"Martial Law"

21 December, 1998

It had been one year to the day. The man looked around at the graves in the cemetery surrounding his wife's headstone, but his eyes continued to meander back at hers, as if it was the only thing of consequence. He had moved on, yet he had still somehow stayed where he was before. The woman who was his better half for nigh on ten years laid six feet beneath his crouched knees and forever in his heart, his mind, within his every breath. With every exhale, he could feel her very presence in each foggy breath. She was still attached to him.

The ground was frosted with snow and ice. It crunched beneath his old, well worn cowboy boots and was swept by his trusted black leather duster. The man took off his old felt cowboy hat and dusted from it the snow that fell with slow, wispy grace. His weathered face belied his thirty three years of youth, showing well too many years of age and experience as a man of law. Green eyes masked pain with stoic indifference, a grim mouth with a dead set chin alluded to confidence and disguised a vast wealth of insecurities. His thin black hair was cropped close to his crown, hidden well beneath the black hat.

With a silent sigh he stood up, and walked towards the warmth of the small, cozy church nestled in the small, cozy village of Godric's Hollow. Warming his hands by a candle as he stepped into the main hall, he closed his eyes and lost himself in the music of the choir boys. They sang some old Christian Christmas tune, one he never heard back in his native state of Texas. The lyrics, though he could hardly understand them, took him back in time and reminded him of spending the holidays at his Aunt Chrissy's house outside of Chicago. The years of snowball fights and baked hams and cranberry sauce and green bean casserole and kissing Mama's cheek underneath the mistletoe and unwrapping presents in the morning after a bowl of oatmeal flashed before his eyes.

The last year had taken its toll. And what was worse was there was no more Christmas for the man. His family was back in the States, "across the pond," as his wife had put it. Aunt Chrissy passed on due to pancreatic cancer, mama went a year after because of a drunk muggle, his sister, Anna, had married to a rodeo cowboy and settled in Montana. Dad was so busy either wrangling cattle or getting drunk that he had no time for his eldest child, even on holidays. And his wife…

He reflected on the last year, especially after the battle at Hogwarts, and found that he had been working for everyone else. No matter how hard he tried, the man got half of what he got. It unsettled him to think that before his wife Catherine died, half would never have suited him. It still didn't, but he didn't have a family to work for now, anyway, did he?

The memories, the all nighters and the fights, the riots and the Death Eater's antics, the searching for food that refugees desperately need and keeping them in good health even as he wasted away came at him in a rush and Carson Bledsoe almost reeled at the onslaught of repressed emotions he'd bottled up for the last year.

"Mr. Bledsoe?"

Carson Bledsoe sobbed and fell to his knees, not even hearing the pastor's words. The American Auror had finally lost it.

"Carson? Carson!"

4 May, 1998, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

"Carson! Wake up! Auror Bledsoe!"

Carson snapped awake. John Dawlish was prodding him with his wand and giving him a half assed, tired, smug grin.

"Falling asleep on the job, eh Bledsoe?"

"Piss off, Dawlish…"

"Hey, sorry, mate…" Dawlish actually looked hurt. "We're all tired, Carson. And we've all worked hard. We're all tired and we're all running on low sleep, but you…"

"But I what?" Carson demanded, suddenly awake. He hated being pitied.

"But you've lost more than all of us. I'm sorry; I was only trying to-"

"I don't need any more pity, Dawlish. I lost my wife, and she was pregnant. I know. I don't need that sorry little fact thrown in my damn face every time someone talks to me."

Dawlish hung his head and nodded. "Kingsley wanted to speak with you. He's in the Headmaster's office with Spook and some of the others. He said it was urgent."

Without another word Carson spun on his heel and stalked off into the Great Hall. It was bad enough that he had dozed off while on watch duty, but for another colleague to bring up his wife's tragic death at the hands of the Death Eaters the winter before, it settled like an angry rattle snake coiling up in his gut. He hated the feeling of helplessness he was wrapped up in every single time he allowed the memories to surface.

As he walked around the bodies of the dead in the Great Hall, he seethed still. He was short on sleep and even shorter on sympathies. He hadn't had more than three hours of sleep in the last three weeks, and even then that was a single day's full rest and only one hot meal. The entire Wizarding community had stepped up to some extent to repair the damage Voldemort's regime dealt, but the Great Hall was still full up on the bodies of those who fought over the castle grounds, the Dark Lord's body itself still remained to be laid to final rest.

Carson stopped and sneaked a peak into the side room of the Great hall where the Dark Lord's body had been laid in. The corpse had been a ghastly thing, and out of respect not for the man himself, but for everyone at the castle concentrating on rebuilding, had been set aside. As the American Auror opened the door, he was struck by what he saw. Or lack thereof.

Tom Marvolo Riddle's body was gone.

Putting his curiosity aside, Carson trooped his way up to the Headmaster's office. Passing by portraits of long dead souls, memorialized in talking paintings who groveled annoyingly in his presence, he climbed the stairs to the Headmaster's Tower. Upon reaching the stone gargoyle who stoicly requested, "Password?" Carson mumbled, "Ministry business. Step aside."

"But of course, ser aurore'," The gravelly voiced statue replied. Carson couldn't help but get the impression that the gargoyle was being a smart aleck.

Pushing the thought from his mind, Carson swooped through the office door and entered the posh, spacious room. It wasn't the first time he had entered the place, but he was still taken aback by the amount of clutter and wasted space. An odd accruement of silver instruments whirred and puffed smoke on thin legged, spindly tables that looked like they were ready to fall apart. An enormous collection of books lined the walls, sharing shelf space with the portraits of many previous Headmasters' and Headmistresses. The portrait of Albus Dumbledore smiled at him with twinkling eyes, while Severus Snape's mean mugged him. Carson didn't know which was worse; the fact that the existed unsettled him, for back home in the States, magical portraits weren't exactly… chic.

