[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 7.5 (Interlude)

Nymphadora Tonks hated her name. Among witches and wizards, ancient or flamboyant names were hardly uncommon, especially within the old families long detached from the Muggle world. Take her mother’s side of the family, for instance—Regulus, Bellatrix, Narcissa. Who names their children that unless they harbor some deep resentment toward them? Apparently, her mother hadn’t been tormented enough growing up with the name Andromeda to consider sparing her own daughter with something simple like Jane or Susan. Worst of all, no one around seemed to care how absurd her name sounded or how much of a tongue-twister it was for everyone to say it. Tonks had gotten used to it over the last twenty years, but really, did they have to make it so hard on themselves?

“Nymphadora, that report should’ve been on my desk two hours ago!”
“Sorry, Mr. Shacklebolt, I’ll have it ready in five minutes.”

“Nymphadora, a dragon in your handbag, have you checked the archives, or does my order mean nothing?”
“Apologies, Mr. Moody. I’ll get the report to you within thirty minutes.”

“Trainee Tonks, you’re joining O’Neil’s group for an operation in Knockturn Alley in twenty minutes. Understood?”
“Understood, Director Scrimgeour, sir!”
“Not so loud, trainee, though I admire your enthusiasm. And try not to drop those files on me—they’ve got ten pounds of dust alone.”

The head of the Auror Office pushed past Tonks, who was struggling with a stack of folders piled higher than her head, and marched off to issue more orders for the upcoming raid. Tonks sighed softly as she watched him go. Scrimgeour might be an egotistical careerist, but his habit of addressing people by their surnames was oddly endearing. Barely managing to avoid spilling her dusty stack of files—some of which appeared to be centuries old—and narrowly sidestepping a doorframe, Tonks reached the corner designated for trainees.

Now, she had three minutes to finish the report for Kingsley (with a quill, no less, in what was almost the 21st century!) and another fifteen minutes to prepare for the next inspection. Considering her unique talent for getting tangled in her official robes, even after straightening their folds, a quarter of an hour wasn’t much time. Someone once told her that American Aurors had been wearing 1930s-style Muggle trench coats for the last fifty years. Lucky them.

The chaos engulfing the Auror Office had lasted for two relentless months. Veteran Aurors claimed they hadn’t seen such a frenzy since the height of You-Know-Who’s reign. Even old Moody had stopped complaining about his never-ending retirement plans—a sign of just how dire the situation was. Tonks herself hadn’t seen the sun for days at a time, living in a relentless cycle of “home-fireplace-Ministry dungeons-fireplace-home.” This was certainly not what she’d envisioned when she signed up for Auror training during “peaceful times.”

Her last proper day off had been in March when she’d encountered a Muggle-born orphan in a park and introduced him to Diagon Alley, explaining the basics of the wizarding world as best as she could. Not long after, the usual routine of dull lectures, occasional hands-on practice, and mundane patrols of London’s stations and outskirts had been thrown to the proverbial three-headed dog.

It started one night in early April with the blaring alarm of an all-hands call across the second and third floors of the Ministry. As the story went, a massive enchanted map of London and its surroundings—shared between the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes—had flagged a powerful but unfamiliar magical signal in a forest near London, at the edge of their jurisdiction. It appeared to be the site of a dark ritual accompanied by a significant magical surge.

The intern on overnight map duty, one of Tonks’ classmates, panicked and triggered the alarm, waking everyone up. By the time the Auror Office figured out which department was responsible, assembled a team of five seasoned Aurors led by Moody, and had them Apparate to the fields outside London before flying to the site, the moment had passed.

They arrived at an abandoned village of about ten houses, only to find a spreading fire and not a single living—or non living—soul. Once it became clear there would be no battle with dark wizards, possibly remnants of You-Know-Who’s forces, half the department was summoned to the scene. Aurors extinguished the flames, patrolling officers set up a perimeter—not so much to keep Muggles out (though they had to redirect a Muggle fire crew later) as to ward off nosy journalists—and the remaining Aurors secured key locations, fearing terrorist attacks like those eleven years ago. Thankfully, nothing happened, and most of the team was withdrawn after a few days. However, strengthened patrols remained.

Once the initial chaos was over, the fire doused, and the smoke cleared, the Aurors began searching for evidence. Unlike Muggle police, who would’ve scoured the area on hands and knees, collecting ash fragments with tweezers, the Aurors had far more efficient methods. After photographing the burned-down house and village from every conceivable angle—both from the ground and the air—they moved on to the wondrous spell “Reparo.”

Trainees weren’t allowed near such delicate work, so Tonks watched from a neighboring yard as a few experienced Aurors restored the charred ruins into a complete, albeit shabby, cottage in a matter of minutes. The result wasn’t perfect—some wood planks, floorboards, and upholstery were missing, as if a few puzzle pieces had been lost. But it sufficed for their investigation. The radius of the spell was limited, and much of the material had been reduced to smoke and ash, scattered by the wind. An exact replica wasn’t necessary.

