May 11th, 1998
The corridors of the Ministry were still dark as Arthur knocked on the solid oak door that led to Auror Headquarters. Percy stood silently behind him, wishing there'd been time for coffee.
Several minutes passed, then a heavy shambling approached the other size of the door and a disheveled Robert Savage, clearly in a foul temper, half-opened it. He glowered at Arthur, then slowly turned and walked away from them. He was still wearing his black robes from his shift. Arthur motioned to Percy, then followed, closing the door behind him.
The room's windows showed rain on the Scottish moors and it took Percy's eyes a moment to adjust. When they did, he found the Aurors' gloomy common area depressing. He'd been here before, had talked with Kingsley before he'd become Minister, had been teased by Tonks before she'd died. It had always been spartan; he could see Savage turning into the open bay barracks where off-duty but on-call Aurors caught kip. But he's never seen it this empty. He slowly walked past the desks. Most of them were barren. Proudfoot's personal effects were still on his. Jacobs' as well. Nothing out of the ordinary: back copies of the Daily Prophet, notebooks, a stray umbrella cover, some framed pictures. Percy wondered if someone would throw everything away. He tried to remember which empty desk had belonged to Amelia Bones.
"This is your man, then. Your son."
Percy glanced up to see Savage looking hard at him. The Auror had changed out of his robes and was wearing a wrinkled pair of loose khaki pants and a half-buttoned military style shirt. He was barefoot.
"That's right. Percy Ignatius Weasley." He held out his hand. "My father says I'll be assisting you and Auror Williamson."
The man ignored him and Percy slowly let his hand fall back to his side, where it felt completely out of place.
"Hoped you'd be sending someone a little more capable. A little less desk-bound."
Arthur was examining a large plaque that was bolted onto the far wall. It was nearly covered in carvings of small wands. Under each wand was a name. He didn't look at Savage.
"Quite right, Robert," Arthur said in a pleasant, even tone. "For something like this, Alastor would be perfect." He traced one of the carved wands with a finger, gently. "Or perhaps I should get Nymphadora. Her ability would be highly useful in such a situation."
Auror Savage swore. "No need for that kind of talk," he said aggressively. Arthur turned back to him, crisp, efficient.
"I believe you'll find my son can perform quite capably, Robert. For a first substitute, that is."
"We'll see."
"Indeed." His father's eyes now swept over the desks. "Of course, this memorial is out of date, isn't it. You will have to add Proudfoot. Jacobs. A pity that, so young. And Percy here tells me that Dawlish, on those rare occasions when he's conscious, doesn't remember his name. Your department has quite the mortality rate."
"It's the Wizengamot's fault." The thickset Auror shifted his weight angrily. "Things were supposed to change after the Battle of Hogwarts. So many of us died defeating the Death Eaters, and now we're nannying what's left of them. Those that didn't cut a deal and just got to go home, that is."
"I suppose they felt the war was over."
"Wars don't end so easily." Savage laughed harshly. "But those old men have tied our hands. Damn them! Treating Macnair and the others with kid gloves. Proudfoot wouldn't be dead if they'd given us a foot of rope. But no. Constant second guessing, that's all they're good for. Safe down in the dungeons. But we're expected to always make the right decision under pressure. Protecting people who feel free to criticize us." He slammed a hand down hard on one of the bare desks.
"I agree fully, Robert. You remember yesterday I urged the Minister to allow a greater scope to your activities and to press the full Wizengamot for the same. I have good news; they acquiesced. I believe it was fear of the giants that tipped it, in the end." Percy caught the note of pleasure in his father's voice.
"Well, thank Merlin for small favors." The Auror made no attempt to hide his bitterness and Arthur quickly stepped up to him, placing a hand on one of his elbows.
"No, it's not enough. Not with so few men. There will always be enemies of the Ministry, Robert, and unless we have the power to stop them, someday they are going to win." His father seemed to look for something in the Auror's eye.
"This is still in process, but I hope to convince the Minister to consolidate many of the departments within the DMLE. Strength in unity, Robert. The times require it. Freedom to use whatever means to gather information. Freedom to act, including ghost wands." Savage started at that, and Arthur, emboldened, continued.
