Same disclaimers as before

Chapter 6: The Doctor's Death

Evey and Ted Tonks were sitting in the latter's living room. They sat in an awkward silence until, finally, the tea kettle whistled. Evey, her make-up wiped away and wrapped in a blanket, started to stand up.

"I'll get it, my dear," said Mr. Tonks with a smile, "You stay put." He rose and walked briskly to the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later with twin china cups filled with freshly brewed black tea. "Milk and sugar?"

"A teaspoon of each, please," said Evey gratefully. Mr. Tonks quickly accommodated her before handing her a saucer with her tea cup balanced perfectly on it. She sniffed deeply, letting the heat and scent of the tea calm her. She took a sip and shuddered as the hot liquid spilled down her throat and warmed her body. "Mmm, lovely." She said with a sigh.

Mr. Tonks smiled. "Thank you."

Evey closed her eyes as she remembered her childhood friend. They sat in silence for a bit before Evey addressed the elephant in the room.

"Mr. Tonks, I know every Snatcher and Auror in the country's looking for me and I know it was horrible for me to come here, putting you in this situation."

"Evey," interjected Mr. Tonks, "I-"

"If they find me here, you'll be in terrible trouble."

"Evey," said Mr. Tonks firmly, "First of all, you're a grown woman now. I think you have the right to call me Ted. Secondly," he smiled and sipped his tea, "If Snatchers ever searched my house, you would be the least of my problems." Evey stared at him in confusion. Ted sighed and stood up. "Well, you've trusted me, so it would be terrible manners not for me to trust you. Come, follow me." Evey rose and followed Ted through his house.

He led her to his wine cellar and motioned towards a wonderful rack of several vintage wines. He pulled out a Pino Grigio from 1973. "The year Dora was born," he explained as he reached into the tube the wine bottle had been in, "A wonderful harvest. Made some very detailed flavors. Ah, here we go." He found what he had been looking for and withdrew his arm. As Evey watched with wide eyes, the wine rack slid into the wall and disappeared, revealing a secret room.

It was almost like another Shadow Gallery. The walls were lined with art and books and display cases scattered around the room held artifacts. "I installed it after I sent my Andromeda to France," Ted explained as he closed the wall behind them, "She wouldn't have approved, but I figured it was important to preserve some art and knowledge that the New Order is trying to destroy."

Evey's eyes scanned the room in wonder and they fell upon a framed portrait against the far wall. "Oh God," she whispered, "Is that…?"

"Indeed," said Ted proudly, "The crown of my collection, so to speak." It was a hand-painted portrait of Queen Elizabeth II, but her majesty's face had been replaced by a pale and gaunt one. She had slits for nostrils and here eyes were red and slanted. She had the face of the dark lord Voldemort. Under the portrait was written in big letters 'God Save the Queen!' "The Weasley twins made it before they went underground," said Ted, "Called it their masterpiece."

"The Weasley twins?" asked Evey in a daze.

"Yes, the lads who own Weasley's Wizard Wheezes down in Diagon Alley. No matter how bad I feel, this thing always cheers me up."

Evey tore her eyes away and walked over to an open book on a podium. "What's this?"

"An unabridged copy of A History of Magic," said Ted, "The New Order rewrote it for students. I figured I'd keep a copy so future generations can learn about the true past, not the one the New Order fabricates."

Evey turned to face Ted. "If they found this, any of this-"

"I told you, you'd be the least of my worries," he said calmly, "No, if they ever searched my home, I'd be killed on the spot, most likely."

Evey stared at him. "Why?"

"Well because I'm muggle-born, of course! You see, we're both fugitives in our own way."

"Oh," Evey hesitated, "I'm sorry."

Ted gave her an incredulous look. "Sorry? What for? Sorry that I had parents who loved and supported me all the way to their deathbeds? Sorry that my parents would have loved me regardless if I were muggle-born, pure-blood, or squib? Don't be sorry me, Evey," he said, "Be sorry for the world."

. . .

Finch glared angrily at the corpse. He didn't quite know how to feel about this murder. On one hand, it confirmed his theory that V and his killings were somehow related to the Larkhill magical research facility. On the other hand, if he had figured that out sooner, he probably could have saved the poor bishop that lay dead before him. He turned to Dominic. "Run every name in that file," he said, "I want to know where they are now and their place in the hierarchy at Larkhill. Tonight."

"Yes sir," Dominic turned to leave, but stopped in mid-motion, "Bloody hell," he muttered, "Here comes Yaxley!"

Finch groaned and nodded. "Get going, I'll handle him." Dominic glanced at his superior nervously as he left, scrapping by the new head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "Yaxley," greeted Finch, "What are you doing here?"

