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Of those to whom much is given, much is required. It is not the official Bones family motto; they have never been aristocratic enough for such affectations. But it is the credo Clarence and Prudence Bones drilled into Amelia and her brothers from the moment they were old enough to understand: You have food and shelter, the chance at an education and a good career, health and happiness. Many do not. Appreciate these gifts, and use them wisely.
Amelia’s parents no longer enjoy those privileges, of course. They, along with Edgar, had their health and happiness stolen from them prematurely. In a rare defiance of regulations, she insisted on being present at the crime scenes. No one dared sanction her. Not after they saw the photos for themselves.
Indulging in might-have-beens is a weakness no Auror can afford, so of course Amelia never asks herself what would have happened if she had switched shifts and had dinner with her parents that evening, or offered to take her nieces and nephews for the night, or simply checked the wards on her last visits. Nor does she wonder why she didn’t pull Alastor aside and demand to know why he and Edgar had suddenly become close enough to hide secrets from her. And if she keeps her wand by her side at all times, to the point of having given up showers in favor of baths, that doesn’t mean she’s thought up a counter-spell for every second of the attacks that her colleagues were able to piece together. No use speculating on what cannot be changed.
Or, as she discovers on a warm June night almost sixteen years to the day after Edgar’s murder, what cannot be implemented. Good as her security measures are, they never have a chance to alert her to the intruder before he disables them and knocks her to the ground with an unfamiliar spell as suffocating in its darkness as its force. By the time she comes to, the splinters of her wand lie scattered around her.
Her assailant guides her to her feet, without lifting the binding. He sweeps her a bow, red eyes gleaming with the anticipation of a suitor about to request a dance. “Madam Bones.”
“Lord Voldemort.” She considers dropping the honorific, but perhaps he will consider the name insult enough.
If he had eyebrows, she suspects he would be raising them. “You seem unsurprised.”
“No.” What he means, she realizes from the slight note of petulance underlying the aloofness, is you seem unafraid. But she has confronted too many monsters in human form over the course of her career. One willing to display his villainous nature so overtly is almost refreshing. “Once Cornelius acknowledged your return, I assumed we’d be meeting eventually.”
“Indeed.” His head dips again in false reverence. “I do apologize that our appointment could not wait until after you were officially named Minister, but you would have been a most irritating thorn in my side.”
So this is an assassination. In a twisted way, she finds herself flattered: not only have the rumors have reached the opposition, she is enough of a danger to require immediate personal attention. Mum and Dad would be so proud, she thinks, with an amusement she suspects is her mind’s way of trying to distract her from contemplating herself in the past tense. She forces any mirth, hysterical or otherwise, out of her reply. “Rufus may prove more of a challenge than you anticipate.”
“We shall see. Or rather, I shall.” He pulls back his wand. The binding shifts, as though someone has tied a knot in it, but does not loosen. “Any last words?”
Several spring to mind, ranging from melodramatic to wistful. What she wants more than anything, she realizes, is to leave a message. But she cannot risk taking this from the political to the personal, lest she remind him that her family’s destruction remains incomplete. Better Susan never know all she regrets not having said than hear those sentiments drop mockingly from Voldemort’s bloodless mouth. She shakes her head once, firmly.
“Stoic to the end.” This time, she detects a hint of genuine admiration. “Silence is not one of my virtues, I admit, but I see no point in prolonging your suffering. Avada…”
Of those to whom much is given, much is required. Amelia Bones was given the ability to know right from wrong, the resolve to act upon that knowledge, and the vision of what a world might be in which everyone did the same. In her pursuit of that world, she in turn has given much. Sweat. Blood. Tears, and a shoulder upon which to shed them the many times she has not dared not show weakness. Hundreds of hours of sleep, and thousands more pleasant dreams. Countless impulses rejected as too self-serving, and all the pleasant possibilities that might have sprung from them. Blissful ignorance of humanity’s capacity to perpetrate and tolerate injustice. Absolute faith in the institutions she has continued to defend, because the alternatives are still worse. Friends. Loved ones. And now, her life.
Let it be enough, she prays, and raises her head to meet the light.