Inquisitor Carrow and the Phoenix Fiasco

by littlewhitecat

With Carrow forced into sick leave, much to his horror Timothy finds himself temporarily the Senior UnderSecretary to th Minister of Magic. Between dealing with political plots, unexpected business manoeuvres and the machinations of a bored Carrow, can he survive the year?

3. Chapter 3

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

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Chapter 3

The Giant Lump was practically dragging him as he marched down barren corridors underneath the Potter family home he hadn't even known existed, or maybe he was still disoriented from Carrow's unique form of fast-travel. Snape could quite happily say he never wanted to do that again.

Just what was Carrow up to, and could he stop him? A sharp jab of pain ran up his left arm, the Dark Mark itching non-stop, a blazing patch of heat on his arm…but if Carrow knew of some way to get rid of the bloody thing, then he was all for it. Hell, at this point he'd chop his own arm off if he thought it would work.

Of course, it wouldn't. There'd been that nasty occurrence when some poor lug had been blackmailed into taking the mark, John something. Blast his memory for playing tricks on him. John Definitely-A-Hufflepuff Something, had hacked his own arm off in a desperate attempt to escape the Death Eaters. He'd died within days as his body busily destroyed itself…and then the Death Eaters had descended on his poor bereaved family and butchered them. There were times when he really hated his life…

Carrow was now pushing him through double doors, the self-closing kind so common in muggle buildings and into a warm and stuffy corridor that was as cluttered as the others had been empty. There was something wrong with the lighting as well, too bright, he squinted, and why did everything seem to have rainbow auras? It was more than a little disturbing, and that's before he got onto the actual clutter itself.

He stared in disbelief at an office chair that had been oddly modified with bits of wood, a shoe box and a small cube of granite incised with runes. Someone had even scratched runes into the plastic edging of the seat. There was a plaque on the wall above it, but Carrow pulled him past before he could catch more than a glimpse.

It was strange, Snape thought, the closer they got to the doors at the end of the corridor; the more oppressive the heat, the harder it was to breath, the more painfully bright the lights. If Carrow hadn't got a good hold of him he'd have stumbled over his own feet by now and fallen face first into the junk that littered the place, and that would just be embarrassing, wouldn't it?

Somebody had drawn symbols on the floor, a mad flurry of something that looked almost like really advanced Arithmancy but not quite. He even recognised a few of the symbols…maybe. The iron grip on his arm towed him past before he could really make his mind up, his left arm now just a burning throbbing ache that pulsed in sympathy as Carrow rapped sharply on the door before unceremoniously flinging it open, dragging him through into the room beyond, a laboratory, he thought…or he supposed this was what a muggle laboratory looked like.

Dazed, his head swimming, Snape gazed around at the strange boxy equipment that lined the walls, small lights blinking on some of them, a computer screen displaying tables of numbers, more things he couldn't even begin to guess at the purpose of, the largest office chair he'd ever seen in his life. It would fit Carrow easily; he looked up, to point this out to the annoying man…

"My Lord," Carrow boomed, actually bowing.

Snape stared up at him in stunned amazement. Carrow, submitting to another? How utterly bizarre; he was definitely hallucinating. He'd obviously accidentally ingested an experimental potion again, and this was all some weird fabrication of some feverish and warped part of his mind.

"Hello, Xander," came an unfamiliar voice, as deep as Carrow's, but with a warmth his never had.

Snape tried to squint past the fuzziness as a large figure stepped into view clad in a long white coat, jeans and a violently yellow t-shirt. The t-shirt had a cat with its paws up on the front with a speech bubble proclaiming I surrender. Snape blinked in bewilderment, wincing as the yellow seamed to smear and shimmer in the harsh lighting.

"My Lord," Snape winced as Carrow pulled him forward yanking his left sleeve up, "we have a problem."

"Oh!" this new person, Carrow's "Lord" exclaimed. Large brown hands gently took his own, stripping the dressing off the oozing Dark Mark. The arm throbbed and hummed with pain and Snape gritted his teeth as his vision began to grey around the edges.

Carrow's "Lord" looked at him in concern, giving Snape an impression of an olive complexion, a beaky nose and strong cheek bones, all framed by black locks. It was almost as if the man's hair couldn't quite make its mind up whether it wanted to be curly or wavy, and had gone for some sort of unsatisfactory intermediate state instead…but his eyes…

Snape looked away feeling dazzled, sun-blind as the man gave him a friendly smile flashing strong white teeth. To his bemusement, Carrow's Lord had a distinct gap between his top middle incisors. It seemed oddly human on such an un-Earthly being.

"This is the mark of the Dark Lord you've been telling me about, isn't it?"

Carrow rumbled something in reply but Snape lost it in among the wave of pain that clawed its way up his arm. He groaned under his breath, clenching his right hand so hard he could feel his nails cutting into the palm.

"…connection, the magic linking the two, but…"

.oOo.

"What?" Snape exclaimed as he opened his eyes to find himself looking at the distressingly familiar sight of the Hospital Wing ceiling. How in Merlin's name had he landed up here? There had been that ridiculous meeting at Black's house…and then Carrow had physically dragged him away because…

He sat bolt upright frantically scrabbling at the sleeve of the sensible grey flannel pyjamas he'd been dressed in to find his left arm…

Snape stared at his forearm in wonder; was he dreaming? He hesitantly touched the pale unremarkable skin as if it might disintegrate back into the oozing mess it had become. It hadn't looked this perfect since his teens.

Beyond the privacy of the curtains that had been drawn around his bed, he could hear the distinct and familiar tapping of Poppy's shoes as she moved down the Infirmary, no doubt to come and harass him, followed by…

"Oh bugger," he swore under his breath as he scrabbled back under the covers. The last person he wanted to see right now was Dumbledore, maybe if he pretended sleep…

"I know you're awake, Severus," Poppy said as she swished the curtains aside, "so you can stop with the act."

Severus gave her a nasty glare, folding his arms over his chest, but she just gave him an indulgent smirk as the Headmaster stepped into view smiling like a sunny summer morning.

"My, Severus, you are looking so much more the thing," the Headmaster gave him a delighted smile. Snape glared at him suspiciously, the man was blatantly up to no good.

"Obviously Allesandor really did know what he was about no matter how alarming it initially appeared," Dumbledore carried on, "are you up to visitors?"

Before Snape could object and insist that no he damn well wasn't up to visitors of any kind especially since he hadn't had any coffee yet, Poppy pounced, casting a series of diagnostic charms that left him tingling and breathless as if he'd rolled in nettles.

"Alastor…Molly, Arthur…" Snape heard the Headmaster call but all he could manage was a choked protest as Poppy fussed with his pillows demanding he sit more upright.

"Are you going down with a cold?" she asked suspiciously.

"What?!" he managed to splutter. "No, of course not. Don't be ridiculous," he protested as he tried to slink off the other side of the bed, but Poppy was wise to his tactics and stuck him firmly to the bed.

"Oh Severus, we've been so worried about you," a rather blotchy looking Molly Weasley burst through the curtains closely followed by a concerned looking Arthur and Alastor stumping along on his wooden leg looking more grim than usual. "You've been looking so peaky lately and then this happens!"

Snape could only manage a muffled yelp as Molly flung her arms around him clasping him to her ample bosom. It was terrifying. He couldn't breath, he couldn't see, the crushing pressure. He could see it now, the light at the end of the tunnel. After having survived a terrible childhood, the Death Eaters and even the Dark Lord himself, all those curses, the insane dark creatures, even the fume-mad rival brewers, this was it…he was going to suffer the ignoble fate of being smothered to death by giant mammaries.

"Help," he managed to gasp out through the dark crushing pressure.

"Erm, Molly," he faintly heard through the rushing of blood in his ears, "don't you think you should let poor Severus breath now? He has had rather a shock to the system."

Molly reluctantly let go. Snape desperately sucked in precious air, wishing for the umpteenth time that he was alone, not being smirked at by so called friends; he gave Alastor a nasty glare.

Beyond him stood Dumbledore, who looked like he was having a certain amount of trouble containing his laughter. It was at times like this he had great difficulties deciding who was more evil and twisted; the Dark Lord or the Headmaster? It really was a close run thing.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Leeds? What the hell are we doing in Leeds? This must be the most unmagical place I've ever seen in my life," Auror Hewitt grumbled in disgust as he glared around at the rundown triangle of ground tucked between the railway raised up on a viaduct and a series of derelict Victorian industrial buildings. The whole area was a sea of dirty red brick and cracked concrete as far as the eye could see, the sky above a miserable grey, the promise of an early autumn in the air.

Which, of course, would be why it would be such a perfect place to set up an illicit potions lab; that bit of McGuire's memories had made sense. Timothy glared at the back of Auror Hewitt's head. How had the man got to the position he had, given that he had all the imagination of a soggy cabbage. It was a mystery.

A train rattled past above, a two carriage affair, something small and local and slightly grimy; probably an afternoon commuter train.

"Don't even know why you lot are here," Auror Hewitt glared at Timothy getting right up into his face, "you'd better not pull a stunt like last time, muggle weapons and stuff." He glared at Chuddy, who was holding his Solaris energy rifle at the ready. "You're just a bunch of civilians, muggles too," he sneered at Chuddy and the others, "get in our way and I'll have you all banned and obliviated. Shouldn't be too hard." He flounced off.

"What an arse-hole," Athena said slightly too loudly.

"Totally," Chuddy muttered.

"Do we get to move in yet?" Juno asked.

"Before they lose the element of surprise," Athena added.

Timothy sighed heavily, this was going to be a long day, he could just tell.

"Are we taking bets on how badly they mess up now?" Juno enquired.

"Two beers says they let some of these idiots escape," Chuddy said.

"Right you lot," Timothy gave them a disapproving glare, "we're going in through the back." He stalked off, his underlings following him like little ducklings past the sullen and suspicious Auror team.

"That looks brand new," Chuddy commented when they arrived at their destination several streets away. Timothy had to admit the relatively new steel reinforced door did look rather incongruous in comparison to the shabby derelict nature of the rest of the building. It looked as if someone had made an attempt to make the run-down building more secure. Shame they'd installed it with the hinges on the outside.

"Blasting hex?" Athena asked hopefully.

"Or we could try out some of R&D's new gadgets. A little more discreet I think," Timothy said as he checked his Browning one more time, "Chuddy, if you would."

