Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, I am merely playing in Rowling's universe.
AN: This is a story I've been constructing for a while now. It comes with a plethora of original characters as well as some of Rowling's best, featuring the Ministry of Magic, Hogwarts and my take on a magical earth and its history. Enjoy.
The sun was setting over the vast Arabian desert, painting the sky in orange and pink. It was quiet and so empty - the way only a desert can be. High above the rocky, desolate face of earth a large brown bird was sailing on the air currents. Its wings barely moved as it soared away from the sunset. There was something unusual about this bird - it wasn't an eagle, a hawk or a vulture, but an owl. It was clutching an envelope in its claws. The last sliver of a golden sun sunk beneath the horizon just as the owl began its spiraling descent toward a ragtag collection of dirty tents.
The large brown owl shot into one of the tents, startling the occupants, and dropped the letter directly at a checker-scarfed man with flyaway hair and an unruly beard. The three other men, white robed and mustached, ducked in instinct and cursed at the owl. Muttering angrily, the youngest stood up to shoo the bird away, but the disheveled man motioned for him to sit.
"You bring bad luck, Musaafir." said the young Bedouin, reclaiming his spot at the modest campfire.
"Ana asif." replied the scarfed man in a heavy English accent. Luckily the bird hasn't tipped the coffee pot over, else it would've been harder to make peace, he thought.
"Don't mind the bird, it's trained." he spoke in English this time, and the young man to his left translated. In a few moments the group calmed down and continued watching the pot.
"Shu hada?" asked the youngest, indicating the letter.
The Englishman turned the envelope in his calloused hands. It read:
To Mr. Bernard Roland Weir
Arabia Magna
He stared at it for a moment, loosening the scarf around his neck idly. The crackling campfire was beginning to boil the coffee now and a strong aroma filled the air. For a long moment, Weir considered tossing the offending envelope into the fire. But he gave in to curiosity, and eventually tore one side of it open and slid a piece of parchment out. Written in plain black ink was a surprisingly short paragraph.
Mr. Bernard R. Weir,
I regret having to pass these news to you in this manner, but no other means could be found. It is with great sorrow that I must inform you of the passing of your younger brother, David A. Weir. Your family has not been included in the details of his death, as per them being non-magical. The circumstances and manner of his death are highly suspicious. Investigation is under way.
Signed,
Reuel Marsh
Secretary of Foreign Affairs
Ministry of Magic
Weir read the letter two more times, each time his expression turning more dour. He couldn't believe it at first. Reuel Marsh? The Ministry stamp seemed genuine. "No, no, no..." he moaned at the parchment. The coffee boiled and was taken from the fire and onto the sand. The youngest Bedouin went to fetch four small glass cups.
Running a hand through his dirty-blond hair, Weir read the letter one last time. He has to go back to Britain. Oh, it would be a tedious journey. He couldn't decide between disbelief, anger and downright misery. His hand dropped the offending letter in the sand and he stared at the fire blankly.
"Shukran." he muttered, accepting a glass of pitch black coffee. He held it shakily. "No, no, no..."
Weir put the muddy coffee on the sand and said, "My brother is dead. I must leave, tonight."
"I am sorry." said the robed man to Weir's left, giving the owl a sharp look.
Weir stood up and dusted his jeans. The other men looked at him incredulously while he retrieved his backpack, a fleece coat and a wide brimmed leather hat. They all stood up, speaking Arabic in low tones, when at the end the youngest approached Weir with a stern look.
"Abduallah insists that as your host, he insures your safe passage to the city." he said, "I will go with you, we take the horses." he finished in a decided tone.
Weir was already shaking his head adamantly. "No," he said, "I-I'm thankful for the hospitality, but no."
"Take the horse, Ver, how do you walk three days to city?"
Weir bowed his head but said nothing.
He didn't have time to explain, nor the willpower at the moment. Weir would walk far enough and then apparate to the city and from there... he'd have to look for a portkey. Yes, that's the best plan, he decided.
