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Chapter 11 – George Ellison
"When did your predecessor get the assignment, Elijah?" Nicholas asked hesitantly, though he already knew the answer.
"Last November," Elijah replied grudgingly.
"Another four months," Nicholas translated. Elijah shook his head and inhaled sharply. Nicholas stroked his thick gray beard thoughtfully. "Much happened within that time. Were your files complete from this point onward?"
"I don't know," Elijah answered, his shoulders slumping. "If you had asked me that question this afternoon, I would have said they were absolutely complete. Now, between what you've divulged tonight and what I saw at dusk..." He shrugged almost angrily, bumping the table with his wrist, and overturning his empty fire-whiskey glass. The glass rolled to the floor, but didn't shatter. The three of them watched the glass' progress as it traveled across the oiled wood floor toward the bar. Any one of them could have halted it, but somehow, it seemed representative of the matter at hand, rolling to collide with the one piece of furniture in the inn which was immoveable. Only when it crashed into the ancient bar, bounced slightly and finally stopped on its own did Elijah pull out his wand and clean up the mess. He didn't summon the glass, but picked it up manually instead.
"George Ellison was a great man and a dedicated auror," Albus interjected. "However, his official notes will not be complete because he felt that someone was interfering with his investigation. His private notes would likely be more enlightening. We must hope they were not on his person when he was killed. If they were, they are as badly burned as he was."
"Or worse, they are in the hands of the other side," Nicholas reminded with a cock of his eyebrow.
Elijah blinked in such a way as to make the act seem a loud gesture. "Did he – did he ever say where in the chain of command he thought interference might be coming from?"
"No," Albus responded. "George was not the type to accuse without solid proof and would have thought less of us for suggesting he should. He did share other information with Nicholas and myself, just as we shared information with him. He interviewed Minerva long before Magical Law Enforcement did it officially."
"He accomplished much in the brief time he was assigned to the task," Nicholas remarked, nodding his approval.
"So I'm beginning to see," Elijah admitted.
"Were you aware that he also spoke with Howard and Nate, and attempted to speak with those still in Grindelwald's employ?" Albus asked. Elijah shook his head. "We believe it was the latter that ultimately led to his death. We're also not sure that his murder was carried out by Grindelwald himself – there's reason to believe that Gregory Smith did the actual spellwork, though I have my own hypotheses to support that accusation. You should know that Gregory regularly practiced certain spells that were obvious in the room where we found George's body." Even as he said it, he could picture the grisly sight he had tripped across in mid-December. He and Nicholas were to meet George to discuss something he had discovered, though what that was had never been determined. Despite the passage of several months and the constant attempts to retrace the auror's steps, Albus still didn't know what piece of information had cost George his life.
"You're sure this is the correct address," Nicholas had asked him as he brushed snow off his hat and stomped his boots to shake the collected snow. It had always amazed Albus that although Nicholas was arguably one of the most skilled wizards in the world, his everyday use of magic seemed hesitant. For his own part, Albus had produced his wand and melted the collected snow from his robes, boots and beard. The warm heat had made him extremely comfortable and he pointed his wand to repeat the same service for Nicholas, but the ancient man had waved him off.
"No thank you, Albus. I believe if I become too reliant on magic, I'll forget how to walk," Nicholas had stated with an amused expression that indicated he was joking, though his consistent avoidance of everyday magic suggested otherwise.
"I think, perhaps you are addicted to shivering," Albus had teased. "And to answer your earlier question, I am absolutely certain this is where he told us to meet him, although I cannot imagine why." He had then looked up at the unfamiliar building that loomed in front of him. It was an old structure that had seen better days, close enough to the Thames to serve businesses that used water commerce, close enough to the parliament buildings to still make a quick trip by motor car, and yet far enough away that Londoners probably never took notice of it. The door was large and heavy, made of metal that had rusted severely. The windows were boarded from the outside and rubbish lay near the doorway as though no one had been by to care for the facility in many months. Albus and Nicholas waited, having been instructed not to knock, but to put out the nearby street lamps and remain quiet until George arrived. He had promised not to be tardy; still the moments stretched. Nicholas blew warm air on his hands a couple of times and stuffed them in his pockets looking miserable. The snow began to fall more thickly and the wind picked up, making the wait even more uncomfortable.
Once the chill had started to soak through his robes and cloak again, Albus pulled out his wand to warm himself and this time flicked the same spell at Nicholas without warning. Nicholas sighed at the unexpected heat and smiled. "Couldn't stand it, could you?" There was too much gratitude in his voice for Albus to mistake it for a complaint. "If George doesn't show up soon, Perenelle will have to levitate me from my bed in the morning until I can choke down some of that potion she brews for arthritis."
Albus had smiled slightly. "There's no need to suffer the cold, old friend, as you well know. I believe a wise man once told me that if you live long enough, you'll see a time when things that are wrong become right, and that which is unnecessary becomes necessary." He'd paused for effect and then added, "Wasn't that you?"
Nicholas snorted. "I'm far too old to recognize my own quotes, Albus. That's the great thing about living past 500 – all your old, forgotten ideas resurface and you marvel at the brilliance of them as though they were new."
Albus had laughed outright, despite the air of secrecy. "I believe they call that 'senility' in muggle circles." Nicholaus glowered, which only made Albus laugh more.
They had continued to wait, feeling more and more anxious with each passing minute. They very nearly disapparated before discovering what waited behind the door, but decided to wait a few minutes more in the cold of the night, hoping that George would arrive. There were moments that Albus wished they hadn't snooped in that warehouse, simply to avoid the horror that revisited him in dreams; but they had. A full thirty minutes past the time when they were to meet George, Nicholas decided he was through, but did not want to go away without some idea of why George had called them to that particular location. They had even argued the point, though Nicholas won in the end by pulling out his wand and popping the door open, then strolling inside. Albus had been left with little choice but to follow.
The building looked empty at first – a fact that did not seem out of place given its outward appearance. But it was a little too empty. Despite the fact that this was centered in muggle London near the waterfront, it seemed impossible to believe that debris and rodents would not have collected in an empty warehouse. There was also no dust or cobwebs, even though it was cleverly disguised to appear as if no one had been there in years.
They walked through the empty space, boots clicking on poured concrete floors. A few briefly exchanged words had echoed so loudly as to convince them to remain silent. There had initially seemed no reason for George to have invited them there or for them to continue, but something drew Albus forward and Nicholas reluctantly followed, until they came across the stairwell and immediately smelled smoke and some other putrid scent reminiscent of singed hair and boiled meat.
Propelled forward against his worst fears, Albus had descended the stairs two at a time, but if he had arrived an hour earlier, there would not have been time to save George. Magical traces of enhanced severing charms marred all corners of the space and had separated George's head from his body long before he'd been set ablaze. Additionally his hands and feet had been cut off and left in the four corners of the room, though to what purpose, Albus could not imagine. He had fallen over a large gouge in the floor as he unwittingly backed away from the horrific sight, and lay in a heap staring at the charred head of a man he'd considered a friend.
George's death would be the beginning of more overt murders and soon the whole magical world would echo the fact that Grindelwald was evil, though they seemed unable to do anything about it.
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