Protégé
"Codswallop."
"But sir, he wants—"
"I want to sit by a pool in Spain and be served cocktails on a silver platter for the rest of my sorry days, but that's not bloody likely, is it?"
"But the Head Auror suggested—"
"You can tell Scrimgeour where he can shove his suggestions. Better yet, bring him, and I'll tell him myself."
Dawlish looks terrified at the prospect. "But, sir—"
"Go!"
(x)
The sound that escapes Alastor Moody's mouth is half-sigh, half-groan.
"It's bloody idiotic, Rufus."
"Now, now, Alastor," says the pompous prat, straightening his needlessly-expensive silk tie. "It's part of the new Ministry Mentorship Scheme. On their next case, every Auror must partner with a final-year trainee. As the most senior man in the office except me, you must join in. Lead by example."
Moody's lips form a thin line. "You've gone soft in the head."
"My mental health is of little consequence," replies Scrimgeour, his voice smooth and slippery like molten gold. "It's Ministry policy. Be thankful you're getting a choice of trainee."
He straightens his tie again. Moody thinks about how easy it would be to reach out and throttle him with it.
(x)
Since when was the Auror department so overwhelmingly male?
He watches from a corner as the final-year trainees spar with one another, zooming in on each one's face. Circe. Some of them look like they've only just started puberty: greasy hair, spotted, bumpy faces.
Bloody Scrimgeour. Who made him Head Auror? Alastor hasn't voluntarily retired yet only because he knows the place will crumble without him. And if they force him out—he lets out a short, barking laugh at the thought. Bumbling fools, the whole Ministry.
He turns his attention back to the trainees, expecting more of the same: naïve, untrained, weak.
What he sees surprises him.
Her hair is fuschia—the colour of the ink his niece clumsily scribbles her letters in. She's got good bone structure—not pretty, but has the potential to be. She's slight and looks as if she'd be easy to knock over, but the almost-imperceptible curve of her arm muscles clues him in: she's stronger than she looks.
Her opponent is male: taller, broader—and likely older, for she can't be more than three years out of Hogwarts. He's struggling to deflect the curses she's throwing at him, one after another, wordlessly, like it's the easiest thing in the world. Moody watches as flashes of light spill from the end of her wand, dashing towards her target with surprising accuracy.
Within twenty seconds, her opponent is on the floor, his wand twenty feet from him. She stands over him, grinning. Not surprised—confident.
Moody feels the corners of his lips tug upwards.
(x)
"This will only work if you follow three rules," he tells her that afternoon. She stands silent in front of his desk, her hands interlocked behind her back.
"One: Constant. Vigilance. Two: follow my instructions. Three: don't get killed. Do you understand—" he breaks off. Damn it. He'd only had time for a cursory glance over her file. "—what was your name?"
"Tonks."
"Got a first name?"
She shuffles her feet. "Nymphadora."
Nymphadora? And she'd been a Hufflepuff. Poor sod.
"Whatever. Step out of line, and you're done. Finished. Kaput. Understand?"
She nods quickly. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now go put on some clothes."
She glances down at her robes. "I'm –"
"Muggle clothes, you ninny. We've got a case." He picks up a manila dossier and tosses it to her, glancing her over disparagingly.
"And do something about your hair. You stand out too much."
(x)
The cloying, brassy smell of blood hits them as soon as they enter the crime scene—a converted flat in Earl's Court—and becomes stronger as they approach the body.
He feels Tonks' discomfort from a mile away: her hands tremble and her breathing quickens. They aren't exposed to bodies in training.
"You okay?" he asks brusquely.
She nods, but her breath is shaky. Some Aurors faint or vomit when they see their first body. She's handling herself well.
"Remember: constant vigilance."
The woman is covered in knife slashes, each mark tearing apart her pale skin to reveal scarlet veins. The gash across her neck is the deepest. It looks garish, like the stick-on wounds Muggle kids wear when they dress up for Hallowe'en.
Tonks sways slightly and reaches out to steady herself, but her hand catches on a gold-plated umbrella stand. It crashes to the floor and it takes significant restraint not to shout. Rule four: don't touch anything.
"Sorry," she cringes. He glares at her.
