Necessity is the mother of invention.
How much would a husband pay to find out what happened to his wife after she was taken by Snatchers? How much would a sister pay to find what happened to her brother?
A lot. If Dr. Aldous Hunnstar were a sociopath, he could have made a fortune with the Time Viewer. But he had created it originally to find out how his little sister had died. He wasn't going to gouge. The fee would cover expenses, nothing more. The Time Viewer was designed for closure, not for profit.
The way it worked was simple. The signatures of all of Magical Britain were logged in the Ministry of Magic. You could focus on one name and, if they had died between the time of Voldemort's rise and his fall, you could view the circumstances they had died under.
The Time Viewer didn't work for the thousands of Muggles who had been murdered. No magical signature. But their relatives probably couldn't make it to Hunnstar's business in Diagon Alley anyway. But the Muggles who had magical relatives could.
An old man sat in the waiting room, back straight and upright, hands holding onto the arm rests. Half his mind was studying the decor- the wallpaper was an irritating pale blue that was trying too hard to relax him, and the furniture was a bland mix of soft browns and tans. He got the sense that the interior designer was trying to provide a calming environment for the customers to relax in before heading into the back rooms. He absolutely hated when people tried to calm him down, or cheer him up. This room could have been designed to irk him.
The other half of his mind was entrenched firmly in the past.
The door swung open with barely a sound and a man with long, bright blonde hair stuck his upper half into the room.
"Mr. DeCarr?"
The old man stood and nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak without getting tongue-tied.
"This way, please. Dr. Hunnstar will see you now for your orientation."
The old man followed the blonde man down a dull white hallway. On the walls were portraits of famous wizards of the ages. The subjects milled about, waving to them. One greeted the blonde man with antiquated elegance. DeCarr shuddered involuntarily. He'd never get used to talking photographs, or any kind of overt magic for that matter. Uneasy, the thought crossed his mind that maybe the stereotypically primitive belief that photographs can steal your soul wasn't so ridiculous after all.
"Just wait right here, sir. Dr. Hunnstar is just finishing up with another guest, and he'll be with you shortly."
DeCarr nodded again, and croaked out, "Thank you, yes."
About one minute after sitting outside the back room at the end of the hall- the room where the time magics took place- the old man heard sobs through the thick wooden doors. Another voice chimed in speaking lowly and calmly. This only made the weeping worse. DeCarr sat still, and suffered all the awkwardness of a stranger sitting in at a funeral. Soon after, a tall woman in wizard clothing opened the door and brushed past him.
As she quick walked by him, DeCarr saw tears still streaming down her face.
"Mr. DeCarr, I am Dr. Hunnstar."
"Hello."
Hunnstar smiled softly, and sadly. In his profession, a sad smile was the only kind he had. "Sir, if you will accept them, let me offer my condolences for your loss. It is a terrible thing to lose family."
"Thank you. May we, erm... When do we begin?"
"I'm afraid that the spell must take a short while to recharge its strength. If you've no objection, I'd like to use this time to offer you a short orientation. I've found that many Muggles do not have context for what they see in the Time Viewer. Did your son tell you of the recent conflict?"
DeCarr shook his head. "In his letters, he just said that his job as a policeman had just gotten a lot more important. Then one day the letters stopped. I can't say I know much about the war."
"Then please allow me to tell you. Thirty years ago, a wizard began to seize power. He started out as a demagogue, gaining influence through manipulation of the mob, by inciting hatred and resentment against those of... Muggle descent. Then, when he failed to gain enough power through legal means, he turned to murder and torture. He was a powerful warlock, drenched in Black Magic. No wizard could stand up to him and hope to survive. Soon, the murders sort of, well, snowballed into an organized rebellion against the Ministry of Magic. The political rabblerouser became the Dark Lord.
"He was such a terrible enemy, so ruthless and so cruel, that many refused to say his name aloud.
"He was beaten, by good fortune and white magic. We believed him slain. We were wrong. Sixteen years ago, he returned from the dead and conquered the Ministry. For a period approximately one year he had free reign to persecute anybody in Magical Britain. Thousands were executed. Thousands more, exiled.
