de ces amants-là

When: January 16th, evening Who: open Where: Deuxième Chance

Standing behind his bar, Nathan couldn’t help but be a little bit proud at how busy it was. Sometimes it still baffled him that he had a legitimate business. He had created something that was entirely his own, and built it from the ground up to be both sustainable and something good. Sometimes he enjoyed being back in the kitchen cooking, others he enjoyed being behind the bar just chatting and waiting on patrons. Tonight he was covering for one of his staff, so he stayed behind the bar and kept himself occupied as people filtered in and out. 

However, seeing a familiar face, he couldn’t help but approach with his casual cocksure smile as he asked, “Anything I can get for you?” he asked. 

.

Emma was smiling as she entered Deuxième Chance. It was a small smile; an outright grin rarely at home on the woman’s face. Still, the ever so slight pride she felt at the atmosphere of the bar was showing. As she spotted Nate behind the bar, she controlled herself, unwilling to show him just how proud she was of him. Anytime she entered the bar, the same pleasant, familiar feeling washed over her. 

She slipped onto a barstool, one eyebrow raised. “Whatever you recommend, barkeep.”

When: The night of Alastor and Suri’s release, 11:30pm  Where: Any bar, anywhere

Sleeping at night was becoming more of a struggle. Knowing that so many of those close to him were working overtime to clean up the mess that he created was weighing heavily on his conscience – even more so was the burden of keeping the secret buried and watching innocent people be accused. Rodolphus had used him as part of his own filthy scheme and Rabastan was left to simmer in the guilt. Nothing could convince him that this wasn’t his fault; he felt like a danger to society. A monster. Just like the papers painted him.

And so he found himself at the bar, alone, ruminating in his thoughts. Rabastan had grown used to dining and drinking alone since he traveled so often. While he greatly enjoyed the company of his friends, he did enjoy the solitude every so often. He was drinking slowly, tapping his fingers against the surface at the bar, observing other patrons. As he absentmindedly scanned the crowd he spotted a familiar face and tried to shake himself from his thoughts, flashing the most authentic smile he could manage. “I’d like to say I don’t normally make a habit of drinking alone, but I do enjoy it every so often.” He gestured to the seat next to him. “That being said, I wouldn’t mind some company.” 

.

She hadn’t wanted to drink alone. A glass of wine in her sitting room was fair-game, but Emma refused to pass the line of drinking anything harder by herself in her flat. For once, she had changed out of her work attire, instead wearing beige trousers cinched in at the waist, with a black lace blouse. In all honesty, she probably would wear it to work, but she hadn’t so far, and that was the point. She and Evans had been working tirelessly to make sure Moody and Shacklebolt’s release had gone smoothly and by all rights she should be exhausted. But she simply felt energised. Unable to work on cases until tomorrow, she decided to put that energy into something else. 

Emma had seated herself in the corner of the bar, small notebook open in front of her. Her ballpoint pen, something her Pere insisted she use more often than the wizard-preferred quills, tapped lightly on the surface of the paper. She had a habit of observing people when she was in public, scribbling down vaguely understandable notes in her elegant scroll. She did nothing with said notes but she found it helped hone her skills in interrogation. Noticing behaviour. She had just started writing notes on the dark haired man sat at the bar, at the way his fingers were tapping, when he turned around and she realised she recognised him. She rose instantly, gliding over to where he was sat. “Rabastan,” she smiled, slipping onto the stool next to him. “I had the same thought.” One hand raised to call the bartender over and her smile changed. Less true, with a slight tilt of her chin. Her accent changed too, the French vowels emphasised as she ordered herself another drink, “Would you like anything?” 

    He wants it to stop. He needs it to stop - to make the light go away, to fade away and leave him back in the safety of darkness, a darkness he’s made a home out of, now. But looking at her only seems to pull the light ever-center to his vision, and he can’t seem to tear his eyes away, unable to shake the feeling that he should know something. You should remember this. He forces himself to hear her words, to make sense of them. Focus. Pay attention. Whoever she is - who is she?, his mind screams - she’s dangerous, and he knows it. He doesn’t catch the pause when she says his name, as he’s finally able to tear his vision away from her eyes. Dominic looks instead to the waters behind her, at the sunlight shimmering on the ripples of the waves, praying for them to center him again, to grant him peace.

