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A woman sat in a chair. It wasn’t a terribly exciting occurrence, certainly not from a Muggle perspective. What, they would wonder, is so unusual about an old woman sitting in a chair?
The peculiarity was that it was Amelia Bones. As a politician and Auror, she spent far too little of her time sitting and hardly any of those seated moments were leisurely. This moment fit both categories, although her life was not so black and white. She held loose-leaf papers in her hands; the papers were scattered and out of date, mirroring the workings of her exhausted mind. It was fatigued, yes, but just as honed as ever.
She knew what was coming. She knew why she was sitting in a chair. Life was fleeting, she concluded with a wry smile (humour was required in these darkest moments): not just in the sense of fading quickly, but as a collection of fleets. Her life had seen too many wars fought for ‘black and white’. Perhaps it was why her life lacked the quality. That and she was in politics: to get ahead in politics, one had to give up the idea of precision between black and white, good and evil; politics were grey. Voldemort would have made a terrible Prime Minister; no wonder he was limited to ruthless dictator.
Amelia brushed his slimy features from her mind and replaced her monocle. Now was a time for thoughts of life. Letters, she decided, were her best medium.
What had brought her here, to this chair, to this moment?
12 August 1995
You have been summoned to the official trial of Harry James Potter, accused of unauthorised and underage magic detected at 9.23 pm on the 2nd of August in an alley off Magnolia Street, Little Whinging. The trial will be held at 9am.
Best regards,
Cornelius Fudge
Amelia chuckled and shook her head. Concise as ever, that Fudge; he always had more pressing concerns. At the time, at least half his brain must have been consumed with denial. How much energy had he bestowed upon denying Voldemort’s return?
If she recalled, it was an entirely ridiculous trial. That was to be expected when Fudge and his (rather large) lap toad Dolores Umbridge were found in the same room (or chair, she suspected). The attempt to give Dumbledore a miss had not escaped her: it was all too common for Ministry of Magic affairs to change time slots; these changes were never timely enough to push an event forward. Fudge’s playground tricks had been no match for Dumbledore’s batty old mind. He was a genius; as an Order member during the First War she could not doubt him there. His fault, she thought, was the quantity of his considerable acumen he devoted to manipulation and deceit, none of which he ever communicated until the last possible moment. She could partially understand the distrust he aroused within the magical world.
The witch shook her head. It was difficult in those times, playing the part of a mediator. The population of those possessing common sense (or those brave enough to boast of it) was dwindling in the Ministry. Thankfully, the majority of her colleagues had found Potter’s trial absurd enough to end it early.
“It was a beginning,” Amelia announced with a sigh. The empty room spoke naught in return. The cobwebs collecting in corners and the dust faintly filming the sofa communicated everything that was required.
She wouldn’t have guessed that the hem of Umbridge’s hefty pink skirt and obnoxious amphibian mouth would soon infect Hogwart’s halls. Then, how could she? Her mind had been too bright for madness—of Voldemort’s variety or Fudge’s fumblings.
30 August 1995
Dearest Amelia,
With the acceptance of Educational Degree #22, the Ministry can now appoint a Professor if Albus is unable to, as I’m sure you know. With the Curse of Defence Against the Dark Arts and our last instructor’s imprisonment... Well, if Fudge appoints another fuzz-brained Sybil in this school I will encourage Pomona to hang the unlucky dunce with her finest thorned vines. Wilhelmina has already told me her creatures are off-limits for my devious intentions; she tells me Unicorns and Bowtruckles have no place in the ‘bureaucratic squabbles’ of Educational Institutions. Rolanda on the other hand assured me that it is my professional duty as Deputy Headmistress to shove a broom handle in unfortunate places if we are faced with another twitter-pated Professor. I find that is more her realm of expertise.
However, if you find any peculiar doilies or dull coasters in your post, I fear it means my temper has...transfigured.
Sending the full staff ‘excitement’ over a new batch of students,
Minerva and the Crones
P.S. I’ve decided to send you an obscene doily anyway. It was the most hideous one I could find. I thought you would appreciate that.
