Excerpt From The Daily Prophet, 5 June 2000 (Morning Edition):
Attack Outside Of Ministry!
Reports are rushing in from London and its surrounding suburbs that early this morning—around two a.m. GMT—spells were fired in or around the Ministry of Magic. Preliminary questioning suggests that the attack was focused on an individual (who they go on to say was, in fact, either injured or killed) and not the Ministry itself, but details are still obscured at this time. As of five a.m. the building has been locked down to both the public and all unessential personnel. Floo lines have also been closed, leaving no credible source of information. Indeed, an uncertain crowd has begun to gather outside of the Ministry complex—growing steadily larger as time passes—and all are anxiously awaiting word on what is assumed to be another fatal attack by Cain, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's most trusted assassin.Rest assured that we will keep you informed of all developments as new information becomes available.
Excerpt From The Daily Prophet, 5 June 2000 (Special Afternoon Edition):
Confirmed Ministry Assassination!
As is, by now, surely widely known, there was an attack outside of the Ministry of Magic early this morning. We brought you the story in our morning publication, but as new details have emerged, we are providing this special edition to ensure that you are up to date.
Just one hour ago (twelve p.m.) the Minister of Magic released a short statement addressing the morning's events:
"This morning a terrible tragedy occurred: a man was murdered as he left the Ministry and headed home to his family. At the present time, it is suspected that the perpetrator was not attacking the Ministry itself but had come solely in order to commit this atrocity. Sadly, he or she succeeded, and those are all the details available at this time."
And when asked if the Death Eater known only as Cain was involved, the Minister replied:
"We have no knowledge that any assassin by the name of Cain exists. Certainly this crime fits the mold of several past high-profile murders, but the more likely bet is that You-Know-You has set these incidents up in order to spread fear through our populace. Passing these crimes off to a mythical figure is a disservice to the memory of those fine witches and wizards and only furthers You-Know-Who's goals."
There you have it: an assassination right under the Ministry's nose! If You-Know-Who and his followers can attack even there and get away without even being detected, is there really any safe place left in our world?
Excerpt From The Daily Prophet, 6 June 2000 (Morning Edition):
Assassination Victim: Ministry Aide Lucius Malfoy!
Word came from the Minister late last night that the man killed by an assassin outside of the Ministry yesterday morning was his personal aide Lucius Malfoy. Malfoy was forty-six and had worked the majority of his life as an aide, rising to prominence through his friendship with the then mere Representative Cornelius Fudge.
For years the Malfoy name has been infamous for its distinct pureblooded, anti-Muggle philosophy, and Lucius himself was set to stand trial in two weeks time for the alleged murder of a Muggle family in Scotland. The details of the case were kept closely under wraps, and no word has been provided as to whether he was ever suspected of being a Death Eater, though there are certainly those who believe that he was.
The floo connection to Malfoy Manor has been disabled for the time being, and the family has turned away any incoming owls, refusing to respond. Thus, details as to the state of his family are nonexistent, but as always, as information emerges, we will keep you informed.
IdentityAct One
Wherein a Man Loses Himself and Two Hidden Factions Begin a Game of Chess
Daphne Greengrass was not having an especially good day. In fact, she wasn't even having a very good week. Her alarm charm was somehow malfunctioning, only she hadn't quite gotten around to figuring out why yet, and that morning, when she'd been late to work for the third time in as many days, her boss had gone ballistic, chewing her out and screaming at her in front of the entire office of Aurors. She'd grinned and borne it while she could, but in the back of her mind she had pictured herself hexing the man's arrogance right out of his scrawny, suit clad body. George Stephens was a nobody in the world of the Aurors, a short, bald man with glasses too big for his tiny, piercing eyes, who had achieved nothing in his entire life save for being one of the best friends of the Head Auror, Rufus Scrimgeour; and sadly that seemed to be reason enough for advancement these days. There were countless jokes running laps around the office as to exactly how Stephens had gotten his job, most not quite safe for work, and though everyone laughed at them, no one ever mentioned them to the man's face. He was still their superior, after all, and thus had the power to discipline them.
So Daphne had spent the rest of the morning sending death glares at anyone who so much as looked at her in a way that could have possibly been interpreted as amused. Nymphadora Tonks, her immediate superior, partner, and sometime mentor, had laughed aloud when, after a particularly heated gaze, she'd sent Sirius Black running down the corridor in terror; but the woman had been immediately silenced upon having the same look then turned upon her. This, in turn, had amused Daphne, and after lunch she'd decided to test just how well she could intimidate people, much to the embarrassment and chagrin of her office mates. It wasn't a newfound skill; she'd been a model Slytherin in Hogwarts, after all, and that entailed at least a slight ability to inflict fear; but the ease with which she could now do it, and especially to wizards and witches trained specifically to take care of all that was evil and dark about magic, was strangely delighting.
So she'd sat at her disorganized, paper-strewn desk, quill scratching against parchment, filling out some sort of criminal release form that she hadn't even bothered to read, with a merry grin on her face. Her day had, at last, taken a turn for the better!
Unfortunately, that was when it had happened.
There had been absolutely no warning, no hastily written owl, and no top-secret intelligence that had provided any sort of indication of the coming disaster, only an explosion, which engulfed the bottom floors of the Ministry in magical, emerald flames that had spread throughout the complex almost impossibly quickly; then a dozen brilliant, flickering, and blinding lights as the wards were forcefully ripped down like so much tissue paper; then finally, there was chaos. Workers and Aurors and civilians ran crazed through the building, shoving roughly past each other into elevators and passageways, leaving their friends and colleagues to burn or be murdered, anything to get out alive. It was, Daphne realized later, a true showing of character. However, a number of wizards and witches had gathered their wits about themselves and disapparated from the scene after the wards went down, and an even smaller group had grabbed hold of several of their fellows before magically exiting. Daphne herself had been pinned beneath her heavy desk after the initial explosion, and though she had been uninjured, the shock of the situation had disoriented her for several moments. Seeing her partner lying prone on the ground, Tonks had stepped in, transfigured the desk into some innocent item that Daphne hadn't taken the time to notice, and then disapparated them to what should have been safety.
It was too bad, then, that outside the Ministry of Magic, the situation was, if possible, even worse. There were Death Eaters everywhere, attacking and dueling with everyone from escaped Aurors to bystanders who'd seen the attack occur and risked a gruesome end to fight against the attackers. Daphne had an immense amount of respect for those individuals; after seeing the uncaring Ministry workers fleeing from their burning comrades, it was reassuring that at least some of the people she fought daily to protect were worth it. Meanwhile, the same green, flickering fire burned continuously, engulfing what it could and slowly overwhelming the Ministry building, which was itself now in complete shambles, shattered, groaning, and threatening to collapse. Wreckage was piled everywhere, and the air was filled with the heady scent of debris and blood and death.
And then the Dark Lord himself arrived, apparating in with a loud crack and a rushing wind that shook all of the forces, Auror and Death Eater alike. The fight paused momentarily as each combatant stopped in awe of the shear aura of power that the man generated, but each was brought back to his or her senses when the Demon began to cut a swath of bloody destruction through the ranks of the light wizards. Horrified, Tonks and Daphne had stood by in utter silence as their comrades began to be slaughtered left and right; but then the press of forces pulled the Dark Lord away and out of their sight, and the two young Aurors were forced back into the conflict—but not without first having had time to consider this new development. With Voldemort himself participating in the battle, it was surely more than a routine yet unnervingly successful Death Eater assault. But why charge the Ministry itself? It was possibly the most well defended location in all of Magical Britain, so why had Voldemort decided to chance defeat in order to take it? Daphne, however, had had no more time to pursue that particular line of questioning, as she and Tonks had already rejoined the chaos, trading spells with two white-masked Death Eaters who fired back violent cutting curses. Daphne had pivoted to her right, dodging the spell by a hairsbreadth and feeling its heat burn brutally across her jaw, then sent a stunner straight into her attacker's solar plexus; the man dropped soundlessly to the gravel.