    It should center him again. It always has before, but now it doesn’t. It doesn’t, because it brings the light back again, stronger this time. He’s afforded a single glimpse - this woman before him, but younger, her hair lighter but her eyes no less sharp, the turn of her lip no less clever, and he knows what she feels like, what she tastes like, where when why how - and then it’s gone. He balls his fists in frustration, swallowing back the swear on his tongue. Dominic settles on turning his eyes to the dirt beneath their feet instead, focusing on the feeling of the wand at his throat, at the heavy weight of the threat behind it. His patience runs thin, fraying at the edges. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he all but snarls, rising to his full height. He’s used to towering over others, is now used to using it to his advantage to intimidate another into submission, but before this woman, even as he straightens his spine, he knows she’ll not fall for such simple tactics.

    He eyes his canvas notebook in her hand, wants to snatch it back - and knows he’ll earn a hex or two for his efforts, if she hasn’t already cast one. After all, how else could he reason the sunspots that dance across his vision now, if not some cruel curse that emanates from her very presence? All he wants is to get out of here, to get away from her and whatever spell it is that she’s cast on him. Dominic turns and begins to walk away from her, a dangerous gamble, considering the wand at his throat. He’s not under arrest; his freedom of movement hasn’t been taken from him yet, even if all has. It’s only at the mention of the family name that he pauses. Collier. He tries to remember why it’s important. Collier. Commonplace enough, a name that fits an ordinary family in an ordinary house. Mother father, brother sister. Younger brother. Younger boy. A well-lit sitting room, a crackling fireplace. All the better to illuminate the blood, the savagery, the tragedy left behind. The younger boy is bleeding and he’s kneeling and he’s pulling his wand out and -

   “What about the Collier boy? Heard he’s been recovering in St. Mungo’s after what happened to his family, God rest their souls,” he snaps, even as a touch of curiosity and dread crawls into his voice. He moves with the speed and grace of a predator, turning back to the woman and stalking towards her with deadly precision. He narrows his eyes, even as he searches her own for a hint of what’s happened to the young boy. He needs to know, even if just looking at her makes the sunspots in his eyes grow tenfold. Did I do enough? he wants to ask. Instead, what he says is, “Are you suggesting I had something to do with it? The Prophet runs dozens of articles a day with all sorts of bastards, and you’re so certain it’s me? You’ve lost your damn mind if you’re taking the word of a boy who’s been dead to the world the last three months.” 

.

        They’ve had many arguments, Emma and Dominic, so many towards the end of their friendship that it perhaps couldn’t be called a friendship at all. In retrospect, it had been a grim foreshadowing of what was to come. However, in all that time, in so many occurrences where she had called him a coward, an idiot, a pushover with the wrong priorities, she had never felt so lost talking to him. He’d been her best friend once upon a time, and even if he made decisions she’d never understand, she’d always known who he was. Right now, any step he made or word he said would come as a surprise to her. She doesn’t like not knowing what’s going on. Hates it, in fact. Hates this. 

        It’s only when his eyes change focus, if only for a moment, to focus on the ground beneath them. This is something she can reconcile with- for lack of a better word- her Dominic. The unwillingness to raise to a fight, the part of him that, no matter what she said to him, about him, would never retaliate with the same viciousness, if at all. Then, in a moment, the part she recognises is gone. He’s so much taller than her, somehow even taller now than they were when they last saw each other. “Yes, you do.” She feels steel in her spine as she raises her chin to meet his direct gaze. No part of her wants to back down from this. When she was a teenager, Emma had made an art out of uncertainty; she had pulled boys closer to her and pushed them away again like a child with a yoyo, always knowing exactly where she wanted them to stand. As seems to be a reoccurring theme in this interaction, she doesn’t know if she wants Dominic closer or at the other side of the park. 

        He goes to turn away from her and she’s only just able to stop herself from grabbing his shoulder once more. She’s under no illusion that she’s as calm as she should be, but Emma’s intimately aware with the type of people Dominic associates with now, and knows that even if he had killed every member of the Collier family by hand, the threats she threw against him would be enough for those types of lawyers to get him off scot-free. So she waits, pocketing the notebook out of personal curiosity rather than professional. He’ll notice, definitely, but she doubts he can risk trying to get it back. Part of her feels bad for using that against him, but a stronger part of her needs to see how his art is manifesting ten years later. A memory surfaces, something that would have been soft yesterday; chasing each other around an empty Ravenclaw common room, a ribbon-bound sketchbook held tightly in her grasp. The label addresses it to her, and she’s trying to stay out of his reach whilst trying to untie the bow. “I want to see,” her higher-pitched, almost giggling voice calls out. He’s using his height as an advantage, his much longer legs catching up to her in moments. “It’s not Christmas yet!” He insists, but he’s laughing too. The sound of his laugh echoes in her head, interrupted by the man himself. She’s broken from her reverie by his harsh tone and she lets herself ache for a second before refitting her armour. 

