Chapter Three: Quicksand
By Jonah
Maguire tried not to look too uncomfortable. He leaned into the back of his seat, clammy hands falling into his lap where he laced his fingers in an attempt to keep the shaking to a bare minimum. In actuality, he was very rarely a nervous sort of man; his line of job simply didn't permit such flaws.
Still.
It wasn't everyday you get to meet the Prime Minister.
He still didn't quite believe he was where he was, sitting with who he was sitting with. A tiny part of him half-suspected that Headquarters was just playing some nasty little trick on him, that the old man sitting before him wasn't really the Prime Minister, but his boss, silently sniggering behind the papers he held.
And yet, there was no mistaking it. He was actually sitting in the Prime Minister's office.
The office was remarkably simple — simple for a Prime Minister, that is. It was your basic four-walled room, albeit slightly larger than a common bedroom, complete with the mandatory desk, window, and fireplace. The window, itself, was shut tight, effectively keep the harsh winter winds from entering. The fireplace was lit and flickering, the tiny crackle of embers sounding off every now and then. The furnishings were similar to that of Maguire's office — a few photos of the family, some books littering an old bookshelf, and, sitting just above the fireplace mantle, was a small flower pot. It was an ordinary pot, really, orange-red and made of clay, but it made Maguire's investigator senses tingle. It would have looked innocent enough.
Now if it only held a flower…
Maguire swallowed the lump that had been forming in his throat, and his leg began to involuntarily bounce on its toes. Directly seated across from him was England's one and only Prime Minister, currently looking over the papers Maguire had presented him a few moments ago. A deep frown was hidden beneath a bushy mustache and a set of cold gray eyes flitted from left to right and back again as he compared the two documents he held up.
After a moment of quiet nodding and deep frowning, the Prime Minister laid the documents down and met Maguire's anxious eyes.
"My, my," said the Minister. He let out a deep sigh, though it sounded more bothered than worried. "There's no doubting the similarities," he said, frowning ever more.
"So you agree with me, sir?" Maguire could not stop himself to ask.
"Yes, I do," the Minister sighed again, sounding somewhat reluctant. He had laced his hands together, looking tall and imposing as he sat straight. "How very unfortunate."
Maguire blinked. "The death, sir?"
The Minister regarded him for a moment, looking blank. Then he blinked and began to nod. "Yes, the death… of course…" He trailed off, looking thoughtfully at his hands.
Maguire stared. The man sitting before him couldn't be the Prime Minister. He seemed too… human. And very tired.
Then suddenly the Minister looked up, looking like the strong, prominent political figure Maguire was used to seeing on the television. "Thank you for your research, Inspector," the Minister said. "I will be sure to speak highly of you to your superiors."
Maguire paused, taken aback. "But — sir? Aren't you curious about these deaths? The similarities — they can't be coincidental, they're too perfect."
"Indeed," the Minister frowned even deeper, "but, according to your research, the investigation of the first deaths failed to determine a cause. What do you propose I do, Inspector, if I have no precedent to go on?"
"I… Nothing, sir," sighed Maguire. "I'm proposing nothing." He shook his head, unable to let it go. "But it's just too odd…"
"The gap between these deaths is almost six decades," the Minister flatly pointed out.
"Yes, sir," nodded Maguire. "Forgive my persistence, I just can't seem to let it go."
"I understand, Inspector," said the Minister, "but I suggest that you do. There's simply nothing we can do now."
Maguire nodded, numb. "Yes, sir."
"Now if you'll excuse me," the Minister said, "I've an important call to make…"
"Of course." Maguire stood, bowed in respect, and turned towards the door. "It was an honor to meet you, Prime Minister." He managed to get one last look of the man of high importance, and frowned curiously as he could have sworn the Prime Minister had turned towards the fireplace, flower-less flower pot in hand.
