The World War which shook Europe from 1997 to 2001 was exclusively the longed-for result of British arrogance. Although the whole world had at that time been mobilized against us, Britain was actually not defeated yet. I may safely state this today.
And yet to speak of England's world power as the master of the world, is nothing but an illusion. I will begin with the internal situation: The interests of the inner circle were of no weight in determining the orientation of our aim. One spoke about freedom, one spoke about democracy, one spoke about the achievements of a worldwide system, meaning nothing but the stabilization of society, which, thanks to our Leader, was able to survive as an elite population.
As for Harry Potter, he had no say in the matter. One would think he might have stopped caring, but that was not true. For some reason Harry Potter was lost, and I admit it, I was intrigued to study him – to watch his pained expression as he scribed down the nonsense we dared name strategies. Head down, fists clutched, he was a prisoner of his personal history, while everyone believed that his main purpose in life was to follow a plan. They never asked if that plan was his or if it was created by the Dark Lord and thrown upon him - so I decided to solve this out. I needed answers.
"Do you think we'll be waiting long?" I asked the Dark Lord one night, keeping my voice low. "The last time we were in this building, someone accused Harry Potter of being a traitor. How long do we have to wait for him to prove he follows you from his heart?" The Dark Lord smiled that particular smile – the one he'd give when he was trapped, but yet remained deadly serious. "Yes, I think you'll be waiting long."
Half-joking, I informed him that my wealth had seen better days, and he should give me a wiser reason to trust the boy if I was to waste my last penny for his plans. As calmly as he could, he told me not to worry. "As long as we are the ones who rule over the world we don't need money, and if we lose, money won't be able to save us."
Even then, I had more faith in the Dark Lord than anyone else. He alone had kept his promises, all his promises, to the mugglepeople. And Harry Potter would be cold and outlandish, all of sudden. He became a strict leader himself, barely talking, makingdecisions without asking permission or discussing any of them. How did he change, after the battle of Germany, and if this had to do with Severus Snape, I was not yet to know. Recalling Potter's behavior though, I believe one thing for sure: Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
"Memories Of The Blood Purge War", Lucius Malfoy - 2030 (page 91)
I look at the mirror, examining my reflection.
Unruly, wild jet-black hair, with little flocks popping up all around; fringe untamed, covering half my forehead, leaving exposed the thin pink scar that's formed into the shape of a lightning bolt. White skin. Pale, with a couple of spots under the chin. No facial hair. Not much, that is. Yet, more than last year. Green eyes. Almond shaped eyes, like my mother's. Eyes… eyes – look at me – dark circles under green eyes. Round rimmed glasses hooked on a regular nose. Pink lips. I'm still myself. Still me.
I wash my face, leaving my glasses in arm's reach on the bench. I'm still here. Alive. I'm still Harry Potter.
Somehow I can't match the name with the reflection I see before me. I pinch my arms to ensure I am awake; I scratch my wrists. The marks around them are almost healed. I wash harder.
It's been a week. My stomach has gotten worse today, despite the sedatives. I've been ending up nauseous after every meal for the past days, and I can't even help it. I take small bites of whatever the elf brings me, and usually throw up shortly after it. My fault. I don't feel hungry at all. Not anymore. Voldemort didn't visit again, except to inform me that he announced to the conference that I was experiencing a rather exhausting flu, and I'm in need of rest. He leaves my office work outside of the door, daily. We don't discuss what happened.
It occurs to me that, judging from the fresh blood I find on my underwear every morning, I should probably get some medical care. I forbid myself thinking about it – there is no way I visit a hospital about this, and I'd better die right now than ask of Voldemort to help me get a treatment.
I'm worthless. There's no use blaming Voldemort or – or him – or anyone else. Voldemort wanted revenge and he was right to do so. I should be killed for what I did. I should suffer worse. Why didn't he kill me? I should be dead. This emptiness would eventually go away then.
Yet the feeling remains, terrifying and vivid; every time the lights go off, I am convinced surely I died somewhere in the middle of this week and didn't notice.
The beats of my heart at night make me frustrated; I don't deserve them, and they're loud, so loud, like the bells of a large, echoing church in the middle of nowhere. They distract me. I stay awake and push my face into the pillows, seeking a comfort I won't be granted with. I hate being awake. The thinking becomes too intense, too much. Sleeping is worse.
