open it up fully before she could see it. It is. A surprise is a light term.

She rips out part of the article, but most importantly, the headline and scribbles a quick note on the back, then leans out the window over their bed. On the window ledge below is a row of roosting kestrels, and Fleur whistles to them. One flies up to her, perches on the ledge, and tips her heads.

"Do you think you can fly a very long way tonight, mademoiselle?"

The bird blinks and offers out her leg.

"Merci," as she ties the note to the bird's leg. "To Paris, Madam Delacour. As quick as you can, please. I am sure they will give you several big, fat mice for your troubles."

The kestrel blinks again then is off, quick as a flash.

The note read Do not know what is next. Leave Paris. Love, Fleur.

As soon as he sees the paper unfolded, he knows: he did the same thing. The first instinct is always to protect.

Always.

"What did you tell your mum, Fleur?" He doesn't much care for rereading the front page another time. "I think we might need to get back to London. It's no safer here."

She gives Bill a helpless look. "To leave Paris. She will not listen, you know. But I can try."

"...you think so? You love it 'ere." The comforter is twisting and twisting in her hand.

Bill shakes his head. "Whether or not I love it here is irrelevant. What matters is safety. What matters most is where you and our child will be safest, Fleur. And if I have to take you back to the end of the universe, I will. If it's London, we'll go there. If it's Hogwarts, that's the place, and if it's deep inside the very centre of a pyramid... you see? I don't want you endangered."

With a resigned sigh, he opens the bureau drawer and takes out a stack of newspapers. "Do you see these?" Some are in English and some are in Arabic. "For months now, I've been watching the papers. This thing that happened to the Minister is not the first killing. There have been so many unsolved murders: here, on the continent, in the States: it's a global thing. I don't know where anyone can go that's safe, and of course, general panic is exactly what they want."

Think, Bill, think. You can do that.

Her forehead wrinkles. And she is frowning.

"You put thiz together. You kept thiz. From me."

When she looks up, Fleur is almost glaring at Bill. "You want to protect me. So you keep thingz from me because you know I do not pay attention like I should. And I do not keep an tight ear on my ...not so very innocent friendz like I used to."

"So there iz death and destruction around the world, juste for a change in pace, and you want to go back to London and...what?"

Bill's eyes narrow. "This isn't about you. It's not about whether or not I think you're a big enough girl to hear the news. It's about me trying to puzzle the pieces together before I inadvertently frighten you into a miscarriage."

Shaking his head, he shoves the newspapers back into their drawer and turns to leave the room.

"Don't you belittle what I do or second-guess my methods. This is my country and you don't know it. You don't know it at all."

"Oui! Oui! I am juste a Frog! A stupid little Frog that iz that idiotic and assuming enough to juste pop at the first hint of trouble! Oui, I nevah risked my life for you or your cause even if I do not believe!"

Oh, this is going well. The air is almost crackling, and Fleur's hair is standing on end.

Bill turns back slowly.

"Which is it you don't believe in, Fleur: me or my cause?"

It's already been a very bad day. It might as well get even worse.

That surprised her. The wave of rage subsides a bit.

"I. I alwayz believe in you. I trust you. I trust our friendz. I do not trust your Order. Iz no different than." She stops.

"Do you trust me?" Her face is blank when she asks.

"Of course I do."

He's livid that she even has to ask.

"And what is the Order no different from? Let's get this all out in the open, shall we? Because I don't want to have this discussion again. Ever."

It's as if the door frame is the only thing holding him up at the moment. They've had disagreements before, but they were never anything like this. The feeling spreading up from the pit of his stomach isn't a particularly good one. He'd rather not have to question and reassess everything at once, but if that's what it takes, he'll do it.

Fuck.

"Another Dark Lord."

"I risk my life for no Dark wizard." The words are a hiss, all venom. "It wasn't the Order that kidnapped me and held me in a dungeon. It wasn't the Order that took me and Tonks to Dover last June. And it wasn't the Order who killed Minister Bones: you remember that."

With that, Bill turns once again and storms out of their flat, the flush of anger on his face matching his hair... and then some.

"Where are you--?!" Even as the door slams.

He just walked out after an assassination and Merlin knows what else would happen today and.

One of the expensive vases from Cairo goes flying and smashes against the wall. Not one of the priceless ones. She still has some sense, and stops short when she gets near the papyrus enchanted for good luck.

