Chapter 33

This Is How Wars Are Lost. In pieces.

Tonks had not been wrong when she said they would be descending into the underworld.
The Department of Mysteries was… enormous.
And what unsettled her most: deep.

Honestly, she did not know how far it stretched. She might have sworn she could even smell the sea down there… but that made no sense. London was far from the sea.
If they were still in London at all, of course.

She absently skimmed through the manual they had given her, outlining the Department’s regulations and training objectives. The main goal was summarised in a vague sentence: “Basic training in highly classified magical environments.”

—What the hell does that even mean? —Tonks muttered.

Beside her, Booth — the manual already folded and tucked into a pocket — whispered:

—Come, look… but not too closely.

Tonks placed her manual on a table. It was a long table — incredibly long — whose end she could barely see, set in a room just as vast. And tall.

They were in a library. But not just any library.

It was a colossal chamber, with impossible ceilings and black stone arches that disappeared into shadow.

The shelves, built from dark marble and iron, rose like towers, defying the very laws of architecture. Some were chained. Others vibrated faintly, as if the books within them were still breathing.

There were books that whispered.
Books that bled.
Books that glowed from within, as though they possessed a heart.

Tonks read a few titles, and regretted it instantly.

At the far end, chained to lecterns, rested grimoires of necromancy, manuscripts by dark wizards, lost translations of ancient runes, fragments of indecipherable magical codices… Some books, she sensed, attempted to read the reader. Others were sealed with charms that could only be broken with authorisation from the Director of the Department himself.

Tonks could not help but think:

—Remus would lose his mind in here.

And that thought made her frown.

Since that last afternoon in the kitchen with Sirius, Tonks had noticed a change in Remus.
His presence at Grimmauld Place had dwindled to almost nothing.

The thing was, between his incursions and her hours at the Department — which occupied far more of her time than she believed truly necessary — they barely crossed paths anymore.

She spent her evenings with Sirius, waiting for Remus to appear with one of his stories or, at the very least, with a smile and a bottle of whisky in his hand. But none of that happened.

Yes, Remus was deeply involved in his mission among the werewolves. He was busy. She knew that. It was dangerous, delicate. It required dedication and patience. It was only natural that he should spend long days and endless nights away.

But a part of her could not help wondering whether it was truly coincidence or whether, behind those interminable days, there was something more.

A conscious decision. An effort to keep his distance.

Tonks sighed.

She had seen it in his eyes. Remus was withdrawing, rebuilding his walls stone by stone.

She knew he was not an easy man, that his life was full of shadows and secrets.

With each passing day, the closeness they had reached seemed to dissolve, and Tonks felt powerless to mend it.

That distance affected her deeply; she could even see how her own helplessness was turning her into someone impatient, irritable, someone she barely recognised. Like a spoilt child denied a simple sweet.

What had happened? She could not understand it.

On her solitary nights, in her small flat, she would lie staring at the ceiling, wondering whether she would ever understand the truth behind that distance. She questioned whether they would ever have the chance to become something more than friends or colleagues or whether that possibility would fade away irretrievably into what remained unsaid.

And, unwillingly, whenever that thought assailed her, her eyes drifted toward the moon peeking through the clouds. As if that distant body might somehow connect her to him.

Bring him back.

A faint glow caught her attention.

Just in front of her, resting upon one of the chained lecterns, lay a closed book. Its cracked leather cover bore an ancient symbol — round in shape — that seemed to shift slightly depending on the angle of the light.

Tonks studied it for a few seconds, a sad smile touching her lips.

—Even the books remind me of him —she murmured.

—Did you say something? —Booth asked from the other side of the table, barely raising his voice.

Tonks blinked.

—Nothing. Just… talking to the moon.

Booth looked at her curiously, but asked no more, as though it were not an unusual thing for his colleague to say.

He closed the folder of notes in front of him with care.

—We can leave now.

Tonks turned to him, glancing at her watch.

—Already? —she asked.

Booth let out a soft laugh.

—Did the time pass quickly for you?

She shook her head.

—Let’s get out of here.

Tonks made as if to head towards the same entrance through which they had arrived hours earlier, the one leading to the endless corridors of the Department. But Booth stopped her and pointed out another door in what appeared to be the library’s main atrium. Tonks followed him.

They crossed through it and emerged into a circular chamber. The famous circular room of the Department of Mysteries.

