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femgenficathon2005-08-14 11:17 pm
persephone-kore.livejournal.com) wrote in femgenficathon2005-08-14 11:17 pm
Boil, Amelia Bones, PG
Title: Boil
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
persephone_kore
Rating: PG
Warnings: Violence, HBP spoilers.
Prompt: #42. A woman's heart always has a burned mark.--Louise Labé
Summary: Thanks torexlapinii for beta-reading and encouragement. Remaining mistakes are of course my own. The death of Amelia Bones. Fudge said the evidence was that she put up "a real fight."
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction based on the Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling. No undue claim nor any material profit is expected or intended.
Amelia Bones had been awake since four o'clock yesterday morning and on duty at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement since half an hour later. As the clock struck eleven, she shut the door to her office and walked briskly to the Apparition area, where she muffled a yawn and Disillusioned herself before turning and Disapparating into the night. Out of habit, she aimed for the bus stop nearest her home, checking for possible observers before returning herself to visibility.
Amelia had several Muggle neighbors whom she liked very much. She enjoyed knowing people, outside work and family, whose first thought upon seeing her in troubled times was not that she ought to have fixed it already. As she didn't care to avoid them, lie to them, or Obliviate them any more than necessary, she had made a habit of walking a few blocks to and from her own door whenever she had the option.
Tonight she rather regretted that. She was tired; she couldn't muster her usual level of alertness, even by picturing Alastor's bellowed catchphrase. She remembered to walk purposefully; she checked shadows and reflections and cast glances over her shoulder, all briskly and without an air of fear... but she couldn't hold on to the images.
There were few people to see her return, anyway. None had seen her leave, since there hadn't been time to waste walking. And the weather was quite literally miserable, not quite hot or cold, rainy or dry, but smothered in a cool, sticky miasma that left behind an elusive, foul taste and smell. Amelia tried not to dwell on the knowledge that she was walking through what Dementors had exuded in their moments of... whatever passed for ecstasy, in such creatures.
With one hand on her doorknob, she promised herself sternly that she would have a bath and a cup of tea. No matter how tempting it was to go straight to bed.
She checked all the locks as well as the spells guarding against uninvited Flooing or Apparition, though as an afterthought she inserted a loophole so that it would be possible for someone to come in and warn her that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was attacking. It wasn't generally advisable to modify spells freehand when weary, but Amelia was very familiar with these, after all.
Then she kept the promise about the bath. Scalding-hot, it left her skin red but blessedly free of the clinging fog, and the steam dissolved it from her tongue and the small hairs in her nose. Steaming gently, she returned to the kitchen and put a small cauldron of water on the fire.
As she tipped the boiling water out a few minutes later, she yawned so widely that her jaw cracked.
And then a high, cold, sly and insufferably smug voice said, "Good evening, Madam Bones. I've come to let you know... I'm attacking."
Amelia had never seen Lord Voldemort in person, nor heard his voice, but she had no doubt who was speaking. She froze as the words crawled down her spine, unable to form any clear thought but, Loopholes. Accursed loopholes.... and I am going to die.
But she did not mean to die easily. At the last syllable, she whirled around and hurled the teapot, her other hand plunging for her wand. There was a clang as the empty cauldron fell, a bump and a splash and a shout as the teapot struck Voldemort full in the face. Boiling water and damp leaves sloshed out into his face; the teapot, too sturdy to break, bounced down the the floor.
Amelia felt a few drops of hot water strike her own face and hands as she whipped out her wand and snarled, "Incendio," and then, "Stupefy!"
Well, it had been worth a shot. Flames smoldered briefly on his damp robes, but the Stunner was deflected easily -- even though Amelia felt a vicious satisfaction at seeing that only one of those horrible, slit-pupiled crimson eyes was still open, the other scalded shut.
"Have some tea," she invited him, trying a nonverbal curse under its cover in the hope of taking him by surprise. The one red eye bored into hers, making them burn, and he blocked as if he knew what she intended.
And then he cursed her back. He didn't speak the incantation; Amelia didn't recognize the wand motion, even though her line of work meant she knew more Dark spells than most of the Death Eaters they'd caught. It did something to her liver, she thought, from the location of the pain. She countered as best she could, but suspected that spell alone might kill her even if she won tonight.
She would not admit that she could not win tonight.
Spells lashed back and forth; neither of them kept the offensive long at a time. The fringe of a ducked sleep-spell nearly swamped her already weary mind; she clawed away the heaviness with jolting fear and rage. When she had the chance to attack, Amelia mixed dueling spells with schoolyard jinxes and charms never intended for combat; if she could only get past his guard once, or distract him, she might land something that would stun or restrain or damage. Scourgify made the floor slippery but didn't quite get soap in his good eye; Rictusempra made him laugh, but unfortunately not because it had actually hit.
