Valkyrie

July-August 1978

Hestia takes the tube home every evening from work.

She could apparate, but there’s a certain comfort in the normalcy of the tube and the muggle world. Besides, they’re all on high alert to watch what magical traces they produce. These days, Hestia is too cautious to risk it.

She leans her head against the window, closing her eyes for the briefest of seconds before opening them again to survey her surroundings. She’s grown cautious, much more than she’s ever really been.
Unlike Emmy or Van, who have already been dispatched on one mission each for the team, as of yet unnamed, Hestia has been sidelined. Her role, as explained by Dumbledore, is solely as a healer. He tells Hestia to lay low, keep her head down. She gets a job on Diagon Alley, selling herbs and plants. She rides the tube there and back each day. She waits.

Hestia does not want to fight, it’s not that. A thrumming heart pulsing against her ribcage at every point in the day does not excite her. Emmy came home last week with a black eye and a broken nose, and Hestia nearly crumpled with relief at seeing her, but was nearly inconsolable about the injuries, though Emmy waved them off.

She’s afraid, so damn afraid. That’s part of why she refused to join the Order: she would not be able to take it. People like Hestia Jones aren’t built for war. She is too soft, too easily bruised. The enemy could crush her like fruit in their palm, and still, she would not fight.

Already, she grieves the stability and comfort of Hogwarts. The memories take on a glazed, unfocused look, as though already fading from her grasp. Living in them again is warm and simple: the swoop of an owl in the great hall, the feeling of the wind in her hair, the bubbling of potions, the soft whispers in the library. Hestia yearns for it, the past. She hasn’t breathed properly since leaving. Hogwarts is her missing lung; without it, her breathing is shallow and insufficient. Time is running out.

The voice overhead announces her stop. Hands in her pocket, she gets off, keeping her head down. Even here, even now, a threat could be present.

The flat is close to the station. Hestia’s hand shakes slightly as she fits the key into the slot, pushing the front door open.

“Honey, I’m home!” She calls out sarcastically into the flat, setting her keys in the little ceramic bowl that Clara made when she was little. Clara. Damn, she should call later.

“In here!” Van’s voice, distant, but present. Hestia exhales a little.

Van’s in her tiny bedroom, back to the door while she scribbles at something on her desk. Hestia knocks lightly at the door to make her presence known, but Van doesn’t care much for formality. Hestia goes to perch on the corner of her unmade bed to wait for her full attention.

Van’s got sheets of parchment messily strewn across her desk, quill working furiously across the one in the centre. Around her, alchemy books are open to various pages, strange symbols abound. Van’s dark hair is piled up onto her head, broad and muscled shoulders open in her tank top, showing the long pale scar stretching across her back. She’s never said where that scar comes from, but Hestia assumes it’s a Quidditch injury. Van doesn’t like admitting when she has lost or been beaten.

“Okay.” Van finishes her scribble with a flourish, looking up to Hestia with a wide smile. “Welcome home schnookums.”

Hestia and Van have taken to calling each other ridiculous pet names as a way of embarrassing Emmy, who keeps calling her boyfriend, Tiberius McLaggen, the worst and most sickly-sweet monikers known to man.

“I’m amazed that you can understand any of those symbols.” Hestia gestures at the books. “They’re almost as indecipherable as your handwriting.”

“Makes it a perfect match, then. Maybe I was born for this.”

“Maybe.” Hestia swings her feet, then jumps up to lean over Van’s shoulder, scrutinizing the scribbles. “What is this, anyway?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Not as dumb as I look, Vanity.”

Van grins. “Essentially, I’m running calculations to see whether Flamel actually could have created the Philosopher’s Stone based on the properties required and the lack of the proper solvent available on the planet, and what he could have substituted in its place to achieve the proper density needed for the successful transformation.”

“Fuck, maybe I am dumb.” Hestia mumbles.

