Author-Dzeytoun
Rating-PG13
Category-Angst/Drama
Disclaimer-Main characters and settings owned by JK Rowling
HERE BE MONSTERS III: THE WOMB OF LILITH
Chapter Three: Grim Tidings
Sunday, 7 July, 1996
1501 GMT
Lifts are wonderful things. They hide so many necessary but unsightly activities – such as Scourgifying blood from your robes. I am also reliably informed that they are very convenient locations for brief snogging sessions. Unfortunately, by the time those clever Muggles made lifts popular enough for wizards to copy them, I was already much too old for such indulgences.
Drat the luck.
Why, Tom, I never knew you had it in you.
The head boy's private room has MANY uses, Albus. You don't think I spent all my time seventh year delving into Dark Arts.
Actually, I do think that, Tom. Would that you had found a girlfriend (or boyfriend, for that matter) for illicit ahem amusement. It would have been much less destructive, in the long run.
Why, Albus, you dirty old pornographer, you!
Do shut up, Tom.
The lobby of St. Mungo's is usually chaotic. I suspect, however, that they haven't seen crowds like this since the last war. A herd of humanity is crammed into the relatively small space, all of them, it seems, screaming questions. As I exit the lift a momentary hush fills the room. And then the questions are redoubled, all of them shouted at me.
"It was HIM, wasn't it, Professor? What are we going to do, Headmaster? Can you help get more information from the Healers, Headmaster? Professor…. Headmaster….. Please….. Can you….. Will you….. Could you…." I smile and make a little speech about courage and determination and how the Healers are working heroically. It really is political pabulum, although every point I bring up is true. And it seems to be what they want. The questions die down, the expressions grow markedly less tense, and the faces turned to me are respectful, and some even worshipful.
BAAAAAH. I don't know why you bother, Albus. These sheep would have gladly seen you exiled from Hogwarts forever. Take the boy and move to Bermuda.
Sometimes I am tempted. May whatever gods there are forgive me, but sometimes I am terribly tempted.
A loud screech echoes through the lobby, sending wizards and witches scrambling every which direction. With a majestic flap of its wings, a large golden eagle sweeps down from the Owl Port and lands on the receptionist's desk. Even that bored, normally unflappable functionary backpedals as the large raptor alights and glares about with an eagle's usual foul-humored expression.
I catch sight of the star-emblazoned blue envelope tied to the bird's right leg and hurry forward. It glances at me disdainfully then extends its leg with regal condescension. The address on the envelope reads:
Albus Dumbledore
Lobby
Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies
London
Watch it, Albus, or you'll draw back a nub.
Taking Tom's advice, I gingerly untie the message and look around the desk for a letter opener. A peculiar avian cough draws my attention back to the eagle. The bird looks at me with redoubled disdain and pokes its leg forward, rotating it slightly to hold out one sharp talon.
"Why, thank you!" I exclaim, gently slitting the envelope open on the razor-sharp edge of the proffered nail. The eagle nods and gives a sharp click of its beak, which I take to mean "Don't mention it." Years of dealing with Fawkes have given me a certain talent for deciphering avian intentions.
I carefully unfold the heavy parchment and read:
The Embassy of the American Wizarding State hereby invites you to greet His Excellency Senator Aurelius Pierre Ash, Legislative Envoy of the American Wizarding State, and
Mrs. Corazon Malfoy Dominguez y Ash with their ward, Ms. Penelope Julietta upon their arrival in the Wizarding World of Great Britain
Monday, July 8, 1996
Please RSVP with a location to which you would prefer your portkey to be delivered.
You are further invited to a reception for Senator and Mrs. Ash and Ms. Julietta sponsored by His Excellency Byron Arkwell, Ambassador of the Ministry of Magic of the Dominion of Canada, Her Excellency Esmerelda Cabot, Ambassador of the Ministry of Magic of the Commonwealth of Australia, His Excellency Juan Lopez Navidad, Ambassador of the Audiencia del Protomago of the United States of Mexico, and His Excellency Toshiro Kenabe, Ambassador of the WuJen Brotherhood of Japan
P.S. Please feed Franklin. He has a bad habit of scarfing up stray house elves when he's offended. It took a whole day to sew the last one back together.