        “Thankfully, yes. He woke up this morning. The rest of his family were dead at the scene, including his sixteen year old sister, Jess.” She says the words to get a reaction out of him, all the while fearful that she won’t. He’s turned back to her now, she knew he would. “I’m not suggesting anything, Dom, I am asking you what you had to do with it. My partner was reading The Prophet, your face bloody front and centre on the front page, and the kid damn near had a panic attack. He’d remembered nothing up to that point, just kept asking for his Mum.” Emma hadn’t meant to reveal that much information, but remembering Toby’s face filled her with a rage once more. His grip on her hand had been like a vice the moment he’d seen the front cover of The Prophet, repeating the same phrase over and over until her partner had had to fetch a nurse. “Why did you scare him so much? Just you, no-one else. Explain that to me and I’ll leave you alone.”

When: Afternoon after Dom’s arrest Where: Ministry homicide department Who: @vanlties​

When Victoria had left the Ministry with Dom in the early morning, she had known that she would be back in the Ministry today. What had happened was unacceptable. Victoria hadn’t worked this hard to get Dom out of Azkaban for it to all crumble because of one over zealous detective. Victoria and Dom were going to get the happy ending that had been stolen from them all those years ago. Victoria was nothing but determined. That phone call last night had scared her, made her realize how one wrong move could undermine everything that she had done over the past decade to get to this moment. And it wouldn’t do.

She walked into the Ministry with her head held high, after all it wasn’t after hours and she didn’t care who saw her today, and made her way to the now familiar homicide department. “I would like to speak with Miss Vanity,” she spoke clearly to the receptionist at the desk, a different one from the previous night. She looked down at her black blazer and picked off imaginary lint as she waited for the receptionist to return. She sighed and glanced around the room, noting that it was much busier than it had been the previous night. “You can come with me, Miss Delacour,” the receptionist had finally said.

Victoria followed her through the maze of hallways to what she assumed was this Emma Vanity’s office. She didn’t know much about her, but she had spoken to some of her Ministry contacts this morning before coming. She knew that they were about the same age and she had been working in this department for some time and was the lead of her team. It wasn’t much to go off of but Victoria would make due. The receptionist stopped outside of Emma’s office and gestured to go in before turning and leaving. 

“Miss Vanity?” Victoria tapped on the door frame and waited to get her attention before she stepped into the office. “My name is Victoria Delacour and I would like to speak with you. Do you have a few minutes?”

.

In retrospect, Emma regretted how aggressive her arrest of Dominic had been. It was unlike her, to let personal feelings get in the way of professionalism. However, regretting the arrest itself was a whole different matter. Whatever Dom was to her was irrelevant, he had still been identified by a victim, and it was her duty as a detective to question him. She’d been shoehorned into going home after she’d made the arrest, and yet even a night sat with a glass of Merlot and a scratched record of Bach’s Cello Suite hadn’t been enough to soothe her nerves. 

She felt afraid when she was near him. Not of him, never of him, but close enough to losing her grip on something she had always had straight in her mind that she felt unsteady. Typically, coming back into work and seeing the stacks of cases on her desk would have helped take her mind of things. Today, though, something had been off. The only case she’d been able to even close to focus on had been that of the Collier family, and anything potentially attached to it. She’d heard Victoria had been by to take Dominic home this morning, restraining herself from visiting him in the cell at all, knowing that if she’d been the one to see him out, Lily would have no doubt heard about it, and then her attempt at professional neutrality would be shot.

When the receptionist for the department rapped on her office door, Emma was unsurprised. She didn’t know much about Victoria Delacour, something she was routinely annoyed by, Emma liked to be the one with the facts, but every impression she had ever had of her was of someone who would protect family. Despite Emma’s own misgivings, she supposed Dominic was family to her. As the receptionist, Sophia, left to go and bring the woman, Emma quickly filed the Collier folder. It wouldn’t do to have civilians seeing casefiles. 

