Same disclaimers as before.

Chapter 4: The Rise and Fall of Lewis Prothero

"I'll tell you what I know," barked Prothero into the microphone, "I know this is not a wizard we're dealing with here." He had been moved to Booth 5 for safety concerns after the terrorist known only as V had hijacked the Daily Prophet's radio station from his spacious and luxurious Booth 3. Booth 5 was tight and cramped. It was generally reserved for news stories of little value or interest. In Prothero's opinion, putting the voice of the new Ministry of Magic in such a confining space was nothing less than criminal. But he wasn't on air to discuss his new arrangements; he was there to discuss the terrorist.

"A wizard does not threaten innocents! A wizard does not put others in harms way! No, good wizards and witches of England, what we are dealing with here is a treacherous, conniving, magic-stealing mudblood!" In his mind, Prothero could here the screams and cries of support from his loyal fans across the country. "Yes! Though we don't yet know the true identity of this 'V', I can personally assure the public, on my honor as a news reporter, that he stole his magic from some poor, deserving wizard." Lewis leaned into the microphone and spoke softly, almost seductively to his audience. "That's what they are, folks. Every mudblood freak among us is nothing more than a cowardly thief with counterfeit magic." He paused a moment to let that sink in before he began anew.

"I tell you what I wish," he said, "I wish I'd been there. I wish I'd had the chance for a face to face. Just one chance; that's all I'd need." Outside his booth, he could see the radio director move his wand across his neck, signaling Prothero to wrap it up. "I must leave you now, listeners," Prothero said, "But remember; we have nothing to fear from this mudblood. England prevails!" The 'on air' light switched off and Prothero walked briskly out of the booth. "It's like a goddamn oven in there!" he snarled as his assistant followed him towards his office, "Thank God for my girls. Without them, this job can be downright unbearable. Remember that, lad." He barked to his assistant, "Always keep some women nearby to keep you relaxed. Otherwise, you go mad from the pressure." He yanked open the door to his office, fully prepared to dive into a sea of private areas and secret pleasures. However, for the first time in months, Prothero's office was empty, no laced up showgirls were waiting for him. He stared into the room, not entirely able to process what he was seeing.

"Roger," he said slowly, "Where are my girls?"

His assistant gulped. "Th-they all quit, sir," he stuttered, "Th-they didn't f-feel

safe here."

Prothero stared at the room and growled. "For the love of Christ!" he muttered, storming off.

. . .

Hours later, Prothero was in his bathroom. It was a large room, the size of his old Slytherin dormitory. He was shaving in front of a mirror that stretched across an entire wall. In the corner, a large, ornate radio was playing a repeat of his earlier broadcast. As he listened to his own voice, Prothero grumbled to himself. "Note to self;" he said, "Fire the sound mixer. He makes me sound like a whiny brat." He put down his razor and rubbed his face, feeling the newly smoothed skin. With a wave of his wand, he turned on his shower. Water poured from the ceiling and he dropped his wand in the sink as he stepped under the spell-driven shower. His latest show wrapped up and a show from a few weeks ago began. Prothero rubbed himself with a bar of soap and spoke along with his own voice.

"Undesirable Number 1 is still at large, the avaricious, lying bastard. If were up to him, we'd all bow down to the mudblood thieves! And now, news is coming in that he is still being supported by the so-called Order of the Phoenix! Traitors not only to their family and friends, but the God-fearing nation of England! Even with our glorious New Order in power, they insist on spouting their message of hate. No mercy, I say good listeners, no-" the radio shut off abruptly. Prothero turned and saw that it had fallen on the floor.

The lights flickered and went out, leaving Prothero in the dark. "Is someone there?" he called, "This is a private residence! Get out before I call the Snatchers!"

"No." It was one word, but it made Prothero's heart skip. The voice was cold and unforgiving.

"Who are you?" demanded Prothero, grabbing in the dark for his wand.

"There was something you said on your show last week that I rather enjoyed, Mr. Prothero," said the voice. It seemed to come from every corner of the dark room. Prothero stumbled towards the sink and began searching the whole wall for it. "'Good guys win, bad guys lose, and as always, England prevails.'" Mused the voice, "An admirable statement. But it got me thinking; what if the lines between good and bad are blurred? What if someone was to, oh, say for example, blow up the Old Bailey? Would they be justified in the eyes of the people if they knew that he was doing a good thing?"

"Shut up," whispered Prothero. Finally, he found the sink. He fumbled for a moment with his wand before grasping it and spinning around. "Lumos!" the room was enlightened by the tip of his wand. He turned back and forth, but found that he was completely alone in the bathroom.

