Clop clop clop clop.
The only sound this deep in the Ministry of Magic is a pair of women's pumps, moving with a speed that spoke of anxiety without betraying outright panic. The woman wearing the shoes is tall and thin, her hair done up in a graying bun, arms holding a think sheaf of documents to her chest.
Clop clop clop clop.
She comes to a stop outside the only door in the hallway where a thin line of light at the bottfom betrays its current use. Taking a deep breath, she reaches for the doorknob, opening it to reveal two men inside.
"Gentlemen," she says, no emotion save exhaustion evident in her voice.
"Good evening", the shorter of the two respond, a short but bulky man wiFth balding red hair. As she closes the door, he gives what passes for a friendly greeting. "Tonks."
In an instant, the woman seems to melt away, shrinking two inches while putting on lean muscle, her face becoming visibly younger as her body transforms into that of a woman in her late twenty's.
"Minister Scrimgeour," she nods towards the first man. "Sir," she says to the second, a taller man with dark skin and a hideously maimed face. "The twenty-four hour limit has long since passed. As commander of this operation, I must advise the immediate implication of Plan 22."
The two men show twin looks of unease, yet no shock or surprise register on either face.
"Are you sure," the black man – Kingsley Shacklebolt, Head of Auror Department asks. "No vessel left the island – the auror relief force was not due for another two days. Surely he could not have escaped."
Tonks takes a deep breath. Exhausted and frustrated as she is, she knows it would do no good to yell at her two most powerful superiors.
"It's of course well within the realms of possibility that the prisoner is still within the prison grounds..." She begins, though her doubt at such is obvious. "However, Plan 22 specifically states that unless such has been proven as fact, then it is to be implemented within 24 hours – that time has passed."
Plan 22. An insight into postwar preparedness and despair.
Learning from the errors of Fudge's wartime administration, and in particular its unpreparedness to deal with Azkaban breakouts, the postwar regime has set about creating a number of contingencies for any situation that might arise.
Though noone says a word, it is clear that all three are reflecting on the value of such unusual foresight, all while dreading that such has actually come to pass.
"Right then." the minister whispers. "Implement the Plan – how much can you get done before the morning Prophet?"
Tonks shrugs, though her expression is thoughtful. "We've raised the general level of alert within the corps as soon as we received word of the escape. No specifics, but every auror on the force has been put on standby, and the hit wizards have been contacted to mobilize by squad-level. McGonnagal has been briefed, and a detachment of aurors is ready to deploy to Hogwarts at your word. Everywhere else – Diagon, the Ministry – will have additional security well in place come the morning rush..."
Tonks pauses, the rest of her preparation not quite in line with the proper lines of authority and protocol she is meant to follow.
"We've tagged the entire list of likely contacts – all will be under direct surveillance within the hour, if they aren't already. Beyond that," she sighed, "We need to enact Plan 22."
"Right then," the minister grumbles. "Kingsley, you'll coordinate the national response. Send anyone from the media to my office on my order – I'll make a statement after the Prophet publishes the morning edition, and then have any further questions directed to my staff. Chief Auror Tonks – see to the full implementation of Plan 22. Use of deadly force is authorized if the prisoner is contacted."
Tonks's eyes widen – though on second thought she isn't quite sure why she is so surprised. Logically, it makes sense. Emotionally...
"Chief Auror - " Scrimgeour interrupts her thoughts, pulling Tonks back into the conversation. The minister has taken a single sheet of parchment from the desk, holding it out towards her. "These are the changes you are to make to Plan 22. This information does not leave this room." His tone and expression broker no argument.
Tonks takes the sheet, eyes scanning quickly across it, her expression changing from shocked to angry in a matter of seconds.
"This is ridiculous! When were these changes authorized? I've never heard anything about this, and this could threaten the integrity of the mission. Why... you deliberately want me to withhold half my best men!"
"Auror Tonks," the minister snaps. "Look over that list and you will see very well why we want them removed. And why we couldn't make such policy public, even within the confines of the corps. Every single auror on that list could have been compromised – every single one spent time at Hogwarts in close contact with the prisoner."
"Yes... but..." Tonks lets out a breath, her anger waning. "Half my active field force wereRavenclaws back at Hogwarts. Surely you don't believe the force is so compromised tha- "
"We don't know," Shacklebolt interrupts, voice grim. "But it's too sensitive to risk, and our intelligence shows the any member of that house from ninety-one to ninety-eight is suspect – there's simply no way to know who when push comes to shove is loyal to him first. You are to shuffle them to nonessential tasks, ideally unrelated to this mission, provided it does not create a leak in security or that this order has been issued. Is that understood?"
