She frowned as she felt a tiny hand gently shaking her shoulder. Amelia burrowed into Sirius's side just a little more, groaning tiredly and breathing in his musky scent that was so uniquely Sirius – at least he didn't smell of wet dog half the time anymore like he had in Hogwarts.
Her husband had changed so much since the two of them had first met – he had been older than her, one fourth of the infamous Marauders, and just as infamously, he'd been a Black. House Black had a reputation for spawning men and women who thought themselves better than those around them, who preached, in the more recent generations, of Blood Purity – it hadn't been any surprise that more than a few had agreed and espoused the Dark Lord's agenda.
Sirius had been different, though. He had walked the halls of Hogwarts with a confident swagger – his shoulder-length, dark curls, which she absolutely loved to run her fingers through when she got the opportunity, would sway back and forth with each stride. She could remember the carefree grin he would walk around with, and the way he'd laugh with James Potter, and the young Remus Lupin.
Those smiles, and that easy laugh were nothing more than a distant memory these days – Sirius had grown up, matured past the charming young man that had caught her eye all those years ago. Fatherhood suited him – that much had been obvious in the years that she had quietly kept an eye on him as she worked her way up the ranks of the Ministry.
She had grown up as well – she was no longer the same idealistic young woman that had signed up with the Aurors straight out of Hogwarts. She had lost her brothers and had become a parent herself with Susan; a young woman that made her so immensely proud. In truth, she saw much of herself in Susan, and plenty of Sirius in Harry; though she also saw more than a fair share of both James and Lily, though she didn't know either of them particularly well.
The last year had disappointed her – Harry had been ostracised by the school simply because of a gift he had no control over, though she'd admit to herself that hearing how he had beaten Lucius's son half to death had worried her. She knew that Susan had a strong sense of right and wrong – no doubt a result of her own profession that had unwittingly been passed on – but knowing how she hadn't stood up for Harry?
She frowned once again as the little hand shook her bare shoulder.
A muffled whimper escaped her lips as her hair fell in front of her face and tickled her nose, which scrunched up at the tickling sensation. Her arms wrapped a little tighter around her husband, and she had to stop herself from purring like a cat as her fingertips ghosted over the hard muscles of his shoulders.
"Lady Black." A small, quiet voice whispered frantically. "Lady Black must bes waking up."
She cracked an eye open slowly and peered into the dark of the bedroom – the moonlight crept in through the gaps in the curtains, and a pair of green orbs were next to the bed, blinking worriedly at her. "Milpy?" She groaned, wiping at her eyes with the back of her wrist. "What time is it?"
"It bes one in the morning, Lady Black." The Elf whispered apologetically, and the eyes dipped a fraction in the dark – Amelia assumed the little Head Elf had curtsied. "There bes a Floo Call for you in Lord Black's office."
"Who is it?" She yawned, slowly extricating her arm from beneath Sirius, who groaned quietly and rolled on his side to face her – his eyes were still closed, and his lips were parted ever-so-slightly in the most adorable way. His hand snaked out of its own accord and wrapped itself comfortingly around her bare thigh as she began to inch out from beneath the covers. Her heart fluttered in her chest.
"It bes Ministry, Lady Black. Head Auror Scrimgeour." The Elf replied, with Sirius giving a soft moan in his sleep that had her momentarily stilling in her movements.
She reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair out of her husband's face and pressed a chaste kiss to his nose, grinning proudly to herself as his face relaxed. Once out of the bed, only a few moments later, and the skin of her thigh tingling where Sirius's fingers had dragged across it in the headiest of ways, she wrapped herself in her silk dressing gown, and followed the Elf out of the room.
Blackwall was as silent as a crypt at this time of the night – down the hall, through the cracked open door, she could hear the combined snores of Harry and his two Familiars, and she paused just long enough to check in on Susan; the girl also being fast asleep, cocooned in her duvet.
It was easy enough to know Remus was out for the night, with the way his snores carried through his door as easily as if it were wide open – whichever poor woman had that to look forward to in her future, she had Amelia's heartfelt sympathies. Though, in truth, she couldn't blame the man – between his condition and how hard he worked himself each day… he deserved as much rest as he could get.
She padded down the stairs quietly; her arms wrapped tightly around herself so as to try and ward off the midnight chill of the house – her dressing gown provided some comfort, but the lace Cami top and shorts did little to do much of anything other than to entice Sirius's wandering hands.
The rather smug smile that wormed its way onto her lips helped to wake her up a little more as she stepped into the hallway running down the centre of the house – Milpy looked over her shoulder at her oddly, no doubt confused where her sudden good mood had come from, which, despite being a happily married adult, made her cheeks heat a little.
Milpy opened the door to Sirius's study, and Amelia found herself greeted by the roaring flames of the Floo – there was no heat provided by the emerald fire, and she found herself frowning as she padded into the chilly room. A face began to form within the flames, and Amelia wrapped the dressing gown around herself more tightly.
"Amelia." The familiar voice said, stiffly, just as the flames finished forming his recognisable face.
"Rufus – what are you doing calling in the middle of the night?" She huffed impatiently. Rufus Scrimgeour was the Head Auror, and a good one at that – if a little stuck in his ways. The flames shifted as he frowned, his jaw twitching.
"It's Greyback – we have a confirmed location; he's in Birmingham, holed up in an abandoned factory and warehouse."
Her eyes widened considerably as she sank into the chair nearest the fire and folded her legs. "How did we find him?"
"One of the Birmingham pack came forward, looking for asylum from him – apparently he's been encroaching on territory. Killed their Alpha a few days ago." Rufus frowned, glancing behind him at something or other. "We're planning to hit him tonight."
"So soon?" Amelia frowned, sitting on the edge of the seat. "That's not enough time."
"We don't have time, Amelia – we've been after the bastard since the War. You know as well as I do that this is the best shot we've ever had at him."
"So, what are you doing calling me? I don't get involved with the raids like I used to."
"Not since you became a Black, you mean." Rufus huffed.
"Careful, Rufus." Amelia said, warningly.
Rufus scoffed and rolled his eyes before looking at her pointedly. "Normally, I wouldn't bother you, but I want to overwhelm him – I need you to authorise three Platoons."
"Three?" She blinked, her mouth falling open in shock. "Gods, if I do that, I'll have to take command of the operation – this has been your operation for years!"
"I don't care about recognition, just as long as we get the sick son-of-a-bitch." Scrimgeour growled, a hand briefly appearing in the flames as he ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. "I just want him got – can I mobilise the Aurors?"
"Which Platoons?" She sighed, rubbing her forehead tiredly.
"Forty-first Birch, hundred-eighty-first Alder, and the ninety-first willow. All three squads from each."
Amelia pursed her lips as she went over the Platoons in her head – they were strong men and women; and each Platoon had an outstanding track record since the days of the War with Grindelwald, and later Voldemort.
"I'll activate the three-hundred-and-twenty-seventh Gold too – they'll protect the command staff." She said with a nod and got to her feet.
"The three-two-seven? Don't you think they're a little overboard, considering the other three?" Scrimgeour frowned.
"Not at all – this is the most wanted man in the country. I'll not take any chances he could get away." She said, crisply. "Now, if that's all, I'm going to get dressed, and I'll meet you and the teams at the office – brief them before I arrive."
Rufus nodded and disappeared without a further word – in truth, she couldn't blame the man for leaping at the first opportunity in years to bring Fenrir Greyback in. She could still remember the scuttlebutt within the department about how Greyback had torn so many families apart during the last year – that he had the sheer balls to have remained in the country for all these years spoke volumes about the man.
They had tracked him up and down the country for over a decade – he'd been wanted before the War, but he had reached the coveted Most Wanted position in the waning days of Voldemort's reign of terror. How many orphans were out there, tonight, because of Fenrir Greyback? How many infected with Lycanthropy were treated as little more than beasts because he took perverse pleasure in infecting children?
She took a steadying breath as she imagined Susan or Harry with a bite mark, or with their bellies slashed open and throats ripped out because of that monster. She personally had no issue with Werewolves – she loved Remus quite dearly; he was intelligent, and he was Sirius's most treasured friend, and she knew the man adored Harry. Most importantly, he was responsible.
There were others – many actually within the Ministry itself – that abhorred Werewolves; Amos Diggory and Dolores Umbridge were the two names that sprang to mind – who would see wonderfully intelligent men and women, like Remus, put down for having the curse forced upon them.
As she swept from the study, and hurried to the stairs, she could also admit that often, the fear of the infected wizards and witches wasn't always entirely unfounded. There were those that revelled in what they considered to be gifts – they felt powerful infecting others; how many times had she been called out after the war to deal with one or two rogue Werewolves and Vampires?
A scowl formed on her face as she reached the top step – if one thing was for certain; Greyback had to be put down, one way or another. The man had more than earned the death penalty over the years.
The door to their bedroom creaked open, and the scowl that had just moments before been on her face washed away at the sight of him. It was still strange to think of herself as married – especially to the sleepy-eyed man that was leaning against the doorframe in little more than loose pyjama bottoms. Her eyes raked his body head-to-toe with impish delight.
"What's got you up and about at this time?" He whispered, though his eyes were still heavy with sleep.
"I have to go into work." She whispered back, slipping into the room as she allowed her hand to slide over Sirius's stomach as she passed. "They've found Greyback."
Sirius was awake instantly, and she caught him stiffening just before he closed the door behind him. "You can't be serious – you're going in for him? Where is he?"
"Birmingham – holed up in a factory somewhere, according to Scrimgeour." She answered, shrugging the dressing gown off as she padded over to the wardrobe. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sirius summon his wand to his hand and give it a quick flick as the lights came to life. She smiled at him, gratefully.
Her wardrobe was nicely organised – work clothes to the left, Lady Black attire to the right, and in the middle were a few guilty pleasures that she enjoyed wearing around the house. She was a Pureblood, and had been raised as such, despite the House of Bones being a more conservative family, but that hadn't stopped her from shopping in the occasional Muggle store over the years.
She picked out a sensible outfit – comfortable trousers, and a breathable shirt that she knew gave her full range of movement. she pulled out a pair of thick combat boots that came up to her mid-calf, rather than the office heels she often wore in her day-to-day.