Unfortunately, any magical traces from the ritual had been obliterated by the fire and subsequent reconstruction. There had likely been a ritual circle drawn on the floor, evidenced by smudges of blood, chalk, and soot, alongside bowls and cages placed at equal intervals. The cages contained small animals and birds—dead, of course. No spell of repair, healing, or restoration could bring them back to life.

That discovery immediately escalated the level of alarm. Moody, in his usual paranoid fashion, almost issued orders to patrols to attack any suspicious shadows in the city on sight—he was barely talked down. Rumors had long circulated, whispered among the Aurors, that You-Know-Who wasn’t entirely dead and that the so-called “innocent” Death Eaters, who had escaped trial by blaming potions or Imperius, might attempt to bring him back. What if this unknown ritual, involving sacrifices and summoning a powerful otherworldly entity, was just such an attempt? Worse, what if it had succeeded?

Scrimgeour, however, dismissed this as an overreaction. He pointed out that the scale of magic and sacrifices involved was insufficient to resurrect a dark wizard of that magnitude. But as a test run, a trial for a larger ritual? That was plausible. His response was swift and decisive: “Track down every suspect or witness involved with dark magic or necromancy in the last thirty years.” Azkaban, Tonks thought, must not have seen such a pilgrimage of investigators in decades…

“Nymphadora, no sleeping on the job! We leave in three minutes!” The sharp voice right by Tonks' ear yanked her from her thoughts.

“Trainee Tonks, ready to go, Auror O’Neil, sir!” she reflexively reported and tried to jump to her feet but got tangled in her robes and nearly hit the floor. Fortunately, the Auror caught her with a quick spell, setting her upright before motioning for her to follow him to the elevator, where the rest of the group was already packed in.

It was mid-May, and these inspections of shady shops and even shadier craftsmen in Knockturn Alley and similarly dubious locations around the country had become an almost daily routine. In the past month and a half, they had confiscated more contraband than in all of the previous year. If it weren’t for space expansion charms, the evidence storage would have overflowed long ago. Yet despite all the effort, the main investigation’s results remained the same—one giant, glaring zero.

No leads, no evidence, not even a decent suspect. Someone even proposed the bizarre theory that the culprit could have been a visitor from the continent—perhaps Apparating in from Portugal, conducting some dark ritual to avoid leaving traces at home, and then vanishing back. The Department of International Magical Co-operation had sent out a careful inquiry to nearby countries, asking if they’d noticed any malevolent entities or strange activity in their reports, but the responses were all negative.

Against this backdrop, incidents that would have occupied the department for a week in the past now barely registered. A couple of wizards disappeared from Knockturn Alley, but disappearances there were a routine—especially considering the “methods of competition” common in the area. All they found was one wand washed up on the Thames, which painted a grim picture of those wizards' fates.

On another occasion, a call came through to Scrimgeour himself (a rare event) from Muggle intelligence services. Moody had drilled it into the trainees during lectures that magical law enforcement’s relationship with the Statute of Secrecy could be... unique. Muggle police were instructed that if they ever encountered something truly inexplicable—something that defied all logic and was utterly impossible—they were to report it to their superior. If that superior was convinced, they would report it further up the chain, until, finally, the top brass—someone practically on the level of the Prime Minister—would contact the Aurors for help.

The reverse was also true. When dealing with Muggle criminals who had somehow learned about the wizarding world, Aurors could request assistance from the police. However, such interactions were exceedingly rare—maybe once or twice a decade.

This time, with the entire department working non-stop, Scrimgeour had only managed to spare one senior trainee to investigate. The trainee dutifully went to London and returned with a report: someone had bombed a Muggle dealer or a thug (the distinction wasn’t significant on either side of the Statute) in their home. However, there were no traces of gunpowder, dynamite, or any other explosive materials. 

The trainee had thoroughly searched the ransacked office, checking every corner, but found no evidence of magic capable of causing such destruction. The damages didn’t match spells like Expulso, Reducto, Bombarda, or any other known explosive charms. The general magical background in the area was slightly elevated, but that could easily be explained by strong emotions or the presence of wizards or squibs among the victim’s associates.

Ultimately, the Muggles were left with nothing, returning to their scientists and experts for answers, while the trainee came back with amusing tales of how “quirky” Muggle investigators were and how their operations differed from “normal” procedures.

Captured vampires, foolish wizards casting spells in front of Muggles, or the notorious fraudster Fletcher selling a case of mandrakes at an exorbitant price to an “anonymous potioneer” now became a unimportant routine,  handled by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when time allowed.