Van gets up out of her chair and thumps Hestia on the back. “Nah, it’s just complicated. Trust me, it took months to even figure out how to explain it, never mind do it.” She strides out of the room,

Hestia following in her stead. “What’s for dinner?”

“Benjy and Caradoc are coming over later, I think.”

“Then takeout it is.” Van closes the fridge door immediately. “I refuse to cook for those two idiots.”

“Is Emmy home tonight?”

“Fuck if I know. Probably out shoving her tongue down McLaggen’s throat.” Van pretends to gag. “What she sees in him, I’ll never know.”

“He’s…” Hestia finds herself at a loss for words. “Handsome, I guess?”

“Ha! You don’t believe that!”

“Look, I’m trying to be nice here!”

Van grabs a glass from the cupboard, smirking at Hestia over her shoulder. “Don’t bother. He’s a lug. Besides, you and I have other interests.”

Ah. That’s an indicator of Van’s emotional state more than anything. Hestia leans against the tiny island, choosing her words delicately.

“You, uh, haven’t heard from Juliette lately, have you?”

Van’s back, from where she stands at the sink, stiffens. “Why?”

You never mention our shared interest unless you’re thinking about her, Hestia cannot say. She clears her throat awkwardly, scuffing her shoe against the tiled floor. “Well, it’s just… I know you tried to reach out to her a while ago… and I was hoping you heard back.”

Van takes a long drink. “Family says she’s off the grid.” Her voice is low and rough, dangerous territory.

“You know…” Tread lightly. “Just because she’s gone doesn’t mean she’s joined them.”

The soft sound of glass touching the counter. Emma Vanity turns around, eyes dark and unreadable. Like this, there is nothing friendly or approachable about her, just pure Slytherin anger.

“Do not push me, Jones.” She articulates every word, teeth gritted. “Juliette is gone. Juliette is a Death Eater.” Emma keeps stepping forward, hands clenched at her sides. Hestia doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, just stares. “No amount of prodding into my life will change that.” Their faces are inches apart. Emma’s pupils are big and dark. “Understood?”

Hestia feels a deep wave of sadness down in her stomach. “I understand.” She says as softly as she can. “I understand, Emma.”

Van’s eyes shift a little, some of the brown iris peeking through the black pupil again. She seems to have realized what she’s said, what she’s turned into, because a look of shame crosses her face. She steps back immediately, turning her head away. “I need some space,” is all she mumbles, taking off in the direction of her bedroom, the door closing quietly in the distance.

Hestia exhales and presses her palms against the counter, lowering her head to set her forehead against the cool marble. She is never afraid of Van, never, but the sadness for her is overpowering.

The truth about Emma Vanity: she is harmless. She may not look it, with her muscled body and expressive face, but deep down she is gentle. She channels her anger and hurt into her movements, working hard to keep them graceful and docile, not aggressive and overpowering. If anyone knows how fury can corrupt, it’s Van.

Hestia will need to apologize later, she knows that. Juliette is at the center of Emma’s hurt, her pain. Nobody can wound invincible Emma Vanity quite like Juliette Wilkes. Hestia will never know their history, but it ranges far beyond what she or anyone could ever understand.

Weeks ago, after the unbreakable vow, Hestia had pulled Dumbledore aside. He’d seemed surprised but allowed it.

She’d spoken barely above a whisper, afraid that Emma would hear. “Can you find Juliette Wilkes?”

Dumbledore had pulled back, scrutinizing her face with those electric eyes. “I cannot promise,” was his response. Hestia had taken that to mean that he would try.

But no news had come. According to her parents, Juliette Wilkes had gone missing on June 19th, 1978, and no one had cared to go searching for her.

Hestia does not trust that Juliette Wilkes has not gone to the Death Eaters. By the looks of it, Van does not trust that either. The way she speaks of her, with that perpetual wince and the hand at her breast, like her heart is bruised, confirms that Van truly believes that her lover is gone. She can see it, those blonde curls, always turning away from them.

“I couldn’t save her”, that’s what Van had muttered one night, very drunk at a muggle nightclub. “Nobody could save her, not even herself.”