Three minutes later he was striding out of the tent with his belongings in tow. Still he could not shake his host off, who kept demanding he take the horse. The Bedouin grabbed Weir's shoulder and turned him around.
"You are a man of honor, Zayed. Please, trust me, go back and do not look for me." said Weir, his blue eyes staring directly at those of the young Bedouin. For a moment they stared at one another. Zayed dropped his hand.
"Salam aleikum." said Weir.
"Aleikum al salam." replied Zayed in a stiff voice.
Weir walked in silence for twenty, sixty, one hundred paces. He stopped, reached up and placed the leather hat on his head, pulling the brim down with his other hand. He took one last look at the endless, dark desert and the starry sky, pulled a wand from inside his fleece coat and disappeared with a soft POP.
X
The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has never been busier. Despite the early hour, almost every cubicle was occupied by its owner. People were reading files, clutching their coffees close and occasionally murmuring a greeting to a passing colleague. Others were discussing recent events in low tones, careful not to dispel the early morning atmosphere. Martin Speirs was pacing down a row of cubicles with a cup of coffee in one hand and a wand in the other, carefully stirring the aromatic beverage with a silent charm. He walked to the last cubicle on the left and stopped at the sight of a witch sleeping in an office chair, feet resting on top of a messy desktop.
Martin sighed, looking over the desk briefly. It was piled with numerous papers, bulging folders, discarded food wrappers and an official nameplate that read "Sage Winters". The witch was fast asleep, her arms crossed over a garish purple and brown sweater, a knitted indigo hat pulled just over her eyes. Martin always entertained the idea that she stole clothes from the homeless, although he never dared say that out loud.
"Sage. Sage, wake up, it's time for morning briefing." he said half-heartedly, slipping his wand into his coat pocket and starting to shake the witch awake.
"Whaat?" she grumbled, turning her body away from the intruder.
Martin pulled her wool hat off, revealing a scowling, pouting face. She murmured incoherently before finally managing to say "go away".
"Sage, fifteen minutes and you can go back to sleep, preferably in your own bed. Come on, working nights does not excuse you from morning briefing, you know Crouch." said Martin in a low voice. He felt a little bad having to be the one to wake her, after all he knew all too well the exhaustion after a night of paperwork.
She opened her eyes to slits and peered up at him with a pained expression.
"You brought me coffee- oh, that's so sweet of you."
"No, you can't guilt me that easily." he said, chuckling. The unruly witch sighed and dragged her booted feet off the desk. She rubbed sleep from her eyes, groaning.
"You'll have to cover for me-" she yawned, "I don-don't think I can pay attention to Crouch right now."
"Fine." he replied.
Sage grabbed a dark-green ministry issue coat in one hand and stalked after Martin to the briefing room, yawning and rubbing her eyes without pause.
A tall, bearded wizard in a brown coat came up to Martin and held his shoulder for a moment as they approached the briefing room.
"I've got a lead, Speirs - made some progress with a witness. I want you to look at the interview transcript. We'll be heading out later today to investigate." he said, shuffling a scroll of parchment at Martin.
The older Auror looked Martin over and said, "Did you finish the paperwork from yesterday?"
Martin nodded his confirmation.
"You just need to sign it, Sir- oh, and I've got the reports from Saint Mungo's, too."
"Hey," started Sage, yawned, and continued, "Morrison, can- can you fix me up for plain-clothes duty for a few- shifts, I keep getting the worst assignments." she said, stifling yawns.
"Why not." he replied gruffly, shrugging.
They stepped into the briefing room and sat at the second row of rickety chairs. The walls were adorned with maps, bulletin boards, work safety posters and the occasional news clipping. Slowly, the seats filled up and people remained standing in the back. If Martin had to guess, he'd say about a hundred witches and wizards were present. Aurors, Hit Wizards, Investigators, Curse Breakers and Trainees - the best of magical law enforcement. Minor security personnel were briefed separately by their supervisors.
Martin glanced behind his shoulder to find Sage fighting to stay awake in a chair right behind him.