"Yes, no more scraping to Wand Screening over every judgment taken in the field. And more recruits, Robert. If I'm promoted, as Head Auror you'll be able to fill this room again and stop the next Voldemort, the next Death Eater, the next wizard who violates the Statute, before they even get out the door, without having to ask permission first. Now, how does that sound?"
Robert stared at him. "Our enemies must be defeated. You can count on me, sir, to do what is necessary to ensure it." Arthur squeezed his elbow.
"Good man." He turned back to Percy. "Between the three of you, set up a rotating shift to watch the Death Eaters. Robert, I may need Percy for other tasks — he should be there when Dawlish recovers enough to give a statement — so flexibility will be key. Otherwise, I leave it in your capable hands. Report anything relevant to me directly; Kingsley gave me strict instructions that he's not to be bothered. Meanwhile, I'm going to find the bastards who killed Proudfoot."
"Zhu, back to work. I have a special treat for you today." Sally-Anne's voice was crisp as she walked back up to her waiting staff.
"Review all the Wand Screening data for the last month. No, better make it three." She smiled to herself as the junior girl tossed her long, straight black hair over her shoulder and gave an exaggerated groan. "No need to thank me; bringing joy into people's lives is what I do."
Sally-Anne banged open the door to their tiny office and Sam, glaring, looked up. She ignored him. How many owls could the man be responsible for sending to school-age children for minor use-of-magic infractions, especially during the school year? The post was a classic Ministry sinecure, the sort of inefficiency government bureaucracy spawned like a Gemino curse. Let him be aggravated. She gathered up the thick stack of files and brought it back out to Zhu's desk.
"Here's the rub. Not entirely sure what we're looking for." She stopped to think for a moment. This was almost certainly a blind alley, but that was the job; sometimes it felt like playing twenty-card monte.
"Assume for a moment there's a wizard, or several wizards, who have been spending a great deal of time in the Muggle world and they've had to use magic to get what they want while there. What does that look like?"
"Nothing." Zhu sat down and began to organize the files Sally-Anne had dumped on her. She gave her boss a glare that rivaled Sam's. Only Sam, Sally-Anne thought, didn't have lashes like that. "If they're competent, they'd have used ghosts."
"And secret technology from Atlantis," Arun scoffed. "There's no such thing as ghosts! You've heard how crazy Ollivander is, tracking every wand. Yet every time we suspect someone's activity, despite an innocent screening report, we wonder if they have a second wand hidden away."
Zhu didn't flinch. "What about smuggled imports? Or unlicensed manufacturers?"
"Enough." Sally-Anne shook her head. "I don't have an answer. I've heard stories of ghost wands, but never one with evidence. At least in peacetime, and during war it's irrelevant." She stopped. That raised a real question. Where were all the wands from the recent war? From the Battle of Hogwarts? Surely Ollivander had accounted for them? And the Death Eaters that were being held, even if they'd had ghost wands, had no access to them in custody. Unless this whole thing was an inside job. She shook her head.
"It doesn't matter for now. One branch of the decision tree at a time. Assume the wizards had to use their own wands. Look for heavy use of Confundus, Obliviate, Memory Charms, even from people who'd use them in their legitimate job. Look for long gaps in the spell record, if they had to be incognito. What else?"
"Disillusionment," Zhu replied grudgingly. She clearly still had her back up a bit.
"Good." Sally-Anne nodded her approval. "Any other suspicious patterns, let me know. Arun, my office." She made a mental note to ask someone at Wand Screening about ghost wands the next day; she was due for a screening herself, which would make the timing look innocent.
She had Arun close the door behind him; with three people crowded into it, especially after Kingsley's, the room seemed absurdly small. Why, she wondered, could wizards invent three bedroom tents, but force their government to work in such pathetic quarters? Their office didn't even rate a magical window. She checked the wall clock.
"Sam, I'm glad you're still here." A little encouragement should be sufficient. "You deal with lawbreakers, don't you. You must have insights into how they think. Let's say you committed a crime in the wizarding world, but didn't use your wand. Why?"
Sam silently gathered together the papers and scrolls on his desk and put them into a desk drawer. Standing up, he slowly reached for his umbrella and then squeezed by Arun to the door.