"Mr. DeCarr, based on the records we have based on your grandson's magical signature, Michael DeCarr was the first line of defense against the Dark Lord. He was an Auror. He was not exactly a 'policeman', although that's the nearest Muggle equivilant. He was a soldier, and a detective, and watchman. It's hard to explain what he was in Muggle terminology, since you have no concept of Dark Magic in your legal system. He was Light that countered the Dark. He stood between evil and innocence."
"How much do you know about Muggle history?" DeCarr asked.
Hunnstar hesitated, and said, "More than most. I took Muggle Studies for three years back in Hogwarts."
"My platoon was third on the sand at Gold Beach, at Normandy. During the Second World War. I understand exactly what an Auror is."
Hunnstar's bushy eyebrows rose. He nodded slowly, numbly. DeCarr could sense the doctor reassessing him. "I see. Ah, the spell's almost ready. Now, Mr. DeCarr, sir, the service we provide here is information. We can show you the past with remarkable detail. What we cannot provide is a guarantee of closure. That's not in our power, you understand?"
"I understand."
"It is entirely possible that you will see something that will upset you, that it will merely prolong and worsen the grief you already feel. I cannot say; grief works different for everyone."
"I understand."
"Many Muggles expect magic to solve everything. It doesn't. You cannot expect anything other than information. It is important to me that you understand this."
"God damn it, Dr. Hunnstar, start the spell already."
Hunnstar left the room, and soon inky smoke was flooding the old man's vision.
"DeCarr, what's the hold up?" Paladius Freedrake hisses. The four men in Auror robes are crouched in the brambles south of a massive tower, scouting. The tower is a hundred feet tall, zigzagging up into the air like a rock river surging into the sky. The lights are on but no one's home. At least, there is no movement visible inside.
"Bad feeling," Michael DeCarr replies. "Something's wrong, and I'm not going forward till I know what."
Freedrake belly crawls till he's next to Michael, gets up on his elbows to see over the brush. "Looks okay to me."
Michael shrugs and keeps watching.
Behind them, pulling rear security, the twins are muttering to each other softly. One is watching the downward slope behind them, and the other is monitoring the magical field in their vicinity. It would be hard to take Joseph and Archibald Simm by surprise. They were veterans of the bad old days during the first war.
"DeCarr, we're going to have Death Eaters coming down on us soon," Freedrake says. "We need to make the rendezvous."
"But where are they?" Michael asks. He points to the tower with his wand. "No visible presence in a friendly strong point, but the secret sign is still in place? This isnt right. This stinks to high heaven. Probably an ambush."
"If they aren't there, they aren't there. Either way, it's a defensible point. Somewhere we can occupy safely before moving on."
Joseph Simm beckons Freedrake over. He senses multiple contacts about to Apparate in within 300 meters.
Freedrake makes his decision. Danger out, safety in. Michael protests for a second, then caves. Michael is cold to the bones from living outdoors for a week, even in late summer weather. He is scared, on edge, living with a terror that was eating away at his soul. He had killed for the first time not too long ago, and hadn't fully processed it yet. He is in no frame of mind to make good choices.
The four Aurors bound forward, watching their sectors. Freedrake, the only member of the Order of the Phoenix with them, takes point when they reach the door. He casts the password spell to open the door, then locks it behind them. With practiced precision, they clear each room systematically. Michael enters through each door of the tower looking for trouble, expecting to recieve deadly curses and prepared to return them, and every empty room scares him more than the last. Freedrake is distracted, on edge himself, wondering what happened to the Order's guards. They were supposed to be here, and there was no sign of them. If the twins felt anything at all, they did not reveal it.
They reach the top of the tower. It is clean. Not a soul inside, not even a whiff of Dark magic.
But where are the guards?
Freedrake whips up a sleep schedule. He has first watch, followed by Michael then each twin. All agree they'd leave in the morning after a decent night's rest for once. They could all feel that something was off. The missing guards, the intact spells signalling safe harbor to the friends of the Phoenix. No one could articulate it, but no one wants to stay.
Michael sleeps hard for two hours till his watch comes up. He spends guard duty scanning south, watching Death eaters comb the brush in the dark looking for them. He fingers his wand and wonders just how close they'd need to get before he'd have to kill them.