Barty Crouch - a stiff, combed man in a suit walked in and the room quieted down. He made his way to the front and looked from person to person for a few moments. First he addressed the various division heads and they exchanged information Sage couldn't comprehend beyond "get shit done".
There were more and more disturbances all over wizarding Britain. It wasn't so much the direct doing of the Death Eaters but more so of their supporters and accomplices. But what was really getting bad is the attacks on muggles all over the damn country. The muggle authorities were briefed over the past few days, apparently. Security was going to be posted at the muggle ministry too. Of course, Sage hasn't heard any of this. This was the worst briefing ever.
At half past eight the room emptied and Martin had to nudge Sage awake. She was on auto-pilot now, heading to the elevator. Martin and his bearded supervisor started going over the witness transcripts.
X
A disheveled, checker-scarfed man appeared in the Foreign Affairs lobby, stumbling like someone not used to portkey travel. The young female secretary at the reception scowled at his appearance. His flyaway hair, sunburnt to a dirty-blond hue, probably hasn't been washed in days, no, weeks. And that wide-brimmed leather hat - "wannabe adventurer" she muttered. His old blue jeans and grey t-shirt were both dirt stained and sandy. Ohh, now he was trailing sand everywhere with those battered hiking boots. God, she didn't want to smell him.
The receptionist smiled in spite of herself.
"I'm looking for Reuel Marsh." he said in a somewhat hoarse voice. Weir wasn't sure what to do exactly. Part of him still hoped there's been some kind of mistake, miscommunication perhaps, anything... Should he go to Magical Law Enforcement? Saint Mungo's?
"Last door on the right." she motioned to a corridor, and Weir followed. Foreign Affairs was almost empty, he noted. Well, considering the time, he shouldn't have been surprised. It was seven twenty in the morning.
The past several hours were a nightmare. Having apparated to Petra, Weir searched for a wizard traveling office almost two hours. He had to travel to Jerusalem, and from there to Cairo, where he managed to buy a portkey pass for what he thought was an exorbitant amount of coin. It's been years since he used magic to get around and he was feeling exhausted.
Weir came to a stop in front of a heavy wooden door reading, "Reuel Marsh, Secretary of Foreign Affairs". He knocked, but there was no answer. Leaning back against the wall, he exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. Feeling like a brick, Weir slid down against the door and closed his eyes. For a moment, he felt a pang of shame, but opening his eyes felt so painful he decided to steal whatever sleep he could.
Half an hour later he was woken up by a loud cough. Weir opened his eyes to slits and looked up at a grey-suited, bald man scowling down at him. "Mister Marsh." he said in a hoarse voice, pushing himself up to his feet.
"Bernard Weir," he introduced himself, "I'm here about the letter-"
"Ah, yes, yes... Please, come in."
Marsh's office was the most ordinary office Weir has ever seen in his life. Three large filing cabinets stood by the door, a tall bookshelf on the other side, and in the middle of the room a clean wooden desk with two plush chairs. Weir sat down while Marsh fetched two stout glasses from the top of his bookshelf.
"It was difficult finding you, Mister Weir," he shook his head planting on the glasses on the wooden desk, "We never knew you left Mongolia- never mind... Your brother, he died seventeen days ago. I assure you, Crouch is pushing his department on this matter."
"Can you fill me in on the details?" said Weir, rubbing the side of his face tiredly.
"I'm afraid I am not privy to the machinations inside Magical Law Enforcement- but I will send a message and you will be briefed by the very Auror heading the investigation." Marsh said hastily, turning back to the bookshelf and reaching for a bottle filled with a golden liquid.
"He's really dead."
Marsh paused for a moment, somewhat at a loss. Marsh poured the golden liquid into the glasses gingerly and sank into his seat across from Weir. He sighed, pursed his lips and took a swig from the glass.
"I don't know if you've been following the news, Mister Weir, but things are... pretty shit here." he said, lowering his glass.
