Title: All Fall Down
Author: Sonya
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.
Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.
Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be revealed later. ;)
Summary: Where is the Wizarding world going these days – and what's it doing in that handbasket?
Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" and "Half-Blood Prince" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgment. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?
13 February 2004
PROTEST AT MINISTRY TURNS VIOLENT - ONE DEAD, DOZENS WOUNDED
By D. Eaves
What began as a peaceful protest outside the Ministry of Magic early this morning erupted quickly into violence. Several individuals were injured, and one wizard is dead. This is the fourth such incident since the trials of several self-described 'Death Eaters' began last month, but the first to result in a fatality.
The Citizens' Coalition for the Free Practice of Magic – a private group formed to oppose the prosecutions - are denying any official involvement in today's events. However, witnesses report that several outspoken members of the Coalition were in fact present, but avoided arrest. The disturbance was timed to interrupt the transfer of convicted Dark wizard and self-described 'Death Eater' Walden MacNair from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, London Facility, to Azkaban prison.
Officials fear that the riot may have been witness by several Muggles who have yet to be apprehended and Obliviated.
"It was chaos, utter chaos," said Auror Algernon T. Grouse. Ar. Grouse had been involved in the 21 December raid on Malfoy Manor, and his testimony was pivotal to the conviction of Mr MacNair. "There's just no way we got them all, and there were some pretty flashy hexes being thrown around."
One of those hexes hit a passing Muggle vehicle, causing it to swerve into the crowd of protestors. Mr Irving Weir, owner of Weir's Cauldron Shop in Diagon Alley and a vocal opponent of the recent high-profile prosecution of crimes against Muggles and the practice of the Dark Arts, was trapped beneath the Muggle vehicle. Mr Weir was pronounced dead on arrival at St. Mungo's hospital; the Muggle driver was also killed. Several other protestors and at least three Aurors are being treated for various injuries.
Protestors had attempted to rush Mr MacNair's escort as they exited the Ministry building, with the intent of pressing in too closely for them to be able to Apparate away. It is being speculated that some involved may have planned to free MacNair – though no one is admitting to any such plan. The Aurors escorting Mr MacNair tried to push their way through the crowd and that, witnesses say, is when things got out of hand.
It is not yet known who threw the fatal hex, or whether its interference with a Muggle vehicle was intentional. Representatives for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office had no comment for reporters earlier this morning. The street has been cordoned off -under the pretense of a sewage leak, so far as the Muggles are concerned – and a thorough investigation is being conducted. Several individuals involved in the protest are currently being held for questioning.
"No one meant for this to happen," said Mrs Mildred Lynch, of Oxford. "But someone has to do something, it's not right, what's happening to these people for the private exercise of magic in –
Hermione put the Daily Prophet down on the table next to her plate of untouched toast, folding it carefully so that the front page story was tucked away, and an advertisement for self-heating socks faced upward. She smoothed the fold over several times, feeling a faint trembling in her fingers and surprised to see that her hand was not, in fact, shaking. The newsprint was dry under her fingertips, a texture that usually made her skin crawl, especially in the cold, dry depths of winter.
It felt suddenly too warm in the great hall; robes that had been barely sufficient to ward off the chill when she put them on less than an hour ago were abruptly stifling.
The private practice of magic. None of the Ministry's business. Not right what's happening to them – what's happening to THEM –
- died in a car crash, it was a car crash, really a car crash, how DARE they – how dare they say it's no one's business and how dare they protest and how dare they die so easily, so quickly, I bet he didn't feel a thing, didn't even see it coming, wasn't tied down and wasn't made to wait and bleed and suffer and one dead – the headline said one dead, but the Muggle driver was killed too, but that's not one, is it, that's a private matter in one's own home and how can they – how CAN they -
- and how can there be a stack of letters under your bed full of dark spells. Things you could be arrested for, if you were past the age of majority – might be arrested for anyway, with everything that's going on.
Everything that's going on. Is that how you think about it now? Why don't you write an essay about it for History of Magic, then, since it's such an interesting legal conundrum, such a fascinating bit of fucking social theory, everything that's going on – like it's nothing – like they were NOTHING and how DARE they!