When he was barely even five, Draco Malfoy had ridden his first broom. It was one of the House Elve's sweeping brooms, enchanted to follow the young Malfoy around and sweep up whatever mess he happened to create. He had hated that broom with a passion, so when it came in to clean up a pile of papers he had just so carefully worked on shredding, his temper flared and suddenly the broom stopped, paused in mid-sweep. He still was not quite sure what possessed him to mount the thing, but he did, and, in his first ever show of magic, enchanted the broom to fly him around the Manor's lower living area. Needless to say, he more than made up for the loss of his shredded paper.
But, as luck would have it, he was spared of any punishment, in the midst of showing signs of possessing magic (his parents had never mentioned it to him, but what they thought were signs of a Squib was nothing more than evidence of a late bloomer). And so, young Draco was quickly enrolled into the area's finest broom-riding academy. It was no walk in the park, to be sure, for he spent many nights aching in bed, sore from the day's earlier training. But his stamina and endurance were strengthened, not to mention the blossoming of his love for Quidditch.
And yet, running down the street like he was now, thirteen years later, panting openly with his back drenched in sweat, it was evident that Draco had not trained in a long while. All signs of ever having graduated top in his class at the broom-riding academy were void as he snaked his way around the pedestrians of Hogsmeade, trying his best not to knock anyone down. His breathing was out of rhythm and his legs were burning, but he was far too caught up in his thoughts to be bothered by any sort of physical pain. In his hand he gripped the Muggle newspaper, and every now and then he'd dart a glance towards the featured photo and grow more and more panicked every time.
He knew that man — he knew he did.
And yet… He didn't.
Without so much as a pause in his stride, he unfolded the paper and held it out in front of him, completely forgetting that he was running down a crowded street, blind. His eyes tore through the article, catching a few words as he went along.
…found dead around 12:30… daughter got home to find father on the floor… no signs of a struggle… no bruises or marks… cause of death unknown…
Draco choked on the words he read, feeling dizzy and surreal. He folded the paper again and continued to run, his eyes wide and fearful.
…daughter got home to find father on the floor…
She was late! his head screamed. She was at a party past curfew and he'd stayed up all night to wait for her. But not himself, the Muggle man — the father.
But he was there; he was in the room, pacing, waiting and filled with worry and anger for a daughter he never knew or had. Even now, if he tried very hard, he could still feel a bit of the father's anger deep in the pit of his chest. And the feeling of utter shock upon seeing a flash of bright green light.
He stumbled, tripping over his panic, and fell into the ground with a harsh sound. Too numb to feel the sting of pain, Draco quickly pulled himself up, pushing away the hands of the passer-by-ers that had reached out to help him. Wide eyes looked past the faces of concerned citizens towards the tall, ancient edifice that rose over the horizon, and he tore threw the crowd with a speed of a man running from death and wished for, more than anything, a broom to fly him towards his savior.
Sirius Black had always thought that once his name was cleared that he'd have absolutely nothing to do with the Ministry. Yet now he finds himself there more than his own home. With a long and suffering sigh, Sirius tipped back his chair so that his legs could cross over his desk, right on top of the papers he was supposed to be working on.
He left his flat some twenty minutes ago, professing a long night and mountains of paperwork to his flat-mates Harry and Remus, who were correct in blowing his bothered rants off for nothing more than a whining child who'd rather be off playing. Sirius was stung, downright insulted, when the two began to wager on just how long Sirius would avoid his work as they know he will. Remus was modest and only settled for ten minutes, while Harry went on to bet thirty. Glancing lazily towards his watch, Sirius was determined to go on for another twenty, far too stubborn to let either men win.
A desk away, his co-worker let out a subtle, "Psst!" that Sirius would not have noticed if he had been actually working. Sirius turned an indifferent gaze towards Len Something-or-other, a stout little man with a fast receding hairline.
"Did you hear?" Len asked conspiratorially.
Normally whenever Sirius engaged in conversations with Len, many precious minutes of just plain doing nothing were wasted, and Sirius was usually left with far more knowledge of England's best fishing spots than he would have liked. However, pure boredom egged him into asking, "Hear what?"
Dark beady eyes turned this way and that, paranoia creeping out of the man's bald-spot and he inched closer. "The Prime Minister Flooed."
Interested now, Sirius swung his feet down and turned fully towards Len. "The?"