Amelia laughed aloud. Minerva would turn beet red—both embarrassed and enraged—if a student ever found her private letters. Professors were not to possess personalities or, heaven forbid, senses of humour—certainly not one like Min’s, which could provide a rapier’s point at any occasion.
How was she to know that a half sensible move—safeguarding school staffing from Dumbledore’s design—could lead to a toad on the throne?
She couldn’t, of course. And she was still surprised to this day that she received no doily with a toad in a pink tutu and kitten apron in the post. It would have made a lovely dartboard or under-linen for her famous (acidic) dragon-blood curry...
They were times passed, she lamented, times of bitter humour and mystery of what was to come. Bated breath, she surmised with her augmented hindsight-understanding; they were all living from breath to breath and forever awaiting the next, dreading what it would bring.
31 August 1995
Amelia,
You will hear of this soon. I’m sending you a memo because I know you and Sturgis Podmore have a history. I caught him attempting to break into the Department of Mysteries an hour past midnight last night. He’s been arrested for charges of trespass and attempted robbery. I suspect Imperius, but you heard this not from me. I am sorry to send this news. Please destroy after reading.
Eyes open,
Eric Munch
For all that he was boring, Eric was a kind man. He did not know the details of the Order and Amelia’s work with Sturgis, but had noticed they were chummier that Amelia generally was with her fellow Ministry workers. That meant, to her mind, that he got the occasional smile in the lift or the rare ‘do you remember when’ question inevitably uttered during the office Christmas parties. They were not friends, particularly...but those who survived a War together while fighting for the same side (an important factor) were often bonded in unexplainable ways.
She had not destroyed the memo. It was still ready to fold itself on the slightest indication from her; those folding spells lasted longer than Muggle newspapers did in their entirety. It was sweet of him to send it before she learned from official summons and the press.
7 July 1995
Dearest Amelia,
One of our own! In Azkaban! We lose another to those damn Curses. Six months in that place could truly drive him insane, but I concede with bitter truth that since he survived the atrocities of the First, I stake he’ll make it out for action in the Second. We old witches drink in his honour tonight; we will open a bottle for you, who bears the brunt of the headache that is this epoch.
The best of our love and strength to you,
Crones
P.S. Gussie is here too and continues to protest against the use of ‘crones.’ Ro has countered that sagging brassieres would dissent the use of any other terms. I will send this out before Gussie uses hers to end Ro’s cronehood.
‘Crones,’ Amelia rereads, a quirk curving her lips at the corner. Her friends at Hogwarts often signed their letters in such a fashion—Crone Coven, Drunken Damsels, Whimsical Witches. The adjectives often changed. The absence of a descriptor had alerted her to the atmosphere of uncertainty. They were not sure what was fitting, or where humour joined the equation. It had made Amelia uncomfortable. She had been grateful for the correspondence nonetheless. The post script had put her more at ease.
It had made the headache (they had described it well) of the remnants of Sturgis’ case a less daunting feat. It had weighed on her heart, yes, but the reminder of friendship and shared causes (on a more personal level) lifted some of the pressure off her shoulders. Her only guilt was in knowing that by leaving her shoulders, it travelled to weigh on the shoulders of her sisters. It could be a substantial weight...
2 September 1995
Hem hem,
I revoke my previous statement: give me another Sybil. I could handle double the incorrectly foreseen death and disaster wrapped in enough shawls to float the Queen’s dragon; I cannot abide by the slimy word of a toad. (Thank Wil for the imagery—I trust her to know her toads from her frogs, of course, but I’m not picky provided it encompasses her slime of contrived sugar-sweetness and her resemblance to something unhuman.)
I have warned P about her; he’s already nabbed a detention, the silly boy. I fear I should be saving my breath to remind Ro of the consequences to roasting toads on large sticks... Even Pomona, with her Hufflepuff stable temper (thank goodness you two and Wil possess it), has mentioned her carnivorous plants thrice in one week.