A slow, perpetual motion enveloped them. The doors — all identical — slid before them as though waiting to be chosen.

—It’s like a roulette wheel —murmured Tonks—. Or a conjurer’s trick.

Booth, leaning against one of the walls, gave a nasal chuckle.

—And the worst part is that, even if you chose correctly, you wouldn’t be able to enter.

Tonks tilted her head.

—What do you mean? We just…

—Yes, left —her companion affirmed—. But entering is different. The doors only open for senior officials. High command, veteran Unspeakables, bureaucrats with triple clearance, and a few others. If you or I try to force them, the alarms go off.

Tonks raised her eyebrows.

—So the only way to access…

Booth nodded.

—Through the passageways, like we do every day. You check in at the guard post —yes, the one where the ashen-faced bloke always looks at you as if you’re a thief—, you take the lift down to the underworld and circle round through the perimeter corridors.

—How practical —she said dryly.

—Yes. All of this is designed to make you feel like you don’t belong. That you’re only brushing the edge of something.

Booth tapped one of the doors lightly with his finger. It did not move.

—It’s the most sealed place in the world. And yet… —he lowered his voice— sometimes it feels as though the rooms themselves want you to enter.

His tone was sarcastic, but to Tonks it sounded… reverential.

They said nothing more.

They left the circular chamber. Tonks cast one last wary glance over her shoulder at the doors that continued to rotate slowly around the room.

Almost as if they were inviting her to cross them. Or daring her to try.

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The door to his small bedroom shut with a sharp click.

Remus leaned his back against the wood and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the sensation that had been consuming him for hours.

With each day the full moon drew nearer, being close to Tonks became more difficult. The tension frayed his nerves, and the weight of self-control grew increasingly unbearable.

He forced himself to keep his distance, aware that his own instincts could become a danger. The last thing he wanted was for Tonks to realise how she made him feel, how her mere presence ignited that hunger. And above all, he feared he might not be able to restrain himself, might lose control and do something irreparable.

Above all, harm.

But Tonks did not make it easy.

He had felt restless since seeing her that afternoon at the Order meeting. The way she spoke, the way she moved, the way she laughed with Dedalus… Everything about her called to him. He could still feel the ache in his fists, sore from clenching them so tightly while listening to her melodic laughter after one of Dedalus Diggle’s amusing remarks.

After the meeting, their eyes had met. She had said his name softly, almost like a whisper, like an invitation to spend time together, as they had done before.

Remus had not been able to endure it any longer; he could not fight himself under the weight of that look, the one that urged him to let go. So, unable to bear the intensity of those feelings, he had found an excuse and left before it was too late, before the wolf decided it was time to lunge at her.

Remus could understand that Tonks did not comprehend any of it, that she did not know why he was pulling away. That she might be worried, even disappointed or angry. But anything was better than the truth. She must never know the darkness she awakened in him.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. His entire body was tense, like a caged wolf scratching at the walls of his self-restraint.

He sighed and ran a hand over his face, feeling the heat in his skin. He could not go on like this.

He tried to think of something else.

But she returned.

Accompanied by that familiar, piercing sensation that tightened the fabric of his trousers and sent an unbearably pleasant tingling through his lower abdomen.

Her voice. Her laughter.

The image of her body moving as she walked. Her exaggerated gestures when she spoke with that natural confidence that drove him mad. And the perpetual smile that curved her lips whenever she said his name. He could close his eyes and, in an instant, see her again, smell her, feel her… and imagine her.

Desire tightened fiercely, so physical it hurt. So mental it overruled all reason.

What if she…?

Tonks. Her mischievous smile. Her lips parted, cheeks flushed, breath unsteady as she thought of him. He imagined her body yielding and trembling beneath ecstasy, her voice breaking as she whispered his name just before losing herself entirely.

The wolf roared. And the man clenched his teeth.

His throat constricted and his body responded at once — large, burning, impossible to ignore.

No.

He must not think of that. He drew a deep breath and tried to cling to guilt, to the notion that this was wrong, that it would only make things worse.

But it was already too late. His body had decided for him.

The need was raw, feral, almost violent. An uneven struggle between his will and his instinct. Every touch against his own skin only fed the blaze consuming him and nourished the wolf that demanded release.

And still, he could not stop.

And deep down, he did not want to.