As the battle progressed, Daphne lost track of both time and Tonks. She moved through her enemies like a woman possessed, her mind focused solely on survival. She could have run, of course, as so many of the light were doing when faced with the Dark Lord himself, but she refused to even consider that option. She was an Auror through and through, and besides that, she was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, sworn to give her life in order to bring down Voldemort; and she'd do her duty for as long as she was able.
Afterwards she would remember flashes of duels; of dead bodies, both friend and foe; but what she would recall most vividly, with clear picture, color, and sound, was when the Ministry of Magic, which had long served as the hub and Mecca of all British wizardkind, finally collapsed.
And the cackle, of mixed frustration and glee, of the one who'd made it happen.
----
The first things he noticed were the smells; their stench was nauseating and pervasive as it hung about him, a hundred unique odors mixed together to form one mass of disgusting funk. His stomach turned sickeningly, and the air about him felt like it was weighing down upon his body, which was aching, weak, and frail—almost as though it were not functioning properly.
And presumably, it wasn't.
Several tense moments passed as he struggled to gather the rest of his senses. His limbs refused to respond; his muscles were tensed, aching, and felt sluggishly heavy; and he feared for a moment that he would die from lack of breath. Then abruptly, with a sharp jolt, his system kicked in; and he gasped deeply, inhaling more debris from the surrounding smog than he cared to consider. His nostrils began to work quickly, flaring furiously in an attempt to gather oxygen into his empty lungs. Unfortunately, after a labored and painful gasp cleared his nose, he was better able to discern several of the scents currently floating about on the air.
There was the heavy shroud of dust slowly settling to form a soft, ashen layer upon the ground. It smelled of dull plaster and brick, and when he inhaled it for a second time, he immediately began to violently cough as the impure substance assaulted his lungs. It took a moment for him to gain control over the situation, and he lay still for several more, trying not to breathe too much more of whatever it had been into his body.
Besides the plaster, there was also a heady, almost overpowering, stench that seemed to hang specifically about him. It was familiar, though not immediately identifiable; something in the back of his mind was prodding various synapses, telling him that this scent should be remembered. It smelled vaguely like copper, and he found it rather disquieting that he could taste its tang in the back of his mouth as though it were coming from him.
And then he placed it:
Blood. The smell of death.
He shut his eyes quickly and held his breath, thinking that perhaps if he couldn't smell the liquid, then it would just disappear. It was naïve, surely, but the image that he was somehow submerged within a proverbial pool of death had done nothing to quiet his already protesting stomach. His head was aching now too, or had it always been doing so? He wasn't sure, but the combination of the deep throbbing of his mind and the disorienting swirl of his belly caused him to fear he would be ill. But the moment passed, and he recovered, expelling the stale breath and doing his best to ignore the overwhelming fragrances and to concentrate on the situation at hand.
Something heavy was lying on top of him, and that was what had to be dealt with first. With a supreme surge of effort and no small amount of grunting and groaning, he was able to raise his arms and, while simultaneously twisting his body and shoving with his aching limbs, roll whatever it was off of his chest. He took a second to gasp when he was finally free, but his breath hitched in his throat then, and pain burned suddenly over his entire left side. One of his arms snaked out to grasp his ribs, and his teeth clenched themselves tightly, allowing only a low siss of pain to escape. He was fairly beaten up—that much was obvious.
Hesitantly, he pulled back his arm and glanced down toward the cause of his trouble; it didn't look good. There was a large gash running down from his underarm to just above his hipbone. Dirty and caked with blood, it was surrounded by a smattering of blue and black bruises, which reached all the way up onto his shoulder blade. The dull aching that he'd felt upon waking had now worked its way up to a sharp, fire-like sensation, and his headache also seemed to be becoming progressively worse. Overall, his body had seemingly taken quite a toll, and he was sure that it was only beginning to feel the after effects.
He was exhausted, he knew, and his muscles were slow to respond, making it seem as though he were wading through quicksand, or as though time itself had slowed down while he struggled to pull his body into an upright position. It didn't feel good. No, pain echoed with a resounding sort of chaos throughout his shattered body; but the ground was littered with debris, and his cut was certainly becoming infected and he knew that he was in dire need of medical attention; so he pushed himself onwards, determined not to let a small thing like tortuous pain drag him down.
Then, from out of nowhere: "Hey! Are you ok?"
He glanced sharply up at the voice, but the brightness of the sun scorched his eyes, causing him to quickly avert his gaze. There was the sound of something, probably feet, scrambling across the piles of debris.
"No, of course you're not."
Then a shadow fell over him, and a worried face moved into his view. It was a young woman—her front teeth nibbling worriedly on her bottom lip and her brow anxiously furrowed—with bright, bubbly pink hair and soft, sapphire eyes, both of which glinted strangely in the rays of the sun. He put her age in the mid-twenties range, give or take a year or two, and immediately noticed the wand holstered subtly on the inside of her forearm. A deep-red cloak hid her frame, or would have were it not splattered with shabby holes and thick splotches of mud, dirt, and blood. They were, he placed, the marks of a battle-worn Auror.
"Ouch," she said, taking in his battered appearance. "That doesn't look too good."
He eyed the woman cautiously, though not quite sure why, and found himself hesitant to respond. The woman, however, didn't seem to notice as she knelt suddenly at his side, her hands reaching out slowly to assess his wound. Briefly, he fought an instinct to attack her, to stop her touching him in any way, but even through his aching head logic won out, and he relaxed slightly as her soft hands probed his gash.
"I'm Tonks by the way," she said, by way of conversation. "I'm an Auror." Then, apparently deciding something, she sat back, clapped her hands together enthusiastically, and then stood up, all the while offering him a warm, sincere smile. "Alright! It's not that bad,"—well it certainly felt like it was—"We'll get you to St. Mungo's, and they'll fix you right up."
She stared at him then, her eyes slightly wide, and it took him a moment to realize that she was seeking some sort of confirmation. He nodded. Her smile brightened and she reached down towards him, her hand outstretched, offering him help up. He ignored her, shoving his pain to the back of his mind, and struggling up onto his feet, right arm still gripping tightly to its opposite side. Her expression changed back to one of worry.
"Don't push yourself," she said, strongly.
He glanced back toward her, wondering in passing why she was bothering with him.
"I'm fine." He really wasn't, and that fact was made obvious as his voice came out scratchy, weak, and painful. He winced as the words burned in his throat, and his eyes clenched tightly shut. Feeling dizzy suddenly, he stumbled backwards before managing to hastily catch his balance, his boots digging roughly into the rubble.
"You're not!" The Auror moved to his side and, against his will, wrapped a supporting arm about his shoulders. "Let me help you," she demanded, softly, as he struggled for a moment to throw her off; but he was weak, injured, and he knew rationally that he needed aid, no matter how much he chose to refuse it. So he relaxed—slightly—and allowed himself to be led through the debris.