Shall I invest in throat lozenges, do you think? Or perhaps request Severus amend a cough serum? I shouldn’t write such things...
Ready for the holiday already,
Crazed Crones
P.S. Wilhelmina mentions her grave apologies to all toads burdened with resemblance and believes with every gaze at U by sensible people, the population of cursed royalty-to-frog increases tenfold to avoid kissing her. The ‘real thing,’ Wil argues, must be more pleasant—warts and all.
Amelia was grateful for their humour. She was also grateful to not hear ‘hem hem’ roaming the Ministry these days. One had to count her blessings in the hard times; her friends were blessings.
7 September 1995
Melia,
The mangy mutt was spotted. You watch that rear of yours, right? I want it just the way I left it, no gnaw marks or anything. I’m Sirius.
No more jests. Amelia, if he’s hiding there, I want your eyes peeled. I am trusting you to look after yourself. You’ll break my heart with Susan’s and Neville’s if you don’t. You’re a high-powered politician and incredible witch, but you’re not infallible; you’re the closest we’ve got but no one is entirely. Keep yourself safe for us.
I am off to meet the laughing hyenas we call companions. They mentioned drinks. I believe they are buying, what with their impressive scholarly wages.
Augusta
The clipping from the Daily Prophet was attached with an affixing spell. On the back of the clipping, Sturgis stared back at her—6 months in Azkaban.
It wouldn’t have been right to say Augusta Longbottom didn’t play games. She played games, just by her rules; her rules were that Amelia didn’t get hurt. They weren’t plausible or even possible rules, but trust Augusta to create a system that tried fate and dared the universe to defy her. It certainly motivated others to aspire to all they could be. Neville knew that best of all, however much it hurt him.
Amelia always gave it a shot, for Augusta and for the rest of the Crones. Mainly for Augusta, though; Gussie would hold her most accountable.
8 September 1995
Dearest Amelia,
Princess has acquired a crown. Off with our heads.
Us
Short, simple, to the point. Amelia had read it in the privacy of her bathtub and laughed until she cried—for the pent-up frustration in Minerva’s writing hand, for the phrasing itself, for the simple ‘us’, for the frustration of having the toad of a woman gain further power and for the desperation of muddling through all of this.
Amelia had not pushed for Dolores Umbridge to be High Inquisitor. She did have a brain, after all.
Dumbledore may have required watching, but Amelia had the sneaking suspicion that Dolores could not see past her own nose. She also had the firm conviction that Dolores had the most astounding ability to deny anything with logical evidence. It was up there with her skill of creating rules that couldn’t sustain order even in Minerva McGonagall’s classroom, where order was born and bred.
10 September 1995
I write today because Minerva is fuming. She’s redder than Pomona’s tomatoes and more clawed than my Bowtruckles. She is telling Ro that it’s nearly time for Plan Broom.
Today the Princess inspected Transfiguration and Care of Magical Creatures. Both went without event, I hastily add (given Minerva’s present state), but our dear Transfiguration Professor is...perturbed. Poppy and Irma are here to calm her. If Poppy can’t do it, seems Irma is ready to shove Min’s nose in a book...
I myself have grown weary of the incessant ‘hem hems.’ My hip was itching to check her into the tank of fireflies; I doubt her precious petticoat is immune to flames. Most amphibians dry out so in the presence of fire, as well...
Wish you were here to mollify Min. You were always good at that. But I suppose that’s why you’ve made it to Head of Department, isn’t it? You gained my trust in an instant when you charmed that herd of skittish Diricawls without frightening them off. You keep saving the world; we’ll keep trying to teach. I’m not sure how it will work with these rules... Better than trying to outsmart Gussie’s rules though, eh? Never could get a sly one past her.
Wishing the best,
Miffed Maidens
P.S. Minerva is reading some Austen now. Irma thought it would channel her ire some. My suggestion of a Thestral ride was met with quirked eyebrows. Ro promised she’d go riding with me if she can use her trusty broom. I’m grateful. I think we need to hit the air.
