Written for the QLFC, Round One, Kenmare Kestrels, Chaser 1.
Write a genre you've never written before (crime/detective/police).
Optional Prompts: (setting) thunderstorm, (quote) Adventure is not outside man; it is within, (dialogue) "It's like the blind leading the blind."
Word Count: 2156
It is only five minutes past nine when Nymphadora makes it to the Auror office. I am impressed, but I know it would not do to show it. Five minutes late is five minutes dead, with or without three months of sleep deprivation behind you.
Constant vigilance. I know they mock me for it. But I'm interested in training Aurors. A living Auror can save lives, no matter how much they might hate crazy old Mad-Eye. A dead one saves nothing.
"Five minutes late, recruit!" Her hair is its characteristic bubble-gum pink, and she's wearing some outrageous Muggle rock band shirt rather than robes. But that's no matter. Her wand is in her hand rather than a back pocket, and her eyes are darting around the room, observant as she should be.
I allow myself a moment of pride. She smiles, clearly thinking she's gotten out of punishment. "That'll be fifty laps."
Kingsley waits until she's gone to glare at me. "Honestly, Alastor. She just finished sleep training." He waved a hand around our office, where most of the desks are vacant. "And I can't remember the last time Crockwell has been in before noon."
I glare back. Kingsley doesn't as much as blink. Instead he stands tall, regal as ever in his orange and red robes. "You can permit tardiness when it's your turn on training, Shacklebolt. Which is coming up, from what I hear. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" To accentuate my last words, I give the table a bang.
He still holds my gaze. Crockwell would have cried by now. But I trained Shacklebolt to be made of sterner stuff, and I'll train Nymphadora Tonks too. I know potential when I see it, and I know it's worth nothing unrefined.
Nymphadora makes it back in time for morning briefing, dripping with rain but a smile on her face. "Nothing like a run on a cool morning, huh, Alastor?" Cool hardly describes it - we're in a thunderstorm, and have been for days. Affixing me with her cheekiest grin, she plops down. Too late, she remembers to cast a Reveal on her seat. By the time her wand is out, she's been thrown backwards onto the marble floor.
Dead twice today, and Crockwell hasn't gotten in yet. People like Fudge and Crockwell, leading the magical world to peace and prosperity. It's the blind leading the blind. But Rufus Scrimigour bangs the gavel before I can say anything. I hear murmuring, and I know what they're saying. Crazy Mad-Eye.
Scrimigour begins by asking Nymphadora about sleep training. Three months of regular hallucinations is rough, even for a witch or wizard. But she's still smiling, even when she bumps into the podium on her way to speak.
I respect Rufus. Albus doesn't care for him much. But I see something there. He's no Fudge or Crockwell or Dawlish, that's for sure.
"…and I'm pleased to be putting Trainee Tonks on her first true project."
Rufus has a strange definition of "pleased". His voice is solid, powerful - but not excited. Focused. The voice of a warrior. Shacklebolt reminds me of him, sometimes.
As it should be. Nymphadora is brimming with unbecoming enthusiasm.
"Auror Shacklebolt will be overseeing the mission."
As Kingsley and Nymphadora shake hands, temperaments as opposite as night and day, I give them both quick glances of approval. Some say that old Mad-Eye trusts nobody and nothing, and deep inside maybe they are right. Maybe I always have that flicker of doubt, that paranoia that drives my vigilance, that keeps us alive. But on days like this, I think about the future of this office, and I don't feel frightened.
Through the wall of the eastern boardroom, I see twin wisps of steam. Kingsley is briefing Dora over tea.
How very like him. Setting them both at ease, when what we do is anything but easy. I say - learning is learning. Make training harder so the field isn't. That's why trainees are never trained by the same person too long, I suppose. Old Mad-Eye causes trainees to hallucinate and cry; Kingsley Shacklebolt is a gentleman.
Nymphadora has turned her hair blue to match her teacup. No doubt Kingsley is amused. I notice she waits until it cools to sip, no doubt fearing breaking it, sending scalding water everywhere.
I don't listen to the briefing. Instead I return to my own desk, where the profiles of the three suspects sit in a triangle, connected by a plain, brown string.
Sartin Dolohov. No criminal record, though I suspect that has more to do with our courts than with Sartin himself. His cousin was Lesser Mugwump on the Wizengamot for a few years after the war. I've given Kingsley my feelings, and I know he'll relay them to Nymphadora.
Lionel Lallterings. Known werewolf, and a sad case too. Bitten as a Beauxbaton fourth-year and subsequently expelled. Moved to London to start a new life, half-educated and with no family.
Siobahn Mouse. A convict. Not for anything serious, mind you – a few months in Azkaban for a series of petty crimes. Now works as an Apothecary just off Knockturn Alley. Her business has been fined countless times for various nefarious undertakings, but she nevertheless makes a good income.
The Crime? Murder of one Helius Hiccup. A Squib who made his living working as an assistant to his brother, a successful Potioneer. Devoted family man – married to a Healer's Assistant, father to a magical daughter who works supplying equipment for the Harpies and a Muggle daughter who works as a lawyer. A happy family; very few squabbles with the neighbors.
The Method? Poison.
The nobleman, the outcast, and the obvious. I wonder what Nymphadora will choose. The girl with bubblegum hair who trips over the coat hanger.
I wonder if we have chosen correctly.
