Same diclaimers as before

Chapter 7: Never Go Into Radio

Finch landed with a silent crouch on a grassy knoll within Delia's memory. The heat and sun indicated that it was midsummer. He rose to his feet and looked down the hill at a steel and concrete bunker. Emblazoned on the arch over the doorway, the name 'Larkhill' was emblazoned. He strolled casually down the hill, the only indication of his interest in his surroundings were his darting eyes.

As he reached the base of the hill and the door of the compound, he saw Delia standing nervously. She looked no younger than her corpse had been; She checked her watch several times as Finch watched her for a few minutes. Finally, there was a flash of light and a large group of people appeared before them. Half of them were garbed in black cloaks and pointed hoods with skull masks coving their identities. The other half were bound and gagged, their heads covered in tight black bags that restricted their breathing. There were five prisoners and five captors. Delia sighed in relief and motioned them forwards into the building.

Finch watched as the prisoners struggled harshly against their bonds. Two of them appeared to be women. The other three were very fat men. Delia smiled in excitement as she closed the door behind her.

The memory blurred and when it came back into focus, Finch was standing in a long hallway with doors running down it, each marked with a roman numeral. He walked down the hall, ignoring the screams from within the rooms he passed until he reached the door at the end of the hall. He walked through the door. Inside was a large office and laboratory. Delia, Prothero, and Lilliman were all sitting at a main desk while white-coated healers and scientists dashed around the lab, mixing potions in large, bubbling cauldrons and igniting spells across the room. In the center of the room, a man with a bag over his head was strapped down on a table, writhing in pain as various potions and mixtures were injected into his body and spell were cast upon him.

"It's not working," said Delia nervously to the two men, "We haven't been able to solidify a single compound that has the desired effect."

Lilliman yawned, adjusting the collar around his neck. "Don't worry, my dear," he said, "God made wizards superior to muggles. I doubt there is anything that can make one completely immune to magic. Let alone any mixture that could work on a muggle."

"Besides," interjected Prothero, looking mighty proud in his fresh, black robes and hood, "Your assignment has changed. Our master requires proof that mudbloods stole their magic in utero from squibs."

Delia stared at him in amazement. "Impossible. There are more mudbloods than squibs. And even then, it's already known that even mudbloods tend to have a wizard or witch in their family tree somewhere up the line."

Prothero waved her statement off lazily. "We just need something to fall back on, ma'am," he said, "We don't need the truth."

Delia hesitated, but nodded. The memory went hazy again and Finch found himself in the same laboratory. There was a line of people in orange jumpsuits with bags over their heads slowly trudging through in a line. Black garbed guards would force them to walk over to Delia and other healers before they would march them out of the lab. When they got to Delia, she would take a syringe and quickly inject them with a golden liquid.

"Felix Felicis?" muttered Finch to himself. He had seen the liquid years ago, but never in such quantities. There were cauldrons on the stuff scattered around the room. The line moved forwards and Delia tapped the needle to inject the next young man in line. Suddenly, the man snapped forwards, his bagged head slamming into Delia's unprotected one. Delia gasped and fell backwards as the man kicked forwards wildly. Before any guard could react, he kicked a cauldron of Felix Felicis and the luck liquid spilled to the floor, the cauldron making a loud clatter. The young man slipped hard in the potion and fell to the floor with a grunt. He splashed around in the magic mixture as guards dragged him to his feet and helped Delia up.

"I'll kill you!" rasped the young man as the guards held him still so Delia could inject him, "I'll burn you!"

"You're doing a service to your country," replied Delia grimly.

The bagged man cackled as he was dragged out of the room and back to his cell.

The memory blurred once more and Finch stared down the hallway from before. Delia was walking slowly down the row, a clipboard in one hand and a chalk in the other. As she passed the first few cells, she scrapped an 'X' on the metal door. She hesitated when she reached room five and double checked her clipboard before moving on. Finch closed his eyes and remembered what he had read in Delia's journal. Of the original 4 dozen test subjects she had been given, only a few had survived the first round of her treatment.

Finch walked over to room five and stared at the 'V' on the doorway. There was no doubt in his mind that V was the man from room five. He watched Delia walk down the hall, knowing the catastrophe that was about to strike. As if on a cue, the door to room five exploded in fire. Delia spun around and gasped as the flame rushed forwards. Delia surrounded herself with a fire-proof charm just in time, but the force of the explosion forced her into the air. Finch stood and watched as metal twisted and the compound collapsed from the force and heat of the explosion.

The memory hazed again and Finch watched as Delia worked with a rescue team to try and salvage reports and information from the burning building. Delia looked up and gasped as she saw an intimidating shadow stand before the fire. The figure was difficult to make out, but Finch could still see the horrors of what had happened to his body. As far as he could see, most of his facial features had been wiped away from the fire. His skin was a burned, ashen color.

