A/N: Don't own Harry Potter. I'm making this up as I go along...
In the years since the end of the Second Wizarding War in '98, the number of Death Eater faithful has dropped significantly. For the most part, obviously, because the head of the snake had been cut off both figuratively and literally. No Dark Lord to order the fight, to lead, to corrupt. However, Voldemort's final defeat at the hands of my new boss did not automatically make every bad wizard good, nor did it make every good wizard safe. Not all of the corrupted need someone to corrupt them. Some are just bad. Like every single other society, ours has its share of criminals.
Ours are just harder to imprison.
Azkaban was restored after the expulsion of the Dementors, slowly as to ensure precision, into something as secure as ever before. Different than before, as well. More humane, less horrifying, but still warded and charmed even into its smallest corners. There are still those so Dark that they must never be allowed to escape. Not all of the Death Eaters were reformed; not all of them died. Some only wished they had.
The wizarding world was shocked to learn that many who had been in the prison before the Dementors were made to leave were unlawfully Kissed and presumed dead. When the Ministry sent in a team to plan the rebuilding, it was discovered that that assumption was incorrect. Not dead, many of them, but so very damaged. Recovery for these poor, if not innocent, souls was not expected. For most, all these years later, consciousness is no closer than it was then. But others, others have shown a glimmer.
"And those are the ones that concern me most," I conclude my little tirade.
"You think this was an escape attempt?" Hermione asks, our drinks all now untouched on the table.
"No. I don't think so. I don't think we should toss the idea aside, either, though. Everything should be considered," I reply, as truthfully as I can.
"There's only been one real escape," Ron informs me, not taking my worry seriously at all.
"Yes, Sirius," Hermione confirms. "And the two mass breakouts during the War."
"Right. Bellatrix," Ginny sneers, the name like poison.
"That's not true, though," I say, knowing I'm right but hating to contradict her.
"What?" Ron hates me contradicting, too.
"You're forgetting Barty Crouch, Jr. Most people do."
"I don't," Harry says under his breath as Ginny grabs his hand.
"His was really the first escape. He was young, and angry, and dying. His parents helped him, but it was an escape nonetheless."
"Young?" Harry asks. "How young?"
"He was twenty in 1982 when he broke out. He's back there now, an invalid at fifty-two, broken by a Dementor's Kiss. Or, he was there, before the whole damn thing exploded four days ago," I tell them all, sounding how I imagine Hermione sounded in their Hogwarts days. Sitting here, I can almost forget that I learned about my dinner companions in my history lessons. "Now, of course, we have to find out where all of them are. If I could just figure out where to look," I add quietly.
"You know so much about him," Ginny wonders aloud.
"It's my job. It's why I was sent here. I'm not terrible at spells, but research is my strength. Or so my bosses at home seem to think."
Hermione beamed, Ron rolled his eyes. Ginny laughed at them both. Harry said, "Yes, it is your job, and you're doing well. Keep your eye on the details, the small strokes. I'll take care of the big picture. And don't be afraid to speak up. You did just what you were supposed to today."
"Thank you, sir," I say smartly. It feels like a Mr. Potter statement, rather than a Harry one.
"But research isn't your only strength, I'm guessing, Hafgan. They wouldn't have sent you here just to do research," Ron insists. "We've got my Hermione for that."
"I'm a good agent, Mr. Weasley. The CWA trusts me. I hope the Auror Office will, too." He nods, conceding the point.
"I say tomorrow we start looking for a cause." At my quickly concerned look, he adds, "And we will set more than one team into the rubble. Surely there will be something to find. Dead or alive, they couldn't have simply vanished. We'll make an account of the missing, if there are any. That set you at ease, Anwen?"
I nod, recognizing when I've had my say. We all finish our drinks and head up to bed, promises of shopping and eventually getting me acquainted with London from Hermione and Ginny. A whirlwind day, with more to come.
My room, the bed, the canopy hangings, the paintings, everything just driving home the point that we only pretend to have old things in America. We think we have history. Even as part of a community that holds onto more of the old ways than the rest of the national society, I have never been surrounded by so much historical reality. Ancient stuff lying next to antique on top of just plain old. And the dust, my goodness. Don't any of these people have asthma? I change into my nightgown, crawl beneath a hundred year old down comforter, and lay down my buzzing head. Tomorrow is the day to impress them all. Tomorrow I begin showing them that I can make a difference here. Because it's important. Because it's my job. Because I want to stay.
The problem with the whole impressing them plan is that I still have no idea what happened. Next morning, back at the rubble that was once the most secure wizard prison in the world, and I have not one damn clue what caused it to collapse on itself with a bang. Dark Magic? Hurricane? Stone-eating termites? Nargles? There are traces of spent magic, echoes of spells, but it's impossible to tell whether they are from the explosion or from the guards, from the catastrophe or from security. Whatever happened here, it is well hidden.
I just feel like its hidden in plain sight.
"Hafgan."
"Sir," I respond instantly, from years of habit in service. Ron Weasley, however, seems surprised every time.
"Take a short break, yeah? You've been spinning in circles with your wand out for hours."
"It's not all I've done. I dug in the ash for a little while, too."
"You're a bit mental, you know that?" He laughs while he says it, and that makes me happier than I care to admit. I was really afraid he didn't like me at all. I laugh with him.
"I feel like the answer is right here, and I just can't see it. It's frustrating."
"You do keep coming right to this spot. You're not going to try to go over the edge again, are you?"
"Ah, no. Once was enough," I say ruefully.
Looking over this jagged, wet, windswept pile of stone where I stand, I can't quite put my finger on why I'm here again. I started the morning on the other side of the island, up one flight of almost-intact stairs, being drawn by something else. Before I knew it, I was back on this spot, turning in circles with my wand out. The cliffed drop to the water, however, hasn't drawn me toward certain death today.
"You alright? You went off there for a moment," Ron asks, looking at me closely with worried eyes. Maybe he doesn't dislike me.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just thinking. To be honest, I don't think I was being led to the edge so I could fall."
"No?" Harry asks. How do they keep sneaking up on me?
"No. This place, it's calling me. I think it's what we're looking for. I think it happened here. Or, at least it started here. This is the spot."
"Are you a seer?" Ron asks, wonder and perhaps suspicion in his voice.
"No, I'm afraid not. I'm an Intuitive," I tell him, as I hold out my wand for closer inspection. "English oak and Unicorn tail."
"Which means what, exactly?"
I sigh, knowing that even in our world, those who are different are not easily accepted. "English oak, meaning intuition and a certain closeness with Nature. Unicorn, meaning the wand itself is very loyal to me. My wand tells my story, I guess."
"So you're talking to the rocks?" Ron is trying to understand. Harry snickers, but I suspect that he's waiting for the answer, too.
"No, it's not like that. It's more of a feeling, a pull. Like a tug on a rope."
"And you're being tugged here, Anwen?" Harry asks, both of the Aurors paying closer attention.
"Yeah. But not only here. This is where the destruction began. But up there," I point into the massive column of debris above us, "there's something alive up there."