Len nodded his round little head. "Over half an hour ago," he whispered, "and word around the cubicles is that they're still talking."
Sirius stared, processing the information. The "they" Len was talking about was the Prime Minister and Sirius's boss, the only person the Prime Minister had direct contact with (not even Muggles could tolerate much of Fudge). He was a large, brick-wall of a man whom Sirius affectionately referred to as 'Boss Man' because his real name was far too long and complicated-sounding for Sirius to bother to learn.
"Any idea why?" Sirius finally asked, but Len only shrugged his chubby shoulders.
Len shrugged. "I hear they're discussing the coming elections."
Sirius frowned, doubtful. "That's not important enough for the Prime Minister to bother Flooing over. No, it's got to be big — for what other time has the Big Guy ever called Boss Man for?"
Len flushed embarrassedly, his bald spot taking on a lovely shade of pink. "Er, only once that I've known of… When, ah… When you…" Len made small, helpless gestures with his hands. "Well, when you got loose, mate." He let out a nervous little chuckle, looking like he regretted ever initiating the conversation.
Sirius's arrest and clearance were still very vague to those who didn't have a part in it, so any mention of it usually ended with embarrassed flushes and nervous chuckles.
At the moment, Sirius was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice anything, and settled for frowning thoughtfully at nothing in general. "No one's escaped from Azkaban — we would have been informed of otherwise. So it must be something else. Something that the Prime Minister would be worried over…"
"Maybe one of our own got a bit wand-happy and transfigured his kid into a rabbit?"
Sirius shook his head, black tresses spilling from his ponytail and whipping across his shoulders. "Nah, our guys here could cover that up easily. It has to be something bigger — something we can't cover up…"
Suddenly there was a long crash of a door hitting wall, and Sirius and Len looked up to see a tall man walk into their Department. The man wore all black, his stoic face hidden behind dark sunglasses, and a head of hair buried beneath a jet-black hat that looked like a mix between a wizard's hat and a fedora. He made a direct beeline towards the Boss Man's office, opening the door just as loudly as he had entered.
There were a few moments of silence before someone let out a nervous chuckle, effectively breaking the tension and all office clatter resumed.
"An Unspeakable," Len said in awe, staring at the Boss Man's closed door. "I heard the stories about these guys — real tough and private-like. In all my thirty years working here, I'd never been able to see one. My friend Remy said he tried to speak to one once. Said it was like trying to talking to one of the Queen's own guards."
As Len continued to stare off in awe, Sirius glared heatedly at his desk. Unspeakables were hardly ever called on for anything, and when they were, it was bound to be huge. Cursing beneath his breath, Sirius slammed a fist into his paperwork, wishing (not for the first time) that he were in the frontlines.
"I sure wouldn't mind being the walls in that office right about now," Len remarked lightly, before shrugging it off and going back to work.
Chewing on his bottom lip, Sirius nearly gasped when he had a sudden epiphany. With a triumphant smile, he tore open his desk drawer, hoping with all his might that he had not disposed of his Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes gift bag.
Deputy Headmaster Severus Snape had always been a solitary man, preferring the company of his potions rather than bother with any other life form. He supposed that was how he had gotten to be such a bully magnet when he was in school, but an indifferent sigh disregarded all thoughts of bitterness towards the subject.
He stood on his own, unmindful of the winter wind whipping across his form. Dark, cloudy eyes stared down at the headstone just a foot away from him, its shiny marble surface glinting lightly against the pale December sun. Behind him stood the Hogwarts school, feeling like an overbearing shadow looming over his shoulder.
He sighed — he'd been doing that a lot lately.
"You foolish man," he found himself saying, bowing his head so that his eyes hid behind dark bangs. "Stupid…"
The headstone before him glinted, like wise old eyes winking mischievously. Snape glared at it as if it were the cause of all his problems. "Stubborn old cad," he spat out viciously, but his words were tinged with sorrow. The headstone was silent, and Snape felt his body shake with despair. "You should have told us… You should have let us help you." He let out a harsh sound, sounding somewhere between a chuckle and a cough. "It's a wonder why you weren't in Slytherin," he said, smiling ruefully. "You definitely had the pride for it."
