AN - I love this story, it's one of my favourites, though I warn you now the time and date leaps around a fair bit, so PAY ATTENTION to the time and the date, otherwise you'll probably get a tad confused. D Other than that I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. By the way, this is dedicated to Becbe, as she's had a crap day, what with Robbie being hit by that car, and finding out that our school has royally fucked up her plans for A Levels and 6th Form. I hope this cheers you up even the slightest bit Bec!

Disclaimer - It's not mine! I don't own any of it! Not even zippity, or doo dah!

Summary - What goes around, comes around, and that's the truth. The tale of five MofM employees and how their lives were twisted together by fate's sense of humour. An odd mixture of horror, suspense, angst, humour and romance, but a good read! I promise.

Oh The Irony! – By Nestlé

"Sentimental irony is a dog that bays at the moon while pissing on graves." - Karl Kraus

Christmas Eve 1996, 3:24 am.

"WILLIAMSON!"

Patrick Williamson bolted upright, instinct and Auror training making him thrust his wand out in front of him before he even realised he'd grabbed it from under his pillow. The next few seconds were taken up by reassuring his sleep-clouded mind that there was no threat in his bedroom; there was however, a head in his fireplace.

"Wha-?" He mumbled, rubbing his eyes and staring at the agitated face of his superior.

"Sorry about the wake-up call Patrick, I know from personnel experience it's not nice, good to see you alert though. Get dressed. Quickly. There's been an attack on a muggle town – Milton Keynes." Patrick lunged out of bed, and went straight to his wardrobe "Apparate to the edge of Linford Wood, next to the roundabout; George is already there."

Patrick was now fully awake, pulling his trousers on while searching frantically for a pen to write the location down.

"Is it bad?" He asked, hopping around as he put his foot through the trouser leg.

"Yes."

"I'll be as quick as I can."

"Faster. See you there." A sudden flutter of green flames and the head of Mark Dawlish disappeared. Patrick pointed his wand at the slightly ajar door and the sound of a whistling kettle could suddenly be heard. He grabbed the band from the bedside table and gathering his long hair into a ponytail, ran into the kitchen.

One minute later, having gulped down a cup of coffee in less than two seconds (fast eating being a skill he had learned at a early age, due to his family frequently being late and the well-known fact that his two brothers were pigs) he was crouched on the outskirts of Linford Wood, next to the one eyed Georgia Richmond. She was almost invisible in the dark woods; except for her eye, which seemed to glint yellow in the darkness, and glared at him in the most eerie way.

"What have I done now?" He asked, trying not to show that he was intimidated. He wondered what had put her in such a bad mood; she'd seemed fine this morning. Georgia opened her mouth to reply but the arrival of their cell leader cut her off.

"Took your time, didn't you?" Patrick scolded teasingly.

"Shut it Williamson," Mark replied, though he couldn't hide his grin.

Georgia scoffed, "Can we try to be serious? There have been deaths." The cheerfulness of the group instantly lessened. Being an Auror was tough and you needed a sense of humour to survive, but they could go too far.

Mark cleared his throat, taking command, "Right, well, it will probably be just clean up; I don't think any Death Eaters will be left. But just in case, be on your guard, and make sure you don't go gallivanting after one without backup." He cast a glance at Georgia, who was scowling at the far off cars circling the roundabout next to the wood. It was 'gallivanting' after Death Eaters that had caused her to loose her eye.

Mark continued, "They apparated in to the town centre first, pretty much killed everyone who was there, then moved onto the nearby housing estates. They only damaged property in the beginning, but when the muggles came out to see what was happening…" He didn't need to elaborate they both caught his meaning. He swallowed, and continued, "We go to the houses."

"It's just us?" Patrick asked.

"No, Kingsley's team is on the centre. Stay hidden; you don't want to undo the work the Obliviators have already done. Though most people would have been moved away by now."

"How did they get here before us?" Georgia said angrily.

"You know what the Ministry is like at the moment. They're so desperate for the Muggles not to know about You-Know-Who that they're giving extra funding to the Obliviators and hardly any to the Aurors."

"That's-"

"Stupid. We know. Come on, let's go." Mark sighed. Georgia apparated at once, while Patrick stayed only a few seconds to give Mark a sympathetic smile, before he too apparated. Mark shook himself, grasped his wand firmly, and apparated after his two stubborn friends.

The same day: Christmas Eve, 4:50 am.