Amelia smiled fully at this letter. Wil’s presence was always quieter; it still held humour and power, but she was gentle. It was required in her line of work. The days Wilhelmina was irate...well, those were days to fear.
She smoothed the letter with her fingertips and brought it to her nose. It smelled like her old letterbox, with tokens from her friends. These were the memories she wanted around.
AB,
OotP, question the cat if you wish for fish.
D
No date, no names: a true invite from the legendary Dumbledore. The War had reduced him to acronyms and secrecy once more. Sometimes, Amelia wondered if these times were when his brain was most keen, when he was most useful. War times were the best times for manipulation and uninitiated power.
Amelia had noticed a chasm, upon opening the letter, between her temptations and her duty.
She had fought in the Order in the First War; something in her called her to arms for the Second War, once more under the Phoenix. She shoved it down. She had new ways to fight, now. Her duty prevented her from joining these underground groups.
It was bad enough she knew what she did. She had to stay out of the Order. If she was targeted and worse yet captured, she could not have those secrets; they could not be her secrets to tell. She would not put her loved ones in danger like that. Someone else would keep an eye on Dumbledore.
7 October 1995
Aunt Amelia,
Umbridge has suggested* we disband all student groups. I’m sure it’s for the best.* I made friends with a boy from Gryffindor the other day. We were hanging out and talking about magic.* We really liked it and think it will help us in our learning, so he got our names down so we can have another discussion some other time.*I think Umbridge will approve, although I suppose we won’t be able to create the discussion group if no student groups can meet.*
I’m getting good marks. Hannah likes a new boy. I’ve got a friend in Ravenclaw helping me with some of my classes; I help her in Herbology. (She’s trying to remind me to use semi-colons. I hate grammar.) Most of the Ravenclaws still pick on me but she’s reasonable and less prejudiced. It seems so silly how the Houses don’t get along. Maybe if we learned to bridge the gaps in school we wouldn’t have so much trouble relating and getting along as adults. I just get told I’m a dreamer, like the strange Luna Lovegood. But maybe she’s not so strange after all. She could be a powerful witch someday.
Love,
Susan
P.S. You won’t ground me if I don’t get an E in Transfigurations, will you? I like Professor McGonagall—really I do!—but the subject does my head in. I think I should be able to make up for it in Charms and Herbology. Is that alright? Even the tutoring can’t turn my mouse into a parrot…
Amelia smiled sadly. Oh, if only Susan knew how right she was with so many of her ideas. The woman pressed her fingers to the marks next to some of the words and sentences—they looked accidental, rub marks or ink blots. Spies wouldn’t think to question a Hufflepuff sending a letter that was less than pristine; she wasn’t a Ravenclaw or Slytherin, after all. Prejudice ran deep. Amelia was proud of her little niece’s extra layer of communication: the marks were intentional; they told Amelia the statement was false or held stronger meaning. She could always discern which.
Susan was truly a lovely young woman. Someday, hopefully, she’d blossom and grow more comfortable with herself. Her ideas were important.
2 November 1995
Dearest Amelia,
Slytherin won. Severus is going to be insufferable. I may delve right back into the Austen just to avoid him; he says he can’t stomach her. I keep instructing him not to eat the books, but I’m sure his overdeveloped sense of pride masks his hearing.
P, F&G have got the boot off the team. I am too discouraged to even explain. First amphibians limit my teaching, now my precious Quidditch team is headed for a plummet... I’m going to need some Holyhead Harpies to get through this one.
Minerva
P.S. Ro here. Wil and I are on it. We’re dragging her out for drinks and sending her away for a match; we’ll hold down fort and watch the tykes. Never you fear.
Minerva and Quidditch. One of the most hot-cold relationships a person could find, especially when student matches were thrown into the mix.
5 November 1995
Darling Amelia,
Hagrid came back yesterday or the day before. Today he’s teaching about Thestrals. I’m pleased to hear it—good subject to teach, especially in these time...Threstral views will increase in the years to come, I fear. The students have stopped groaning about the homework I assigned. They had this preposterous idea that Minerva, Aurora and I are sadists bent on their destruction through hefty workloads at similar times.