Hestia holds Van’s pain in her chest, keeping it close so it will not hurt her more. She puts it right beside her own pain, her own loss, and nurses the wounds alone.

~*~

“Who chose your name?”

Deep in the soft blankets, Mary traces down Hestia’s inner arm with her forefinger, careful not to scratch. Hestia fights to keep herself out of sleep, the warm hazy world.

“My dad. He’s a, uh, history professor.” Her own voice floats slurred and quiet to her ears. “He likes Greek mythology a lot.”

“Is your dad magic?”

“Half-blood, like me.”

“Why did he choose muggle history?”

Hestia shrugs, but the motion is slow and languid. “He didn’t really like wizard history all that much. After he left Ilvermorny, he went back to the muggle world for a while before my mom came along, when they moved to Britain.”

“Did he teach you about Greek mythology growing up?”

“Oh, all the time. Those used to be our bedtime stories. Chronos eating his kids, the Trojan War, all that stuff.”

“Sounds pretty violent for kids.”

“He made sure to soften it for us. It wasn’t just Greek mythology, though. He liked other mythologies too.”

Mary’s other hand moves into Hestia’s hair, fingers cradling and massaging her scalp. “Like what?” Her voice is soft and buttery.

“Oh, Roman and Norse and Indian. Anishinaabe mythology, too. My dad’s Ojibwe, so he grew up with those stories in particular. They kind of inspired him to learn about other mythologies too.”

“What was your favourite story, growing up?”

“Mmm,” Hestia feels herself drifting further down, sinking into the world of dreams. “I liked the Valkyries. Warrior women in Norse mythology who brought defeated fighters to Valhalla.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“I loved the Valkyrie stories when I was little. So powerful and so underrated.” Hestia’s breath begins to even out, catching her words in her throat. “You… you remind me of them.”

“Of the Valkyries?”

“Yes.” Her voice has turned breathy and absent, falling deeper into sleep. “So… powerful… and beautiful.”

“Shhh, sleep, darling.”

“You’re… my… Valkyrie. You… lead… me to… Valhalla.”

“Sleep, Jonesey, I got you.”

~*~

“I come bearing gifts!” Emmeline announces at the front door. Hestia, from her bedroom, pads out in her socks to come see her.

Emmy’s hair is pinned back, and her eye is still tinged green and yellow from the bruise, but she’s smiling and carrying two bags of the week’s groceries. Behind her, Benjy and Caradoc are holding
cartons of Thai food

Ben goes to set them down on the island, and Hestia hugs him first. His body is firm and he smells like cedarwood. “I missed you, Benj.” She whispers into his chest, and he pats her shoulder reassuringly.

Caradoc wraps her into his arms, even though he’s much taller than she is. “Staying out of trouble?” He asks teasingly in his deep voice, setting her down.

Hestia grins up at him, even though he can’t see her. “You know me, the troublemaker.”

Caradoc gives her his crooked smile and reaches into his pocket for his wand, which lights up at the tip with his touch. “Okay, gotta piss then we eat. Don’t start without me.” He tries to glare, presumably at Benjy, but just ends up giving a dirty look to the houseplant instead.

Hestia goes to help Emmy unpack, moving side by side in sync. They’ve spent so many years as friends that they know each other’s movements, precise.

“Careful with Van.” Hestia mutters, low enough that Benjy, obliviously whistling while sitting at the island behind them, can’t hear. “I accidentally touched a nerve.”

Emmy nods without looking up as she washes apples in the sink. “Gotcha.”

“I was trying to be delicate, I promise.”

“I know you were, Jones.” Emmy says, exhaling loudly out of her nose. “We’ll take care of it, I promise.”

Hestia looks down at Emmy’s long, delicate fingers. “I’m glad you’re home.” She whispers.

Emmeline does not tell her that she has only been at work today, or ask what she means. She just reaches over to squeeze Hestia’s hand. “I’m here.” She smiles, reassuring, and Hestia smiles back.