Chuddy sidled up to the door with a smirk, pulling a couple of small packages out of a pouch on his assault vest. Stripping their backing off, he carefully moulded them over the exposed hinges, pressed the activation buttons and scuttled back round the corner to join them.

A muffled whoomph echoed around the narrow back street a moment later.

"Now," Timothy snapped charging round the corner his gun held at the ready. The mouldable explosives seemed to have turned the door and part of the wall into gravel which was now slewed across the cracked tarmac of the pavement. Ploughing through it, Timothy dived into the space beyond, blinking rapidly as his eye adjusted to the gloomy interior.

Movement loomed up in his right, and startled, he spun round, the Browning barking in his hands before he could even think. The man in dingy grey robes slumped to the floor clutching at his chest. Timothy shot him in the head for good measure, stepping over the body. He paused mid-stride with a frown.

"Looks like a prison tattoo," Juno helpfully commented, as Timothy crouched down to more closely examine the marking on the webbing between forefinger and thumb of the dead man's hand.

The mark of Saturn had been crudely executed with black ink. "And a needle…or maybe a quill if he was really desperate," Timothy muttered to himself.

"Can we bloody get on with it," Chuddy hissed, "before we get ambushed. Pretty please."

"Yes, yes of course," Timothy shook himself from his thoughts. Beyond was a door, and to the left the foot of a crummy looking stairs, which reached up into the dusty gloomy space above.

On the other side of the door, the shouts and bellowed commands of the Auror team could be clearly heard.

"We go up," Timothy muttered to Wulfric and Juno. They nodded grimly, and to his indignation, slipped past him taking point. "I'm not delicate you know," he grumbled as he followed them.

Chuddy sniggered quietly behind him, a clattering echoing up the stairwell as Bradley stumbled on the stairs. Timothy ignored it; the lad was still rather clumsy, but he was improving by leaps and bounds. It seemed to be a confidence thing.

The stairs curled round on itself in a series of dog-legs making the journey upwards nerve wracking as they sidled upwards as quickly and quietly as they could. The next floor appeared to be abandoned, the door long missing, revealing a rubbish strewn empty space coated in dust. Pigeons had got in at some point, and now a little row of them sat on the remains of a shelf, watching the invaders suspiciously.

"Nothing here but psiticosis," Chuddy muttered, eyeing the pigeons suspiciously.

"They're pigeons," Juno sighed as they advanced further up the stairs, "psiticosis is parrots."

"And that's only if you lick the bottom of the cage or breath their shit in," Athena added with a grin. Chuddy groaned in disgust.

"Focus, people," Timothy growled.

The next floor proved to be considerably more exciting. He could almost sense something, a tickling on the edge of his senses which had him so distracted he nearly took a blasting hex to the head. Fortunately, Juno knocked into him from behind, shoving him down onto the stairs, allowing the hex to sail harmlessly over their heads and crash into the wall beyond. Timothy had a feeling that if the building hadn't been structurally unsound before, it was certainly going to be when they'd finished with it.

Chuddy shot the idiot several times, Wulfric sending a slew of curses through the doorway beyond his slumping corpse. Considering the screams and shouts, they obviously found their targets.

Wulfric seized his opportunity, and dived through the door, Chuddy close behind him. Heaving up off the stairs, Timothy stumbled after them as quickly as he could, Browning at the ready. The room beyond was disappointing; other than the newly deceased bodies, it was as scruffy and unremarkable as the rest of the place, except someone had taken the time to haul half a dozen tubular steel and plastic chairs up here along with, for some strange reason, a pool table.

"That must have been a right sod to get up here," Athena nodded towards it, as they carefully looked round.

"Is it worth going further up?" Bradely asked. "Look," he pointed nervously to several holes in the ceiling which clearly went through to the very top floor above.

"Yes. We're doing this properly, by the book," Timothy said, jaw set grimly as he headed back to the stairway.

"More bloody pigeons," Chuddy muttered.

oOo

They were nearly off the stairs when the two people in beige over-robes stampeded past, shouts of freeze and stop chasing after them as some of the Auror team gave chase. The two were so intent on escape that they only flinched and ducked at the gunfire that splashed around them as they dived out of the ruined remains of the back-door.

"After them," Timothy roared as he leapt down the last few steps barrelling through after them. But the escapees were fitter than they looked, and had already made it to the corner of the narrow back-road. Snarling under his breath, Timothy sprinted after them, great coat flaring dramatically around him. He was nearly to the corner when he heard a double pop as the two apparated away.

Swearing, he skidded around the corner to find…nothing. The narrow little street was empty other than an abandoned car further up, its tyres sadly deflated, leaving it sitting on the road on its wheel rims.

"Well, bloody…" he growled wordlessly to himself, as he kicked a stone in frustration. There was nothing to be done, unless Auror Hewitt had some specialists who could actually trace apparition signatures, but he doubted it. Fuming gently, he made his way back to the old warehouse.

"…and stay over there, before I have you thrown out, you bunch of stupid muggles," Auror Hewitt's voice filtered through to the dilapidated stairwell. Timothy bristled in outrage.

"…bet you don't even know what a crime scene is, considering the number you've trampled all over," Hewitt was laughing now as Timothy strode through into what had evidently been used as a storage area with a promising looking office bit off to the side.

"…barely stand upright, bunch of magic-less idiots…"

Sneering, Timothy stalked forward until he was right up in Auror Hewitt's face. "How dare you talk to my people like that," he hissed, "they are highly trained professionals and deserve your respect and consideration…and really Auror Hewitt, anti-muggle prejudice? I would have thought that with your much vaunted experience, you would be well aware of the complexities of the non-magical world. Well?"

Glowering nastily, Auror Hewitt tried to back away by Timothy followed him. "Complex , the muggle world? Are you having a laugh? They're all just a bunch of violence obsessed…murdering…"

"Careful," Timothy narrowed his eye, "wouldn't want people to think you're prejudiced against the non-magical."

Auror Hewitt ground his teeth, his face flushing darker with repressed rage. "You think you're so bloody special, don't you. Well, the only thing special about you is that bloody half-giant that you spend most of your time hiding behind. Without him, you're just some jumped up little muggle-born."

"I don't care what you think of me," Timothy growled, "I can assure you I've heard it all before," he smiled nastily, enjoying Auror Hewitt's flinch, "but I do object when idiots get in the way of my work. Wulfric, take Chuddy and Bradely and collect any paperwork, documents, journals, everything written, I don't care how trivial. Box it all up, we're taking it with us."

Behind him, he heard Wulfric and the others running to comply.

"They can't do that," Auror Hewitt snarled, utterly incensed, "stop them. This is a crime scene. You don't have the authority to do this!"

Timothy looked at the man as if he'd gone mad. "I am the Acting Senior Under-Secretary, personal secretary to the Senior Under-secretary. I can assure you I most certainly do have the authority. Wulfric," he added, "if any one tries stopping you or interfering in any way, deal with them in any way you see fit."

"Now," he turned stalking away, Juno and Athena falling in behind him, "I'm going to inspect the basement."

"Basement?" Auror Hewitt stormed after him, "there's no basement," he snapped, sounding rather desperate as he tried barging in front. Timothy ignored him, shoving him out of the way as he made straight for where McGuire's memories clearly informed him the stairs should be. Another member of the Auror team tried blocking is way, but a snarl and a mental shove got rid of them. He trotted down the steep brick steps, careful of their worn condition, slowing as he reached the bottom.

He wasn't entirely sure how he knew but there were living beings down here, and not the Auror team either. He put the Browning at the ready, cautiously easing forward. Now, what would Carrow do? Why the heck was he even thinking that? Carrow would likely do something outrageous resulting in piles of bodies.

The stairs led onto a narrow barrel vaulted corridor, along which were several rooms, some of which appeared to be more offices, no doubt stuffed with more useful information and data. More important stuff he could quite legitimately lift from the DMLE team.

"You want us to clear them out, sir?" Juno asked, obviously not overly thrilled at the prospect.

"Yes, in a moment, but first…the main lab should be along here." Timothy carried on down the passage to where it widened out into the laboratory proper. It was as terrible as he suspected. Along one wall was a row of cages, the sort more commonly used for housing large dogs, but in this case currently housing people.

Some of them were even still alive, though Timothy was pretty certain that they wished they weren't. He'd seen more than a few horrendous things thanks to Carrow, but this was definitely vying for top place. It wasn't that it was the most horrific, it certainly wasn't, it was more…it was so obvious, as he stood here, that these people had been caught and caged and examined and experimented on by other people, who'd then looked at their results before deciding to do even more experiments in a very deliberate and thoughtful way. Was he over-thinking this?

He swallowed thickly around the nausea that was trying to rise up, trying desperately to suppress his gag reflex. It would be so easy to just pull out his wand and cast a few cleaning and air-freshening charms. It would be a relief, but the Auror team needed to see this.

Behind him, just for once Athena had found something even her strong stomach couldn't handle considering the retching noises. Timothy ignored her as he worked his way along the filth encrusted cages. The first couple appeared to be empty and had been given the most cursory of cleans. Mum would definitely not approve of such slovenly work.

The next one…he wasn't sure. There was certainly something or someone in there but it, he…she was curled on their side and so encrusted with dirt that it was difficult to tell. He could just make out the sharp angle of a hip bone jutting up, a row of vertebrae, painfully exposed ribs and oddly jointed limbs. There was no way knees should be able to bend like that.

Was this sorry individual still breathing? In the poor light it was hard to tell. Had their chest moved just then, or had he imagined it in the poor light?

In the next cage the occupant was most definitely dead, their eyes cloudy and half opened in their sunken emaciated face, that was framed by a set of curling horns.

Precisely what were McGuire's little friends trying to achieve here? Didn't they understand the need to feed people and keep them clean and warm and hydrated? And basically ask their permission first before doing major life-changing alterations to their bodies? Wouldn't these conditions have a negative impact on whatever it was that they were trying to achieve here?

Several more cages filled with human horror, either dead or not far from it.

The terrified eyes stared out at him from beneath the wild matted hair of the figure hunched awkwardly at the back of the cage.

"Hello?" Timothy tried, stepping forward.

The figure recoiled so hard its head hit the back wall of the cage with a clonk and a rattle as their limbs trembled uncontrollably.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he tried gentling his voice, "myself and my team, we're here with Aurors from the DMLE…to rescue you." But it didn't seem to work, the person so traumatised that any approach was terrifying.

"Hey," a hoarse whisper came from further along the cages. Timothy looked round; had someone actually managed to survive this hellish situation with their wits intact?