As Victoria entered, Emma was leaning against her desk from the front. Her ankles were crossed, as were her arms, loosely. If Emma Vanity ‘did’ casual, this was as close she came to it. “Miss. Delacour, do come in. Please, call me Emma.” She drew herself to her full height, a rather unimpressive 5′2″ ( nearer to 5′5″ with the heels ) and strode around to her chair. She smiled, one hand gesturing to the chair opposite her. “I assume you’re here about Mr. Greengrass.”

She’d come to the Ministry under the guise of about 5 different assignments, but had bumped into a few people and was more than a little flustered by the time she was supposed to go find Hughes or Herbert or Hendricks in the Department of Magical Education. Somehow, despite her remarkable memory and yet not at all shocking considering the meeting was going to be the same thing as last time – “We can’t update it until it follows the curriculum set by the school”, but with her book being a work in progress and not yet having a set curricula for the following autumn – the woman had gotten herself “accidentally” lost. She’d simply taken the life up three floors instead of five, taken two lefts and a right and… just like magic, she wasn’t in front of the assistant head of the Magical Education Department. Truly baffling how that happened. 

She had no love for quidditch, but those doors reading Department of Magical Games and Sports had never looked more beautiful as they kept her from the monotonous meeting she knew was inevitable. She simply wandered down the corridors, acting as if nothing were amiss, but feeling a bit like a schoolgirl trying to skive off lessons. Many people nodded their hellos and she smiled as surely as she could, before, after about five minutes, deciding that she’d made a commitment and she needed to follow it. 

Cissa had just turned, heels clicking against the floor, to make her way back to the lifts when she heard a familiar voice. She careened around the corner and her eyebrows knit together in confusion when she saw the speaker. “Emma?” she asked redundantly, already realizing that her voice recognition was accurate, “What are you doing down here? Don’t you work down in Magical Law Enforcement?”

@vanlties​

.

Emma’s office had started off as something of a sanctuary for her. However, as the cases built up, it had begun to feel more stifling than freeing. When an event such as the werewolf attack happened, not only had it brought about a multitude of child victims from the assault itself, but it was also the perfect opportunity for many others to get away with their own activities. With her head full of knowledge found in case files, trying to make some connection between the placements of the numerous victims, Emma forgot to do things she considered luxuries, such as eat. It had only been when the scent of her co-worker’s lunch wafted in through her door, after her partner had popped his head in and then left the door open a crack, that she had remembered the necessity of it. That, combined with the strict orders from Evans that she take a much-needed break, had been enough to convince her of it. 

Once she had left the pocket universe of her office, the other necessities of life had seemed to come back. With her navy woollen coat pulled over her suit, a green so dark it resembled black, she’d made her way downstairs, purchasing a ridiculously expensive sandwich from the cafe on the ground floor. It was only as she was wandering somewhere on the second floor, debating whether to go straight back to her office or actually talk to another living human for a little while, that she heard a voice that she recognised. “Cissa,” she said, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “I do. I was getting lunch, and thought I’d stop to talk to someone on this floor.” 

Paper bag held in one hand, she crossed her arms thoughtfully. “What are you doing in the Magical Games and Sports department, anyhow? I shouldn’t think you’d have any business here.” Despite the words, the tone was less than judgemental. Curious, if anything. 

WHEN: Late evening, New Year’s Day WHERE: An Order Safe House WHO: Order Members

Alastor hadn’t planned on sticking around, though it’s not like one could blame the man. Two weeks was enough to make someone miss their bed, along with all the other comforts which comes with being in your own space. However, the usually appealing idea of an empty flat waiting for him seemed less than appealing. The silence other than the creaking of the old floorboards underneath his feet was usually a comfort, but at that moment Alastor was putting off going home as long as possible. It wasn’t too hard, really— there was enough people who had wanted to ask him how he was. He felt like he was a broken record player, and yet he still had no desire to go home.

Walking out of the entrance room he had been in for the past hour or so, the Auror found himself wandering into the library. Knowing every book that was on the shelves by heart it took Alastor no time at all to find his own personal copy of a book on runes. A good portion of the books on the shelves were ones Alastor had read and decided someone else could get good use out of. Just as he flipped open the cover the door opened, causing the man’s gaze to raise to the already retreating figure.

“You don’t have to leave on my account,” Alastor spoke briskly, eyes going back down to the book already. “The idea of company doesn’t put me off like it usually does today.” It was only a partial joke, but his lips turned up in a smile nonetheless.

.