Suddenly he seemed to remember where he was and would have flushed in embarrassment if he had been someone other than Severus Snape. He shook his head. "I've gone insane," he said with conviction.
"That much, I already knew," commented a weary voice.
Severus turned to see McGonagall walking up the hill behind him, looking the least bit winded from the journey. "It seems that characteristic is mandatory in order to teach at this school," McGonagall smiled at him softly.
"Indeed," Severus smiled wryly, his dark eyes finding the headstone again.
McGonagall watched him looking distant and thoughtful, with a sorrowful gaze of her own. "He would not want you to be this way, you know," she said finally. "I doubt he would have wanted to provoke such sadness."
Severus scoffed, his shoulders slightly trembling. "Then he should not have died."
"Albus knew his time had come," McGonagall went on gently, "he had accepted it — it's high time you did as well."
Severus just shook his head. "It's not that easy…" He sighed, exasperated. "You couldn't begin to understand."
"Try me," came the dry challenge. Severus nearly started, mildly surprised to hear such a tone in his superior, but went on before he could even realize he was speaking.
"He had… trusted me. Enough to give me a second chance, even when I had been so stupid. I never really thanked him, because I was too proud. Even when he'd been there for me, believed me, for so many times. But now he's gone. Without even asking me if it was okay."
Severus stopped, shocked at his nerve. Did he really just confess his inner feelings to his colleague? Not even his Pensieve knew. With an embarrassed flush, Severus dipped his head low, hiding behind his long bangs.
McGonagall made no sound as he did so and remained silent for what felt like minutes. "Albus was quite quick to believe in potential, even if you yourself did not think so at the time," she said at last, her gentle voice sounding odd against the low howling of wind. "I think he just believed you'd be okay…"
Severus only scoffed, and the silence settled in again. McGonagall listened to the wind, feelings its fingers graze against her face, pulling strands of her hair out of the bun she had tied it in. She could not believe it had only been a few weeks… Suddenly she smiled, a small, sad curve on her lips.
"Perhaps you're not as alone as you might think," she said softly.
Severus looked up and saw, to his surprise, a tall figure in black running the path towards them. Within moments the very distinctive path of white-blond Malfoy hair was bobbing towards them, silver strands glinting in the fading sunlight.
"Professor!" Draco gasped, stopping just a few feet away from him. He turned to McGonagall, looking flushed from his sprint, and gave a brief and rigid nod. "Headmistress," he mumbled, before turning back to Severus, an urgent look in his eyes.
McGonagall nodded towards him. "If you'll excuse me," she said breezily, and gave Draco an odd little smile as she began her way back to the castle.
"Is there something you need, Mister Malfoy?" Severus asked professionally, sounding as if his little emotional outburst had not just recently happened. "How is your mother?"
"She's fine," Draco said hurriedly, distracted. He brandished the rolled up paper in his hand, looking as if it was something more than it seemed. "I need to speak with you."
"Then speak," Severus said, turning to face him fully.
The young Malfoy glanced at his surroundings, gray eyes falling uncomfortably on the headstone. "Er, here?" he asked.
Severus gave the headstone a brief glance before nodding. "Is there a problem?"
Draco frowned, but shook his head anyway. "No sir. This is… fine." He shifted from foot to foot, rooting his eyes to the ground in front of him. "I've never been here before," he admitted guiltily. He wanted to say he hadn't had time, that he was too busy with his mother, but the thought of lying made his chest ache.
"This is my first as well," his old Professor told him, alleviating some of his guilt. Draco just nodded, and glanced at the headstone again. It was a large form, reaching his rib cage if he stood close enough, made of black marble. Silver words were etched along the surface, spelling out, "Here lies Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Beloved Headmaster and Mentor." Towards the bottom was a quote in what looked to be old Latin, but Draco could not be sure. Whatever it read, he probably wouldn't have gotten it anyway.
"There was something you needed to speak to me about?" Severus prodded. "It sounded urgent."