I thought that at least the fear would fade. Instead, the things that I remember, the huffs, the whispers, seem to grow stronger, to the point where I can feel their weight in my chest. It's unbearable. And nothing is worse than stepping into my room at night, afraid of what broken pieces of myself I might find there. How I'll have to struggle to keep the images away from my head. How when the light goes off, the nightmare becomes real again.
I made some firecalls and canceled two appointments that I'd be furious to miss under other circumstances. I considered canceling my visit to the Minister himself - only I can't do that, and he'd better be waiting for me today. The elves are bringing me soups and compresses, apprehensive, avoiding any question about the reason of my sickness. I fake a low coughing when they are near. I caught Hokey checking on me yesterday night and I was startled to death.
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME?" I shouted at him, so loud my eyes watered and my vocals hurt. So loud I felt likebreaking the air of the room in two. The elf stepped back in fear and disappeared; I stayed awake until the morning.
I smoked a new pack, whole. It wasn't enough. My eyes kept watering, reminding me how weak I am. I blamed the nicotine.
The fourth day I made myself presentable and, after showering for a good couple of hours, in which I mostly clawed my torso under the steaming shower, I showed up to the deliberation and silently kept notes of the new strategy. Voldemort didn't bother to ask of my opinion this time. I believe he won't, ever again. I avoided meeting his eyes as he passed me over the dossiers. He didn't even bring me into the general discussion.
I nodded my head every now and again, but never looked up. The pen slipped from my hands several times. Dolohov asked if I was feeling alright. I told him to shut up. It occurred to me that I'm nothing to Voldemort anymore; he has at last Europe united under his yoke. He doesn't need me, and he's way too powerful to waste his time being noble and gentle with me. No one seems to have noticed his change of attitude, but I do. I know.
He's been keeping Lucius at his office the last nights, after the meetings. Even if all the doors were closed, I could hear disagreements and furious whispers until the early morning. I wonder if Lucius has considered at all my orders after the outcome of the events. I shouldn't hope for it – for a Malfoy, throwing mudbloods in the sea would certainly be more amusing than actually looking after them. Maybe Voldemort is planning to kill me for real this time, and wants it done quietly. Maybe he's bored of our deal.
It seems that washing is never enough to skin the filth off me. Every time I get out of my room I can't wait to hurry back in so I can bath and wipe Snape's smell off me. And no matter what I do, this smell seems to follow me whenever I go, being always with me, into me, sinking into the roots of my bones. I'm being startled without reason, I feel touches even when I'm alone under my blanket. Snape's hands grabbing me hard, leaving marks only I can see, his voice deep in my ears and my brain. You're not a Commander. I'm not, indeed. These days, I'm barely human.
I stole some sleeping potions from the kitchen's cabinet along with a handful of painkillers, but I'm still unable to prevent the nightmares. Look at me, goddamn you! Whenever I look, time has stuck to Snape's wrathful black eyes. I cannot rest, I cannot think – I'm dead while I'm not, and the anger won't go away no matter how hard I try to discipline myself. I developed a fever for the first couple of days. I was afraid that it might have been an infection, but luckily it soon passed. I want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia.
Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind. Did he take my soul, too?
I stay in bed most of the time. I'm exhausted, more tired than I've ever been. And even though I want to not exist, even though I want collapse into the floor and decay, I know I have to be strong. I have to - because no one is going to be strong for me.
A knock is heard from the door and the old house elf pops his head in and announces, "Master Potter, forgive Bobby, Master, for being annoying while Master Potter is feeling sick. Yaxley sir has come to visit Master Potter and insisted that Harry Potter sir should see him immediately. Yaxley sir is waiting in the lounge. What should Bobby do, Master?"
I push the fog from my mind and try to catch up with reality. Yaxley has come to visit me? What for? If Voldemort was here he would go straight to him, so I must be alone in the house. Maybe Yaxley wanted to talk to him and, seeing he's missing, decided to talk to me instead. None of our fellows contacted me this week, and it can't be because they've been told I have the flu. They simply know I'm not to be trusted anymore. Not after blowing up nine thousand Death Eaters.
"Tell him I'm coming," I order, not really having any other choice. I wear some decent clothes and a regular green cloak before I wash my face for a last time and attempt to comb my hair. The air is getting colder in the House as winter pursues, making the stairs creak and the ceilings whisper during the night. It's as though the ghosts of the people we have killed haunt the place and curse us behind the walls. It's possible.