All three know they are under investigation; all three have been cooperative to the last. Sartin sees no need for enemies, not when he can buy his way out of any situation and wants to curry favor in the Ministry. Lionel can't afford it. Siobahn – well, Azkaban's a nasty place. Not even a small-time crook would risk going back.
While Nymphadora gets to know them, I watch Nymphadora. She doesn't know, of course. Hopefully she never will.
She allows Sartin to invite her to dinner. His mansion; his upper-hand. But her mother was a Black, and it shows – she arrives in elegant dress robes of black satin, the diamonds around her neck as big as Gobstones and the diamonds in her ears understated, subtle. She praises the elf's cooking, but makes it clear that, as an elf, she pays him no regard. She complements the lady of the house on her taste and appearance, noting the brand of silver.
In short, she plays the part well. She even keeps her hair silvery-blonde for the occasion, and only shatters the dessert plate.
Sartin laughs. "Leave it. We have plenty more, and you need not worry - finer China." His toothy grin is whiter than the snow outside and even I feel chilled. "Your presence honors our home, Madam Tonks. Though you understand, only for certain company can we present – the best."
Sartin's wife strokes his hair. They both have thick plaits, though hers is blonde while his is black. "My husband would never dirty his hands with that man Helius's filthy blood."
And then Nymphadora also laughs, something cold and entirely unlike her. And suddenly the tension in that room is gone, and everything smells of wine. Outside, thunder rolls.
"I hate him."
I look up from my desk to see Nymphadora pointing at Dolohov's picture.
"Constant vigilance, Nymphadora. Hate him, love him, what matters is you be careful!"
She doesn't bother to tell me not to call her that. She looks like Dora Tonks again, but something is different about her. Sometimes with the trainee Aurors, there is a moment where you see a flicker of Auror in their eyes and you think even the useless ones might have some potential yet.
But for her, the flicker is different. The flicker reminds me that she is also a Black.
"I don't like this."
Kingsley is wearing a Muggle suit, having just come back from a reconnaissance mission with Scrimigour. He is unhappy with me, I know.
"It doesn't matter what you like. What matters is you keep watching."
Kingsley clearly doesn't like this, either. "It's like the blind leading the blind. I barely know how I...feel. How can I give any guidance to Dora?"
I cast a few precautionary counterjinxes, then put a hand on his shoulder. "Sometimes vigilance isn't just about what's outside, Shacklebolt. But about what's within."
The thunder has intensified outside, and so has Dora's mood.
"What did you think of Lallteringsand Mouse?" As usual, Kingsley is conducting the debriefing over tea in the boardroom. And as usual, I'm watching from outside the wall.
Dora glares. Her hair is mousy brown today, so normal anyone could tell she's upset. "I liked Lionel. He seemed really upset someone had died. His robes are in tatters; I offered to take him to Madam Malkins and pay for it but he refused and I suppose that's best - spending money on him would hardly be professional."
Nodding, Kingsley motions for her to continue. "It would not have been."
"He has been interviewing with Apothecaries. I suppose he has as much of a motive as any of them." She takes a drink. "That is to say, almost none. I don't think Mouse did it either. She's far too clever for murder. Right terrified anyway, that an Auror Initiate was coming to talk to her. I caught site of Hickleseeds, and I know they're a Class C Restricted ingredient."
There's a small plant on the window of the boardroom. Normally its silvery-green tentacles point towards a speaker, but today they're pointed at the chaos outside, and they haven't turned around once. But then, when Dora opens her mouth again, the rightmost vine seems to snake a bit, as if reconsidering her. "I know who did do it, Shacklebolt."
Shacklebolt. Dora never uses his last name. She's upset, and rightfully so.
"Dolohov disdained Hiccup for being a Squib. And I hate him. I want to show he's evil. But he's far too refined. He only murders when he stands to gain something for it. I almost hate him more for that."
I look to the table. An unfurled roll of parchment sits between the two, upon which all three names and likenesses have been inscribed. The young woman waves her finger in the shape of a small "x" by Dolohov's name, and it gains a red strikethrough.
"Mouse has nothing to gain; their businesses had far different customers and wares. And she's a cheat, not a killer. Lionel is too kind, and too timid. But an easy scapegoat for someone...more powerful."
Kingsley raises one eyebrow.
"Like the Ministry, perhaps?"
Nobody can see me, but I'm beaming.
"It's too...perfect. Your suspects. So I thought I would pay a visit to Hiccup's brother and see what he could tell me." Clutching the table in fury, she continued, "Hardwin Hiccup never had a brother. You made him up. Made him up and told three people they were under investigation to see who I would pick."
Kingsley doesn't deny it. Dora's hair is flaming red with anger by now. At the expression of pride on his face, she's clearly even more furious. "How could you do that? You know the stress Lionel is under?"
"They will be well compensated for their trouble."
"They'll remember the Ministry as a bunch of interfering barves!"
"What would you suggest?" His voice is steady, even as Dora's hands and voice are shaking with fury. "Oblivation?"
"Wh - no!"
"In this line of work, Dora, we will harm innocents. An Auror Initiate must face the inside, as well as the outside. This test is constructed to examine assumptions." Constant vigilance. Even against Kingsley. Even with me. "And to force an initiate to examine the nature of...guilt."
Dora makes no reply. Instead, she gets up and bows. A wizarding formality more designed to insult. She strolls past me, her bags still in the room, without making any safety checks.
For now she's going outside, finally walking into the storm. Vigilance, adventure, the last enemy - it lies within, and she knows it. Within us, within the Ministry, within self. And the second war is coming.