He did not want to halt the pleasure coursing through him.
The frenzy devouring him.
The imagination that inflamed it.

In his mind, there was only her.

No tenderness.
Only hunger.
Only skin and sweat. And that damned smile.

The rhythm grew harsher, more desperate, as the fire in his head clouded what little judgement remained and his heartbeat doubled in speed.

Like when the wolf ran free through the forest.
Like when the man held back a desire both carnal and bloody, until he could no longer bear it.

Until his breathing fractured.

A low groan slipped past his lips, restrained, as though even in solitude he feared being heard. The tension mounted, hardened to the razor’s edge between pleasure and pain, and control shattered in a violent shudder that tore through him completely, forcing him to collapse back onto the mattress with a trembling sigh.

He stared at the ceiling.

There was nothing. Only silence.

He closed his eyes.

Nothing but his racing pulse. His chest rising and falling. The guilty echo of his own desire… and the wolf’s growl, satisfied — for now — as it drifted back into sleep.

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The silence of the Ministry at that hour had always struck her as more suspicious than reassuring.

Tonks was on duty with Kingsley that night. While he patrolled the Atrium, she had remained in Moody’s office, keeping watch.

She sat on the edge of the desk, her feet dangling, the map of the Ministry spread across her knees — unfurled like freshly flayed skin.

Dots moved slowly along the upper floors: two security guards on the sixth level, an archivist who had just clocked out, a few cleaning staff…

And nothing else.

Zero activity on the ninth floor.

Perfect.

She lifted a hand to stretch her neck when a new mark appeared on the map.

Rookwood, A.

—No. No, no, no…

Her heart lurched. She sprang to her feet, drew her wand and pointed it at the floor.

—Expecto Patronum.

The silver she-wolf burst from her wand with vibrant speed. Tonks bent towards it.

—Kingsley. Alarm in the Department of Mysteries. Rookwood. I’m going down now.

The Patronus shot through the crack beneath the door like an exhaled breath.

Without wasting a second, she darted towards the stand where Moody always left his Invisibility Cloak, shook it out, threw it over her shoulders, and ran down the deserted corridor.

The Ministry seemed dead. Only her breathing disturbed the silence. She tried to steady it. She did not want to be the one discovered.

Ding. Ninth floor.

The door to the Department of Mysteries opened without resistance. The circular chamber rotated slowly, as though it had sensed her arrival. One of the doors had just clicked shut. Tonks could hear the bolts sliding into place behind it, sealing off access to unauthorised personnel. She remembered Booth’s words.

“Tsk, I won’t be able to get in this way,” she muttered, and turned to make her way towards the secondary corridors.

She returned to the visitors’ entrance. The guard post was closed; the watchman was nowhere to be seen. She muttered a charm to unlock the lift access and descended into the underworld.

Long, dark corridors opened before her. They seemed more threatening now… almost alive. But she did not falter. She began to walk with firm steps.

Only the echo of her footsteps broke the silence. Only the tremor of her breathing.

Rookwood.

He had to be there.

She turned right. Then left. Stopped. Listened.

Nothing.

A sound behind her — she spun around, wand raised — but it was Kingsley. She stopped herself just in time from cursing him.

—I nearly hexed you!

—Are you all right? Where did you see him?

—Here. He went through that door. I saw it on the map, Kingsley, there’s no doubt.

—Are you certain?

She nodded, breathless.

—Moody’s map doesn’t lie.

They searched.

Empty corridors.

Doors that opened onto silent rooms, each stranger than the last. And doors that would not open at all, sealed by magical identification charms.

Tonks kicked the floor in frustration.

Rookwood was in there — in Room Fourteen, she knew it — but… how were they supposed to reach him?

Then she saw it. One of the side entrances to Room Fourteen — the Hall of Prophecies — was slightly open.

—We have to catch him, Kingsley —she shouted, and lunged towards the doorway.

—Tonks. Wait.

But she was already pushing the door, which swung fully open with a faint creak. A current of cold air wrapped around her.

And then it sounded.

A deep vibration. An alarm. A dull, unnatural rumble that travelled along the floor like an ancient roar.

And seconds later, every alarm began to wail.

Kingsley caught up with her and murmured, his tone low, heavy, final:

—This is going to cause us trouble.

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The office had no windows, only two rows of floating lamps that hummed with a constant flicker.