"What if the people knew that he was giving his enemies a chance?" said the voice. Prothero rounded and stared at the radio on the ground. It was face down over a drain, letting the voice seep through every connected line in the apartment. "That he was destroying the Old Bailey in the same way that a hunter puts a dying animal out of its misery. What would the people think then, Mr. Prothero?"

"What I tell them to think!" shouted Prothero at the radio

"And therein lies the problem," said the voice with a sigh as Prothero knelt down and righted the overturned radio, "You know, what I really liked about what you said was how you said it. It was the exact same tone of voice that you used the last time we spoke."

Prothero stood and readied his wand to destroy the radio. "You do remember me, don't you, Mr. Prothero? You wore a hood and mask then, but I doubt it impeded your vision."

"Incendio!" shouted Prothero. The radio burst into red and gold flames.

"You don't remember me, Mr. Prothero?" the voice continued, "I was at Larkhill." The speakers exploded from the flames. At the same time, the door to the room opened and Prothero turned to see a black cloaked figure with a white mask. Before he could react, the figure lazily tossed a knife at him, slicing his wand into two clean pieces. Prothero dropped the half he held as he stared at V.

"You," he whispered. Images flashed though his mind; a black-bagged prisoner writhing in pain, the archway to the Larkhill facility, a massive fire with a shadowy outline of a man walking through it. "It's you, isn't it."

V leaned down. Prothero had a feeling that the smile on his mask was being reciprocated underneath it. "The ghost of Christmas past." Said V.

. . .

Finch was dreaming. He was on a beach somewhere with the sun raining delightful rays upon his skin. At his side was a lovely, bikini-clad woman.

"How are you, dearie?" she asked, gently rubbing his arm.

"Just peachy, love," he said, "Can I get you anything?"

"Actually yes, can you get me some explosives, darling? I need to blow up the Old Bailey tomorrow." Finch turned and saw that the woman's face was covered with a smiling Guy Fawkes mask.

He awoke with a groan.

"Finch!" Finch started and sat upright in bed, staring into the dying fire in the fireplace across the room. Dominic's face was coming out of the fire, a serious look on his face.

Finch rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Jesus, Dominic, what is it?"

"Lewis Prothero is dead."

Finch stared at him. "No he isn't. I listened to him this afternoon."

"Well, he's dead now, Finch."

"Let me get dressed. Then he can be dead."

. . .

Finch stared at the corpse. Prothero was fatter in person. Finch had always imagined an intimidating man of stature behind the microphone, but instead there was just a flab of a man. A single red rose was placed delicately across his chest.

Patricia, the woman from the Daily Prophet stood next to Finch as he examined the body. "Prime Minister Thickness agrees that we should keep this quiet. We have to maintain control of the situation." Finch grunted in reply. "The loss of the voice of the ministry could be devastating for the New Order is taken in the wrong context."

"You can't just pretend he didn't die," Finch pointed out, "His listeners will wonder where his new material is if you keep playing reruns."

Patricia sighed. "A stroke perhaps? No, to tragic." She thought for a moment. "A quiet, dignified death in his sleep. Yes, that'll do."

Finch crouched down next to the bloody body. "We'll take him in for an autopsy, but with no weapon and multiple stab wounds, I think we can safely rule out a suicide. Until further notice, we're calling this a murder."

Dominic walked up besides him. "Some kind of blade killed him, so the killer must have gotten in close. But this building is under the protection of Ministry Aurors and Snatchers. How did the killer get in?"

Patricia snorted. "I can answer that one. Neighbors and Aurors say they saw a woman matching the description of Evey Hammond come into the building and go into the apartment. They all assumed she was just another one of his prostitutes."

Dominic stared at the body. "So Evey Hammond did this?"

"No," said Finch, rising to his feet, "Hammond is maybe 50 kilos. Even with a wand and a blade, I doubt she could have overpowered Prothero. No, this was the work of someone stronger, someone who knew what they were doing." Finch pointed to the floor besides Prothero. The two pieces of his wand were laid out neatly in the shape of a V, set over a small circle of blood.

Dominic rubbed his chin. "So, V holds Evey Hammond hostage, uses her hair for Polyjuice Potion and takes her form to sneak into Lewis Prothero's apartment and then kills him?"

"Something like that."

"She's in deep."

Patricia grunted angrily. She checked her watch and sighed. "Damn. Why did he have to live here?" Finch raised his eyebrow questioningly. "There are muggles here who knew Prothero," she explained, "We'll have to feed our statements to the muggles as well."

. . .

Evey awoke to the sound of fighting. "V?" she whimpered, flinging herself out of bed. She dodged nimbly around books and artworks as she ran into the Shadow Gallery. There, V was engaged in a violent fight to the death with a stationary set of armor. He twirled a thin rapier, leaving scratches and dents in the old, albeit well-preserved, armor.

