Hey everyone this will be my last fic for a while, im going on a trip to arizona until august 18th, but I promise ill have something written by then. This is the last installment of The Third Camp, hopw you like it please r/r (Suggestions!! Suggestions!!) feel free to email me too, just I wont respond before the 18th... and magical*little*me, Gabriel was in the one where sirius and remus talked about the dog star just briefly. You'll see more of him soon, so anyway hope you enjoy, adieu. PS-Hagrid, thank you so much for the comment about some of my writing being as good as JKR (I don't think so) but it meant a lot to me (I'm 14!)
THE THIRD CAMP
CHAPTER X-- THE THIRD CAMP
A continuous stream of knocks sounded on the door of the apartment, blending in with the sounds of the ringing alarm clock. The two together achieved what one could not, and Gabriel Cox sat up, sliding out of bed. He was in his robes from the day before and his hands were still coated with ink. Wiping sleep out of his eyes, Gabriel stumbled to the door and threw it open--
"Great, it's you--" he muttered holding the door open as Cornelius Fudge walked into the room purposefully, his mouth tight and angry. The uncomfortable silence turned into a duel, which neither one wanted to break, for fear if giving the other an early advantage.
"What, may I ask," said Fudge after what seemed like an eternity, "Is this?" Unfurling it from under his arm, Fudge brandished the Daily Prophet.
"The truth," Gabriel smiled broadly, "Something sorely lacking in today's world, wouldn't you say?"
" 'Rita Skeeter considered by many as the baddest babe ever to set her pretty little hands to the quill has finally crossed the line between journalism and third-class fiction, writes Special Corespondent Gabriel
Cox!' What is this nonsense?"
"Since you praised her writing so highly, I just thought I'd paraphrase a few lines here and there."
Gabriel gave a grin, propping his feet up onto the table, "Tea?"
"This is insane, my own nephew! None of this makes sense!" Fudge was sputtering left and right.
Gabriel yawned, "Have you even read the article?"
"Of course I've read the article--" he snorted.
"Give me the paper--" Gabriel extended his hand, "Give me the paper." When Fudge shook his head,
Gabriel grabbed it. "You need a dramatic reading."
"I need nothing of the sort!" Fudge groaned. "Yes you do," Gabriel said, pushing him into a nearby chair,
"You have no idea how many people suffered to have this story written and I refuse to let you blow it off like this." He glared at Fudge before taking the paper in his hands, "THE THIRD CAMP-- Rita Skeeter considered by many as the baddest babe ever to set her pretty little hands to the quill has finally crossed the line between journalism and third-class fiction, writes Special Corespondent Gabriel Cox. Skeeter, infamous for shredding the images and wrecking the livelihoods of many innocent citizens has struck again, this time her insufferable mud-slinging was aimed at Albus Dumbledore, known forever and a day as one of the greatest wizards the world has ever seen. Skeeter fabricated her story from tiny bits of information, all scraped up and bubbled into a fantabulous stew she knew you, dear readers, would gobble up. But stew is stew and journalism is journalism and there is no correlation between Rita's story and the truth I give you now today.
Point one, forget the press for the last fourteen years, Sirius Black in innocent--" Gabriel paused, looking
at his Uncle, "You've head the stories, about Black and the Triwizard Cup, right?"
"Yes," Fudge growled.
"I'll skip them then," Gabriel said, staring down at the page, "here we go-- It is thanks to people like Rita Skeeter that we face this war divided into three camps: Voldemort, the Ministry, and the people who know the truth-- the Third Camp. Many of you have fallen victim to Voldemort in the past, and he has already victimized people today: Karkaroff, Harry Potter, Cedric Diggory, who was murdered in cold blood a reminder of the constant fear we lived in fourteen years ago, fear that suddenly has something to ground itself in. We must face that fear, if not for our sake, for the sake the ones we love for when Voldemort returns to full strength, no one will be safe any longer, families will be ripped asunder, our way of life torn apart from the inside. I cannot sugar-coat the dangerous times ahead of us, only tell you this, if we plan to face these times and live, we must do so united as one camp, not two or three or four. For the time being we must but our differences apart and join together to face the rising storm."