The world around them was in pieces. Thick slabs of concrete, brick, and mortar lay against each other on the ground, splattered and caked with equal parts mud and blood, and the sulfuric scent of discharged magic hung heavy in the air. There was a pile of bodies off to one side, comprised of Aurors, civilians, and even Death Eaters, and wizards and witches with tear-stained faces and tattered robes roamed the ruins searching for fallen or injured loved ones. Overhead, the midday sun beat down harshly, and he found himself unable to divert his eyes from the carnage surrounding him. A heavy weight settled in his already disturbed stomach.
"It's horrible," Tonks said, softly, having noticed the focus of his attention. "They came from out of nowhere and just—just—" she broke off, her gaze averting towards their feet, and he thought for a moment that he heard the tiniest sniffle; but then she was looking back up at him and her expression was all stony strength.
He paused briefly, then, cautiously, his throat still aching, asked, "What happened?"
His companion was shocked. Her eyes widened, their brows rising, and her mouth opened to an almost obscene degree. She took him in as one might a violent explosion, an expression of horrified awe coating her features.
"What happened?" she demanded, as though he had severely offended her merely by asking the question. Then she narrowed her eyes. "Voldemort and his Death Eaters destroyed the Ministry!"
He was thunderstruck, and he froze in mid-step, his mouth gaping, the dark wizard's name ringing in his ears.
Voldemort.
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
The thought stoked a fire burning within his aching frame, a heat of unadulterated rage, which was pure and agonizing in its intensity. It lanced through every fiber of his being, even those in a relative state of disrepair. His hands clenched, his brows narrowed, his mouth thinned, and his eyes lit with hate. Consumed, a maelstrom of dark desire whirled within him, and he felt overcome with terrible emotion. It was all he could do to remain standing still
"Erm, sorry?"
He blinked, and as suddenly as the wash of emotion had come, it was gone. He turned his eyes to Tonks, who had spoken, and found that she was eyeing him oddly, one pink eyebrow slightly raised.
"What?" he asked.
His companion shrugged. "Don't know. Guess I forgot some folks don't like hearing his name."
He nodded at that, feeling doing so would be easier than trying to articulate a feeling which he didn't even understand himself, and the two continued pushing their way through the field of crushed and cracked buildings and dead bodies.
It was another several minutes before they arrived at their destination, a decidedly rudimentary tent which had been set up as a sort of makeshift headquarters for those attempting to cope with the aftermath of the Death Eaters' attack. It was an old muggle kit, strangely enough, and it showed: the poles were barely gripping the fabric in most places, and were set at odd angles in others; instead of being pushed into soft ground for support, they were fused magically to the gravel road; and the fabric itself was stitched here and there with patches of gaudily-colored reinforcement strips. Overall, the effect was almost surreal when placed next to the rest of the destruction, and he felt almost out of place himself.
As they approached, he noted that the place seemed empty, as opposed to the hustle and bustle of wizards and witches they'd passed on the way, but when Tonks went right up to the flap and pulled it open, he saw that there were, if possible, a greater number of people choked inside the tent than were outside. Momentarily, his eyes adjusted to the sight, and he realized that what he'd thought was an obscenely crowded hollow was in fact a rather spacious chamber, thanks to proficient spell-work of course. Inside, people moved back and forth between desks and stations upon which piles of papers were strewn; there was a line of roughshod plastic seats along one of the walls, and wizards and witches with various arrays of minor injuries either sat or lay upon them, apparently waiting in line; and a small, harrowed looking woman, her hair splayed about in all directions, stood just inside the entrance.
"Emma!" Tonks called, as the two stepped inside. The frayed woman glanced up at her name being suddenly called, and, upon seeing the other Auror, a relieved expression lit her features.
"Tonks! Thank Merlin! Where have you been?"
"I was helping the search party," she replied, and raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"
"Stephens is angry. He's been looking all over for you, only no one had seen you since the attack. He has poor Daphne going crazy."
At this Tonks snorted, a sound rife with pure amusement, and her thin lips slid into a sly grin. "She's worried about me? How sweet!"
"You wish." He snapped his head around at this new voice, and then staggered as his head sloshed with dizziness. His hand came up to rest on top of his scalp, and he took a deep breath while steadying his suddenly weakened legs. Taking a moment, he allowed himself to regain a sense of composure before focusing once more on the gathered Aurors. The one who had made the dramatic entrance had, by that time, joined the others, and for a second he felt again out of place. The three women were standing around like old friends, and there he was—rather severely injured and shucked into the background.
The newcomer—Daphne, he assumed—was clothed in the standard ruby robes of an Auror and wore a self-important smirk on her face. She was dirty, bedraggled, and covered in random patches of caked dirt and blood, and there was newly mended gash along her right jaw line, still slightly glowing with the aftereffects of a particularly powerful healing spell. There was an air about her of pompous pride and dignity, and he knew immediately that he didn't like her.
"You better find him, though," said Daphne, more seriously. "Emma wasn't lying when she said he was pissed. And I don't need him taking it out me because you screwed up."
Tonks looked over at him then and smiled a warm but concerned smile as she saw him cradling his injured side with the opposite arm. She turned back to Daphne.
"Would you like to do me a favor then?"
----
Rufus Scrimgeour, Head Auror and right hand to the Minister of Magic, was not a happy man; and as he pounded, heavy steps echoing in the stillness of the air, through a gray, cloistered, and barren corridor buried deep beneath the Ministry of Magic, his frustration was only beginning to peak.
He couldn't believe it! The Dark Lord had actually had the gall to attack the Wizarding World at its heart! He shook his head in shocked dismay; this was an event that no one could have foreseen. For years Voldemort had restrained himself from attempting such a heavy blow against the Ministry because of the potential for the plan to fall through—after all, the Auror division was housed in the same building, and the Dark Lord was not one to chance a loss—but for some reason the Demon had decided that, whatever his agenda was, it was important enough to risk such a setback.
And the risk must have proved worth it; the destruction and death were overwhelming. Even the seasoned Auror was having trouble pushing aside his mind's images of bloodied corpses lying beneath collapsed and shattered buildings. Surely almost hundreds were dead, and he was certain that the public's morale and faith in the Ministry would be all but destroyed for the time being. Sighing, Scrimgeour resigned himself to the fact they would, if nothing else, be fighting an uphill propaganda battle.
Even so, as he traipsed along his path, his eyes, ever aware, moved swiftly in their sockets, absorbing his surroundings as he had always been trained. The hall he followed was long and empty, void of any identifying signs or doors, and it lead to the most secure and secret chamber buried deep within the heart of the Ministry of Magic. This corridor appeared on no official maps of the Ministry, and its existence was knowledge given only to a very select few on a strictly need-to-know basis.
And he was one of the few who needed to know.
He was coordinating the operation after all.
Everything seemed in order, he decided. At least nothing obvious was amiss. And if something did happen to go wrong, he was certainly the best protected where he was. Satisfied, his mind once more allowed itself to wander as he stalked confidently toward his destination.
What was Voldemort doing? What was his motive? Why had he risked a direct attack like that?
There was only one conclusion Scrimgeour could come up with, and it was the same thing that seemed to guide all of the Dark Lord's actions: revenge.
Something had been stolen from Voldemort, something irreplaceable, and then it had been destroyed.
And now the Demon was angry.
That was the reason Scrimgeour was prowling a dozen floors below ground only several hours after one of the most catastrophic battles of the War: for though the Dark Lord was usually an amazing strategist, his fury would leave him at least momentarily blinded, current case in point, and that was an opening that the Ministry could not afford to let slip by.