This is only partially true. We are not sadists, we are merely mean; we suffered it in our own school days, why should we not pass it on together, as a team? I kid, of course. Hagrid is not a fan of coursework—I remember he never got on well with it during his limited school days, despite his talent for my subject.
But alas, it is no longer mine. I had just stopped hearing the “Do you know when Hagrid is coming back?” and he arrives. I’m staying nearby to remain on hand and offer support everywhere. This will leave me more time for research and counting my remaining fingers (no, really, I still have all ten!). I know you are busy with your position, but if you find the spare moment feel free to come visit.
To entice a visit, I’ll mention that I’m growing my family... a young Crup is on its way to me. Thought it was about time to settle down with a Crup—help me corral my creatures, give Ro heart attacks and watch out for Dark Witches and Wizards. They’re a touch adorable as well, are they not?
All my re-retired love,
Wilhelmina
P.S. Ro says hello. She requests you come save her from the Crup. Or at least to give it a decent name. She doesn’t trust mine, after Snorkles the Fire Salamander. The dignity I lose for satire.
Amelia did visit. The Crup was a doll, and even Ro grew to love the little bitch—she was thrilled when Wil told her ‘bitch’ was the proper term for a ‘female with the parts all in,’ as she rephrased. The visit did Amelia some good. Those two always did manage to calm her nerves.
It was she who, a month later, sent the letter about Arthur Weasley’s attack in the Department of Mysteries. She sent it to Wil’s cottage, knowing the message would reach them all from there. Amelia didn’t want them finding out from the press, not with Rita Skeeter hiding in ever dark niche of the media, ready to create scandal from a grain of sand.
As the time grew darker, they all relied upon each other more and more. Death Eaters escaped from Azkaban (‘bloody necrosis feeders,’ Irma huffed and glared); Broderick Bode was strangled by Devil’s Snare (‘an old student falling to the folly of miss-identifying Devil’s Snare,’ Pomona groaned and cried); teachers were prohibited from giving information beyond lessons (‘and how, exactly, am I supposed to teach life’s lessons in 90-minute stretches?!’ Minerva groused and accused). Life continued on with its ups and downs, although the latter far out-weighed the former.
21 February 1996
Aunt Amelia!
WE WON! Hufflepuff beat Gryffindor! Everyone keeps grumbling that it’s just because Harry Potter wasn’t seeker and the Gryffindor team is ‘crap’ this year, which may be partly true—in lighter terms—but it still feels good. I keep reminding my Housemates to be good sports; we need more good sports in this world. Ginny caught the Snitch. She’s a nice girl. She’s a powerful witch, or so I hear—from out-of-school stories, really.*
Thank you for the new clothes and the kitten. I’m glad he didn’t eat Trevor the Toad—the real toad.* It was lovely meeting Professor Grubbly-Plank and Madam Hooch’s Crup. Caesar is beautiful; I like that you chose a historically male name. Cae is powerful!
Love,
Susan
P.S. Professor Grubbly-Plank and Madam Hooch have lots of paintings of women decorating their home. It reminds me of yours. The paintings are nice! I think I’ll get some paintings like that someday. A Crup, too. I miss you.
Amelia received a Quidditch letter from Minerva, as well. It was not nearly as eloquent or kind as her niece’s. It did make her chuckle.
A few days later the Quibbler was selling more copies than it ever had thanks to Rita Skeeter’s writing. That inspired suspicion in Amelia. Since when did Xenophilius Lovegood and Rita Skeeter exist on the same plane of reality? The facts didn’t seem to correlate. However, the article was solid (adding further shock value) and she was glad to have read it. She decided not to think on it again; wars always distorted what one previously held firm. The Quibbler was now reliable; the Daily Prophet was not. That could clearly only make sense within the context of a War. Life continued to make a little less sense each day.