“Crocodile’s back, let’s eat!” Benjy says from behind them.

Hestia grabs a few containers and comes to dump them down on the coffee table in front of the couch, sitting on the floor. She hears footsteps, and Caradoc and Van come in. Van gives her a shaky smile, her eyes red and puffy from crying. Hestia pats the spot next to her and Van comes to sit, leaning her head against Hestia’s shoulder.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Benj, are you going to share your pad thai?”

“Only if you ask nicely, Emmy.”

“Crocodile will give me some, cause he’s a gentleman.”

“I think you have the wrong idea of me, Vance.”

In the midst of a war, Hestia cannot help but feel warm at the fact that the people she loves are here with her.

Well.

Not all the people she loves.

~*~

It is late. The building is dark and quiet. Only the soft click of heels on the marble floors can be heard.

Amelia, adjusting the files in her arms, picks up her pace. She hadn’t intended to stay late tonight, but time escaped her. It seems to always these days.

Click click click.

Tick tick tick.

She has dreams about these hallways, where horrible things jump out at her from every corner. It’s a stress response, surely. Amelia Bones isn’t afraid of the dark.

When she was little, Edgar and Oscar used to tease her about all her irrational fears. She was afraid of spiders, snakes, heights, open water. Oscar once pushed her into a lake and she nearly hexed him. All these things, and yet she never feared the dark. What was there to fear?

The unknown, she knows now.

It’s wise to fear the dark.

Click click

Her office is just up ahead. Her office, not a cubicle anymore. The promotion was essentially just because they’d had an empty office for her to use. Still, she likes having her own space. Growing up with older twin brothers, she’s learned to value the quiet moments of peace.

As she walks, she begins evaluating her mental checklist. Floo home, do the laundry, make supper, clean the dishes. Also, fill out reports for tomorrow’s meeting.

Amelia pushes the door open with her hip, reaching with one hand to flick on the lights while keeping the large stack in the other hand steady.

She’s not alone.

Minerva McGonagall is sitting in her chair, arms folded over the desk. She looks like she’s been here a while, staring at the door.

“Why are you in my chair?” Amelia asks first, setting the stack down on an empty chair by the door. She’s actually quite peeved that McGonagall’s in her spot. She doesn’t like people touching her things. The surprise bit is less alarming: her asshole boss likes to wait in her office to yell at her. Amelia’s not one to startle.

McGonagall’s eyes flick to the old clock on the wall. Half past twelve. Eyes back to her. “Happy birthday.”

Amelia looks at her. “Thanks.”

McGonagall pushes herself up off the chair, standing to meet Amelia at eye level. “I hear you’ve been working hard. Congrats on the promotion.”

“I’ve got things to do, Professor.” Amelia turns to grab her bag from the coatrack.

“I have an offer for you.”

Amelia doesn’t flinch. “Not interested.”

“The Ministry is in trouble.”

That stops her. Back still to McGonagall, she turns her head slightly to indicate she’s listening.

Tick tick tick

“You’ve got Death Eaters infiltrating in high quantities.” McGonagall’s voice is low. “The integrity of this office is at risk.”

“You’re not saying anything I don’t already know, Professor.”

“But I can offer you a way to remedy it.”

Amelia folds her arms over her chest, still not looking back. “Are you here from Dumbledore?”

“What if I were?”

“I’m not interested in what either of you have to say.”

“You paused.”

Amelia finally looks back. McGonagall is standing tall and firm, eyes over her glasses piercing.

“Look,” Amelia says, her tone neutral and flat. “I’m not like those kids that you’ve recruited for your resistance movement. I’m grown, and I have a job that I care more about than your war effort. I appreciate you paying me a visit Professor, really, I do, but there’s nothing you can say to sway me.”

McGonagall licks her lips, thinking. “You’re a smart woman, Amelia. I’ve always respected that about you.”

Amelia inclines her head slightly.

