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CHAPTER IV - RUBATO

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Ron and Cecilia appeared in the Ministry's apparating area where they found their squad and the prisoners, at least those who had not been transferred to St. Mungo's. Under the bright lights of the large room, the Aurors' tired features were clearly visible. The state of their clothes and the wounds some of them bore were tangible evidence of the violence of the confrontation that had just taken place.

"What are they all still doing here?" Ron asked his colleague. "Why aren't they already on their way to the holding cells?"

"I don't know," she replied, equally confused.

"Ron!" Williamson, the Auror in charge of one of the intervention teams, suddenly called out to him as he snuck up to them with a worried look on his face. "We have a problem. I don't know how, but the press has been warned. The Atrium is full of journalists."

"Shit!" the young man muttered, running a hand through his hair in annoyance. "This night is already far too long for my taste, and now we have to add these vultures of reporters…"

He sighed heavily, then motioned for the other Aurors to come closer. "Alright. We've got no choice but to go through them. We escort all of these lovely people to the cells. We don't answer any questions. We don't stop, we don't look at them. Do you understand?"

His colleagues all answered in the affirmative. The group then moved through the large doors that led to the Atrium. They were instantly assaulted by the crackle of camera flashes and the hubbub caused by several dozen journalists all shouting their questions at once. There were also a few onlookers, some still in their pyjamas, who had come expressly to observe what had been announced as an event. With difficulty, the Aurors made their way through the crowd, trying to cover the prisoners, especially Harry. Unfortunately, the latter was not going unnoticed.

"Hey! It's Harry Potter!"

"Look at this! His hands are tied!"

"Can you tell us what's going on?"

"Is he under arrest?!"

"Mr. Potter! Look over here!"

The shouts and questions came from all sides as everyone tried to get a closer look at Potter. The latter looked straight ahead, ignoring everything that was going on around him, content to let Ron lead him to the end of the hall. They finally reached the lobby, where the lifts were waiting for them. Inside the cabin, once the doors were closed, the silence contrasted with the hustle and bustle a moment before and seemed almost deafening. The young Auror glanced furtively at his friend, who maintained an inexpressive face.

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When they arrived at the Justice Department, the group split up and the prisoners were taken to the holding cells. Ron led Harry to the interrogation room and left Williamson to settle him in. The young man then turned around and went to the bathroom. He had to hurry his last few steps and fell to his knees in front of the toilet to vomit. His hands clung to the tiles so hard that his knuckles turned white. He retched a few more times before resting his head on his arm. He spat and flushed the toilet with his free hand.

Ron got up and walked to the washbasins. Above them, the mirrors reflected his own image. His red hair was dirty and messy, there was blood on his face, obviously from a cut on his scalp, and traces of dirt. Under his eyes, dark circles made him look exhausted. He rinsed his mouth and ran water over his face several times. He grabbed the edge of the sink and took one last look at himself in the mirror. He put on a determined look. On his way back to the interview room, the young man passed the Auror standing guard; she was leaning against the wall, her hands resting on her thighs. She straightened up awkwardly as she heard Ron coming.

"Did he say anything?" he asked, indicating the room with a nod.

"Nothing at all, Mr. Weasley."

The latter took a deep breath and then entered the room, closing the door behind him. Inside was a table and two chairs, facing each other. One of the walls consisted of a large one-way mirror behind which, he had no doubt, his colleagues were watching the scene. Like the rest of the Aurors' office, the colour ochre was predominant. Elegant mouldings adorned the ceiling, though the prisoners were rarely touched by such decorative details. A glass sat on the table, half-filled with water.

Harry was sitting in one of the chairs, facing the mirror. His hands, now handcuffed in front, lay on the table, one covering the other, thumbs up. He showed no reaction to Ron's arrival and kept his eyes down. Dried blood covered part of his face and his hair, still plastered to his forehead, completely obscured his scar. Ron walked slowly towards the table. He stood behind the empty chair and leaned on the back, arms outstretched. He looked at his friend. Enemy? He didn't know.

"Why, Harry?" he asked at last.

There was no answer. Ron sighed. Glancing behind him at the mirror, he pulled out his chair and sat down. He crossed his trembling hands on the table in a prayer-like gesture.

"I've never begged anyone in my life," he said in a whisper. "Today I will, heart and soul, Harry, please—"

"What do you want, Ron?" His eyes still downcast, his deep voice echoed dryly in the room.