Emma wasn’t usually one to spend more time at safe houses than she had to. Her own flat was perfectly decent, located in a Muggle part of London, far enough away that apparation was her usual method of travel to work. It held her extensive record collection, and a library of reading material that rivalled most small bookshops. Still, despite the tiny piece of sanctity that she had crafted for herself, the idea of going back to it had felt incredibly lonely tonight. 

She rarely felt lonely, quite content in the quiet of her own company. It gave her excuse to get on with work, Order related or otherwise. However, since learning of Alastor and Suri’s capture, and then her confrontation with Dom, work had been taking over her life to an extent that even she was aware was unhealthy. Leaving all the case-files in her office ( and absolutely none in her office at home, if anyone from the department were to ask ), and escaping here, forced her to set them aside for a moment. If anything, she would at least have an opportunity to talk about someone else’s life.

Sat in the garden for the better part of an hour, staring at a starless sky, her head turned swiftly when the light in the room she was sat in front of turned on. At the idea of company, especially on New Year’s Day, she left her book on the bench, and pulled the door to the outside open. One more hallway to walk down, and one more door to walk through, and she was in the library. 

But as she entered the room, and her eyes fell on the figure by the bookshelves, she began to leave as quickly as she’d arrived. Alastor was a dear friend, but had most likely already grown sick of constant questioning since his release from Azkaban. She’d read enough of his ordeal in the paperwork she’d been sorting through in order to know it wasn’t for polite discussion. And yet, at his voice, she stopped, turned back. 

“I suppose company is something sought after, at the moment.” Her French lilt made the words softer. “Happy New Year, I’m glad that you’re able to spend it as a free man.” Slow, an uncertainty that Emma didn’t wear often, but honest. 

    He looks up just a moment before the cool wooden tip of a wand meets his throat. Instantly, the frown lines of his developing headache vanish, only to be replaced by a cool mask of indifference. Dominic wills himself to not swallow the lump in his throat, forces himself to reveal no sign that he’s caught off guard by this - this woman who stands a full head below him, who with just a whisper, could send him into a world of unimaginable pain.

    He gazes upon her features - the sharp dark eyes, the porcelain skin - and tries to identify a name with the face. A hundred names run through his mind, and his eyebrows furrow as each passing face grows brighter and brighter. He’s getting closer. Crackling firewood, the frayed sleeve of his sweater, a forgotten melody from a record player in the corner - and then light, too bright to be natural, and he pushes the fragmented memory away. A stranger, he concludes, probably met during one holiday or another. A husk of a memory, any remnants of joy and happiness stolen by the sentinels of his time in Azkaban, no doubt.

    It’s problematic that he doesn’t know who this woman is, or what she wants. It’s more problematic that he finds it difficult to look away - there’s a captivating radiance to her, a shine that he knows cannot come from the overcast skies above them. Still, he knows that his next words can entangle him into a deeper web than he’s already ensnared himself in, or grant him the freedom and absolution he so desperately needs. “You’ve got me mistaken for someone else,” he huffs, but raises both his palms either way. It’s a gesture of surrender, of innocence he knows that he can no longer lay claim to. “Been here all morning, miss.” 

    There are a thousand things she could accuse him of, from the dozens of crimes he’s committed in the name of loyalty and fealty. Not one from his little project with Emmeline, he thinks. Their tracks have been hidden well in that regard. Perhaps this is one of Crabbe’s friends? He’d certainly left the eldest Crabbe boy in a sorry state the last time he’d seen him. There are few who’d know where to find him; here, of all places, this Muggle park, a refuge of his youth that he returns to now. Who is she? His eyes are wide with feigned ignorance, even as a small smirk, tinged with chagrin, pulls at the corner of his lips. “I know it’s easy to point your finger - or wand, rather - at the nearest convict, but my crimes were nonviolent, miss, and I mean neither you nor anyone else any harm. I’m sorry to hear that someone’s been hurt; perhaps I can help you find who you’re looking for.”

.

     He looks different. And she hates that that’s her first thought. Beauty is part of who she is, not integral, but important, a standard she holds herself to at all times. But she quite pointedly does not hold other people to those standards. Beauty is- subjective. Looks are unimportant, or they would be in a world that they don’t live in. The train of thought was instilled into her long ago by parents who knew how the world would treat a beautiful girl. Yet, she can’t help assessing him. His hair is gone, buzzed down to the scalp. He looks more tired, older. She looks older, too. Still, they haven’t aged in the same way. His eyes, the same ones that had always warmed her in a way that had nothing to do with the fire they sat beside, are lifeless. Cold. Dom had never been cold. She was the cold one- the ice queen, the one who struggled to let people get close long before she’d been heartbroken. He’d balanced her out and now- she doesn’t think she could ever be warm enough for the both of them. 