Yaxley entered the room, keeping his eyes on the body rather than Finch. "Several prominent members and supporters of the Ministry's New Order have been murdered, Chief Inspector Finch," he replied, "This is no ordinary situation. I requires more," he looked up at Finch, "Than your ordinary attention. The minister ordered my immediate involvement."

Finch glared at Yaxley. Finch was all for the revitalization of government. It had been stagnant under Fudge and Scrimgeour. But the new minister was placing known former Death Eaters into positions of power, and Finch took issue with someone he had been chasing down only years before suddenly becoming his superior commander. "I'm sure the minister ordered you to be here, but it'll be difficult to run an investigation if you're detaining all my witnesses."

"The security of information is paramount," snapped Yaxley, "And I don't think I like your tone." Finch didn't move as Yaxley stepped towards him. The Death Eater stood a few inches shorter than Finch, but his presence was no less intimidating. After a moment, Yaxley stepped to the side to admire the corpse. "In these volatile times, mistakes like the Daily Prophet Radio Station cannot be tolerated. If indeed that was an accident."

Finch glanced at Yaxley. "What does that mean?"

"The terrorist seems to have a rather intimate understanding of our system," said Yaxley, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "The Minister suspects there might be an informer."

Finch decided to drop all pretenses of civility. "Are you saying I'm under surveillance, Yaxley?"

Yaxley turned to him and gave a small smile. "Your family tree has already been reviewed since you're a government employee, but at this time it behooves you to cease any investigation of matters of the past and concentrate on the concerns of our present."

Finch folded his arms behind his back, cocking his head to the side in mock concern. "You mean Larkhill?"

"Next time you have questions, don't bring them to the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister," smirked Yaxley, "Her loyalty is unquestionable."

"But mine is?"

Yaxley sneered, a vicious and unstable look that did not become him. "Your mother was a mudblood, wasn't she?" Finch glowered at Yaxley, one hand slipping into his pocket and grasping his wand. "A pity she died before the New Order," continued Yaxley, "She might have told us how she stole her magic."

"I've been a supporter of the New Order since the beginning of all this!" barked Finch angrily, "Enough!"

Yaxley rested on his heels, smiling that he had struck such a sensitive nerve. "If I were you inspector," he said, walking out of the room, "I'd find the terrorist, as soon as is humanly possible."

. . .

Finch stood across a medical table from the Healer. The St. Mungo's mortuary was actually quite lovely, with white marble walls and gentle magic lights floating around the room. All in all, it was really very relaxing.

The Healer was looking over a clipboard, nodding to herself as she ran down a list with her wand. "I'm sorry, Inspector," she said finally, "We found poison in his system, but nothing magical. All the ingredients used to concoct it can be found and bought in any muggle drugstore."

Finch nodded sadly. He had been hoping for a breakthrough when he noticed that Lilliman had been killed without any signs of the Avada Kedavra, blunt instrument, or stab wound. But if the chemicals that made up the poison were so common, then it would be impossible to track them back to V. "Thanks Delia," he said with a sigh.

Delia put down the clipboard and began taking off her medical gloves as Finch put on his coat. "Any leads on finding this guy?"

Finch sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Honestly? Nothing yet. But perhaps there is something you can help me with."

Delia turned and leaned against the medical table. "What's that?"

"There seems to be a link between V and a magical research facility called Larkhill," explained Finch, "I wouldn't be surprised if they had a few Healers on site to help with the experiments. If you could ask around the hospital and see if anyone here worked at Larkhill, that would be a great help."

Delia nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

Finch gave her a small smile and tipped his hat to her as he left. As soon as he had turned his back, Delia began to perspire. She coved her mouth with her hand in an attempt to hold back the bile building up in her throat. She waited a few minutes before grabbing her things and leaving a few hours before her shift was set to end.

. . .

"Anything?" Asked Finch as he walked into his office.

"You're not going to believe this," muttered Dominic, not looking away from the files spread across the table. "There were a total of a hundred and eighteen employees at Larkhill. Of them, only one is still alive."

Finch's eyes widened and he stood behind Dominic, looking over his shoulder. "Who is it?"

"Don't know," said Dominic, "The file's been censored. All I can find is that she was female and one of the people in charge. After the facility was shut down, she disappeared for weeks until she was caught trying to leave the country. After that, she disappears entirely."

"She changed her name?"

"That's what I'm thinking. I took your advice about tax records and put in a call at the treasury, but I haven't heard back yet."

Finch nodded. "Call them again; I want that name." He paused, "Dominic?"

His assistant looked up. "Yes, sir?"

"Good work." Dominic smiled and picked up the rotary phone on the desk, dialing the number for the treasury. Just as he was about to put in the last number, the phone began to ring. Finch and Dominic looked at each other and Dominic shrugged, putting the phone to his ear.

