A/N: Thanks everyone for your time and reviews! I'm really hoping you enjoy this chapter (and the next ones!). In the interest of transparency, I won't be leaving many A/Ns on the chapters so as not to interrupt the flow of the fic too much, but I genuinely appreciate every read, favorite, and review!
Hermione trudged down from the castle to the greenhouses near which the funeral was to be held. She slowed to a stop and looked around briefly. Clenching her eyes shut, she allowed herself to take a deep breath before approaching the security booth.
"Wand, please," the young Auror requested in a bored monotone.
With a scowl she pulled her wand from her robe and handed it to the man. After casting a spell on her wand, it briefly glowed red.
"Your sash, please," he asked in the same exact tone as before.
"I beg your pardon?" asked Hermione, hands on her hips. Plenty of other students weren't wearing their Ministry-approved sashes, but as everyone knew, the Ministry really only cared to enforce the policy for the Muggle-borns.
"Miss, you are not wearing your official sash. Please—"
"Auror Jamison," a tired voice interrupted from behind her. She turned around to see Professor Dumbledore standing a scant few feet back, leaning quite heavily on a cane. "It is quite uncouth to be disturbing these innocent people, at a funeral no less. Perhaps you would be more comfortable helping guests find their seats?"
The young man, Jamison, paled and took a step back. "Um, yes—of course, Headmaster. Here you go, Miss." He handed the wand back to Hermione, and after a fleeting glance back to Dumbledore, he hurried away.
"Thank you, Professor," she mumbled. "How are you doing?" She motioned at the rather ornate cane, which seemed to be carved from dark oak wood. Rune etchings wound their way up the staff until disappearing under the ivory handle. Quite a fitting instrument for Albus Dumbledore.
"Physically—well, as well as can be hoped. The battle did not go how I expected, but... it could have been worse." To her surprise, the corners of his mouth crinkled into a slight smile.
"'Could have been worse'?" she snapped, momentarily jumping out of her despondent mood. "Harry—Harry died that night, and all you can say is 'it could have been worse'?" She wiped an angry tear from her cheek.
But the rational part of her knew the headmaster was right, even if the emotional part didn't agree. It could have been far worse. For one, Voldemort could have survived. And her best friend's sacrifice would have been for nought.
She released a hollow laugh. As if it had meant that much anyway, all things considered. Lord Voldemort had been destroyed and yet the Ministry took advantage of the situation to vilify Harry. The day after the attack, the Prophet's front page article wasn't about Voldemort's fall, no, it was about "The Boy-Who-Formerly-Lived" with his "troubling, anti-wizarding ideals" and his "blatant disregard for Ministry-approved magic."
"With the downfall of You-Know-Who and the unexpected demise of Harry Potter, Wizarding Britain is finally free from the threat of a ruthless tyrant."
What utter rubbish.
The worst part was that she had been surprised to see the article. Why should she have expected the Ministry to act any differently after the fall of the most evil wizard of the era? After all, control of the Ministry remained in the hands of Minister Fudge, Chief Umbridge, and Director Rookwood; with Lucius Malfoy and doubtless others pulling strings behind the scenes.
Hermione finally tore herself from her inner monologue and noticed with a start that the headmaster was watching her with troubled eyes.
"I'm sorry, Professor, you're right. It's just... the whole situation..."
"There is no need to apologise, Miss Granger. Your reaction is perfectly reasonable. Besides, it is I who should apologise; I only wish that we did not have to resort to such drastic measures."
She responded with a stony look.
"If I may add—I see you've forgone your sash, even amongst Ministry personnel. That's a curiously dangerous decision."
After Professor Dumbledore had ordered the burning of the students' sashes, most had reacquired them from the Ministry for use after leaving Hogwarts—all except her. Needless to say, the Ministry had been most unhappy with the headmaster for that stunt.
"You're not wearing yours either, Professor," she responded sharply. "You can hardly disapprove..."
"Oh, I didn't say I disapproved, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said with just the slightest hint of twinkle in his eyes. "Merely that it was dangerous."
With that, the old wizard limped off.
She stamped down a flash of anger at the reminder of the Ministry's asinine interference. They wanted to alienate the Muggle-borns and the half-bloods, and it seemed everyone else was willing to lay back and take it.
Hermione clenched her jaw until she could feel her teeth start to ache. She refused to give in to the Ministry's ridiculous demands—she would not sink to that level. She didn't know the full path ahead, but she was sure she would figure it out in time.
But first, she had to get through this funeral.
#
The sun cast its warm rays of light onto the Hogwarts grounds, and the light breeze swept through the grass and trees, causing them to gently sway in the wind. Songbirds celebrated the coming of summer, and plants of all colours and sizes flexed as if to show off to their neighbours. Even the Giant Squid seemed to be caught up in the moment, basking on the surface of the lake with its tentacles spread wide to absorb as much sun as possible.
And it's all a sham, thought Ezra. A mockery of the circumstance that had brought hundreds of witches and wizards together on this day. The funeral of Harry Potter, the boy who had given his life to defeat You-Know-Who—Voldemort, even. A boy who, on one hand, he hadn't really gotten to know that well; but on the other hand, felt like he had understood in and out.
With teeth clenched together, Ezra sucked in a deep breath with the hope that it would help stem any tears from falling. If the other Slytherins saw him like this...
He glanced over to Granger and Weasley, who sat on opposite ends of a row of chairs near the far side of the small clearing. Both of them stared forward, expressionless, refusing to show any emotion. Every so often, Granger's eyes would briefly flicker toward Weasley, and she would sniff at his lack of reciprocity.