"Hey…hello?" the voice came again.

"Hi," Juno said as she walked past, slowly approaching the cage at the far end, "who are you?"

"I, err... I, umm…"

Timothy approached to find a person hunched at the front of the cage, fingers hooked through the wire bars, a woman he suspected, given the lightness of her voice, her red eyes wide and desperate.

"I…I…all I wanted was a job," her voice cracked into a sob.

"And they, whoever they are, tricked you into this miserable hell-hole," Juno gave her a sympathetic smile, "let's get you out of here. My mum has a cage like this for her Alsatian to sleep in…" She jiggled the latch on the cage. It stubbornly stayed locked.

"I've tried that," the young woman said helpfully, "it's a simple locking charm. If I had my wand…" she shrugged helplessly.

"Bloody magic," Athena growled.

"There's always some way round these things," Juno muttered as she examined the cage carefully, "here, help me pull this thing out," she grunted as she attempted to pull the entire cage, captive and all, away from the wall. Athena grabbed an encrusted edge and hauled. "When this is over, I'm going to bleach my hands."

Timothy watched feeling very much like a spare part as the two ladies hauled the cage free and into the middle of the room. Juno fiddled with the top before crying out in triumph as she lifted up the entire top.

"What?!" the prisoner looked up in stunned amazement.

"Yup," Juno smiled as she and Athena hauled the ex-prisoner up and out "these sorts of cages are designed to fold flat, for ease of storage, and erm, cleaning." She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the filthy cage.

Spring his chance to be useful Timothy cast a few cleaning charms at the young woman, handing over his great coat. "Here," he said, "your need is…"

"What do you think you're doing?" Auror Hewitt bellowed as he strode into the laboratory. The prisoner visibly cowered at the large man's presence, slipping on trembling legs behind Juno for protection.

"What does it look like I'm doing," Timothy hissed crowding into Auror Hewitt's personal space, "my job."

"You can't just start freeing these people like that," Hewitt carried on, "they need taking into custody and questioning. Don't for a second think…"

Timothy span on his heel. "Young lady, you mentioned needing a job earlier and I just so happen to require an assistant, so you now work for me. I need all the paperwork, documents, anything written at all, on this floor collected on boxed up. Juno, if you would, please."

"Hey, stop," Auror Hewitt tried to obstruct their way actually looking slightly desperate now.

"Auror Hewitt, are you trying to obstruct the work of a Ministry Official?" Timothy snarled at the man.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Auror Hewitt backed down.

"Oh, and I would get the remaining prisoners here to St Mungo's. They look in dire need of medical attention," he threw over his shoulder as he stalked past.

The rest of the Auror team, some looking slightly singed, practically leapt out of their way as they started work on the office areas. What was the DMLE employing nowadays? Honestly, talk about spineless. Maybe he should bring this up with Carrow.

. .oOo.

The ceiling of the Great Hall was dark with clouds when they entered for the Welcoming Feast, a promise of rain in the air, the gloom only relieved by the multitude of candles that hung above the table doing their best to make up for the lack of stars.

"Looks like a muddy run tomorrow morning," Ron shouted above the noise of the other students as they milled around catching up with friends and finding their favourite spots at the House Tables.

Hermione gave the ceiling a distracted glance, tugging at the slim thread-covered braid that was the only remainder of her previously long hair. "Probably," she said, "new recruits this week as well. Wonder what we'll get?"

"We didn't exactly get many takers last year," Ron sighed, "bloody rest of the school must have scared them off…except Luna Lovegood…and, err…"

"She didn't seem to realise what she was getting herself into," Hermione said, "maybe we'll be able to persuade Dennis this year."

"Oh yeah…is he old enough yet? I thought he was starting his second year." Ron winced. "He won't be upset about his brother, do you think?"

Hermione gave him a funny look as they found places at the Gryffindor table. "Seriously, Ron," Hermione shook her head sadly, "the way that pair are, he probably thinks it's the best thing ever, and could you do it to him too, so he can have a matching scar."

"HEY!" An angry voice exploded next to them. "They can't sit here!"

The Defence Club whirled round, reaching for weapons that weren't there, to find Seamus Finnegan glaring at them.

"Hello, Seamus," Ron gave his fellow Gryffindor a nervous smile, "had a nice summer?"

Seamus glared at him. "They're not Gryffindors," he snarled, jabbing an accusing finger at where Greg, Millie, Susan and the others had settled, camo clothing peeking out from under their school robes.

"So?" Ron shrugged. "Why should it matter?"

"'Cos it bloody does matter, is what. It's the Sorting Feast," Seamus attempted to get up in Ron's face, "and this is the Gryffindor table, and they're not Gryffindors."

"Screw you," Su Li shoved forward, chin jutting aggressively.

Seamus squeaked and dived behind Neville. "Keep her away from me! She's a psycho, nut-case, lunatic!"

"How rude," Su Li growled, "wait till…"

"Is there a problem?" Professor Flitwick's voice came from behind them, sounding cheerfully polite.

"Er, no, Sir," they chorused as they all attempted their best innocent looks.

"Good, good," the diminutive professor bounced on his heels as he smiled up at them, "to your House tables, if you would. We wouldn't want the feast to be delayed, now would we, as I'm sure you're all rather peckish by now."

He sauntered away, as the non-Gryffindors wandered off to their tables.

"So who's supervising our morning run?" Neville asked as they settled down again.

"Uncle Sev, I bet…unless he's still poorly," Ron said rubbing his stomach, "wish the feast would start."

Hermione rolled her eyes in amused exasperation.

.oOo.

Normally right about now the Headmaster would be doing an excellent impression of a little ray of sunshine- Snape glanced surreptitiously down the High Table- but at present he looked more like a living thunder cloud, and at the Sorting Feast too. How very curious.

Whatever it was that was upsetting him, he was being very tight lipped about it. Even Minerva and Pomona working together hadn't been able to get anything out of him, and for some reason a bemused looking Lupin was sitting further up the table with Black at his side. New DADA teacher, or was he here for the History position? Now that was going to annoy some of the little toe-rags; no unofficial nap-time now. He smirked down the table. Lupin gave him a small smile back, Black glaring suspiciously, until Lupin elbowed him hard in the ribs. It looked like that was one dog being kept on a tight leash.

He sniggered to himself as he absentmindedly rubbed his forearm. It seemed so strange to be without the Dark Mark, a constant reminder of a terrible decision when he was not much older than some of the students who were even now finding seats at their tables. To be without this constant reminder of his youthful stupidity…

On the other side of the Hall, the large landscape there was currently playing host to Brother-Chaplain Caius who was watching the proceedings with a particularly suspicious scowl, his eyes darting around the room. So far he was being surprisingly quiet.

A rustling by the doors caught his attention, and to his surprise Allesandor Carrow walked through, looking like a particularly stylish War Lord from somewhere cold and icy, what with all the Dire-Wolf pelts he was wearing over the suit of Goblin-made armour he was sporting tonight. Snape couldn't help but notice the paint stripping glare Dumbledore levelled at the oblivious giant as he strode impressively towards the high table, hand on the hilt of his sword, his ridiculous entourage following behind him, while Artemis trotted at his heels.

Not that Snape had any objections to some decent conversation during dinner, but what precisely was the Senior Under-Secretary doing here, sick leave or no? He gave Carrow a quizzical look as the large man settled in his chair, his entourage spreading about behind him, but Carrow just smirked and tapped the side of his nose, utterly failing to answer any questions as he settled back in his chair to talk to Faulks, who was looking increasingly as if he were carved out of granite.

The rest of the faculty seemed less than impressed by their very important guest. Probably not the greeting the first years were expecting, he thought, as he grinned at a glaring Minerva as she led the new first years into the hall. There must be some sort of widespread malnutrition going around that he hadn't heard about, because this lot were even more undersized than last year's offering.

The Sorting started off with no particular surprises, the Hat's song being particularly long winded and dull this year as it extolled the virtues of each house in yet another permutation. Obviously the centuries of coming up with these ridiculous little rhymes had taken a real toll on whatever it used for an imagination. Maybe he could give it some inspiration by feeding the wretched thing a thesaurus. Now that could be interesting.

He leaned forward as he spied a familiar pair of furry twitching black ears among the small crowd of first years. Oh Merlin, it was that year. Searching nearby in the crowd, he found the other half of the dreadful duo, a jaunty blue bow perched on top of her head. Oh wonderful, just the thought of Felix and Tiffany having more control over their magic to aid them in their mischief…but of course there was a parent on staff. Snape gave Carrow a sideways look; oh yes, if that pair got into trouble he knew exactly who he was going to palm them off on to.

It was almost amusing the way Tiffany practically ran to the stool and plonked herself down, the heels of her muggle trainers still managing to flash despite the magically saturated environment.

A moment later and the Sorting Hat sank down over her dark curls. "RAVENCLAW" the hat bellowed, barely ten seconds later. Tiffany bounced up with an ear splitting shriek of delight as she wrenched off the hat, practically flinging it at a wincing Minerva as she proceeded to thunder round the table to throw herself at Faulks. "TIM! TIM! I'M IN YOUR OLD HOUSE!" she bellowed as she attempted to crush her sort-of-cousin to death, "I DID IT! I DID IT! I'M A RAVENCLAW TOO!"

Snape could vaguely hear Faulks making congratulatory sounds under the general din; Minerva's expression of resigned horror on the other hand was something to be treasured. Apparently the Pratt family had made an impression.

Another few years and they'd be playing host to Tyler the budding little arsonist. Oh joy, all the wooden things the little hooligan could try combusting. He could just imagine Filch chasing after him, flinging aguamenti charms.

He rolled his eyes as the fuss around Tiffany died down and the Sorting continued. As Felix sat himself down on the stool, glaring at any strange looks he was getting, tail twitching irritably, Snape leaned over to Carrow. "Gryffindor," he said. "I see he still hasn't learnt to tie his shoe laces."

Carrow gave a snort of laughter, a deep rumbling sound that caused some nearby students to startle.

"GRYFFINDOR" the hat bellowed decisively.

Carrow gave him an amused smirk, as the little brat ran towards his new house-table, shoe laces flapping.

.oOo.

Settling back, Ron let out a large burp. "Ah, that's better," he smiled happily, ignoring Hermione's disgusted look. "Could you pass me the steak and kidney pudding, Nev...ah, thanks. I don't know what the house elves have put in it tonight, but this is just amazing."