Michael was right to suspect an ambush. But this ambush had no warlocks skulking in shadows, no trap jaws closing on him. This ambush only trigger when they chose to Apparate away safe and sound. When they tried to Disapparate, they arrived in a holding cell at the pit of the Auror's headquarters.
Late in the last war, the Ministry had developed a spell to Reroute Apparation inside a given area. It had never seen use because the Dark Lord had fallen before it could be implemented. It's purpose was to ambush Death Eaters, and then when they tried to flee from the fight they'd give themselves up.
Archibald Simm had been in on its creation. He of all people should have anticipated its use after the Minister of Magic was disposed. He of all people should have sensed it in place at the tower. But people are people, and people err. When the four appeared within the pure white cell with crystal bars and diamond lights, at the bottom of the Auror's headquarters, Archibald Simm had screamed and screamed and screamed. He had tried to kill himself by slamming his forehead into the bars over and over again until his brother pulled him to the ground and restrained him.
Death Eaters in Auror uniforms and no masks come for them now. They are grinning like chimps. When the cell door opens and they pour inside with their wands at the ready, Michael and Freedrake rush them. Useless. Unarmed men cannot beat wands.
Still, when Freedrake is struck by three spells at once, Michael uses his limp body as a shield to close distance. He selects the nearest Death Eater and latches onto him, fighting dirty. He rakes a shin with his boot tip. His slaps the groin open handed and tries to gouge an eye. Before he can do much damage he is brought down too.
The twins just sit on the floor watching. The assault was spontaneous, unplanned, and they hadn't joined in time. It's too late to attack now, they'd never get close enough. Their eyes are narrowed and glittering. Unspoken but clear is the futile promise that when the tables are turned there would be blood.
Michael is separated from his companions. In a daze, over the course of a half hour, he is tried in a slapdash court as a traitor, a Muggle thief who stole his magic, a murderer. He barely notices when they dismiss exile as a sentence, as he was captured under arms against the Ministry of Magic. The only suitable sentence is death.
The sentence is carried out ten minutes later. He is jostled and shoved into a small converted conference room along with seven other witches and wizards that had been tried that day. The other weep and scream for mercy. Michael remains silent, but the terror of his fellow death row mates hurts to listen to. No man should have to hear screams like that. The only reason he's not screaming with them is because he has given up hope. Nothing will save them. There can be no fear without hope.
It's going to happen whether he's scared or not, so why panic about it?
The eight men and women are lined up, faces against the wall. Ten warlocks in silver masks train their wands on them and cast the Killing Curse en masse. After the bodies hit the floor, the death squad walk along the row casting it again on each one individually. After the leader of the death squad has ensured that they are all dead, he waves his wand and Vanishes the bodies.
It is all done mechanically, without drama or emotion. Nobody watching cares that Michael DeCarr is dead now.
The old man's vision cleared. As the smoke recedes into the corners of the room, he found that in the course of the vision he had sunk to his knees, crying. Mike was dead. DeCarr thought of himself as a hard man in charge of his emotions, but all the powerlessness and grief that had hit him when he first heard returned now, stronger than ever.
Snatches of the Old Testament returned to him from childhood. Another old man who had lost his son. O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!
He had never trusted these damn wizards. And now they had murdered his boy.
He remembered now, when Mike had come home from his seventh year at Hogwarts. He wanted to live in the wizarding world fulltime. He had a job lined up as a copper.
What Michael had been trying to say was that he'd found his place in the world. What his father had heard was that Michael was ashamed of his nonmagical upbringing, and wanted to cut ballast. Neither could grasp the other's view. Perhaps if his mother had still been alive she could have intervened and played referee, but... Oh, God, the unforgivable things he had told his son.
Nothing was right. Nothing would ever be right. He sobbed once, uncontrollably, and left the room.
As he exited the door, he brushed past an old witch who clutched her armrest tightly and had her face under control. As he quick walked by her, she saw tears still streaming down his face.
At the front desk, he stopped by to talk to the blonde wizard.
"Hello, sir. How may I help you?"
"I am leaving now to take care of some business before returning to London," DeCarr said. "I do not have time to properly thank Dr. Hunnstar for his services. Would you please pass on my gratitude when you see him again?"
"I will, sir."
"Thank you."
The old man left. His back was bent a little more than when he came in, and his pace a little slower.