After several minutes of this, she suddenly swivelled her head and caught Ezra's gaze. She pursed her lips and immediately turned her head back to the front.
Ezra sighed.
Fudge was currently at the podium giving some inane speech about worthy sacrifices. What would Fudge know about sacrifice? Nothing. The man hadn't ever had to sacrifice a damn thing. Ezra had. Dumbledore had. Potter had. Hell, even Voldemort had—for very different reasons, yes, but they were still sacrifices.
Who knew what Potter had had to sacrifice to bring about the end of the Dark Lord's reign of terror? Only one person knew, and it definitely wasn't Fudge.
But Ezra took solace in the fact that, in a way, Potter wasn't really gone. His body was, perhaps. But his spirit lived on in those around him.
#
As he dragged himself toward the castle, he neared one of the gazebos that had been set up for the service. From within, he heard the bickering voices of Granger and Weasley.
"...then what are you going to do?"
But Ezra couldn't make out the rest of the hushed conversation, and he didn't want to risk coming closer lest they notice him. Eventually, both Gryffindors fell silent and stared around uncomfortably. Then, with a final, hollow glance at the witch, Weasley slowly shook his head and retreated to the castle.
Granger despondently watched as Weasley fled from the gazebo, but soon her eyes slid over to meet Ezra's gaze. Her face hardened, but she approached him forthwith.
He cringed; this was not something he wanted to deal with right now.
"E—" she started, but upon seeing his steel expression, she composed herself and adopted a more neutral mask. "Rowe."
That was the first time she'd ever addressed him by surname.
"You—you shouldn't be here," she said with a tremor in her voice, and unshed tears in her eyes. "You don't belong here. Please... go."
He stared at her wordlessly before finally whispering, "I'm sorry."
With a final, almost pleading look at the brunette, Ezra stumbled back, desperate to put some distance between them.
Then, with lead in his legs, he turned and ran.
#
"That must have been difficult."
Indigo stared at the wizard with an indecipherable look on his face. "It was."
"Do you think you belonged at his funeral?"
"I... don't know. Most of the people there didn't. Most only knew Potter as the boy who vanquished the Dark Lord; nothing more. As for me... well, if I'm to be perfectly honest, no. No, I don't think anyone there belonged at the funeral."
"Do you know why Miss Granger was suddenly so cold to you?"
"I could only guess. It could have been any of a dozen reasons. Her best friend had just died—sacrificed himself for a world that didn't even believe in him. Hell, if I were in that situation, I'd be livid. Listen: she prided herself in her logic, her rationality, her objectivity; but she was human, with the same emotions, positive and negative, that all other humans are subject to.
"In a way, I was glad that she'd turned cold on me. It gave me time to think critically about my relationship with Potter, Granger, and even Weasley."
"On the topic of Mr Weasley: what was his dispute with Miss Granger?"
Indigo stilled for a moment, apparently lost in thought, before speaking with a soft, tight voice. "He... He felt like he couldn't be as close to her without Potter around. In a way, Potter had been the linchpin in their triangle of friendship. Without him, the wheel would rotate around the axle just fine—but sooner or later, it would fall off; Weasley wasn't willing to take that risk.
"Maybe he reasoned that it wouldn't matter too much anyway, given that it was the end of our seventh year. We would all be going our separate ways, separate careers..." he trailed off. "I don't know."
"Did you have your career path planned out? Following in your father's footsteps, perhaps?"
Indigo seemed to ease up at the prospect of a safer topic of discussion.
"Most of the seventh years had already decided what they wanted to do once they graduated, but I still hadn't been sure. I had been considering becoming a spell researcher, like Father, but... well, it just isn't an exciting walk of life. Strangely, the funeral made something 'click' for me. You know that cliche where something happens to a person and the person immediately knows what they want to do with their life? It was almost like that. Father always told me that any split-second decision is a bad one. With that in mind, I waited a few days to make sure it was really what I wanted to do. It was."
"...and? What did you decide?"
"I was going to become an Auror."
"An—an Auror?" the Unspeakable asked in disbelief.
"Yes. I was to become that which I despised. The power-hungry enforcers of our country's freedom-quelling laws. The arms and legs of the Ministry's oppressive, twisted, quasi-totalitarian regime."
"But... why?"
"Why? Because I saw what Potter selflessly gave for a world that didn't deserve it one bit. I wanted to make a difference, like Potter—and I needed to be the change that I wanted to see in the world. What better place to do that than from within the very Ministry that had turned that world upside-down?"
"A noble gesture, if any," commented the Unspeakable.
"Gestures do not beget change, Unspeakable Magus—actions do."
"But every action starts with a gesture, no matter how small."
Indigo huffed, but didn't otherwise respond. Eventually, he resumed his soliloquy.
"I was fortunate. With the fall of Lord Voldemort, the Ministry had immediately begun an active recruiting spree, ostensibly in preparation for the reconstruction of society after the war. They all but dropped the stringent requirements that had classically starved the Auror department of trainees. I had sufficient marks anyway, but up until that point, they never would have accepted a new recruit without at least three months of examinations and paperwork. As it were, I was to begin training at Aurum Vale in just two days."
"What about Miss Granger?"