"You shouldn't be here... Just... Tell us where the others are. We want Vasilyev. You could talk to his men, I'm sure they'd listen to you. Whatever the reason you were there—"

Slowly, deliberately, Harry closed his eyes, opened them again and then turned his gaze straight to Ron. Devoid of emotion, it was chilling. At that moment, the prisoner no longer looked like the man the Auror thought he knew so well. A tense silence fell between them. The young man held his breath as Harry suddenly leaned over the table a little more and came closer to him.

"You, listen to me, Ron. You shouldn't get involved in this. You have no idea what you're getting yourself involved in."

"Explain it to me then! Tell me what's going on!"

"You wouldn't understand."

"What does that mean?"

Silence answered him, he sighed in frustration.

"Wilbur Smithers, then. Was it your team that took him away?"

Hearing the name, the prisoner raised his eyebrows. "It was us. I killed him with my own hands," he added, his tone betraying no regret.

"You're not even going to deny it?"

"What's the point? I did it. And you want me to tell you why? He was a traitor. You're saying you want me to hand over Bogdan Vasilyev? I'm. Not. Going. To sell. Out."

He said these last words with every word detached and staring intently in the desperate eyes of his interlocutor. It was too much for the latter to bear; he stood up abruptly, still followed by Harry's gaze, and turned his back on him. Despair was soon followed by anger.

"How can you work for that monster?!"

Harry let out a breathy laugh. In the reflection of the mirror, Ron could see that he was smiling. It was a terrifying, joyless smile, an expression he had never seen before on his friend's face.

"How can you work for that monster?!" the prisoner mimicked sarcastically, before his smile suddenly faded. "You'd better look around yourself before you speak. I'm telling you, you shouldn't be getting involved in this."

"What are you talking about?" Ron asked, not understanding what he was getting at. "Have you thought about the consequences of your actions? About your family? Your friends? About Teddy?!"

The dark look the young man shot Ron meant he had struck a chord, but he stubbornly remained silent and resumed staring at his hands again. This conversation was going nowhere, and the Auror was losing what little patience he had left. It was time to get out of the room and leave it to his colleagues; perhaps they would have better luck getting Harry to talk.

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Leaving Potter — he couldn't bring himself to call him Harry when he seemed so different from his best friend — to marinate in his room, Ron went back to his office. There, he found Olivia and Cecilia sitting side by side on the small sofa at the back of the room, both clearly exhausted. On the coffee table sat three steaming cups of coffee, and the blonde-haired young Auror handed him one as he approached.

"Here," she said softly. "How are you feeling? Have you seen someone about your injuries?"

"No, I haven't," he replied, accepting the drink gratefully. "It's superficial, I'm fine. Have you heard from Desmond?"

"He's going to spend the rest of the night under observation at St. Mungo's," Olivia informed him. "He's got a few bruises from his fall. Nothing too serious," she added hastily. "He'll be back on his feet in a day. He's a tough kid."

Ron nodded, satisfied with her answer. "What about you, are you okay?" he asked his colleagues. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"Don't worry 'bout us, Ronald," Olivia said, brushing off his concerns. "Cee and I are much tougher than we look."

"Did you…" Cecilia began hesitantly. "Did you manage to talk to him?"

Him. An involuntary shiver ran down the young Auror's spine as the prisoner's eyes appeared in his mind.

"You could say that," he answered with a sigh.

"Did he say anything interesting?"

"Not really. He might as well have told me to get lost. I don't understand what's going on, it doesn't really make sense. I mean... He was at my house a week ago, he was normal. And now he's acting like a total sociopath?! Why?! I'm completely lost!"

His last sentence ended in a scream that expressed all his frustration and anger. If he could, he would have gladly smashed a few things; that hideous vase, for example, on the shelf behind his desk. While he was seriously contemplating the destruction of material goods, an Auror poked his head through the doorway.

"Robards wants to talk to us!" the latter said before disappearing into the corridor.

The three team members looked at each other quizzically for a moment and then followed suit.

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In the conference room, almost all the remaining members of the intervention squad had gathered and were standing in front of Gawain Robards. He appeared to be just as tired as his subordinates, but his face nevertheless showed a satisfied look. Ron, Olivia and Cecilia slipped into the audience as their superior began to speak.

"I wanted to congratulate you on the wonderful job you have done tonight. Thanks to you, we've managed to apprehend some of Vasilyev's men, which is more than the fruit of months of investigation. Director Hammond, whom I informed earlier, is particularly proud of you." He paused briefly, letting his gaze wander over his attentive audience, then his face suddenly took on a darker look. "I know you are all shocked by the arrest of one of our own. This surprising turn of events should not deter us from our goal of bringing down Bogdan Vasilyev once and for all. Together we will do our best to find out how he could have been involved with this criminal organisation. It goes without saying that everything that happens here must remain strictly confidential. Anyone who reveals elements of the investigation to outsiders will be severely punished. I will personally give a press conference in the morning. The journalists are already here, anyway."

