Chapter 2

The Man Who Died

Gerard Bolivar, of the Office of Aurors, was not in the greatest of moods. For one, Harry Potter had recently died. Secondly, all evidence seemed to point to Mr. Potter's death by murder. And three, (and perhaps most regrettably, even) Gerard was on the fast track to becoming Head Auror.

Bolivar felt terribly ashamed of his current inability to cry. It wasn't for lack of lamentation for the Boy Who Lived, because Gerard had felt absolutely broken up inside since Mr. Potter's death; Mr. Bolivar felt as if a precious part of himself had fallen off a shelf and shattered. (Even worse, Bolivar secretly feared that an accidental nudge of his own arm might have led to that fall.)

But he could not cry. He was too nervous to cry. Gerard was a man more likely to cry in those rare moments of euphoria than in the seemingly endless, tedious bulk of life's tragedies. For instance, Gerard cried when he was twenty years old, and married to Mrs. Celty Bolivar (formerly Hemsworth). He cried when he was twenty-three, at the birth of his daughter Corah. He cried profusely at the age of twenty-seven when his last daughter, Gina, was born, but this cry was due in large part to a nasty injury sustained on the same day, with close friend Tantalus Merriwether, in an experimental attempt to combine Quidditch, Gobstones, and Wizard Chess into one glorious triad.

Speaking of Tantalus: he seemed to have no trouble crying. The gawky, mopheaded man from the Department of Magical Games and Sports was walking alongside Gerard as they made their way through the thick crowding of a London sidewalk. The two had just left an enormous joint-department Ministry briefing, where they were informed that they, along with all other Ministry employees (besides the stand-bys that were necessary to keep the country from falling apart), would have the rest of the day off to grieve the Boy Who Lived. The briefing, at a certain point, became less a matter of business and more an impromptu memorial service. Everyone cried. Everyone but Gerard.

Tantalus mostly walked without saying a word, his red, puffy, tear-streaked face parallel with his shoes. It was a far cry from the usual Tantalus Merriwether, whose most famous accolade was holding the Hogwarts student record for most times being thrown out of the library for noise violations in a single year. He had racked up seventy-three of those dismissals, rumored to number more than both of the Weasley twins combined.

Gerard didn't like this silent Tantalus. Gerard was the quiet one, and Mr. Merriwether had no business shaking up the dynamic of their friendship at this late hour, as far as he was concerned. So he said, "Tan, where you wanna go for lunch, mate? No Chinese, though. I know you love it, but I've long grown weary of the stuff."

As long as his hair hung down in front of his face, it was rather hard to tell whether or not Tantalus looked over to Gerard, but Gerard assumed he did not. All that could be heard in reply to Gerard's request was a mostly imperceptible, "Iontca."

"What?"

"Isediontca."

"Speak up!"

Tantalus lifted his head in a flurry of golden locks. "I said I don't care, Gerard! Mr. Potter," tears began to well up in his eyes, "Mr. Potter will never eat lunch again, so why should I?"

"Oh, come off it. Listen here, Tantalus." Gerard wrapped his arm around Tantalus's shoulder. "If Harry were here right now, you know what he'd say?"

"What?"

"'I think the Cannons have it this season.'"

Tantalus wrenched himself free of Gerard's arm and planted a punch on the shoulder connected to it. "Jesus, Gerard! Show some respect, why don't you? This is a solemn day! You were the only one back at the Ministry, as far as I could tell, who didn't even pretend to shed a tear; and you and Mr. Potter were so close! I don't understand, man, I don't."

"I can't grieve when I'm nervous."

"That doesn't make any sense. And what's to be nervous about?"

"Things I'm not allowed to tell you at the moment. Actually," Gerard had to think for a moment, to mentally sort through the various classified and declassified data he held, "there's a bit I could tell you. If we'll ever find a damned place to sit down, that is."

"Chinese place?"