Patrick shuddered, and risked a glance in Georgia's direction; she was staring stonily ahead, scouting for any Death Eaters, and refusing to look at the victims scattered around her. Patrick let her, they worked better like this anyway, she searched for the Death Eaters, while he went in between the bodies, trying to remember each face, so when they finally met the murdering scum, he was fuelled by anger. Georgia however, was always calm when fighting, her unruffled composure chilling to any near her. They argued relentlessly, but when it came down to it, they were perfect co-workers and both knew it.

Patrick wondered how Mark was doing; he had split off in another direction earlier on, taking a slightly shorter street. He had probably doubled back and joined Kingsley; there was always more damage in the town centre. Though looking at the harm done here, Patrick couldn't imagine it being much worse.

The streetlamps were mostly broken and they flickered every now and again; the light from a lamp reflected off of the pearly white face of a little girl, lying still on the grass outside her house. Patrick followed Georgia, who was checking the darkened area at the side of the house, and found himself kneeling down next to the girl and brushing her brown curls from her face.

Her eyes were green, foggy with death, and open wide in horror; she was no older than 6. Silently, Patrick closed her eyes, and moved over to the man who was sprawled out on his front a metre away; he was obviously her father. The large blister and hole in his shirt showing he had been hit by a burning curse in the back before death. Patrick got a sudden image of what had happened; the father had turned around to scream at his daughter to run away, only to be cursed by the Death Eater he had been facing and fall dead at the feet of his child, who it seemed, had only been able to stumble backwards before she too was killed by the demon in the mask.

"Get away Patrick!" Georgia said sharply, turning around from her inspection of the alley to scold him, "Leave that to Mungo's!"

He ignored her, and continued to stare at the man; he could feel the painful echo of their last moments – confusion and fear. That was what had been their last emotions; he felt a burst of hot anger that these innocent people had to die like this, he looked back at the little girl – she'd had her whole life to live. Tears caught in his eyelashes, and he blinked them away. In the dark over the girl's still form, a sudden movement caught his eye, and he glanced up sharply only to see the slight reflection of light on a shiny mask – directly behind Georgia.

"George!" He yelled, lunging at her. They toppled to the ground as a jet of bright light shot over their heads.

"G'roff!" Georgia growled, pushing at him. In the confusion that followed, Patrick somehow managed to find his wand, fire a stunning curse, and roll off Georgia, all the while being kicked in the shin, and having various curses yelled in his ear.

"He got away!" She shouted furiously, after picking herself up off the ground. "How could you miss!"

Patrick turned to her with a steely gaze, before walking towards the bushes where the Deatheater had been hiding. Georgia quietened instantly, checking her temper and stopping herself from blaming Patrick, she had seen the anger in his eyes, and knew this was no time to berate him. In her opinion, he hadn't chosen the best option. In his position, she would of fired instantly, and worried about her partner the instant she knew the Deatheater was detained, instead of managing to hold up both of them and leave the Deatheater free to fire – or to escape. But they thought differently about this sort of thing, she was here to fight, while he had chosen the job to help people.

She cast a quick glance at the dead girl on the floor, but had to look up again – it was all too personal for her; to see their pale, cold faces caused anger, and that led to your emotions ruling your actions. She couldn't- wouldn't let that happen to her again. She could lose more than an eye next time.

She breathed deeply and shook herself, clearing her thoughts and relaxing her tensed muscles. She walked over to Patrick, and stood behind him – he was intently focused on examining the bushes, and she didn't want to disturb him. It was when he was as acutely concentrated as now, that she was glad he was her partner.

"Why was he hanging around here?" Patrick whispered, Georgia wasn't sure whether he was actually asking her, or just voicing his thoughts, she decided to supply her opinion anyway.

"It couldn't have been to gloat – Deatheaters only do that when they know they're safe, and where there isn't any… mess."

"Yes," he replied, crouching low so he was looking under the branches instead of trying to peer through them. "So there had to be something to keep him here." He leaned further down, unbalancing himself even more; Georgia put an arm out to steady him, and he smiled at her appreciatively, instantly, she knew she was forgiven and he was aware she was sorry. With an arm out resting on Georgia, he knelt down so the top half of his body was completely under the large conifer like bush.

"It's dark, I can't really see anything…" He said, voice muffled, "Hang on." A bright light shone through the leaves now, and Patrick stilled, searching underneath the widely spread branches and leaves. Georgia stood biting her lip and wishing he would do something instead of just lying there, when suddenly his whole body jolted and he pulled his head back with a curse.

