May 15th, 1998
"This can't be right," said Sam. He wrinkled his nose skeptically.
Sally-Anne silently agreed. She could smell the salt of the Irish Sea, but the narrow street they were standing in stank of poverty and suspicion. The rowhouses were narrow and almost every window was blocked by a shade or curtain; there was little to no foot traffic.
"This is the address I found at the Ministry. Let's knock; maybe she left a forwarding address," she said doubtfully.
"Yeah, 26 Elsewhere Lane, Anywhere-But-Blackpool, England," grumbled Sam.
"Hey, you volunteered. I told you this wouldn't be pleasant."
"You said it wouldn't be a pleasant conversation. Not that we'd be slumming without caffeine. Besides," he reminded her, "you promised evidence that your crazy theories aren't."
She hitched her backpack higher up; the item she'd filched from the Ministry earlier that morning was heavier than she'd expected.
"Adventure! Mystery! Possibly tea! Trust me, Sam." She walked up to the door of the most sullen looking house on the block and resolutely knocked on the door.
After a long wait that had Sam starting to stamp and grumble incoherently under his breath, they heard a sharp bark from inside.
"No soliciting!"
"Morning, Ms. Carrow!" Sally-Anne put on her fakest cheerful sing-song voice. "We're here from the DMLE. You remember us, don't you. Just have a couple questions, but I'm sure my colleague here would be happy to do it at the Ministry under Veritaserum if necessary!"
She glanced back at Sam and puckered her lips and narrowed her eyes in an attempt to convey relaxed confidence. Her puffy coat, backpack, and glasses must have ruined the effect, since Sam snorted.
Fine, she thought, I look like a nerdy Girl Guide. Whatever. It's disarming.
The sound of multiple locks clicking focused her attention. The door slowly swung open. A short, stout woman stood there, leaning on a Rollator and glaring at Sally-Anne like she would gladly twist her head off.
"Thank you so much, Ms. Carrow. Can I call you Alecto? No? What, uh, a lovely home you have here, Ms. Carrow. Lots of, uh, privacy. Your brother doesn't live here anymore, does he."
By now, Sally-Anne was already in the living-room. It reeked of stale cigarette smoke. The carpeting was thick and wrinkled; she wondered how the woman managed to push the walker around.
"You know he doesn't," said Alecto bitterly. "If you're really from the Ministry. Both of you, show me some proof."
"Mafalda doesn't know we're here, correct?" Sam casually pulled his wand out from its wrist holder. He turned to Sally-Anne. "And you're in tight with Alice at Wand Screening. So I suppose a little Cruciatus would be ample proof of our bona fides, don't you think?"
"That won't be necessary. Will it, Ms. Carrow? That's right." Sally-Anne groaned and put her backpack down heavily onto the carpet. "There. May I sit, please? Thank you so much."
Alecto slowly pushed her way to the facing couch and sat down as well, keeping a tight grip on the walker. She looked like some crabby next-door widow upset about a ball through her window. Sam remained standing next to the door, to Sally-Anne's right.
"You young people are so disrespectful. Comes from poor parenting. And lack of discipline."
"I heard you were quite the one for discipline at Hogwarts," said Sam calmly.
"Don't take that tone with me." Alecto's mouth pulled out and down as though she wanted to physically recoil from her guests. "You weren't there. It's all lies. Muggle-lover propaganda. Discipline needs to be harsh. I never punished anyone who hadn't broken the law. They deserved whatever they got, had it coming to them, they did."
"What did they deserve, Ms. Carrow?" asked Sally-Anne gently.
"A good deal more than they got! Little snivelers. Creating chaos." Alecto tried to lift her walker up to thump it back down and underscore her point, but she was too weak and it only moved forward about an inch, squeaking in protest.
"Order must be maintained! Do you know what the accident rate — of children! — was before I took charge. You don't know what it was like. How many times does a cat jump onto a hot stove? I did what was necessary! What were you doing then, Mr. High-and-Mighty? Crawling to Yaxley, I expect. Hrrmmph!" She lifted her chin and gazed on them in triumph. She clearly viewed both her logic and her rightness as unassailable.
"How is your brother doing these days, Ms. Carrow? And the others?"
"Them!" Alecto snorted. "In their mansions and manors! Paying me no regard. Not that I want it. Dirty riffraff. Lucky not to be in Azkaban, murderers." She made a spitting sound. "You lot are too soft. Not like me. I never killed no one. But they still took my wand away," she finished spitefully.
It was disorienting to talk to Alecto. There was no thread to follow, just hate bubbling out at the various groups that she believed had wronged her.