He passed beneath a wide, expansive arch and felt the tingle of the wards as they caressed his skin, ensuring he was who he said he was and that he was keyed into the magic and allowed access. If he were not, powerful magical barriers, erected through ancient spells stored within the deep halls of the Department of Mysteries, would have shot forcefully upward, shattering the floor around him, and several teams of Unspeakables would immediately have been alerted. Instead, he entered the circular room—though it was more an empty foyer, with merely an old wooden table situated obtrusively in the middle of the floor and several doors spread around the outer walls—uninhibited and examined the other two men who were already seated at the room's only furnishing. Only one of the men was known to him: his immediate subordinate and the man that he'd come to speak with.
Scrimgeour strode silently over to the table and pulled out a chair across from those already seated; his eyes glistened with almost palpable anger and restlessness. He had not yet gotten over the attack.
"Where is he?" he asked as he sat, his voice thick with barely restrained emotion, his eyes boring into those of Auror Captain Frank Longbottom. "Where is Bourne?"
For a moment, Longbottom and the other man, who seemed several decades the Captain's junior and was himself dressed in the ruby robes of an Auror, peered contemplatively at each other before any response was made.
"This is Cedric Diggory," Longbottom began. "He's a junior Auror—I trained him myself—and for the last few months he's been Bourne's handler." The other man (Diggory, Scrimgeour made a mental note) nodded slightly in respect, but there was no time to be had on such niceties.
"I don't care," the Head Auror hissed. "Bring him in. It's possible we can begin the last phase ahead of schedule. With the Dark Lord preoccupied with today's attack and blinded, as he seems to be, by rage, this might be the only chance we have"
The Captain sighed, but then his face hardened with determination, though a wariness continued to hang over both he and his partner like a shroud.
"I know, sir, but we have a . . . problem."
Immediately, Scrimgeour grew irritated, and his right eyebrow rose up in impatience. Longbottom was being purposely difficult, and if there was one thing that he hated more than needless death, it was insubordination.
"Out with it, soldier!" he all but hollered.
The reply was swift and succinct: "We don't know where he is."
And a heavy, all-consuming silence fell over the chamber.
"You what?" the Ministry official demanded, his voice deathly unemotional, blank.
"He vanished after the raid, sir. We deployed him per your orders, but we lost track of him during the chaos of the battle, and he never checked back in."
Jarringly and angrily, Scrimgeour averted his gaze from the other man and silently eyed the grain of the table. It was old wood; and having been found stored in the Department of Mysteries, it was ancient, sturdy and, like the whole chamber, was itself imbued with magical properties that he couldn't even begin to ponder. He took in a deep breath.
"Is there any reason why he wouldn't surface?" he queried, his voice calmer, steadier. "Any part of his training that detailed a situation in which he wasn't to return?"
Longbottom thought for a moment before shaking his head lightly.
"There was, but it was only in the event that his handler was killed or the base was destroyed, and neither of those things happened."
"The Ministry was badly damaged in the attack," Scrimgeour countered. "Could he have thought the base was destroyed?"
The Auror raised an eyebrow. "With all due respect, sir, we're dozens of feet underground within a secret labyrinth known only to an elite few; if someone didn't know we were here, it would be almost impossible to detect us. And with the runic wards all over this place, it'd be even harder to destroy. Bourne knows that. He should have come back—even if only to check in."
Scrimgeour couldn't refute that, though his nerves were now flaring even more painfully than before. What was going on? He sighed, deciding quite forcefully that too much had happened in one day.
"Utilize every available resource to find him, Captain," he said, resigned. "And do it quickly. Without him, everything we've worked for will crumble, and both of us will burn. You understand, correct?"
Longbottom nodded. "Teams have already been dispatched to locations he's either known to frequent or could potentially seek out. Barring any unforeseen events, he'll be found and returned within the day, sir."
"Good," Scrimgeour said. "See that he is."
----
St. Mungo's was, unsurprisingly, quite busy. In the aftermath of the attack on the Ministry, there were literally hundreds of would-be patients lining the halls of the establishment. From the relatively minor injuries, such as scrapes, cuts, and bruises, to the white-linen covered beds being pulled hurriedly through the corridors, there were wizards and witches in every state of disrepair. He found the situation, as a whole, strangely disconcerting, sitting as he was in an uncomfortably hard plastic chair next to an Auror who hadn't taken but a few minutes to earn his distrust. And things certainly weren't moving: he was pretty sure that same frizzled, ginger-haired witch had been at the front of the line for the last hour. He wasn't sure what exactly she was doing, but he thought she might be visiting someone, as there didn't seem to be anything too overtly wrong with her.
"Stop that," his companion hissed, not for the first time. "Stop staring at that poor old woman."
"I'm not staring," he whispered back, his voice tinged with indignation.
"You are too! You've been staring at her for the last—" Here, she glanced up at the blinking time-piece on the hospital's wall. It was quite a reach for her, being at an almost 180 degree angle from where she was currently seated, but to her credit, she managed it. "—Forty-five minutes!"
"Well the line hasn't moved in forty-five minutes, then."
In response, Daphne Greengrass merely sighed and rolled her eyes before returning to rechecking the small stack of paper work she'd been presented upon entering the facility.
After Tonks had convinced her friend to reluctantly accompany him to St. Mungo's for what she deemed a "precautionary check-up" on his injuries, they'd cleaned his gash as best they could, in order to prevent immediate infection, and then taken one of several preset port-keys to the hospital. Once there, they'd found themselves right in the middle of the pandemonium of hurt and dying ministry workers, Aurors, and civilians. Daphne, who, he had since learned, was rather short on patience, had then joined up with several other relatively unharmed Aurors and taken to restoring order around the place. They'd formed a line of sorts, from the most injured wizards to the least, and then distributed the necessary informational documents out to the injured. She had apparently decided that it would be, in fact, better if she filled his own papers out for him, despite the fact that she knew absolutely nothing about him. Ironically, they'd soon found out that he knew even less.
"Ok, first off," she'd said, all business. "What's your name?"
He'd made to answer the question—his mouth had been halfway open, his tongue fixed to twitch—before he'd realized he had no answer. Racking his brain, aching though it was, had turned up nothing but an empty nest of cobwebs, as he discovered that he could not remember much of anything at all. He didn't know his name, his age, where he was born, or where he lived. He couldn't recall if his parents were divorced, or together, or indeed if they were even still living. And it terrified him. His mind, once distracted, had once more blazed with pain, and his body had seemed to react in kind. He'd shuddered, noticeably, in his seat, and his companion had shown an uncharacteristic level of concern when she'd demanded, "What's wrong with you?"
He'd stuttered, "I can't remember."
"You can't remember what's wrong with you?" she'd asked, suspiciously.
"No," he'd said, shaking his head negatively. "I can't remember anything. I don't know what my name is." He'd been staring at the floor then, intently examining the little cracks which ran like tiny rivers across the hospital's tiled floor. They were something he could focus on, a distraction to keep his mind off of its relative lack of any substantial thing. But then Daphne had laid an awkward hand upon his shoulder, an attempt at comfort, or so he'd thought.
"Look," she'd said, "I've had a long day. A really long day. I'm not sure if you know this, but killing or being killed is rather draining. And now I'm helping you here, as a favor to my boss, when I'd much rather be out there doing something actually constructive. So if you're trying to pull one over on me, this is fair warning: I'm not in a good mood."