Reflecting on the chaos of the past two months, Tonks obediently followed all of O’Neil’s orders—don’t get in the way, confiscate the shop owner’s wand to check for recent spells, inspect that suspicious chest for curses, scare off a boggart that popped out of the basement, and again, don’t get in the way. It was a typical inspection with a predictably minimal haul: a vial containing traces of a particularly potent love potion from the Ministry’s restricted list. Hardly a significant find.

They returned to the Auror Office empty-handed. Tonks had just settled down to finish the report Moody was still waiting for when the battered Auror himself stomped into the trainees’ room, his staff thudding against the floor. He scanned the room, his mismatched eyes—one real, one magical—landing on Tonks as she slumped into her seat.

“Mr. Moody, the report will be ready in about ten minutes…”

“Forget the report, Dullahan stomp me sideways” Moody interrupted, dropping heavily into a nearby chair and propping his staff beside him. “Nymphadora, why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?”

“I have a… WHAT?!” Tonks was so startled she dropped her quill. Her hair turned bright red with yellow stripes, and wolf-like ears sprouted from the top of her head.

“A young man. A fiance. A boyfriend. Or whatever you kids call it these days.” While you were out, an owl delivered this,” he tossed a letter onto the table. It was a minor miracle that the famously paranoid Auror hadn’t opened it himself to check for poisons, curses, or threats.

“I don’t have a…” Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up the letter and read the sender’s name, written in plain ballpoint pen. “Redirected from the Leaky Cauldron. From “James Murphy”… Who’s that?”

“Oh, you’ve got so many you can’t keep track? Andromeda will be thrilled!”

“That’s not what I…!” Tonks’ hair bristled as her frustration nearly triggered a transformation into a gorgon. Perhaps her subconscious was hoping to turn her mentor to stone? But she quickly calmed herself, reverting to her usual appearance. “Wait, hold on! I remember now. That’s the boy I brought to Diagon Alley—the Muggle-born orphan. I told you about him.”

Seeing Moody’s smug grin dim slightly, Tonks tore open the envelope and read the brief letter.

“I told him that if he ever had trouble, he could ask me for help. Let’s see… He says he’s been adopted, has a family now, is being homeschooled, and managed to get some books on magic. He’s trying to learn about the wizarding world, and he likes Diagon Alley, but there’s still a lot he doesn’t understand. And since he doesn’t know any other wizards, he’d like to meet and ask me some questions. Next week at the Leaky Cauldron… I’m guessing you’re not going to let me…?”

"You're free," Moody snapped his fingers, and the calendar on the wall rustled its pages before settling on the appropriate date. "May 23rd. You'll have the day off."

"And the investigation?" Tonks asked skeptically, carefully folding the letter and tucking it back into the envelope.

"To Mordred with the investigation, may Rhongomyniad crack its spine," Moody replied bluntly, waving his hand dismissively. "I'll explain it simply, like to an adult. Fudge is tired of it. You know our dear Minister and his stance—'Everything's fine in London, all's well in Britain. Dark wizards? Surely not. We don’t have such horrors here, do we?' And as for the dozen or so we lock up every year? 'Rumors and journalistic nonsense, that’s all!'

"So, he's decided to shut the whole thing down and send us back to patrolling train stations and arresting goblins without permits. Rufus is holding out for now, clinging to the idea that potential glory as the vanquisher of a dark wizard is better than simply following orders. But that’ll last only as long as he believes it. Even he’s starting to cave—within a few days, they’ll start pulling people off the case and loading them up with routine tasks. By summer, this entire mess will be shoved into some damned archive." Moody cast a disgusted look at the dusty stacks of folders. "At best, it’ll be filed as a 'failed attempt to resurrect Voldemort.' More likely, it’ll be written off as a 'random incident of unknown nature.' Disgusting.

"But neither Fudge nor Rufus seems to realize that while this case will get archived, the scum who caused it won’t disappear. And they might try again. And again. That’s why—"

"Constant vigilance, sir!" Tonks shouted, cutting him off before he could bellow it in the confines of the small office. Her ears had suffered enough ringing for one lifetime.

"Ah, you’ve learned well in less than a year. I’m proud. There’s hope for the youth yet, not just a bunch of slackers. So, wrap up your current tasks—finish that ghoul-bitten report—and prepare to return to patrol duty. Oh, and write back to that boy. Let him know you’ll meet him. Did you at least explain how wizarding post works?"

"Oh… Morgana! I told him where to buy owls but didn’t explain why he’d need one. I thought it was obvious..."

"Figures. Write to him at the Cauldron, or wherever he’s expecting your reply. Or just show up at the time he suggested and explain it all then."

"Couldn’t someone else go?" Tonks drummed her fingers nervously on the desk, her nails transforming into curved cat-like claws. "What if I forget something again? We weren’t exactly trained for this. Wouldn’t it be better to call someone from Hogwarts? Professor McGonagall, maybe?"