It wasn't clear at first, because every decent duelist had some skill at blocking unidentified spells, or working them out based on the wand motion. But after the thirteenth time Voldemort deflected her unverbalized spell with a specific counter, Amelia, breath burning in her throat and catching on broken ribs, realized that he must be a Legilimens.
Fixing her eyes on his, she called up a torrent of the most appalling profanity she had ever heard and let it rage through her mind. It distracted him enough that one more practical curse lanced through, cracking a bone in his right arm. She'd aimed for the left.
She hated him. Lord Voldemort had killed too many people, had left too many alive but broken. Of her own kin, she'd lost half a dozen, and had mourned by pouring herself into her career. To stop him. To stop people like him, but he was the prey she wanted most.
They tried the same curse at the same time; two waves of battering-ram force collided in midair. Amelia braced herself as best she could, gritting her teeth as needles of pain shot through the muscles in her wand arm.
She wanted to kill him.
"You're under arrest," she said.
He laughed aloud.
She struck. "Avada Keda--"
His wand flicked. Her throat swelled shut, and her nose. Her ears roared. She tasted blood. Grey flecks encroached on her vision. A half-blind step forward, and her ankle twisted as her foot slid off a curved surface; unable to regain her balance, she fell, pain exploding in her knee as she wrenched it.
He hadn't blocked until almost five syllables in, Amelia thought hazily.
She might have Stunned him if she'd tried that instead. One chance....
Through the thunder in her ears, she heard a faint swish of robes, and a white face with slitted red eyes filled her narrowing field of vision. Long white fingers raised a wand, and she could feel the deadly magic gathering to smash down on her.
He smiled. "I had a lovely time this evening, Madam Bones. Avada Kedavra."
Green.
Author:
persephone_koreRating: PG
Warnings: Violence, HBP spoilers.
Prompt: #42. A woman's heart always has a burned mark.--Louise Labé
Summary: Thanks to
rexlapinii for beta-reading and encouragement. Remaining mistakes are of course my own. The death of Amelia Bones. Fudge said the evidence was that she put up "a real fight."Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction based on the Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling. No undue claim nor any material profit is expected or intended.
Amelia Bones had been awake since four o'clock yesterday morning and on duty at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement since half an hour later. As the clock struck eleven, she shut the door to her office and walked briskly to the Apparition area, where she muffled a yawn and Disillusioned herself before turning and Disapparating into the night. Out of habit, she aimed for the bus stop nearest her home, checking for possible observers before returning herself to visibility.
Amelia had several Muggle neighbors whom she liked very much. She enjoyed knowing people, outside work and family, whose first thought upon seeing her in troubled times was not that she ought to have fixed it already. As she didn't care to avoid them, lie to them, or Obliviate them any more than necessary, she had made a habit of walking a few blocks to and from her own door whenever she had the option.
Tonight she rather regretted that. She was tired; she couldn't muster her usual level of alertness, even by picturing Alastor's bellowed catchphrase. She remembered to walk purposefully; she checked shadows and reflections and cast glances over her shoulder, all briskly and without an air of fear... but she couldn't hold on to the images.
There were few people to see her return, anyway. None had seen her leave, since there hadn't been time to waste walking. And the weather was quite literally miserable, not quite hot or cold, rainy or dry, but smothered in a cool, sticky miasma that left behind an elusive, foul taste and smell. Amelia tried not to dwell on the knowledge that she was walking through what Dementors had exuded in their moments of... whatever passed for ecstasy, in such creatures.
With one hand on her doorknob, she promised herself sternly that she would have a bath and a cup of tea. No matter how tempting it was to go straight to bed.
She checked all the locks as well as the spells guarding against uninvited Flooing or Apparition, though as an afterthought she inserted a loophole so that it would be possible for someone to come in and warn her that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was attacking. It wasn't generally advisable to modify spells freehand when weary, but Amelia was very familiar with these, after all.
Then she kept the promise about the bath. Scalding-hot, it left her skin red but blessedly free of the clinging fog, and the steam dissolved it from her tongue and the small hairs in her nose. Steaming gently, she returned to the kitchen and put a small cauldron of water on the fire.
As she tipped the boiling water out a few minutes later, she yawned so widely that her jaw cracked.
And then a high, cold, sly and insufferably smug voice said, "Good evening, Madam Bones. I've come to let you know... I'm attacking."
Amelia had never seen Lord Voldemort in person, nor heard his voice, but she had no doubt who was speaking. She froze as the words crawled down her spine, unable to form any clear thought but, Loopholes. Accursed loopholes.... and I am going to die.