"Ha!" cried V energetically, "En guard, my fat metal friend!" As Evey turned and saw an old, black-and-white movie playing on the nearby telly. It was a fight scene with invigorating music perfect for battle. V drew in close to the armor and lifted its hand up to grab him by the neck as he faked being choked. Evey watched as he threw himself backwards and spun his sword, beheading the poor, innocent armor.

"Bravo." She said.

V turned and lowered his sword sheepishly. "Oh, uh, I hope I didn't wake you."

"No, I just thought you were fighting. For real, I mean."

V lifted his rapier and pointed at the telly. "My favorite film, the Count of Monte Cristo with Robert Donat as Edmond Dantes. It's not my sword, Mondego, but your past that disarmed you." He said along with the actor. "Oh," he sighed, "It gets me every time."

"Never seen it."

"Really?" exclaimed V, "Would you like to?"

Evey arched her eyebrow. "Does it have a happy ending?"

"As only cinema can deliver."

"Alright then," she said, "But put the sword away first."

. . .

Dominic walked into Finch's office. "No magical residue was left behind at the scene." He grumbled, "No sign of anything that could be used to track V. The man's a bloody ghost, except even the ghosts in the Tower don't know who he is." The ghosts of the Tower of London were notoriously chatty since their demise, and they tended to know a great many things. Dominic plopped himself down in his chair with a sigh. "You wouldn't believe what we got on Prothero, though."

Finch glanced up from the file he was reading. "Illegal contraband?"

Dominic nodded. "Stolen dragon blood, fake Felix Felicis, even some unicorn bones. Could've started his own smuggling ring. How'd you know?"

Finch put down the file. "Did you know that before he became the voice of the New Order, Prothero was one of the richest men in both the wizard and muggle worlds?"

"More contraband?"

"Legal trading. Investments and the like. He traded mostly in magical enhancements."

"Magical enhancements."

"Yeah, they were all the rage a few years back during the first war. Little trinkets or tattoos you could get that would boost your magic or make you immune to curses or such. They were utter rubbish for the most part, but enough people swore by them to make it a fairly prosperous business. At the very least it was lucrative for Prothero. Here." Finch handed over a photograph that showed a younger, slimmer Prothero shaking hands with a tall blonde man.

"Is that who I think it is?"

"Yep. Lucius Malfoy. After Prothero got rich, he started hanging out with Malfoy's crowd and eventually landed himself a cushy job in radio with his new connections."

"So?"

Finch leaned back in his chair. "So at what point did he piss off V? And at what point did V decide he wanted vengeance, paid in full?"

Dominic looked up at him. "You think this was personal?"

"There are no coincidences, Dominic. Until we know for sure what V's planning, we have to assume that everything he does is to fulfill some kind of vendetta."

. . .

"You find your own tree." Said V with a happy sigh as the film ended. He turned to Evey. "Did you like it?"

"Yes," she said with a slight snivel, "But it made me feel sorry for Mercedes."

"Why?"

"Because," Evey turned to look at V, "Dantes cared more about revenge than he did for her." The movie's end credits wrapped up and the film player turned off. As it did, the telly turned to a muggle news station.

"And in other news," said the female anchor, "A London man was found dead in his apartment last night." V moved to turn off the telly, but Evey raised her hand to stop him. "Lewis Prothero was suffocated by a gas leak in his sleep."

Evey stared at the screen. "Lewis Prothero?" she whispered, "Dead?" She turned off the television and slowly stood up. "V?" she said, "The other day I was in the bathroom and I noticed I was missing a lock of hair." She hesitated. "You didn't cut my hair, did you?"

V sat motionless on the couch. "Would you prefer a lie or the truth?"

Evey stared at him. "Did…did you have anything to do with…with that?" she pointed to the black screen.

"Yes," said V as if he were discussing the weather, "I killed him."

"Oh," Evey murmured, "Oh God."

"You seem upset."

"Upset? You just told me you killed Lewis Prothero!"

V shrugged. "I may have killed the Snatchers that attacked you, but I heard no objection then."

Evey stared at him, her eyes wide and her fists clenched. "What? But…" she struggled to find the words she was looking for. Hell, she was trying to find out how she felt about all this.

"Violence can be used for good," said V, crossing his legs.

"What are you talking about?" whispered Evey, sinking to her knees.

"Justice," said V simply.

"Oh." Evey whispered, barely audible to even herself.

"There's no room in this country for men like Prothero." Said V with a slight yawn.

Evey hesitated. "And…are you going to kill more people?"

V turned to her and folded his hands over his lap. "Yes."

. . .

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