Fudge sneezed slightly.
"That was aimed toward you, Uncle," Gabriel said, laying the paper down.
Fudge sputtered, "Do you want to ruin me?"
"No." Gabriel said "For a long time I did, but now I want you to trust Dumbledore, he is back--"
Fudge got to his feet, "Good bye, Gabriel."
"What? What do you mean?" Gabriel jumped out of his chair, his face in shock.
"I have Ministry business to attend to," Fudge said calmly, in the tone one would use to address a mental patient.
"You won't even listen to us!" Gabriel yelled.
"You are obviously a very confused and misguided individual, good day," and with that, Fudge walked out of the apartment.
----
Percy Weasley was feeling very smug. Smug was a regular emotion for Percy who, after thoroughly researching the subject, had proved himself to be the youngest department head in the entire history of the Ministry of Magic-- and such an important department like International Magical Cooperation! Of course he was "sad" about Mr. Crouch's tragic death, and its consequences, but some people would believe anything if it came out of the mouth of Albus Dumbledore.
At least he still had Penelope, he thought, fingering the ring in his pocket. He had been wanting to ask her... for weeks, ever since he had scraped up the money for a ring.
Tapping his fingers on the desk, in a rare moment of impulsiveness, Percy decided he would wait no longer, standing up abruptly, he brushed past his secretary, "I'll be back in about twenty minutes, Ellie."
"Yes, sir," she said, busy filling out of the numerous forms that was as integral a part of the Ministry as the existence of magic itself. Percy never could get over of the thrill of people calling him sir.
Penelope only worked two floors down, as a secretary in the Department of Mysteries. Naturally Percy couldn't ask about her job, so they just talked about his, which suited him just fine. Whistling as he jogged down the stairs Percy pulled open the door to Penny's department...
...and entered hell. The once white walls were now charred black, desks chairs and paper in ruins indistinguishable from each other, all making up the charred rubble that coated the floor. Percy saw a hand, charred and black poking from the rubble that law by his feet. Right in the center of the offices, green and glowing, was the Dark Mark, giving him a sadistic smile. Where's your Penny now, it seemed to say, Find her in here... if you want to find her in here. The walls were still smoldering.
"Can I help you, sir?" a woman in a hit wizard uniform stepped towards Percy, holding a hose. All around him, similarly dressed wizards were sifting through the rubble, putting out blazes and edging around the glowing Dark Mark. Percy felt his voice seize up, "What happened?"
"A bomb-- a Muggle device so it didn't set off the curse sensors, an owl carried it in one of the secretaries opened it..."
"Which one?" Percy fought to keep his voice calm. Not Penny, please... not Penny.
"Her deskplate reads Tonya Holmes, but there were no survivors."
Somehow, just somehow, Percy managed to keep his face impassive, but his voice was another matter, it shook uncontrollably when he next spoke, "Who did this?"
"The envelope must have had a charm on it, because it was untouched by the blast. The Dark Mark drifted out of it, the name of the letter was T. M. Riddle, we're still running security checks--"
Percy stopped listening, he knew then he couldn't deny the truth any longer. T. M. Riddle, first he had almost taken his sister and now he had taken Penny... "Lord Voldemort," said Percy quietly, not caring if he was interrupting her, not caring if he said the name or not.
"Excuse me?" the woman had paled considerably.
"T. M. Riddle, Tom Marvolo Riddle is Lord Voldemort, just read the paper- I can't explain." Somehow Percy managed to get himself through the door.
----
"Mr. Fudge, Percy Weasley wants to see you--" his assistant Nina said, sticking her head in through the door.
"Can't he get an appointment?" Fudge said irritably from behind the pile of paperwork that was part and parcel of being Minister.
"He says its urgent, sir--"
"All right," Fudge sighed, "Probably has a lead in the Cauldron Thickness case." Fudge liked Percy Weasley, liked him allot. Unlike the rest of that family, Percy had work ethic, tact, and discipline. It would not surprise Fudge to see him sitting behind the desk he now occupied. Percy, in a way, was the son to him that Gabriel could never allow himself to be. .