But she did not mean to die easily. At the last syllable, she whirled around and hurled the teapot, her other hand plunging for her wand. There was a clang as the empty cauldron fell, a bump and a splash and a shout as the teapot struck Voldemort full in the face. Boiling water and damp leaves sloshed out into his face; the teapot, too sturdy to break, bounced down the the floor.
Amelia felt a few drops of hot water strike her own face and hands as she whipped out her wand and snarled, "Incendio," and then, "Stupefy!"
Well, it had been worth a shot. Flames smoldered briefly on his damp robes, but the Stunner was deflected easily -- even though Amelia felt a vicious satisfaction at seeing that only one of those horrible, slit-pupiled crimson eyes was still open, the other scalded shut.
"Have some tea," she invited him, trying a nonverbal curse under its cover in the hope of taking him by surprise. The one red eye bored into hers, making them burn, and he blocked as if he knew what she intended.
And then he cursed her back. He didn't speak the incantation; Amelia didn't recognize the wand motion, even though her line of work meant she knew more Dark spells than most of the Death Eaters they'd caught. It did something to her liver, she thought, from the location of the pain. She countered as best she could, but suspected that spell alone might kill her even if she won tonight.
She would not admit that she could not win tonight.
Spells lashed back and forth; neither of them kept the offensive long at a time. The fringe of a ducked sleep-spell nearly swamped her already weary mind; she clawed away the heaviness with jolting fear and rage. When she had the chance to attack, Amelia mixed dueling spells with schoolyard jinxes and charms never intended for combat; if she could only get past his guard once, or distract him, she might land something that would stun or restrain or damage. Scourgify made the floor slippery but didn't quite get soap in his good eye; Rictusempra made him laugh, but unfortunately not because it had actually hit.
It wasn't clear at first, because every decent duelist had some skill at blocking unidentified spells, or working them out based on the wand motion. But after the thirteenth time Voldemort deflected her unverbalized spell with a specific counter, Amelia, breath burning in her throat and catching on broken ribs, realized that he must be a Legilimens.
Fixing her eyes on his, she called up a torrent of the most appalling profanity she had ever heard and let it rage through her mind. It distracted him enough that one more practical curse lanced through, cracking a bone in his right arm. She'd aimed for the left.
She hated him. Lord Voldemort had killed too many people, had left too many alive but broken. Of her own kin, she'd lost half a dozen, and had mourned by pouring herself into her career. To stop him. To stop people like him, but he was the prey she wanted most.
They tried the same curse at the same time; two waves of battering-ram force collided in midair. Amelia braced herself as best she could, gritting her teeth as needles of pain shot through the muscles in her wand arm.
She wanted to kill him.
"You're under arrest," she said.
He laughed aloud.
She struck. "Avada Keda--"
His wand flicked. Her throat swelled shut, and her nose. Her ears roared. She tasted blood. Grey flecks encroached on her vision. A half-blind step forward, and her ankle twisted as her foot slid off a curved surface; unable to regain her balance, she fell, pain exploding in her knee as she wrenched it.
He hadn't blocked until almost five syllables in, Amelia thought hazily.
She might have Stunned him if she'd tried that instead. One chance....
Through the thunder in her ears, she heard a faint swish of robes, and a white face with slitted red eyes filled her narrowing field of vision. Long white fingers raised a wand, and she could feel the deadly magic gathering to smash down on her.
He smiled. "I had a lovely time this evening, Madam Bones. Avada Kedavra."
Green.
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I'd've liked to see her survive too, though. :/
Thanks for commenting!
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The end really caught in my throat, if that makes sense.
He hadn't blocked until almost five syllables in,
That made me wince.
Good job.
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The consideration for her Muggle neighbors was partly the result of an impression I had that her death had been discovered due to a Muggle neighbor she'd been supposed to meet socially. I went to look for this explanation in canon and couldn't find it, so I was forced to conclude that the intended meeting had come from somebody else's fic -- but it did appear that she lived among Muggles, having turned up in the news, and there was nothing against her being considerate of them. It felt right to me too.
That made me wince.
Yes. Good. Thank you.
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just the way I hope it really was
That is a very great compliment. Thanks. :)
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(Sorry for a late review, but I've been trying to take my time reading the femgen fics, so that I have great fic for longer!)
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Also, slightly random question. Are you the same Persephone_Kore from FFN, who writes the stories about Tom Riddle with Andrea?
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Yes, I'm the same PK. I write stories about Tom Riddle by myself and with Alan Sauer, too. *grin* I probably ought to get around to uploading this to archives; I'm not sure why I haven't.
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