"What is it?" She asked. He looked under the bush again, nodding to himself.

"Nox." He whispered, then aimed his wand under the bush and fired the stunning curse.

"Patrick?" She asked, uneasily - he seemed paler.

"Help me lug him out George, he's pretty big and quite far back." Swallowing her questions, she knelt down next to him and reached for the large dark shape that Patrick had managed to move slightly nearer. Grasping material in her cold hands, she pulled, grunting with effort, and together they managed to drag the unconscious Deatheater out from under the branches.

He lay there, breathing only just audible under the mask. Patrick had hold of the back of his hood, and he pulled his hand away to reveal it slick with blood. Georgia suddenly came to life, and ripped the mask off furiously, the sweaty, unconscious face of Crabbe stared back at them.

Patrick couldn't hide his disappointment; he had hoped that it would have been someone a bit more… important in the Deatheater circle.

"He might talk." Georgia comforted, "We could persuade him easily, especially if he's had a blow to the head." Patrick wasn't listening however; he left her bonding Crabbe's hands and feet and wandered back over to the body of the dead man.

Patrick stood, staring at the ground; he cocked his head so that he could see the moonlight reflecting upon the dewdrops on the grass. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could make it out; the grass between the bush and the dead man's body was bent slightly, forming a path of flattened grass that was barely visible in the dark. A new piece began to form and insert itself into the film that replayed itself over and over in his mind.

The man had managed to sneak up on one of the Deatheaters, hitting him with… something. Patrick scanned the ground, and sure enough a thick plank of wood lay not far off, he wondered how he had missed it previously. He looked back at the little girl; she had come outside, he guessed, just after her father had hit the hooded Crabbe. He had turned, to yell at her to go back, run away, when the other Deatheater, it must have been Goyle from his bulky figure, had fired the burning curse, then death to the father and child. Patrick could imagine Goyle then, trying to wake his friend, then in desperation, dragging him over to the bush, hiding him, then finally apparating when Patrick fired at him and he knew there was no more chance to help his fellow Deatheater.

Patrick felt sick; how could they be so merciless to have killed a little girl and her father yet show compassion to the likes of Crabbe? Patrick knew the answer, and it infuriated him more every time he had to think it: because Crabbe is pureblood. The fact that he is a bumbling idiot whose only ability is violence didn't seem to matter. Patrick clenched his fists angrily, gnashing his teeth; this was what they thought the typical wizard should do?

He surveyed the destruction and devastation around him, they were sick!

"Patrick…" Georgia said, making him jump as he realised she was stood next to him, Crabbe lay, bound and gagged a few feet away. "Calm down." she suggested, though it was more of an order, "We can't do anything else for them." She was staring at him, forcing him to keep eye contact, and eventually give in.

He sighed, "Fine! But I'm sick of this! Arriving after they've been? We are Aurors for Merlin's sake! We are meant to be preventing this destruction!" Georgia only stared back at him sadly. "We have to do something!" He cried finally, falling short on the last word, looking forlornly around at their surroundings. He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing.

He leaned closer to Georgia, and more quietly, almost whispering, he repeated, "It's not meant to be like this. We have to-"

"We will," Georgia vowed, her two words immediately calming Patrick. She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed affectionately, her strength and determination flowing into him just by that touch.

"We will." She repeated louder, causing her voice to echo around the silent street as if she was making a promise to all who lay cold and still around her.

And, in a way, she was.

The day before: December 23rd 1996, 11:44 pm.

"DAWLISH!"

Mark Dawlish flinched; quills, papers and his own body, spontaneously jumping upwards and landing rather haphazardly (and in his bodies case, with a loud thump) on the floor of his Auror's office. He groaned loudly, looking upwards at the chuckling figure appearing behind the cluttered desks.

"Working late I see?" Arnold Peasegood noted humorously.

"Yes." Mark replied shortly, still scowling as he stood and began to pick up the quills and papers. "What are you doing here?"

Arnold bent down to help him, gathering the scattered sheets, "Oh, I had reports to finish. I wandered down here to see if there was any other unlucky sod doing the same, and I found you-"

"-and just couldn't resist." Mark finished grumpily.

"It was funny though - I admit, I didn't expect you to leap up into the air like that."

"Hmmph." Was the only reply.

"Oh, cheer up Mark, it might never happen…"

"What might nev-"

"Cup of tea?" Arnold grinned.