For a moment, the man simply stared at Delia. No, not stared, he had no eyes to stare with, but he could see her nonetheless. Slowly, the figure raised his arms and let loose a roar of rage that rattled Finch to his bones. This was no mere cry of anger; this was the shout of despair and hopelessness of a man who had lost everything. This was a roar of a new beginning; a new life with one singular focus: vengeance. This was a declaration of a vendetta.

Finch yanked his head back and gasped as he left the pensive. He panted for a few moments as he gathered himself and put the pensive on the floor of his balcony. It had stopped raining while he had been in the pensive. He stood up and went inside, in dire need of a drink. He had some firewhisky from 1973, a good year.

. . .

Evey awoke to the smell of frying eggs and the strains of light jazz. For a moment, she thought she was still in the Shadow Gallery, but when she cracked open her eyes, she remembered that she was in the spacious guest room of the Tonks household. She stretched and sighed contentedly as she stood up and quickly dressed herself. Following her nose, she walked downstairs to the kitchen, where Ted was hunched over the stove.

Hearing her, Ted turned and smiled at her. "Ah, bonjour mademoiselle!"

"Morning," said Evey, rubbing her eyes, "What's that you're making?"

"Piggies in a basket," he said, showing her the frying pan with eggs and bread in it, "My wife used to make them."

Evey stared at the eggs, her eyes darting back and forth between the breakfast and the cook. "This is…weird," she said finally, "The first morning I was with…him I had eggs just like these. He made them for me."

"Really?"

"I swear!"

"Huh," pondered Ted, "That is a strange coincidence. Although there is a very reasonable explanation."

"There is?"

"Yes," Ted leaned in close and whispered to her, "You see, Evey, I am V. At last you know the truth." He posed dramatically, "You're stunned, I know. It's hard to believe that underneath this wrinkled, old exterior, there lies a dangerous killing machine with a fetish for Fawksian masks." He struck a powerful pose with his fist in the air. "Viva la revolucion!"

Evey glared at him. "That's not funny."

Ted dropped his pose. "I know," he said with a sigh, "I need my wife to keep my wit sharp. Of course," he said, returning his attention to his eggs, "He was right, wasn't he? There is something wrong with this country."

. . .

Finch slowly reread the old newspaper from just a few months ago. One title read, 'Mudbloods Steal Magic!', while another shouted, 'Was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Right All Along?'. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as Dominic walked in.

"Morning Inspector," he greeted, "You're early, something wrong?"

Finch paused before waving his wand at the door. "Muffilato," Finch stood up and began to pace. "I want to ask a question, Dominic," he said, "I don't care if you answer me or not. I just need to say this aloud and I need to know that this will not leave this office."

"Of course, boss," said a confused Dominic, "Is this about the terrorist?"

"No. Yes. Sort of."

"Ah. Good to know how informed we are."

Finch silenced him with a glare. "The question I want to ask, the question that's kept me up for the last 24 hours is this; what if the worst, most inhumane actions possible were performed on innocent English muggle and mudblood citizens," he said.

Dominic blinked. "I don't understand. I mean, mudbloods stole magic, they stole the livelihoods and dignity of countless squibs; they deserve to be imprisoned, but why muggles?"

"Mudbloods stole magic," murmured Finch, "Maybe that's true." He motioned to the newspapers and files on his desk. "But I see this chain of events, these coincidences, and I have to ask if that's true. What if mudbloods don't steal magic in the womb? What if that was a ploy made in order to fool the public?" he glanced up, "Would you want to know who it was that tricked the wizarding world?"

Dominic stared. "Sure,"

Finch locked eyes with his subordinate. "Even if it was somebody working for this government?" Dominic hesitated and did not answer. "That's my question," said Finch, "What if our government lied to us and persecuted innocent people? Would you really want to know?"

. . .

Voldemort stood in the center of the sitting room of Malfoy Manor. Surrounding him was his inner circle of associates. "I am tired of this," he said with a sigh, "Is the terrorist V dead?"

"It cannot be confirmed, my lord," hissed Bellatrix, "We never found his body."

Voldemort closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. "I would much prefer to focus my attention on finding Potter. This distraction in London has gone on long enough."

"If I may, my lord," said Severus quietly, "This is a delicate stage of your ascension. We must gather the trust of the people before we can declare martial law. The terrorist is an annoyance, but one we must endure for the time being."

Voldemort exhaled impatiently. "Very well, Severus, I will trust your judgement." He turned to Yaxley. "What information have you managed to gather on the terrorist, Yaxley?"

Yaxley gulped and fudgited with his cloak. "We haven't been able to confirm, well, anything, sire."