I look at the eagle, who I presume is Franklin. He regards me calmly. I then look to the nervous receptionist. "I think you had better notify the kitchens. Something raw appears to be in order."
"Right away, Professor!" she exclaims, heading off at a trot.
Franklin gives two satisfied-sounding screeches.
I hastily scribble a reply on the back of the parchment and stuff it into the return envelope that has been provided. By the time I'm finished an exceedingly nervous house elf has arrived bearing a tray with something that looks like uncooked steaks. The eagle eyes the steaks, then the elf, plainly trying to decide which would taste better.
"Ahem," I say loudly.
Franklin looks at me, then gives the feathery shiver that serves birds for a shrug. Lowering his head, he devours the steaks with three snaps of his beak. I take advantage of the distraction to tie the letter back around his leg.
Straightening, Franklin nods to me, gives the shivering house elf one last appreciative glance, and rises with a powerful flap of his wings. Giving a last imperious screech, he rises and vanishes through the Owl Port (which, luckily, is enchanted to accommodate his large form).
Well, you don't see that every day.
I think that's the point, Tom. I think that's the point.
"I'm looking for the Weasley family," I say to the receptionist, who has yet to recover her shield of officious boredom.
"They commandeered one of the private areas," she says with a hint of disapproval.
Commandeered indeed. I bet Molly was fit to set a dragon running.
"Down the hall and to the left," the receptionist continues, managing to sound half-bored.
"Thank you. Oh, and there were a couple of Aurors…"
"I believe they are in the room as well, Headmaster."
"Excellent! I believe an American gentleman will be asking for me shortly. If you could please give him directions? Oh, and I believe a Mr. Reed will be along as well."
"Of course, Headmaster. I believe Mr. Reed is already in the room as well."
I give her an encouraging smile (I vaguely remember her as a not-too-bright Hufflepuff) and set off down the corridor. I find the room with no trouble. It is a standard hospital waiting area, stuffed full of decaying couches and several plastic chairs that look like they were stolen from the outer lobby. It is also stuffed full with Weasleys. Molly is stretched prone on one of the couches, dozing. Arthur is sitting in a chair by her head, looking like he has aged twenty years in the past two days. The twins are in two of the other chairs, looking worriedly at a huge stack of papers that Hermes Reed appears to be trying to explain to them in his soft tones. Tonks sits on the remaining couch, even the bright pink of her hair seeming dimmed; Alastor is at her side, looking grouchy as always. But it is Bill who is the most agitated, pacing up and down in the middle of the room, a Muggle cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
"I'll kill him…" Bill mutters as I enter silently through the half-open door.
"I hope you are not referring to me, Mr. Weasley," I say with a light tone, making sure to smile, "I have only just got used to walking again."
"Professor!" Arthur exclaims, leaping to his feet and coming to take my hand, "It wasn't you. Bill is…"
"Furious at the great gits I have for brothers is what I am!" Bill growls, coming to put a hand on his father's shoulder. The twins look at him, their faces for once somber and ridden with … guilt?
Well, they DID bring about this whole mess, Albus. In a manner of speaking.
Yes, but only in a manner of speaking.
"Those two," Bill continues, jerking his thumb toward the twins, "decide to open a joke shop in the middle of a war zone! Ron decides to throw himself in the path of a Fire Spear. And Percy…" his face darkens and his voice chokes as the empty hand at his side closes convulsively in a fist.
"Percy has not yet been here," his father says evenly.
"Percy won't come!" Fred (or is it George?) says loudly.
"Hmmm? Percy?" Molly stirs and half-rises, looking around with expectation in her eyes.
George (or is it Fred?) gives his brother a disapproving glance and moves over to speak to his mother quietly. After a moment she shoos him away. "I'm quite all right, George! Headmaster, come sit beside me. You too, Madam Bones!"
I turn in surprise (although I take care not to look surprised) to find Amelia Bones standing behind me, one hand still on the door. "Amelia!" I exclaim, "What good fortune. Yes, do join us!" I gesture to the couch on which Molly is now sitting.