There was some laughter and Robards concluded his speech. "I won't keep you any longer. You've earned your rest. Take care and congratulations again on your achievement."

Tired applause greeted his words. Conversations resumed slowly, some Aurors left the room, ready to go home. Ron was about to go and talk to his superior when a loud alarm suddenly sounded. Everyone froze immediately. An intruder. Williamson was the first to react and leapt out of the conference room and Ron rushed after him once the initial shock had passed. As he ran towards the interrogation room, questions raced through his panicked mind. What was going on? Was it Harry? Had he managed to escape? Did he have an accomplice?

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The Auror standing guard outside the interrogation room was nowhere in sight and the door was slightly ajar. Ron pushed it open with apprehension, his heart pounding heavily in his chest. At first glance he thought the room was empty. Then, he saw Harry. He was lying on the floor, his back arched, the veins in his neck bulging out, blood trickled from the corner of his lips. He looked in incredible pain. Without thinking, Ron rushed forward, dropped to his knees at his side and seized his face in his hands.

"Harry!" he shouted in a panicked voice. "Harry! Look at me!"

The latter's eyes met his. The Auror could see his confusion and pain. He saw his throat constrict several times; he was trying to say something to him, but he couldn't. Suddenly his eyes rolled back and his tense body went limp. He was completely still. It took Ron a second to realise with horror that his friend had stopped breathing.

"Oh no, no, no! Not that! Don't do that, Harry!"

In their Auror training, they had been drilled in emergency procedures. Ron acted by reflex. He immediately placed his hands, fingers interlocked in the middle of Harry's chest, arms outstretched, and began to push rhythmically while counting in his head. 1, 2, 3, 4... He was no longer thinking, he was just staring at the repetitive movement of his hands, push, release, push, release.

"Mediwizards!" someone shouted in the hallway. "Go and get the Mediwizards!"

Ron inadvertently glanced at Harry's face. Every push made his head move to the side. The crimson blood on his cheeks made his pale, almost grey complexion stand out. Who said the dead often looked like they were just sleeping? That was bullshit. His eyelids were half-closed, the whites of his eyes showed, and his mouth was open; he did not look asleep at all. ... 28, 29, 30. Ron stopped the compressions, tilted Harry's head back, took a deep breath and, pinching his nose, breathed into his mouth. He sat up and did it a second time. Then he resumed the compressions with desperate energy. He felt something crack under his hands. His instructor's voice echoed in his head, "You keep going! You keep pushing! You never stop the compressions!"

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Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, three mediwizards appeared and rushed towards Harry. Ron stepped aside quickly and, sitting against the wall, watched them work. In an instant they had taken over the heart compressions. One of them cast a quick diagnostic spell followed by an oxygenation spell. A translucent bubble appeared around their patient's head, forcing oxygen into his lungs. With a flick of her wand, the second healer brought up the vitals over the body.

"Blood pressure is sixty over thirty, oxygen ninety percent," she declared in a loud voice, then turned her attention to the luminescent tracing that usually indicated the heartbeat. "No pulse, in v-fib!"

It was gibberish to Ron, who could only watch helplessly as they prepared to cast a resuscitation spell. The first wizard pointed his wand at Harry's chest.

"Clear!" he shouted.

The three medics moved slightly away so that they could no longer touch the body. In a flash of blue, the spell struck the unconscious young man. He spasmed slightly, the line above him flattened for a second and then resumed a sinusoidal shape.

"Still in fibrillation!"

With swift, confident movements, they cast spells that Ron had never heard of. They repeated the operation a second time. After the magical shock, the tracing stopped again before returning to normal.

"Sinus rhythm, tachycardia!" the woman said with relief. "BP's coming up, eighty over sixty."

The mediwizards then cast a stasis spell to maintain the patient's condition, levitated him onto a stretcher and prepared to leave the room to evacuate him to St. Mungo's. One of them stayed behind and turned to Ron. He crouched down in front of him and began to ask him questions. The young man could see his lips moving, but he could not hear any sound, covered by a humming noise that rose crescendo in his ears. The healer frowned and, with a look of concern, turned to say something to an Auror behind him, then turned his attention back to Ron. Suddenly, the latter felt a strange sensation, like a cool liquid spreading throughout his body, from his head to the tips of his toes, and then, nothing. His vision darkened and he collapsed.