The plane landed at Heathrow and the team found themselves in long cars driven by shady looking men. As mysterious as the drivers were, the cars themselves were much more so. On the outside, they couldn't be any larger than a Volkswagen, but the insides could've been that of a stretch limousine. Aside from that, the cars seemed to be at their destination quite sooner than anticipated, given London traffic.
"Where are we?" asked Follett.
Franks threw his bag over his shoulder and slammed the car door. "This here's the Ministry of Magic."
Gibbs looked around. They were standing in an alleyway lined with trash and graffiti. Most of the windows and shops around had been boarded up, and there was an old telephone box that looked like it was from the 1940s.
"Doesn't look like much," Gibbs said, blandly.
"Neither do you," snapped Franks as he slapped the back of Gibbs's head. "In the phone booth, probie."
Follett, Gibbs, Franks, and Dr. Magnus all squeezed into the tiny box. Franks picked up the receiver and dialed "62442."
"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic Visitor's Entrance," said a cool female voice. "Please state your name and purpose."
"NCIS Agents Michael Franks, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, and Victoria Follett along with Dr. Walter Magnus. We're hunting for your dirtbag, Sirius Black."
Out of the coin slot slid four buttons. Gibbs took his and read it. "NCIS Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs: Dirtbag Hunt"
Gibbs was torn between amusement and disbelief when he realized the phone booth was sinking like an elevator. Soon, they were below the pavement.
Then, they saw the Ministry.
It was the largest structure Gibbs thought he had ever been in. It was wide and tall with black and blue brickwork, fireplaces lining the walls where wizards and witches disappeared quickly. Looking up over the atrium he saw windows of Ministry employee offices, through which he could see said employees doing their jobs.
It was truly a remarkable sight.
The phone booth completed its descent to the floor and the Agents piled out.
"Take a good look, probie" Franks said as the phone booth began to rise again, it's occupants expunged. "You're one of the few Muggles who actually sees this place."
Franks led them to a desk where a bored-looking clerk was waiting. "Names?" he asked.
"Franks, Gibbs, Follett and Magnus," answered Franks, gruffly.
"May I see your wand?" the clerk asked, stifling a yawn.
"You can see my Muggle equivalent," said Franks, passing over his gun.
The clerk took it and looked at it confusedly. "What's this supposed to be?" He held it up and peered down into the barrel. Follett quickly snatched it from his band. "It's a weapon," she said, "and you nearly killed yourself. We're Muggles. We're here about Sirius Black?"
The clerk gave a soft "oh" of comprehension. "Yes, Mr. Fudge did say- alright, well. Go on down to the second level, that's the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Mr. Scrimgeur will fill you in."
As Franks led them up to the lifts, Follett walked quickly to keep up with him. "Have you met this Scrimgeur?" she asked.
Franks shook his head roughly. "I don't know who he is. Back then, I dealt with the Head of the Department, a man by the name of Bartemius Crouch, and the Head of the Auror Office was Alastor Moody. The lead investigator in Black's case was Frank Longbottom."
The lift opened and the man inside caught Franks's last few words. "Frank Longbottom is no longer with the Auror Office," he said. Franks sighed. "Killed in action?"
The man shook his head sadly. "It'd be better if he did. Tortured into insanity, along with his partner."
"Sorry to hear it," Franks said, and he meant it. "Frank was a good man."
"I'm Rufus Scrimgeur," the man said, shaking each of the agent's hands. "I'm head of the Auror Office now. The lead investigator in the Black case is Kingsley Shacklebolt."
The lift arrived at the second level and the agents piled out. "What do we know?" asked Franks.
"The guards went in to feed him and he just wasn't there," said Scrimgeur. "No idea how he escaped but we do think we know where he's going."
"Which is?" asked Follett.
"The guards heard him talking in his sleep the last few nights before he escaped. Always the same words, 'he's at Hogwarts. he's at Hogwarts.' Hogwarts is the school where Harry Potter, the son of Lily and James Potter, goes to."
"I'm trying to remember everything, just give me a minute," said Franks. "Black worked for a dark wizard named Voldemort... and Voldemort murdered James and Lily because Black betrayed them but Voldemort was destroyed somehow when he tried to kill Harry?"
Scrimgeur, who Gibbs noticed flinched every time Franks said the word "Voldemort", said, "Yes, that's right. We think Black may see murdering Harry Potter as a way of bringing You-Know-Who back into power."
Franks donned a look of confusion. "You-Know-Who?"
Scrimgeur glared in his direction. "Voldemort."
"Oh, him," said Franks. "Well, where's Harry now?"
"He's safe," said Scrimgeur. "Fudge himself had him checked into a room at the local inn. He's being watched every hour of every day. Black can't get to him as long as he's there." Scrimgeur paused for a breath. "What we're worried about is once Harry goes to Hogwarts. Hogwarts is already dangerous enough, but Black went there too. No doubt he knows other ways in. He's the first person ever to escape from Azkaban. He could get into a school if he tried."
Gibbs was still waiting to be introduced to Kingsley. Scrimgeur noticed him looking around and said, "Shacklebolt is currently at Azkaban prison, looking through Black's cell. You'll be joining him shortly."
"Alright," said Franks. "When do we go?"
"Now," said Scrimgeur handing him a brief-case. "Each of you lay a finger on this."
They did as they were instructed and then, with a jolting feeling around their navel, they were transported miles and miles away. Gibbs had a soaring feelings and he got the idea that whatever was happening, he was moving very VERY quickly. And as quickly as the feeling came, it passed.