"Ah, Carson," Kingsley Shacklebolt's booming voice thundered. He sat at the Headmaster's desk, flipping through paperwork and muttering to a small, mousy girl in a grey pencil skirt and blazer.

"Interim Minister," Carson replied. Kingsley looked up and motioned him to take a seat as he handed off a file to the girl before giving her his leave. Carson did so, sitting next to his long time partner, Randall "Spook" Huntington. A tall, crow-faced man with blond hair and brown eyes, the old Spookster didn't look like much, but he was hell on wheels with a wand and had never turned his back on Carson. Next to him was Thomas Savage, a man of middle stature and dark looks. Carson had worked with him for a short time, just before the Ministry fell to the Death Eater's coup de tat. The last Auror was a man Carson recognized, but rarely saw and whose name eluded him. He was tall, dark, young and handsome, despite the hook shaped scar on his left cheek.

"Well, gentleman," Kingsley started with an officious tone of voice. "It's been two days since the end of the battle here at Hogwarts. You all know as well as I that that doesn't mean this war is over. Many Death Eaters and their cohorts escaped in the final moments, and this country has just seen its second regime change in just over nine months. That, along with so many refugees coming home after hearing about the Dark Lord's downfall, leaves us in a bind."

"I have a feeling we aren't going to like what we are about to hear, Minister," the last Auror, whose name Carson didn't know, said plainly. His voice had a clear, well enunciated, and well educated tone to it. He also sounded… amused. Carson went with his gut and decided he didn't like him.

"No, you probably aren't, Uli," Kingsley answered with a sigh. "The state things are in… I'm afraid I have to put the entirety of Wizarding England, Scotland, and Wales under martial law."

"Martial law?!" Savage exploded. "With all due respect, Kings, how the bloody hell do you expect that to work?"

Kingsley gave the man a tired look. "Explain?"

"Well, sir," Savage explained. "You tell me. We have just had two and a half to three years of this Ministry lying, cheating, and damn near controlling everything these people do. And then, under this same Ministry's banner, had it taken over by dark wizards and dictators who imprisoned, tortured, and killed a good percentage of the population because of how they were born," Savage thumped his fist against the Headsmaster's bronze gilded desk, as if using it to strike his point home. "I do not recognize how telling them that they now, yet again, have no rights to decide their future is going to stabilize the country."

Shacklebolt arched his eyebrow. "You think this course of action will cause another revolution?"

"To be blunt, sir… yes."

"And you, Bledsoe? Huntington? What do you think?"

Hoo, boy, Carsonthought. That was a doozy. Sitting straighter in his seat, Carson felt the pressure of being put on the spot. Politics never really his forte, and he had the distinct impression that the new Minister of Magic was testing them. Was he seeing where their loyalties lay? Did he believe Savage was considering starting a rebellion himself? Or was this akin to a job interview? Carson prayed that power hadn't gone to Kingsley's head already.

"Well… sir…"

"Spit it out, Carson. This isn't a dictatorship."

"I agree with Savage. And I don't."

Again, Kingsley arched a brow. "Explain."

"To be completely honest, sir, I can see where Savage is coming from. The people have been oppressed for quite some time. Cornelius Fudge wasn't exactly a man who wanted completion for the head job, Rufus Scrimgeour didn't like his authority to be challenged, and we all knew Thicknesse was Yaxley's puppet. The people are going to be wary, if not vehement, that the power is yet again taken out of their hands."

Kingsley nodded. "I see."

"However, if you are right, and refugees are coming back, they're going to find their homes burned, their jobs no longer in existence, and their nation crumbling apart like a cracked dam. People, I think, will start to riot regardless, and at least with martial law, we can set the tone for getting the U.K. back on track. Regardless of the foul taste it leaves in my mouth."

Kingsley nodded slowly and morbidly, eyes downcast.

"For what it's worth, sir," Huntington piped up, "I agree with Carson. And you have my backing."

"Mine as well," Uli chipped in, with a sardonic smile.

"Savage?" Kingsley looked up at the fierce, old Auror, with a twinge of hope mixed with fear. Carson had never seen the man so… vulnerable.

Thomas Savage sighed, a heavy, depressing sound and scratched at his scraggly, three day beard. His dark whiskey eyes moved back and worth, as if he was reading his own brain like a textbook. Finally, he sighed again, and made his decision. "I have your back, sir. For now."

Kingsley slumped against the high backed hair and heaved a sigh of relief. "Good, good. I needed you all on my side, because what I'm about you to do will require your full, undying commitment and dedication, not only to me, but to England."

"Uh oh," Huntington muttered.

"I gotta bad feeling this…" Carson agreed.

Kingsley ignored them. "I need regents."

"Regents?" Uli asked.

"Yes. I'm dividing the Wizarding community into districts, and you four will be acting regents, enforcing the martial law, effective immediately."

Kingsley handed them each a file, and assigned them their posts. "Uli, you're in charge of Wizarding London. You will be based out of Gringotts. The goblins have cleared out an office for you. Until further notice, Diagon and Knockturn Alley's are to be used as a staging base for any and all military and Ministry operations.

"Savage. You're going to Blackpool. Victor Krum and some of his higher up friends in the Bulgarian Ministry have decided to donate food and medical supplies via sea boat. You will recruit people to help handle and ensure those supplies' safe and secure distribution.

"Huntington. You're going to Cardiff. You're to maintain order in Wales. Rebuild our presence there, even if you have to accept walk-ins off the street or conscript officers. Do what you must; I leave it to your discretion.

"And Carson."

"Sir?"

"Pack your bags, you're taking a long, nice walk down to Hogsmeade. Congratulations, you're going to be the caretaker of the refugees."