"Hello, this is Dominic…yes…what? You sure about that?...Alright, thank you." He hung up and Finch stared at him intently. "Dr. Diana Stanton, changed her name to Delia Surridge."

Finch's jaw just about hit the desk. "The coroner? Jesus I was just with her!"

Dominic stood up. "You know where she lives?"

"No."

"Damn, we can't apparate or floo there until we get and address. Let's move."

. . .

It had taken a while for Delia to fall asleep. She had contemplated staying up to greet her killer, but she knew he wouldn't want that. Instead, she had forced herself to sleep with a possum charm. Her night was dreamless, a pity. She had hoped for some nice dream before entering the great abyss.

Her sleep was interrupted by a breeze through her open window. She had closed them before bed. She didn't need to open her eyes to know that she wasn't alone.

"It's you, isn't it." The wind caused her curtains to flutter, letting light fall onto a white Guy Fawkes mask sitting next to her. "You've come to kill me."

"Yes." It was a simple and straightforward answer, the kind of response one expects when discussing traffic.

Delia sighed into her pillow. "Oh, thank God." V hummed, unsure of how this would play out. "I felt guilty," she explained, sitting up in bed, "I thought about killing myself, but I knew one day you'd come for me, and I couldn't bring myself to deny you your vengeance." She sighed and leaned against her headboard. "I didn't know what they would do to you," she said, "Honest."

"What they did to me was only possible because of you," said V softly.

Delia nodded. "I only hoped to change the world," she said more to herself than to V.

"I have not come for what you 'hoped' to do, I've come for what you did." Delia nodded again and then chuckled to herself. "What's so funny?"

"I was given one of your victims to examine today," she explained, "What a coincidence that I would wind up being one myself."

V sat down on the bed next to her and took her hand in his. "There are no coincidences, Delia," he murmured, "Only the illusion of coincidence."

Delia closed her eyes. "You're going to kill me now, aren't you?"

V held up an empty syringe. "I killed you ten minutes ago."

Delia groaned. "No magic. I guess that means that my experiments were ultimately failures."

V rubbed her arm. "Oh, I assure you Delia, they were quite successful."

Her eyes widened and began to tear up. "Really?"

"Yes," replied V as she began to foam at the mouth, "Really."

Delia closed her eyes for the last time. "I suppose it's meaningless to apologize."

"Never," replied V in a whisper.

"I'm so sorry, child," said Delia as she shuffled loose the mortal coil, "I'm so, so sorry."

. . .

The door closed behind Finch as he walked into the offices of the Minister of Magic.

"Hello, Minister," he greeted.

The Minister glared at him. "Report," he said through grit teeth.

Finch cocked an eyebrow. Pius Thicknesse didn't scare him, nor did his ability to fire him. "My assistant and I arrived at the home of Dr. Delia Surridge a.k.a. Dr. Diana Stanton a few minutes after her apparent murder by poison. We scoured the area, but found no trace of the killer. Previous evidence and leads leaves me to believe that this is the work of the terrorist V." He hesitated, he had been told to present the journal he had found as evidence, but he had a sneaking suspicion that if the minister ever got his hands on it, he would never see it again.

"Furthermore," he decided, "We found Dr. Surridge's personal journal of her experience and findings at Larkhill research facility." He placed the red leather journal on the desk of the minister. "It would appear as if the killer wanted us to have it, sir, he wanted us to know his story, or at least a part of it."

"Am I to understand that you have read this document, Inspector?" barked the Minister.

"No sir," Finch lied.

"Has anyone else read it?"

"No sir. I only read the front inside cover which described its contents."

The Minister steepled his fingers. "Then let me make this perfectly clear, Inspector," his face was locked in an angry glower, "The contents of this diary is a matter of national security. It speaks heresy against several prominent supporters of the New Order and is a blatant violation of the Articles of Allegiance. As the truthfulness of the document can not be verified, it could well be an elaborate ploy by the enemy. Any discussion of this book will be seen as an open act of treason, is that understood?"

"Yes sir," Finch had stopped listening some time ago.

"You would do well, Inspector, to put it out of your mind," said the Minister with a yawn, "Now leave me." Finch was only too happy to comply.

It was raining that night. Finch sat on a rocking chair on his balcony, watching the rain fall. His sleep was interrupted by constant thoughts about the journal. He had read it, of course, but he didn't have to.

The journal itself wasn't important. What was important was the vial of strand-like memories stored in the front cover. Finch flipped the vial through his fingers and used his wand to pull his father's old pensive from the depths of his cabinets. It rested gently on his lap and he poured the memory in. It shone with golden light as he mixed it with his wand. Taking a deep breath, he plunged his head forward, breaking the surface.

. . .

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