They were immediately colder. Gibbs could hear the crash of waves against a rocky shore. He looked up to see a tall tower. Screams of pain, real or imagined, could be heard all over.
"This way," said Scrimgeaur. He led them to the entrance to the tower. Gibbs could just feel a growing sense of dread. It was almost as if he would never be happy again.
"Probie, you alright?" Franks asked.
Gibbs was conscious of hearing Franks's voice, but he couldn't understand what he was hearing.
Instead, he heard a different voice, the voice of his Commanding Officer back in Kuwait. "They're both dead. I'm sorry, Gunny."
"Gunny!"
Gibbs could hear the explosions as clear as if they were happening. He remembered the mixture of anger and sadness that consumed him to charge into a battle zone with his weapon. He remembered the sudden immense pain of being thrown from his feet and the burning sensation of the explosion close enough to have killed him.
"Probie!"
Gibbs wasn't responsive.
...
...
Gibbs could hear voices. They were definitely talking about him. It sounded like Franks. He attempted to lift his heavy eyelids, and at first was unsuccessful. Once again, he tried. This time, he opened his eyes enough to see torchlight. Torchlight? What?
He opened his eyes further. He was lying in a large stone room. There were comfortable couches and chairs and four extremely fluffy-looking beds. There was a coffee machine and everything else Gibbs could possibly want. Only Franks was present.
"Damn, probie," said Franks. "You look like hell."
Gibbs rubbed the sleep off of his face. "What happened?"
"Hmph," Franks huffed, as he started pacing angrily. "Our friendly wizard tour guide failed to warn us about the guards of that damn place."
Gibbs struggled to remember. "There were guards?"
"Magical creatures that Muggles can't see," Franks explained, "called Dementors. They feed off of happiness. They use them as prison guards because they just drain the happiness out of places. They make you remember your worst memories, and with all the hell you've been through in the past three years, it was more than enough to make you pass out."
"Where are we now?"
"Hogwarts."
Gibbs sat up. The feeling was obviously past now. "Where are Victoria and Dr. Magnus?" he asked.
"They're going over the physical evidence from the scene."
"There was a scene?"
Franks sighed and lit a cigarette. "Black's empty cell. The scene of the crime, probie. Come on, get with it."
Gibbs shook his head. He had to focus. Right... Dark wizard. Murdered a petty officer and twelve others. Escaped from prison. Right. Focus.
"What did you find?" Gibbs asked, debating whether or not to stand up.
"Absolutely nothing," said Franks. "There is no tunnel, no opening, no lock pick or anything that can be considered evidence for how he got out."
Gibbs thought furiously. "Maybe a someone let him out. An... accomplice." Gibbs was still getting used to copper vocabulary. "Did you check for fingerprints or footprints in the cell?"
Franks exhaled smoke and shook his head. "Negatory. No one has been to see Black since the Minister did a routine visit a a few days before he got out. Besides, only the dementors can open cells."
Gibbs shivered at the thought of the dementors. "Couldn't a dementor let him out?"
Franks shrugged. "It's possible, I suppose but why would they?"
To that, Gibbs had no answer, but he decided to stick with that theory. He didn't trust the dementors anymore than he could see them.
"So if there was no physical evidence from the scene..." said Gibbs, hesitantly...
"From that scene," Franks corrected. "Magnus decided to revisit the evidence from the scene of the murder twelve years ago."
"Which we are now done doing," announced Dr. Magnus as he walked back in, followed by Agent Follett. "I just convinced poor Mrs. Pettigrew to allow us to re-examine the finger of her son."
"And?" asked Franks, removing his considerably shorter cigarette.
"Nothing more than I told you twelve years ago, Agent Franks," said the M.E., sadly. "Left pointer finger, the largest remaining piece of Pettigrew or any of the victims we could find."
He held up a photo of the finger for Franks and Gibbs to examine. It was not Gibbs' first severed finger. He had seen fellow Marines die in explosions and once had seen a finger detached from the rest. He had seen a finger detached from a body through explosive trauma...
...And this was definitely wrong.
"That can't be right," said Gibbs, taking the photograph and pointing at the end of the finger. "That wasn't blown off by an explosion," said Gibbs. "It's way too clean. It looks more like it's been cut off."
The rest of the team examined the photo as well. "Well, this is magic, Gibbs," said Follett. "Obviously this sort of curse doesn't just explode."
"But that's what happened to the other victims," said Gibbs. "Their whole bodies were blown apart. This finger wasn't blown off his hand."
"Well maybe-" Follett started, with a raised voice, but Franks raised his voice higher.
"Hey!" he shouted. "Always work as a team. Now we have some evidence. Let's figure out what it means. We need a way to compare this kind of curse."
Franks looked at the two of them. Follett spoke first. "We could ask another Dark Wizard... who worked for the same Dark Wizard Black did."
"Voldemort," said Franks.
Follett blinked. "I thought you kept forgetting his name."
Franks threw out his finished cigarette and just smiled. "These damn wizards are so scared of this guy, they don't even call him his name. Just 'You-Know-Who' or 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.' So stupid. I just try to get them to say his name, acting like I've forgotten."
Gibbs laughed and Follett shot him a dirty look. "Don't encourage him," she snapped.
"Well that's a good theory, Follett," said Franks, turning away now. "Start working on that tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" asked Gibbs. "Why can't we start now, boss?"
"The students just arrived," said Franks. "We're expected at the welcoming feast. The headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, wants to introduce us."