But the Percy Weasley Nina ushered in was not the Percy Weasley Fudge knew and respected. This Percy had a manic glint in his eyes that unsettled Fudge and reminded him vaguely of Alastor Moody. Percy held a diamond ring in his hand, which he was fingering madly. When Nina had shut the door he walked over to Fudge's desk, "Do you know what I was going to do ten minutes ago, Mr. Fudge?"
Fudge was beginning to get worried, after the 400 odd Howlers in response to Gabriel's article, the last thing he needed was a irrational conversation with a usually rational individual. "What were you going to do, Percy?"
He put the ring on Fudge's desk, "I was going to ask Penelope Clearwater to marry me."
"Oh that's wonderful!" Fudge smiled, relieved. Percy Weasley was coming to him to ask advice on how to pop the question, the sly old boy!
"She's a secretary in the Department of Mysteries," Percy said-- staring at Fudge, "Do you understand what I mean, Mr. Fudge?"
"Yes," Fudge said, feeling the bottom drop out of his relief, "I'm terribly sorry--"
"Who did this?" Percy said, sounding amazingly threatening.
"Sirius Black of course. He murdered Karkaroff probably as a result of Barty Crouch's actions at the Triwizard Cup." Fudge shuddered at the memory.
"No, Mr. Fudge, I don't think so." Percy leaned over the desk, "I think it was the work of the man who was supposedly defeated fourteen years ago, by my brother's best friend. It was Lord Voldemort--"
"Don't say that name!"
"How long can you hide from the truth. I did-- look where it got me! Look around, open you eyed or end up dead! Voldemort is back, you can't hide in safe little forms forever. Penny died because I hid, who will have to die to convince you to act! I'm joining the Third Camp, get yourself another Department head!" Percy strode out of the office.
Fudge sat there for a long time, a long time just staring up at the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but to the ring on his desk. Eventually his mind drifted back to the past... the Cup, Dumbledore's words... when they parted ways, and then... to Severus Snape-- the mark burning on his arm "...we both felt the mark burn, we both knew that he had returned..."
"Why, Albus, why?" Fudge murmured to himself, wishing with every ounce of soul he could just hole up and hide from the terrors he was about to face, but he couldn't... not anymore.
"Nina," he called as his assistant ducked her head in through the door, "Draft a letter to Dumbledore, its time to make amends."
THE THIRD CAMP
CHAPTER X-- THE THIRD CAMP
A continuous stream of knocks sounded on the door of the apartment, blending in with the sounds of the ringing alarm clock. The two together achieved what one could not, and Gabriel Cox sat up, sliding out of bed. He was in his robes from the day before and his hands were still coated with ink. Wiping sleep out of his eyes, Gabriel stumbled to the door and threw it open--
"Great, it's you--" he muttered holding the door open as Cornelius Fudge walked into the room purposefully, his mouth tight and angry. The uncomfortable silence turned into a duel, which neither one wanted to break, for fear if giving the other an early advantage.
"What, may I ask," said Fudge after what seemed like an eternity, "Is this?" Unfurling it from under his arm, Fudge brandished the Daily Prophet.
"The truth," Gabriel smiled broadly, "Something sorely lacking in today's world, wouldn't you say?"
" 'Rita Skeeter considered by many as the baddest babe ever to set her pretty little hands to the quill has finally crossed the line between journalism and third-class fiction, writes Special Corespondent Gabriel
Cox!' What is this nonsense?"
"Since you praised her writing so highly, I just thought I'd paraphrase a few lines here and there."
Gabriel gave a grin, propping his feet up onto the table, "Tea?"
"This is insane, my own nephew! None of this makes sense!" Fudge was sputtering left and right.
Gabriel yawned, "Have you even read the article?"
"Of course I've read the article--" he snorted.
"Give me the paper--" Gabriel extended his hand, "Give me the paper." When Fudge shook his head,
Gabriel grabbed it. "You need a dramatic reading."