Mark sighed, shaking off the furious comments he wanted to bombard Arnold with, and instead nodded his head tiredly. "Please."

Arnold wandered off in between the office cubicles, searching for a teapot and some teabags. As he shuffled around in various cupboards he called out, "I'm guessing you've heard about the latest financial order?"

"Of course – Kingsley spent half of yesterday ranting about it. I thought he would be bald by the end of it; he yanked at his hair so many times!" Mark replied, shuffling his papers and clearing his desk.

"Absolutely ridiculous." Arnold said, appearing with a steaming teapot and two mugs in hand.

Mark blinked in surprise, "You think so?" He asked. Arnold was an Obliviator; why should he be complaining?

"Definitely, I mean, thirty percent of the budget to the Department of Magical Catastrophes? And only twenty percent to the Aurors! Come on! What are they thinking! They should be concentrating on stopping these attacks! Not covering them up! And before you say it; I am not a hypocrite. I'm speaking sense, our apartment doesn't need that much money." Arnold hand was shaking in anger as he poured the tea, and quietly, almost as an afterthought Mark wasn't supposed to hear, he added, "It won't win the war."

Mark chuckled, but it was a cynical laugh, "But do they listen?"

"Of course not-" Arnold jumped suddenly, "Merlin's beard!" he yelled in shock, slopping his tea down his robes, "Bugger!" he cried, upon seeing the stain.

"Oh I hate this thing." He said, pulling out a long chain from around his neck, dangling from the end was a matte black, coin shaped object that was shaking and twitching, sending vibrations up the chain and to Arnold's hand.

Noticing Mark's curious look, he added, "New contact device, tells us we're needed – for emergencies and that. Well, I better go see what it is, probably just delayed reports or something." Despite the reassuring words Mark noticed the slight glint of worry in Arnold's eye.

"Nice talking to you!" The tea-stained Obliviator said, striding towards the exit.

Mark sighed, wondering whether he should follow, just to check that it was delayed reports, and not anything more serious – like an attack. But no, he persuade himself, if it had been an attack they would have contacted the Aurors first, no matter how desperate they were to hide from the Muggles.

Mark took a long draught from his tea, and turned back to his desk and papers. Dipping his quill in the pot of ink, he carried on with his own reports.

Christmas Eve 1996, 4:58 am.

Mark shivered from the cold as he made his way through the dark alley that linked the small suburban area and larger town centre. He squinted at his watch; the ticking hands were barely visible in this light. He wondered how Georgia and Patrick were getting along; they were a good team, but their arguing distracted them, and on a mission, even if it was mainly clean up, distraction could mean death.

Most of the time, it was funny to watch, they both cared about each other immensely, but at any hint of disagreement (which happened a lot) they were at each other's throats, Mark had already lost 10 galleons betting how long it would take for them to admit they like each other, and actually get together. Mark thought that Kingsley's joking guess of Christmas 2020 seemed more and more probable.

Stepping out suddenly into the main street, Mark looked around for someone he recognised. There were many people around, clearing up the debris (the bodies had been moved a while back) and trying to create some sort of order. Mark entered the hustle of people and began to walk towards the main tent, which had been set up to house the injured muggles and other various officials who couldn't do their jobs on the street.

Once inside, he made his way through the temporary beds and into the rear end of the tent. Arnold Peasegood wasn't far off, and Mark saw him talking slowly to a bewildered looking woman who had obviously just been obliviated. Mark caught the words "gas leak" and "explosion" before Arnold looked up and waved, a grim smile on his face. Mark nodded and pulled away a curtain that covered a doorway into another section of the tent.

A large podium rested at the end of this chamber, and a large mass of people was crowded round it. They all clutched cameras, but there was no purple smoke evident, and Mark realised he had just walked into the muggle conference… while wearing mud stained Auror robes.

Mark cursed loudly, trying to quickly scurry back out without being noticed, but his obscenities had been heard and the nearest people turned to look at him quizzically, before opening their mouths in amazement at seeing his attire. The shit had really hit the fan now.

"Uh…" Mark said, frantically searching the room for an escape. The press, bored after waiting for news, had focused on him, and were ready to sprout their questions any second now; Mark could see it in their eyes. Before the nearest one could ask whether Mark had had any involvement in the disaster, even though it was blatantly obvious he had, a woman stepped out from the flapping plastic curtain behind the podium. Recognising her immediately, Mark couldn't believe his luck: Elsie Atherton. Just perfect.