Still feeling her husband's eyes on her, and privately revelling in it, she quickly set about changing – making sure to hastily grab the necessary underwear from her nearby drawers. "That's closer than I'm comfortable with." He said, quietly as she hooked her bra into place. She glanced over her shoulder at him and offered a sympathetic smile.
"Well, there's no way he can get into Blackwall."
"No – Arcturus and I made an exception for Mooney. Is it wrong of me that I don't want you to go?" Sirius sighed, running a tired hand down his face – it was with a sad, dawning realisation that Amelia realised he wouldn't be getting any more sleep either. "Do you want me to come with you?"
She shook her head as she pulled her trousers up, shimmying them over her hips and quickly fastening the clasp at the front – they were slim and hugged the shape of her legs, but still offered her the ease of movement that she'd need. "No – I couldn't bring you, even if I wanted to." She turned and briefly cupped her husband's cheek, tracing her thumb back and forth under his eye. "This is part of my job."
"You could always retire." He huffed, and it was just enough of a childish pout to make her grin and stand on her toes to press a gentle kiss to his lips – his moustache tickled her nose.
"I'd go mad within a week – and you'd be worn out within a few days." She grinned as she pulled away slowly before shrugging on her shirt. And fastening it with quick, nimble fingers.
"Promises, promises." He grinned cheekily. They both knew what she was doing – it was her way of reassuring him. Sirius was far more protective of those around him than he had been back when they first knew one another. Back then, they had been young, reckless, and brave. Everywhere you went, you had no idea who was your friend, and who would just as quickly curse you in the back.
Peter had taught them that lesson the hard way.
With Sirius having been released immediately following his trial, and the demands of having become a parent, it had been no surprise that Sirius hadn't returned to Auror work – most of his world had been utterly decimated in the waning days of the Blood War. Hers hadn't been much better.
In truth, following the wedding, she'd thought about stepping down from her position at the Ministry for a number of reasons – what if she was injured or killed? Could she do that to Sirius? To Susan? To Harry?
Strangely, whenever she'd brought it up over the past year, it had been Sirius encouraging her to remain – to continue doing what she loved and excelled at. He could still remember how she had been curled up in his lap in November, his hands cupping her jaw as he told her just how proud he was of her.
Her stomach fluttered pleasantly as she blinked and smiled at her husband – perhaps one day she'd retire and throw herself fully into the role of Lady Black; for tonight, she would be Amelia Black, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Sirius knelt before her, and guided her feet into her boots, making sure each was fastened securely before slowly rising as his hands trailed their way up her body. He cupped each side of her face as the tips of his fingers threaded through her loose hair. "You make sure you come back tonight; you hear me? You stay safe – and don't take any risks."
She nodded and pressed a quick kiss to his lips – she tried to fill it with as much love, care, and passion as she could. She pulled back and quickly pressed another to the tip of his nose, and another to each of those cheekbones that had made teenage Amelia go gooey. "I promise. Now, do be a wonderful husband and fetch my Auror Cloak, would you?" She grinned, patting his arse as he rolled his eyes and plodded to the far side of the room.
With a few quick twists, her hair was tied up and fixed in place with a tie, and a moment later, she was strapping her wand holster to her arm, over the sleeve of her shirt. Once comfortable and secure, she summoned her wand and slid it inside just as Sirius returned with her cloak held open for her to slip into.
The crimson colour had always, in her quiet and modest opinion, been a little garish. Though, she would have to admit, it made it incredibly easy to spot in a crowd – though even that came with its own issues in certain investigations. She threaded her arms through the sleeves and patted it down to remove what few wrinkles were visible before taking a deep breath and turning in her husband's arms. "You behave yourself while I'm gone – make sure the others don't worry. I'll be home as soon as I can, okay?"
"I know." Sirius harrumphed. "You promised." He added with a raised eyebrow, and Amelia had to momentarily bite the inside of her cheek to stop from grinning.
"And don't give Remus any trouble in the morning." She added with a stern wag of her finger. "No pranking."
Sirius huffed once again. "Just a little one?"
"No – you're not going back to sleep tonight, and you always get carried away when you've not slept well, so no pranking until I've had a chance to get back and show you how much I've missed you."
"Keep talking like that, and you'll be on Maternity Leave next week." Sirius muttered, chuckling as she slapped his shoulder and rolled her eyes. "Just… be careful. I love you."
"I love you too." She whispered, pressing another short kiss to her husband's lips. "Now, I have to get going or I'll be late." She said, a little louder as she stepped from the warm arms of Sirius Black. "Remember what I said."
"I solemnly swear." Sirius sighed with a roll of his eyes and a small, private grin as she backed towards the door. "Go on already." He added with a shooing motion as she backed out the door.
She pulled it closed, but just before it clicked shut, on an impulse, she stuck her head through the gap and quickly whispered, "I love you!" Before darting out and hurrying down the stairs as quickly and as quietly as she could.
In truth, she was far more nervous about this operation than any other on her record – there hadn't been enough time for her to be comfortable in moving forward with it, and there would be far too many unknowns. If it were up to her, there would be a week of scouting the location out, and just as much observation on the target – but, if they did that, there was every chance they would lose him.
As much as she wanted to preach patience, and to stop and think before they all rushed in, Rufus was right to be anxious to get the go-ahead sooner rather than later. She stepped into the study, just as Milpy and Lispy popped into the room, both Elves wringing their hands and idly tugging on their ears. "Lady Black bes staying safe?" Lispy asked, hopping from one foot to the other.
"I'll be as careful as I can be." She smiled down at the two. The Elves looked at one another, gave a small nod and popped away. Amelia, now all alone in the room, drew herself up, squared her shoulders and grasped a small handful of Floo Powder from the container on the mantle before throwing it into the flames. "Ministry of Magic!" She called confidently, her jaw twitching as the flames roared.
With one last steadying breath, Amelia stepped into the flames, and left Blackwall, surrendering herself to the sickening spinning motions of the Floo Network, before stepping into the Atrium of her workplace. It was quiet, though well lit, at this time of night with only the nightshift workers milling about and hurrying from place to place.
The heels of her boots gave quiet thumps on the marble tiles as she stepped out of the large hearth of the public Floo – the floating orbs of light that interspersed the large, vaulted Atrium glinted against the dark tiles, and not for the first time, she found the back of her eyes aching from the harshness of it; or, perhaps, it was simply the lack of sleep.
She swept past the large fountain in the middle, and quickly hurried into one of the gilded elevators. With a quick double jab of her fingers, the doors slammed shut, and the elevator was whisked away to the appropriate floor within the bowels of the Ministry.
It was a floor only accessible by Aurors – specifically those qualified for field work; there were a number of large briefing rooms, armouries, and half a dozen other rooms that were used as required. Once the elevator came to a halt, she stepped into the corridor and took in the grim-faced Nymphadora waiting for her.
"Ma'am." Tonks nodded, snapping to attention, which only eased at Amelia's curt nod. The two fell into step as Amelia continued toward the briefing room that she knew Rufus would be using – there was only one large enough to host three platoons. "Scrimgeour has everyone briefed, and we're all ready to leave on your command."
"Good." She hummed to herself, glancing at the pink haired Metamorphmagus. Dora had graduated from the academy with record-breaking marks, and the full endorsement of Alastor Moody – who they often invited to test graduates every now and then, despite his retirement.
Amelia had quickly snatched the young woman for herself; it was common knowledge that those at the top of the classes got poached by Senior Aurors each year. Amelia's last one had been a bit of a disappointment; a Flint boy named Marshall – powerful and smart, but lazy post-graduation, content to rely more on his family name than put the work in.
Dora had surprised her. While she was clumsy, and had a playful, mischievous way about her, there was also a serious side to the young woman – even now, as they approached the briefing room, there was that familiar glint in Dora's eye that spoke so much of the woman she could become, if only nudged in the right direction.
In hindsight, it shouldn't have come as any surprise that she'd been assigned to the three-two-seventh; the platoon most historically associated with the most successful men and women from the department – she herself had even served in it, as part of A-Squad, under the command of Alastor Moody.
A pang of fond nostalgia resonated within her chest as she watched Tonks open the door for her; the noise in the room cut out immediately at her arrival. Rufus stood at the front of the amphitheatre room, behind a hovering magical representation of their target building.
She nodded absently at Dora and stepped up to her Head Auror – his red hair had darkened with age, and it hung down to his shoulders on either side of his face; his eyes narrowed as she approached, and his jaw was tense. Despite what she personally thought of the man, he was an excellent Auror, even if he did have a piss-poor attitude most of the time.
"Black."
"Scrimgeour – I take it, this is it, then?" She asked, gesturing to the orange, semi-transparent mist before her. "Points of entry?"
"Roof, main door, and the loading bay – the forty-first has volunteered to take the roof." Rufus said, folding his arms across his chest and nodding in the direction of the platoon in question. The red-robed Aurors stood and snapped to attention as one, the white and grey trimmings of their robes and armour marking them proudly. Christopher Proudfoot could not look any prouder of the seventeen men and women under his command.
"Ma'am!" He nodded, relaxing his salute as Amelia nodded at them to relax; her own arms folding tightly across her chest. "We'll get the job done."
"Who's on the main door?" She asked, once the forty-first all retook their seats.
"That would be us, ma'am." John Dawlish said, standing quickly and keeping his posture rigid. "The ninety-first will handle the heavy lifting."
Despite the situation, Amelia couldn't help the little up-tick of the corners of her mouth – Dawlish was an experienced and competent leader, and the ninety-first specialised in these kinds of situations; each member of the three squads were heavy-hitters, powerful men and women that would be able to handle anything that came their way.
"And that leaves the hundred-eighty-first for the loading bay." Amelia nodded slowly, inclining her head as Anthony Williamson got to his feet.
"Ma'am." He nodded; the faintest trace of his Dublin accent still prevalent in his voice. He sat back down quickly – his team were perfect for infiltrations into Muggle areas, and the sage highlights on their robes and armour were worn proudly.
"And the command staff? I assume we'll be up here?" She asked, tapping the roof of the building across the street – the magic swirled around her finger briefly like smoke. "I want squad A from the three-two-seven with us, while the other two provide aerial support by broom around the target building with spotlights trained on it at all times."