"I need nothing of the sort!" Fudge groaned. "Yes you do," Gabriel said, pushing him into a nearby chair,
"You have no idea how many people suffered to have this story written and I refuse to let you blow it off like this." He glared at Fudge before taking the paper in his hands, "THE THIRD CAMP-- Rita Skeeter considered by many as the baddest babe ever to set her pretty little hands to the quill has finally crossed the line between journalism and third-class fiction, writes Special Corespondent Gabriel Cox. Skeeter, infamous for shredding the images and wrecking the livelihoods of many innocent citizens has struck again, this time her insufferable mud-slinging was aimed at Albus Dumbledore, known forever and a day as one of the greatest wizards the world has ever seen. Skeeter fabricated her story from tiny bits of information, all scraped up and bubbled into a fantabulous stew she knew you, dear readers, would gobble up. But stew is stew and journalism is journalism and there is no correlation between Rita's story and the truth I give you now today.
Point one, forget the press for the last fourteen years, Sirius Black in innocent--" Gabriel paused, looking
at his Uncle, "You've head the stories, about Black and the Triwizard Cup, right?"
"Yes," Fudge growled.
"I'll skip them then," Gabriel said, staring down at the page, "here we go-- It is thanks to people like Rita Skeeter that we face this war divided into three camps: Voldemort, the Ministry, and the people who know the truth-- the Third Camp. Many of you have fallen victim to Voldemort in the past, and he has already victimized people today: Karkaroff, Harry Potter, Cedric Diggory, who was murdered in cold blood a reminder of the constant fear we lived in fourteen years ago, fear that suddenly has something to ground itself in. We must face that fear, if not for our sake, for the sake the ones we love for when Voldemort returns to full strength, no one will be safe any longer, families will be ripped asunder, our way of life torn apart from the inside. I cannot sugar-coat the dangerous times ahead of us, only tell you this, if we plan to face these times and live, we must do so united as one camp, not two or three or four. For the time being we must but our differences apart and join together to face the rising storm."
Fudge sneezed slightly.
"That was aimed toward you, Uncle," Gabriel said, laying the paper down.
Fudge sputtered, "Do you want to ruin me?"
"No." Gabriel said "For a long time I did, but now I want you to trust Dumbledore, he is back--"
Fudge got to his feet, "Good bye, Gabriel."
"What? What do you mean?" Gabriel jumped out of his chair, his face in shock.
"I have Ministry business to attend to," Fudge said calmly, in the tone one would use to address a mental patient.
"You won't even listen to us!" Gabriel yelled.
"You are obviously a very confused and misguided individual, good day," and with that, Fudge walked out of the apartment.
----
Percy Weasley was feeling very smug. Smug was a regular emotion for Percy who, after thoroughly researching the subject, had proved himself to be the youngest department head in the entire history of the Ministry of Magic-- and such an important department like International Magical Cooperation! Of course he was "sad" about Mr. Crouch's tragic death, and its consequences, but some people would believe anything if it came out of the mouth of Albus Dumbledore.
At least he still had Penelope, he thought, fingering the ring in his pocket. He had been wanting to ask her... for weeks, ever since he had scraped up the money for a ring.
Tapping his fingers on the desk, in a rare moment of impulsiveness, Percy decided he would wait no longer, standing up abruptly, he brushed past his secretary, "I'll be back in about twenty minutes, Ellie."
"Yes, sir," she said, busy filling out of the numerous forms that was as integral a part of the Ministry as the existence of magic itself. Percy never could get over of the thrill of people calling him sir.
Penelope only worked two floors down, as a secretary in the Department of Mysteries. Naturally Percy couldn't ask about her job, so they just talked about his, which suited him just fine. Whistling as he jogged down the stairs Percy pulled open the door to Penny's department...
...and entered hell. The once white walls were now charred black, desks chairs and paper in ruins indistinguishable from each other, all making up the charred rubble that coated the floor. Percy saw a hand, charred and black poking from the rubble that law by his feet. Right in the center of the offices, green and glowing, was the Dark Mark, giving him a sadistic smile. Where's your Penny now, it seemed to say, Find her in here... if you want to find her in here. The walls were still smoldering.