Weir sank a little lower in his chair and reached for his glass with what felt like a dead hand. Whiskey, strong and smoky, filled his nostrils. He took a generous sip, tasted it for a moment and then swallowed with a slight grimace.
"It's turning into a full-out war."
They spent five minutes sipping from their glasses in silence until Marsh took out a piece of parchment, scribbled something onto it and looked around the room. He clicked his tongue and a small grey owl pounced at the note, grabbed it and flew out through a momentary opening in Marsh's office door.
"Owls as inter-departmental messaging. I don't know who thought of that, but it's stupid. The cleaning budget alone isn't worth it." he commented.
"Ask for Auror Speirs." he added, and Weir was escorted out into the hall. He took the elevator to the second level and made his way to the reception. A group of tired wizards pushed passed him into the elevator, keen to get home after their night shifts.
"I'm looking for Auror Speirs." said Weir, leaning forward to get a look at the short wizard at the reception desk.
"HEY, SPEIRS!" he yelled at two conversing wizards who were slowly pacing to the elevators.
Weir muttered a thanks and looked over. A young, unshaven wizard with short dark hair was approaching, closing a folder in his hands before extending his right hand for Weir to shake.
"You are..?" he asked.
"Bernard Weir."
They shook hands and Speirs nodded in recognition.
"Yes, yes, I remember. You're here about- in fact, I need to ask you a few questions. Why don't we sit down, Mister Weir?" said the Auror. He turned about, looking at the various corridors leading out of the lobby.
"Of course." said Weir.
Speirs led the way down one of the corridors.
"I was told you were out of the country."
"Yes, traveling." replied Weir as they emerged into a large hall filled with cubicles. The Auror motioned toward an open door to one side.
"I'll go get the file, take a seat, please."
Weir sank into an office chair and exhaled. He drummed his fingers on the desktop, waiting.
Auror Speirs walked in and placed a folder on the desk, then easily took the seat opposite Weir. He leaned back in his chair and shook his head slightly at something.
"Not much to go on, I admit." he started, motioning for Weir to look at the documents.
"David A. Weir was found dead in his automobile, in his workplace parking lot."
Weir flipped through the report. There was a photograph of the crime scene, showing David in the driver seat of a coupe sports car. There was no blood, no broken glass, no signs of anything wrong at all. If Weir didn't know, he could've been looking at a picture of his brother dozing off in his brand new car just to 'enjoy that new car smell'.
"Cause of death was the killing curse. Take a look at the next photograph." said Speirs in a low voice.
Weir turned the page. He saw a broad shot of the parking lot, including the sky, where a ghostly skull was floating with a snake dangling from its mouth.
"Death Eaters, Mister Weir." commented Speirs.
Weir put the folder down and exhaled. He looked up at the Auror expectantly.
"Did you catch them?"
"No witnesses," Speirs said, shaking his head, "Nothing came up even through the muggle law enforcement channels. I'm sorry."
Weir shook his head in frustration.
"Most of our cases go unsolved now. We're not law enforcement anymore, to be frank, we're turning into an army." mused Speirs, "I wish I had more to tell you, but this is it. Muggles and wizards are dropping left and right lately, not to mention all the disappearances. I'm sorry, Mister Weir." he sighed.
"Do you have any particular enemies? Anyone specific you might have upset that... might take revenge on you like this, Mister Weir?"
Bernard breathed in slowly, trying to think. He's been gone four years now and back at Hogwarts he never gave anyone, including those demented anti-muggle Death Eater wannabes any reason to go after him. "No." he said, "Apart from being muggleborn, I guess."
Wealthy muggleborn, you mean, he thought to himself.
"It's just a little unusual for a single muggle to be targeted like this. Death Eaters don't leave a dark mark over just anyone, Mister Weir." he explained.
"Again, I'm sorry I couldn't be of any more help." said Speirs, pushing up from his chair and taking the folder.
"Thank you for your time, Auror."
You can never run far enough, thought Weir. Hell, he didn't even know he was running.