The three-two-seventh, which fell under the command of Kingsley Shacklebolt all stood as one, snapping off a crisp salute – there were familiar faces all throughout the Platoon; after all, she'd served with many of them herself. There were times she missed the gold band on her Auror robes and armour.
Rufus nodded and made a flicking motion with his wrist, and the image shifted slightly, morphing into a representation of Fenrir Greyback himself. "A reminder – this is the man we're after. It's not a full moon, so none of us have to worry about bites or scratches, but if it comes down to you and him, don't hesitate. Silver secondary weapons are mandatory."
Amelia had to resist the urge to shiver at the snarling face of Fenrir – she'd had the unfortunate experience of having fought him once before, in the waning days of the Blood War; he had been ferocious and had quickly overwhelmed her. She'd barely survived the encounter.
"Everyone, grab your remaining gear, and be ready for Squad Portkeys in ten." Rufus called with a clap. Everyone shuffled from the room quickly, including Amelia, who hurried to her own locker within the armoury with everyone else – thankfully, Dora was on hand to help her strap her dragonhide armour on; just a little protection for her torso beneath the cloak she wore.
Out of habit, she double-checked her wand holster, and palmed a hand radio so she'd be able to keep in contact with the teams – out of the corner of her eye, she caught Rufus handling the crates of Scrying Bowls, all no doubt prepared for the coming operation.
She also made sure to strap a silver combat knife, tucked securely into a simple, black leather holster onto her right hip, angled for quick access to either hand, should she need it.
With everything secure, she turned to check over Dora – Sirius would kill her if anything happened to his favourite little cousin, not to mention the warpath Andromeda would be on if she got so much as a scratch. Tonks nodded confidently before whipping her head around the now considerably less busy locker-room; seemingly satisfied, the younger woman grinned at her cheekily and offered a playful wink. "Sirius is going to have puppies over this, you know."
"Don't you mean kittens?" Amelia replied, quietly, arching a brow as they made their way to the door.
Tonks gave a quiet snort as she opened the door for the two of them. "Nah." She grinned, stepping out into the corridor toward the Portkey room.
The two were the last to arrive; Tonks broke off to stand with her squad, sandwiched between Kingsley and Honour, the two most senior members of the squad. Amelia stepped up to Rufus and grabbed hold of the rope as she looked over her Aurors. "Be smart, be careful, and let's all get this son-of-a-bitch."
There was a resounding stomp as everyone snapped to attention at her words before the Portkeys activated – there was the brief sensation of spinning wildly, like water going down a drain, before she landed on sure feet on the roof of the building across from Greyback's hideout.
Immediately, everyone around her set to work – B and C squad took off on their brooms, circling high above, though none activated their spotlights just yet; no need to give the game up just yet. Rufus, and A squad set about setting up the Scrying Bowls on portable tables, while Amelia focused on paying close attention to what was being murmured on the radio.
Only the three-two-seventh had Portkeyed to the roof of the building, while the other squads had arrived at their own staging points – there was no point in wasting time getting into position with a man who had the heightened senses of a Werewolf.
"All teams, check in." She murmured into the handheld device – even up here, she was quiet, terrified of the possibility that Fenrir could somehow hear her. Even her breathing was too loud to her own ears. In the distance, the noise of Birmingham, and the nearby a-thirty-eight provided a low humming of life to the otherwise eerie stillness of the industrial estate.
"Ninety-first, squads A through C, standing by." Dawlish announced, his own voice low and slightly distorted through the radio.
"Forty-first, ready to drop." Proudfoot answered, and in the faint light of what few streetlights there were, she could see the Aurors on the roof across from her.
"Hundred-eighty-first, in position, all squads green." Williamson said tightly.
Amelia glanced at Rufus and A squad of the three-two-seventh and nodded at the quickly arranged bowls and table – the bowls were arranged by squad, and each had a faint cyan glow to the clear, still liquid. It was standard practice for an operation like this one. Each Auror would offer a single drop of blood to a bowl, which would track their life-signs – the moment a bowl turned red, meant that the Auror it was tied to was dead.
It was a useful tool for command staff, but to Amelia, it felt disconcertingly detached.
Merlin, how many had Sirius offered a drop to during the War? How often had he come close to having his Scrying Bowl fill with the colour of his blood? She shook herself violently, ridding herself of those thoughts and refocused her attention on the task at hand. Her jaw clenched as she glanced at Rufus.
He answered her silent question with a single, resolute nod.
"All platoons: Wands Free – you are clear to engage." She said, briefly shielding her eyes at the bright white spotlights that sprang to life from the wands of those in the air – the twelve on brooms flew in a loose holding pattern above the building across from them, their wands trained on the ground beneath them – there would be nowhere to run.
"Breach, breach!" She heard from Proudfoot across the radio, echoed from both Dawlish and Williamson as the men and women under her command burst into the building noisily.
She could remember her own days of completing similar actions, of stacking up on doors, and sweeping her wand through rooms, ready to unleash spells at a moment's notice. All around her, she could hear the quiet crunching of gravel as the squad assigned to her and Scrimgeour's protection quietly patrolled the rooftop.
The antenna of the radio tapped against her chin absently as she stared at the building across from her – it was nothing impressive to speak of; made of orange brick that had long ago been covered in lichen and graffiti, with a surprising number of windows along the upper floors.
Through those windows, she could see faint flashes of light as her teams worked through the building, room by room – it was early, but she couldn't help the feeling in her stomach that something was wrong; shouldn't Greyback have made himself known by now?
"How solid was the intel, Rufus?" She asked, without taking her eyes off of the building in front of her.
"Veritaserum confirmed it – why?" He grunted, glancing at her out of the corner of her eye. "You think he might not be here?"
"I don't know what I think, but it feels too good to be true." She muttered, tapping the aerial against her bottom lip as she folded her arms across her chest.
"Check left, check left." She heard Dawlish mutter to his team through the radio.
"Room clear." Someone else said.
"Stack up – breach in three, two, one!" There was the sound of a door being thrown open and the sound of hurried footsteps, but nothing more yet. "Watch for crossfire with friendlies."
"I don't see anythin', boss." Someone muttered, quietly.
"This doesn't feel right." Rufus muttered at her side; his own radio pressed tightly to his jaw as the two of them listened to the feed anxiously. "Perhaps we should pull them out."
"No – it's too late for that now." She sighed, drumming her fingers against her arm. "They have their job to do."
"Look, over there – sir, I've got fresh blood!"
"How fresh?"
"It's still warm."
"Do you think he might have killed tonight?" Amelia found herself asking, quietly – her eyes burned from the gentle wind as she continued to stare, unblinkingly, at the building across from them.
"It's more than likely – he has a taste for Muggles. Could be a worker from the area."
"Contact, contact!" The scream went out, and all of a sudden, spellfire was all she could hear and see from the interior of the building – men and women shouted, yelled, and screamed through the radio as Amelia felt the colour drain from her face.
"He's fuckin' everywhere!"
"Take cover!" Dawlish yelled, followed by a thunderous boom that had the rooftop trembling. Amelia ripped her eyes from the building and glanced at the Scrying Bowls – slowly, steadily, they were changing colour. Around her, she could hear the members of the three-two-seventh shift anxiously as they patrolled.
"He got Perkins! I need a medic!"
"Watch your fire, watch your fire!"
"I have Greyback confirmed on level two!"
"Negative, ground floor, groun-hck!"
Another bowl went red.
"Dawlish is down – fuck, where'd he go?"
Amelia glanced at Dawlish's bowl – thankfully, it wasn't red; just injured then. She breathed a little easier.
"We're taking too many casualties." Rufus muttered, absently chewing on one of his short nails – it was a habit she'd witnessed him do whenever he was agitated. She could even remember him doing it when he was her superior. "We need to pull them out."
"Agreed – all units pull back."
"Negative, ma'am, he's got us pinned and we have wounded!" Proudfoot yelled into the radio. "We need assistance!"
"No." Rufus said immediately, grabbing her shoulder. "I know that look – you are not going in there!" His dark blue eyes were stormy in the faint light of the nightlights around the estate. She shrugged herself out of his grip.
"I don't believe it's up to you to decide what I do or don't do, Rufus." She snapped, hooking the radio onto her belt. "You'll continue to direct things up here – pull back three of the ones in the air as a guard; I'll lead A squad myself. I'm not leaving men and women in there to Greyback."
"Amelia! You're the Director of the department – if he kills you…"
"He won't." She scowled, checking her holster for the hundredth time. She felt the men and women of A squad form up around her, and a profound sense of pride filled her belly. The three-two-seventh stood by its own.
"We'll look after her, sir." Tonks said, her voice strong, despite the recognisable fear that shimmered in her eyes. It was in moments like this that Amelia was reminded of just how young Nymphadora was.
"Aye – we'll look after her." Honour agreed with a firm nod of her head. Amelia inclined her head appreciatively at the two women, but otherwise said nothing.
"Amelia…" Rufus tried again, though this time it was far gentler – the radio had gone suspiciously quiet, and when she glanced over, there was only a handful of clear bowls remaining.
"It isn't up for discussion, Rufus." She snapped before glancing at the six men and women assembled around her. All stood tall, their shoulders squared, and jaws set. "We'll follow Dawlish's platoon and go room to room. I want illumination charms at all times in a twelve-foot perimeter – no premature spells; I don't want to risk more casualties because you saw a shadow move. Understood?"
"Ma'am!" The squad echoed.
With a resounding crack, she disappeared from the rooftop, only to reappear on the tarmac in front of the building – it looked so much more imposing from down here. She could see where the windows had been blown out on the upper floors by stray spells, and the bricks soaked up all the nearby light; not even the steadily patrolling spotlights helped.
All around her, her squad formed up – Shacklebolt, and a younger witch whose name Amelia briefly recalled being something Savage took point; their wands already held at the ready, while the other four surrounded her on all sides silently. Tonks took up position on her right, with Honour taking up one of the two spots at their rear.
"Let's move – I want this done quickly and as quietly as possible." She muttered, levelling her own wand over Kingsley's shoulder.