    It’s only then, after her wandering mind ponders the change in his eyes, that she notices the look in them. He’s staring at her, figuring her out as if she were a particularly difficult jigsaw puzzle, and she recognises the expression. Pére deemed it ‘the Veela look’ long ago. Dad had slapped his hand, told him to hush, whispered that it wasn’t any particular look. Pére had pressed on, ensuring his daughter watched out for men who looked at her in that way, “Mon coeur, you want a man who looks at your mind, not your face.” She’s used to the look; is no longer offended by it the same way she was at fifteen. This is the first time it hurts. 

    Ten years is a long time, but she hasn’t changed the way he has. Her age suits her. She’s grown into it, and it shapes her comfortably. Her hair is darker than it was at school, her eyes sharper. The red lipstick she’d preferred in school is swapped out for more muted tones. Emma no longer has to use her beauty as a weapon; she’s legally allowed to carry one. Still, she hasn’t changed enough that he wouldn’t even know who she was. Her wand digs further into his neck unconsciously. His hands are raised, a surrender. There is no legal reason she can justify her threat with. But she doesn’t drop her wand. “No, I don’t. I’m not going to forget who you are, Dom-inic.” She hopes he doesn’t catch the hint of hesitation between the nickname and the name. “Don’t play stupid with me. Was it on purpose?”

    Though she hasn’t seen him since his release, she knows enough from sitting opposite criminals in interrogation rooms everyday, that prison is enough to change someone. If it’s changed the way he looks at her then- There’s no use going down that path once more. If he’s going to pretend like he doesn’t know her, call her miss like she’ll appreciate the politeness, she’ll treat him as the man who almost killed a child. Nothing more. “There were many convicts nearer. I work surrounded by them. None of them, however, were mentioned by a child in a statement.” Separating him from her Dominic seems to be doing her some good, at least professionally. When she’s angry, the French portion of her accent becomes stronger. Growing up there for much of her adolescent life, any strong emotion can do that. “The child of the Collier family. Tobias. Toby. He’s the only one who survived- and all he can remember is that ‘the man from the newspaper’ was there.” She tries to preempt his next sentence. “Of course, there are many men in newspapers, but none whose face frightened him so much as yours.”

When: December 30th Who: @vanlties​ Where: Detective Unit’s Interrogation Room

Being back in the office felt entirely wrong with Alastor and Suri still out. Overall, the mood was relatively somber in their department. It had become increasingly clear over the last few months that the vast majority of the Auror department was either a part of the Order or sympathetic towards their cause. Either way, having their department head and one of their lead Aurors whisked away to Azkaban overnight had left everything with a bitter taste. Their career focused on serving justice, and no matter how the situation was phrased, their arrest was decidedly not. 

Lily had been working on approving the last of the reports on her desk when one of their newest members came bustling into her office. Despite being the head of the detective unit, Lily had a relatively open door policy when it came to those that worked with and under her. The frantic look on his face as he said, “Sorry to bother you boss, but uh Detective Vanity just threatened a suspect that’s in custody and I thought maybe you should know.” 

The first thought that popped into Lily’s head was ‘did they deserve it’ but then she couldn’t very well voice that. Either way, Lily couldn’t have her detectives threatening people, no matter how deserved it is. Giving him a tired smile, Lily answered, “Thanks, Anderson. You did good. Can you clear the area for me?” The last thing they needed was an audience. 

Making her way to the interrogation room, Lily gave a sharp knock on the door, signaling that she needed Emma out there now without letting her suspect know. As soon as she saw the other woman, Lily felt concern pulling at her. However, she calmly asked, “Alright, Detective? I heard you were threatening a suspect - do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

.

Emma prided herself on being an extremely calm person. It was a necessity for the job; she couldn’t break no matter how much a suspect was attempting to rile her up. Losing her cool was not an option, not when she worked so closely and so often with those who had been through inexplicable trauma. It had become easy, letting words roll off her like she hadn’t even heard them. There were few people who would be successful. Unfortunately, it seemed, that even after ten years, Dominic Greengrass was still one of those people. 

