A/N: This story is all Laurie Whitlock's fault. She requested it. Blame her. I am comforted by the knowledge that she doesn't own David Tennant, or Harry Potter and his world, any more than I do. Also, all hail Harry Potter Wiki. This is my first HP fic. Please, no flames. Reviews are totally welcome, questions are cool, mean is mean. This is my own personal fictional imagining. I know it's not canon; I don't intend for it to be. I hope you enjoy it anyway!
I picked through the rubble of Azkaban looking for something, anything, that would explain how it came to crumble. What caused its ruin? Who, if anyone, is still alive in this great smoldering heap of jagged-edged hatred?
"Miss Hafgan."
"Yes, sir."
"Found anything?"
"No, sir. Not yet," I respond dejectedly. One does not wish to seem ineffectual in front of an esteemed war hero, now does one?
"Hafgan, you don't have to produce results within the first twenty minutes of an investigation, you know."
"I know, Mr. Potter. But wouldn't it be convenient if I did?" I sigh heavily as I wipe the dirt from my hands.
"Indeed, it would. We'll have another hour here today. Despite its condition, this old prison is still deflecting magic. The Ministry is sending in the heavy guns tomorrow morning, hoping to break some of the defenses down."
"I think that's a mistake, sir."
I am treated to a raised brow. I am certainly not high-ranking enough to give that opinion. I've only been in the country for two days, for goodness sake.
"And why is that, Miss Hafgan?" My Auror superior is not amused.
"I apologize. I've spoken out of turn. It's not my place."
"No," he says, sounding tired but less offended. "That's why we brought you here. No need to come all the way from America to keep your thoughts to yourself. We need fresh eyes, new opinions. What worries you?"
Pulling my brown wool robes around me for warmth, I sit on the nearest piece of rock that I'm reasonably sure won't pierce my skin. "What worries me is that no one is worried."
"What do you mean?" he asks, concern on his brow as he walks a bit closer.
"Can you guess how many places there might be to hide? How many nooks and crannies we can't even hope to see? I bet the prisoners knew every one."
"The prisoners are all dead."
"Are they?"
"Hafgan -"
"We don't even know what caused this, much less what the true effect has been. How can we know they're all dead?"
"And no one's looking. Is that it," a new voice asks.
"Mr. Weasley. Well, yes, sir, that is my primary worry."
"Listen to her. All proper."
"Ron, we are the superiors here. She's supposed to be all proper." Mr. Potter looks to me, smiles ruefully, and says of his deputy, "Seven years we've been in charge, and he still can't believe it." I can't help my laugh.
"I know that. I just meant, you know, American and all."
And there it is. American. I'm proud of who I am. I'm proud of the small, secretive Wizarding community I come from. I'm proud of how far I've already come within the small but important Criminal Wizarding Agency. It's no Ministry office, but still, we do a necessary job. But here, Americanis the identifying factor. I hope the Aurors, at least, get over it soon.
"On that bit of stupid, let's take the next while to survey this area before we leave," orders the Head of the Auror Office. Youngest ever. War hero.
"Yes, sir."
The additional hour yields very much in the way of dirt and scrapes, but very little in the way of information. That is, at least, until now, when I'm giving up for the day. I swear I see something. I don't know what, but I think it moved. I can't . . . quite . . . reach . . .
"Hafgan! What the hell are you doing?"
It's only now that I realize I'm leaning over the edge of the sheer drop created when the rebuilt prison fell apart again, arm outstretched. Grasping for something that probably was never even there. I throw myself backward with all my strength and fall away from a certainly fatal drop.
"What the bloody hell are you after?" Mr. Weasley is not pleased, but he does help me off the ground where I landed on my ass.
"I saw, or I thought I saw, it was, I don't know. I can't explain." All this stammering must be terribly impressive. Damn it. This is not how I meant to make my name within the Auror Office.
"It's the Charms. It has to be. Enough for the day. Pack it in, let's go."
"Mr. Potter, I still think -"
"We'll talk about it later. I want to get off this rock."
As we climb down to the waiting boat, since we can't Disapparate from Azkaban, I see it again.
But I don't.
Not really.
I hate this place.
I love the inn at which we're staying just on the shore of the North Sea, though. Creaky and old and dark but so wonderfully warm and cosy. Butterbeer and Firewhiskey flow freely at The Wynter Nymph Inn. Thank goodness.