The squad moved as one, each step measured and in perfect sync with the others. The doors were already open from Dawlish's entry, and the second they stepped through the threshold, small orbs of light darted out of the wands of those all around her; Amelia made sure to contribute her own, and suddenly, the entrance foyer, covered in litter, dirt, and graffiti was visible.
There was a single, rounded desk at the far side, and a handful of simple, rotten chairs that lined either side of the room – a waiting area, no doubt. A single door led further into the building, hanging halfway off of its hinges.
"Move in." She murmured, her pulse racing as the adrenaline began to flood her system – her magic thrummed beneath her skin, and she felt her senses sharpen. The musty smell of the abandoned factory assaulted her nose and she crinkled it in disgust for a moment.
Kingsley led the way steadily, his wand sweeping back and forth for threats as they moved out of the waiting room; the little orbs of light flew ahead of them steadily – there were two rooms along the corridor, the first on the left, and the second on the right just beyond the furthest orb.
"Stack up." Kingsley said, getting into the ready position to lead the breach. Savage was behind him, her hand firmly on Kingsley's shoulder, and Amelia quickly placed her own on the woman ahead of her. "Breach!"
They rushed the room, Kingsley immediately broke left, a ball of light proceeding him, while Savage went right, covering his back – Amelia went straight ahead, her wand sweeping the ransacked meeting room and finding nothing more than a litter-covered table, more rotten chairs thrown about the room, and long-dead plants in the corners. "Clear!" Came the resounding call from the rest of the squad.
The squad reformed in the corridor, repeating the same action as they continued and checked the room further down, and to the right – this turned out to be nothing more than a bathroom; the stench of sewage nearly making her gag; only her years of experience with far more disgusting smells kept that from happening.
Time lost its meaning as they went from room to room; it could have been minutes, or it could have been hours. All the while, her heart pounded in her chest, and her wand remained clenched in a white-knuckled grip – she'd half expected to hear it snap.
Unable to stop herself, she swallowed nervously as they stepped into the factory proper. It was high and vaulted, reaching all the way up to the roof, where, thanks to the twinkling stars in the sky, she could just make out the skylights that the forty-first had dropped in through. She pulled the radio from her belt and held it to her mouth; her eyes sweeping back and forth along the perimeter provided by the hovering balls of light.
"We're in the factory itself – no signs of anyone yet." She said into her radio's mic, absently chewing her bottom lip until Rufus's reassuring voice answered.
"Understood – be careful."
She nodded to the squad and quickly hooked the radio back onto her belt, though she made sure not to look down – the more eyes trained on their surroundings, the better. "Let's sweep the factory before we check the upper floors and walkways."
"Copy." Shacklebolt nodded before stepping forward. The room, while large, and ringed by high walkways, was full of heavy, and complicated-looking machinery and long, filthy looking belts that had various detritus strewn across them haphazardly. After three paces, the first real evidence of the skirmish that had occurred came into view – a large chunk of one of the machines had been blasted to pieces, warped and twisted dark metal shrapnel was everywhere, still trailing faint wisps of black smoke.
The tell-tale smell of burned ozone wafted across her upper-lip as they steadily moved onward – it was silent as a tomb within the large room, with only the faint rustling of the breeze that had crept in through the blown-out windows shifting the lightest of the detritus on the floor.
Beneath her boots, thin sheets of clear plastic, crumpled newspaper pages, and plastic bags crunched noisily – there was no way to avoid it all; the floor was covered.
A moment later, the first signs of the Aurors became visible, just on the periphery of the orbs of light. A pair of legs was visible in the faint, silver-white haze, and the team made to move closer – there was no way to identify the Auror from their feet and legs alone.
Two steps further, and they all came to a sharp halt, and Savage gagged and looked away; her skin, which Amelia had noted in the locker room had been coloured with a healthy tan, looked paler than a corpse.
There, lying in the middle of the path, was a pair of legs missing its torso; blood pooled around the shredded, blood-spattered, and mangled flesh that hung as limply as the torn cloth. She rested a calming hand on Savage's shoulder, even as the woman bent double and dry-heaved. Amelia's eyes swept the darkness around them.
"See if we can't spot the rest of them." Amelia grunted, trying not to let the sudden, overpowering stench of blood get to her.
"You going to be alright, Janet?" Honour asked, quietly. Savage – Janet – nodded silently and ran the back of her right arm across her mouth. Amelia pressed her lips together tightly.
They moved further in and came across three more similar corpses; all ripped in half with their upper-bodies missing, and various innards strewn around them – all bore the markings of Dawlish's platoon; a maroon highlight on their crimson armour.
"Poor bastards." Kingsley muttered under his breath. The aisle became increasingly more constricting the further in they moved, and Amelia couldn't help but give Fenrir credit – he'd chosen this place well.
"Contact!" Honour called, snapping her wand up as Amelia spun around; her magic coiled tightly. "I saw movement, up on the walkway, four o'clock."
"Anyone seen any stairs yet?" Tonks asked, glancing around, though her wand was still trained in the direction Honour had called out.
"Not one – I figure we're heading in their direction now." Kingsley muttered from behind her, and Amelia felt her jaw clench. Everything about this felt wrong.
She reached for the radio on her belt and pressed the rubber button on the side as she brought it to her mouth. "How many Bowls are still clear?"
"Five." Rufus answered her after a pause. "Dawlish, Proudfoot, Williamson, and Smith. I assume they're holed up together without radios – at least, I hope they are."
"Any movement outside?"
"Negative – reports of movement through the windows once or twice, but nothing substantial yet."
"Understood – we've got K.I.A in here; torn apart. Only found the lower-halves so far."
"Spell or hand?"
"I'd say by hand. We'll get the others and retreat – we'll organise a recovery team for the bodies when we get back to the Ministry."
"Understood."
"Chances they're on the upper floors? I spotted some offices when we came in." Honour said, her voice tight and tense.
"Most likely – that's where I'd be." Janet nodded, slowly. There was a startled gasp as bricks from the ceiling clattered to the floor to their right, bouncing off of the machinery and creating an echoing racket – Tonks gave a quiet yelp at the sudden noise.
"That's where we'll go, then." Amelia nodded once the noise subsided, glancing at the young woman at her side, whose chest was heaving from the scare. "You alright, Tonks?"
"Yes ma'am, I just hate jump-scares is all." The pink-haired witch nodded, offering a weak smile.
Amelia nodded before turning around and tapping Kingsley's shoulder with a silent order to continue on. The further in they got, the more that same uneasy feeling continued to churn in the depths of her stomach – what she wouldn't have done, to have been curled up in bed instead of traipsing through an abandoned factory, coming across the remains of her Aurors she had ordered to their deaths.
But that was the job – they all knew, even she knew, that any operation, any day could be their last; there was a very real reason why only a handful of each generation of Aurors made it to retirement, and even fewer made it there in one piece. Alastor Moody was a prime example.
In the silence of her mind, with every fresh spray of blood that dripped quietly from the machines around her, and with every mutilated corpse they came across, she couldn't help but wonder if, despite her promise to Sirius, tonight might be her last night.
No – she refused to think like that. Fenrir Greyback was a dangerous, and terrifying individual, but she was Amelia Black, the head of the D.M.L.E, and the protégé of Alastor Moody himself – she wouldn't be taken down by the likes of him, and she certainly wouldn't give into fear.
They made it to the far side of the room, and she couldn't help but wince at the grouping of corpses by the bottom of the stairs – unlike the others they had come across, these were all in one piece, except, of course, for the gaping wounds across their bodies.
There were six of them – an entire squad, then; and all adorned with the colours of the hundred-eighty-first. Throats had been torn out, and bellies slashed open – she hoped it had at least been quick, though, knowing it was Fenrir, she feared even that small slither of hope was too much to ask for.
"They didn't know what hit them." Janet Savage murmured, appalled. "Not one managed to get their knives out."
"Dropped into the middle of them, no doubt." Kingsley nodded, and from her position behind and to the right of him, she could see the muscles in his jaw clenching under his dark skin. "Bastard."
"Let's move them off to the side – respectful as we can, but let's not linger." Amelia grunted, casting a silent Wingardium Leviosa on a pair of bodies, while Janet and Kingsley took the remaining ones. The wet, slapping sounds as innards spilled onto the floor at the movement was sickening, but Amelia pushed past it and focused on the task at hand. The bodies were left six feet away from the bottom of the stairs, though a thick trail of blood and other bodily fluids marked the small journey they'd taken.
"Watch the stairs." Honour muttered, just as Amelia glanced at her – the woman's eyes were trained on the darkness just beyond their light charms. Above, one of the three-two-seventh on broomsticks passed by overhead, their spotlight passing through one of the open skylights in the roof.
The light swept over them, and Amelia had to wince and shield her eyes before the light moved on. She glanced back at Kingsley and gave him a firm tap on the shoulder, signalling for him to advance once again. He went forward slowly, his wand trained on the spiralling curve of the cast-iron staircase, and his footsteps echoing in the quiet of the abandoned factory.
Janet was next, her footsteps lighter than the large, six-foot man ahead of her. As Amelia watched the two of them, he seemed a giant next to her petite frame. Savage gestured with a hand, and Amelia followed, with Tonks a step behind her.
Her first footstep up the stairs echoed with a dull thud, and the light splash of the thin layer of blood that coated its surface – she grimaced at the sound. Around them, the balls of light rose with the squad; the steady footfalls of all six members slowly making their way up, and up, around, and around.
By the time they reached the first floor, her thighs burned from the controlled movement – each muscle in her body was tense, like a coiled serpent ready to strike. Kingsley stepped onto the walkway carefully, his wand still up and at the ready as he swept the path ahead of them.
The walkway itself wasn't wide, with enough space for two to walk abreast, but no more. The squad arranged itself into a staggered line and began moving forward. There were more signs of struggle along the walkway, and they came across two bodies belonging to both the forty-first, and the hundred-eighty-first.
The first had been slumped against the railing, a look of pained shock on her features as she held her innards in her arms; blood dripped slowly from her chin, and the tears that had marked her cheeks were dry.