Well that had certainly caught his attention, and he'd looked up at her in a mixture of shock and horror, wondering just what sort of person was "helping" him. Her eyes had still been on him, slightly narrowed and completely serious, and for a moment he'd fought an urge to simply apparate away—anything to be away from the Auror. Unfortunately, it was common knowledge that there were a number of high-level apparation wards placed on St. Mungo's to prevent sudden and unlawful entry—much like what had occurred earlier that day at the Ministry—so he'd had to carefully dismiss his feeling of panic. In doing so, he'd felt it surprisingly quickly replaced with a rising sense of indignant anger.
"I'm serious," he'd hissed. "Why would I joke about something like that? I can't remember anything about myself!" He'd paused. "And you can go if you want. I'm not keeping you here."
She'd opened her mouth then and had been just about to spit out what he'd been sure was a sharp come back with a possibility of acquiescence before she'd grunted and sat roughly back in her seat, her eyes averted back toward the paper work sitting comfortably on the clipboard in her lap.
"Fine, you're an amnesiac," she'd said. "I guess that makes this slightly easier." And she'd set back to work, quill scrawling quickly across the page.
And so they'd passed the time in silence, each absorbed in his or her own thoughts, he digging roughing into his psyche in search of something, and she reflecting on just how much Tonks was going to owe her for the completion of this favor. The line had moved slowly and unsteadily as the minutes ticked by, and the two grew increasingly frustrated in kind. His search had mostly come up empty; he couldn't remember anything at all specific, but he'd managed to garner several flashes and images of people and locations that he couldn't begin to identify. Unfortunately, it had been then that his headache had come back, a heavy, pounding echo inside his skull. He'd figured he must have a concussion and that maybe that was the cause of his amnesia, then wondered if there was a magical cure for his ailment. Briefly he'd considered asking Daphne about it, but he'd decided that it was probably in his best interest if he didn't attract her attention and so had kept silent.
Now the two were finally near the front of the line, being only behind a stooped, elderly witch who was cradling her right arm against her side and another witch, this one younger, who was holding a wad of gauze against a thick gash running across her forehead. Daphne had long since finished filling out the admittance paper work, having completely skipped the personal information page and moved onto the description of the injury, and he was trying to distract himself from his various aches and pains—not to mention his other concerns—by observing the numerous other witches and wizards gathered at the hospital. His companion, however, apparently didn't like that.
"It's disconcerting," she said, eyes still focused on the paper work. "I certainly wouldn't want some random wizard staring at me when my back was turned."
He rolled his eyes. "I wasn't staring."
"Then what were you doing?"
"I was—"
"Auror Greengrass?" a voice interrupted. The two glanced up, almost in unison, to find a young witch, clad in the pure white robes of a healer, standing awkwardly before them. Her hands were held behind her back, she was nervously shifting her weight from foot-to-foot, and her eyes were focused downward at the tiled floor with which he'd become so familiar over the last few hours. She appeared uncomfortable.
"Yes?" Daphne asked.
"We—the, uh, the hospital that is—just received an owl from your partner. You're—you're needed immediately back at headquarters. The note said we're, um, supposed to take your friend back to a room and—and have him examined."
At that, a smirk pulled at Daphne's lips, and she turned a superior look on her companion. He, meanwhile, felt nothing short of utter relief—all the waiting was beginning to get to him.
The female Auror stood up and, stretching out the many kinks and cramps which had accumulated in her tired muscles, handed the paper work she'd been holding to the nervous healer. The woman took it carefully and held it tightly against her chest as she watched Daphne begin to yawn. Shortly, the Auror dropped her arms and tossed another sardonic glance toward him.
"Be careful with him," she said, dryly. "He doesn't know who he is."
----
"Now you're sure these two can find him?"
"Yes, sir," Scrimgeour said, his voice uncharacteristically respectful. He found himself sitting across a heavy, gaudy-looking desk from the Minister of Magic himself, Cornelius Fudge. It was only when he'd sat down at the desk that he'd realized just how tacky it really was: there were numerous magical items spread out across its surface, including round, glowing objects seemingly made from every color of the rainbow, flickering back and forth between hues, which tended to make Scrimgeour's head feel rather unsettled; there were scrolls and parchments of official Ministry documents bent and creased without care, and some even had circular water stains where the Minister's crest should have been; there were several framed pictures of a strange, blonde-haired young woman bouncing around and glaring at the camera; and there was also a large, significant plaque proclaiming:
CORNELIUS FUDGE
MINISTER OF MAGIC
And it was this item that Rufus Scrimgeour was eyeing with unsubtle disdain.
Fudge didn't notice.
It was late at night, later than the Minister was used to working. With the Ministry having been destroyed, he and Scrimgeour were holding this rather impromptu meeting at Fudge's private residence, a fairly large and well-warded mansion on the eastern edge of Great Britain. Scrimgeour had flooed there immediately after having set up what he'd called a 'search party' for their missing agent, knowing the Minister would resent not having been kept up to date.
He'd been right.
"They've worked with him before," the Auror explained. "They're some of the few Aurors we have who've done so knowing exactly who he is—most don't even know he exists and just think he's one of them—and he commended both of them afterwards."
Fudge's brow was deeply furrowed; he appeared in deep concentration. In his hand was grasped an opened manila folder, which contained the majority of the agent called Bourne's case details. The page the Minister was currently staring at contained a picture of the man—dark brown hair falling messily into narrowed eyes, mouth frowning deeply—and his vital statistics, such as his height, weight, and blood type.
The Minister lifted his eyes, focusing back on his subordinate.
"It says here he's only twenty?"
Scrimgeour mentally sighed; Fudge had been briefed many times on this agent, including an initial briefing when Longbottom and the Head Auror himself had jointly proposed the project. Most of these updates contained numerous references to the subject's age and his thusly-exceptional ability.
"No, sir, he's currently nineteen. He'll be twenty next month."
"Ah," the Minister muttered, then set the paper unceremoniously down upon his mess of a desk. "I want him found, Rufus."
The Auror nodded. "I've already spoken with Longbottom and Diggory. They're the ones who did most of the work."
"Diggory?" Fudge asked.
"Bourne's current handler, an exceptionally gifted young Auror. Frank took him under his wing almost immediately after his graduation."
The Minister looked confused again. He reached out to the folder and once more examined it intently. A moment passed, and then, seemingly rather proud of himself, the man looked up, a cocky smile on his face.
"But what about this man Spitz? It says right here,"—Fudge jabbed a pointed finger at a line of text—"that he's Bourne's handler."
Scrimgeour leaned over and glanced at the passage the Minister was referencing. Then, understanding, he flipped through a couple of pages of the document, pictures and words flying quickly by, and stopped by another section, towards which he pointed his own finger.
"Spitz was found to have active Death Eater sympathies. He's one of our more embarrassing moments. Bourne found out when they were out on assignment, and Spitz was promptly executed."
Fudge started, and then demanded, "Why wasn't I informed?"
Now Scrimgeour really did sigh. "You were, sir; there was a whole section of the project's annual review on it; and well, you nearly fired Longbottom over the misstep."
"Oh. Yes, um, very well," the Minister muttered, seemingly flustered, and Scrimgeour fought off what would have been a truly undignified smirk. But it wasn't long before Fudge had regained his composure. "Anyway, we can't have Bourne running around at the same time as this 'Cain' character. Merlin knows what would happen if they met up."
"Sir, the 'Cain' situation is still really uncertain. We're not even sure if he exists."
"He exists," Fudge said, a hint of gloating evident in his voice. He was glad to finally have one up on the Auror. "I've seen the intelligence documents. And the Unspeakables are quite sure he's the one who did in Malfoy. Of course, our official stance is to deny all of it—there's no need for the public to know we've got two crazy dark wizards running around."
"I thought he was supposed to work for the Dark Lord?"