"Yes sir," Tonks bites out, more sharply than she intends to. But dammit, she is going to lose a lot of good aurors, on no other grounds than fear and baseless suspicion.
"And these other two?" she asks, eager to move the conversation to more comfortable grounds.
Shacklebolt nods. "Chang's mediwizard has been one of our agents ever since she was admitted to St. Mungo's. He can hold is own in a fight, but we're not taking any chances. A safe house has been prepared – again, we didn't want to risk a leak prior to implication. You'll manage the move personally – don't bring anyone else. Fullstop."
Tonks nods – she expects nothing less from Kingsley. Shacklebolt continues.
"Same goes for the wand. The moment Plan 22 is signed into order by the minister, you'll have a twenty minute window of access into Vault B. I want the wand snapped and Patroni-delivered conformation regarding the same."
Now, Tonks's look of confusion is due to incredulity, as opposed to anger. "Snap it now," she demands, gob smacked. "Why on earth didn't we do this... oh, say – three years ago."
"Politics," Shacklebolt says with obvious distaste, earning him a dirty look from Scrimgeour. "Same reason we couldn't just have the bastard kissed and be done with the whole lot of it. That wand killed You-know-who – the fact that it killed a muggleborn shortly thereafter and a half dozen aurors after that doesn't make it any less of a relic in the eyes of the world. We couldn't snap it."
"What, and now we can?" Tonks quips, sniping at the taller man.
Kingsley's eyes narrow. "This time tomorrow, we risk that relic becoming the weapon of choice of the most powerful wizard left alive. We have the authority."
"Mmm," Tonks replies, slightly mollified.
"That's enough," hisses Scrimgeour, glaring daggers at the two aurors. "Plan 22 will be enacted, and it will be done in full, by the letter, by this time tomorrow. Clear?"
"Yes, Minister," come the two replies simultaneously, both with professional crispness.
Two minutes later, Tonks is out the office, back in her original disguise and moving with due speed towards Vault B. Ruefully, she wonders if snapping his wand will make any difference – it certainly hasn't hindered his escape.
Twelve minutes more, holding the two dead pieces of perhaps the most famous wand of the 20th century, she can only hope that it has.
Chop chop chop chop.
Below me the sounds of waves are faint against the wind in my ears. I am not particularly high – I am all but skimming the waves – just about ten feet above the water. Even so, the sound of wind, of freedom, drowns out almost everything.
Except the chopping of the waves.
Chop chop chop chop.
Wizards are for the most part pathetic. Too often, they think their solutions solve any possible eventuality, any circumstance. Even after two escapes from that cursed hell of a prison, they thought their new protections would prevent a third. The increased wards, the phasing out of Dementors with human guards...
And, to be fair, they hold me for almost three years. Almost one thousand days to the letter. They know I could not escape my cell. They know that even if I could dig through the stone, or escape through the tiny barred window, that I could not survive the fall into the rocky shallows below where the waves crashed the shore.
They know that without my wand, I can do no magic.
And so, the wizards think they were safe, protected by stone and iron and magic from the monster in the tower.
But the monster has a tongue.
They do not expect me to converse for an hour every chance I get with the auror who patrolled my corridor once every four days. It takes me almost three years to gain her trust, her friendship, and by the end – her affection. They were foolish to entrust one who for years I discover had worshiped me from afar, as a hero, the savior against Voldemort. They were foolish to assume such infatuation could be destroyed by something as silly as seven murders.
Wizards are for the most part, pathetic.
Still, it takes me three years. But I finally have what I have not had in all that time.
A follower.
Though even at the end, she is not entirely willing – a part of her unsure as to what she ought to do. In the end though, she takes that single step that determined her fate. A single step.
Into my cell.
Within seconds, I am upon her, her wand forced from its holster – foolish – and my hands around her throat. She is weak, dependent on magic and even there she is hardly strong. She guards hungry, wandless prisoners, after all, in the least desirably auror station in Britain. It makes it so much easier.
Azkaban is a pathetic prison. For those without a wand, escape is all but impossible – only the traitor Black accomplished it, or so I assume. But once one has a wand...
Escape is as simple as an apparition. Or rather a sidealong, because I take the body.
No need to leave evidence after all.
I apparate down to the water level, about one hundred yards away from the prison itself. I cannot cross the wide boundary around the prison without being caught in the wards, so I would have to swim the remaining 100 yards – no magic allowed.
It is difficult. My body is weaker than it should be, and the waters are treacherous, my burden heavy. But I manage.
The moment I break out the boundary, the waves calm sightly, no longer swept up in the dark magics that surround the prison. Without hesitation, I transform the auror's clothes into stone, watching with a smile as she sinks into the murky water.