"Unsurprisingly, she knew exactly what she wanted to do, long before anyone else did. When she told Potter and me, she made us swear not to tell a soul... but I suppose, given the circumstances, I can let you in on the secret. She was to become the youngest professor in the history of Hogwarts. Headmaster Dumbledore had decided that it was time to retire; Professor McGonagall would assume the role of Headmistress, leaving the position of Transfiguration professor open. Who better for it than the girl who probably could have taken her Transfiguration N.E.W.T. blindfolded and mute?"
"Who better, indeed." The Unspeakable reached for his glass of water and took a long sip from it. "Please, tell me about Aurum Vale."
"My experience at Aurum Vale... it was a large part of what made me who I am today. And it set into position the pieces of the game that I played over the next fifty years of my life: the game whose sequence of moves ended up bringing me here to Tower Indigo.
"I hope you don't mind a long chapter, Unspeakable. I cannot do it justice otherwise."
#
"Welcome to Aurum Vale! For the next four weeks, this will be your home. You will train here, eat here, sleep here, and suffer here. I bet you're relieved that Director Rookwood has condensed Auror training from twelve weeks into four, but I assure you: what I lack in time, you will make up for in sweat, blood, and tears.
"I am your caretaker. I care about you. I care for each and every one of you wannabe Auror cadets during your time on this shit-hole of an island. I don't expect your very best. I expect more than your very best. I expect your unending, undying, unceasing attention from this very moment until the glorious day that I never have to see you again. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Caretaker!"
"You are not Aurors. You are barely wizards. You are dangerous, wand-waving children sent here by my superiors to try my patience. Well, I'll let you in on a little secret: my patience has already worn thin. And when it snaps, I won't take it out on any one of you. I will take it out on all of you. And if you cannot deal with me, you are of no use to me. Any delinquent, arrogant shit-for-brains can apply to be an Auror—but only some of you have the physical, magical, and mental fortitude to succeed.
"I am impartial: you are all equal in my eyes. I don't care what school you're from, what colour your skin is, or who you like to fuck. I don't care if you're a Mudblood, a half-blood, or a real wizard. You are all equally worthless."
Ezra narrowed his eyes and shifted, thankful no one could see his face under his hood.
"You may be wondering why I've asked you to wear your hoods up this evening. It is to reinforce my point. It doesn't matter who you are. It doesn't matter who the people beside you are. The only thing that matters is that each of you aspires to be an Auror."
A thoughtful silence passed through the thirty-five cadets gathered. Ezra hazarded a glance around. Everyone wore plain brown robes, soaked through with the rain falling overhead so as to appear almost black. Oddly enough, they had also been instructed to leave their sashes behind tonight. Every hood was drawn up, preventing him from seeing anyone else's face; though it was so dark he wasn't sure if he'd have been able to see their faces anyway. It was quite eerie.
"It's late," their instructor said. "You've been standing out in the rain for quite some time, and I'm sure you're tired and cold. Are you tired and cold, cadet?" he asked, quickly closing the distance between him and one of the trainees standing in the front row.
"Uh, yes," was the mumbled response.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Caretaker!"
"What about you?" he glared at a different cadet.
"Yes, Caretaker!"
"So let's get your blood running," he nearly shouted with an enthusiastic grin. "We'll do some jumping jacks to get us started. Come on, do as I do." The man jumped up, spreading his arms and legs before landing. Then, he jumped again, pulling his arms down and bringing his legs back together. The cadets just looked at each other, unsure what the man was doing.
"NOW, you worthless sacks of rubbish! It won't kill you—it's a Muggle exercise. What they lack in sensibility they make up for in methods of physical torture."
Amidst scattered grumbling, the cadets started to mime the Caretaker's movements. After just a few minutes of this blasted jumping, Ezra was gasping for breath. This was certainly not in his daily regimen. He had been in much better shape before seventh year, but had neglected doing just about anything physical during the past months.
After what felt like years of needless jumping, the Caretaker ordered them to halt. Ezra gladly complied, dropping to his hands and knees, huffing and puffing.
"What the arse," someone muttered behind him amidst gasps.
"What about now? Is anyone still tired and cold?"
"No, Caretaker!" the squadron shouted back—some more coherently than others.
"Then you won't mind going for a bit of a run, then?"
"What...?" a rather tall and thin cadet mumbled, apparently a bit too loudly.
The Auror instructor marched up to the offending wizard and grabbed the front of his robe, nearly pulling him off the ground. "Are you deaf, confused, or retarded, boy?"
"No, sir... I'm just surprised."
"And why is that?" the man hissed.
"I mean, running? Really? I'm a wizard. Why should I expend my energy chasing someone down if I can just as easily incapacitate him?" the boy responded in such a haughty tone that Ezra was sure he was smirking.
"Ha!" the Caretaker bellowed, releasing the boy's robes from his grip. "You've got spunk. Tell me, do you think you could take me in a fight?"
The cadet hesitated. "My mother taught me how to duel; she is quite a formidable duellist."
"A very political answer. Yes or no?"
"I wouldn't turn down the opportunity... sir."
His response once again elicited a laugh from the instructor. "Tell me, which pocket do you keep your wand in?"
"Up the left sleeve of my robe, Caretaker."
"Really?" the Caretaker responded, apparently impressed. "Would you draw it for me?"
In a seamless motion, the cadet drew his wand from within his sleeve and assumed a duelling stance. Immediately, the Caretaker reached out and yanked the wand from the boy's hand, subsequently barrelling a large fist into his stomach.
The hooded recruit fell to the ground whimpering. The Caretaker stared at the downed wizard who was clutching his stomach, gasping for air.