The Minister shook his head. "That's just a cover. In fact, we're pretty sure You-Know-Who hates him. But we figure saying they're together will at least give some ease to the public. One evil's less than two, you know?"
Actually, Scrimgeour felt that was a rather juvenile, despicable idea—but he nodded anyway. It was in his best interest to keep Fudge as happy as he could—if the man felt that things weren't running as smoothly as they should, he tended to get in the Auror's way entirely too often.
"Good. Now I want to be kept up to date. If the two of them find Bourne, I want to be the first to know about it. Do you understand?"
Biting back his sense of pride, Scrimgeour nodded. "Yes, sir."
----
It was the footsteps that woke him. Even muffled as they were by the room's heavy oaken door, the striding sounds were loud, thumping, heavy—much too heavy to belong to any of the light-footed hospital personnel—and way too close for comfort. His ears strained themselves almost unconsciously, stretching his hearing to its limit, and directing it outward to the hallway; they analyzed the sound without even realizing they were doing so. He listened for a moment to the steady, sure steps as they plowed ever closer, before coming to several conclusions. First, there were two distinct sets of sounds, meaning there were two people. One set was deeper, more punctuated, probably from a pair of durable, more weighty work boots, but the other was softer and less loud, which meant they were either boots made from a lighter material, or perhaps a pair of casual tennis shoes. Either way, the second conclusion remained the same: they were coming straight for his door.
And that bothered him.
He wasn't quite certain as to why, but as soon as the realization came to him, the nerves in his stomach seized up, burning harshly within his belly; his hands began to sweat slightly, clenching and unclenching themselves in rapid succession; and his already fragmented brain began sending rapid, anxious, and indiscernible messages to his body to act, even when he had absolutely no understanding or reason to think he should.
Almost growling in annoyance at this seeming internal rebellion, he decided that maybe he should trust his instincts. Wasn't it always said that in the worst situations, only your wits and intuition would provide for your survival? He shook his head at that thought, slightly unconvinced. Where was that coming from anyway? Still, after a short pause, he settled on a slight concession, and listening to his whispering body for a moment, he relaxed and allowed his eyes to shoot swiftly around the surface of the room in which he lay, seeing it—completely seeing it, as if for the first time—and absorbing every one of its nuances.
He was slightly surprised to see that it was rather small, seeming tinier and more barren than he had at first realized. Not only that, but it was with a dry smirk that he found that the room also appeared in quite shabby shape. There were no windows inside of it, providing a rather pervading sense of claustrophobia even to those with no history of the fear, and its walls, which once might have possibly shone a brilliant white, were now aged, cracked, bland and mauve, and here-and-there coated with thick layers of a substance he did not even care to ponder. Grimacing in disgust and turning away, he wondered exactly where he was. It would seem only logical that a hospital as large and as well funded as St. Mungo's would have better commodities for its patients. However, it took but a moment for the answer to dawn on him, quickly deflating his mood in reminder: with the attack on the Ministry, all of the "nicer" rooms had most likely been filled up with those more in need of their services than he.
With that thought in mind, his eyes briefly found themselves being drawn downward to study the bandages that were currently adorning his naked abdomen. They covered his entire left side and the top half of his skull; pale white gauze ran from his shoulder down to the waistband of his soft, gray sweatpants and was taped almost irritatingly tightly to his sensitive flesh. Flexing his arm momentarily, he was relieved to feel only a slight twinge of pain; the arm would still be of use if it needed to be. Breaking off at that thought, he abruptly shook his head. This was insane! He was within the walls of a securely guarded hospital; he was perfectly safe and had no time for such paranoia! Still, the footsteps were continuing to steadily approach, and as every sound drew closer, his muscles tensed for action, and his body began its protestations in earnest.
Even so, his eyes continued on their journey. He saw his midnight black robes, which were now almost destroyed and appeared more a dusty gray hue than their previous darkness, thrown carelessly into a small chair by the door. They were shot roughly through and scattered with rips and tears both large and tiny and seemed more like rags than any decent sort of clothing. Beside them and near his bed there was an old wooden nightstand on which a half-full glass of water sat. The ancient table reminded him of the room itself: cracked, marked up, and aged—surely older than he. The door itself was quite large, about twice as thick as he and half again as tall, and made of a heavy oak, as his nurse had been quick to point out. All the better to protect our patients, she had said. But as he began to finish up his deep observance of his surroundings, he was forced to conclude that other than those few items, there seemed to be nothing of substance within the tiny, white-plastered and paint-cracked room.
He understood, however, though he did not know at all why or how he did so, that he could not be in view of the now looming door when the bodies in possession of the stalking footsteps arrived to open it, and his subconscious screamed at him to use every available resource to ensure that he was not.
Unfortunately, he mused, there was not much that would be of any aid to him, and several tense moments passed as he pondered, his stomach clenching ever more tightly while his nerves gripped his insides forcefully. He was growing quite short on time, if the echoing thumps swiftly approaching were any indication. They were now like thunder to his ears, growing continuously, unnervingly closer and almost deafeningly loud.
And then they stopped.
And the silence was even more unnerving.
A drop of sweat pooled from his scalp, running slickly down his right cheek, but he made no move to wipe it off. Rather, he lay completely, utterly still, his back straight, fists and jaws clenched, and his eyes and ears trained solely on the doorway, peeled for any sign of danger. Several more excruciating moments ticked by as nothing happened, and just as he was about to allow himself to relax with a chagrined and embarrassed smile, the cold steel doorknob jiggled softly, the sound of metal-on-metal echoing like gunfire throughout the silent room, then began to turn.
His body reacted instantly, unthinkingly swinging itself off the edge of the mattress and down onto the grimy tiled floor. He landed in a protective crouch, the bed blocking his view of the doorway and in turn its view of him, just as the door flung open. Though he could not physically perceive the situation, his senses were straining themselves to the point of exhaustion. He heard the two sets of footsteps stride into the room, more slowly this time, almost as if they were slightly hesitant. Neither moved for several moments, and no sound was heard save the heavy breathing of two distinctly male individuals.
Then: "He's not here." The voice that spoke was deep, rough, and uncultured, and the accent was vaguely Irish, though quite watered down, presumably by years of living outside of the home country. And only a single moment passed before a reply came.
"This is the right room—267. That's what she said, right?" This voice was slightly higher pitched, and the British accent was more pronounced. However, there seemed to be an almost shaky twinge in the tone, as if of slight fear, for no reason that could be obviously perceived.
"Yeah, 267."
There was a rustling of fabric, robes most likely, and several more footsteps as the figures moved around the room, and he had to fight not to make a noise as the nails of his already tightly clenched fists began to draw blood. Fortunately, the men still seemed oddly hesitant to move any further into the room, and they stopped again after only moving forward about a few feet.
"Jason Bourne? You here, sir?" the Irish man asked.
He had to physically struggle to hold in a gasp. Bourne? he wondered. Is that my name? Was it possible that these two men, whoever they were, actually knew him? If it were true, then his whole past, so muddled inside of his mind—fragments and flashes and hazy images that did not even seem his own—was within his grasp! He couldn't help a sweeping feeling of exhilaration.
"Maybe he escaped, eh?"
