Pre-Chapter A/N: Welcome to September, guys! Let's smash whatever goals we've set ourselves this year. More chapters on my patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga)— same username as here and link in bio. Experimenting with two chapters a week, we'll see how long I can keep this up for.
XXXXXXXXXXX- NYMPHADORA TONKS
It was all she could do not to throw up as she walked into the house. All around her there were aurors, hit-wizards, and forensic specialists. It made the cramped quarters of the home the Boy-Who-Lived had grown up in all the more stifling. She chuckled into her mouth. To think she had believed like so many others that Harry Potter had grown up in a castle in Scotland built by the Founders close to Hogwarts, being taught by their ancient portraits, magic that would make him fulfill his destiny as the next Merlin. What a joke. Instead, the Boy-Who-Lived had grown up in Surrey, with Muggles of all things—people. Muggles were people, she silently affirmed, trying not to allow the prevailing sentiment within the department to get to her.
She heard the sound of a wooden cane and flinched before he even called her name. "Tonks! Situation. What happened here?" he asked. He knew she had read the preliminary report as well as he had. They were far from the first aurors on the scene. In fact, the scene was near a day old at this point, kept fresh by stasis enchantments crucial to the department's work.
"Some sort of message, sir. Someone killed them, nailed them up like this, and then shot up the Dark Mark. I think at least six or seven magical from how much magic was in the residue from initial scans," she said, giving the information from the report and then her own prognosis. Mad-Eye chuckled, his eponymous eye flickering this way and that.
"Too young to know this, I guess, but that is no excuse. Powerful dark wizards can leave traces that make it seem like there were more of them. So it could be six or seven wizards, or it could be one extremely powerful one."
"You-Know-Who?" she asked, even feeling silly for saying the name. She trusted Dumbledore, of course she did. But this idea that You-Know-Who had somehow come back and only Harry Potter had seen him. She knew Potter as well as most who went to school with him did; he didn't seem the sort to lie, but then again why hadn't he said anything in the immediate aftermath and allowed the Headmaster to bring it up during a vote that was apparently slated to not go in his favor? It was all too stinky.
"Precisely. I'd recognize this particular flavor of violence anywhere. Recognize anything about the positions of the dead Muggles?"
"One on each end of the room and the third on the ceiling?" she asked. What was notable about that? Considering just what had been done to them, there wasn't much real estate for placing them if the goal was to send a message.
"I wouldn't expect young Nymphadora to notice such a thing, Alastor. In fact, I remember that you didn't know about it until I told you about it back in—was it '69?"
"'68. The murder of Bartholomew Abbott."
"Indeed. Your memory is as sharp as always, Alastor," the headmaster praised, a bright smile on his face.
"Enough of the flattery, Dumbledore. Like you do not remember what you wore on that day, and what I did as well, and what socks you had on, and what Muggle sweet you had for breakfast. Just tell the girl and let's be on with it."
"In my defense, you did only wear those garish red robes at the time." Tonks actually came to a stop. Several of the aurors around them did as well. Did the headmaster? Albus Dumbledore, famed for his outlandish robes and presently wearing one that depicted the stars constantly in motion, was calling their robes garish?
"Albus!" Mad-Eye said instead, not seeming to want to get into the debate.
"Yes, back on topic. Now Nymphadora, as you lack a Muggle education, you might not recognize the significance of their positions. Regardless, describe to me what you see. Focus on Vernon here," he said, his tone sobering up as he returned to the topic.
"Vernon?"
"The older man," he said, pointing straight ahead. She turned to the man and once again felt the urge to throw up. This was her first scene with this much violence, but she knew it was normal for the job. No one here was even flinching. The only reaction the Headmaster had had to the sight was losing the twinkle in his eyes. His tone remained as casual as ever. Her talent for reading people told her he was playing it up for her sake, but even that was foggy. Everything with the headmaster was foggy.
"The bo-body," she began, and cursed herself for the stutter. She focused in, leaning in on her training. Just analyze and describe. Don't think about it, she told herself.
"The corpse is stuck to the wall by some sort of sticking charm, but there are nails, one affixed to each hand, and one nailing both feet together that appear to be doing the work. The posture of the body is too upright for that, however; the corpse would have slumped to the floor if it had just been the nails. The cause of death appears to be a straight slash across the neck that from the corpse's clothing bled for a long while. There is another wound, a straight stab to the side that appears to have come from some sort of blade. Most likely the spear left at the center of the scene. The body is arranged spread-eagle, arms out, and feet placed one atop the other. On the corpse's head is a wreath of thorns, most likely a reference to the floral wreaths that were common in Rome," she said, her tone flat as she leaned on the Occlumency training she'd gotten as a child to control her powers and improved upon during Auror training.
"Indeed, correct. Now if you were Muggle-born or Muggle-raised, you would recognize this all as a depiction of a famed crucifixion."