"Do you still think you could take me?" the large man asked with a glint in his eyes.
He turned to the rest of the squadron. "Let this be a lesson to all of you despicable Flobberworms. Aurors don't have duels. Aurors fight. You aim to incapacitate, maim, or kill—in whatever way necessary. All of you, draw your wands and hold them over your head."
Ezra hesitated but with a resigned sigh followed the lead of the others around him.
With a flick of his own wand, the Caretaker summoned thirty-four more wands to him, whereupon he (somehow) deposited them in one of the pockets of his robe.
"Good. We won't be needing these for awhile, anyway. Now, is anyone else surprised?"
"No, Caretaker!"
"Good. Line up and follow me."
#
Soaked, aching, and downtrodden, the thirty-five cadets trudged into the barracks behind the annoyingly enthusiastic form of the Caretaker. "On the double, get your arses in here! My God, you all look like shit. Sit down, you worthless sad-sacks, before you puke all over my floor or something."
Ezra gratefully dropped to the hard concrete floor and leaned against the steel frame of the bunk behind him. He didn't know why he'd signed up for this. He could be in his bed right now, dreaming about... whatever it was he usually dreamt up—he couldn't even think properly right now. But no, he was here, half-dead from what must have been an hour-long run in the middle of a wretched downpour.
"And take off those idiotic hoods, you can't hide your ugly faces forever. May as well get to know the people you'll be screwing over when you bugger up a simple group Shield Charm."
Arm shaking from exhaustion, Ezra pulled his hood back, revelling in the fresh air that was now exposed to his face and neck, but also feeling oddly bare. He glanced around at his squad-mates, momentarily surprised when he saw more than a few female faces. In hindsight, it shouldn't have come as a surprise—after all, the Auror force had its fair share of witches, and they had to go through the same rigorous training as the rest.
As he swept his gaze over the assembled cadets, he recognised several students from Hogwarts. And then—blimey. Nearly across from him sat Ronald Weasley. His blazing red hair slumped down, matted and sweaty, and his face lacked any of the colour it usually had—but it was undoubtedly him. When their eyes met, Weasley tiredly stared at him until Ezra broke off.
He had no idea Weasley had been planning on joining the Auror force.
"Introduce yourselves," the Caretaker directed. "Your name, your blood, and why you're here." He pointed toward a mousy, blond kid who was currently shivering but trying not to show it.
"I'm Simon Appleby, pure-blood. I'm here because certain members of society need to learn their place, and as an Auror I can help with that."
The Caretaker nodded and gestured to the girl seated next in line—she had her dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail and was attempting to squeeze the water from it.
"Yetta Yaxley. Pure-blood," she said, rolling her eyes as if there were no other acceptable answer. "I want to be an Auror so I can avenge my father who was unjustly murdered last year."
Yaxley, as in, daughter of Corban Yaxley? Ezra wondered. Corban Yaxley had been a high-ranking Death Eater, and a quite vicious one at that. If he had been killed last year, then good for him: "unjust" couldn't be further from the truth. He scowled.
"Franklin Freshenstein VI," said the pallid boy seated next to Yaxley. "Pure, through and through."
"What the hell kind of name is that?" the Caretaker interrupted. "Are you one of those queers from Texas?"
"No, sir. But my father's family is American, yes."
"Holy Horntails, what a disgrace. From now on, you're known as Fuckenstein. Next?"
"My name is Zacharias Smith; pure-blood of course," the arrogant Hufflepuff started. "Naturally, I had my choice of career paths after Hogwarts, but I decided to go with the one where I could do the most good."
Ezra had to bite the insides of his cheeks to avoid saying something he'd probably regret.
"Ronald Weasley."
Ezra snapped his head back to watch the Gryffindor, who seemed to hesitate before continuing.
"I want to help the Ministry rebuild society after the war."
With a slow exhale, Ezra stared once again at Weasley, eyes hard. This time, Weasley was the one to look away. He would need to talk to him later tonight.
Pansy Parkinson (pure-blood, what else?) was next to introduce herself, followed by a Leonard Rosier. Ezra didn't need to hear their ridiculous justifications to know they were hokum.
It was his turn. With a measured gaze straight ahead, he whispered, "Ezra Rowe. Pure-blood. I will become an Auror so I can wrong the rights in this world."
At this, Theodore Nott snorted from his left.
What was disconcerting was that every single Auror cadet thus far introduced had been pure-blood. That is, until they got to...
"Damien Hughes; I'm half. Mum is a Muggle, Father is a wizard."
Thirty-four heads swivelled at this revelation, not at all to Ezra's surprise. After all, most pure-bloods weren't exactly known for their tolerance of their "lesser" wizarding counterparts.
What did surprise him, even if it shouldn't have, was the Caretaker's reaction. The Caretaker's face tightened, grey eyes hardened, and jaw clamped shut. Clearly, he was not as open-minded as he had claimed.
The other introductions held little interest for him. A few other Death Eater offspring; several Hogwarts graduates; a couple foreigners; but still only one non-pure-blood.
When the last cadet (Angela something-or-other) had finished, the instructor hopped to his feet.
"That's the last of them, then? Alright, you worthless ponces. It is incredibly late—I suggest you get what little sleep you can. We start at 0400 tomorrow, outside on the quad."
"Uh, Caretaker, sir?" one of the girls asked. Razia Lovell, if Ezra recalled correctly. "Where do we sleep?"
"What the hell are you on about, cadet? We're in a barracks. Claim a bunk."