"Can I help you, sir?" a woman in a hit wizard uniform stepped towards Percy, holding a hose. All around him, similarly dressed wizards were sifting through the rubble, putting out blazes and edging around the glowing Dark Mark. Percy felt his voice seize up, "What happened?"
"A bomb-- a Muggle device so it didn't set off the curse sensors, an owl carried it in one of the secretaries opened it..."
"Which one?" Percy fought to keep his voice calm. Not Penny, please... not Penny.
"Her deskplate reads Tonya Holmes, but there were no survivors."
Somehow, just somehow, Percy managed to keep his face impassive, but his voice was another matter, it shook uncontrollably when he next spoke, "Who did this?"
"The envelope must have had a charm on it, because it was untouched by the blast. The Dark Mark drifted out of it, the name of the letter was T. M. Riddle, we're still running security checks--"
Percy stopped listening, he knew then he couldn't deny the truth any longer. T. M. Riddle, first he had almost taken his sister and now he had taken Penny... "Lord Voldemort," said Percy quietly, not caring if he was interrupting her, not caring if he said the name or not.
"Excuse me?" the woman had paled considerably.
"T. M. Riddle, Tom Marvolo Riddle is Lord Voldemort, just read the paper- I can't explain." Somehow Percy managed to get himself through the door.
----
"Mr. Fudge, Percy Weasley wants to see you--" his assistant Nina said, sticking her head in through the door.
"Can't he get an appointment?" Fudge said irritably from behind the pile of paperwork that was part and parcel of being Minister.
"He says its urgent, sir--"
"All right," Fudge sighed, "Probably has a lead in the Cauldron Thickness case." Fudge liked Percy Weasley, liked him allot. Unlike the rest of that family, Percy had work ethic, tact, and discipline. It would not surprise Fudge to see him sitting behind the desk he now occupied. Percy, in a way, was the son to him that Gabriel could never allow himself to be. .
But the Percy Weasley Nina ushered in was not the Percy Weasley Fudge knew and respected. This Percy had a manic glint in his eyes that unsettled Fudge and reminded him vaguely of Alastor Moody. Percy held a diamond ring in his hand, which he was fingering madly. When Nina had shut the door he walked over to Fudge's desk, "Do you know what I was going to do ten minutes ago, Mr. Fudge?"
Fudge was beginning to get worried, after the 400 odd Howlers in response to Gabriel's article, the last thing he needed was a irrational conversation with a usually rational individual. "What were you going to do, Percy?"
He put the ring on Fudge's desk, "I was going to ask Penelope Clearwater to marry me."
"Oh that's wonderful!" Fudge smiled, relieved. Percy Weasley was coming to him to ask advice on how to pop the question, the sly old boy!
"She's a secretary in the Department of Mysteries," Percy said-- staring at Fudge, "Do you understand what I mean, Mr. Fudge?"
"Yes," Fudge said, feeling the bottom drop out of his relief, "I'm terribly sorry--"
"Who did this?" Percy said, sounding amazingly threatening.
"Sirius Black of course. He murdered Karkaroff probably as a result of Barty Crouch's actions at the Triwizard Cup." Fudge shuddered at the memory.
"No, Mr. Fudge, I don't think so." Percy leaned over the desk, "I think it was the work of the man who was supposedly defeated fourteen years ago, by my brother's best friend. It was Lord Voldemort--"
"Don't say that name!"
"How long can you hide from the truth. I did-- look where it got me! Look around, open you eyed or end up dead! Voldemort is back, you can't hide in safe little forms forever. Penny died because I hid, who will have to die to convince you to act! I'm joining the Third Camp, get yourself another Department head!" Percy strode out of the office.
Fudge sat there for a long time, a long time just staring up at the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but to the ring on his desk. Eventually his mind drifted back to the past... the Cup, Dumbledore's words... when they parted ways, and then... to Severus Snape-- the mark burning on his arm "...we both felt the mark burn, we both knew that he had returned..."
"Why, Albus, why?" Fudge murmured to himself, wishing with every ounce of soul he could just hole up and hide from the terrors he was about to face, but he couldn't... not anymore.
"Nina," he called as his assistant ducked her head in through the door, "Draft a letter to Dumbledore, its time to make amends."