"I wouldn't. Good evening."
Once he was gone, Sally-Anne pulled something out of her desk before shifting over to Sam's chair. She put her feet up.
"That's better."
"You should ask Mr. Weasley," commented Arun.
"What?"
"Mr. Weasley. Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. He probably knows lots of examples where wizards used something from the Muggle world illegally. Not just modifying an artifact, I mean, but using it as intended, just here in this world."
"Catch." She tossed him the Master tumbler lock she'd grabbed from her desk and, a moment later, her wand. Arun groaned.
"How cruelly I mistreat you. I know it's harder this way. That's the bloody point. You'll find your own wand more responsive, if you practice with someone else's."
She wondered for a moment if Arthur could be guilty, but only for a moment. First, it was too obvious. If Arthur were involved, he would never have used means that pointed directly back to his own office. Second, and here she found herself smiling, this was Arthur Weasley. Enthusiastic, yes. Mugglephile, certainly. But murderer of Aurors and accomplice to Death Eaters? Not so much.
Arun cast Alohomora three times before the lock clicked open, but closed it on his first Colloportus.
"Keep going." She waited for him to focus on the spell and began again. "Assume Mr. Weasley has no relevant information." No need to tell Arun that Arthur was looking at the case as well. Not that she should tell him much about the case, period. Not that Macnair had escaped. Not that his rescuers had used Muggle technology. She let out a breath slowly and pushed her glasses back up again. How could she think out loud on this one?
"You know Rookwood escaped, killing Aberforth in the process, right?" A safe question for her to ask; the escape and murder were top secret, so everyone knew the story. Arun nodded on cue, his face tight with concentration as he continued to cycle through the locking and unlocking spells.
"Imagine Aberforth was injured, but survived. What does that imply?"
"His guilt. Colloportus. Rookwood's a killer. "
She chewed on that for a moment. Was Dawlish involved? It was plausible, certainly. She'd ask Arun to stop by St. Mungo's, see if anyone had contacted the Auror. Or Dawlish could have been Imperiused on his way to transport Macnair. Perhaps by Yaxley; he was the ex-head of the DMLE, after all, and an expert in Imperius. No, that was illogical. She was needlessly multiplying entities. That theory required not only an Auror to help Yaxley both escape from custody and then return, unnoticed, but also inside information of Macnair's route, implying another Auror or Ministry employee was involved. It was simpler if Dawlish was guilty.
"OK, good. Levitate the lock. Now let's assume Aberforth is innocent, but Rookwood had help escaping. Back down and continue. Who helps him and why?"
"The other Death Eaters, because they want to break free and cause trouble again. Alohomora." Arun looked at her as though he was unsure why she asking such a stupid question.
"I'm sorry I'm so slow, but walk me through that scenario." Sally-Anne leaned back in Sam's chair. "The Death Eaters break free in order to rescue Rookwood so he can help them… break free?"
Arun squirmed. "Maybe it's one of the Death Eaters not in custody. The Malfoys or, uh, the Carrows. Colloportus."
"That's possible." Sally-Anne had heard that both families had been cleared, but she pursued the idea. They were wandless, which was a point in favor of using Muggle technology. But out of necessity? She imagined that if anyone had an unregistered wand lying around, it was the Malfoys. The Carrows, for all their sadism, didn't strike her as being capable of conceiving or executing Macnair's rescue. Would Lucius or Narcissa not use a wand solely to make the Ministry think it wasn't them, that it was someone worried about Wand Screening? That seemed a Byzantine thought process, but Lucius had a reputation for intrigue. But no, impossible. The Death Enters hated the Malfoys more than they hated the Ministry. No enemy was as implacable as a former friend.
"If neither the captive nor the free Death Eaters helped Rookwood, in your scenario, then either it was someone from the Ministry or — and we already know this is the correct answer, boss — he did it alone. Aberforth died of a broken neck. Colloportus." Arun was clearly growing impatient as he tried to anticipate her.
Someone at the Ministry. She had dismissed Kingsley before, but who else would have known when Macnair was being moved?
"Let's look at the scenario from another angle," she said slowly as she ground through branches on the decision tree. "Cui bono? Who benefits from Rookwood escaping?"