Dust is covering most of the rooms, since it's only me and Voldemort living here anymore. We keep the offices and the main hall alive while the rest of the rooms rot in the dark. I stop right before climbing down the stairs and lean to the wall, as a thought strikes me. I can't go there. Yaxley will see my face - and he'll know. He'll know what's happened and everybody's going to know if I'm seen. It's somehow written in my face. Somehow, I carry it with me, everywhere. Nothing's changed. Act normal and that's all.
Yaxley is waiting in the lounge indeed, in which he must have entered without the elf's consent. Neither Bobby nor Hokey allow the visitors past the hall, and our visitor's lack of manners is a good enough reason for it. Yaxley probably denied behaving until he saw me, and just walked in. He's peering at a drawer, picking up old bottles of wine and examining them in the dim light. He brings them closer to read the labels, admiring the collection.
I hem, making a show of my disapproving. "Do you consider it wise to fumble the Dark Lord's belongings under his nose, Yaxley?"
"Commander!" He leaves the bottle aside and bows slightly, closing the drawer and leaving the bottles down. "Forgive my tactlessness. Those brands are more than irresistible to look at, let alone drink. They're considered extinct."
"Are they?" Faintly smiling at him, I drop the strictness down and I sit on the sofa, slightly wincing only for a second before I remember to bite it back. The threat is obvious, let me taste or I'll tell, and the New Constitution's Head is such a bitch she won't flinch to impeach even the famous Riddle House. I extend my hand, pointing at the bottles. "Come on, open that drawer again and get us some irresistible drink. You'd better not have poisoned anything." He'd better done.
Yaxley takes his time picking a bottle and eventually pours us a common scotch. "You should be the one to fill the glasses, Potter. I am the visitor after all, and it's your scotch we're drinking." He's not really offended; his voice comes from a distance I can barely grasp. It's really cold in here – more than it was even a few hours ago. Instinctively I look around for Dementors, and when I find none, I relax.
"Lessons from a true gentleman," I mock, "And I've no idea whose scotch is this." I take three full sips and rub my eyes. A soreness seems to have attacked my body again– an itching, irritating feeling all over my arms and legs, as if the blood has been abruptly sucked out of my veins. Stop. I shrug.
"Hard week? You look distracted," he points out.
"Mhm." Yaxley sits at the far end of the couch and leaves some papers on the table. I understand he's probably waiting for me to do something with them, like read them or at least pretend to. Shooing the numbness from my sight, I take a look, browsing through the pages, reading some random passages and finding Voldemort's sign at the last page. Well, burning them would be a better option.
I chuckle, unsure, "That's ridiculous."
"The Dark Lord owled me the command this morning. Once our men heal well enough to move back to the English grounds, he's planning to send another twenty million men to fight. He wants Germany, Potter. He wants all of it. He's considering the battle a won one already."
I shift to my seat and wait for him to announce this is some kind of stupid joke. When he doesn't, confusion overwhelms me and I'm suddenly worried. Voldemort isn't telling me his plans anymore - he's even informed the Ministry instead of me. There is no doubt anymore – he's going to kill me. I swallow hard.
"Yaxley, we don't have twenty million men. I – they're dead. All of the other battalions have moved to Russia and proceed north. Where are we going to find so many soldiers?"
He nods frantically, satisfied someone agrees with him.
"That's what I said. That's exactly what I said. But he seemed positively sure, and ordered me to take a mission to the French battlefield to heal those we can. He wants everything to be done quickly. Once we empty the battlefield he'll act."
Act. So Voldemort must be hiding a second army. Why hadn't he told me? I mentally try to determine when exactly he could have started creating it, if that's even possible, ending up that it would be madness to hide an army in the most crucial period of the war. There must be something else.
"Who runs the project to France?" Annoyance is obvious in my voice.
"You, I was hoping. My other volunteers are either useless or are being generously paid from Narcissa to participate."
The thought of Bellatrix massaging healing salves to unconscious men or cleaning their wounds makes me shudder. The Malfoy family has no touch with reality. They think they're kings of the world, with their blond hair and cold smiles. I refill my glass. "Someone must tell Narcissa she's not the only woman with a son at the war."
"Someone must tell Narcissa her husband visits distinguished brothels every weekend," he adds, chanting. It's a weird thing, but true all the same, Yaxley finding relaxing my company. I find it hard to identify the loner that he really is deep down, instead of the madman I've witnessed him be so many times. I'm repulsed of him as I'm repulsed of everyone.