It's not the same. I want to be able to defend myself, defend myself against THEM because if they killed me or raped me or tied me down and bled me and left me lying there with blood pooling in my skull and HOW DARE THAT BASTARD DIE IN A FUCKING CAR CRASH –
- it would just be a private matter. That's all.
She looked up, and Harry and Ron were watching her warily across the table.
"It's nothing, it's just -" she stopped, gesturing helplessly at the paper.
"Yeah," said Ron sympathetically.
"I think I'll go to the library," Hermione announced, to no one in particular, not looking at Ron. Don't be sorry for me, I can't stand it. "I need to study for Mundane Injuries and Maladies, we're having a quiz." She let her eyes flicker upward for a moment as she gathered her books; there was a hard, determined, awful expression on Harry's face.
He thinks it's his fault. He thinks it's all his fault.
If he'd just –
- no. No, no, no, never. I will never think that.
Like I never swear, and I'd never do more than kiss a boy, and I'd never forget a paper, and I'd never be studying the Dark Arts?
I will never understand this. I will never understand how people can think like those people do, like we're nothing, like my mother was nothing, my father was nothing, I'm worse than nothing, and sometimes I feel like worse than nothing and –
- and it's not his fault.
"See you in DADA, then," Ron said, and impossibly, at the mention of the joke that was Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry's expression grew even darker. For a moment Hermione's eyes caught Harry's, and there was a flicker of something unspoken between them, something solemn and terrible.
Maybe something that only people whose mothers are rotting in the ground will understand.
We're the ones left, the ones left to do something. To fight back, and it's okay to fight back, okay to defend yourself, okay to want –
- not justice. There can't be justice. I don't want justice, I want them all bleeding.
"See you then," Hermione said to Ron, in a voice that was calm and normal and sounded too distant, like it was someone else speaking.
The staff room made Willow nervous. She avoided it when possible, which was most of the time.
'Cause I'm not so much staff, really.
But Severus wasn't at breakfast so –
- so you need to act like a demented stalker, apparently.
I'm not stalking. I'm checking-up-on. Perfectly reasonable. Besides I am sorta a teacher and it's just the staff lounge and it's not that scary and I really must get over this whole feeling like I'm fifteen thing at some point.
For pete's sake I'm kinda-sorta-dating the professor most likely to give me detention anyway.
Which I can't get – detention, that is – because I am not a student and I need to just get over it!
She stuck her head in the door, unconsciously biting her lip. Flitwick was sitting at the far end of the table apparently grading papers; Minerva McGonagall seemed to be trying to do something to the coffee pot, pointing her wand at it and muttering.
"Fiddling with a person's morning coffee is just not amusing, Electra," McGonagall called out in a rather annoyed tone when she heard the door open. "That stuff you call – oh, hello, Willow," she cut off, when she turned and saw who it was. "You're not who I was expecting. Never mind about the coffee – though there's none that's drinkable if you were looking for it." She grimaced. "Well, unless you like this decaffeinated swill." Her expression indicated that the brewing of decaffeinated coffee should perhaps be considered a crime against humanity.
"Uh, no?" Willow responded hesitantly; Severus did not appear to be in the staff room.
"I knew there was a reason I liked you," McGonagall pronounced.
"Actually I mostly drink tea," Willow confessed. "Though, the real kind. With caffeine," she offered almost apologetically. And why am I all cringing and stuff over my choice in hot beverages?
Because it's McGonagall and she's scary.
"You and Severus," McGonagall sighed, shaking her head as she pour Electra Vector's pot of decaf coffee down the sink. "Not that I don't appreciate a good cup of tea, but in the morning -" she glanced up, and saw Willow turning very red.
Me and Severus, as in me and Severus both drink tea, and you know, maybe fifteen is really overestimating your mental age.
"Were you looking for him?" McGonagall asked, a sly sort of half-grin tugging at the corners of her usually stern lips.
"No!" Willow yelped reflexively. "I mean – yes, but, it's nothing important." We're in the realm of junior high and backsliding rapidly here.
"He had something to discuss with Draco Malfoy, I think," McGonagall said, turning away again to rummage through the cabinets over the sink. "There was an owl from the Ministry. Poor boy," she added, as an afterthought. "I've tried not to be so hard on him, but he does not make it easy." She glanced up at Willow, clearly expecting some commentary on the subject of Draco.