She shouldn’t have threatened him, she certainly shouldn’t have threatened him in public. When she had approached him, truth be told, she’d had no idea where the conversation was going to go. Emma was a planner, and she felt bitter that her head had been clouded enough that that had gone out of the window. Her mind had been a litany of curses even as she’d brought him in. 

Now, they were in an interrogation room, and he was still just sat there. She was back in work now, in the room she had interviewed murderers, kidnappers, abusers. Losing her calm was even less of an option than it had been in the park, though she was struggling to put out of her mind just how ready she’d been to curse him. Emma Vanity liked silence, but right now, she felt as if she was drowning in it. The knock at the door was a much needed lungful of oxygen. She stood calmly, pretending this stranger hadn’t already seen her anger in full force. Not bothering with a redundant ‘stay here’, ( of course he would, where else would he go? ), she opened the door and closed it behind her. 

Part of her had known that Lily would be stood on the other side of it, but there was still a moment of worry. Her heels took her up to her boss’ height but she still felt smaller somehow. “Technically, Evans, I didn’t threaten him when he was a suspect. We were two perfect strangers an hour ago.” Her voice held its usual steadiness, but her grip on her wand tightened behind her back. “I have Dominic Greengrass in there. We have evidence to suggest he’s involved with the murder of the Collier family. I spoke to the sole survivor this morning. A ten year old.”

E M M A  L I S E T T E  R O S A M U N D  V A N I T Y ; the enigma.

where: a muggle park, near a still pond when: 10:12am, on a thursday; 6 days after the election who: @vanlties​

    He scratches at his beard with one hand, a piece of charcoal grasped in his other. His knee bounces in a staccato rhythm - which is to say, no rhythm at all. Erratic and untethered, like the strokes across the parchment that his hand creates. Dominic swallows the lump in his throat as he peers down at his progress before clutching the charcoal even harder in his hands, until crumbs begin to fall and smudge against his canvas as he colors the eyes - where they should be, where they aren’t, where there rested only hollow misery - darker and darker.

    His hand presses the charcoal as he circles where the face should be in darkness until it snaps. With a scowl, he throws the now-splintered chunks of charcoal into the still water, his hands now stained in black too, like rotted flesh. His eyes survey his handiwork in the notebook on his lap and he sighs.

    Try as he might, he’ll never capture what It looked like. He wonders if they look different for every person - a personalized nightmare, a living Boggart.

    He hears the footsteps on the grass, rapidly approaching his direction, and he closes his eyes, throwing his notebook over to the side. He already knows who it is, who it must be. There are few in this world now who would seek out his presence. With his clean hand, he clasps his forehead as a headache begins to pierce his skull. “Not now, Severus,” he mutters, “I did what you asked me to do and besides, it’s my day off.”

.

       She doesn’t think she’s ever been so angry. Her wand twitches in her hand, the red nail of her pointer finger digging into the white wood. The briefcase that can usually be found in her left hand is missing; left in her office in the rush. Emma is not a forgetful person, but the cloud of rage that has been amassing since her interview with the Collier boy had blinded her vision somewhat. It’s been four hours. Four hours of busywork, and writing reports, and sitting through interviews with witnesses. Four hours of getting through the day so that she could argue that she put professionalism before her own goals. 

     Still, her reluctance to wait another minute before finding Dominic means she comes straight from work. Her tailored charcoal-grey pantsuit is immaculate; the heels she wears sound loudly on the gravel path as she approaches the canvas. As she reaches closer, one would consider the logistics of walking on grass in heels, but a simple charm on each pair of shoes had cleared up a problem such as that long ago. 

     As Dominic comes clearly into view, all she can see is the bruised, tear-stained face of the little boy in the bed at St. Mungo’s. How his voice trembled, and she’d had to hold his hand throughout the interview. He had no one left. No Mum to hold his hand; no Dad to ask the detectives to leave because his boy was upset. He had been alone and frightened. The only clear thing they’d been able to get out of him were words that would fucking haunt her for weeks: “the bad man from the newspapers.”

     With this image in her head, all the poise and elegance Emma is known for possessing is lost as she rips the canvas from his hands. His words completely ignored, within seconds, the tip of her wand is pressed just above his Adam’s apple. She’s over a foot shorter than him, only slightly helped by her heels, but she feels dangerous. “Did you hurt that boy on purpose?” The words are seethed, said quietly enough for only him to hear. Emma always begins quiet with her anger.