Draco snapped his head towards him, blinking owlishly. "Huh? Oh — yes!" He thrust out his hand again, newspaper clutched between his white-knuckled fingers. Severus stared at it, not quite sure what he was supposed to do. "I had a dream again," Draco said, barely above a whisper. His eyes were wide and panicked, his hand was shaky.
"A dream?" Severus asked, frowning. "Like before?" Since the October Incident, he just couldn't be sure of anything anymore…
Draco shook his head. "This one's different — more real, practically tangible. I dreamt I was this man…" He unfolded the newspaper, holding out the page with the photo so Severus could see. "This man."
Severus scrutinized the page, eyes squinted in thought. "How exactly — ?" Draco was talking before he could even finish his sentence.
"I was him! Right before he died — I felt his anger — his daughter was late — my daughter! — and then this figure came — a Death Eater? I couldn't tell, but it killed him — killed me — with the killing curse, just the other day — and now it's in the newspaper — well, not our newspaper, a Muggle newspaper — Muggle — Him! Me! A Muggle! — he's a Muggle and he's dead!"
Draco had said this all very fast, and by the end of it, his train of thought just seemed to collapse, and his energy along with it so he stood there, winded and wobbling on his very tired legs.
Taking the paper from him, Severus 'hmmed' thoughtfully. "And you're quite sure — ?"
"Positive," Draco said, with so much conviction that any sort of strength that had been keeping him up Disapparated, and he stumbled forward, falling into the surprised arms of his mentor. "Sorry," was all Draco could muster before promptly falling into unconsciousness.
When Draco awoke, some moments later, he found himself victim to a throbbing headache, his mouth dry and his vision blurred. With an involuntary grown, Draco tried to sit up, only to realize he was already in position. He blinked and the unmistakable form of his Potions professor materialized a few feet away.
"P-Professor?" he called out, his voice cracking. His hand went up to nurse his throat as the deputy Headmaster turned to face him.
Severus regarded Draco will a calculating stare, sending a chill down the younger boy's spine. "You're awake," Severus stated, sounding neither relieved or dismayed by the conclusion.
Draco could only nod and Severus turned back to what he was doing. With a bit of effort, Draco managed to crane his neck around the professor's towering form. He was hunched over a cauldron, pewter from what Draco could tell, with one hand stirring a wooden spoon while the other threw in a sprig of what Draco suspected to be rosemary.
Draco withdrew back into his seat, suddenly feeling like he was a young child waiting in the doctor's office only to be told he was suffering from a very bad, very incurable disease.
He cast his first look around him, the tall stone walls and ingredient books immediately triggering a memory from his earlier days in school. He was in the professor's office — an office of a Potions Master. Shelves lined the walls, littered with books and bottled ingredients, their labels written in the same loopy handwriting he was all too familiar with. The seat he was currently sitting on, a large, overbearing giant of an armchair that had once swallowed his small childlike body, was Severus' own — his very favorite, in fact. It was everything his professor liked — black, intimidating, and highly uncomfortable. Directly in front of him was a desk, one the owner was currently using to hold up his cauldron. White, odorless steam wafted from the brew, engulfing the face that hovered meticulously over it.
"You're far too much trouble than you're worth," Severus sighed gravely, before ladling some of the brew into an empty goblet. He held it out to Draco, who took it without question.
"You always tell me that," Draco muttered tiredly before downing whatever liquid was in the cup. Then he choked, his eyes welling up in stinging tears. "Ugh!" he held his arm out. "What is this?"
"Remember Pectoralis Daemon?"
Draco nodded, frowning at the memory.
"It's the exact opposite, for your dreams."
Draco stared. "So instead of subduing my inner demons, it's going to evoke them?"
"Your dreams," Severus amended with a wagging finger. "Your spouting nonsense wasn't much help, I'm sorry to say, so I thought I'd take matters into my own hands. Don't worry," he added, seeing the anxiety on his pupil's face, "you won't feel a thing."
But Draco wasn't listening. In the back of his head there was a low buzzing sound that made his ears itch, and suddenly he felt his body pulled back, like an invisible force had wrapped itself around his waist and tugged — hard. Worlds of colors flew past him before he suddenly halted, like time itself had stopped for just that single moment.