It's that feel of loneliness again, that I had forced myself to push away years ago. The mere existence of another person in the same room with me makes me tense. Maybe visiting the battalion would be a nice idea of a way to take revenge, after all. That's what I should do to punish myself. Who am I, anyway, sitting here, denying to face the consequences of my own actions?
"I will discuss with the Dark Lord the possibility of a leave, but I don't promise. He is very busy these days, so I've barely seen him. In the meantime, get me a hundred men and make a proclamation to St. Mungo, asking for volunteers. We need as much nurses willing to travel as possible. I'll see the rest."
He agrees with his eyebrows. "You're a strong man, Potter. You have it in you." He's lonely too, I think. Why is he still admiring me?
"You know I failed," I mumble, regretting it the moment it slipped from my mouth. It's not his job to having heard me saying this. Why did I even say it?
"This is war, Potter. Of course you failed. And you will fail again, as we all do."
We finish our drinks in silence, the short steps of the elves in the kitchen gently interrupting the calmness of the room. I don't want to fail again. I don't want to even try; only sleep will make things better, and yet sleeping is another strife for me to fight. When Yaxley leaves, I escort him out, and the bright daylight hits my face for the first time after a week. I have an urge to scream, all of sudden; the light makes me anxious even though I know staying inside will make me worse.
"Have a nice day, Commander. I'll be glad to work with you." He's only hoping to work with me so he can get away from here. Even the horrors of France and Germany are better than dealing with Voldemort himself every day, I suppose. I search for sympathy in me for Yaxley but find none. You are all cowards. I live with him, for God's sake. Do I whine about it? Do I whine about anything? You're all weak. I'm not weak, though. I don't value my life as a free man's, and that reminds me what I am. You're all fools. "Take care," I nod before closing the door and locking it. I lean on it and close my eyes.
It's been more than three days I myself saw Voldemort, I realize, except the meeting of Saturday and a couple of meals in which no one said a word. He was waiting of me to speak up about it, I could tell. His eyes shone and yearned for an outburst or a verbalattack. Something, anything to show him my pain, so he could laugh at me and humiliate me more. Bad for him though, I've no pain to hide.
Nothing hurts anymore. He didn't get what he wanted, and when I announced I'll be eating in my room from now on I didn't receive a disagreement.
Either way, he is probably preparing the situation so he can exile me too and have me murdered if I lose him another battle. I laugh at myself. As if taking that kind of revenge from me wasn't enough. Shut up. Don't think of it now. Don't think of it at all. My nails claw at the door and I hold myself upright. What Snape did to me is something I must forget. Bringing it up is a weakness I cannot allow myself to have.
Rubbing my face to recover from my thinking, I hurry off to the Floo and get some powder in my handful before I step into the fireplace and announce, "Ministry of Magic Headquarters, Whitehall."
Emerald green flames cover me from head to toe and transport me straight to the Atrium of the eighth floor, pushing me out forcefully. It's the latest trick, so the Ministry floo will always remain unoccupied for the next travelers. The huge statue in the centre of it, made of black delicate stone, dominates the hall as always. The witch and wizard sitting on carved thrones, made of naked, submissive muggles, were long ago replaced by a sculpture of Voldemort standing on them, his hand holding the Elder Wand and pointing upwards, face proud and more human than he really has. The stupid, pathetic faces of the stone slaves, pressed together naked and ugly, make me shiver, no matter how many times I've seen them. The words MAGIC IS MIGHT, carved into expensive black marble, shine like fire around the statue.
A mission to the France-German borders is not difficult to be made. Yaxley will find me what I need and if we're lucky we will heal the men well enough to help them transport back. Brooms can also help.
I walk over to the far end of the Hall to take the internal lifts, wondering why so many queues of wizards are formed before them. Dozens of ministry workers emerge from the fireplaces and hurry to arrive and stand here as well, while other visitors are keep coming as well. The traffic increases as minutes go by and I feel my hands sweat; all I see is feet, bodies, and cloaks running around me, and I'm sure that the hall cannot possibly have air for all of us – they breathe too much, too fast, and they're too many – I'm afraid that if they all keep breathing and talking like this we'll all be suffocated.
What if they breathe all the air and I faint unnoticed? I'd collapse down and they'd see me only when it'd be too late. Harry Potter, passed away from asphyxiation in the Ministry grounds. Why do they waste our air talking? The dumbasses don't even think how dangerous this is. One could die simply because of being in a crowd. Heavily trembling, I decide to use my authority to walk past them.