Neville just grinned and shook his head as Ron tucked into thirds, Hermione shaking her head in exasperation.

"Wonder why Mr Carrow is here?" Neville said looking up at the High Table speculatively. "There should be two empty teaching positions, after all…"

"I hope who ever they've picked for History is good," Hermione sighed, "it is OWLs this year after all and we could really use the help."

That seemed to put a damper on the festive mood.

"Damn," Ron sighed, "this year's just going to be stress and hard work and…do you remember last year when that Ravenclaw had to be physically removed from the library because they'd had a complete breakdown and hadn't actually left in like three days and the smell…"

"I thought that was just a rumour," Neville butted in.

"No, it really wasn't," Ron shook his head, "I got it from Millie who…"

Hermione shook her head in amused exasperation as the two descended into friendly bickering.

"…going to be pretty tough this year," Neville finally sighed, "I'm not sure how I'm going to get through it all."

"What…tougher than when we sparred with the Coven?" Hermione asked.

Ron and Neville stared at her.

"Or how about when Carrow set the Arena servitors to random," she raised an eyebrow enquiringly.

The two boys went rather pale at that. "Okay," Ron said finally, "you have a point."

.oOo.

As the meal ground to a surprisingly civilised halt, the Headmaster moved to the podium for the usual start of year announcement.

"Just a few items of note before you can leave for your beds, at the end of what, I'm sure, has been an exhausting day," Dumbledore said as he managed to summon up the ghost of a smile for the students.

"The usual warnings about the Forbidden Forest apply," Dumbledore said, "it is forbidden, unless you are being supervised by a teacher or are a member of the Defence Club."

A ripple of sniggers spread across the Hall. "The list of banned items is available for viewing on Mr Filch's office door. I recommend a look as it is really quite remarkable. Fanged Frisbees are a recent addition, as are flick-knives," Dumbledore said, obviously warming up to this, his most favourite time of the school year. "I regret having to say this, yet again, but Necromancy, Black Magic and all related Dark Arts are banned on School grounds, supervised or otherwise. We don't want a repeat of poor Professor Binns, now do we?"

"What?!" Snape distinctly heard Black mutter.

"Ah yes…Mr Filch has also asked me to remind the Defence Club that the open carrying of weapons in between classes is not appreciated, nor are mock duels. Please desist in both these activities or there will be repercussions."

Dumbledore gave the gathered students a severe look. Snape sighed as he gazed up at the ceiling; might as well ask water to run uphill, and really, was it that much of a problem? As long as they didn't kill each other…

"…announce a few new appointments."

Snape leaned forward eagerly. Now this was definitely of interest.

"As I'm sure most of you will remember," the Headmaster carried on, "Professor Binns left us under rather murky circumstances. So it is with great delight I would like to introduce the new History of Magic Professor, Remus Lupin."

Lupin reluctantly stood to receive applause, which seemed most enthusiastic at the Ravenclaw table. Must be expecting some decent lessons for once, Snape thought.

"Professor Lupin," Dumbledore continued, "was, of course, the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor a couple of years ago, and I can assure you that he is just as knowledgeable of History."

Some of the Ravenclaws actually cheered.

But then, Snape thought, who was DADA Professor? He glanced up at Carrow…oh…oh, he wasn't, was he? He began to break into a grin as some of his less dense colleagues began to realise what might be coming, Minerva looked particularly scandalised.

"No, Albus, No!" Minerva actually stood up and shouted, but the Headmaster hunched his shoulders and ignored her, as all trace of his early cheer vanished. Snape ducked down to hide his grin. Oh, this was going to be hilarious.

"I would also like you to welcome this year's Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor," he paused, visibly trying not to grind his teeth, "another returnee to Hogwarts, who I'm sure you all remember…Allesandor Darius Carrow."

The Defence Club leaped to their feet and climbing on to the benches, howling and cheering, drowning out any protests, as more than a few of their compatriots burst into tears or sat stony faced in shock, leaving the first years looking bewildered, puzzled and scared. Carrow's appearance probably wasn't helping either, Snape thought, as the large man rose from his chair and strode around the table, looming beside the Headmaster.

"I have a few things I would like to announce, if I may?" Carrow rumbled.

"Of course," the Headmaster said, looking as if he'd swallowed a particularly sour lemon.

Carrow nodded, apparently happy. "I look forward to seeing you all in class," he rumbled to the gathered students. One of the Hufflepuffs actually whimpered, Snape observed admiringly.

"To improve your performance, I am organising a run every morning at 6.30am. I look forward to seeing you all there."

It would be interesting to go along just to see how many of the little brats actually thought it would be compulsory, Snape mused. Yes, some early morning ingredients collecting in the forest was definitely in order this week.

"As some of you may be aware, I am the owner of Aquila Industries." Carrow looked around the Hall expectantly. "We are a new and innovative manufacturer of non-magical weapons, among other things. As a result we have a thriving Research and Development department. Those of you about to take their NEWTs will no doubt be delighted to learn of a new apprenticeship scheme we will be initiating from next year. If you are interested in careers involving Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Warding, Herbology, Defensive magic or Potions, come and see me for more information."

Snape watched in surprise as Carrow smiled shark-like at the students before returning to his seat. Trust him to turn this entirely to his advantage, a recruitment drive where he got to spend nine months looking at all the possible candidates before cherry-picking the best ones. The Ministry was going to be furious.

"Thank you, Allesandor…and now let us sing the school song," an annoyed looking Dumbledore said, holding his wand ready, "pick your own tune."

But Brother Chaplain Caius got there first, booming out a hymn of joyous anger at the destruction of the Heretical and Xenos enemies of Mankind, Carrow eagerly joining in as a shower of bright yellow rubber ducks began to pelt down from the ceiling.

He could get used to this, Snape smirked to himself from under the safety of his hastily conjured umbrella; at least it was tuneful.

.oOo.

"Hey," Ron bellowed over the sound of the two Space Marines' thunderous singing, "Those Hufflepuffs, they know the words!"

"So do Fred and George," Neville screamed his mouth mere inches from Ron's ear.

Ron leaned forward to glare down the table to where his two older brothers stood on either side of his giggling sister, striking dramatic poses while they sang along.

"Er, no I don't think they do," he bellowed, "actually, I think they're singing that song about the hedgehog that always get Mum really, really angry."

"So why do those Hufflepuff guys know this hymn?" Hermione yelled her face scrunched in a thoughtful frown, "I think we'd have noticed if we'd seen them hanging around Carrow's Chapel, so the only other place they could have learnt them is…him," she stared up at the large landscape that dominated the wall near the main doors, currently playing host to Brother Chaplain Caius who was bellowing out yet another verse about Humanity's divine right to rule the Galaxy. "Do you think he's proselytising to the students?"

"Maybe…you've got to admit he is one of the strangest portraits ever," Neville yelled, "far too clever by half."

. .oOo.

The rubble strewn landscape stretched as far as the eye could see, tainted and barren, a place he knew instinctively that no normal human being could survive in. Even the air seemed poisoned, stinking of something metallic and sweet, stinging his eyes and hurting his chest with every breath he took.

Above, sullen bilious clouds roiled, illuminated by sudden flashes of light but it didn't appear to be a storm…there was some sort of air-borne battle going on up there, some desperate struggle for survival over an already doomed world.

To his horror, his feet began to move of their own accord, propelling him towards a small ridge of broken rubble crowned by the remains of a reinforced concrete slab, steel rods stabbing up into the sky like broken hinges. Beyond…beyond…his instincts screamed at him to stop. Something unspeakable, some primal evil lurked beyond that hill and if he crested it…

He tried to change direction, even attempted to trip himself up, heaven knows there were plenty of opportunities here for that, all to no avail as his feet relentlessly marched on, his chest tightening, screaming in pain as his breath became more and more paniced.

A bright pillar of light lanced down through the clouds, the air ripping apart with a sound that was like a physical force slamming into his body, knocking the air from his lungs. Then the tidal wave of super-heated air hit him, full of dust and rubble…

Snape sat bolt upright in bed feeling quite unnerved, cold sweat trickling down his spine, heart racing a mile a minute. "It was only a dream," he muttered to himself as he scrubbed at his face, fishing his wand out from under his pillow finally relaxing at its familiar and reassuring weight in his hand. Casting a quick tempus charm, he found to his horror… "Bloody half four in the bloody morning," he snarled to himself as he slammed back onto the pillows. He was far too unsettled now for sleep; besides, by the time he did manage to drift off it'd be time for him to get up. Talk about pointless.

Damn it, he might as well just get up. Grumbling to himself, he threw back the covers and shuffled off to the bathroom.

He was on to his third cup of coffee when he remembered something that would actually improve his morning; Carrow's run, and just for once, it wouldn't just be the little lunatics from the Defence Club running around in the cold and the mud, the entire school had been invited. And since it had been Carrow himself doing the inviting…how many would turn out for it in sheer fear, despite still being exhausted from the previous day's journey?

An interesting question worthy of investigation; would exhaustion win out, or would their natural fear of Carrow trump all rational thought?

Grabbing his ingredients collection kit and his cloak, he set off to investigate.

.oOo.

At some point during the night it had rained heavily, leaving everything soggy underfoot, the grass depositing copious quantities of water onto his trouser legs and the hems of his robes. Normally he'd be annoyed, but after last night it was reassuringly solid and normal, the breeze coming off the lake fresh and crisp in the pre-dawn light.

Ahead lay the reassuring bulk of the Forbidden Forest, dark and silent, the leaves just beginning to show a hint of russet and gold. He'd got a little time before the start of Carrow's "fun run".

The leaf litter was even soggier, the branches overhead seeming to be aiming drops of water down the back of his neck with pin-sharp precision. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all, and apparently he was a week or two early for the particular mushrooms he'd been vaguely hoping for. Well, blast…

He glared around the damp trees, the oppressive feeling of the night begin to rise again. Rustling sounded above and to his left, leaving him flinching, wand in hand as a wood pigeon exploded into the air. A branch snapped nearby, the sound echoing off the trees. Snape whirled round as something came out into the clearing, something large and damp and animal.

"Wizard," the centaur boomed, glaring down at him, and looking quite perplexed.

Snape froze as another centaur stepped out behind him, Ronan, he thought. Certainly he'd had dealing with this particular centaur before…and then another one stepped out into the clearing, this one clearly female, eyeing him suspiciously as she gripped the hilt of a short-sword slung at her side.