"He's got some attitude issues," Willow offered. McGonagall snorted.
"That's one way of putting it," she returned, glancing back at the younger witch. "Are you coming in, or are you planning on standing in the doorway all morning?"
"I guess I could make some tea," Willow offered, stepping hesitantly in to the lounge. "Since you don't have coffee."
"Oh, there will be coffee," McGonagall vowed, slamming a cabinet shut. "Just as soon as I figure out where Electra hid the beans."
Couldn't she just transfigure the decaf back into, well, caf?
Maybe it doesn't taste quite the same. Or doesn't get you quite as buzzed?
A post owl swooped suddenly in past Willow's shoulder, making her jump; it landed in the middle of the table, the breeze from its wings catching several of Flitwick's papers and sending them fluttering to the ground. It shuffled around, eyeing the room's occupants, and finally settled its stare on Willow.
"Probably for Dumbledore," McGonagall surmised, when the owl didn't approach either professor. Flitwick was levitating the papers one by one back onto the table surface, giving the owl a faintly annoyed glare. "The wards on the Headmaster's office confuse them sometimes."
McGonagall reached out to take the parchment affixed to the little tawny owl's leg; it turned and nipped at her, its beak clicking together with a sharp snap.
"Blasted little -" McGonagall muttered, slipping off into sub-audible grumbles as she inspected her fingers for damage. The owl blinked, turned its huge round eyes back to Willow, and took a few waddling steps in her direction. Why am I getting a bad feeling about this?
"Now, see here – mangy little bugger!" McGonagall yelped, as she reached determinedly for the owl and it snapped at her again. It shuffled closer to the far edge of the table, closer to the door, and Willow. McGonagall followed the line of its gaze. "Fine, it likes you, you try!" she said with an irate huff.
Willow eyed the owl with uncertainty bordering on panic. "Hi," she greeted it warily, in a voice that squeaked.
It trotted right across the table, hopped to the back of a nearby chair, and obligingly held out its leg. McGonagall threw her hands up in clear disgust and turned back to the cabinets and her missing coffee beans.
Willow hastily untied the bit of shoelace that was holding the envelope – not a parchment after all, upon closer inspection – to the owl's leg, feeling an increasing sense of wrongness. That envelope looks too . . ordinary. Not like, here ordinary. Like Muggle ordinary.
"Is it for Dumbledore?" McGonagall asked, head stuck so far into the cabinet it looked like she ought to be through the wall. Willow flipped the envelope over, and for a moment, didn't answer.
"Is it?" McGonagall pressed, extricating herself from various biscuit tins and jars of tea, and tensing at Willow's shell-shocked expression. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"I don't know," Willow said. "I mean, nothing. Probably nothing. It's just – it's for me."
"Maybe he's not coming," Myrtle suggested, obviously trying to sound neutral and not quite managing.
"He's coming," Ginny argued calmly. Calliope was climbing over her hands, one hand lifted up and then the other to give the ghostly little rat somewhere to run. It felt like running cool water through her hands, if water could have tiny paws and little pinprick claws.
In a stall at the back of the bathroom, painstakingly warded against both moisture and discovery, lay a stack of Salazar Slytherin's books. She and Draco had carefully selected those books that were sufficiently preserved to be moved to this more convenient location and brought them above ground for further restoration – the climb down to the Chamber took half a day, which made it a little impractical.
She still opened it almost every day, though, and let the snakes play over her hands – before Draco got there, usually, though not today with Myrtle watching. Very early when I can't sleep any more.
I wish I could just sleep down there, but it'd take too long, getting up and down every morning and night.
"Breakfast must be almost over," Myrtle pointed out. "It's hardly worth bothering by now. He's very rude."
"Yes," Ginny agreed, as Calliope paused, sniffed, and suddenly seemed to realize that she wasn't making any actual progress forward. "Very rude."
"Don't you think you ought to mind?" Myrtle pressed; Ginny put the now impatiently squirming rat onto a nearby sink. It made an unnecessary leap up into the air, paddling little paws, making its way back to its mistress. Myrtle grabbed it up out of the air in a distracted sort of way, watching Ginny, and put it on her head. Calliope became instantly fascinated with rearranging Myrtle's translucent hair.