She sinks down between the bed and the wall, leaning her head back against the mattress. With both hands on her belly, she says firmly, "Will be okay. Promise. It will. Iz my first promise to you, oui? First promisez should nevah be broken."

Angelina has a very set routine by now. She’s good at sticking to that routine too, normally. Probably 6 years of early morning Quidditch practices, she thinks as her alarm goes of and she rolls over to turn it off.

Her two cats rub around her feet as she gets out of bed and delight in trying to trip her up as she pads barefoot across the hallway to the kitchen. She puts the light on, feeds the cats and has just put the kettle on to boil when there’s a tapping on the window. The large brown owl that delivers her paper is sitting on the ledge outside. It’s early by at lest five minutes- it doesn’t normally arrive until she’s sitting down to eat breakfast.

She leans over and opens the window to let it. She takes the paper and sits down to read. And there’s a moment where she’s so shocked that she almost forgets to breathe. If the Minister, with all the Auror security she has, can be murdered in her own home then what kind of hope does it give to the ordinary people?

She’s shocked out of this thought by the high pitched whistle of the kettle and she drops the paper and crosses the room to take it off the heat. She pours herself a cup of tea and sips it slowly in an attempt to calm herself.

With this news, she knows, emotions will be running high. People will be agitated, angry, scared. Spells will be going wrong all over the place, and they'll be doing all sorts of things with uncontrolled wandless outburts of magic.

Which means I’ll be busy today.

She takes a deep breath and forces herself to finish her routine so she can go to work. The only way she can help is by doing her job; by fixing whatever magical mishaps happen as a result of this.

And oh Merlin, don’t I wish I could do more.

As it happens the news, when it reaches Bulgaria, is still big enough to worthy the front page, but the article has been pushed respectfully aside by an item stating that the fires in the Valley of Roses continued for the fifth night in a row, with still no suspects in custody. For Krum, that’s old news.

But the article about the foreign Minister, that he pours over. He scours it for details, for things he doesn’t already know. Do they have leads? Names? Any signs?

No. Voldemort is elusive as always.

When the article devolves into talks of how the Bulgarian Minister’s security detachment has been increased in light of the events, Viktor puts the paper aside. He goes to make tea, but finds he is out of milk. He sighs. What a terrible start to a day.

And somewhere, somewhere, there is laughter, just laughter.

You always remember where you were when bad things happen. What you were doing.

Penelope was still in pajamas, hair mussed, downing black coffee in a desperate attempt to wake herself up. She barely heard Telemachus fly in with the Prophet.

Then she saw the headline, and sleep became the absolute last thing on her mind.

Oh God ...

They're really killing people, it isn't just a lie anymore-- she was too young to remember when it had happened before, it can't all be coming 'round again--

You-Know-Who.

What can she do? What does she do? What does anyone do? The solution isn't in the precautions urged by the paper, she knows that. It didn't help Bones.

There has to be an answer. Things can't be like this.

Wake up, Penny.

It's real now.

In their hideaway, Rodolphus was crowing like a rooster over the latest piece of news to reach his ears. The Minister of Magic and her husband were dead. Taken out of the picture.

Permanently.

Rabastan, on the other hand, was being his usual self, keeping to himself in an out-of-the-way corner of the sitting room of their parents' home. Now that their parents were dead the house had been inherited by the eldest son, and he was currently throwing a party for those who'd chosen to accept the invite on such a short notice.

People who were too busy listening to Rodolphus declaring how he'd wished he'd been the one to kill the Minister himself. He'd have done it with style, he'd said. And a fair bit of pinache.

Make the rest of the wizarding world sit up and take notice.

"If you need me brother," Rabastan said, growing weary of the noise and Rodolphus' boastings of previous victims of the Lestranges, "I'll be in my room. Sleeping."

...Rodolphus could make a man sick to his stomach some days...

In a timeline which Barty will likely never visit again, the Minister has been killed.

This was not the random cruelty of common violent criminals, not a pointless, nihilistic act of evil. This was a targeted political assassination; it had meaning and purpose. Just weeks ago, he would have been happy, or at least supportive. Now, he almost thinks he should be outraged, even horrified, but he is not. He is blandly interested. He neither supports not opposes this act.

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