Chapter 39

For the greater good of the wizarding community.

Alastor Moody drummed his fingers against the worn edge of his desk.
His magical eye spun restlessly, scanning the Auror Office, the corridor that connected the entire floor, the other levels, the Minister’s office, the Ministry atrium… even the street outside.
His other eye, cold and severe, remained fixed on the open file before him.

He didn’t need to read it again; he knew every word, every detail, every report in that folder…

Muttering under his breath, he pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the window.

Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody was in a foul mood that morning.

As he had been every morning since he’d read the article:

“Attempted break-in at the Ministry. Sturgis Podmore, 38, resident of 2 Laburnum Gardens, Clapham, appeared before the Wizengamot charged with unlawful entry and attempted theft at the Ministry of Magic on August 31st. Podmore was apprehended by Ministry security wizard Eric Munch, who caught him attempting to access a high-security door at one o’clock in the morning. Podmore, who refused to speak in his defense, was found guilty on both counts and sentenced to six months in Azkaban.”

Sturgis had been a brilliant officer in the Department of Anti-Corruption, a branch of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He was also a declared enemy of the Dark forces and a relentless hunter of Death Eaters.

Moody knew Sturgis.
He had recruited him personally into the Order of the Phoenix. Just like Kingsley. Just like Nymphadora.

He had no doubts about him.

That was why the article troubled him so deeply.

Tried to access a high-security door?

It could be that the paper was wrong. Or that it was a Ministry ploy to sideline Sturgis for a while—he had enemies in every office, after all.

But assuming the information was true… why would Sturgis cross that door?

That night, Sturgis had been assigned to guard that very entrance to the Department of Mysteries.

The Order had organized night watches, and Sturgis had been on duty under an Invisibility Cloak.

His mission was simple: observe, and report if he saw anything.

Nothing more. Under no circumstances had he been ordered—or permitted—to enter.

So… why had he done it?

Only two possibilities came to mind.

One: that Sturgis had betrayed the Order. Moody doubted it. He trusted him.

The other option, far more unsettling: that someone had forced him.

If that was the case, then the question became another entirely: who?

It had to be someone with access to the Ministry. Not just that—but to the Department of Mysteries.

And someone capable of detecting a wizard concealed beneath an Invisibility Cloak. That last point remained unresolved, but he would come back to it.

As for the first two… he already had a likely candidate.

Lucius Malfoy.

Moody had been watching Lucius for years. After the fall of Lord Voldemort, his family had come under suspicion. There had been trials. Accusations.

But the Malfoys had walked free. They had claimed the Imperius Curse.

And, thanks to their connections and their name, all charges had been dropped.

“Too slippery fish,” Moody thought bitterly. “Too clean to be innocent.”

Lucius Malfoy knew how to move, that was clear. He knew how to appear respectable. And he used money and favours as easily as others used a wand.

But Moody saw past appearances. And what he saw was corruption.

That was why he had never stopped watching him. And his seasoned Auror instincts told him that Lucius Malfoy was still a Death Eater. He always had been.

And now, he had testimony.

The boy—Potter—had confirmed it. He had given names. He had seen their faces in the graveyard.

Lucius Malfoy was one of them. One of those who had stood with the Dark Lord when he returned.

He was also one of the highest-ranking officials connected to the Department of Mysteries.

The perfect man to steal the prophecy.

Everything fit.

And the fact that Sturgis Podmore had been on duty that night—and the one to suffer the effects of the Imperius Curse—did not seem like a coincidence to Moody.

If anything, it only reinforced his conclusion.

Lucius Malfoy was responsible.

Sturgis had been on Malfoy’s trail for months, gathering evidence of embezzlement and abuse of influence. Like Moody, Sturgis believed Malfoy was far from clean, and he had been determined to build a case strong enough to bring him down.

But, as always, Malfoy had managed to stay one step ahead.

The properties Sturgis had investigated were empty, stripped of anything remotely incriminating, as though someone had warned him in advance and given him time to clear everything out before the investigation team arrived.

And then, out of nowhere, Sturgis had been accused of attempting to steal from the Hall of Prophecies. Framed. Convicted without a proper trial. Sent to Azkaban before anyone had time to react.

Everything had happened too fast. Too clean.

Too Malfoy.

Moody knew exactly what had happened. Malfoy had used the Imperius Curse on Sturgis to force him to enter. If he managed to retrieve the prophecy, all the better. And if not… better still: he had the perfect excuse to get rid of him.

And ever since that night—months ago—before anyone could make Sturgis’s files on the Malfoy case conveniently “disappear,” Moody had secured them himself. Kept them out of the wrong hands. He had gone through that file so many times he could recite it from memory.

And yet, it led nowhere.

He stared out at the horizon, his thoughts as grey as the clouds hanging over London.

He had been here before, facing unseen enemies, unraveling hidden plots.

But this time was different.