"In May? Right before final exams? If I suggest that to Minerva, she’ll shred the letter with her claws, then neatly tuck the pieces back into the envelope and send it back without a word. And if I were to ask Snape… let’s just say you don’t know half the words he’d use to respond.

"Look, an Auror’s head isn’t just for deflecting spells. I’m old, and in ten years, you’ll be the one teaching new recruits the difference between Imperius and Confundus and why one lands you in Azkaban while the other doesn’t. You may as well start preparing now."

"If you say so..."

"I don’t just say it—I know it. From what you’ve said, you seemed to get along with the lad. And we need every wizard we can get right now. If this filth really is coming back..."

Tonks understood. She understood better than most her age. She had been born three years after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named transitioned from speeches to murder and terror. When he died and the war officially ended, she was eight years old.

During the war itself, she had been too young to grasp its horrors, but she remembered vividly the aftermath—the tallying of losses, and as her father grimly put it, "the punishment of the innocent and the rewarding of the uninvolved." Over the course of that sluggish and lethargic decade-long civil war, about a thousand witches and wizards had died, not counting mercenaries from the continent or overseas. Another thousand were cursed, maimed, or driven mad—people who lost everything and were left burning with a desire for vengeance at any cost.

Some managed to rebuild their lives, but many didn’t. The death toll, in proportion to Britain’s small magical population, far exceeded the losses the Muggle UK suffered during World War I or II.

As for the Muggle casualties? No one bothered to count. Memories were Obliviated en masse, and angry calls from the Prime Minister’s office were met with curt responses of, "It’s none of your business; we’ll handle it." If Voldemort hadn’t fallen in 1981, and his followers hadn’t been swiftly dealt with afterward, the Ministry might well have faced a war on two fronts—against the Death Eaters on one side and enraged Muggles on the other.

Nearly two thousand magical lives lost or shattered weren’t just numbers. Each was someone’s husband, parent, uncle or a friend… Or a wife, an aunt, a daughter - no fewer women participated in that massacre, both among the Death Eaters and among Order's "phoenixes" and the Aurors. 

Tonks had lost a cousin to the war; another relative and an aunt were imprisoned in Azkaban. Yet another aunt had married a man who’d allegedly "bought his way out" and walked free.

Even after Voldemort’s defeat, the magical world had endured five more years of turmoil—revenge killings, arrests for past crimes, fugitives eluding capture. The community had shrunk by several hundred more.

As a child, Tonks had often wondered whether Aurors would one day come knocking on their door, arresting her family "on suspicion of dark magic and ties to terrorists," or if the remaining Death Eaters would show up to slaughter them for refusing to side with their leader. Fortunately, neither happened.

When she went to Hogwarts, those fears receded, but her family’s complicated ties to Voldemort’s inner circle haunted her. Her lineage, part of a family that hadn’t supported the rebellion but was deeply intertwined with its leaders, was a frequent target of insults—both at school and in the Ministry. But insults, at least, weren’t Avada Kedavra.

If history repeated itself... Britain’s magical community might need to be repopulated from scratch.

"I can see from your face that you understand," Moody said gravely. He couldn’t read minds, but his years of experience meant he rarely needed to. "You grasp the depth of the crap... the trap we might be walking into. Every wizard matters now. And when you speak to that boy, make sure you set his head straight. Let him know, gently, that joining those psychopaths is never an option."

"He's Muggle-born. To them, he is a 'mudblood,' even worse than me."

"Are you going to tell me that this self-styled Fuhrer didn’t have Muggle-borns and half-bloods among his lackeys?"

"There were some..." Tonks admitted reluctantly.

"Exactly. So don't make their mistake—don’t divide people into good or bad by their blood. It’s all red all the same. It's up to each person to decide who they'll fight for."

Moody groaned as he grabbed his staff and hauled himself to his feet. "But I’m not your father, here to lecture you. You’re grown enough to understand what’s what. Just... felt like grumbling a bit. Thinking about all the filth from back then. Anyway, you can leave on time today instead of staying past midnight. You’ve got studying to do—exams are coming up soon."

The Metamorphmagus stared in surprise at the door as it swung shut behind the old Auror. Shaking her head, she reached for her quill to finish the report... and swore when she saw nothing but shredded parchment on the desk.

She must have absentmindedly turned her fingers into claws while lost in thought and shredded the document without noticing.

With a resigned sigh, Tonks grabbed her wand and muttered, "Reparo. Merlin, take it…"

The pieces reassembled themselves—but she had overdone the spell. The parchment had "repaired" itself so thoroughly that the last two paragraphs were gone entirely.

"Great," she groaned, tapping her wand against her temple. "Now I have to remember what the bloody hell I wrote."