Gerard smiled, his spirits lifted slightly by the momentary return of the much preferred Tantalus the Obnoxious

Eventually, Gerard was able to force the grief stricken Mr. Merriwether into a large, comfortably impersonal sandwich shop. Tantalus would have nothing but coffee (with copious amounts of cream and sugar, of course) until Gerard threatened him serious bodily harm if he didn't get a hold of himself and "eat something, dammit."

As Tantalus finished a very puny ham sandwich, and Mr. Bolivar was making progress on a second roast beef and Swiss, the conversation turned back to Harry Potter.

"So they just found him there, lying dead in his own backyard? In Godric's Hollow?"

"Yes, something like that."

Tantalus sighed. "Just like his parents, eh?"

"Well we can't be so sure of that." Gerard became rather flustered, but he did his best to play it off, by releasing as nervous laugh. "Who's to say it was murder? For all you–" Gerard paused, feeling that better wording was needed. "For all the general public knows, it could have been simple heart failure. Or any number of things."

Tantalus grinned a little. "Heart failure? I think not. For his age, I'd never seen a man in better shape than Mr. Potter. He was as good a Seeker yesterday as he was in the '90s playing for Gryffindor. Perhaps better."

"Well strange things happen, Tantalus. Stranger have certainly happened before."

"But," Tantalus looked back and forth with a nervous look in his eyes, "between you and me, what does your office think? The Aurors? Do they suspect … er, you know. Foul play?"

Gerard considered the question for a moment, then sighed and answered, "There is a distinct possibility of it, yes."

"A distinct possibility, eh?" This came not from Tantalus, but from a voice positioned roughly two or three feet above Gerard's head. A hand clasped his should, and Gerard's own hand went instinctively for the wand in his jacket.

"Easy there, Bolivar." The man to which the voice belonged took an empty seat at the side of the table. He was tall, with slicked back hair the color and consistency of penguin feathers, or perhaps wet licorice. He was clad in a tan suit that could only reasonably be described as dapper. "It's just me."

Indeed it was him, but his statement was not altogether true; there was another man, taking a seat at the fourth and final vacant chair, who looked possibly just as much a rogue as the first man.

"Heart failure? Hah!" said the penguin-hair man in the dapper suit. His name was Hollis Belmont, and Gerard was well acquainted with him, and his companion, whose name was Shawn Dukes. The two worked in the Investigation Department, a subdepartment of the Auror Office, and to say that Gerard did not care for the two would be inaccurate. There was a much stronger bond of resentment between Gerard and the pair than that. They'd all entered Hogwarts the same year, and Shawn and Hollis had been nothing but trouble since.

"What's that supposed to mean, Belmont?" Gerard asked.

Hollis smirked. "Nothing, Gerard. I just think you'll need a better coverup than that for the MLP."

Now Shawn took a turn addressing Gerard. "Don't play stupid, Gerard. You were the first man that came to mind when I heard about Potter's death, you were."

Gerard didn't say anything. As previously mentioned, Gerard was a quiet man, and exceedingly so when he was angry.

And Gerard was very, very quiet now.

Belmont guffawed. "You thought no one would catch on, eh? I know you wanted Head Auror, Gerard, but this is something I thought below even the likes of you."

Gerard got ever quieter, if that was at all possible. His silence had become a tangible thing, almost. A fifth guest at the table.

Shawn Dukes had his say again. "Well. What you got to say? Not even going to defend yourself, you scoundrel?"

Gerard sort of felt like punching someone.

"After all Mr. Potter did for you," Dukes went on, "and this is how you repay him?"

Gerard really felt like punching someone.

"You disgust me. Who's next, huh? The bloody Minister? Well believe you me, Bolivar, the Department's hot on your trail. Best be putting your affairs in order."

Gerard decided that, if he must punch someone, this man with his chatter would be the perfect candidate.

So, his silence in tow, Gerard stood up, and swung his fist directly against the nose of Shawn Dukes.