This had suddenly become extremely dangerous.

"Centaur," he replied, bowing stiffly.

The centaur paced on the spot, dinner-plate sized hooves scuffing up the damp leaf litter.

"The Monster has returned," he intoned, glaring round at the damp forest.

The Monster? Snape blinked; what was the creature on about? "Do you mean Mr Carrow?" he asked.

The centaurs stared straight at him, their intense focus unnerving to say the least.

"He has returned to Hogwarts to take up the position of Defence Professor once again," Snape carried on, desperately keeping his face as smooth and expressionless as possible.

One of the centaurs twitched his tail, shifting restlessly from hoof to hoof.

"He's going to be resident at the Castle probably until next June," Snape added helpfully.

"The Monster has disrupted everything," the first centaur burst out, "the Heavens are all a-kilter!"

Snape opened his mouth to say something, anything to get rid of them, maybe suggesting they complain to Carrow directly. Now that would be interesting to witness.

But the centaur ignored him. "His star deviates from its course onto a path it had no business being, and now he affects the paths of others. Mars rises too early, far too bright, Jupiter rears in anger and Saturn responds, and Pluto…Pluto…" The centaur kicked his back legs in frustration.

Snape edged away from the enraged creature, feeling a sense of relief when his back collided with a tree. Now if the bloody thing tried charging him he might have enough time to get behind some actual solid shelter.

"Worst is yet to come," the centaur continued. "His star has risen, aeons too early. The future is spinning away from us, Potions Master Snape, and we are at its mercy."

"Have you, err, tried approaching Mr Carrow?" Snape offered as he very slowly and very carefully sidled into safety.

The centaurs stared at him in silence until he couldn't help but shift nervously. "I'm not saying he'd listen to you," he said, trying to mask his growing desperation, "but at least you would get to make your feelings known."

The first centaur shook his head as if loosening a thought. "His star has risen too early. We were never meant to witness it."

Snape watched them melt back in among the trees open mouthed, the troubling sense of unease worse than ever.

"There are mushrooms in a clearing not two minutes from here," Ronan pointed out before he disappeared. Startled, Snape inclined his head politely only to find he was now alone among the damp dripping trees and the very soggy leaf litter.

Two minutes from here? What were the chances it was more like six or maybe even ten minutes? Ruddy centaurs.

.oOo.

Mushrooms? Right. That was the last time he took advice off a centaur, bloody man ponies. Snape glared down at the meagre offerings in disgust.

Fairy Flax-Caps, a magical relative of the mundane (and much more useful) ink-caps; instead of going black and manky, these ruddy things would suddenly disintegrate in a shower of sparkles that had been known to be passed off as "real genuine fairy dust" to the more stupid and gullible. You couldn't even make ink from them.

In fact, he could only think of one potion that used them at all, a ridiculous pranking elixir that only a first year would fail to spot, or stoop to using, though the effects were quite interesting, changing the hair of the victim an interesting array of vibrant colours with a distinctive metallic sheen, at the same time causing it to stand on end.

The real question was, could he trick Carrow into drinking it? And would it have any effect if he did? He seemed pretty impervious to everything else; maybe with a little tweaking…it definitely had possibilities.

A distant shout caught his attention. Was it that time all ready? He strode to the tree line to be greeted by the sight of most of the school stampeding past, led by Carrow who was casually bouncing along, the Defence Club close behind.

The rest of the students…a soggy miserable Hufflepuff jogged past, followed by a couple of his classmates, one of whom was limping. A chubby Ravenclaw struggled past a minute later, face purple, sounding remarkably like the Hogwarts Express.

Nott trailed after them, his shoes hanging round his neck by their laces as he ran barefoot, his expression grim but determined. Snape frowned as he took in the raw welts on the lad's heels and toes. No doubt he wouldn't be the only one.

Oh, Poppy was going to be absolutely ecstatic when all the injured made their way up to the hospital wing. A slow smile crept across his face at the thought of Carrow being severely hexed by an enraged healer; not that it seemed to have much effect, which always seemed to annoy Poppy even more…

"STOP WALKING," Carrow's bellow echoed across the lake. Snape grinned to himself; there was going to be an entire nine months of this to look forward to. Smirking to himself, Snape strode back up to the Castle, the sounds of misery and pain of the early morning runners helping to finally dispel the lingering unease of the night.

. .oOo.

"Ridiculous," stormed Cornelius Fudge, thumping the top of his desk with a hand in a manner he hoped looked suitably masculine and authoritive. The "acting" Senior Under Secretary took absolutely no notice of him, continuing with his stony faced shuffling of documents.

"Why would anyone consider sending a child under the age of eleven to school," Fudge continued, desperate to make an impression, "children that age, all they want to do is play games all day. They don't have the concentration…"

"I learnt to read and write when I was four," Faulks pointed out coldly, "by age five I had been introduced to the basics of addition and subtraction, could use a ruler, and name simple shapes with confidence…among other things."

Fudge glared at the younger man who was now jotting down notes with, to his thinly veiled disgust, one of those new fangled muggle steel-nibbed dip pens.

"There is a damn good reason why the Wizarding World desperately needs primary education. Take, for example, a delightful young man," Faulks sneered (or Fudge hoped it was a sneer), "who I'm going to call, for the sake of my story, Bertie. Bertie, a fine example of his kind, arrived at Hogwarts barely able to read and write, but he didn't let it hold him back, instead choosing to throw his name around and bully his year mates into doing his homework for him. As a result he only just managed to scrape through his OWLs, and as for his NEWTs…" Faulks shook his head in disgust. "So of course, when Bertie finally decided that he wanted to have a job, he came to the Ministry expecting to just be able to walk into a position because of who his father was."

"Quite reasonable, of course," Fudge nodded.

Faulks gave him a flat look. "But, of course, he failed the Entrance Exam. Bertie, not having really grown up in the years since Hogwarts, or kept up with recent events, reacted predictably. In the end Security threw him out," Faulks said with a satisfied sniff.

"But…but…his father…" Fudge spluttered horrified. Who was this apparently well connected pureblood who had been refused a position at the Ministry? The backlash from his family could be terrible!

"But nothing, Minister," Faulks gave him a stare that froze his spine, "the Ministry is better able to function without such people clogging up the system, and creating unnecessary bureaucracy."

"You jumped up little mud-blood," Fudge snarled leaping to his feet, "talking about your betters like that. I have had enough," he screamed kicking his desk, "YOU'RE FIRED! GET OUT!" He stormed round his desk, chest puffed out importantly, finger pointing to the door.

Faulks raised an eyebrow, obviously unimpressed. "You do realise you can't just fire your underlings like that anymore, don't you?"

"WHAT?" Fudge roared, feeling quite ready to tear the remains of his hair out.

"Minister, the Employee's Rights Bill, part of Mr Carrow's drive to bring us in line with the better aspects of the non-magical world. You signed it into law eight months ago," Faulks said, his expression almost condescending. "You actually have to prove a legitimate reason for sacking an employee now."

"Then I'll change it," Fudge snarled, chest puffing up in outrage.

"No, you won't," Faulks told him flatly, "you'll do exactly as you're told. You seem to be forgetting, Minister, that the only reason you are still where you are is that Mr Carrow finds you useful."

Fudge stared at him, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Suddenly realising he probably looked like a badly stunned fish, he turned on his desk with a snarl of ineffectual rage, giving the abused piece of furniture a solid kick.

Something underneath the desk made a distinctly wet sound, and a cloud of rotten stink was released into the confined air of the office.

Gagging, Fudge sprinted for the door, slamming it open as he raced for the wastepaper basket sitting next to his secretary's desk, which he was promptly, gloriously sick in.

"Really, Cornelius," his secretary glared at him over her half-moon glasses, lips tight and pinched in disapproval.

"Sorry, sorry," Fudge muttered as he backed away from the rather caustic witch who never hesitated to remind him she'd gone to school with his father or how disappointing he was in comparison.

Faulks stalked out of the office, some sort of bubble charm over his head, the wretched paperwork tucked under his arm. "I do believe that the Ministry Prankster has struck again," he said as he dumped the blasted stuff on the rather plush visitor's sofa. "When he found the time to do it, I have no idea."

"What?" Fudge said intelligently.

"Unless you're in the habit of sticking muggle-style vacuum packed haddock to the underside of your desk, that is." Faulks gave him a hard look as he handed over more bloody forms to sign. Fudge took them reluctantly.

"This is why it would have been preferable to meet in Mr Carrow's office," Faulks sighed as he began sorting through the various folders.

"But I always get lost, and your office manager is scary," Fudge muttered feeling put upon and miserable as he glared at the blasted handful of parchment. "Why do I need to sign them, anyway?"

Faulks gave him a withering glare. "You could always try reading the things," he pointed out, "I think you'll find, sir, that the top one is an internal memorandum pertaining to pets in the workplace, something you yourself were rather keen on, considering that nasty little incident when someone's pet crup ran amok in the staff canteen."

Fudge stared at the document again, shifting his feet in embarrassment. Er…yes, he had wanted to make it clear to the Ministry staff as a whole that while having a familiar was a wonderful thing, that they really shouldn't be fed experimental potions or too much cake, or anything else that would inconvenience their fellow employees.

"Fine, fine," he muttered as he grabbed a nearby quill and hastily scrawled his signature across the parchment. How had his life ended up like this? He'd been planning to retire after a few more terms in office to a nice comfortable (and not so little) place in the country that Mrs Fudge had been cooing over where they would be able to hold wonderful dinner parties and the like, select guests only, thank you very much…and then Carrow happened…and suddenly he was feeling very alone, even worse than after Dad had died. Who would help him? Who would listen?

oOo

"Thank you for seeing me, Headmaster," Fudge simpered, "and on such short notice, as well."

"And despite it being the beginning of the school year too. Not at all, Cornelius," Dumbledore smiled benignly at him from where he sat behind his desk, a buttered scone in one hand.

Fudge gave him a watery smile as he tried to gather his nerves together and just ask. It had seemed so easy in the space of his office (once it had been aired out) to just nip over to Hogwarts and persuade the Chief Warlock to take his side, see his point of view, but now he was here actually facing the man…

"Not that this isn't delightful," Dumbledore said as he selected a couple of ginger newts with the tongs the house-elves had thoughtfully provided, "but I am a mite puzzled as to why you were so desperate to meet with me; surely not to talk about the weather?" He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Swallowing nervously, Fudge did his best to smile engagingly, something his mother had always said was his best feature.