"We keep them under watch. Sometimes they give us information, Ms. Carrow. Proudfoot mentioned something to me only the other day — "
"Proudfoot!" Alecto laughed, mockingly. "Oh dear, and here I was, hoping Kingsley was honest with his servants. But I suppose it takes time for information to trickle down so far. No, I may not have my wand anymore, but I still have my sources. Friends, unlike some I could mention. No, my plain Jane, Proudfoot is dead."
"I don't believe you," said Sam hotly.
"It's true!" Alecto was almost gleeful. "Now, why wouldn't you know that? Let. Me. Think." She put a stubby, swollen finger to her cheek and looked at the ceiling as though puzzling out a problem. "Useful idiots, you are." She did spit then, loudly, and then coughed a true smoker's cough. She fumbled in the basket of the walker and pulled out a packet of Pall Malls and a Bic from under a dingy grey blanket.
"You mean..." Sally-Anne shook her head. "It's not possible."
"Right. Because you're so clever. You'd know if someone high up was pulling your strings." Alecto's shrill voice was now scornful. "Selling us out to the Muggles. Forcing us to breed with those animals. Do your job! At least someone is. Someone remembers what it means to be a pure blood. Someone to stand against that filth, that scum, that dirty, wretched…"
Alecto was screeching now, flailing the lit cigarette about, and her neighbor started to pound on the thin wall. She stopped mid-rant abruptly, and Sally-Anne wondered if she'd had trouble with the police. Probably, given that she was surrounded by Muggles, people she despised. For a moment, Sally-Anne felt sympathy for how the old woman's hatred accomplished only her own isolation and alienation.
"Who? Who is this defender of purebloods?" Sam leaned forward.
But Alecto, checked in her diatribe, didn't answer. She seemed to have shrunk, all the rage having poured out of her. What was left was simple malice. Her eyes were small and sharp, like a wren's.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You just said someone was standing up to the Ministry. Who?" Sam was getting aggravated, but Sally-Anne couldn't think of a way to warn him off.
"Me?" Alecto said it as though sugar wouldn't melt in her mouth. "You must have imagined it. It's not my fault you don't pay attention."
"Look, I don't want to argue, but — ". Sam's voice was rising.
"I won't talk to you unless you calm down, young man. After all, it takes two to argue." Alecto crossed her arms primly and took another drag from her cigarette, slowly and deliberately.
The witch was goading him, Sally-Anne realized. Trying to cover up a mistake. She broke in.
"That's true, but it only takes one to start an argument out of thin air and then try to gaslight and bully you into seeing things their way."
That had come out a bit stronger than she'd intended, but it had felt really good, like something she needed to say. She looked up at Sam. He was staring at her as though seeing her for the first time. Was it possible that he understood what she meant? That he had a similar presence in his life, undermining and corrosive?
"You don't know what you're talking about. That never happened. I don't deserve this, being blamed for toughening up the children! I can't help it if you're all babies."
Sally-Anne sighed. The Death Eater was back on her tangents. But it didn't matter. Leaning over, she started to unzip the backpack. She pulled out a large metal bowl, the sort used to mix pancake batter, only its inside was covered with runes and sigils.
Sam waited outside. When it was over, Sally-Anne quietly closed the door behind her.
"Percy! Come in, come in." Kingsley half-rose from his chair behind the massive, cluttered desk and gestured to a chair that was stacked dangerously high with more documents and scrolls.
"Thank you, sir. Just stopping by as you requested to fill you in on our progress." Percy gingerly tried to shift the pile of papers, but at his touch it collapsed and he ended up on his knees having to pick them up individually and put them wherever.
"And what has Arthur discovered?" Kingsley looked down at Percy cheerfully, but his voice betrayed his tension.
"The investigation is ongoing, but the early signs are of Death Eater involvement," replied Percy, scrambling to his feet.
The conversation, Percy admitted to himself, was quite awkward. If Ollivander delivered on Saturday, as planned, he would be killing this man less than a day later. He wondered what Kingsley would look like as the Avada Kedavra struck him. Probably quite like he did right at this moment, actually.
The Minister slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes. "Just what I feared. But they didn't use wands! That means no outside help, doesn't it?"
"None as yet has been discovered, but we believe free Death Eaters, including Rookwood, of whom we still have no intelligence, are watching the situation carefully. My father believes, as a result, that we must pretend to be ignorant for a few more days until we can track them down."
Kingsley leaned forward at that and Percy groaned inwardly. He'd have to distract the Minister from asking too many questions. That should be easy, enough; the Minister was notorious for his short attention span. Lots of plans, but no follow through. The man was losing control, not just of the Ministry, but of the wizarding world in general, and he was the last to realize it. It was past time for a change.