The redhead appraised the room with her mouth clearly poised to say something, but before she could say it, the Caretaker interrupted her.
"Oh, I understand. The female barracks—how could I forget!" The wizard smacked his palm to his forehead as if he'd forgotten something obvious. "Listen up, ladies: to get to the female barracks, close your eyes, and then open them. You're here.
"I'm sure it can be scary having to sleep with icky boys around, Lovell, but you'll just have to power through." The sarcasm oozing from his voice belied his ostensibly kind words.
"No, sir..."
"I'll tell you what, Lovell. Why don't you pick the first bunk, to make sure it's in a safe location from these dangerous, lurid boys."
She shook her head, eyes on the floor. "I don't need—"
"Attention, squad! Miss Lovell will be picking the first bunk. Once she has decided where to sleep, everyone else may choose their bunks."
With a resigned glare at the wizard, Lovell pointed to the lower of the bunks next to her.
"We're not in school any more, cadets. I will not segregate you by your gender any more than I would segregate you by your hair colour. You are a squad of hopeless rubbish. But this squad of hopeless rubbish will train together, eat together, fail together, and sleep together." Terry Boot snorted from the far corner of the room, but apparently the Caretaker did not hear him.
"Am I absolutely clear?"
"Yes, Caretaker!"
"Are you tired, or dead? Speak up!"
"Yes, Caretaker!"
"What the fuck was that? I still can't hear you!"
"YES, CARETAKER!"
"Admissible," he grumbled. "I'll see you in four hours. Oh, and leave the sashes—they'll just get in the way."
As soon as the Caretaker left, Weasley locked onto Ezra. Oblivious to the multiple sets of eyes following him, he rushed across the room and pounced on the Slytherin, pinning him up against the rack.
"Are you mad? What the bloody hell are you doing here?" he growled.
"Get—off me," Ezra gasped as he tried to pry off Weasley's hands from his neck.
"Having a right house party with your pals?" he said hotly, jerking his head over to where Nott, Parkinson, and Cartwright were chatting.
Ezra finally got a good grip on the boy's hands, loosening them from his neck and then pushing him back momentarily.
"What's gotten into you?" he hissed back, eyes narrowed. "And they're not my pals."
"Could've fooled me. Last thing we need is more Slytherin Aurors—"
Ezra jumped forward, gripping Weasley by the collar of his robes and slamming him against the wall behind him. "Shut up! Slytherin this, Slytherin that, it's all you can talk about, isn't it? At least I'm not betraying my best friend!"
The redhead paled. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Really? What would Granger think if she knew you were here?"
Weasley yanked himself free and brought a swift fist careening into Ezra's face, sending him staggering.
"Don't even talk about Hermione," he said in a low voice. "You have no idea..."
"Selling out to the people who've done all they can to make her life hell," Ezra continued as if he hadn't heard the other boy.
"You're one to talk, oh high-and-mighty bloody hypocrite. Don't try to guilt me about her when you're doing exactly the same."
Ezra stared back with dark eyes. "But I'm a Slytherin, remember? Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"
The redhead ignored the comment and quickly stepped forward, closing the small gap between them. "And don't ever touch me again."
Ezra silently rubbed his aching jaw as Weasley retreated to his bunk.
#
Beep, beep, beep.
With a moan, Ezra grabbed the lumpy, threadbare pillow and pulled it over his head, trying to muffle the screeches of someone's blasted watch.
Beep, beep, beep—
"Turn it off," he slurred amidst the irritated grumblings of several other cadets.
"It's three forty-five," a sheepish female voice responded. "We're supposed—"
"Then shut up, I've got fifteen minutes..." mumbled Parkinson.
Beep, beep—
Ezra jerked awake again. Had it already been fifteen minutes? He groaned, but it instead came out as an embarrassing cross between a whimper and a sob.
A bright flash of light tore through the room, and he instinctively opened his eyes in bewilderment, only to be met with a colossal wall of water surging down from the ceiling. The ice-cold water was fire to his skin, searing it if only for the brief moment that it entirely enveloped him.
He rolled to his side, coughing violently, trying to dispel all of the water he'd just inhaled. Around him, he heard varying degrees of wheezing, shouting, and swearing as the entire squad tried to recover from their encounter with a magically-conjured tsunami.
"What the bloody fuck part of 0400 did you not understand?!" a deep voice boomed from the entrance to the barracks. "Get your arses front and centre. NOW!"
The cadets were a flurry of limbs as they half-fell out of their cots, struggling to arrange themselves in two lines. Once he was standing at attention in front of his bunk, Ezra surreptitiously glanced around. Most everyone stood shivering, arms hugged tightly to their bodies in a desperate attempt to keep warm, or perhaps to offer a modicum of modesty despite their various states of undress. Many of the more affluent pure-bloods sported elegant, though now probably ruined, pyjamas; likely either Acromantula silk or Thestral hair. One boy was even wearing a robe. Damien Hughes—the half-blood—and Ezra himself were the least-dressed males, wearing only boxers, though one witch was similarly in just her undergarments.
"What time is it, Cartwright?"
"It's four-oh-two, Caretaker," Ezra's former house-mate responded with her chin raised.
"And I suppose that's good enough, isn't it?"
"No... sir."
"Morning drill is at 0400. That's four AM for you retards. Not three fifty-eight, not four-oh-one, and most bloody certainly not four-oh-two!" he screamed, spittle landing on Appleby's face. "Do you understand?"