The second body – a member of the forty-first – was slumped over the railing, arms hanging limply. He, for the body was obviously male, was missing one leg and, to Amelia's mounting horror, his head. He was eased, gently and carefully off of the rail and onto the floor, the ragged tatters of torn skin spilling even more blood. Amelia's eyes darted around the darkness of the factory once more as the rancid stench of the factory mixed with the acrid taste-smell of iron and copper and assaulted her nose.
She was thankful, at least, that the walkway ran along the brick wall – they could at least be confident that they would see Fenrir coming from whichever direction he would choose to attack. Honour was watching their rear, Kingsley leading them, while the rest of them focused on watching above and below the walkway.
They approached the offices slowly; warily. If Fenrir hadn't attacked them yet, this was a perfect place to spring an ambush – Amelia tensed, waiting for the worst. "Just as before – room by room." She murmured, receiving quite grunts of acknowledgement from all those around her.
She counted four doors in the short corridor, two on either side – small, cubicle-like rooms that no doubt served as offices for administrators and managers. Her jaw tensed once again as two orbs of light travelled the length of the corridor.
"Two at a time – Kingsley, you take Honour, and Wallace and do the first on the left, I'll take Janet, Tonks, and Edwards and clear the right."
The large man nodded, and the group quickly split to their assigned sides – Edwards, a stocky, blonde man with short, slicked-back hair took the point position, with Janet taking the second position, followed by herself, and finally, Tonks. She glanced at Kingsley across the short corridor and gave a single, sharp nod.
Edwards burst into the room, slamming open the door and immediately swerving to the right – Savage followed him in, hugging the thin plasterboard that made up the left wall, while she and Tonks trailed after them, offering short, clear barks of "Clear!"
They didn't relax, however – instead, they simply filed out of the room and into the corridor where they saw Kingsley's team doing the same. There was some smeared blood on the wall to her right, but she paid it no mind – all that mattered right now was clearing these last two rooms.
"I hear voices!" Kingsley hissed, edging toward the door on his side of the short corridor. "Three-two-seventh, Auror Shacklebolt – identify!" He called, his deep voice sharp with the same tension that she, herself, felt.
"Shacklebolt! It's us! It's Proudfoot – Dawlish and Williamson are injured, and Smith is out cold!"
"That's Christopher; I recognise the voice." Honour muttered, pursing her lips thoughtfully.
"I'll join you for this one – clear the last room you three." Amelia nodded, gesturing to the final room. "Proudfoot, it's Black, we're coming in – if you fire upon us, we will respond with force; do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am!" Proudfoot called back. She gave the nod to Kingsley as both teams stacked up – she would enter last.
Kingsley spun into the room, followed by Honour, and Wallace – all three barking "Clear!" in a sharp staccato. Amelia entered, just as the other three were hurrying over to the wounded in the back right corner.
Proudfoot had dragged and flipped the desk to offer some cover, which he knelt behind, his wand still trained on the door, with his wide eyes darting about their faces. He slumped back at the sight of her, and tears began trailing down his cheeks.
"It's okay; we're here now." From behind her, she could hear the calls of the other team before they joined them. "What happened, Proudfoot?"
"I don't know, ma'am." He muttered, shuffling out of the way as Honour and Wallace hurried to check over the others. Dawlish was on his back, a deep cut trailing across his stomach and chest from hip to shoulder – his chest rose and fell with pained, ragged breaths as his eyes stared into the distance, beyond the ceiling.
Smith was unconscious, propped up in the corner with his head lolled forward – there was a nasty cut on the back of his head, and his skin was paler than normal; Amelia breathed a little easier when Honour checked for a pulse on his neck and gave her a thumbs up.
Williamson was in the worst shape; sprawled on his front and a number of agonising-looking slashes on his back – some so deep, she could see the faint white of bone peeking out from beneath his robes.
"He came out of nowhere." Proudfoot moaned, wincing as he grasped at his stomach. "He got me good on the walkway."
"Relax, we're going to get you out of here." She said, kneeling and placing a hand on the man's shoulder. She pulled the radio from her belt and held it to her mouth. "Black, here – we've got the wounded."
"Understood. What's their condition?" Rufus asked, breathlessly. No doubt he was relieved – Amelia couldn't blame him; she'd been terrified that they might have been too late.
"Smith is out – Dawlish and Williamson have major injuries, and Proudfoot has a stomach wound." She said, inching Proudfoot's cloak and shredded armour aside to peek at the injury – a single slash; painful, but not deep.
"That's good to hear – I'll send one of the three-two-seventh to alert the Ministry Infirmary and Saint Mungo's. I'll get packed up here, too. Get out of there as soon as you can."
"Will do." She said, before standing and hooking the radio to her belt once again.
"Black – you're going to want to see this!" Edwards called from the doorway where he'd moved to keep watch; now that they had the survivors, they could Apparate back to the rooftop and leave with Scrimgeour and the rest of the platoon.
"What is it?" She asked, stepping around the desk and over the chair that had been thrown to the ground. Edwards said nothing, instead, the blonde simply raised and pointed a finger at the far wall between the office doors; right where she'd noted the blood earlier.
Her breath caught in her throat as she took it in, and she staggered to the left, catching herself on the doorframe. Tonks was immediate behind her, her hands gripping her arms carefully before she too, gasped. There, written in thick, viscous swathes of blood were the words…
"The Little Wolf is next…" Tonks moaned, her hand darting to her mouth.
The words and the threat they implied were chilling enough, but it was the lightning bolt "L" in 'Wolf' that struck at her very heart – her eyes swept the corridor once, twice, three times before taking a shuddering breath, a quiet moan ghosting its way past her lips. Behind her, Tonks squeezed her arm reassuringly.
"He did this to get to you." Kingsley said, appearing behind her as she glanced over her shoulder. "Ma'am, we need to get out of here."
She nodded and scrubbed at her cheeks furiously – the sooner they left the factory, the sooner she could tell Sirius, the sooner she could arrange a larger manhunt for the beast. Her jaw clenched and unclenched as she stepped back into the room, Dora's voice echoing in her mind as she dropped to a knee next to Proudfoot.
Her eyes darted to those around her, all with mixed looks of worry and concern on their faces – for the injured, and for herself and Tonks; their relationship with Harry was quite public, after all – both of them had pictures of Harry on their desks. "We'll follow you out, ma'am." Savage nodded, slinging Dawlish's arm around her shoulders – she looked like a child next to his sheer bulk.
Amelia nodded and licked her lips, nervously. A moment later, there was a resounding crack in the air, and the next thing she knew, she was on the rooftop, surrounded by the three-two-seven, and Rufus was kneeling before her, frowning, and sweeping his wand back and forth over the two of them.
All around them, the varying cracks, and muted thumps of the rest of the team split the night – everyone pitched in to help where they could, and before she could say anything, Proudfoot was taken off her hands by a burly-looking man with burn scars down the side of his face and neck, and scars littering the other side.
"You're in a mild shock – what happened? Is he still in there?" Rufus asked, frowning.
"He left me a message." She grunted, dusting her thighs down; the knees of her trousers were crusted with blood – Dawlish's, or Williamson's, she couldn't tell; they'd both been bleeding enough from their wounds. "A personal message."
Rufus said nothing to that, a knowing glint forming in his eyes as he continued to stare at her for a few moments, his jaw working from side to side idly. "Alright, then. Let's get back to the Ministry."
The interior of Cornelius Fudge's office was covered in large bookshelves, lined with books upon books about various laws and proceedings. There were titles that she had no hope of understanding, and frankly, no desire to read, even if they were the last things on the planet.
The far wall was all glass – quite thick and resistant to spell-damage; she would know, it had been her department that had suggested the upgrade to his security five years ago when he'd received death threats from some middling extremist group in Scotland.
Below, she could just make out the heads of those milling about in the Atrium around the hideous golden statue, and the various messenger memos that flew back and forth between the offices. She huffed out a quiet breath as she took in the man opposite her.
He was well past his prime, overweight, and with a balding head of grey hair. He wore a deep green, almost black, pinstripe suit, and a pale blue shirt, complete with a tie – it had always amused Amelia; for all that Cornelius Fudge was a supporter, politically, of the traditionalists; thanks in no small part, no doubt, to the generous donations of Lucius Malfoy, he had quite the taste for Muggle clothing.
Cornelius stared at her silently, his thin lips pressed tightly together, while his hazel eyes did their best to feel intimidating, reprimanding, even. It did little good other than to simply annoy her – it had been a long, disastrous day, and she had reports to file before she would be able to return to the comforting arms of her husband and family.
His finger tapped idly on the desk in the silence of the room, his nail giving it a sharp ring, and a part of Amelia wanted to chastise the man over his treatment of the fine, expensive-looking desk. To his left, sat just half a pace behind him, but still clearly in view, was the Minister's Under-Secretary; Dolores Umbridge.
Now there was a woman that made her lip curl.
Her skin was smooth and clear, though her features gave her a pinched look every time she adopted that sickening smile of hers. Her lips were painted in far too much lipstick, which matched the garish assortment of pink that she always dressed herself in – again, in the style of a Muggle suit.
There were rumours, of course, of the woman and the way she treated those beneath her, that had made it through the grapevine at the Ministry. People talked – the Aurors more than anyone. There was nothing like a bit of gossiping around the kitchenette while making oneself a fortifying cup of tea or coffee, and there was no juicier gossip than the goings on in the Ministry itself.
Dolores Umbridge had the reputation of a pure-blooded bigot; quick to fire anyone transferred to her departmental oversight who didn't have at least four generations of respectable ancestors; and she simpered to the likes of Kullens, Trinner, and Malfoy – staunch advocates of the Pureblood Agenda within the Wizengamot.
There were worse rumours about the woman, of course, but even they seemed too far-fetched at times.
To her left, sat Rufus Scrimgeour, his face stony, and his expression unreadable – his elbows were on the padded arms of his chair, and his fingers interlocked over his stomach; his legs were crossed, and his right foot was absently bobbing.
"I trust," Cornelius began, slowly, the jowls of his neck bobbing with the slow, deliberate movement of his jaw. "That you understand the need for this meeting before the others join us."
"Yes, Minister." Amelia answered, inclining her head, and threading her fingers together in her lap casually. "We have no excuse for the events of last night."