The dead is female, thirty-five, identified as Genevieve Milton. Married, but childless. She was killed at approximately 1AM. Her husband, Graham, supposedly discovered the body when he stumbled out of bed in the morning to make coffee.
"Cause of death is the wound here." The tech's fingers trace the blood across Genevive's neck. Tonks doesn't look away. "The killer used some sort of knife."
"A Muggle weapon," muses Moody.
He wonders if she'll take the bait.
"Doesn't mean the killer's a Muggle, though," Tonks points out. Good. "Could be a weapon of opportunity. Killer argues with her, gets angry, doesn't have his wand on him so grabs the nearest thing."
"What does that imply?" he says, hating how schoolteacher-y he sounds. Scrimgeour would have a field day if he heard, yabbering about how mentoring benefits both the mentee and the mentor.
She doesn't miss a beat. "Crime of passion."
Very good. "Let's interview the husband."
(x)
He almost doesn't bring her into the interrogation, but decides to when he notices Scrimgeour swanning around, chatting to each trainee with pretend nonchalance. He'd rather not give Scrimgeour something to reprimand him for, so he gives her a primer on interrogation (forgetting she's already been copiously trained) and brings her in.
It becomes very obvious, very quickly that the husband is lying.
Graham Milton investigates stolen magical artifacts for a private company. For someone with a risky job, he is too jittery. He wrings his hands and glances nervously at Moody's magical eye, like it's a bomb. His story keeps changing: first, he's adamant he was asleep all night, then he admits to waking up to get a glass of water, though he cannot remember what time. Moody can feel his own irritation growing: he's tempted to reach over, grab Milton by the scruff of his neck and shake him until he admits to murder, but Tonks—surprisingly—has different ideas.
"Are you sure you don't remember what time?" she asks gently.
Graham shakes his head, and she sighs.
"Listen, Graham: you're a good guy. I can tell. So I'm going to be straight with you, okay?"
"'Kay."
"You're under suspicion for Genevieve's murder. We don't think you did it, but we can't prove your innocence if you keep lying to us." She pauses. "You weren't really at home last night, were you?"
He shifts, contemplating. Moody holds his breath, and releases it when he says: "You can't tell anyone."
"You're having an affair," grunts Moody, realisation dawning.
Silence.
"Sonny, you're in for questioning on a murder charge. We're Aurors, not the moral police."
Almost impulsively: "You can't tell my—"
"Wife?" Tonks says amusedly, before sobering abruptly. "So that's a yes to an affair?"
"Yes. I was with my…"
"Mistress?"
"Yeah. All night." He hangs his head. Moody feels no sympathy. "You must think I'm awful"
Tonks shrugs. "Aurors, not moral police. We'll need her details."
(x)
"Checks out," says Dawlish, handing Moody a signed statement. "Rosalind Waters, nineteen—"
"Circe," says Tonks.
"—confirms she was with the husband at the time of the murder. He's not your guy."
Tonks looks crestfallen. Moody shrugs. "Happens." He pauses. "You did a good job in there."
"Really?" Her eyes brighten.
"Yes." He looks at her widening grin and sighs. "Don't get used to it."
"I think I'm growing on you," says Tonks, cheekily, her eyebrows waggling. She reminds him of an overexcited puppy.
He grunts in response.
(x)
The next five days are frustratingly empty.
They interview all Genevieve's known associates: they agree she was a kind woman with no enemies. The crime scene and murder weapon—a kitchen knife—are clean: no fingerprints, fibres—nothing. They are at square one.
As far as Tonks goes, Moody, inspired by her interrogation skills, delegates to her. Some days are better than others. She's good with people—makes them trust her, asks the right questions the right way. But she lacks finesse. She's often in the break room with the other trainees, laughing loudly at unfunny jokes and morphing her nose into—of all things—a pig's snout. She darts between the case and her social life with the deftness of a five-year-old: her desk is a mess of abandoned notes and incorrectly-ordered files.
When she loses five pages of Graham Milton's statement, he decides he's had enough and calls her in.
Calm. Firm. Not angry.
He starts with, "This is unacceptable," and she instantly knows what he's talking about.
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry isn't good enough. You're a good Auror, Nymphadora."
"Tonks. And I get it."