"Don't know. Maybe it ain't even him. Description sure sounded like it though." While he could not see it, he was sure that the Irish had shrugged briefly. "Cap'n said there's no way to tell where he's gone. They don't know what's happened. You heard what they told us." Another shrug. "Thought we'd had him though." There seemed to be a hint of disappointment in the voice, but he didn't dwell on it. This was his chance, after all—possibly the only one he would ever have! If the men did know him, however small the chance was (they were working off a description apparently), perhaps he could finally force everything to fall into place. He hadn't lived without a memory for very long, only a few hours at the most, but already he was tired of it: the wondering, the doubting, the not knowing just who he was, and if there were even the slightest chance of solving the infernal puzzle, he knew he had to take it—no matter how his body protested. And it did protest; he had to physically struggle against the tightening of his muscles as he forced himself up onto his feet and into view of the room's only other occupants.
His eyes took them in within barely a moment. The Irish was a large man; broad shouldered, thick bodied, and sporting a dark, bearded jungle on his jaw, he resembled more of a tree than a man. His partner was different in almost every respect. Slighter, several feet shorter, and fairer haired, the contrast was almost comical, and he would probably have found the situation amusing were it not so serious. As it was, the most surprising thing about the two men was what they wore: they both sported bright ruby robes and armor about their midsections—the ensemble of an Auror.
They were law enforcement.
The minute he stood up, their eyes were on him, studying him just as he was studying them. They took in his appearance and immediately perked up. Their backs straightened, their faces grew serious, and the comical overtone seemed to completely evaporate. There was something about their eyes too . . .
"Hey," he said, and to his surprise his voice came out calmly, casually.
"Sir!" the Irish cried, clapping his right hand to his left shoulder in what he assumed was a salute.
The amnesiacfrowned. "Who are you?"
"I'm Auror Blaine, sir, and this is my partner, my trainee, Auror Spokes."
"Bourne, sir," the man called Spokes spoke up, "It's, uh, it's an honor to work with you again. I don't expect you to remember, but we met on the Dakota Mission last February." Spokes's eyes were alight, brimming with a passion that set the amnesiac vaguely on edge. So maybe these men were the real deal; they were Aurors after all, and he couldn't see Aurors lying, for kicks, to one such as himself, a lowly amnesiac. But if this Spokes had met him on a mission—was honored to have, in fact—and kept referring to him as 'sir,' then what did that mean? Was he an Auror as well? Possibly a high ranking one? If so, why hadn't either Tonks or Daphne been able to identify him? He didn't know, couldn't remember, and decided, quite simply, to ask.
"I'm an Auror then?"
Blaine and Spokes blinked, staring at him in apparent bewilderment.
"Sir?" Blaine queried, then quickly shook his head. "No, sir, of course you're not."
"Oh . . . " he trailed off, brow furrowing in confusion, and his gaze inadvertently went to the tiled hospital floor. They seemed convinced that he was this 'Bourne,' but was he really? Who was the man? Obviously this 'non-Auror' would have to look very much like him, seem very much like him, to have two highly trained government agents believe it to be his true identity. And he did have amnesia, or some form of it anyway. Would it really hurt to have at least a temporary identity? It was possible he'd even lucked out; maybe he really was this Jason Bourne! The larger man took a long look at him, the Auror's own eyebrows portraying his confusion.
"Are you okay, sir?"
"Um, yes," the man called Bourne, as he had now decided, replied, nodding slightly in an honest attempt to clear his head. "I'm fine." He turned his eyes back to the men, both of whom looked almost concerned, and offered them a half-hearted reassuring grin. It looked vaguely frightening spread out across his features, uncomfortable as he was, and Blaine seemed unconvinced. He and Spokes exchanged a rather disconcerting series of glances then, but they were only for but a moment, and when Blaine turned back toward Bourne, he had abruptly changed the subject.
"Alright, then. We're here to see you safely back to headquarters, sir. Is that fine with you?" Blaine asked.
Honestly, he had no idea if that were fine with him, but the only way he could think of to find out if he really was who he was now claiming to be was to go with these men. And really, what could happen? If worse came to worst, if he were not this Jason Bourne, he would only be right back where he had started: an amnesiac with no sense of identity stranded in the middle of an overcrowded, overrun hospital. At the very least he could get away for a few hours.
But his nerves still had not abated, continuing to burn with a fiery passion deep within his belly, and every one of his muscles was tensed for action. No matter how many times he tried to tell his body to relax, it refused to obey, especially now that he had noticed the sudden odd interaction between his two guides.
He followed the bed around toward the Aurors, offering up another small though still uncertain grin, and walked up behind Blaine, who gestured that he would lead the way with Spokes bringing up the rear. Together, the trio made their way the few feet to the door before one last thought entered Bourne's mind, and he frowned in mild confusion.
"Where did you say we were going again?" he asked.
"Back to Medusa headquarters," said Blaine.
"Medusa?" Now he was even more confused. Was that some sort of code? "What's that?"
Abruptly their pace stopped. Both of the Aurors had frozen in their places, their faces suddenly blank, devoid of all emotion. Bourne watched with suddenly calculating eyes, his instincts flying to the surface, as Blaine glanced over both of their shoulders, apparently locking glances with Spokes, gave a small nod, and turned around to face the two of them.
"Sorry," he said gruffly but warmly to Bourne, face friendly once more. "Got just a small problem. What did you say your—"
But Bourne was no longer paying any attention to Blaine. He could already hear the rustle of fabric from behind him, could already sense the wand being unholstered and pointed at his back, could almost smell the magic being gathered deep within the stick of wood in preparation for a spell, and his body finally wrested control away from his mind.
His right leg extended as his left dropped out from under him, and pivoting on a balanced hand, he swept Blaine's legs out from under the Irish, sending the man's much larger form tumbling to the ground and buying himself a much needed moment in time. Using the momentum from the swipe, he swung around toward the Auror's partner and pushed off the ground, springing expertly onto his feet in front of a wide-eyed, surprised Spokes. That shock would cost the man dearly. Bourne's left arm lashed out in the same movement, hand curled almost into a claw, and grasped the inside of the Auror's wrist. He gave the limb a sharp, violent twist outwards, and Spokes cried out as his arm bones snapped like twigs, the breaking echoing sickeningly in the air and the man's wand falling carelessly to the floor. Bourne flinched at the high-pitched scream; it was loud, and the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. So this time his right hand shot forward, expertly bashing a violent chop into Spokes's neck, crushing the man's larynx back into his throat and simultaneously releasing his grip on the Auror's arm, allowing the man to crumple to the floor, cutting off his scream and leaving him unable to do anything but issue several slow, wheezing breaths.
By that time Blaine was back on his feet, and Bourne could feel the larger man preparing to lunge at his back. His body instinctively righted itself, pivoting in the direction of his enemy just as a fist the size of a small house came barreling into his path. Still he felt no fear. Even though Blaine had to be almost twice the amnesiac's own size, adrenalin rushed through Bourne, and the thrill and the necessity of the fight coursed like blood throughout his veins. His body pivoted left, out of the path of the Auror's fist, and his own arm shot out to block the attack, then quickly wrapped itself once around the opponent's outstretched limb. Bourne tightened his hold, and pulled his whole body quickly in towards Blaine, sending himself flying backwards into the Irish's chest, bending the man's elbow up and painfully backwards, effectively immobilizing it for the moment. He was inside the man's defenses now, and even though the Auror's right arm was all but useless, Bourne still kept his own wrapped tightly in place. He had no idea what kind of pain killing spells were in place on the Irish's body, for the man hadn't made a sound when his elbow had been harshly twisted. Instead Bourne's left elbow flew straight back into the Auror's solar plexus, and though it only elicited a mere grunt of annoyance, surely not pain, it accomplished its main purpose: bending Blaine over far enough for Bourne to launch his head violently back into the Irish's face. The Auror's nose shattered upon impact, spewing his thick, crimson blood about his own face and all down the back of Bourne's neck. Slightly disgusted and grimacing, the amnesiac released his opponent and stepped forward to face the man's partner, who was now slowly recovering and sitting upon his own knees, one arm braced against the floor, and unsuccessfully attempting to pull himself to his feet. With one swift movement and a singular, sickening crunch, Bourne spun about and smashed his right foot into Spokes's face. As the amnesiac completed his turn and came down combat ready in front of Blaine, the Auror trainee crashed heavily to the pale hospital floor, the flesh of his cheek in disarray, and did not rise again.