"I should think not, Amelia – after all, fifty men and women are dead thanks to your blunder." Dolores tutted; her voice shrill and grating, despite the low volume. It was a miracle that Amelia managed to keep the snarl off of her face as she looked at the Under-Secretary.
She didn't need reminding of the men and women that had lost their lives. She had been right there with the drafted platoons that had gone to recover the bodies in the hours following their retreat. She had helped the Aurors comb the factory and the warehouse, and she had spent the rest of her day personally contacting the next of kin.
Amelia was well aware of how many had been killed.
"It was under my request to go after Greyback, Dolores." Rufus rebutted, levelling his gaze on the woman. "I was the one who requested those platoons be activated and deployed – we had credible evidence that Greyback was there; verified by Veritiserum no less. There's a reason he's evaded capture for so long."
"Yes, I'm well aware of the threat and danger Greyback represents." Cornelius huffed, leaning back in his chair as his gaze swept back and forth between the two of them. "Nevertheless, there was a grievous loss of life in the early hours of this morning – something that hasn't happened during this administration up until now."
Amelia inclined her head – Cornelius's last campaign had focused on the years of peace that he had presided over; to have the sudden deaths of three whole platoons on his record would make that continued message difficult to sell.
"Perhaps, Minister, it would be wise to inform the public just who was responsible for this… abhorrent loss of life?" Dolores offered, leaning forward from her perch on the edge of her chair. Amelia met the pair of challenging green-eyed gaze of the woman across from her, unflinchingly – she'd witnessed worse things in the last few hours alone.
"It has merit." Fudge nodded absently as he stroked at his jaw before heaving a sigh. "Alas, as it stands, we must deal with the issue as a united front, or risk appearing weak and fractured to the public."
"Minister." Rufus said, evenly, as he bowed his head the slightest fraction.
"Understand this – the both of you," Cornelius said, leaning forward; his chair squeaking, and Amelia caught sight of the satisfied smirk on Dolores's face over the Minister's shoulder. "I will not abide another disaster like the one this morning."
"Of course, Minister." Amelia nodded, pressing her lips together tightly, even as her teeth threatened to grind against one another. "It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't." Cornelius grunted, waving a hand before rubbing at his forehead. "How we progress forward will depend entirely on the coming meeting – neither of you will jump the gun as you did last night."
Amelia and Rufus both nodded, though neither of them said a word.
"Excellent – now, I think it's high-time we get this meeting underway. Rufus, as the most junior here, would you mind letting the others know they can enter?" Cornelius muttered, reaching for a small folder on his desk and flipping it open.
Amelia glanced at Rufus, and offered him an apologetic look, even as he rolled his eyes and moved to the door. She turned in her seat as the door opened and offered polite nods to her entering colleagues.
There were four other departments involved in the manhunt for Fenrir Greyback, though the duty primarily fell to the D.M.L.E, as it was her people that went out on the raids and were most often placed in harm's-way; something she had been gruesomely reminded of.
Dirk Cresswell entered first, the recently appointed head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, or, as everyone in the Ministry referred to it as; the D.R.C.M.C.
He was a wholly unremarkable-looking man; middle-aged, though he had maintained his figure, unlike Cornelius and a number of other higher-ranking members of the Ministry. He had a thick head of brown hair that had the messy look of someone who often ran their fingers through it. His skin was pale, and he favoured unassuming suit trousers with a shirt and cardigan combination. He smiled politely back at her and took the seat immediately to her right. He crossed his legs at the knee, pushing the pair of square-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose as he did so.
Next was Vesta Mahon – the head of the Department of Magical Transportation, or the D.M.T, for short.
She wore a smart suit of burgundy, and her heels clicked on the floor as she walked in, carrying a small stack of folders clutched to her breast. Her olive complexion was healthy, and for a brief moment, Amelia had a pang of jealousy at the appearance of the beautiful woman. Her hair was dark and wavy as it flowed past her shoulders, and her eyes were the colour of rich chocolate.
Amelia shook herself for the petty jealousy – she was no longer a child; she was a woman, successful in her own right, and married to a man she both adored and loved. A man who she very much wanted to return to – would it be too much to just go home, where it was safe; where she could make sure Harry was okay, that Sirius hadn't worn the carpet out, and that Susan hadn't fallen asleep on one of the garden benches again.
As Vesta sat, crossing her long legs elegantly – hers were longer – Amelia turned to regard the next member of the meeting. Korban Slait, head of the Department of Mysteries.
Slait was, like Dirk, quite unremarkable in appearance. His robes were more on the traditional side, open at the front and ankle-length and he wore a white shirt, with a breast pocket, and black trousers beneath. His hair was white, though there was a light peppering of stubborn black at his temples and was swept back.
She had worked with Korban a number of times throughout her tenure as the head of her own department, and while he appeared quite intimidating with his calculating gaze, she found his ability to perform forensics most impressive – a large number of convicted felons had been found guilty by evidence his department had been able to provide.
The last to enter was her one-time boss from the days of the Blood War – Bartemius Crouch, Senior. He was a tall, lanky man with a sour face, and a bitter personality. While she hadn't been under Crouch's command for long, she had experienced more than a handful of reprimands for stupid things.
She could understand some of it, to an extent. He had presided over a department that was fighting a war; a war in which it was hard to tell friend from foe. She had admired his severe, hard-line approach to those found guilty of supporting Voldemort, and had pitied him in the weeks following Sirius's farce of a trial.
Amelia couldn't imagine having to send Susan to Azkaban, of all places.
Just the mere thought of that fortress was enough to send shivers down her spine – she'd had to visit it semi-regularly over the years as part of her job, and each time, she'd wept herself to sleep from the effects of the Dementors.
Crouch caught her eye as he entered, and his lip curled in disgust. She resisted the compulsion to scoff at his childish act of derision – with the discovery of his only child being a follower of the Dark Lord, and the shame of attempting to convict an innocent man, Crouch's career in the D.M.L.E had been over, so too had his less-than-secret ambitions for the seat of Minister.
In fact, in the year following Sirius's trial, she could clearly remember Arcturus seemingly making it his life's ambition to ruin Crouch within the Wizengamot. At the time, she'd thought little of it – the damage had been done to the man, and he had never been particularly well-liked; respected, but not liked.
Now, as she watched him sink into his chair with contempt plastered all across his face, a part of her remembered those sessions quite fondly – nobody tore someone apart like Arcturus had.
"Hem-hem, now that we're all settled, I think it about time to begin – don't you, Minister?" Dolores offered, her already thin lips pressed together in a sickeningly tight smile as her eyes swept over those in the room.
Amelia glanced at Rufus to her left, who had settled back into his chair with a huff – she gave him a bemused look before focusing back on the room at large.
"Quite right, Dolores – now, we're here to determine how we can move forward in apprehending the most wanted man in the country; we'll go by department – Barty, why don't you start first?"
She turned her head to look at the man; he sat stiffly in his chair, and the pencil-thin moustache on his upper-lip twitched as he glared at the Minister. "My department is ensuring that our allies around the world are made aware that Mister Greyback is still at large."
"Excellent – any responses so far we should be aware of?"
"None yet; I'm expecting most to have reached out by tomorrow morning."
"Korban?" Cornelius asked, shifting his eyes from the sallow features of the ruined Lord of House Crouch. Amelia regarded the head of the D.O.M – he'd accompanied her and Rufus back to the factory with his teams of forensics specialists.
"My people swept the building and surrounding area thoroughly – we found traces of human matter, from liquids, to soft-tissue, and even partial skeletal remains in what we can only assume, was his, for lack of a better phrase, nest, just beneath the main reception." He announced with a sigh.
"Were these Muggles, or our own?" Dolores asked, sharply.
"Impossible to tell. We found evidence of varying ages among the victims – the youngest being only a few years old."
"That's deplorable." Cornelius muttered, and for once, she found herself agreeing with the man.
"Well," Dolores sniffed as she smoothed a wrinkle in her garishly pink skirt. "If you do manage to do your job and discover the identities of the victims, I trust you'll do right by any that are discovered to have been our own. Any Muggle victims, I'm sure, will find a mass grave sufficient for their own."
"I didn't realise I answered to you, Dolores." Korban growled. "I assure you, Madame Under-Secretary, that regardless of where they came from, they will be treated with equal amounts of respect."
"Agreed." Cornelius nodded. "What can you tell us about the rest of your investigations?"
Korban grimaced and shifted in his seat. "Not much, I'm afraid – it's too early to tell. We believe he's used the factory before – a bolt-hole, perhaps. We found an access point to a small, underground canal that links to the larger one on the far side of the A-thirty-eight." He glanced at the blank looks around the room, and Amelia had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. "The big road next to the estate." He sighed.
"Vesta, my dear? What news from the D.M.T?" Cornelius asked, smoothly moving on. Amelia felt her jaw twitch involuntarily from the patronising tone.
"No International Porkeys have been issued to anyone matching Fenrir's description, but due to the current legislation, we can't test for glamours and the like before sale. If we could get that changed, we might be able to do something, but by that point…"
"If I may, Minister?" Dolores asked, fluttering her eyelashes as the Minister glanced at her over his shoulder. At his nod, she turned her smile to the head of the Department of Magical Transportation, though, thankfully, Vesta didn't look at all intimidated by the Under-Secretary. Mahon had a well-earned reputation within the Ministry; sometimes, Amelia couldn't help but wish she'd ended up with the Aurors – she could use a woman like her. "I simply can't help but wonder if you're doing all you can, given the… situation?"
"And what would you suggest?"
"Well, we know that our target is a Werewolf, is he not? Is it not possible he could surface is we tighten the laws on his kind? Restrict their movement? Ban them from obtaining Portkeys, for example."
"It's an idea." Cornelius murmured, stroking his chin, thoughtfully. "They are dangerous creatures."
Amelia couldn't help the snort that escaped her.
"Something to say, Amelia?" Dolores asked, sweetly. "After all, you have the most experience with their kind, don't you?"
"If you mean Remus Lupin, then yes, and I assure everyone in here, Fenrir is an exception to the rule. Remus is mild-mannered, polite, and highly intelligent; I'd struggle to see you keep up with him when he gets going, Dolores." She answered, making a conscious effort to keep her tone neutral.