"Yes—"
"No, you bloody well fucking don't! You waste my time, I waste yours. For every minute you're late, that's a minute of running—"
Ezra silently released the nervous breath he'd been holding.
"—per cadet. Two minutes late, times thirty-five cadets... I'm no Arithmancer, but this morning just keeps getting better and better. Now, move out!"
Ezra turned around to grab a pair of trousers but was stopped by a beefy hand gripping his arm.
"Are you lost, Rowe? The door's that way," the instructor said with a thumb pointed back over his shoulder.
"No, sir, I'm just getting my trousers."
"No time for that," the Caretaker barked, "we're on a very busy schedule." He turned to face the rest of the group. "Let this be a lesson to all of you—be prepared to wake up fighting. A criminal won't give you time to put your trousers on, so why should I? Let's go! Finley, you too!"
Ezra growled and followed the burly wizard from the barracks.
"Nice knickers, Finley," he heard Nott say behind him. "And a set of knockers to go along." A few of the boys laughed.
"Get stuffed, arsehole," the petite blond shot back. This was immediately followed by a muffled crash and a litany of swears from the Slytherin.
After a long and incredibly arduous run through the nearby forest, the squadron, led by a disgustingly-jubilant Caretaker, arrived back at the field where they had first gathered the evening before (just a few hours ago, Ezra thought with a frown). With a moan, Ezra followed the lead of the others, dropping dead to the ground for a brief reprieve from the chaos. Unsurprisingly, those arriving behind him followed suit. Though he was by no means in shape, it seemed that neither were most of the others, so compared to the rest of the group, he felt that he was at least physically in a pretty good position.
Collapsed on the water-logged, muddy grass, Ezra heaved in deep breaths. Face-up to the eerily starless sky, he was not at all concerned about the droplets of rain that assailed his face, eyes, and mouth. Even the fact that he was only wearing boxers no longer bothered him, nor had it after the first few minutes of their "adventure" this morning. In fact, the cool mud on his back, the revitalising rain on his chest; it was refreshing. In a way, it was almost peaceful, beautiful—sensual. If he could just ignore the fact that he was at a four-week-long torture session.
Slowly, he rolled over to his side, coming just about face-to-face with Irene Finley. Like him, she was covered nearly head-to-toe in mud, which at least made her exposed skin far less salient to the casual (or not-so-casual) observer. But unlike him, she was visibly shivering; her eyes were shut, neck clenched, and he could hear her teeth chattering. He felt rather bad for her: for the past hour, she'd had to withstand snide remarks from the Caretaker, unabashed glares from the other girls, and conspicuous ogling from the boys.
Glad they were still under the cover of darkness, he slowly reached out and touched her arm. "Finley?"
She flinched back and opened her eyes. "What?" She carefully asked, her voice startlingly neutral.
Ezra couldn't read her expression, so he continued after a brief hesitation. "Are you okay?"
The girl stared at him and jerkily shrugged as well as one could while lying down on their side.
"What's this, a larvae convention? Get up, you sodding louts."
As the cadets regretfully pushed themselves to their feet, the Caretaker waved his wand, bathing the field in a dim, blue light. His mouth quickly adopted a grotesque grin. "Half-blood Hughes!" he shouted, throwing a wand at the boy's head. "Stun me."
Hughes stared at him, mouth agape, evidently just as surprised as everyone else. "Sir?" he spluttered, still trying to catch his breath.
"Stun me, cadet. Go on. Or are you too tired?" he asked mockingly.
The boy raised his wand arm in front of him, but wobbled from the exertion, mild though it was. His aim wavered, but he clearly incanted, "Stupefy!"
Their instructor guffawed as the Stunner flew wide. Some mere fifteen metres separated them, a distance at which any semi-competent wizard could accurately cast a spell, yet Hughes was wide off the mark. Ezra couldn't blame him—he doubted he himself could do much better at the moment.
With a snarl, Hughes re-cast the Stunner, and then another; both shared similar fates to the first. Several of the other cadets laughed and jeered at the boy's poor aim, and the Caretaker joined in for a moment before redirecting his attention to Zacharias Smith.
"What's so funny, Smith?"
All laughter instantly ceased.
"What sort of half-baked imbecile applies to be an Auror if they can't even handle a wand?" Smith sneered.
Hughes made a move for the boy, but was held back by Lucian Olaru, a Romanian boy who had taken a year off before applying for the Auror force.
The Caretaker appraised the half-blood and the pure-blood for a moment. "Okay, Smith," he finally said. "What do you think his problem is?"
"I don't know, poor upbringing?" Several snickers echoed from around the squad.
"No, not this time. It's because you're weak, Hughes. You can barely stand straight after a measly little run, much less control the aim of a delicate spell. You're all weak; it's pathetic. But don't fret—Daddy will make sure you grow up big and strong. Don't you want to be big and strong for Daddy?"
"Yes, Caretaker!" a slew of voices half-heartedly replied.
"That's no way to address your daddy. Try that again."
"Yes, Daddy!"
Ezra fought to keep down the bile.
"That's what I like to hear. Time for your daily dose of some good old-fashioned press-ups. Everyone, on the ground! Clearly you're good at that already."
Ezra thankfully sank back to the muddy grass, and then turned his head to see two cadets—Piers Kresdon and Franklin Freshenstein—who were still standing. The pair of wizards shuffled uncomfortably, and, unfortunately for them, earned the acrimonious attention of their instructor.