"She still does that," Ginny observed, tilting her head. "Kicks like she's swimming. She's been dead for months and doesn't understand yet that she can just float."
"Are you in love with him?" Myrtle blurted out.
"What?" Ginny asked, confused.
"Draco," Myrtle said.
"I was talking about the rat," Ginny responded impatiently, frowning. "It's like she doesn't know what she is, that she's a ghost." Doesn't know what she can do. What she could do if she understood what she was.
I need to understand, need to, because there's got to be some purpose, some reason this all had to happen this way, some –
- some way to pay for it all, for Myrtle who I killed and the basilisk who wasn't a monster and Jupiter, Jupiter's blood all over me and I don't suppose it was his fault either. Not his fault they made him into a monster and no one, no one will make me, no one will twist me and break me and where's Riddle – where's that devil-spawn little bastard -
- but I'm not, not the devil and not there anymore and not Lord Voldemort.
Dead and gone and over, it's all over, paid so much and didn't buy a thing. There must be something – something -
"But he's late and you're not mad at him, so are you in love with him?" Myrtle insisted belligerently. "You are, aren't you? You're in love with him and you're going to go off and marry him and have lots of babies and forget all about me."
"I'm trying to figure something out about the rat," Ginny snapped, heard the biting edge to her own voice, and blushed. Can't think about that now, not about falling in love and kissing and I kissed him and – can't think about that now. Not now. "I think it might be important."
Because he's still out there, isn't he? Lord Voldemort. The other – the other me.
But not me, not me. Just a thing I made up, made up in the cold and the dark and the bleeding and trying to hold a pen with swollen broken fingers and it hurt so much, so much, and your penmanship is shameful, boy, you'll write that line fifty times until you get it right and cold – cold water – hold your hand under the cold water long enough and it'll go numb – go numb – I am Lord Voldemort –
- not anymore. Over. Dead and frozen and over.
But not over. Not over out there. The thing I made is still out there. The thing I gave life and flesh and power and -
"You're ignoring me already," Myrtle pouted.
"No, I'm not, I'm just -" Ginny's frown deepened and she shook her head, trying to clear the static buzzing, the feeling of trying to see something through a fog. " – never mind, I don't know what I was thinking about." A thing I don't need anymore. Like a ghost trying to swim in the air.
But how do you take it back? You can't, can't ever take anything back.
The door to the bathroom banged open so hard it bouncing off the wall. Draco stomped in, throwing his books down on the floor with such force that they skidded off into a corner.
Are you in love with him? You are, aren't you?
I don't know – don't know anything – there's no room in my head for that but –
- but he sees.
Draco flopped down on the floor next to where Ginny was sitting, propping his head back against a sink. "Weasel, Dead Girl," he said, nodding in Myrtle's direction by way of greeting.
Myrtle gave an offended huff, and swooped off into a stall.
"Don't know why that pisses her off," Draco shrugged, still facing forward, addressing a random bit of water-stained ceiling as Ginny watched the side of his face. "She's a girl, she's dead." He seemed to feel Ginny's eyes on him and turned sideways. "What?"
"You meant to piss her off," Ginny said.
"Yeah, probably," Draco allowed, shrugging irritably. "I'm just a git like that, right?"
"What's wrong?" Ginny asked.
He got up, pushing himself away from the sinks with angry, exaggerated movements, stalking across the room to the pile of his books. They'd come loose of their strap and were lying in a disorganized huddle. He tossed texts aside until he got to the one he apparently wanted, opened it, and pulled a folded parchment out of the cover. He tossed it in Ginny's lap as he made his way back towards her.
She flipped it over; there had been a Ministry of Magic seal on it, now broken. The edges of the parchment were crinkled where someone had gripped it too tightly.
"I'm not doing fucking restoring charms today," Draco announced, tone hostile and challenging. "I'd probably fucking blow something up. In fact, I don't want to go to class today either, or be in this fucking school or have to deal with fucking people, but I suppose I have to. If I don't I might flunk and then I might not be able to get a job at fucking Flourish and Blotts or wherever I'm going to be spending my life doing fucking menial labor so I can fucking eat."
You swear too much, it sounds silly, Ginny thought, but didn't say it, and unfolded the parchment.