"The Roman punishment for traitors?" she asked, as she began to see it.
"Yes, but one in particular. It is a depiction of the crucifixion of Christ from the Bible."
"Oh," she realized. Her father might have been a Muggle-born, but with both his parents dead and him being an only child, he never had much exposure to the Muggle world these days. He spent all his time at work or at home, and being a wizard, he didn't care much for his parents' Christian beliefs.
"Indeed."
"Does this mean the perpetrator is a Muggle-born?" she asked. That was the next logical thing, after all.
"The Knights of Walpurgis, before they went by the name you know them by today, the Death Eaters, used similar displays. Most suspect it was motivated by a certain Muggle-born witch, Agatha Hark, who had tried to spread Christianity throughout her time at Hogwarts and for decades after she left it, until she was ultimately murdered in her home by the Knights themselves."
"A witch tried to spread Muggle religion in Hogwarts?" she asked, near chortling.
"I don't think that should be your main takeaway, Nymphadora." She bristled at the use of her first name. At least until Mad-Eye sent her a warning look.
"Right, the main takeaway is that this is the work of the Death Eaters. Explains the Dark Mark and all."
"No, your main takeaway should be that Voldemort has returned. This was him."
"We can't really claim that without evidence, can we? Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. And you can't just say that the Greatest Dark Lord the world has ever seen is back without more than your word to go by," she said, giving him much the same argument she'd heard her father give her mum when she'd suggested upgrading their wards when the news articles started coming out.
"Sadly, Tom is much too smart to leave us extraordinary evidence to point to. All we can do is watch and notice the signs. And the signs point to something wicked on its way."
"The signs could point to a million other things. These people. The fact that they were killed like this doesn't mean anything. It means there's a Death Eater out there, or someone obsessed with the way they used to do things. But we get copycat killers all the time. It could just be a sick fan. These are the family of the Boy-Who-Lived. There's no shortage of people out there who would want to kill them," she explained.
"And the spell for casting the Dark Mark? I assure you that even I have not been able to figure it out. I doubt any of the Dark Lord's most loyal would have given the spell away to a copycat killer," he countered, seeming to enjoy the debate more than anything else.
"I'll grant you that point, Headmaster. More likely, this was done by someone in the Inner Circle that we failed to catch."
"But then the question becomes, why did they wait so long to do so?"
"No, Dumbledore, the question is why you assured me that the Boy-Who-Lived was living under the strongest wards outside of Hogwarts when all my forensics can assure me that whoever did this just waltzed right on through the front door." A stern voice that had featured in more than one of Tonks' nightmares came from the door. They all turned to see the imperious form of Madame Bones walking through the door. By her side, Rufus Scrimgeour, the Head Auror, came in with his lion's mane of hair. These two along with the Headmaster being here did more to drive home just how important this case was. Regardless of what the papers chose to say about him these days, Harry Potter was the closest thing the wizarding world had to royalty, and the fact that his home had been attacked like this was going to be big news no matter what.
"Well, the answer for that is simple. The wards the late Lily Potter set up were blood wards that were designed to work for as long as Harry Potter considered this place to be his home. Of course, the fact that there are no more wards here should tell you enough. Young Harry wasn't here. He hasn't been here for a while."
"He's living with Black on the continent. I know that much," Bones said with a sniff before walking further into the room.
"No," she whispered when she took in the scene.
"It is exactly as I warned you, Amelia. The signs are clear. You see it clear as day. Only one person left his victims like this," the Headmaster said. Then, as he spoke, the body on the ceiling, the thin woman, dropped to the floor with a splat.
"He hasn't lost any of his taste for the dramatic, has he?" the headmaster quipped before he drew his wand and a serious look appeared on his face. Tonks wondered what was going on before the body on the floor rose.
"What the hell is going on?" she heard one voice shout.
"You said the bodies were inert," she heard another shout.
"They fucking were."
"You disgust me, Dumbledore." The voices ceased as the woman's voice spoke out. Except that there was something ethereal about it, like the voice leaving her throat was not hers.
"Hello, Tom," he said.
"That you would hide Harry Potter here with Muggles who dared to abuse him is more than I would have expected from you. But why should I have expected differently? I have taken Potter's revenge for him. And I warn you now, never again will old magical blood be made subjugated to the whims and caprices of Muggle pigs. Quake in your boots, Dumbledore. Your end is nigh. The Dark Lord might be dead, but the dream of a better Britain lives on." The voice spoke through her throat, getting louder until it was a scream.
"Shields!" she heard the Headmaster's voice, but even then she struggled to act in time. One second, they had been in a house, and the next all she saw was fire.
She coughed, trying to speak. She felt her lips move, but heard nothing, and then there was a ringing in her ears. She looked around, seeing nothing but dust around her. She felt a hand on her shoulder and felt a popping sensation in her ears.