Tonks — dark-circled and dishevelled after the night shift — sat in a low chair, elbows resting on her knees, her gaze fixed on the floor. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood beside her, arms crossed, his expression impassive, waiting for someone to say something more substantial than a “hmm.”

Across the desk, Amelia Bones watched them in silence, her fingers interlaced beneath her chin, as though uncertain what to make of it all.

Beside her, Rufus Scrimgeour reviewed a parchment with a stern expression.

That parchment contained the official version of what had occurred only a few hours earlier.

It stated that Tonks and Kingsley — the aurors on duty that night — had been patrolling the Atrium when they saw Rookwood enter the lift descending to the ninth floor. As it was a suspicious movement at that hour, they had decided to follow him, which had led them to Room Fourteen in the Department of Mysteries.

In truth, they had not “seen” Rookwood with their own eyes… Tonks had read his name on Moody’s map. A map which, incidentally, was not mentioned anywhere.

Better that way. It was detailed, reliable and useful. But illegal and, therefore, secret. A device Moody had been using for years with the sole purpose of keeping the Ministry’s security under control.

“I use the tools I deem necessary to do my job, and that’s that.”

That was how he defended himself.

The map was now locked away in his office. And Tonks knew that, as long as Moody was breathing, no one but themselves would have access to it.

Then the office door opened with theatrical flair.

Lucius Malfoy entered with firm steps, his black robes billowing behind him like an imperial banner. He carried his cane in his left hand, chin raised, his gaze sharp as a dagger. His eyes lingered on Tonks for a moment, cold and disdainful.

As though silently asking: What trouble have you landed yourself in this time?

Just behind him appeared Cornelius Fudge, who stepped in wearing an uncomfortable expression, his lime-green bowler hat clasped between his hands and a strained smile upon his lips. As if he were wondering what he was even doing there.

Malfoy took his seat with deliberate calm and began to speak.

—I do not know what is happening in the Auror Division, but this is, without question, inadmissible —he said, his voice smooth and measured—. Two agents entering the Department of Mysteries without authorisation. A chamber activated. Every alarm sounding. This should result in the immediate suspension of licences and the removal of the lift’s unlocking charm.

Tonks lifted her head, her eyes burning with anger.

—I was on duty. I saw a suspicious movement and acted. I only did what I am supposed to do.

Malfoy arched an eyebrow, disdainfully.

—And is entering Room Fourteen part of your assigned competencies?

Tonks straightened in her chair.

—If night watch does not exist to monitor suspicious movements, then what exactly are we doing, Mr Malfoy? What are we here for, if not to defend the…

She was about to add something more.

One particular word — the word — was already poised on her tongue. But at that precise moment, a fleeting glance from Kingsley was enough to stop her.

—…the chambers you guard so fiercely —she finished, simply.

Malfoy did not take his eyes off her.

She held his gaze, determined not to blink, not to reveal anything. Feigned neutrality.

A carefully constructed façade of indifference.

It was Malfoy who looked away first.

And then Tonks saw it with absolute clarity:

No. She must not mention the prophecies.
Not officially.

They were not supposed to know what Room Fourteen contained.

And if they did, it could place them in an even worse position.

The silence was brief, but dense.

Malfoy shot her a withering look, but did not reply.

Kingsley stepped forward.

—We saw Augustus Rookwood descend to the Department at an unreasonable hour and access Room Fourteen, a chamber which, as you are well aware, is among the most restricted. There was no justification for Rookwood being there without logging his presence. The door was open. Auror Tonks acted swiftly, and had she not done so, I would have.

Malfoy shrugged with polished indifference.

—Rookwood is a senior employee of the Department. His access is permanently authorised.

Kingsley raised his eyebrows, incredulous.

—Then why did he not log his entry? Why did he not register his arrival?

A rasping voice interrupted from the doorway.

—Because his intentions were not good.

Alastor Moody limped inside, wrapped in his tattered robes. His magical eye spun incessantly, but the real one locked directly onto Scrimgeour.

—I trust you’re not reprimanding members of my team for doing their job properly —he growled.

Then he turned his head and shot Malfoy a murderous glare.

Tonks let out a quiet huff. The same battle as always.

To the high-ranking officials of the Department of Mysteries, everything that happened within its confines belonged to them, even security. Something the Auror Office had never agreed with.

Territorial disputes were frequent. As though they were constantly measuring the length of their wands.