"If it isn't a terrible time…" she begins.
"Sit down, Amelia," Alastor grumps. "War doesn't wait for a good time."
What a pithy little saying. You shall have to remember that one, Albus.
I'm sure you will remember it for me, Tom.
The couch is so soft that even my thin frame presses deep into its recesses. I am suddenly glad of the staff I'm carrying (and that I now lean carefully against the wall within easy reach). I shall undoubtedly need it to pry myself from the sofa's clutches.
"Let us begin with an update on our friends, shall we?" I say quietly. "Remus is recovering rapidly. He will awaken at any time. I am also told that Ron is healing well."
"Yes," Arthur answers quickly, and a bit too brightly, "he is doing very well indeed, considering."
"Unfortunately," I continue, feeling a heaviness settle into my voice, "Mr. Longbottom's condition is unchanged."
"And Harry?" Molly asks fearfully. I look over and see that she, too, has aged these past couple of days. Her eyes are moist.
"I'm afraid that Harry is still in the grip of whatever force seized him during the battle. The … episodes… are getting less frequent, I'm told. However they are still very...
Frightening? Terrifying? Horrendous? Nauseating?
"...dramatic."
Molly seems to wilt a little at that. But after a moment she squares her shoulders and nods firmly. "Well, less frequent is better."
"Of course it is, my dear," Arthur says quickly.
"Now," I say briskly, "shall we turn to our present business? Mr. Potter is in very good hands, indeed. I will say, however, that I hope that more specialized help will be arriving very soon. But," I continue quickly before anyone can interject any questions, "to the matter at hand. Amelia, can you tell us what the present understanding is concerning the attack on Diagon Alley?"
"Certainly," Madam Bones replies with her usual comforting no-nonsense efficiency, "I…"
A knock at the door interrupts her. I motion for Bill to greet the new visitor, and am unsurprised when Mr. Rand enters the room. "Ah, Mr. Rand," I say by way of greeting, "allow me to introduce everyone." I quickly make the round of the room. Rand stands with a small smile on his face, his ice blue eyes twitching to each new face in turn. "And this is Mr. Matthew Rand," I say, "current head of special projects for the Aesculapius Foundation..."
"European Branch," he interjects.
".. And here is his capacity as an unofficial messenger for – many people, I suspect."
"Yes, that about covers it," Rand sinks into a rickety folding chair, "I am sorry I interrupted you, Madam Bones."
Amelia looks at me with a small frown. I motion for her to continue. Nothing we say in this room today is likely to remain secret for very long.
"The attack caused less damage than it at first appeared," Amelia says in a flat, official tone of voice, "however loss of property was quite extensive. I won't get into the actual figures, they are still being calculated, but it is sure to run into the millions of Galleons. Luckily, however, most of it will be covered by insurance."
"Providing anyone can ever figure out..." one of the twins begins.
"…how to fill out these bloody forms!" the other concludes, smacking the pile of papers Hermes Reed has been explaining.
"Yes," Amelia says dryly, "the loss of effort and business time will be quite extensive, and the loss of revenue to the Alley and Wizarding London will be significant. Luckily, the damage was only a fraction of what would have been incurred from the aerial bombardment if the atmospheric wards hadn't held."
"Yes," Hermes asks, "where did those wards come from? Surely the Ministry couldn't have erected them in secret?"
"Not at all," Amelia replies. "They are actually left over from the last great Muggle war. The Ministry erected them in 1940 to shield the Alley during the German bombardments of that era. After the war ended it was felt that it would be too difficult and dangerous, not to mention too noticeable, to attempt to collapse them, so they were allowed to decay naturally. It was only sheer luck that they had enough energy left to deflect the Death Eaters' attacks."
Sheer luck and bad research on the Death Eaters' part. Unfortunate for them that Binns has no Dark predilections.
Yes, Tom, that is indeed unfortunate from their perspective.
"What were those black spheres?" Bill asks.
"We don't know," Amelia says, "but the Unspeakables are making that question a priority. Can you tell us about damage to Gringott's, Mr. Weasley? The Goblins are being less than forthcoming."