8 March 1996
Sybil has been sacked. It was done in the middle of the courtroom, no sense of propriety or professionalism whatsoever. She is now more of a bumbling mess than she was before; that’s saying something. She’s hit the cooking sherry rather hard, the old bat. Of course, our meagre salaries hardly cover proper refined alcoholism. I would think she’d at least rise to cheap whisky—not that I would condone such an act. She has been allowed to stay on campus; Dumbledore saw to that. I would fear for her life if she left.
She has been replaced by Firenze. We have a centaur teaching Divinations. I don’t see a problem with this—he’s got twice the brains of Sybil but unfortunately twice the body as well. I accidentally trod on his hoof the other day getting to the staff table. I fear he will become a recluse like Sybil, although his would be admittedly more warranted. This castle was not exactly built for the four-legged. I find I have just as much difficulty getting a straight answer from him as from Sybil; at least my expectations were low. However, when I finally do receive a straight answer, it is usually far more sensible than anything his predecessor expressed.
Wilhelmina is overjoyed with this news. She feels terrible that he has been banned from his herd for working under human rule, but is glad nonetheless to have a non-human teacher in the school again. They seem to get along rather well. Wil commented the other day that the North Tower is more pleasant as a forest of trees than it was a forest of shawls and incense fog; I must say I agree.
Life is difficult under Princess’ rule. We hope you are faring better; we know that you probably aren’t.
Sending our love,
Crones
P.S. Ro is upset that I did not include her comments. I still won’t; they would tarnish the paper. I think you can get the gist with a stretch of your imagination.
13 March 2010
F&G have let fireworks off on campus. I have never witnessed an exam period so explosive. I’ve complained of them before, I know, begrudging their antics and inability to follow simple rules.
Let it be said that I adore them with all of my student-cynical heart. They ran Princess out of the building; I’m surprised she wasn’t hopping.
Oh, Amelia, I wish you had been here to see it. Glorious. A memory to last a lifetime. My precious Gryffindor fools. I have no fear they will go far, NEWTS or no. (For the record, or course, you didn’t hear that from me.)
With a smirk,
Howlin’ Harpies
P.S. Ro is a fan of their products. She always had a soft spot in her heart for those jesters. She’ll do anything to keep them well.
20April 1996
Dearest Amelia,
He was fired—well and truly fired. I never thought I’d see the day; I’m in shock. I feel I’ve lost an ally. The rumours of clandestine love-affair have started up again; at least that has our dear crones laughing. Gussie sent us an illustration of A and I reclining on a romantic beach get-away. One never wishes to see A in a bathing costume, least of all by Gussie’s hand.
Best to you,
Crones
P.S. Poppy believes I should humour the rumours to get a rise from Princess. I will find a way to properly punish her blasphemy, or at least get her to stop laughing...
27April 1996
It is career advisement time. If that boy is our world’s answer, we may be a touch doomed. At least he duels better than he revises.
Disgruntled at constant student meetings,
Minerva
P.S. Sybil ‘Sees’ him as a great academic, although she predicts great financial hardship. The latter would come true if the former were ever a possibility. The sherry has not improved her Seeing. Is anyone shocked?
23 June 1996
Minerva is in hospital. Four stunners to the chest. Please come.
Us
Amelia frowned. The writing was sloppy, as one would expect of a note penned nearly without looking. She had visited. Minerva was a strong horse to have survived four simultaneous Stunners to the chest at her age. None of them were surprised—although all incredibly relived—given that she was, of course, Minerva McGonagall. They had all hugged until they were sore that day in St. Mungos.
25 June 1996
So he’s finally twigged the obvious, then? Thank goodness his denial released him. Now we can all stop pretending—not that the sensible people ever did. I’m glad you’re able to speak freer now.
Relieved,
Ro & crew
P.S. Overheard a peculiar Ravenclaw expressing that ‘surely it must have been a dreadful case of Wrackspurts, fuzzying up his mind; poor man’. At this point, I’m ready to accept just about anything; even Wil isn’t so sure what creatures she should be looking out for.