"I'm sorry, are you waiting for a map? The ground is down there," the burly wizard said with a dangerous gleam in his eyes, using his middle finger to point straight down.
"I want my wand," Freshenstein eventually belted out, expression cold but composed. Kresdon nodded beside him.
"Get. Your arses. On the ground," the Caretaker hissed with a glare that could have extinguished Fiendfyre.
"I refuse to writhe around on the ground like some sort of deplorable Mudblood—imagine what my father would say about this." This time, it was Kresdon who spoke.
"Now give us our wands," Freshenstein repeated. "I can stun you quite handily, unlike Hughes."
Ezra wanted to look away from the inevitable arse-kicking, but he couldn't; his eyes were glued forward. He wasn't sure what the two boys thought this would accomplish, but certainly nothing in their favour. Beside him, Finley appeared to be having similar thoughts.
But the Caretaker's delayed response surprised him—and everyone else, for that matter.
"You want your wands, Fuckenstein? Alright then." He reached into his pocket, retrieving the two wands, and handed them over.
Freshenstein opened his mouth to say something, but the Caretaker interrupted him.
"Now get out."
"Pardon?" Freshenstein muttered.
The Caretaker grabbed them both by the front of their shirts, pulling them to him. "If you can't handle a bit of exercise, you're already a waste of my time. Now get the FUCK off my island," and with that, he shoved them backwards, knocking them arse-first to the ground.
Before either wizard could react, the ground began to rumble and two massive plants sprung from the ground with a large squelch. Each had two comically oversized, bright red flowers attached to its stem (stalk? trunk? Ezra was no Herbologist). The flowers were shaped like inverted domes, with dangerous-looking spikes protruding from the rims, and each looked to weigh some five or six stone.
The plants extended the flowers out, almost as if they were stretching. Then, with an anticlimactic puff, each plant swiftly brought its pair of dome-flowers in, engulfing either of the recently dismissed Aurors-to-be-not. The entire squadron watched in silence as the plants fled in the direction of the barracks with their hostages in tow.
"Would anyone else like their wand?"
No one responded.
"That's what I bloody well thought. Now listen, and listen closely. I don't care for your back-talk. I don't care for your complaints. I don't care for your excuses. When I tell you to move, you move fast. When I tell you to run, you ask how long. When I tell you to get on your hands and knees in the ground, you fucking embrace the mud as your new lover till death do you part. Is that crystal fucking clear?"
"Yes, Caretaker!" the remaining recruits screamed.
"I feel bad for you weak sods, so we'll start with ten press-ups and call it Bob. On my count—begin!"
Thirty-three witches and wizards bent their arms at their elbows to descend to the ground, and then shakily pushed themselves back to their starting positions, to varying degrees of success.
"That's one," the Caretaker announced.
Again.
"Two. Get your arse down, Rowe!"
And again.
"No, stop. Those aren't press-ups, Ambrose, those are fuck-ups. Start over!"
A wave of grumbling swept through the squad, and they started anew.
"One."
Ezra's arms were already shaking. How in the world the Caretaker expected them to do this, he had no idea.
"Two."
The mud made it difficult. His hands were slowly sliding outward and he had to keep re-positioning them under his shoulders.
"Eh—two and a half. Finley! Get those perky tits all the way to the ground—don't try to con me!"
After the next press-up, the instructor marched over to stand between Ezra and Finley, glaring down at the girl. "Did you dress like a whore so you can fuck over your entire squadron, Finley? Or were you hoping to distract me with your salacious figure?"
"No, sir," she choked, clearly attempting to keep the emotions off her face.
"I bloody said, get all the way to the ground!" With this, he put his boot on her rear and pushed her forcefully into the mud. "You better start liking that position. Start over!" he roared.
They started again. At this rate, Ezra thought despondently, we'll all be dead by sunrise.
"Cadet Robbins! Are you a fucking Squib-like?"
"No, sir," the Scottish recruit wheezed.
"A homo? You're sucking someone off?"
"No, sir."
"Do you sexually identify as a Highlander witch?"
"I don't, Caretaker."
"Then why the bloody hell are your knees in the dirt? PICK THEM UP! Merlin's bloody bollocks, people. Ten press-ups is all I ask. Ten measly press-ups."
A staggeringly painful ten minutes later—or was it a half hour? Two hours? Ezra wasn't sure if he was cognisant enough to accurately judge—they finally finished their "ten" press-ups.
"Congratulations, cadets. You are just barely not quite as worthless as I thought you were."
Was that a compliment? No, probably not.
"Do you feel strong yet?"
"Yes, Caretaker," they half-mumbled, half-wheezed.
"Rubbish! You're all liars. But better a liar than a quitter, eh?" he asked, obviously referring to Freshenstein and Kresdon.
"You all look hungry. Mess hall is that way." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder to a grey building in the distance.
Ezra's mouth watered in anticipation of his first meal in twelve hours. Weasley looked just as excited.
"I expect you back here at 0900. Cartwright!" He looked pointedly at the girl. "You seem to know how to read a watch. I'm making you responsible for your fellow imbeciles."
"Yes, sir," the Slytherin muttered.
"Don't fuck up."
The exhausted group of witches and wizards turned and slowly trudged toward the grey, lifeless building under the watchful gaze of the recently-risen sun.
"Oh, and by the way: Rowe, Hughes, Finley—put on some fucking clothes!"
Ezra and Finley stopped and looked at each other. Ezra's mouth twitched, and he thought he saw her mask falter for a moment. She shifted on her feet with an unreadable expression, and then said, "I'm going to shower and change. See you later, Rowe."