"Erm…oh…yes…Allesandor Carrow," he said finally, trying not to feel sick, "he's rather a large problem, a small problem I mean. Nothing I can't handle," he said to Dumbledore's rather disbelieving expression, "yes, a little problem…though he is rather large isn't he…"

"Cornelius," Dumbledore sighed.

"…and that awful secretary of his," Fudge carried on, rather aware that he was probably rambling now, "and the changes they keep making, the people they've upset! Honestly, the Ministry is a shadow of its former self!"

"Really?" Dumbledore smiled politely. "You know," he frowned thoughtfully, "when I went to register my taxes this year, the young lady who served me didn't demand a bribe," he smiled brightly as Fudge blinked in puzzlement. How was this in any way relevant? Bribes were just a way of life, the Ministry ran on them.

"And this extremely efficient young lady," Dumbledore continued, "was one of our more ambitious Ravenclaw muggleborns, fresh out of Hogwarts and already embarking on her career in the Ministry. It really was quite wonderful to see."

"But see here, Albus…" It was like a set of flood gates had opened and he found himself pacing back and forth among the numerous spindly legged tables that littered the office, their enigmatic contents spinning, twitching and emitting small puffs of smoke as he strode past, pouring out his complaints against Carrow, hands clasped behind his back.

"…it's terrible, Albus! What do I do?" He ground to a halt feeling quite limp and washed out.

"Albus?" he asked. The Headmaster was leaning back in his chair gazing up at the ceiling, idly twiddling his thumbs.

"Hmmm, quite the little problem you have there," Dumbledore said finally, smiling sweetly, "though I do feel quite a bit of it was entirely of your own making. Whatever possessed you to give Allesandor an office in such an isolated part of the Ministry, where you wouldn't be able to keep an eye on him? I did warn you Cornelius, Allesandor has never been exactly shy about what exactly he is and what he's spent most of his life doing."

"But, but," Fudge deflated like a pricked balloon, "you will support me…won't you?" He flinched at how small and pathetic and desperate he sounded.

Dumbledore's smile was almost chilly. "Well, of course not, Cornelius; why would I want to be seen as supporting Allesandor's puppet? It would be political suicide, especially with all the recent upheaval."

"What!" Fudge spluttered indignantly. He wasn't Carrow's puppet, not at all…not really…he was just struggling a little to keep his head above the murky political waters of the Wizengamot, that was all. Why did Lucius have to just suddenly die like that; why did everything have to be so difficult?

Well, he was just going to have to take matters into his own hands, wasn't he?

. .oOo.

The sound of desperation and heavy breathing filled the air, joined by the stink of sweat. Carrow looked around the class in disgust, hand gripping the hilt of his sword reflexively. Most of them were struggling through the basic exercises, faces alarming shades of red and even purple, their limbs heavy and clumsy with exhaustion.

"YOU DO NOT GET TO STOP," he bellowed at Finnegan as he whirled round to find the youth semi-slumped and motionless, seeming to think that a turned back was an opportunity for slacking off. Finnegan squeaked in fear before returning to his clumsy approximations of a burpee.

How? Why? He'd been expecting so much more from these children, a sort of more expansive version of the Defence Club, but no…they whined, they faltered and fussed, had no confidence in the strength of their own bodies…they didn't trust him to know what was best. He'd even had to pull one young man, Mr Zacharias Smith out of the Apothecarium where he had been hiding, thanks to tales of non-existent physical woes he had inveigled Healer Pomfrey with. Carrow had always supposed that it was the Slytherins who were supposed to be the conniving devious ones, not a Hufflepuff thing at all (as far as Hogwart's system of Houses ever made sense that was.)

"Grab a practise sword. NOW!" he bellowed, glaring as the students dived around him, the Defence Club in the lead. They expertly dodged Natasha's teeth from where she guarded the pile of weapons, racing back to their places. The rest of the class…

Sighing in frustration, he waded through to where Natasha sat, plucking her off the ground.

"Well?" he snarled at the staring students. "Are you waiting for an invitation?"

The students dived on the weapons in a panicked frenzy, a small squabble breaking out which he quickly put a stop to with a very pointed glare.

"Basic sword drills. NOW!" he bellowed, ignoring Natasha's playful chewing of his fingers.

Granger, Weasley and Longbottom leapt to comply, staying, he noticed, in a three as they took turns. The rest of the class…the rest of the class appeared to not know what they were doing. There were some vague (and terrible) attempts at copying Granger, but most stood around, despair, panic and exhaustion radiating off them, souring the air.

Carrow closed his eyes as he quietly asked the God-Emperor for strength. "Am I to assume," he glared at the nearest witless youth, "that you have not in any way practised your sword drills since last I taught here?"

"Er," Dean Thomas sidled backwards looking around frantically, "ermm…not really…not done anything with weapons since you left…Sir."

"So, you have not joined the Defence Club or taken part in their training?" Carrow glared at the recalcitrant Gryffindor with narrowed eyes.

"Er…no, Sir," Thomas muttered shuffling his feet uncomfortably.

"Why in the name of the Golden Throne did you not take this educational opportunity that has been offered up to you on a silver platter?" Carrow enquired through gritted teeth.

Thomas stared at his feet, looking highly uncomfortable and miserable.

Carrow ground his teeth in frustration. "Granger, Longbottom," he barked, "demonstrate pattern number one."

The two leapt into action facing off against one another, swords held at the ready. Granger swung her sword in for a strike, Longbottom blocking it and repeating the strike, the two rapidly picking up pace.

"Exactly," Carrow snarled causing the pair to grind to a halt, "now, any more problems?" he glared round at the class. They all scurried to comply, the results being of varying quality. Carrow sighed heavily at the sheer incompetence that he was witnessing.

"Why does it have to be so heavy?" Patil complained to Brown in a whisper as he stalked past.

Finnegan and Thomas were little better, their blocks and strikes sloppy wavering things as they half-heartedly went through the motions.

"Again," he growled as he stopped to examine their progress, hand gripping the hilt of his sword slightly harder than necessary at the pathetic display.

"Strengthen your wrists," he snapped at Thomas before turning to Finnegan, "and you, lengthen your stride. You will be knocked off balance if you stand with your feet so close together, idiot boy."

The Defence Club members were such leagues ahead in terms of technique and style the contrast was painful to observe.

"Second and third drills now," he nodded as Granger switched with Weasley so he could have his turn. The young man was filling out nicely, a sharp contrast to the distant and hazy memory he had of the lad when they had ridden a train together so very long ago.

A sob and a scream broke the strained and sweaty silence of the class. Carrow jerked round to find Brown clutching her hand to her chest, tears pouring down her cheeks as a frantic Patil tried to help her, the distinct tang of blood ghosting into the air.

For Thrones sake, Carrow gritted his teeth as he strode over. "Show me," he gestured towards the injury. Sobbing, Brown held out her hand to show…

"Merely a scratch," Carrow glared at the unimpressive wound, "continue."

"But..but…I'm feeling faint," Brown sobbed, "blood…blood…makes me queasy!"

Carrow stared at her in disbelief. "You are in distress because of the sight of your own blood?"

Brown nodded, sniffling wetly.

"UTTERLY RIDICULOUS!" Carrow roared, the frustration of the day finally peaking. "A weakness to the sight of blood? How is it possible to have such a thing? I assure you, Brown, that I will cure you of this flaw, by the Golden Throne, I swear it!"

Brown stared up at him in a daze from where she stood frozen, clutching her hand to her chest.

"Now pick up your sword and resume," Carrow snarled.

Jerkily, Brown leant down, picking up her training weapon. Disgusted, Carrow turned back to the rest of the class, only to find them standing there, watching him. Seeing his expression, they leapt back into action practising their forms with exaggerated enthusiasm.

If the rest of the school year was going to resemble this, then he may very well end up killing something with his bare hands, probably a student. That's if he didn't manage to grind his teeth flat in the interim.

.oOo.

As the bell signalling the end of class rang out, Brown and her ilk stampeded for the classroom door. Carrow watched them flee with a sneer; bunch of spineless brats.

In a corner the Defence Club members seemed to be having a hushed but fierce debate, a bundle of papers being pushed from one to another. He ignored them as he returned the practise swords to their storage, checking the classroom for lost items or rubbish.

"Professor?" Granger's voice came from behind him. He turned to find his younger apprentice standing there looking concerned.

He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Sir, erm, Allesandor," she sidled closer peering up at him seemingly concerned, "you do know that the Defence Club will take anything you throw at us, and enjoy it," she grinned, "but the others…they're never going to be soldiers, or warriors or even Aurors…they're just normal and really they're never going to be anything more, and there's nothing wrong with that, unless you break them of course," she gave him a narrow eyed glare before turning on her heel and stalking off in a very passable imitation of Timothy.

Carrow watched her leave, a slightly uncomfortable niggle at the back of his mind; maybe she had a point…but he didn't have to like it.

. .oOo.

"At least they didn't fall asleep," Sirius said as he bounced along, skipping over a vanishing step as they made their way down towards the Great Hall and dinner.

Remus gave a sarcastic huff. "Honestly, Padfoot," he sighed, "didn't you notice, Mr Stibbons had both arms strapped up, though since he was using a dictaquill I suspect he ended up with the best notes in the class, and Miss Pemberton had bandages wrapped round her head and seemed quite out of it. Her friend wasn't much better either, she'd got her…"

"I get it, I get it," Sirius held up his hands placatingly, dodging sideways when a small group of second year Gryffindors charged past. One of them was hauling along a purloined mace, obviously hoping for early membership to the Defence Club.

"Good luck, kid," Sirius shouted after him.

Remus gave him a nasty glare. "Mason, Cavill, Smythe! No running in the halls," Remus bellowed after them, "five points from Gryffindor. Each. And put the mace back where you found it!"

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think?" Sirius said, bouncing on his toes.

Remus glowered at him.

"Ah, come on, Mooney, they were only running," Sirius whined, "it's not like they were up to something."

"No?" Remus raised an eyebrow sarcastically as they went past a landscape, where a small herd of elephants appeared to be trying to hide in among the trees of an English country landscape, complete with a herd of cows crossing a small ford.

"You know we did much worse than running as kids," Sirius tried with a hopeful grin.

"Not with stolen maces, we didn't," Remus said as he ducked behind a tapestry of a unicorn and into the secret passage that lay beyond. "You and James got up to all sorts of things," he sighed, "no, this is all about your Godson causing havoc all around him. He doesn't seem to understand that the students have lessons other than his."