We're all staying here, including the wives of my superiors. I'm sitting at a table getting lit up with the four most famous faces of the War. These people saved my world, and they're getting tipsy and tired right here in front of me. It's a credit to them all that I don't feel more nervous than I do.
"So where exactly are you from, Miss Hafgan?" Hermione Granger-Weasley just asked me where I'm from. Hermione. Who knew I could still fangirl at the age of twenty-two?
"I'm from Georgia, a beautiful city called Savannah, Mrs. Weasley," I answer politely, then down another shot. Maybe I am a bit more nervous than I'd like to be.
"Oh, please, I'm Hermione. And you?"
"Oh! Oh, I'm Anwen." I'm so embarrassed. They didn't even know my name.
"Anwen? Your name is Anwen Hafgan?" I just seem to be a constant source of confusion to Ron Weasley.
"Yes. My name is Anwen. Why?"
"Are you sure you're an American? I've never heard a name so Welsh. Not even in Wales! Did you know she's called Anwen?" he asks his brother-in-law, who simply nods.
"Ron, you've had too much to drink. Shut up." I have at this moment decided that I really like Ginny Potter. "How did you get that name, Anwen? It is unusual outside of Wales."
"My grandfather was of Welsh descent. It's a family name, my great-grandmother. The first Anwen was actually the last witch in the Hafgan family line. Before me, anyway. It'd been three generations in my mother's family, too. I'd say I was Muggle-born except that the old Wizarding families in the States keep up with some of the traditions even when the magic has died out. There are so few of us left," I add quietly. It is such a huge source of sadness in our community.
"Why is that?" That Potter curiosity has been sparked, and his green eyes widen with interest.
"Well, -"
"Harry," he insists. "We aren't at work. We're all friends here. Right, Ron?'
"Right," Ron agrees, though a little wobbly.
"Harry," I repeat. "Anyway, we really don't know. There are theories as to why there aren't that many of us. The Trials scared so many away three hundred years ago. Mass exodus back to Europe. Even as we got better at hiding, it never really stopped. Those with magic just leave. Another possibility is the Native Americans. Their magic is older than ours. Maybe it stunts the manifestation of our abilities, as a defensive measure. No matter the cause, the effect is the same. Our population is about a quarter of that in Great Britain."
"And yet, you have schools and a governmental presence. It must be difficult to keep it going," Hermione observes.
"It can be. It's one of the reasons I was hired into the CWA right out of Salem."
"Salem?" Ginny asks.
"My school. The Salem Witches' Institute. All girls. Absolutely freaking horrible and completely amazing all at once."
"I'm embarrassed I didn't know that," Ginny blushes.
Ron caught the all girlspart. "Hey, no wizards in the US?"
'Yes, Ron there are," I chuckle. "They go to Corey-Burroughs Academy. Before the Trials, everyone was educated together. Afterward, they all tried just a little harder to go undetected. Smaller schools meant smaller gatherings. Boys and girls have been separated since then."
"Both schools are in Massachusetts?"
"Yes. Right in Salem. Poetic, don't you think?"
"Quite," Harry agrees.
"We've had our struggles, too. We're so spread out. It helps for our schools to be close."
Ginny leans across the table to ask, "So, what brings you here? I heard that American witches come over here to find husbands since there are so few to choose from at home."
At the scolding chorus that erupts, my shock turns to amusement. I start to laugh and they all join. Even Ginny, who looks like she wishes the floor would open and swallow her whole. Firewhiskey. Ron isn't the only one who's had one too many.
When the laughter calms and the other patrons have given up on trying to figure us out, I tell her, "No, not husband hunting. Just took the chance to travel when it was offered."
"And maybe get in the door with the Aurors?" Harry questions.
"Maybe," I hedge. He grins knowingly. "Anyway, this case has a lot of Wizarding governments interested, including my own. My office sent me to take a look, help if I can."
"And can you?" Hermione asks, suddenly sounding very much like the Ministry official she is.
"I don't know."
A/N: Just some background on our American witch. The case is explained a bit more in the next chapter. I also write for Supernatural and Twilight. Check my profile for more! Please review. I'm a sucker for reviews. Thanks for reading!