"I am sure they are," Bill says. "The southernmost walls and wards of the main building were completely breached on a small scale. The Governors have ordered a complete sweep of the vaults to ascertain whether any Death Eaters may have tried to escape through the Gringott's tunnels. It will take several days to complete. There are dozens of levels of vaults and chambers in the greater bank complex."
"And the human toll, Amelia?" I ask softly.
Her lips come together in a grim, almost invisible line. "Twenty dead, including eight Aurors."
"Nine," Tonks interjects in a quiet voice, "Herman Eddlesworth died a couple of hours ago."
Amelia nods once, sharply. "The injured number well over a hundred," she says. "St. Mungo's is overwhelmed with the serious cases. Many people with minor injuries have been treated and released or referred to private practitioners in an attempt to free up hospital resources. We probably won't have firm numbers for another couple of days."
"Not as bad as it might have been," Alastor says in his growling baritone, "all things considered. Potter and his friends probably saved us a much greater disaster."
Molly draws a sharp breath and glares across at the crotchety old Auror. Evidently they have already had words about this.
Alastor Moody versus Molly Weasley. Now there's a bout I would pay good money to see!
I'm sure you would, Tom. I'm sure you would.
I move quickly to cut the tension. "Let us be thankful that more were not injured. Unfortunately, we are far from done with the current round of fighting. I believe we can probably expect an assault on Azkaban at any time."
"It would make sense," Alastor says. "The Auror Corps has taken a serious blow."
"And we can be sure that public hysteria will increase geometrically," Amelia observes. "Every wizarding family from Scotland to Cornwall will want to see an Auror out their window. The Ministry will be stretched so thin we will have no choice but to significantly weaken the defenses at Azkaban."
"Are you sure there is no choice?" Bill asks. He has put another Muggle cigarette to his lips and takes a brief drag.
Amelia gives a grim nod. "I'm afraid not. The Aurors are simply stretched too thin, even with MLE giving all the support it can. We will activate the reserve Corps, but that will only buy us so limited maneuver room."
I sigh. The Reserve Auror Corps is made up of retired and medically discharged Aurors. Many of them, like Alastor, are talented and fiercely dedicated. Unfortunately, also like Alastor, most of them have significant impediments to functioning fully in the field.
"Have you thought of requesting temporary reinforcements from elsewhere?" Rand asks suddenly. "I am told that the Bureau de Magie has many talented operatives."
"It has been mentioned," Amelia says slowly. "However most of the European Wizarding Governments are experiencing waves of panic among their own populations, and it can only be a matter of time before the Dark Lord's sympathizers begin making trouble – as they already have in France. Besides, cooperation among Wizarding governments is not particularly strong in most areas, even in the best of cases, and with our own Ministry partially paralyzed…" she shrugs.
Rand nods and lapses into silence.
"So," I say slowly, "that is the domestic situation. What about the international, as Mr. Rand has brought that up?"
"Very bad," Amelia says. "The Australians have stabilized Death Eater and other Dark Wizard activity along their northern coast, but at the cost completely engaging their resources. We understand that they have requested aid from the Wizarding State. We have recent reports from the Unspeakables that the dimensional fabric in New Mexico is experiencing heavy ripples, but they can't quite tell what that means."
My, my, the plot thickens its ugly head.
Ignoring Tom and his mixed metaphors, I sit up straighter at Amelia's news. The Grey Headquarters is located near Roswell, New Mexico.
"I can answer that, I believe," Rand says softly. "I am told by my… associates… that the VII Legion Mysterion is deploying. They should be in position to support the Australians in a few hours."
I raise my hands to chest level and pat my finger tips together, careful to assume one of my calmest expressions. "A full legion?"
"Yes."
Pat, pat, pat. "Do your… sources… provide any other information?"
Rand favors me with a grim smile. "I am reliably told that the Death Eaters have been launching small expeditions deep into the Australian interior. No one seems to know what they are looking for."
My, my. Isn't that special?
"What about the Muggles?" Alastor asks suddenly. "They can't miss all that fighting."
"They haven't." Rand answers briefly. "The Australian Ministry has been in touch with the Australian Muggle Government." He sighs. "The Australian Army will go on alert in the next couple of hours."