"Indeed, well, it's of no consequence." Dolores sniffed, patting the short up-do her hair was styled into. "It was simply an idea – one passed on from Lord Nott when he mentioned it in passing earlier this morning, in fact. The discussion reminded me, was all."
"Nott? He suggested it?" Cornelius asked, curiously. "Well, we'll have to give it the due consideration, of course."
"Of course, Minister." Dolores said, inclining her head, though there was a satisfied look about her that made Amelia's gut churn uncomfortably.
"On the topic of creatures, Dirk?"
Cresswell shifted uncomfortably next to her and offered a sympathetic grimace before focusing his attention on the two behind the desk. "As everyone is aware, it's being handled by Diggory's team as it's their specialty. They've been reaching out to the various packs around Britain, but so far, nothing."
"That is unfortunate." Dolores hummed, a single finger tapping her thigh as she speared Cresswell with a look of contempt.
"However, on the subject of Dolores's suggestion about the laws, I must say that my department would recommend not restricting those afflicted with Lycanthropy even further. Tensions are high between the Pack's and the Ministry as it is." Dirk added.
"This has been the sentiment of the I.C.W for some time, also." Crouch grunted, though he looked loathe to admit it.
"We'll table this discussion for another time, once Lord Nott's recommendation has been given the appropriate consideration befitting his station." Cornelius answered, before turning his gaze upon Amelia herself. "Amelia?"
She cleared her throat as she glanced around the room. "As you're all no doubt aware, in the early hours of this morning, a raid was conducted in an Industrial Estate in Birmingham, to apprehend one Fenrir Greyback." She paused, levelling a look at Cornelius. "Needless to say, it failed. Of the three full platoons sent in, we have only four survivors – all in the intensive care unit of Saint Mungo's."
"Jesus." Dirk swore under his breath.
"Families have been notified – I saw to it, as much as I could, myself, as the one that signed off on the operation. It's since been discovered, thanks in no small part due to the efforts of Korban and his people, that only ten Aurors died to spellfire; the others were killed and mutilated by hand."
"I can confirm these findings." Korban nodded, grimacing. "It was… Quite the sight. Director Black should be commended for leading the three-two-seventh to rescue the survivors herself."
"We're well aware of the actions of Director Black." Dolores answered, coldly.
"It should also be brought to your attention, that we believe we know who his next target will be." She paused, sucking in a breath in an attempt to fortify herself. "We believe he intends to target Harry Potter."
Cornelius began choking; his face turning an impressive shade of purple, while the other directors, besides Slait, who had seen the message for himself, began murmuring to themselves quietly – she heard a distinct scoff from the direction of Crouch.
"This – this cannot be allowed to happen!" Cornelius managed, once he'd regained control of himself. "Every possible measure to protect Potter must be employed; is that understood?"
"I plan to see to it myself." Amelia nodded. "He returns to Hogwarts tomorrow, and my husband will make sure the appropriate security is put in place through the Board of Governors. I suggest doubling the Auror presence in the town of Hogsmeade, and-"
"Ahem, if I may, I believe I have the perfect solution to this mess." Dolores said, and Amelia bit back the annoyed retort at the interruption. "As we're all aware, no doubt, the annual budget review for the D.M.L.E is coming up – may I suggest, however tentatively, that we employ a cost-free method?"
"What are you getting at?" Cornelius frowned.
"Why, I'm suggesting sending beasts to hunt a beast, Minister – deploy the one thing that will deter Fenrir Greyback and use them to safeguard Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. Deploy the Dementors."
"You can't be serious!" Cresswell snapped, jumping to the edge of his seat, and slamming his hands on the arms of his chair. "Dolores, have you lost your mind?"
Amelia went pale as the blood rushed from her face – for a moment, she felt lightheaded as her heartbeat began to thud in her ears. Dementors… at Hogwarts! Merlin, she couldn't think of a more terrifying, reckless, and frankly stupid thing to suggest!
"Dolores, you can't seriously be thinking it appropriate to surround children with those disgusting things!" Rufus snapped, jolting her back to the meeting at hand. "Do you have any idea just how dangerous they are?"
"I'm well aware of the danger they represent, however, they are under the control of the Ministry – we determine who they use their abilities on."
"Minister, you can't possibly think this is a good idea." Amelia said, only just loud enough to be heard. "If the parents hear about this… Merlin, as a parent, I think this is stupid!"
"She could be on to something." Cornelius muttered, leaning forward on the desk and steepling his fingers. "You've admitted just the other week, Amelia, that your department has exceeded the allotted budget-"
"Because crime is going up!"
"Nevertheless, I think this may be the best logical choice – we will take every precaution, of course; but with the threat of the Dementors after him, Greyback will be run to ground in no time at all, you mark my words."
The setting sun was just peeking through the treeline at the far end of the grounds, the thin beams of light dancing back and forth to the steady, gentle swaying of the treetops in the breeze. Her nostrils were filled with that familiar, heady, rich smell that seemed to only exist in Sirius's study.
It was exactly as it had been when she'd left that morning; not a single thing looked out of place as her eyes swept the room. Her eyes wandered back to the window behind her husband's desk, and she stepped over to it slowly, her boots thudding softly on the varnished floorboards.
The study itself was on the ground floor of the manor, but the building itself sat a little higher than the surrounding grounds; a gentle, easy slope leading down past the colourful gardens, and into the large, open lawn that stretched until the far treeline.
It was a wonderful view, and as she stood there, she couldn't help but smile at the sight of Harry and Susan, lounging on the grass, chatting animatedly about their Familiars; Harry with Clara and Hedwig on each shoulder, and Susan's Augurey familiar, Bones, nestled comfortably in Susan's lap.
They painted quite the picture of innocence – two children unaware of the threats and dangers that surrounded them; perhaps Harry was a little more aware than her little Susan, but for how much longer would they keep that innocence?
Sirius would have Harry grow up, wrapped in cotton wool and hidden away from the world in safety – something that she understood wholly. With the death of her brothers, the task of raising Susan had fallen to her – there was nothing she wouldn't do to make sure Susan was safe, and with her marriage to Sirius, that same, hauntingly familiar feeling had extended to Harry as well.
It was hard to believe that she had only met him properly a little over a year ago, but it had felt like so much longer. With the betrothal to Sirius, and the two of them reconciling and discovering one another again, she had heard all about Harry as a boy; though she knew there were likely many, many more stories to be told – she'd seen all of the pictures of him as a baby, as a young boy that tried to look so much older, and the young teenager he had turned into.
She could still remember the first time Sirius had broached the subject of his Prongslet – he'd had such a far-away look in his eyes, and his voice had taken on a proud, wistful quality that only ever made itself known when he was talking about Harry. Sirius was so proud of him, declaring him the best of both James and Lily.
Amelia had known both, though distantly, through Sirius – James had been a mischievous young man, always with a charming smile, and playful twinkle in his eye, and Lily had been a force of nature unto herself. Both had been kind, and intelligent, and…
A part of her hadn't wholly believed Sirius when he'd said as much, but now, looking out at Harry's grinning face as he reached up to scratch Hedwig's chin, she could see it – in truth, she'd seen it the moment she had laid eyes on him.
How could someone like that, become the target of someone so heinous, so reviled, as Fenrir Greyback? What had Harry ever done to that beast? She knew the answer, of course, loathed as she was to admit it, even to herself: Nothing.
Harry had done absolutely nothing to earn the focus of Greyback. Greyback simply wished to incite chaos and pain wherever he could, however he could, and what better way to do that, than by targeting the boy their world held so dear, whose family sigil was a wolf?
Her teeth clenched, even as a smile tugged on her lips as Susan threw her head back and laughed at something Harry had said.
Edgar's girl had blossomed this past year, and she knew nobody would be prouder than her oldest brother. She could still remember the way he'd smiled, rather goofily, as he passed his daughter into her waiting arms.
Susan had been so small, bundled up in her blankets, and she'd had this look on her face; something between concentrating and constipated, as she'd gazed up at her through half-closed eyes, her lips opening and revealing her tiny, toothless gums.
Her hand had wriggled its way out of the blankets and immediately pawed at her loose strands of hair; Amelia could still remember sinking into that soft chair beside Maddison's hospital bed and waving her finger around little Susan's nose, making cooing sounds to the sleepy baby.
A tear tracked its way down Amelia's face, and she swiped it away stubbornly with the heel of her hand. Edgar and Maddison had been killed two months later, leaving her as Susan's only living relative – Christopher, the middle-child, and his wife Freya, had been killed just before she'd graduated Hogwarts; murdered on their honeymoon.
It was something she'd always regretted; not being able to give Susan anyone else with the Bones name – it had just been the two of them, in The Ossuary. She'd made sure Susan had friends, but nothing quite amounted to family.
Susan had been shy, when she'd first met Harry – the two were in different Houses at Hogwarts, and Harry, for a lot of children, was a larger-than-life figure to them. When she'd heard of the distance between the two of them during their last year…
She blew out a breath and pulled her hair out of the frayed up-do and ran her fingers across her scalp. She'd been disappointed – she'd raised Susan to be better than that; she'd taught Susan to always stand up for what was right, to form decisions on her own and not allow others to influence her. At some point, she'd forgotten that Susan was still a young teenage girl.
At least they seemed to get on now – they'd need all the support they could give one another in the coming year.
The door opened slowly, and she glanced over her shoulder to see Sirius standing there, leaning against the doorway; a small crease between his eyebrows as he took her in. "Are you okay?"
"Just thinking." She answered, quietly – she tried to offer a reassuring smile, but couldn't help but feel it fell a little flat.
"What about?" He asked, pushing off the door frame until he was behind her, his arms snaking around her middle, his fingers drawing gentle circles on her stomach as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"Work. The kids. Everything." She sighed, leaning back against his chest as her hands settled over Sirius's. "It's been a hard day."
"You said as much when you called earlier. You know it isn't your fault, right?"
"I know that, but…" She licked her lips. "I feel like I could have done more. Fifty dead, Sirius – we haven't had casualties like that since the war."
"They knew what they were getting involved in – they knew the risks. Just like Prongs and I did, back in the day."