"Well, he's just…"

"Don't try and protect him, Sirius," Remus snapped, "the man is an utter menace with very dubious intentions and he's affecting my ability to teach."

"But…"

"The first time in decades that History has actually been taught to an acceptable level, Padfoot!" Remus threw his hands up in exasperation.

"But…" Giving up, Sirius turned into Padfoot, dropping to the floor with a pitiful whine, shuffling ahead when Remus didn't even pause for breath.

"Remember what it was like? I had to self-study my favourite subject just to get passing grades because Binns was so dreadful, "Remus carried on, "and then when the OWLs started…"

A surprised and frantic canine yelp came from ahead, gradually receding into the distance. Remus sprinted towards the main staircase only to be confronted with a tidal wave of rubber ducks, each one the size of a shirt button, and in the distance, being carried away down the main staircase and into the entrance hall, a frantic Padfoot desperately paddling to keep his head above the glistening yellow tide.

"Sirius!" Frantically, Remus waded after his rapidly disappearing friend; if he was swept down the staircase while it was moving from one landing to the next…the thought was too awful to contemplate. Leaping and pushing and throwing himself forward, he made it to the next landing just in time to see the struggling dog being swept over and down the next set of stairs, only for the tidal-wave of rubber ducks to vanish as mysteriously as they had appeared, leaving a now very human Sirius paddling in midair before the inevitable happened, his jaw connecting with the steps with a sickening crack.

.oOo.

Narrowing his eyes, Snape hid the tip of his wand behind the stack of parchment and files he'd been forced to bring to the wretched Staff Meeting, the first of many. His current target sat mere feet away, a plate of biscuits provided by the House Elves for the occasion. Now if he was quick and hid them in his muggle style ring-binder, he could swipe all the ginger nuts before Minerva could get her sticky paws on them.

With a twitch of his wand, the biscuit silently zipped across the table towards him. Carefully looking around to see if anyone was watching, he tucked it in his file. Lupin gave him a faintly amused smile, which he promptly ignored.

The over-sized chair next to him creaked as Carrow settled into place, depositing a large stack of books, folders and other assorted paperwork in front of him; some of it, to Snape's vague interest, was bundled together with red ribbon. Looked like they were about to be subjected to another one of Carrow's lunatic schemes. At least he wasn't going to be bored for the next hour or two then.

"…make the morning run compulsory for all students," Carrow rumbled on, an hour later, obviously frustrated, "despite my best efforts, their fitness levels are utterly abysmal. I dread to think how any of them would fare if they were ever put into an actual combat situation."

"Really, Allesandor," Dumbledore sighed in frustration, "is it truly that dire?"

Snape sighed as Carrow growled in annoyance, pointing out one terrible performance after another. "…one even attempted to emulate fainting. Absolutely despicable behaviour!" Carrow ranted, "I've had him in detention ever since, copying out texts on the importance of fortitude and duty."

"Do remember, Allesandor," Minerva said primly, "these students are only human. They lack your somewhat enhanced physique and I must admit I for one am fed up with students arriving to class exhausted and nervous and not in any state of mind to learn. It's not acceptable, Allesandor, transfiguration is a discipline which requires the utmost concentration."

Beside her, Filius nodded from where he sat raised up on a pile of books. "Hear, hear," he said, "the number of silly mistakes my students have been making this term has been ridiculous, I tell you, and all because they're over tired!"

Carrow's jaw closed with an audible snap. "That's not the point, I know they are capable of more," he muttered, as he crossed his arms over his chest and glared sullenly at the rest of the staff.

"With that settled," Dumbledore looked around the table, "the morning runs will remain an optional activity…though highly recommended."

"Albus," Minerva hissed, "I'm fed up with my students turning up to class exhausted. It's making keeping them on track with the syllabus very difficult."

Pomona nodded in agreement. "It's not safe nodding off in the greenhouses. You have to be on your toes, especially when you get on to OWL and NEWT material. I've had to send students back to their common rooms, they've been so tired."

"It wouldn't be a problem if they actually took regular exercise," Carrow growled, obviously raring for a fight. Minerva and Pomona glared at him.

A series of sharp bangs halted the argument before it could really get going. Shame, Snape thought, as the Headmaster gave the would-be combatants withering glares. That time Minerva had attempted to turn the Giant Lump into a mahogany bureau had been a memory to treasure. It would be fascinating to see what Pomona had up her sleeves if she ever got the opportunity.

"Things will stay exactly as they currently stand," Dumbledore said, "and that is to be the end of it. Now," he cleared his throat smiling benignly once more, "any last questions, queries or anything of that nature?"

Snape began to gather up his things, wolfing down the last ginger biscuit as he prepared to make a speedy get away.

"I have a couple of things I wish to discuss," Carrow boomed.

Groaning quietly, Snape sank back into his chair.

"Whatever it is, the answer is no," Minerva snarled. Dumbledore sighed heavily, waving at Carrow to continue.

"Indeed," Carrow rumbled. "The Minister of Magic had decreed that I should survey the School and its running and compile a report for the Wizengamot on such. I will of course need to inspect how each subject is being taught, access to accounts and the like…"

Snape bristled; his class, inspected…

"…if you have any concerns, areas you perceive as needing improvement, I wish to hear them…and they will be added to the report…"

Improvements, like the ventilation charms in the potions classroom? Snape gave the large man a considering look, they'd been severely damaged when he himself had been little more than a third year at the school when an explosion during a class had damaged the ceiling, killing one student and injuring several others. He'd rather snap his wand then let a similar incident occur…

"…telling you in the greatest confidence of course, a bill to reform the Magical Education system, but to do that first we need to know what we already have…"

Snape slumped down further into his chair as Carrow rumbled on, the others interjecting here and there; and he'd dared to think he could make a quick get-away. Clearly some dark god was out to punish him.

"…finally, one last thing…"

"Really?" Snape muttered giving the large man his best sarcastic glare…

"…I will be installing a satellite dish on the roof to facilitate communications with the offices at Aquila Ind. it is imperative that I keep up to date with the doings of my business. I hope that is acceptable," his expression making it very clear that it had better be.

Vector hesitantly raised her hand. "What's a satellite dish?"

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"A handsome young man of your age should be married," Madam Longbottom went on, completely oblivious to Sirius's discomfort as he attempted to retract inside the horrible Wizengamot robes he'd been forced to wear.

"Or at least looking," Narcissa agreed from his other side, obviously enjoying his discomfort.

"Oh Merlin," Sirius moaned to himself; since when did Cousin Cissy get all cozy with Madam Longbottom of all people?

"I know a number of delightful young ladies who'd be an excellent match for you," Madam Longbottom carried on, "young Griselda Parkinson for example, very talented at Herbology. Her greenhouses are simply marvellous."

Sirius stared at her in silent horror. He remembered Griselda from school; horrible acne scars, plus she seemed to almost constantly smell of dragon dung thanks to her practically living in the greenhouses because plants were literally her only interest in life. She was more likely to marry a succulent than a human being.

"Isn't that Cornelius's second cousin?" Narcissa asked.

Sirius tried to tune the awful pair out as they began to discuss pureblood genealogy in detail, something he'd taken great care as a child to learn as little about as he physically could.

"…Lucretia Boyle has grown into her looks very nicely, plus she's just recently come back from the Continent having gained her Mastery in Charms," Narcissa pointed out.

"Oh, I had heard," Madam Longbottom smiled, "yes, she'd be a marvellous choice, very intelligent young lady, and sensible too. Wasn't she in Ravenclaw?"

"Yes, she was," Sirius growled in frustration, "and in fourth year she threatened to castrate me if I ever came within a hundred yards of her ever again."

"Probably richly deserved too," Narcissa said tartly. "But that was years ago, Sirius. Don't be silly."

Frustration clawing at his gut, Sirius hauled himself to his feet. "If you're going to carry on like this, planning my future and all I'm going elsewhere."

Turning in what he hoped was a dramatic swirl of robes, he stormed off, looking for a gold-digging, harpy free corner to sulk in, until the Wizengamot session began.

"Sirius, your robe is rucked up at the back," Narcissa called after him.

Hunching his shoulders, his face heating up, Sirius stormed around the corner.

"Honestly, men," he distinctly heard Madam Longbottom say, "if they didn't have us to help them they'd walk round with their robes on back-to-front and their underpants on their heads."

oOo

He was still annoyed when they all had to take their places; fortunately the Black family seat was far away from either Cissy or Madam Longbottom, otherwise he might have had to spend the entire dull meeting as Padfoot. Actually, that was a really good idea, since then he could curl up on this rather inadequate seat and catch a nap.

Stinging pain bloomed across his right ear, and he barely managed to suppress a yelp of pain. Clutching his injured ear, he turned in his seat to find the elderly Lady Cromwell glaring at him, a roll of parchment clutched in one wizened hand.

Oh Merlin, Sirius sank down in his seat, why was that horrible old biddy here? It was bad enough all the times he'd run into her at home when darling Mummy had had her over for tea, scones, and house-elf beheadings.

"Concentrate, you silly boy," she hissed, "I've got my eye on you, so if you try any of those immature tricks you so loved as a boy, I will make sure you smart for it. Honestly, the torment you put your poor mother through."

"Poor mother, my arse," Sirius muttered before he could help himself.

The roll of parchment whacked across his left ear causing him to yelp in pain as he protectively clutched his ears. He was being physically assaulted; he looked frantically at those seated nearby, was nobody going to intervene? No, apparently not; in fact, some of them, supposedly upright members of society, looked as if they were trying not to laugh.

"Mr Black," a cold sharp voice rang out.

Sirius froze, feeling as if he'd been suddenly dunked in ice-cold water as everyone turned and stared at him. Worst of all, glaring up at him, was the second scariest person in the Ministry. Carrow, his darling dinky God-son, was, of course, the scariest, but the giant psycho had been working very hard to turn his secretary/personal assistant/apprentice assassin into a miniature version of himself. Sirius suspected vile and unnatural torture was involved, because how else could someone who, according to Dumbledore at least, had been quite normal, nice even, turn into this frozen rigid monster?

Acting Senior Under-secretary Timothy Faulks looked like most people's idea of a vampire, gaunt and tall and stylishly attired in black, the only hint of colour his Ravenclaw themed sash. The velvet eye-patch wasn't helping either. Behind this avatar of doom, Sirius could just see the Minister who he couldn't help but notice was looking incredibly nervous, panicked even, and had the man lost weight recently?