He feels a spark of irritation. The irreverence of youth.
"Do you, lass? Because you're not taking this seriously."
He regrets it instantly. Her eyebrows shoot up and her hair turns faintly orange. "I'm taking this seriously."
"You lack focus. You'd rather hang around with the other kids than solve this case."
"That's not true—"
"It is," he says sharply. "Don't waste your time with them. They're not half as good as you."
"You're not going to be around forever," she snaps, and he mentally recoils, as anyone does when confronted with their own mortality. "When you go, I'll be dependent on other people—my colleagues. And no one trusts me."
"What?"
"Because of my family." Her voice quivers. He thinks back to her file.
Mother: Andromeda Tonks née Black.
"The others constantly bring up my aunt. The murders she aided and abetted. Kettles—the kid paired with Dawlish? Bellatrix murdered his mum. So I have to try, everyday, to remind them that I'm different. I feel like I don't belong here because of something I have no control over—who I am. Yes, solving this case might stop the Death Eater jokes, prove I'm more than my mother's name, but 'til then, I have to keep trying. So don't you dare tell me I'm not taking this seriously."
She finishes with a flourish, her breath laboured and heavy. All the flames of hell are in her eyes; her teeth are gritted so hard the enamel must be wearing off.
"Go."
"Excuse me?"
There is still fire coursing through her veins: her breath is shallow and quick; her flushed, creased forehead is lined with beads of sweat; and her fingers have curled into white fists.
He's seen all the signs before.
"Go home. Take a bath. Get an attitude adjustment. And come here tomorrow only if you're ready to work."
The fists tighten. He knows her nails are leaving indents on the soft flesh of her palm; he can see the tremble run down her spine like tremors before an earthquake. She opens her mouth and he cuts her off.
"You've said your piece. Go home."
(x)
Going home would be admitting defeat, so she doesn't.
She storms out of the Ministry, too angry to think straight, and heads for the first place that comes to mind: a rundown Muggle pub near Kings' Cross that should've been demolished years ago. The clientele is the sort her mother would deem 'unsavoury': men and women covered in mosaics of tattoos and scars, women in too-tight clothing, smoking cheap cigarettes. They leer at her, but she strides confidently up to the bar, orders, and sits in a corner.
The whiskey is sharp against the back of her throat. She pulls her case notes from her bag and pours over them, re-examining the evidence, looking for something, anything that they might've missed.
She almost misses it again.
The scrap of parchment slips out and flutters to the floor. When she reaches out to catch it, she realises she's never seen it before. She recognises Genevieve's handwriting: it's a letter addressed to her brother. She scans it hungrily, her eyes drinking in each scribbled word.
Her breath catches in her throat. She re-reads it.
"No."
She runs out of the pub, her whiskey unfinished.
She arrives at Rosalind Waters' flat, wheezing and hoping she doesn't smell of alcohol. "Hi. Me again."
The nineteen-year-old regards her awkwardly. "It's late."
It isn't actually—just dark, which means little in winter.
"I know, sorry. But I've got something to show you."
(x)
When she reaches the office, Moody's gone. She notices Scrimgeour, and debates speaking to him, but decides against it. She's never liked Scrimgeour—there's something slippery about him.
Instead, she spins on her heel and goes straight to Knockturn Alley.
She's always imagined it would be bustling at night, a centre of crime and debauchery operating under a veil of blackness, but it's as deserted as it is in sunlight. Shutters are drawn, and a strange fog seems to have settled. The air is thick, heavy, and ominous.
She finds him locking up a store, a golden cup under his arm. He starts when he sees her.
"You're—"
"The Auror. Hi, Mr. Milton."
He smiles shakily. "I'm just— this cup, my office is confiscating it. It was stolen."
"Really?" She quirks an eyebrow. "By who?"
"Er..." He finishes locking up and places the cup on a nearby ledge. "Can't disclose that—"
"Oh, you can. That cup's not stolen—or it wasn't. You're stealing it right now."
"What? I— "
"We found the letter," she interrupts. "That Genevieve wrote to her brother. Clever, really. You making a small fortune by stealing valuable artifacts, and pretending to investigate, all while selling them on for a hefty price. Only she didn't like it, and confronted you. She was going to expose you—which would probably piss some people off—and you killed her."