"Please move aside," I demand loudly. "Harry Potter commands you to."
Whispers of shock unleash as people move and watch me, some of them bowing out of admire, gasping, reaching close to talk to me, babbling "Harryr Potter!" and "It's really him!" as I walk past them and take the lift.Thank God - alone again. The lift announces in a sweet female voice, "Level Eight. Atrium."
"The Minister's office," I order, and after a moment the wooden door closes firmly. I check my hair on the mirror and find out it's in a horrible state. I pat it desperately, without any success to calm it down. The lift swirls and changes its direction, causing me to miss one step and hold on the walls, and eventually it steadies itself, going down a little faster than necessary until it stops.
"Level two. Department of Magical Law and Blood Control Enforcement. The Minister's Office, far end of the Hallway. Have a nice day, and remember: Magic is Might."
Having doubts about if I should wish the same to a lift, I step out and walk to the empty hallway, wand clutched into my fist just in case. The last thing I'd want is to see Malfoy and suffer his questions. The minister's door is big, made of wood and silver. An ancient representation of a middle age witch burning alive her muggle tormentors is painted on it. Muggles did worse to us, is the new argument. Look what they did over the ages, look how stupid and evil they are. I knock on the door and wait until, quite surprisingly, Stanley opens the door and welcomes me in, excited.
"Commander Potter, oh my God. It's been a long time, hasn't it?" So everybody is fucking happy to see me today. How touching.
He is a young Death Eater, with knobby knees, acne, and huge eyes, whom his father had been pleading me for months to put him in the Ministry so he could avoid the recruitment. I sometimes regret agreeing to convince Pius make him his personal stenographer, although it is more than sure that the boy would have been killed the moment he lay foot in a battle. He's too happy to be in a war. Too happy to be a Death Eater. Yeah, right. As if he'd have a choice.
"Yes, it has," I say firmly, a forced smile spread on my face.
"I am a Court Scribe now, did you know? The Minister is rather bored of having me around all day long, I think. And we don't even organize trials anymore. Azkaban is full, they say, so it would take months to try them all. We just throw them in." Very considerate, indeed. Might as well shrink the prisoners and lock them in a trash bin if necessary.
I have to pretend to be interested, I assume; the boy doesn't deserve my bad mood. He's trapped in here just as well and a lot of people seek comfort in talking to me lately. And as a matter of fact, this needs to stop - I'm not Dumbledore. Do I look like a holy saint? "Good luck with it, Stanley. I'm sure you'll do great."
Thank God I didn't die in the Atrium. And then – die in the Atrium? Because other people were breathing my air? What's wrong with me? That doesn't make sense. Why was I afraid of that? It sounds stupid and looks more like a phobia than a real concern. So, I'm that fucked up now, am I not? Developing phobias is the last thing I need to deal with. Asphyxiation. Maybe the painkillers make my brain go numb. There's no other explanation.
"You believe it for real?" Stanley's face grows bright with courage. Believe what? Oh. That. No, I don't believe it for real. He's wasting his time in the secretary office because he's weak and his parents are weak too, while other people his age risk their lives out there. While they die because of my stupid mistakes. I wrap my cloak around me and think of his question. The chance for me to answer never comes – the door to the main office opens and Pius Thicknesse approaches swaggering to greet me.
"Harry Potter!" Laughing, he shakes my hand frantically, clearly glad to see me.
"It's nice to see you, Minister," I murmur.
"I was hoping you would come by one of these days. It's an honor to have you in the Ministry again." An urge builds up inside me to smash his face and leave, unable to say where it came from. All of sudden, my mind darts back to Snape and my hands chill. NO. Why am I such a child that I have to bring it up every five seconds? I won't let this be my doom. I can't.
"Commander, are you feeling alright? You've gone pale."
I'm alright. Of course I'm alright. I blink several times and retrieve my smile. "Yes, of course, just a bit tired. Shall we go to your office? I hope you're not too busy."
"Harry, I'm never too busy for you. Please do come in." He shoos Stanley away and we get to his main office as he closes the door behind us and casts the Muffliato spell. I notice the tall ceiling; it's covered with an oil painting of elves and mermaids, while a few metres away some centaurs rest in the arms of blond, beautiful veelas. One of them smiles at me as I look up.