Fudge’s denial had been firm. The fact that it had at last crumbled was bittersweet. Amelia drew greater breaths and held them longer.
26 June 1996
She is able to stay awake longer hours now. She sends her apologies to you for her temper in letters this year. She expresses that keeping her composure in the presence of the Princess was difficult on her; the enraged energy found its outlet elsewhere, through her quill. I told her there was no need to apologise; she insisted. She has been shaken by this experience. I don’t doubt she’ll carry on. I’ll keep watch on her back at Hogwarts. I’ve insisted she use a cane and have given her one of my finest. She protests that it doesn’t fit her image, joking that it isn’t in style. For Heaven’s sake, the day Minerva McGonagall authentically worries herself over image and style, Voldemort will have surely won.
Our best,
Poppy & the Crones
P.S. Minerva here: save me. Poppy will keep me here forever if she gets her wish! Her potions are as foul as ever. She’s coming back. I’m sending this before she knows I wrote; you keep this between the two of us. She’s singing again. I could do with some seventh-years to berate...
It was the strength of people like Minerva that kept Amelia going. She continued visiting. She felt the danger increasing in her work and in her life; she endeavoured to appreciate her personal life to the fullest in case it was robbed from her too soon. This was never spoken amongst her friends, but they all recognised it. They were clutching their support systems for all they were worth.
27 June 1996
Poppy has finally let me leave. She watches me like a hawk here. Thank goodness—but don’t go relaying that to her: it’ll go straight to her head.
Sending along the clippings of paper I found in hospital—so much mindless time!—and added a few notes. Nothing unusual, but give it a special look.*
Free at last,
Minerva
P.S. Notes from me, Poppy: if she thinks I’m not checking her letters for signs of a declining mind, she’s gone ‘round the bend. All to save face, you know. Wouldn’t want the thoughts inspired by too many medipotions to find their way onto the page—she occasionally rambles about toadstools and all sorts of nonsense. Although I think for you I would let them be. She’s just told me there is a mermaid in her glass, and could I please remove it? Now I understand why she never experimented with substances in school.
Amelia had explained her system with Susan to Minerva during one visit; she had thought it was a brilliant and simple idea. Thus when Amelia had glanced over the (incredibly dull) notes scribbled over the news clippings, she had known to murmur a revealing spell. There was much more to the story than what the papers had reported, it seemed. Minerva had always been good at sniffing out a story—perhaps it was the feline in her.
There were a few more letters that she scanned, but she had re-read her favourites. She bound together the personal letters and scribbled a note.
Gussie,
Keep these safe; you know these are my heart. I have kept myself as safe as I could. I will continue that. Should I fail, you keep these safe. Keep the girls laughing. Goodness knows, through all the darkness in this world, we need to remember the chimes of laughter that we’re fighting for. We’re just a coven of mad witches, but we’re doing our part.
Please take Susan under your wing. We’ve talked about it a thousand times, of course, but a wheeling mind likes to see its fruit on paper. Tell Minerva to let Poppy pamper her—we all know they both adore it beneath the sighs and frowns. Give Caesar-the-Crup a good pat for me. A bigger pat for Wilhelmina and Rolanda, if you will—my mangy friends. A hug if they so insist; you know I’m never opposed. Don’t let Irma get too lost in her books; there is so much life to be lived beyond their pages. Tell Pomona she is doing an excellent job raising the next kind-hearted Healers and instilling a sense of peace and calm in her students. They will cultivate it when these dark times are through—they will always end, like the storm that flashes and booms too long, but eventually reveals the calm of dawn. Pomona herself knows that plants a good rain; the ideas she plants will bloom when the sunlight returns. Give her that old The Science of Magic book too, if you can find it. Signed by the author! She was green with envy—or grass stains, I can’t quite recall.
This letter could go on like the Iliad, but it mustn’t.
I love you. Mere metaphors could never express it. I love you all as extensions of myself—and more so, inevitably. You are my heart, beating as long as you still meet. Down a pint for me. Be rowdy. Forget that we are supposed to be Great Witches; remember that in the moments we most appreciate, we are nothing but the maddest of the mad, and proud of just that. Let your hair down—raise your wand and a pint for me!