This time, he felt as though the enemy was smiling right at him, with that damned, superior smirk of Lucius Malfoy.

“I’m not mad,” he muttered to himself, jaw tightening. “Paranoid, yes. But that paranoia has kept me alive. And this time… I’ll find a way to catch him.”

He returned to his desk and began reviewing the files again, this time with renewed determination to find something—anything—he could use.

He knew he couldn’t do it alone. He would need allies—inside and outside the Ministry.

And he also knew it wouldn’t be easy. Lucius Malfoy was not just a wealthy man; he was a master of manipulation and deceit. A charmer of serpents.

But Moody was a master too. And though he had lost a good part of himself in this war, he still had enough left to keep going.

Sturgis had fallen. But that didn’t mean the cause was lost.

The fall of a good man only gave him more reason to press on—to make sure the truth came to light.

“You won’t slip away this time,” he growled, as his magical eye spun with renewed intensity.

The battle was far from over, and as long as there was even a single thread left to pull, Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody would not stop.

A sharp knock at the door broke through his thoughts. Kingsley—his most trusted man.

–  Alastor –  he said in greeting. He was holding a newspaper –  We need to talk.

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Silence had weight.

They walked in a line, like lost pilgrims, following a man with a stony face and a bored air who acted as their guide. One of the many bureaucrats that populated the Ministry of Magic.

The place they were in was, quite simply, fascinating.

Before them stretched a meadow of dense grass that seemed endless.

In the distance, a forest of thick trees faded into mountains whose peaks blurred into the clouds. At their feet, a path wound its way toward the horizon.

Tonks frowned.

It didn’t make sense.

How could a place this vast exist within the Department of Mysteries?

Or perhaps they were no longer inside. She no longer knew what to think.

The path beneath their feet, made of worn white stone, ran between the remains of mutilated sculptures: fragmented torsos, marble heads, severed arms emerging from the grass like abandoned relics.

They weren’t arranged.

They weren’t displayed.

They were simply there, scattered, as if someone had decided they were not worthy of being part of anything beautiful. As if they had been discarded.

And now, the undergrowth was the only thing that embraced them.

Yet, far from seeming resigned to their oblivion, they appeared… devoted.

Tonks glanced sideways at some of the faces, but quickly looked away.

Her instinct told her she shouldn’t. It almost felt like a lack of respect.

And yet, one of them stopped her.

Not because of its beauty, but because of something deeper.

It was a male face, with hair sculpted back, smooth and straight. The features were elegant; the expression in its marble eyes, though empty, was hypnotic. As if they could see through skin, bone… and the very fabric of reality.

The thin lips were parted slightly. As if it were whispering.

Or singing.

Or praying.

There was something about that face she recognized.

As if she had seen it somewhere before.

More expressive.

More alive.

She shivered, though she couldn’t say why.

Beside her, Booth cleared his throat, pulling her from her thoughts.

Tonks turned toward him.

He looked… uncomfortable as well.

As if he knew that this was not just stone.

In the distance, the path led to a temple of pale columns, as solemn as it was ancient. Shadows crossed the sky—she did not dare call them “clouds”—covering the “sun” of that “sky,” whose rays slid across the façade like invisible hands.

Along one stretch of the path, the stone had crumbled into an abrupt drop, as if a part of the world had given in to the abyss.

There, in that sunken ground, a natural pool had formed, its water perfectly still.

At the bottom, white busts lay resting among broken slabs and aquatic plants. Some lay on their sides; others remained upright, as if watching from the other side of the water. One, in particular, stared upward with its eyes open.

Tonks moved around it, keeping close to the solid edge of the path, as though she feared stumbling and falling into that pool. Something in her told her she would not be able to get out.

Booth said nothing, but tightened his grip on the folder against his chest, as if shielding himself.

—Above all, stay behind me and do as I say. And do nothing I don’t tell you to do —he ordered, in a flat, almost resigned tone.

The guide did not stop to give further explanations. He climbed the temple steps without looking back.

Tonks rolled her eyes. Booth huffed. He didn’t like being treated like a child.

They reached the entrance of the temple. A set of steps invited them inside. They followed the bureaucrat, who guided them at an unhurried pace. Tonks barely managed to glimpse the inscription carved into the tympanum.

“PRO BONO COMUNITATIS MAGICAE.”

She didn’t know what it meant, but she repeated it to herself, committing it to memory.

The interior of the temple was a square, symmetrical chamber, devoid of ornament save for ancient carvings half-erased upon the columns.

The air inside was neither cold nor warm. Only… expectant.

As if the place were waiting.

For someone.

For an answer.

For a question not yet asked.

Everything was white stone.

White light.

White silence.

Except for a chalice at the center, above which a flame floated, suspended in midair. It did not seem to be fed by anything.

Too perfect to be natural.

Too alive to be conjured.

Tonks watched it, absorbed.

Could it be… the deity?

A current of air slipped between the columns and brushed against her pink hair, as though the place were answering her question.