His mouth is an unflinching line; he no longer resembles the Graham she'd befriended during interrogation. A shiver runs down her spine.
"Rosalind confirmed we were together."
"She recanted," says Tonks triumphantly. "You only showed up at three AM, trembling, saying your wife'd been killed and you'd be convicted for it because of the affair. You made her feel guilty, so she covered for you. Stupid, really, but unsurprising—she was sleeping with the likes of you—"
Two loud cracks filled the achingly cold air. She gasped; he'd disappeared and reappeared behind her, a knife to her throat and wand to her stomach.
If he wasn't about to kill her, she'd compliment him on his Apparition skills.
"Well," she mutters, "that did not go according to plan."
"You shared this little theory with anyone?" he hisses.
"No."
She feels a cruel smile stretch across his face. "Good. It'll die with you."
It all happens in a split second.
The knife pricks her flesh. She kicks backwards, hoping her foot meets his groin and it does. He staggers away, the knife clattering to the ground. She grabs her wand and points it at him; he attempts to disarm her, but, disoriented by the pain, fails. He tries again, but she's too quick for him: his wand flies out of his hand and lies lifeless on the floor.
He turns to run, but she catches him straight in the back with a stunner. He sways and crumples, a rag doll with the stuffing pulled out.
She wants to say something witty, like a detective in a novel, but nothing comes to mind. Instead, she lets out a long slow breath. It forms little puffs of mist, silver against the Alley's darkness.
She stays like this for several moments, letting her heart rate normalise and the realisation that she is alive and uninjured sink in.
"Not bad," says a voice. She spins around, wand at the ready.
A figure emerges from the darkness. Her mouth drops open in shock.
"Please don't tell me you were there the whole time."
He scoffs. "Of course I was. I followed you."
"Why didn't you intervene?"
Moody smiles mysteriously.
"Moody."
The smile disappears. "A bad teacher jumps in when his student's in trouble. A good teacher is confident he's given her the skills to figure it out for herself."
She's stunned at his profundity.
"Don't tell Scrimgeour I said that."
"I could've been killed though."
He rolls his real eye. "Don't exaggerate."
"He had a knife to my throat!"
"And you had a wand!"
"So, not the point, Alastor!"
"Respect, lass."
She wants to laugh, cry, throw her arms around him and hold on for dear life. Instead, she hangs her head.
"You were right," she mumbles. "I missed the letter the first time 'round. I lack focus."
He doesn't offer reassurance. "Learned a lesson?"
"Yes."
"What?"
She looks at him, a twinkle in her eye.
"Always listen to you."
(x)
The day he retires, Tonks is there.
She carries the boxes out of his office and into his flat. She keeps tripping over the front step, but—miraculously—doesn't break anything,
When everything's moved, she hugs him tightly, her lithe arms stretching around his rounded middle. "I'm going to miss you, Moody."
He pats her on the back awkwardly.
"I'll see you again, right?" Her voice is an oxymoronic mix of hope and worry.
He's been reading the newspapers. He knows the signs and he knows, sooner or later, the call to reform will come. And he knows that when it does, he'll show up at her doorstep, his arms folded and his voice low, warning of danger and justice.
He knows she'll accept.
"Yes," he says, a ghost of a smile haunting his face. "You'll see me again very soon."
Written for: Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, S6, Round 7 - Puddlemere United, Chaser 2, Prompts: The Next Karate Kid (the only film in the series to have a male mentor/female mentee dynamic), Optional Prompts: letter, Knockturn Alley, and "Well, that did not go according to plan"
The Golden Snitch (Melusine, Beauxbatons) - Through the Universe (Eccentricity: Mad Eye Moody), World Doll Day (Police Officer: Write about an Auror)
Word Count: 3000, excluding title and A/N
Beta-ed by the lovely desertredwolf - thank you!
A/N: I promise that this hasn't taken away from The Lost Children - expect an update on the 26th of August. I'm now Chaser 2 for Puddlemere United in QLFC, and very, very excited for the upcoming rounds! Please do let me know what you thought of this, regardless of whether you loved it, hated it or were mildly indifferent - reviews are chocolate chip cookies!