"Other than Rookwood?" asked Arun dryly. He spun his wand around a couple times. An obvious delay; she could see him sweating from the continual castings. "I know who didn't benefit. Us. People already thought the Ministry was a joke, after the last few years, but Rookwood escaping, especially after we had to rely on Potter to defeat Voldemort," he clenched his jaw, "again, made us just look pathetic. Alohomora." The lock didn't open. He tried the spell again.
That was true, Sally-Anne thought, but Macnair's rescue was responsible for the Ministry departments being allowed to recruit again. She wondered if Mafalda knew that yet. Maybe she shouldn't have driven Sam off quite so quickly; he was closer to their boss than she was. She'd have to find a way to actually get an answer out of him. Just as they were getting along so well, too, she thought sarcastically.
She took her glasses off and closed her eyes. Something didn't make sense. Yes, the escape of Macnair had hurt them in manpower and its revelation would injure their reputation. Well, it would when it got out, and that could only be a matter of time; nobody gossiped more than the nurses at St. Mungo's. But it helped them as well, pushing the Wizengamot into allowing the departments to recruit and act on their own recognizance. That certainly would be an unintended consequence, if a Death Eater were responsible. And if Dawlish were guilty, why kill the other Aurors? Necessity?
She opened her eyes suddenly. Arun was silent, watching her. Clearly exhausted, he'd stopped trying to open the lock, but she'd hardly noticed.
"You did well, yesterday, Arun." She watched him sit straighter in the chair and marveled at how a little praise, well-timed, was more effective than continual positive reinforcement.
Make them earn every dollop, she reminded herself. Make them think you've forgotten, then raise them up with a single kind word, after days or weeks of criticism and hard work, and they'll walk through the fire for you.
But all she said was: "Remember it." Judging by his expression, that was enough. She felt proud for a moment at the loyalty she created. Did anyone else at the Ministry inspire their staff? Not Kingsley, certainly. He was lucky the Ministry functioned as well as it did, under so inept a leader. Then the realization hit her and she laughed at her own stupidity.
She had been asking who benefits, but that assumed there was a benefit. And there was. There was a huge prize laying out there and she hadn't even noticed it. Power.
The Ministry was seen as a joke, Arun had said. Kingsley was worried about chaos if people learned what had happened. Why were new recruits suddenly so important? Because almost every powerful wizard had died fighting Voldemort. She realized for the first time just how thin the war had whittled their ranks. Amelia Bones, Dumbledore, and Moody were all murdered. Rufus and Pius had been killed. The werewolf had died at Hogwarts, along with Auror Tonks. Why hadn't she seen the danger before? Why had she assumed the status quo would prevail, just because the obvious enemy had been defeated?
She'd been in Kingsley's office; that wasn't just a meeting, she realized belatedly, but a counsel of war. She hadn't noticed because, after all, who was left? A few teachers, two Aurors that could still stand, and a man who liked taking Muggle machines apart and putting them back together. And her, a very deliberate nobody. They were what was left of the muscle of magical Britain.
That was it, she realized, with that cold dread she felt when she knew she was right, and wished she wasn't. A classic power vacuum. And nature abhorred a vacuum. Someone was trying to take over, just as Voldemort had, only eschewing the direct approach. Kingsley, assuming for a moment he wasn't some subtle mastermind, wasn't decisive enough to stop whoever it was. The teachers were distracted. And Arthur certainly wasn't capable. That left her.
She pictured the face of Susan Williams, after the tears but before Obliviation. She'd been in pain, yes, but so grateful for being saved. By Sally-Anne. From magic, a power she'd never heard of or been able to prepare for. And that wasn't fair. It was bad enough wizards couldn't be bothered to use their magic to help the Muggles. But for them to so casually ignore the magical crimes committed against Muggles, unless Sally-Anne caught them... And even then.
If Kingsley wouldn't use the power of his office to do what was necessary, at least he had implicitly given her the all clear to do so herself. She would save magical Britain from rogue wizards. And if that ended up helping her save Muggles from magical Britain, well, that had been her goal from the beginning, hadn't it?
The low-ceilinged room smelled of damp and the few chairs that had been placed facing each other folded and were made of metal. They had no servants. They had no wine. They had no masks. They had no wands. And there were only four of them.