With that, she turned and left in the direction of the barracks.
#
Even now, small pockets of cadets were already emerging from the cohort of young adults, indicating rough alliances, or perhaps just groups of people with mutual interests.
Elspeth Pilkington had already gathered a small following of fan boys obsessed with her every move; among these, Ezra noted, were Rosier and Appleby. She was admittedly quite attractive: her slender figure complemented her long, chestnut hair that was swept into a ponytail, and her blithe expression carried an easy smile that made Ezra wonder if that morning's exercises had even phased her.
Braxton Hale donned a similar, but opposite, role to Pilkington: clearly physically fit, with a well-chiselled jawline and wavy brown hair to his shoulders, he struck quite the handsome figure. He was clearly charismatic as well, as he'd already garnered the attention and Yetta Yaxley and Alison Scarlett, to name a few.
The Death Eater relatives had unsurprisingly clumped together, with Nott, Lestrange, and Parkinson leading that particular train wreck. Weasley and Zacharias Smith had also become unlikely pals, tagging along with Oliver Sturch and a few others. Terry Boot had somehow managed to integrate himself with the "foreign" crowd—Moreau, Nettleton, and such.
Off to his side was a group of girls which included Cartwright (the Caretaker's new timekeeper, apparently), Lovell, and a few others, including the twins whose names Ezra just couldn't remember.
The group was mostly silent as they dragged themselves to the Mess, with the exception of Rosier's complaints to Pilkington about how he hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday. She didn't seem to be listening.
Upon arriving at the Mess, Weasley plonked down on the nearest bench and ordered a fry up. When nothing happened, he frowned and repeated his request, to no avail.
"Oh for Merlin's sake," Sturch yelled from across the room. All eyes turned to him. There, on a worn-down wooden table that looked to be on its last legs, sat a brown sack full of oats and a large vat of water. "You've got to be joking."
"What is that?" asked Parkinson.
"Oats and water. The old berk wants us to make our own porridge. Guess I'm not surprised," Sturch said with his eyes narrowed.
"Bollocks, I don't even have—does anyone have their wand?" Ambrose asked the group. "How are we supposed to cook it?"
"How the hell should I know?" said Sturch with a sneer. "Ask the Halfsie, I bet he knows. Isn't this what Mudbloods do all day?"
"Shove off, Sturch. You lot are pathetic, there's a stove right there." Hughes shouldered his way to the front and amidst more than a few glares, quickly got the porridge cooking.
Ezra sat by himself, lethargically eating his bland-as-dirt porridge. It had been a tough battle between his fatigue and his hunger, but the fatigue had won out. He doubted he could eat any faster if he tried. Finley had not yet returned, so he had no one to talk to—if she would want to talk to him at all. But that was just as well; he was content to sit and observe the others.
Pilkington seemed to be telling a story and her entourage was hanging onto every word. At the adjoining table, Weasley was uncharacteristically ignoring his food—and Smith—while he listened to her, occasionally chuckling at something she said. That said, to call this "food" was a bit of a stretch, so maybe Weasley really did have his priorities straight.
The Romanian kid, Olaru, sat with Hughes, the half-blood. They were both outcasts in their own way, he supposed. For whatever reason, Olaru didn't seem to get along with the "foreigners plus Boot" crowd, so he'd found a friend in Hughes.
Jarrett and Vance sat at the far end of the Mess, whispering to each other while alternately casting furtive glances towards the girls and shooting brief glares to the boys sharing Pilkington's table.
Most interesting to Ezra, however, was the fact that Taran Robbins sat alone in the furthest corner possible from the crowd. The boy's face was set in a resigned expression and he poked sporadically at his food. Eventually, he rigidly rose to his feet and deftly made his way around the tables—avoiding the other cadets as possible—leaving the Mess Hall through the side door.
It was only then that Ezra noticed the slowly-emptying room. Several cadets had left for the barracks already, presumably to shower and nap; a few others had cut out the middleman and were sleeping on top of the tables and benches here. The Caretaker had given them until nine AM, just under two hours from now, which Ezra thought had been quite generous.
With that in mind, he got up, threw his dishes into the designated bin, and made his painful way to the barracks. Maybe he'd get to see Finley again before the next round of training.
#
"Aurum Vale's... teaching philosophies have changed quite a bit since your time there."
"Have they really, Unspeakable?" Indigo asked, steel in his eyes. "How so?"
The wizard didn't respond, choosing instead to sit in silence, until he finally changed the topic. "I'm curious to hear more about this Finley."
It was Indigo's turn to not respond. He shifted in the cast iron chair, and eventually a small tear squeezed from his eye and ran down his grimy cheek, leaving behind a clear trail of skin several shades lighter. Indigo's valiantly-maintained mask had cracked.
Inhaling deeply, he shook his head and gave a mirthless chuckle. "That was the last time I saw her at Aurum Vale. When she left for the barracks... well, it wasn't just for a shower. She gathered her stuff, retrieved her wand from the Caretaker, and left the island. She couldn't handle the stress; the verbal abuse; the harassment. And I don't blame her. Why should she put up with it? Why should any of us put up with it?"
"But many others did. You did. Why?" the Unspeakable whispered. "Why did you stay?"
"We are indebted to this world. A world that has been cursed with corruption and depravity, yes; but a world that has also blessed us with birth, with breath—with life. Sometimes, it is not about what we want to do, but instead what needs to be done."