“We can offer you the position of Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, if you so wish. Both Albus and I have more than enough leverage to make that happen.”

“Are you trying to bribe me into joining your cause? I expected better of you, frankly.”

“I could be blackmailing you instead. Is that what you’d prefer?”

Amelia smiles tightly. “I’m not scared of what you can find on me, Minerva. I’m an open book.” She spreads her arms out.

“Oh, Amelia. We both know you’re not.”

The two women stare each other down. Minerva is smiling. She’s enjoying this.

“A top position.” Minerva repeats slowly. “Maybe even a spot on the Wizengamot. You’ll have the power to steer the Ministry in whatever direction you choose without getting your hands dirty. Isn’t that what you want?”

“I want very little, Professor.”

“Bullshit.” Minerva leans in close, her breath hot against Amelia’s face. “You want power and control. Don’t deny it. I’ve been watching you for a long, long time, Amelia Bones. This is your one opportunity to get everything you’ve ever wanted without any risk of your own. Cowards don’t get these chances more than once. Trust me.” These last words come out a hiss.

Amelia stares into Minerva’s grey eyes. There’s a moment of unwilling kinship, a spark that goes between them. I see you.

Amelia tilts her chin up, poised and collected as ever, her posture refusing to admit defeat. “What are you asking?”

Minerva cannot hide her smile. “A spy. You’ll report to me weekly. Anything within the Ministry comes to me. No risk, only information. Is that satisfactory for you?”

For the first time in a while, Amelia smiles genuinely, hiding the world of calculations running through her brain.

“Perfectly.”

~*~

Nico is the only one to come see her out.

“You sure you have to leave again?” he asks, standing in the doorway.

Mary looks at him. It’s hard to look at him, because she still expects him to be little. When she left for Hogwarts, he was only nine.

Now he’s sixteen. His dark curls shift gently in the wind over his forehead. He’s got these thick glasses that he keeps adjusting over the bridge of his nose, but the way he squints at her is the same as when he was younger. She wants him to stop growing up without her.

“Yeah, Nic. I’ve gotta go.”

He looks down and away, his hand twitching at his side; a nervous tic he’s never quite kicked. “I think you hurt Rafe and Mom’s feelings.” Sad and quiet.

Mary wants to shatter herself into shards, that would hurt less. Everything in her is open and raw, an exposed nerve. “I know.”

“You just keep coming back and leaving again.”

“That just means I’ll come back after this, right?”

Nico looks up at her with that squint. His lower lip is quivering, and he chews down on it to stop. “We never really know with you.” He says, and his face crumbles.

Mary makes a noise that’s half-gasp and half-sob and folds Nico into her arms, pressing her face into his shoulder and holding his back so tight that he’d never be able to get away. It hurts so badly, this pain. She wants to stay, she wants to stay.

But Dumbledore said she couldn’t. Dumbledore said it wasn’t safe.

How is this any better? How is breaking her family’s heart time after time any better?

“Mari,” her younger brother whispers into her hair, and it’s like she’s six years old again, holding him as he sobs over a skinned knee. Except this time, she’s the one who pushed him, and yet he still
comes to her for comfort.

“Tell them I’m sorry.” Mary says, muffled, into his chest. “Tell them I’m so, so sorry.”

She feels Nico nodding.

“Tell them—” she wants to say that she loves them, but the words stick in her throat. She hasn’t been able to say those words in a long, long time.

“Okay.”

Nico pulls back and holds onto her shoulders for a beat. He’s the one who looks most like her. Rafe looks like Dad and Ana looks like Mom, but Nico? Nico is Mary’s, through and through.

She reaches up to touch his cheek, trying to smile through tears. “You look after them, okay? I’ll come back.”

He tries to smile back, but it comes out more of a grimace. This is what makes Mary finally turn away, going to lift her suitcase up and down the stairs.

When she looks back, Nico is still standing there, watching. Waiting. She gives him a final nod and, understanding, finally goes back into the house.

Mary apparates away alone.