"Mr Black," Faulks repeated with a frown, "if you would please refrain from your usual hijinks, unless of course you have something to contribute to the current discussion…"

Sirius frantically shook his head as he slid down in his seat. Maybe he should turn into Padfoot and then he could hide under the seat.

"…the new members of the Wizengamot an opportunity to introduce themselves," Faulks droned on.

"An excellent idea," Dumbledore smiled benignly looking up at the seated members. "As I'm sure many of you have noticed there are a number of new faces among us."

"Oh, yippee," Sirius muttered to himself, more boredom. Why hadn't he thought to bring a magazine or something with him? He winced as the roll of parchment poled him hard in the back of the head, followed by Lady Cromwell's meaningful growl. Honestly, he was going to have to invent some excuse or other to move the family seat or something, because he wasn't sure how much of this he could take.

"…Malcolm Brown, I'm a book keeper for the Cleansweep Broom Company," the nervous man adjusted his glasses with an awkward laugh. "Due to my being a cousin through the paternal line, I will be sitting for the Gibbon family seat."

A book keeper? He looked it too, Sirius thought, from the top of his boringly safe haircut, slightly thinning at the temples, to the tips of his utterly dull shoes, which though well worn, had been carefully polished for the occasion.

And who was this weirdo? He gave the woman who stood up an incredulous stare. It was like she'd tried to make her garments every single colour of the rainbow. Even her socks were stripy, her bright red shoes and very frizzy orange hair clashing nastily with her official Wizengamot robes.

"…lecturer in Sociology for the Open University. I must admit," she looked around the Hall, her multitude of silver, amber, and turquoise jewellery clanking, "I was rather surprised when I received the letter from the goblins informing me I was eligible to sit for the Lestrange seat. But what a wonderful opportunity," she smiled happily as she gazed around.

Lestrange? Sirius grinned nastily; Bella and her darlings would have had a fit…though the Open University? He'd heard of that before. Wasn't that that thing Allesandor seemed to obsess over during the summer?

A few others introduced themselves, a lady who apparently worked elsewhere within the Ministry but she was very vague about where, which usually meant either the DMLE or DoM. Then there was another really bewildered dull looking man, who blinked around him as if he were trapped in a particularly horrible dream and hopefully was going to wake up any moment now.

That was when the cowled figure stood up, shifting nervously as it looked around. "It has been a long time since I last set foot within the walls of the Wizengamot," he gave a wheezing sigh, "not since 1821, in fact…after my unfortunate accident, my eldest son took over the role of family patriarch before passing it on to his son in his turn. But now I find my family sadly diminished, just the son of a disinherited daughter left. 'Tis terribly sad," he sighed again, his robes rustling as he shifted. "I am Augustus Severus Prince and I will be sitting for the Prince seat."

Sirius stared, a slow smile beginning to spread across his face as he applauded enthusiastically. This was absolutely utterly brilliant. If only mummy darling was alive to see this, she'd be spitting fireworks, but not like that time he'd actually managed to charm her that way. He missed accidental magic so much.

. .oOo.

He couldn't believe he managed to get himself in this mess, he grumbled to himself as he leaned over the cluttered desk to retrieve the official stamp. "Bloody paperwork, bloody muggles," he growled out loud as he stamped a series of documents relating to some official something or other with the muggle police force.

"Bloody Carrow," he snarled, as he flung the stamp back onto its ink pad. How had someone like that, so obviously not normal for either a muggle or a wizard just walked into such a prime position in the Wizengamot? And in so little time as well.

That was over two years ago now and the man was poking his nose into everything, upsetting people right left and centre and just generally meddling, turning the entire Magical government upside down in the process. Entire sub-committees had disappeared, departments had been combined, prominent (and to his mind completely useless) purebloods had been sacked for various misdemeanours ranging from actively stealing from the Ministry coffers to just never turning up to work, half-blood and even muggle-born employees had been promoted to positions where they actually had some real power.

And what had he, Martin "Marty" Cuthbert Stewart managed to achieve over the last two years? Abso-bloody-lutely nothing! That's what. He glared around his dingy office, sneering at the cup-rings on his colleague's desk (lazy bastard), the peeling paint of the walls, an old yellowing poster that shouted Follow the green cross code!, the piles of paperwork his bloody work mate had decided he couldn't be bothered to do and were probably going to land up on his desk come tomorrow morning; hey Marty, could you do me a favour? Funny how it never worked the other way.

All he'd managed to do over the last two years was get further into debt with a bunch of people he'd wished he'd never met in his life.

All he'd wanted was a way of relieving the stress after work. Sure, going to the pub for a pint with some friends had been one thing, but then they'd started going to the cockfights and he'd placed a few bets, even won a bit, much to his delight. Got quite good at judging a bird's potential really. More often than not he'd broken even.

But then he'd decided to have a go at the big game, the bare-knuckle fighting, a little at first but the more matches he'd watched the more he'd been dragged in. There was just something so primal watching two people have at each other with nothing but their bare fists. So he'd begun to bet bigger and bigger, and then he'd lost big time, his rent money and everything, and the more he'd tried to dig himself out of his mess the worse things had got until he was seriously considering just packing his bags and just slipping away in the night…or he could just kill himself. A quick severing charm to the neck…he'd heard the trick was to bounce it off a mirror or something, made it easier for the magic to work.

He slammed the stamp down on yet another set of documents, their contents a dull smear of legalese. Tossing them into his out tray, they disappeared with a whoosh to some distant part of the Ministry. Feeling as grey as the walls, he pulled the next pile of governmental drivel towards him, the seemingly ever growing pile of parchment that filled his in-box teetering dangerously, before it finally unbalanced, cascading to the floor, drifting under every inconvenient obstacle it could.

"Well, bloody sodding hell!" Marty roared, aiming a kick at a very official looking document that even had a red wax seal. Bloody stuff did it on purpose he swore. He grumbled as he stiffly got down on his hands and knees so he could fish the damn stuff out from under the filing cabinet, and the desk, and even the stationary cupboard. He glared furiously at the recalcitrant piece of parchment.

Reaching forward, he stretched out to grab the corner of the blasted thing. To his surprise, the slightly grimy carpet came up to meet him, his vision beginning to grey at the edges as he blacked out.

.oOo.

"I thought he was never going to move," Caroline grumbled as she put her wand back into her holster, "honestly, the inconsideration of some people."

Annie gently poked the prostrate ministry employee with a foot. "Are you sure you didn't hit him a little too hard?"

Caroline glowered at her friend. "I've not really used a wand in a while but I've been practising hard these last few weeks, so maybe he was just inconsiderate and hit the floor harder than was strictly necessary."

Annie gave her a quizzical look. "How did he do that? He was only about a foot off it to begin with…"

"Shouldn't we just go and get the boss," Caroline interrupted her, "I'm sure he'll be eager to get started." She turned to the door, only to find Carrow easing his gigantic frame through the normal sized opening.

"Oh, Sir!" she warbled. "We were just about to fetch you. Your timing is excellent."

Carrow gave them a flat look as he looked round the small room with narrowed eyes. "The bickering suggested you had succeeded. Naturally I came to investigate. Roll him over…please."

Sighing heavily, Annie nudged the Ministry drone over with a foot. The man slumped onto his back, his mouth slack in his pale blotchy face.

Carrow crouched down carefully on one knee in the limited room he had, ignoring the fascinated stares of the two vampire ladies. Letting his mind drift away from the reality of the office, he sank into the man's consciousness. This "Marty" had one of the shallowest minds he'd come across, stilted and flat from years of daily monotony, memories of the same paperwork, the same faces over and over again until they resembled a bad photocopy (he ought to know, he actually tried it out once, until Timothy had told him off for wasting toner ink).

Layered underneath were all the hopes and dreams cruelly crushed and stunted by the harsh reality of adult life, of the desperation and drag of needing to earn a living, any living, to stay alive, the reality of being a half blood child of muggle-born parents, a nobody, a third class citizen.

Down further to childish wishes and fantasies, the joy of actively doing magic with a wand, friendships and fighting, flying a broom. Down to the beating heart of the man; here Carrow stayed a moment in the thrumming pulsing darkness and warmth of Martin "Marty" Cuthbert Stewart's very being, his instincts, his base impulses, his obsessions…which seemed to mostly revolve around his lack-of-a-sex-life and his gambling addiction, shallow and simple urges, and of course the reason why he had been siphoning money off from the departmental budget. Gambling dens and hookers, hardly unusual; what was interesting though was who he owed money to.

Placing his carefully crafted seed of control, he retreated back to the safety of his being and the solid reality of the office and the appraising looks of the two vampires.

"You glowed blue a bit," Annie said, arms folded over her chest as she stared at him thoughtfully.

"Honestly," Caroline sighed, "that had to be some of the most un-dramatic magic I have ever seen…but he is ours now, isn't he?"

Carrow shook his head with a sigh. "Indeed he is, and the less who know the better…" he gave the pair a withering look.

"Of course, Sir," Annie smiled nervously, Caroline nodding as she bobbed a little curtsey.

"Good." Carrow gave a sharp nod. Turning with a sigh, he began the annoying process of easing himself through the ridiculously undersized door.

.oOo.

Marty woke with a start, his mouth tasting as if he'd been eating the office carpet, which considering he was lying on the floor, was a real possibility. How the heck did he get down here? He could remember sitting at his desk finishing up the last bits of paperwork for the day, and then…

He scratched his head in frustration as he looked around in puzzlement to find sheaves of parchment littering the floor. Snarling in frustration, he began to gather them up. How long had he been asleep, because obviously he must have drifted off at some point.

Dumping it all back on his desk in a heap, he checked the time. Oh hell, oh bloody buggering…snarling, he kicked the chair, causing it to skitter across the carpet, teetering dangerously for a moment. This would be the second time this week alone that he'd failed to make it back to his flat. He might as well just get a sleeping bag and set up home under his desk. It would certainly save on rent, and there'd be less cockroaches too.

Damn, he could do with a shower, and a shave. He slumped against his desk as he scrubbed a hand across the stubbly mess of his chin. Looked like freshening charms again, he sniffed his armpit, oh yeah definitely needed, but first breakfast.

Marty stretched with a yawn, wincing as his jaw cracked. What he really fancied was sardines on toast. Oh yeah, that would go down a treat.