This must be the only trace of the old order that has remained in the Ministry. I attempt to ignore it as I guess Pius must not really be proud of it. We sit down and he begins a rather boring monologue of the discipline enforced in elves and half-human creatures the last months. He knows I don't care about any of it, but hopes I will transfer the information to Voldemort. I bet he imagines me in some rich manor, casually mentioning to an interested Voldemort what a wonderful minister we have.
My head hurts and I let him speak for as long as he fancies, nodding every now and then and agreeing with mostly everything. I keep pretending to give a damn until he finishes.
"But you're not here for this, are you, Harry?" No shit. And calling me Harry won't create the intimacy you're hoping for, nor will I trust you more than necessary. I take a deep breath.
"Pius… I am planning to travel to the border line tomorrow." Just let this work.
"Germany?" He's not surprised. I nod.
"Well, good luck with it." That simple? No, I don't think so. If he desires Voldemort's approval for his actions he'll have to offer more.
"You need to sign for me, Pius. I need permission for me, my men, and the nurses. Provide us a hundred Portkeys and as much brooms as you can get us. We'll go by Disapparating."
I'm asking too much, I realize, and Voldemort would not force him follow my orders at this point. The wasted expenses this year leave little to wonder about. He cannot provide me half of what I'm asking for.
"Harry."
"I know. Just – do it. I'll owe you."
"Listen to yourself Harry, for Merlin's sake! You'll carry wounded men with brooms? How? Are you planning to smear their dripping blood all over the sea while flying them back, too? Because that's what is going to happen, Harry. They don't have mere scratches and spots, they are dying. Imagine their state and tell me, if what you're requesting makes sense."
And even if my plan succeeded, they would develop pneumonia on the way back. "Carriages, then."
Stroking his excuse of a beard, he thinks. I wait. Eventually, "Okay. I'll see what I can do. No money from me, though."
My parents kept aside a small fortune for me, when they were alive. It was supposed to help with my education and personal life. Or with a marriage. Or even charities. It was not supposed, however, to be spent healing Death Eaters. I nod.
"I would expect the Dark Lord to organize this apart from the Ministry, however. How's come you ask help from me?" He's smart, and he deserves a stunning lie for his indiscreetness. I'm tired of manipulating people though, and thinking of a lie would take enough time to be composed for him to understand I'm making it up. So, I go with truth.
"Pius, what I'm about to tell you must remain between us. Especially those who work for you cannot know - it will be a great disadvantage for you and the Ministry."
And he was definitely hoping for this answer. He drags the chair closer, his hands clapped together on the imposing desk. "I'm listening."
"The war is not heading as we thought." Silence. I continue. "Our men cannot Apparate, and most of them are severely wounded. Those who have seen battalion in France describe it as a bloodied cemetery. We have lost contact with the battalions in Russia and the owls we send freeze and die the way. We have no way of communication – we've lost traces of our own men and the winter grows colder than we estimated. The Dark Lord announced a proclamation this morning…"
"…that he'll send another twenty million men in Germany," he fills in.
Oh. That's just awesome. So everyone knew it but me.
"We cannot find twenty million men, Pius. Let alone until Friday. I need your help."
"Harry, this is not the ministry's job. If you are asking for a new recruitment, I don't understand how I would be able to help. All our men are already fighting."
"Not all of them," I correct.
He eyes me cautiously and I take a deep breath, ready to talk. Starting a conversation about Azkaban in here is more than a taboo – the Ministry is too sophisticated to involve itself with it openly. My idea is good, but he's not going to like it.
"Release the giants. They'd fight for us if we were to give them their freedom."
"Impossible. The Dementors have done what was necessary long ago." At the thought of Dementors my arms chill again and I try to focus. We've no giants, no Englishmen, no force. So we might as well sit here and wait for Voldemort to blow us to pieces for our waste of space.
What I think is not easy to be told. It's a troubling statement that even I cannot tell if makes me hopeful or sad. I cannot imagine an outcome in which happiness will somehow found its place to the world again. I don't know if it's true or just a fear of mine, just another wrong assumption I made and will turn against me. Still, all the facts lead here and I must keep the Minister close to me if I am to survive.
I glance around as though to make sure no one hears us, and look him in the eye. He must take this seriously. Someone at last must believe me. "We are losing, Pius."
For a long minute, the clock on the wall tick tocks worried, as if it can sense the tension of the room, feeling sorry for the unexpected turn of the events and the simplicity of such an ugly truth. Then, the minister gets up, as if to announce something important too, and turns his stare down, at his long fingers on the table.
"I know, Harry Potter. We can do nothing about it."