"I forget you were an Auror sometimes." She huffed, returning her gaze to the children outside. "Would you still be one? I mean…"
"I don't know." She felt Sirius shrug. "I did a lot of stupid things when I was younger – Arcturus had been ill for so long, and so many Blacks were signing up with Voldemort, and… Sometimes I think I really only joined to prove we weren't all like that. It helped that James did it too, I think. Lily was furious with both of us when we told her."
"It must have been hard, back then."
Sirius pressed another kiss into her hair. "It was, but we had each other – well, we thought we did." He huffed, and Amelia found her fingers drawing lazy figures on the back of his hands. "Blamed myself for years afterwards, but Arcturus set me straight in the end."
"What did he do?" She asked, shifting so she could look up at him – he hadn't shaved, and his jaw had a rough five o'clock shadow, and his grey eyes were focused past the window, on the children.
"Slapped me around a bit." He snorted, winking down at her. "He sat me down, and told me in no uncertain terms, to pull my head out of my arse and that not everything was about me." Sirius shrugged, the faintest of fond smiles on his lips. "Told me James and Lily had made their decisions, and I'd made mine. Theirs had, inevitably, gotten them killed, and mine had landed me in jail, and no doubt would have seen me in Azkaban if not for how the trial turned out. After the trial, I… I wasn't in the best shape, emotionally, I mean. It got me focused on Harry and helped me pull myself out of the grief – Remus helped, too."
"I miss him." She whispered, lowering her eyes to their joined hands.
"Remus? I can go and get him-"
"No, you arse, you know I meant Arcturus." She snapped, slapping his hand, even as the corner of her lips twitched, and she could feel the shaking of his shoulders.
"I know – I miss him too."
"He'd know what to do."
"He'd tell you to get your head out of your arse." Sirius snorted quietly, and Amelia couldn't help the grin that split her face. "You did the best you could have given the situation, and four people are alive because of you. How are they, by the way?"
"Smith is still comatose, but he was responding to the treatment. Dawlish and Williamson were in surgery for most of the day – they think Williamson's spine got nicked, and Dawlish had some severe internal bleeding. Proudfoot had a few shattered ribs, so they were keeping an eye on him for a few days." She said, turning in Sirius's arms and wrapping her arms around his chest. "I spent a bit of time with Dora."
"How's she doing?"
"She's tough." She mumbled, burying her face in Sirius's doublet. "You'd have been proud of her."
"Dora's the best of us in a lot of ways, I think." Sirius said after a moment of silence. "She'll always be that little kid I remember, though."
"That's how I think of Susan." Amelia smiled, leaning back as Sirius glanced down at her. "Just before you came in, I was thinking of when Edgar handed her to me."
Sirius snorted, and a fond grin appeared. "Gods, you should've seen Prongs. Kept mumbling 'my son' for a month whenever he held Harry – everything changed after Harry was born."
She nodded and glanced over her shoulder. "It was the same with Susan. I wasn't ready, looking back on it."
"You were – I told you as much back then. It was me that wasn't ready."
"But you stepped up. Harry couldn't have a more loving home." Amelia smiled up at Sirius, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "Harry is who he is because of you."
"Don't think I don't see a miniature you out there with her Augurey." Sirius huffed, nodding in her niece's direction through the window. Amelia twisted and raised a brow curiously.
"Really?" She hummed. "I always thought I saw Edgar – maybe a little bit of Chris and Dad."
Sirius snorted. "Trust me, it's scary at times."
"Why do I suddenly feel insulted?" She asked, narrowing her gaze at her husband as she looked at him again.
"On the contrary, it's the highest compliment." Sirius murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead that made her smile. "Come on, Remus wanted to speak with you if you're up to it."
"I-" Amelia began before pausing, her eyes darting back to the children lounging on the grass. "Nothing can get through the Wards, right?"
"I raised them properly after you told me about the threat earlier. Remus is permitted, because he's tied to the Family Magic – nothing is getting in without my permission."
"Okay, it's just-"
"-Birmingham is so close; I figured as much. Dobby's watching the two of them as well."
She smiled and cocked her head at Sirius – the fading light was dancing back and forth on his chest, and in the fading light, his grey eyes were looking at her with such a clear tenderness, that it made her heart flutter in her chest, despite the awful day.
He held his hand out to her, and she took it gratefully, their fingers intertwining as he led her from the study. The two of them walked through Blackwall sedately – a welcome change of pace after the last eighteen hours.
Sirius led her to the library, where Remus was nestled in a winged-back leather chair, legs folded at the knee, and a book perched in his lap; a cup of steaming tea sat on the table next to him, and his face was lined with that familiar sense of tension it got whenever he was concentrating.
"Moony." Sirius called as they two of them entered – Remus glanced at them quickly and snapped the book closed as he got to his feet.
"Sirius, Amelia – do either of you want a drink, or?"
"No thanks."
"Sure." Amelia nodded tiredly, smiling appreciatively at Kreacher as he popped in with a steaming mug for her. The hook-nosed Elf bowed silently and disappeared as she wrapped her hands around the beverage and blew on it gently before taking a fortifying sip.
She closed her eyes for a blissful second as the warm liquid travelled down her throat, and a contented sigh whispered past her lips, and when she opened them, Remus had retaken his seat, perched on the edge with his elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped before him.
"Amelia, I have to know…"
"Didn't Sirius tell you?"
"I thought it best he hears it from you – you only told me about the threat to Harry. I implied the rest and didn't want to make any assumptions." Sirius shrugged, though he chewed on the inside of his cheek anxiously.
She sighed and wiped a tired hand down her face; shifting so she was half leaning against Sirius. She stared at the cup in her hands, her left index finger absently tracing the rim. "He got away, obviously." She began, her voice quiet. "Fifty dead; four wounded. He tore them all apart – only ten were killed by spells."
"Gods…" Remus moaned, burying his face in his hands. Sirius remained silent.
"The message was written in blood, and he used a lightning bolt as the 'L' in wolf." She continued, taking a shuddering breath. "Rufus and I are being held accountable by Cornelius and Dolores, which is fair. Rufus came to me for the go-ahead, and I signed off on it. Korban and his team from the D.O.M went back there with us a few hours later to collect the bodies and do a proper investigation."
"How bad was it?" Sirius asked, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and giving it a light squeeze.
"We think he's used that place for a while; Korban's team found too many remains for them all to have been recent. Some were… too young."
Remus got to his feet suddenly and wandered over to the crackling fireplace, his hands resting on the mantle – in the flickering flames, his body half-turned to the two of them, his amber eyes glowed, and his skin was pale; his scars standing out vividly. "And now he's after Harry." Remus muttered, staring at the flames.
"I think it's time you told her." Sirius offered, quietly, and Amelia found herself frowning at her husband, confused. He didn't see her, however; his eyes focused on his best friend across the room.
As the silence dragged on, the darkness of the rows and rows of bookshelves, travelling up three different levels, and disappearing into the high, vaulted ceiling felt all-encompassing, stifling, and oppressing. Amelia shifted awkwardly.
"He bit me." Remus announced into the silence; his voice snarling as his fingers clenched the mantle – she heard the faint cracking of the varnished oak. "I was four."
"Greyback infected you?" She gasped, her free hand going to her mouth.
"He did." Remus nodded as his shoulders heaved. "Every full moon since…"
"Gods, Remus, why didn't you say anything?"
"I'm a Wizard." He answered her, drawing himself up slowly to his full height, though she noted the tension in his shoulders remained. She watched as he straightened his doublet. "I've always considered myself a Wizard first, and a Werewolf second, but when Sirius mentioned you had gone after Fenrir, well, I…"
"Say no more." Amelia nodded, quickly putting her mug on the coffee table, and perching herself on the lip of the couch. "I understand."
Remus smiled sadly; his lips pressed tightly together as he clasped his hands behind his back. "I don't think you do, but I appreciate the sentiment nevertheless." He breathed in deeply through his nose before heaving a sigh. "This will make Hogwarts difficult."
"You don't say." Sirius muttered, dryly. "I can only do so much on The Board – and I know for a fact that Harry's been looking forward to Hogsmeade since we got back from Arpton." She smiled sadly as Sirius got to her feet, his wand appearing in his hand as he cast a quick charm to repair the cracked wood. "Can he not be home-schooled this year?"
"He'd never forgive you." Amelia sighed, running her hand through her hair. "Susan would never forgive me, either."
"And it would make my new job rather redundant." Remus huffed, folding his arms as he frowned. "Besides, if the three of us are at Hogwarts, I can keep an eye on them, and if Greyback does show up, I-"
"You are not going toe-to-toe with Greyback!" Sirius snapped, pointing a finger at his best friend. His face was flush from the sudden anger, and his shoulders heaved. "You tried that stupid shit in the War, and you almost got yourself killed!"
"Excuse me?" Amelia blinked, eyes darting between the two of them. Remus scoffed and looked away, scowling as his jaw clenched and unclenched.
"Moony was tasked with infiltrating the packs in the War for Dumbledore, and he tried to goad Greyback into a fight, only he set his pack on him instead." Sirius growled, waving an arm in Remus's direction. "If you think he won't do the same shit twice…"
"I'm not stupid, Sirius!" Remus snapped, snapping his blazing gaze on her husband.
"Really? 'Cause you're supposed to be the smartest Marauder, but when you come out with shit like that-"
"Enough!" Amelia snapped, getting to her feet, and folding her arms as she marched up between the both of them. "It's been a pretty awful day, and I'll not sit here and watch you both argue like children. Nobody will get close to Greyback unless it's one of my Aurors, is that understood?"
Sirius scoffed and turned away, waving an arm over his shoulder. Remus remained stubbornly quiet.
"I said: is that understood?" She repeated, louder and sharper. She received a pair of grunts from the two men. "Good, because there's a far more serious problem. Cornelius is posting Dementors around Hogwarts and Hogsmeade."
"He's doing what?" Both men yelled, anger and disbelief in equal parts.
Sirius swept past her half a second later, his boots thudding against the carpet. "Where do you think you're off to?"
"To ruin Fudge's fucking career!" He bellowed, throwing the door open and storming out.