Blaine was livid. His large, black eyes, framed by thick and bushy brows, were even darker than they had been before, filled with a loathing and a desperation that seemed suddenly all too familiar to Bourne. The Auror had one hand clamped across his now oddly bent nose, which still bled heavily onto his crimson-stained chest and leaked down to a growing puddle on the floor. His outstretched wand was held tightly in his other hand, all but shaking in his fury, and there was a vicious snarl adorning his face. Overall, he appeared quite ready to kill.
Bourne was nonplussed. His nerves were as calm as ever, as though there were no danger in his current situation. And perhaps there wasn't—he appeared prepared to kill just as Blaine was, if only to defend himself, and it was that thought that shook him to the core—not that there was a huge, several-hundred-pounds-of-muscle, and lethally trained Auror staring him down with hate-filled eyes, but that Bourne himself knew, somehow, that if it came to that, he could and would murder his opponent without a thought.
His fist clenched almost painfully tightly, and the amnesiac took a huge gulp of air, quashing his thoughts, which seemed almost irrelevant at the moment, and forcing himself to relax. There was a burning pain spreading slowly along his left side, a fire tracing the same path that the bandages trailed down his body. His wounds were beginning to act up, and after rolling it around several times, he realized that he was losing the range of movement in his shoulder. That wasn't good for the current situation or for afterwards. The pain would inhibit him only slightly now, but if he continued to exert himself like he was, he would only worsen the injury, eventually doing permanent damage to the ligament and muscle from which even he couldn't recover.
Mentally considering his options, Bourne's eyes once more found Blaine's fierce and glowing ones, and the amnesiac knew what he had to do. Just as the Auror moved and began to cast a rather nasty spell, Bourne dove forward, moving more quickly than his opponent had expected, and was suddenly too close to the man to be attacked with magic. He threw a punch, Blaine blocked, and they became entangled, fighting furiously yet gracefully, warriors and dancers both. Attack after attack was exchanged, forearms and wrists and hands flying every which way, intercepting a blow and then returning another, which in turn was blocked, each combatant eager to land the first strike. Blaine was huge, a towering inferno of rage several times his opponent's size, but Bourne's movements were precise, calculated, and his skill was by far greater. He moved surely, confidently through the Auror's attacks, turning each one aside with a swiftness that could only come through near perfection, and soon enough, he slapped a final thrust away and broke through the Irish's defense. Stepping abruptly inside the man's reach, Bourne smashed, in rapid succession, several fingertips into pressure points on the front of the Auror's body, then bent that body over with a harsh knee to the stomach, and with his arm arcing down like lightning, he bashed the side of a flattened hand into the side of Blaine's neck, right on the nerve, sending the man crashing heavily and unconsciously to the ground.
For several long moments Bourne stood in complete silence, the only sounds echoing throughout the barren hospital room his own deep, shaky breaths. It wasn't that he was exhausted or anything similar; rather, his body was rushing with pure adrenaline and an after-dose of shock. His injured arm was a searing flame now, a jet of unbearable heat at which he tightly clenched his teeth. Mind overclocking, synapses firing, he wondered what had just happened. What was going on? Why had these Aurors been after him when the ones earlier had let him be? Why had they seen fit to attack him? What had he said that had turned them so immediately aggressive?
Abruptly, Bourne stood up, ignoring his pulsing shoulder and violently shaking his head in an honest attempt to clear his thoughts. He didn't have the time to focus on the whys of his situation; if Aurors were hunting him then he had to get away. It was as simple as that. Staying in the hospital—where they'd apparently already found him—would be suicide. He moved immediately toward the large door, but as his hand reached out for its golden knob, he paused. Glancing down at himself, he took in his semi-clothed body for a moment, then, apparently deciding something, dropped his outstretched hand to his side and turned back around. His eyes couldn't help but to immediately focus on the two battered figures that he'd left lying on the cold, concrete floor, though he tried to ignore the shallow pool of blood that was forming around Blaine's shattered nose. Both Aurors wore the long, following cloaks that were standard issue to those of their profession nowadays, cloaks that, Bourne realized, would hide his bandaged midsection quite well.
A bitter grin spread over his features.
----
Voldemort's footsteps made no noise as he slithered down the dank corridors of the fortress of Azkaban. Ornate sconces flickered and burned along the grimy stone walls, casting eerie shadows about the floor and barely serving to illuminate the place enough for navigation. The floor was worn down from years of abuse, and here and there strange orange stains glinted in the firelight. The air was heavy with the smell of death and grease, a combination which clung to garments and bodies alike and could not be washed out for years afterward.
This was the Dark Lord's home and his prison—the place in which he'd secluded himself and the place from which he masterminded his revolution.
He stopped in front of a large steel door, which was roughly one-and-a-half meters wide and twice as tall and had etched upon its face a deep-red mirror of his Dark Mark. Other than that, there were no discernable markings on the door, which was one of the few objects in the entirety of the castle that was glinting in its cleanliness, and indeed there was not even a knob of any sort to be found on its surface. For his part, Voldemort, having finished his momentary reflection, merely stepped into and through the door and found himself in another hallway entirely.
This corridor was immensely long, seeming to stretch forever into an infinite darkness. Lining the walls were the steer bars of prison cells, and in those were the people the Dark Lord deemed too important to merely kill.
There were few of them.
All wore rags rather than robes, were fed only a morsel of bread for weeks at a time, and possessed bodies which were in various states of disrepair. Wounds, gaping and gangrenous, littered their flesh; they slept in a mixture of their sweat, their blood, and their waste; and, if they were especially unlucky, they were routinely visited by a number of frustrated Death Eaters with free reign to torture them mindlessly for information. There were no rules, for that—the prisoner just had to be alive at the end.
Voldemort stepped easily through the corridor, ignoring the gasping groans and pleas of his captives, and made his way toward a solitary Death Eater who was standing near one of the middle cells, his attention focused on its occupant.
"Avery," the Dark Lord hissed, coming to a stop, and the Death Eater's concentration was abruptly broken, then fixed on his master. Avery immediately dropped onto one knee, lowering his cloaked head in subservience.
"Master!" he said, reverently, but Voldemort was not concerned with the man's loyalty.
"Has he spoken yet?"
Still kneeling, Avery shook his head, then replied, "Not yet, Master. He passed out just a few minutes ago. Blood loss, I think. I thought I should wait before going back in." Voldemort's eyes grew dark, but Avery, his head low, could not see.
"Fool," the Dark Lord said, his voice deathly calm, like ice. "Wake him up. I will not have him rest while I still require the information. Cain must be dealt with immediately."
"Y—yes, Master," Avery gulped. Having been with Voldemort for quite a number of years, he had recognized the Demon's chilly tone and knew, in the marrow of his bones, that as soon as he had completed this task, the Dark Lord would have his own punishment in store for him.
"Good. See that it gets done."
And inside the cell, an unconscious, broken, and beaten Severus Snape shuddered.
End of Act One