"How far have we fallen?" thought Yaxley and the bitterness reached his face as he looked at his fellow prisoners. Rowle. Dolohov. Travers. The rest were dead, or traitors. Or cowards.
He was silent for a moment, considering. He trusted Rowle; the man was too simple to betray them. Dolohov could be trusted to be Dolohov; Voldemort had taught him to rely on a man's nature. But Travers… he was full of hatred, certainly, but there was humor there, as well, and caution. That could be an issue. If the old man intended to reveal their plans...
Sometimes he wondered if Travers mocked him to the others.
"Macnair. Macnair. Macnair. Where? Where is he? You said he would be here." Dolohov gripped the legs of his chair and his black hair fell across his face. His voice was unsettlingly rhythmic, almost possessed.
"I bet he escaped. Like Rookwood. Macnair is smart. He worked for the Ministry." Rowle smiled. "I hope he killed many Aurors."
"Before we begin our useless speculating," Travers said quietly, letting his fingers beat a pulse on his bent knees, "tell us, Yaxley, how are we here. We've been denied access to Azkaban and our allies there, denied wands, confined to separate rooms. Yet here we sit, gathered together again. Have you overpowered Williamson? If so, tell us. Show us his body."
"There is a new guard," said Rowle cunningly. "With red hair. He is young."
"A Weasley?" Travers spat. "Those blood traitors. You have dealings with them, Yaxley?"
"I smell a trap. Rookwood killed young Weasley. I saw it. Cannot be trusted." Dolohov shook his head.
"His blood is pure," interrupted Yaxley. "And he is foolish. That is enough. Another came with him, his master, who brings us news."
"What news?" said Travers, slowly.
"Friend Rowle is correct. Macnair has escaped and two Aurors are dead."
"He brings news, good news, and allows us to move freely, to meet, to talk. Those are two things. Connected, I think." Dolohov's eyes were bright as they looked at Yaxley.
"The Ministry is afraid," said Rowle. "They cannot hold us. Rookwood and Macnair are too strong for them to stop." He stopped and seemed to think. "They offer peace because they are afraid."
"We shall have new wands. We shall be free. We shall kill our enemies." Dolohov's voice was rising, almost exultant. "The wizards will kneel again before us and the blood traitors will cower and die."
"I don't trust gift-bearers." Travers shook his head and turned back to Yaxley. "How do we know Macnair has escaped? The Ministry is weak, but to allow a second escape requires foolishness as well. Shacklebolt is a traitor but no fool. Perhaps he killed Macnair rather than allow him to strengthen our numbers."
"Did the Minister murder his own Aurors as well?" asked Yaxley contemptuously. "The servant Weasley brought proof of their deaths."
"Then why does he allow us to gather?" Travers pointed out. "A traitor must be behind Macnair's escape. Lucius, perhaps. The snake knows how to lay low and strike when unexpected."
Rowle spat. "Malfoy is a coward. The pretty boy cries and licks his wounds."
"You say servant." Dolohov leaned forward. "You must know who is master. Who is this master? What has he told you?"
"I met him," Yaxley admitted, "but he was cloaked and masked. He sends his goodwill and offers this freedom as its token." The tall man looked around.
"He wishes to talk with us, here, while the young Weasley guards, tomorrow." Yaxley watched their faces as closely as he could without being obvious. What was their reaction?
Travers leaned back in his chair with a thin smile. Rowle hardly reacted at all, as though he were still trying to understand what Yaxley had said. But Dolohov surged to his feet, the metal chair scraping against the stone floor. He paced, agitated, his voice now ringing between the walls.
"A usurper! Loyal to wizardry. He will free us and together we will drown the Ministry in the blood of the mudbloods and Muggle-lovers. He will bring us wands and the Aurors are too few now to stop us."
"More likely he will try to murder us and thereby make himself a hero. A clever plan." Travers looked at Yaxley and his lip twisted. "He will claim we attacked. Coming so soon after Macnair's escape, who will question him?"