Everything I have and am,
Amelia Susan Bones, Crone
PS...
Amelia kissed the parchment and pressed a finger to the tear threatening to form at the corner of her eye. That simply wouldn’t do. She tucked her remaining photos and notes into the makeshift book of letters and spelled it away to a special tree in Wil’s garden—a Message Maple, so to say.
She gathered her official documents, including those from Eric and Dumbledore, and dropped them in a cauldron. She should have destroyed them years ago, but better late than never. She lit the cauldron and watched the flames lick up the history of her position and official life. When the flames were sated and the words naught but ashes, she strengthened the destruction with a spell to keep them in that form. The spell was one of her specialties.
Amelia was expecting company; she walked to her door and locked it. She lived in Muggle London, which tended to shock anyone who didn’t know her well. She felt it was the safest place. Now was not the time for her sweet Muggle neighbour to come in to invite her for a quick stroll through Kew, however much she would have appreciated it.
This was best done out of the public eye.
With Voldemort after power and Fudge facing death at every turn, she expected it was only a matter of time before they came for her—as they had with the other Bones. She thought of her brother, robbed from her in the first war, and all the others bearing her name writ in the morning newspapers. Today was as good a day as any. It was sunny, the birds were singing and she felt a weight in her stomach that nullified both.
Her anti-Apparation spells were in order. She got a feel for them, reminding herself of her hearth spells and protections. They would never stop the Death Eaters.
A raven smashed through her window. She screamed Expelliarmus and Stunned it before it had the chance to take on the form of a man once more. Three apparitions of black smoke darted into the room, changed to solid form and leered at her.
Mistake, she thought briefly as she rolled to a corner of the room, Stunning them all before they recognised her move. She could feel the anti-Apparation spell one of them cast when she called off her own. She transfigured a clone of herself from the strange doily she kept on her coffee table; she mentally thanked Minerva for both the spell and the doily.
The next three Death Eaters in went for the bait, having missed her in the corner. Her false-self was slower of wand; they stunned and ‘killed’ it before it had uttered a spell. Amelia sent them flying with a Reducto and bound them all together in unbreakable rope, expelling their wands.
Two more Death Eaters entered through her window and turned to her immediately, having calculated the direction of attack given their bound colleagues. She dodged a Stunner and halted their spells with a quick Finite Incantatum. She was about to stir up a batch of her own spells when she felt a wand point stuck at the small of her back.
“Walking through walls now, Riddle?”
He growled from the organ presumed to be his throat, although it seemed to resonate through each of his malevolent parts. He was a cancerous tumour onto the world. He laughed; it was worse than his growl.
“Muggle doors aren’t sealed,” he murmured into her ear. His breath smelled like decay.
She was flattered that he would still consider her enough of a threat to lie about his powers and abilities, as if she could escape to tell the tale. Of course she had sealed her door; any proper witch knew to do that.
This was the end. She thought of Gussie, her friends, and laughed. She was just mad enough to do this.
She flung her concoction of spells at the Death Eaters in the room, the great ball of spells forming before her and shooting off to each of her foe. It was enough magic to kill her, but that was just the point, wasn’t it?
Magic was a science, or science a magic, whichever: energy was always required. The magic sucked her dry and dead before Voldemort could finish his sentence, the only one he had ever truly cherished:
Avada Kedavra.
She slumped to the floor. Blood splattered the carpet and walls of her flat. It wasn’t hers. A final letter fluttered like a feather from her fingers; it was a feather, from Augusta’s old vulture hat. Voldemort picked it up and turned it over in his hand.
4 July 1996
Too late, Tom Riddle.
Yours truly,
Amelia Bones
P.S. I’m glad Minerva turned you down fifth year. You never did have enough in your drawers for her.
Any power(fully mad) witch knew that the best parts were in the postscript.
Voldemort howled with rage. It was the most melodious sound.