"What!" Amelia exclaims. It is one of the few times I can remember seeing her taken aback.
"That's right," Rand continues calmly. "It is being explained as an exercise, of course. But it gets better. Janet Leung, the Grey Commander, was seen in Washington this morning, local time. Thirty minutes after she was spotted all leaves from the Carrier Task Force currently visiting Yokohama were cancelled. The force is expected to put to sea in six hours."
Amelia actually stares at him in amazement. I fold my hands together tightly as cold dread grips my stomach. "Another exercise?" I ask.
"Yes. Don't worry. The International Statute of Secrecy is still intact, but I can't deny it's under more stress than at any time in the last fifty years." He crosses his legs and folds his hands carefully on one knee. "Also, there has been an – incident."
"Incident?" I ask, letting my eyebrows rise sharply.
"I'm afraid so. Madam Bones, I believe you have lost contact with a certain emissary of yours? A young man who was poking around in certain dark nooks in the Washington area?"
Amelia's stare grows as intense as a Killing Curse. "How do you know that?"
"I'll take that as a yes." He reaches into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a pair of long, thin objects. Never breaking eye contact with Amelia, he throws them onto the table where they make a rattling sound that echoes in the room like thunder. I look down, knowing already what I will see.
Mr. Ollivander won't be happy.
No, he won't. Lying on the table are the pieces of a hickory wand that has been neatly snapped in two. Tufts of unicorn hair protrude from the broken ends.
"The people who caught our fine young Gryffindor – he was a Gryffindor, correct? – were not happy at all."
Amelia makes no sound, but I see her throat working as she swallows, hard.
"I have to say," Rand continues mildly, "a lot of people in the Wizarding State weren't happy, either. Turns out he was trying to get his hands on correspondence between the magical and non-magical governments. Naughty of him."
"We meant no harm," Amelia says softly, "but we felt like--"
"There were things you needed to know," Rand breaks in. He pinches his nose between thumb and forefinger and sighs. "Well, he probably knows a lot more about certain things now than he ever wanted to."
"What have they done with him?" Amelia asks.
"Oh, he isn't permanently harmed. Governor Torraco made a personal appeal to get him released. Right now he's one a plane winging its way to Heathrow. He'll be a little banged up and confused, but basically okay."
"Banged up?" Amelia's jaw is beginning to set in a stubborn expression. "Why wasn't that prevented?"
"Prevented? How?" Rand shakes his head. "What do you expect, a company of Greys to barge into the Pentagon, rescue your lad, and obliviate half the building? Sorry, but that just isn't going to happen. Relations between Washington and the Emerald City are pretty good, and nobody's going to kick over a piss pot just to rescue some spy who gets himself caught. It's just lucky they even listened to the Governor. I believe the plan was to cut his tongue out, sew his lips shut, and dump him out of a cargo plane over the Rocky Mountains. He can just count himself lucky that he isn't a red streak decorating some rock face in Wyoming."
"And what," Amelia asks, "would the Wizarding State have done about that?"
"Not a goddamn thing, as you well know." Rand replies evenly. "The point is things are rapidly getting out of hand. They are getting out of hand and if they aren't handled soon, a lot of people are going to die."
That statement is greeted with utter silence. The quiet stretches on for quite a long time.
A knock on the door makes us all jump. Bill Weasley grins sheepishly. Hermes giggles and gets up to answer it.
A young lady enters timidly and asks for me in a shy voice. She looks far too young to be working at St. Mungo's, but I remember her – a Hufflepuff who graduated from Hogwarts two years ago.
"I'm here, Mary," I call. "What is it?"
She comes over, not quite meeting my gaze. That was a habit of hers we could never quite break.
"There is someone asking for you, Professor. I know you said you didn't want to be disturbed, but he – well, he convinced the shift supervisor to send for you." Her voice holds great disapproval of this. "Should I tell them you aren't available?"
I almost say yes, as we still have a great deal of ground to cover. But I take pity on her fear. "Who is it?"
She smiles. "Some foreign mind healer. He says his name's Erkki Mahalan."