Yaxley shook his head. "I agree with Dolohov. He has agreed to come alone, to let himself be searched. If he wanted us dead, he could have killed us tonight." Yaxley involuntarily grimaced, lines sinking deep into his rough features with his shame at their powerlessness. They were as feeble as Muggles, guarded by Aurors who would have trembled to meet them in combat and soiled themselves as the sight of their former lord. Weasley's master had promised Yaxley wands. Wands and power. He could feel the weight of a wand in his hand again. There were debts to settle.
"He makes promises and you believe them," stated Travers flatly. "New wands! Or perhaps you believe it is Ollivander himself, who licked Dumbledore's boots, now suddenly finding his courage."
"We listen and maybe we have ally, gain power. We don't listen, return to rooms without wands until Ministry decides what to do." There was hope in Rowle's eyes as well.
"Deny him. We have two friends in the wind. They may be planning to break us out even now. This stranger works with a Ministry employee; he cannot be trusted. To do as he says is to fall into a trap."
Yaxley's eyes narrowed at Travers' words. The old man thought too much. Was he happy as a eunuch? As a slave? Perhaps he hoped good behavior would win him a pardon, now that two Death Eaters were loose. Like a dog begging by an empty bowl.
"Enough. I have already consented to the meeting." He looked hard at Travers. "Any objections or accusations can be addressed to him, personally. He values the purity of blood and despises the half-bloods. I am ready to listen to such a man." Rowle and Dolohov grunted in agreement and Yaxley let his voice go low with unspoken menace. "If you wish to stay in your room tomorrow, Travers, we will not forget."
By the time Sally-Anne got home that evening her father was already in bed with one of his old books he liked to re-read. The flat was peaceful and the light rain fluttering against the windows somehow made it seem even quieter than normal. Smiling, she laid down on her own bed and continued to plot her next steps.
She'd have to go to Wand Screening first thing in the morning, but that was taken care of. Then recruiting. How could she do it quickly but quietly enough not to draw the suspicion of either the Ministry or whoever it was seeking power? Could she ask McGonagall to recommend some students? The Headmistress probably would be too busy to — .
"Why is this door closed? What are you doing in here?" Sally-Anne felt her heart rate spike. She hadn't noticed her mother come in through the door. But she didn't reply, trying to focus again. Should she specify the Houses she preferred? Or would McGonagall — .
"You're always so cold. We never chat any more. Do you really hate me that much?" Her mother glared, her lips pursing, and, unwillingly, Sally-Anne found herself losing control of her thoughts, bracing for whatever her mother might do or say next. "You're not even listening to me are you, Ms. High-and-Mighty-at-the-Ministry. Too good for your own mother, who loves you and would do anything for you."
Her mother's voice dropped for a moment into sadness and self-pity, but then climbed again. Sally-Anne gripped her bed at the rage in the words.
"You need to clean up your act! How many times have I bailed you out with Mafalda, in the field — so many instances I haven't ever told you about! They want you fired! They want you gone! I had to beg them not to! Humiliating myself before the Minister for you, and this is how you thank me! Without a shred of respect!" Her mother's voice slowed again and she began to shake her head in cold disappointment.
"You're going to clean up your act, starting right now, or Merlin help me, you father and I will have words and then you'll be sorry. Won't you? Won't you?"
Sally-Anne's pulse raced and she realized she was breathing too quickly, almost hyperventilating. Fight or flight! Her body demanded a decision, but she refused to do either. Not yet. She had to give this attempt more time.
"Then you'll see what it's like to be treated so cruelly by your own flesh and blood!"
Why wouldn't her mother stop? Why wasn't this working? Sally-Anne wasn't taking the bait, she wasn't talking, she wasn't fighting, and yet the yelling, the diatribe, the lecture, all of it rolled into a monologue of hate and resentment, continued.
"You're so hurtful, well let's see if you can take it as well as you give it!"
Don't respond. Don't respond. Nothing for her to feed on. She'll stop. She'll stop soon. She has to.
"You ungrateful daughter! I've been too easy on you. That's over. Finished! I'm through carrying you. Maybe I will let them fire you! Maybe I — ."
The door closed behind Sally-Anne as she escaped into the tiny hallway outside her room. It was dark and cold, but she felt flushed. Her heart beats blurred together. She could still hear her mother screaming.