Cornelius Fudge cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

—Now, now… There’s no need to escalate matters. I’m quite certain there is a perfectly reasonable explanation…

A few discreet knocks at the door broke the tension.

A young man — expressionless, his robes bearing no insignia — leaned in and addressed Amelia Bones. He was an employee of the Department of Mysteries.

—Confirmed: Room Fourteen undisturbed.

He closed the door with the same neutrality with which he had entered.

Amelia took Scrimgeour’s report and reviewed it without lifting her gaze.

—The intervention of the Aurors was appropriate —she said at last, her tone dry—. They are authorised to access any area of the Ministry if they deem it necessary, under their professional judgement.

Lucius Malfoy said nothing. He rose with the same deliberate slowness with which he had entered and left without looking back.

Fudge hesitated for a second, as though he wished to remain but did not know how. At last, he adjusted his hat and muttered:

—There are… delicate matters at stake. We must not inflame fear.

Without waiting further, he followed Malfoy out of the office.

Amelia Bones watched him until the door closed.

—What if it was… the call of the Room? —the witch murmured, inquisitive.

A new silence settled.

Moody, in his corner, let out a snort.

—Not this “rooms calling” nonsense again.

—It isn’t so different from the Graves case —Amelia said quietly—. And we all know how that ended.

Moody clenched his teeth.

—No. Graves was seeking forbidden knowledge. This is different. Rookwood was trying to steal something that doesn’t belong to him. And we know for whom.

Scrimgeour fixed him with a hard stare.

—And what would your hypothesis be? That the Dark Lord is hiding in some countryside cottage, collecting magical trinkets and curiosities for his private display? Don’t waste my time, Alastor.

Moody did not hesitate.

—My hypothesis is that someone sent Rookwood to retrieve something contained in Room Fourteen.

He locked both eyes — the real one and the magical — onto him before continuing.

—Someone you and I know very well, Rufus. And yes, perhaps his aim is to set up a charming little antiques market… but I’d stake my magical eye that he’s after something very specific. And next time, we may not be there to stop it.

He looked at Tonks and Kingsley. Amelia looked away. Scrimgeour’s fists tightened. A long silence followed.

Unstable.

At last, Amelia closed the file with a sigh.

—We will place him under surveillance. Rookwood.

Moody stepped forward, striking the floor with his staff.

—Under surveillance? He ought to be in Azkaban!

—And tell the world we sent a senior official of the Department of Mysteries to Azkaban without catching him in the act and without evidence? —Amelia replied, without raising her voice—. We cannot afford panic. Neither you nor I wish to see the Prophet plastered with headlines about the Department of Mysteries. Again.

Tonks swallowed.

Sturgis Podmore’s name was not spoken, but his presence hung in the dense air of the room.

It was true.

Rookwood had not been caught red-handed in a chamber to which he had no access… Not like Sturgis. He had been arrested inside the room, in the dead of night and without authorisation.

In truth, anyone who knew he had been there on a surveillance mission for the Order — an illegal organisation, incidentally — would struggle to find any explanation that did not appear, at best, suspicious. Perhaps that was why Sturgis had chosen to remain silent, rather than worsen his position further.

In reality, the only “crime” Rookwood had committed was failing to log his entry, something Tonks herself forgot to do often enough. Besides, nothing had been taken.

It was clear they did not have enough to arrest him.

The Auror glanced at her partner.

Kingsley lowered his gaze, his shoulders tense. He felt the frustration even more deeply — he had seen this before.

This is how wars are lost, she thought. In pieces.

With reasonable excuses.
With uncomfortable silences.
And by drawing a heavy curtain for the sole purpose of concealing the truth.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Remus’ self-indulgent scene is, deliberately, the mirror of the one we saw with Tonks in the previous chapter. Two different ways of experiencing the same emotion: illusion versus guilt; surrender versus restraint.

We also continue opening doors — quite literally — within the Department of Mysteries. I hope you’re enjoying the lore we’re building in there. I’d be especially curious to hear your thoughts on Tonks and Kingsley’s little incursion, the Ministry’s position — and the Minister’s — Amelia Bones and her carefully rehearsed bureaucratic neutrality, and that eternal territorial war between Malfoy and Moody.

In any case, do let me know what you thought. The fanfic tends to absorb all my imagination, so my author’s notes always end up shorter than I intend.

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