It would be ages before – if – they ever find her. Moving water makes it all but impossible to trace magic. And I am swimming in it.
One levitation charm and propulsion charm later, and I am flying once more – for the first time in three years.
Freedom.
And still, nothing has changed. My focus as clear as it has been every day for the past ten years. Those who have done me harm need to be repaid. Permanently.
As I head back to the mainland – staying well away from the route Aurors use coming to and from the prison – I take a moment to mourn all those who will never feel my justice. Dumbledore had been killed at the end of the war, during my sixth year. By Snape...
I smile. He, at least, is still alive – exonerated on the grounds that his murder of Dumbledore had been an established plan, orchestrated by Dumbledore himself. Oh yes, I am going to enjoy meeting him again.
In fact, after a moment's thought, I decide he ought to be my first, once I reestablish myself. I deserve a bit of luxury after being left to rot. He would certainly be a great way to start once more.
Yes, I smile.
I land on a beach in the north of Scotland some time later. Hours, minutes – I have no idea. I have all but lost track of time, measuring days only by the appearance and reappearance of my former friend in the auror corps. But it is still dark – dawn still many hours away.
I sneer. Aurors – pathetic. I was weeks away from graduating when I was thrown into Azkaban. Standard procedure regarding Azkaban is a forty-eight hour search of the prison, the island itself, the waters and the landing dock before alerting the general public. Half that time if a change of guard has just taken place. Half that again if two or more persons escape. I had no doubt I would not be granted the full forty-eight hours before every wizard was looking for me, but then again, they wouldn't be eager to report my absence until they had gone through every other possibility – no matter how obviously remote said possibilities were.
As I have said, my watcher was weak. Her wand is no different – it leaks magic carelessly, neither powerful nor delicate. Needless to say, I will need to replace it soon. My own wand is locked within the ministry – where exactly I didn't know. How to reach it, I didn't know. But in the here and now, this current wand is an unacceptable substitute.
Fortunately, I am an extraordinary wizard. With minimal effort, I apparate to Carlisle.
I stay at the station until dawn. The first train of the morning comes in not soon after, taking in the first of the passengers making the journey southwards. Even with my new wand, and my lack of recent practice, it is hardly taxing to place a notice-me-not charms over my rags, nor to make my rags slightly more appealing, should the first charm fail for a moment.
At Birmingham, I get off the train – a major center for muggles and wizards alike, I will not be traced here. It is safe then, to make my second apparition.
To the place none would expect me to go. Southwest England in general. Wiltshire in particular. Just outside the wards protecting Malfoy manor, if one is to be specific.
Malfoy Manor – always one of the most protected places in Britain, made more so by Narcissa Black after she had wiggled the remains of her family out of Voldemort's grasp at the end of his second reign. Now, she suffers political alienation, with more rouge death eaters and vigilantes after her scion than any other dark family that escaped justice.
So yes, vengeance perhaps, would explain my presence.
Until I step through the wards, without any more effort than taking a single step.
This place would be my sanctuary.
I had killed Lucius at the height of the war – it had been his death that convinced Narcissa to hedge her bets. For seven years, I had taken delight in tormenting Draco – a child that was not even half the worm his father had been. And now, I take enormous satisfaction in turning his own home against him.
In my seventh year of Hogwarts, returning a hero from the war, I had tasked myself to ruining two girls, daughters of a particular nasty enemy in the press – the last of such I ever had prior to my incarceration.
The first, I utterly destroyed. She left Hogwarts broken and alone. Branded by all as a traitor and a monster. Her marriage contract broken, her fortune destroyed, her future utterly razed to the ground.
It amused me that she was nothing more than a distraction. Daphne Greengrass, even in destruction she was still second best.
Because the other had been my true goal. Much more subtle, a seduction of the utmost secrecy, and yet so much more longer lasting than even the hell I made of Daphne's life.
Daphne was never even granted the closure of knowing who had destroyed her. Who cut her strings from the shadows, until she lay alone and broken in the dust that before she would not have deigned to so much look at.
The other knew full well who had ruined them both – one of only two who did – and she loved him for it.
Astoria Greengrass, now Lady Malfoy.
It is – was – a risk, that she would remain so cowed even with my imprisonment. But there is no real doubt – I am that extraordinary.
And if nothing else, my current standing on the inside of the wards prove it.
Draco would never think – never even deem to check – that one such as I might be considered a guest of honor in his home – that I can come in whenever I so desire.
Not once in three years has he checked. Fool.
As I approach the front door in broad daylight, the only question remaining is whether I will kill him myself, or whether the pleasure of betrayal as his own wife turns her wand upon him would be worth the cost of not killing him myself.
Decisions, decisions.
The board is set – it is time to move my first pawn.