Professor Severus Snape:
The Dept. of Magical Law Enforcement has received and carefully considered your petition on behalf of Mr. Draco Malfoy in regard to several properties seized by the DMLE on 21 Dec. 2003.
Unfortunately, we are unable to comply with your request at this time, owing to several factors with which you are undoubtedly familiar, not least of these being the lack of any substantial proof as to the death of Mr. Lucius Malfoy. In the absence of proof of death the aforementioned properties must remain, legally, in the ownership of Mr. Lucius Malfoy, and will continue to be held by the DMLE until such time as he is apprehended, tried, and either convicted or acquitted of the several charges currently brought against him, which I'm sure I don't need to enumerate here.
Your renewed offer of cooperation with our ongoing investigation is, as ever, much appreciated, but your testimony remains unneeded at this time. You will be kept appraised of further developments.
Sincerely,
Edna L. Windish, Assistant Director, Dept. Magical Law Enforcement
- their own homes. I can't see how it's the Ministry's business if a witch or a wizard is performing Dark spells in their own home – or, well, as a guest in another's home, but the point is, we're sending a wizard away for life for a crime in which no witch or wizard was harmed. Well, until the Ministry got involved, that is."
The sentiment on the street today was sharply divided. Many are blaming the Ministry for the casualties both of today's unfortunate events and the raid on 21 December.
One angry wizard – who could not be later located for comment - jinxed the Aurors escorting Mr. MacNair so that the word "MURDERERS!" flashed in bright red above their heads for several hours before a counter-jinx could be found. A witch near the back of the crowd carried a sign that read 'Remember Pansy' – referring to Miss Pansy Parkinson, the 5th year Hogwarts student who was killed in the Malfoy Manor raid. The Ministry claim Death Eaters were responsible. Miss Parkinson's family – those not currently evading location by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – claim she was killed by Aurors.
Others, fewer in number but no less passionate in their views, support the Ministry and its prosecution of the so-called 'Death Eaters'.
"It's about time someone held them accountable," said Mrs. Gretel Wolvington of Whitechapel. "These people attacked Hogwarts students back in the fall, doesn't anyone remember that? They're getting their orders from You-Know-Who, and everyone knows it."
Those opposed to the prosecution, however, maintain that claims of You-Know-Who's return are unsubstantiated rumors, and the real issue is privacy rights.
"They'd love it if You-Know-Who were really involved in this, wouldn't they?" said Mr. Darius Mountbank of Westminster. "Then they'd have a good excuse for barging into innocent people's homes. Hey, I killed a goose for my dinner last night, will they be arresting me for that next?"
Mr. MacNair, meanwhile, will be spending another day in a holding cell beneath the Ministry, before being turned over to the Dementors. Three more self-described Death Eaters are currently being tried before the Wizengamot. Several other participants in what has been called the Malfoy Manor Incident have been convicted of lesser charges and released with fines, or bespelled to limit their magical abilities for a period of time. More than two dozen witches and wizards remain officially missing and wanted for questioning by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
In addition, DMLE officials are still investigating the rash of unexplained fires that began last week. Fires continue to plague several major cities. As of yet, there is no firm proof that these fires are magical in origin, but it is strongly suspected. The homes and business affected have all belonged to Muggles with no obvious ties to the Wizarding community, and appear to be random. Unconfirmed sightings of the 'Dark Mark' remain a near-daily occurrence around the country.
DMLE officers urge witches and wizards to continue to report any suspected Dark magical activity and to remain calm. Many remember the snake-and-skull symbol as You-Know-Who's calling card, but DMLE officials insist that it would be impossible for any one wizard to be responsible for every reported sighting. They say that, since the attacks on Hogwarts students this past November, no new sighting of the 'Dark Mark' has yet been linked to any act of violence.
"They're just doing it to stir people up," Ar. Grouse told us. "We have no reason to believe, as of now, that this use of the symbol is related to .. well, to how they used it last time."
Some witches and wizards, however, are not reassured.
"It's not over," said a witch who asked not to be named, and seemed fearful of the opinions of her neighbors. "I wish I thought it was, but from where I'm sitting, things are just going to get uglier."
Willow,
Hi. It's Dawn.
TBC . . .