Around her, four waterfalls—one at each cardinal point—flowed from the stone, descending in steady streams into a channel carved into the floor.

The water was so clear it was almost invisible.

So still it seemed asleep.

So silent it seemed to listen.

The fall was so perfect that Tonks was certain she would see her reflection clearly in it. Like a mirror.

The Auror took a step forward, drawn by the serenity of that place, as if something within her—something older than her body—recognized it.

But a firm hand—dry, authoritative—cut her off.

—Come —ordered the bureaucrat.

Tonks made a move to follow her companions, but her eyes lingered a moment longer, fixed on the flame, the temple, the water.

As if a part of her did not want to leave.

As if she had just brushed against something she did not understand… but that, somehow, understood her.

When they left the chamber, the man did not say goodbye. He simply walked away down the corridor, as if he had never been there at all.

That was when Tonks understood. He was no bureaucrat. He was an Unspeakable.

One of them.

Booth let himself drop onto the floor of the black stone corridor and leaned back against the wall, exhausted. Tonks remained standing, one hip tilted, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on nothing. Or perhaps inward.

Neither of them spoke for a long while.

Tonks was still caught in what she had seen. Or what she had felt. Or rather, in what she would probably never understand.

She lifted her head and met Booth’s eyes.

He smiled, but there was something bitter in it—a grimace that did not quite feel like his.

—Do you understand now, Tonks? —he asked.

She barely raised an eyebrow, offering no reply.

Booth cleared his throat before speaking, and his voice sounded lower, dimmer—and once again, not entirely his own.

—The purpose… is not for you to learn anything. It is for you to understand that you are an ant in all of this. That there are forces greater than you, that you will never understand. They want you to love the mystery. To respect the secret. To be willing to die for something you will never comprehend. Because that is what is expected of us.

The inscription on the temple came back to her.

“PRO BONO COMUNITATIS MAGICAE.”

Tonks raised her gaze.

She read the motto.

The same mantra she had seen every day—at the entrance, at the guard post, in the lift, in the corridors, in the chambers, on the parchment they had given her at the start of her rotation.

“For the greater good of the wizarding community.”

She swallowed. She felt fear—but it wasn’t terror. It was something closer to… fascination.

As if she were standing at the edge of something infinite, her senses begging her to step back… while her mind tempted her to fall.

To let go.

To surrender.

To belong.

When she looked back at Booth, she knew.

He understood it better than anyone.

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Lupin Apparated into the alley that led to Grimmauld Place, startling a cat rummaging through the rubbish in search of food.

The Christmas atmosphere had been building for days and, although that dark, grim alley bore not a single decoration, the main street—just a couple of blocks away—was already dressed for the season.

Shops glowed with lights, shop windows were adorned for the occasion, and Muggles wandered, shopped, laughed, dreamed. All of them unaware of Voldemort’s return and what it meant for the wizarding world.

But that was not the concern weighing on him that day.

He had not imagined that talking to Tonks would be so difficult. He had known it would be… but he had assumed that, by now, he would have done it.

He had spent nearly two weeks trying. And he had not lacked opportunities. But something always happened: an interruption, an urgency, an excuse. There was always something telling him that it was not the right moment.

That same dizzying, almost beautiful feeling was what he had felt for Emmeline Vance many years before.

And yet, with his Hogwarts companion, he had always known that—no matter how tempted he might be—nothing would come of it. There had been a distance, a quiet certainty.

But with Tonks, it was different. This time, he truly felt that he was one step away from ruining everything.

But ruining what?

What if it was all in his head?

At times, he caught himself thinking: Don’t worry. You’ve misread it. She doesn’t feel anything for you. You’re worrying about something that isn’t there.

He simply had to ignore his feelings and forget her. There was no need to talk to her. And yet, for some reason, he did not quite believe that argument.

He was certain Sirius would know what to do. In fact, he wouldn’t have overthought it: he would have acted already.

Which was precisely why he knew what advice Sirius would give him.

Go for it.

But that was exactly what he could not do.

So there was no point in speaking to Sirius if he already knew what he would say.

What he didn’t want to hear.

What, at the same time, he could not stop wanting.

His steps carried him to the black iron gate of Grimmauld Place.

The house awaited him, dark and silent, as always.

He rested his hand on the doorknob, but did not turn it.

He sighed.

He couldn’t lock himself inside with all those thoughts battering against the walls of his mind.

He needed air. He needed not to think—or at least to try.

So he turned away, stepped down the stone stairs, and set off, hands buried in his pockets, the collar of his coat raised against the cold.

He walked without direction until he reached the main avenue, where Christmas decorations shimmered overhead and people passed by laughing, arms full of bags and coats, hopes and promises.

Lights flickered above him, reflecting in the puddles along the pavement.

And for a few brief minutes, Remus Lupin lost himself among the Muggles.

Just another man walking down the street. Invisible. Anonymous.

Among the crowd.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE:

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