"I see," said Voldemort with a sigh, "No information. Do you have any news to report that would indicate any competence on your part, Yaxley?"

Yaxley set his teeth. "Arrests are at an all-time high, sire."

"I don't want arrests, Yaxley," said Voldemort slowly, "I want results. And I now have serious doubts about your abilities to deliver them to me."

. . .

Ted popped a bottle of champain and poured the bubbly drink into a flute for Evey. "What's all this about?" she asked.

"We're celebrating."

"Celebrating what?"

Ted grinned as he sipped his own drink. With a flick of his wand, the radio came flying into the sitting room and rested on the coffee table. It hummed to life and static burst through. Ted tapped it with his wand. "Andromeda!" The static vanished and the airwaves came through clear. "I got in touch with the Weasley lads a few days ago," he explained, "They let me record a segment."

"And welcome back to Potterwatch, the radio for those with common sense. I'm your host River, and joining me in the studio now is my good friend Bear. How are you, Bear?"

"I'm quite well, thank you River." Evey gasped and stared at her host in shock. Ted swished his drink around in his glass, a small smile playing across his face. "We recorded it this afternoon. I rather enjoy the sound of my own voice, don't you?" he said.

"So, what have you been up to lately?" asked River on the radio.

"Oh, you know, the usual, dodging Death Eaters. Oh, I'm sorry, Snatchers is apparently what we're calling them these days."

"Why Bear!" exclaimed River in mock surprise, "Are you saying you believe that the government is now run by the Dark Lord and his followers?"

"The Death Eaters? Run the Ministry? No, no, no, no, they have people for that." A laugh track played on the radio as Evey choked on her drink.

"So you're saying that the Death Eaters don't control the government, they control the people who control the government?"

"Well, I'm afraid it's not that simple, River," said Ted along with his voice on the radio, "Some Death Eaters are closely involved with the workings of the Ministry now that they've taken over. Which just goes to show that politics attract evil. For example, I heard the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is none other than convicted Death Eater Yaxley. That's right folks, we have a known Death Eater in charge of one of the most powerful branches of the government. And if you think that's the pinnacle of the Death Eater's influence over our ministry, think again. Our own minister, Pius Thicknesse, inherited his title from a predecessor who died under mysterious circumstances, is often described as 'dazed, confused, and unsure of his surrounds', and is highly susceptible to those will of those around him, all classic signs of someone under the Imperius Curse. "

"Well, thank you for that insight, Bear. Anything else you'd like to say?"

"Certainly. My best to Harry Potter and his friends. We're all counting on you. To any Death Eaters listening, or even the Dark Lord himself, know that you are-" Here a buzzing noise kicked in and blotted out what Ted was saying. "Aw," groaned Ted, "Some people just can't stomach vulgarity." After a few moments, the bleeping cut out and silence reigned.

Finally, River cleared his throat. "Um, thank you very much for those….powerful words, Bear."

"My pleasure, River."

"That's all for tonight, folks. Join us next time when our password will be Dearborn." The radio cut out.

Evey stared at the radio and then at her host and then at the radio again. "You're mad." She whispered.

"That or I was dropped as a child."

"Is everything a joke to you, Ted?"

"Only the things that matter."

"They'll come after you. After me."

"Oh please," Ted said, taking a sip of his drink. "They'll never find those boys and they'll never find us. Trust me."

. . .

Evey wished she could have slept. She wished she could just forget the terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, but her anxiety would not go away. She could sense the coming danger.

There was a crash downstairs and she sat up in bed, her eyes wide. "Ted?"

Her host entered her room and closed the door behind him softly. His eyes were narrow and angry. "Under the bed, Evey, quickly," he hissed as he braced himself against the door. Evey quickly slid off the bed and rolled under it, blocking her mouth with a hand.

The door burst open and Ted was thrown to the floor as men in black cloaks and hoods entered the room and pummeled him. "Hold," the beatings stopped as a man in a black trench coat entered the room. "Not so funny now, is it?" he said softly, "Next time, don't use your wife's name as a password." His fist slammed into Ted's fragile, old face and the old wizard spun to the ground. His eyes met Eveys' as his hands were cuffed tightly and a black bag was forced over his head. Evey had to push her jaw up to keep from screaming. The men dragged Ted's lifeless form out of room and Evey crawled out from the bed as they closed the door. Sobbing as quietly as she could, she scampered over to the window, grabbing her wand as she did.

"Descendo!" she whispered as she opened the window. Gently she floated down and landed on the grass. As soon as her feet hit dirt, she ran for the garden gate.

A hand wrapped around her arm and neck. "Gotcha."

"No!" she screamed, "No!" Something went over her head and everything went black.

. . .

Seriously guys? Just review please.