"Can you hear me, Nymphadora?" That was the Headmaster's voice.
"Yes, Professor," she said, never even noticing that she had fallen back to old habits.
"Splendid. Good to see I haven't slowed down too much. Would have been such a waste to lose one as promising as you. Now I need you to close your eyes. When the dust clears, this will not be a pretty sight," he said.
"What? What are you talking about?" she asked.
"Ventis maxima," she heard another voice. It was Mad-Eye's. Where was he? She felt the headmaster try to turn her body away so she would not see, but for all his strength, she was a Metamorphmagus. If she refused to be moved, she would not be moved. The dust cleared, and part of her wished she had allowed the Headmaster to turn her away. She was in hell. In front of her, the house had been blown to pieces. Sunlight fell down on them with no obstruction. The roof was gone.
She started looking around. Madame Bones and Scrimgeour were both none the worse for wear. They must have been able to shield in time. Apart from them and Mad-Eye, who had waded into the mess with no hesitation, there was no one else. She could see the bodies of her coworkers—friends—strewn about in pieces. Not a single one was intact. To the left, there was someone's lower body. It was still upright. The upper body was nowhere to be found, like it had been torn in half.
"Tom was always fond of his explosions," the Headmaster's voice said.
"We heard what the body said, Dumbledore. The Dark Lord is dead. This is someone else," Scrimgeour bristled, looking around as she was.
"Call in the Obliviators, Tonks. Get out of here," Madame Bones' voice said next. It took Tonks a second to realize she was the one being addressed. She looked around again; the Muggles around were coming out of their homes to get a look at them. She swallowed and focused on her destination, determination, and deliberation. It took her longer than it should have, but she finally felt the sensation of being sucked through a straw that marked a successful apparition.
XXXXXX- JEAN-PIERRE DELACOUR
He felt the urge to put his hands on his head and sigh again, but he knew the second he did that his worried wife would walk through the door. Veela could sense all sorts of things, and she was just waiting for the chance. He read through the report again. Japan had stopped. Nothing had happened; they'd just taken Nepal and stopped there. The ICW couldn't come to a consensus on what to do about that, and now they were consolidating their wins.
The Press would probably report this as a win. The Japanese had stopped their constant expansion. Some Ministers would even try to take credit for it, most likely, but this was worse. The first time, they had managed to push them back so much by starting rebellions within the territory they had only recently taken and hadn't integrated, while fighting them from the front. With so much to think about, they had been forced to sue for peace and disgorge some of their ill-gotten gains.
Now, they were smarter. If they were stopping so quickly, then it meant they were making sure they were integrating the taken territory immediately after taking it. It would mean a slower conquest, not as quick as the plague of black-robes that they had foreseen spreading over Asia while the ICW got their heads out of the sand. But they had plans for that plague. Small things they could do here and there to prevent the Japanese from securing as total a victory as they would think and then giving them space to counter when the time came.
"Mon amour," his wife called, walking in with two steaming mugs balanced on a tray. He looked up at her. Blonde hair that fell to her hips in curved ringlets, angular features, skin that looked so perfect it was like she had never stepped outside a day in her life. Beautiful. Incomparable. Not for the first time today, he considered himself the luckiest man in the world. He did so whenever he woke by her side.
"Sweetheart," he replied as she set the tray down. He took a long look down her robes as she did so. The teasing smile on her face told him it had been no accident, the exposure, but he had learned long ago that it would be a waste of time to try avoiding her games.
"You need not have," he said, even as he picked up the mug and took a long sip. The temperature, perfect. The taste, perfect. If only his rivals could see him now, nearly undone with a single cup of hot chocolate from his Veela wife.
"I could sense you worrying from across the house."
"I was trying not to bother you," he said.
"And I am your wife. Besides, it is for the best that I come here. Fleur and Gabrielle are still listening to the wireless. Le Survivant has made it to the Quarterfinals."
"Truly? Fleur did not overstate his talent then. I heard from Julian that this year was going to have an exceptional crop of contestants."
"Leave that enthusiasm here," she warned, her eyes narrowed.
"It is a bad match, and do not allow Fleur to think you support it for a second," she said.
"You know I cannot refuse our daughter," he sighed. Veela and their Veela things.
"Leave it to me. Just try not to give her false hope, mon amour. It is the hope that kills."
A/N: A whole chapter without Harry? How fun! I hope you enjoyed the introduction of two new POV characters. Nymphadora is our eye into the British Ministry in a lot of ways, and Jean-Pierre will serve a similar role with France and the ICW. Also gives us a chance to check in on Fleur every now and again. Next four chapters up on patreon(https://www.patreon.com/c/Oghenevwogaga)(same username as here and link in bio), support me there and read them early.