He was standing now, in the middle of a living room. A very familiar living room where an even more familiar middle-aged man was currently sitting on his armchair, newspaper in his hand. High on a wall, a cuckoo clock ticked away.
Draco would have gasped if he had the strength to.
"How peculiar," mused Severus, who had suddenly appeared beside him. Draco stared, open-mouthed, too numb to feel surprise. Severus turned to him, looking quizzical. "This is your dream?"
Draco nodded. "Only — " He stopped to swallow the lump in his throat. "Only I was him."
"You saw through his eyes?" Severus asked, as he watched the man begin to pace.
"No," Draco shook his head, looking ghostly. "I was him."
Suddenly there was a very distinct sound of floorboards creaking, and Draco whirled around in fright. "Oh no — " He turned back to the man, holding his arms out as if to hold him off. But the man had already heard it was on his way to the front door.
"No — !" Draco shouted, trying in vain to grasp hold on the man's arms, only to have his hands slip through.
"…Who're you?" the man was asking. "How did you get in here?" He'd seen the figure; it was raising it's hand…
"NO!" Draco shut his eyes, but it was no use; even through his eyelids, the green light was still so bright.
Then suddenly everything dissolved and he was back in the office, in the seat, with his mentor standing just where he had been, now with the Muggle newspaper in his hand. Draco sat, wide-eyed and breathing hard, feeling like he'd just run a marathon.
"Very peculiar," Severus murmured to himself as dark eyes scanned the front page.
Draco raised a shaky hand to cover his eyes. "I think I'm going insane," he said as he released a wavering chuckle. He looked up in surprise when Severus had answered, "Perhaps."
"Sir?"
Severus gave him a deep, meaningful look before turning away to clean up. "Go home, Mister Malfoy," he said, without look up from his task. "Your mother must be worried sick."
Draco did not move from his spot, staring disbelievingly at the older man.
"Go home," Severus barked, his face an emotionless mask.
Draco stared, face crumpling into an expression of confusion and pain before getting up and running out in a flurry of dark robes.
From where he stood, supporting himself by the desk, Severus let out a heavy sigh. Then slowly he straightened and walked calmly towards the farthest bookshelf. He pulled out a large black book, its leather cover rotting in mold. He set the book down on his desk and opened it to a page near the back. He read the small print, his shoulders seeming to grow heavy with every written word. Finally, he'd found what he was looking for, his suspicions proven. His eyes stared at the large bold text at the bottom and the symptoms that followed it.
"Dear child," he whispered softly, mournfully. "What's happening to you?"
Sirius cursed under his breath as he fumbled with the Extendable Ears. Buggers should come with instructions, he thought miserably, as he tried in vain to listen to the conversation currently taking place between his boss and the Unspeakable. He was quite sure he was using the gadget correctly, but all he could manage to catch were muffled snippets.
The low tenor that drifted into his ears he quickly recognized as his boss's. "…just received information… murder… Minister believes… dark magic at work…"
A voice that sounded like sandpaper quickly replied, "…something about it? …just a hunch…"
"…more than that… proof… better safe…"
"Rubbish… Muggles too paranoid…"
"…similarities… cannot be ignored…"
There was a loud scratching sound before the reception suddenly cleared up, and voices boomed into Sirius's ear.
"Inform your men," came his Boss's unwavering voice. "Your mission begins at daybreak."
"You're making a mistake," was the Unspeakable's urgent reply. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could not have possibly risen again."
There was a moment's pause and Sirius held his breath. Surely he wasn't hearing right…
"I just look at the facts," his Boss finally replied. "And right now, the facts say that a Muggle man died from the killing curse last night — the same killing curse that killed the Riddles over sixty ago." There was a scraping sound and a click; his Boss had stood up from his seat and opened the door.
"Now brief your men."
Thanks to all who replied. Sorry to keep you waiting.
remebrances , bigreader, Joya, Twerksie Gogara Relffin, Eiko, and Spinn.