"When does Arthur think he'll have actionable intelligence?"
"Uh, sometime next week. We just hired a new employee and Perkins thinks they'll make a big difference, given how thin we are on the ground. Have you hired an assistant yet to help with...?" Percy indicated the general chaos. Couldn't Kingsley see he was in over his head? Why didn't the Minister just resign, rather than force them to use force? Did he care so little about the preservation of Magical Britain? It was these amiable, well-meaning types that caused all the problems.
"Oh, excellent. Most of us will be here through the weekend, of course, digging out from all the paperwork." Kingsley sighed. "Just like last weekend. But no, I haven't had a chance to interview enough candidates. It's important I get the best person for the job. Am I right?"
"Absolutely, sir." Sure, why not, Percy thought. Delay a critical hire and waste more time searching for perfection when anyone who could take dictation would be valuable.
"But it is hard to get much done without someone. Our international allies are starting to get impatient. Want to make sure we're taking our duties under the Statute of Secrecy seriously. Try saying that five times fast." Kingsley laughed awkwardly at his own joke.
"But they're getting anxious," Kingsley continued. "And that doesn't even compare to the domestic docket. Issues around estates of the heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts, dealing with continuity of house elf ownership, liasioning with the goblins, Wizengamot procedures, ceremonial responsibilities, hiring and reviews…" At each issue he pointed to a stack of papers or lifted one up, his voice getting tighter as he progressed. "Not to mention the uproar if we end up having to cancel the Quidditch season. The departments are doing the best they can, but we're just so understaffed."
"I understand, sir. I've worked with Ministers in the past, and they were run ragged at the best of times." Good note to end on, sympathetic, distracting, be killing you in less than forty-eight hours. Percy wondered where Audrey was and started to get up.
"That's right, I had forgotten. No, please, sit." Kingsley got up himself, however, and started to walk around the office as best he could given the clutter. "Don't tell me; my memory's not quite what it was, but… ah, yes! You started under old Barty, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir." Percy twisted his head to look at Kingsley, who was examining an old print. Strange, how there were no portraits in the office now. That might be helpful, when the time came.
"Pity how that ended. Murdered by his own son, of course. Then you worked for the Minister himself, didn't you? Cornelius." Kingsley laughed. "I rather admired him, you know, but his reputation did take a bit of a nosedive after his propaganda campaign against Dumbledore was revealed. Left the country in disgrace, didn't he?"
"Yes, sir." Percy was starting to feel uneasy and his neck was developing a kink. Where was Kingsley going with all this?
"No one blamed you of course. Exemplary service, and all that. That little article about Ms. Umbridge, though, …" Kingsley shook his head. "Well, I suppose you were following instructions, am I right?"
"Yes, sir."
"And then you worked for Rufus. Bad luck, there, I'm afraid. But, tell me, Percy, how was it you managed to serve Pius after the murder of Rufus? After the Ministry took on, shall we say, a different tone." Kingsley was now directly behind Percy. He'd stopped trying to look at the Minister and instead was listening carefully. Why the humiliating listing of his failures? Was this some elaborate setup? His middle finger twitched, but he kept his wand holstered.
"Sir, Minister Thicknesse was under the Imperius. Although some of the changes were, uh, reactionary in nature, I did not realize he was under Yaxley's control." At that moment, Percy despised both the Minister and his past self with equal vehemence. From the point of view of the present, it was so easy to know what he'd done wrong, but difficult to remember why he'd done it at the time. Why had he gone along, Percy wondered. Had he been so blinded by his position? Had he not bothered, as a pure blood, to notice?
"I suppose by then you were used to obeying authority. You simply did what you were told. Isn't that right?" asked Kingsley.
Percy still couldn't see the Minister, but he realized the prick had him dead to rights. He could admit that to himself, just as he could admit that any worries of being unable to summon enough hatred to use the Avada Kedavra on Kingsley were now laughable. If this wasn't a setup. But if so, why drag it out? Why torment him?
"Yes, sir. I mean, I think so, sir. It was a... confusing time."
"That seems to be the pattern of your career. Blind loyalty, Percy. A valuable trait. But we might wish you had better masters." Kingsley reappeared to Percy's left and made his way back to his chair. He looked serious, but not angry. He wasn't holding his wand.
"Yes, sir. I think I have one now, sir." Let the fool take it as a compliment. But of course Percy meant his father. Those years of petty rebellion, wasted. But ever since the Battle of Hogwarts, he knew his North Star. His father had been right to cut off his worries about the Death Eaters. When his father spoke, Percy believed. That certainty was calming. He was on the right path, finally, and the man sitting before him was just a pebble to be kicked off into the grass. He realized with a sudden clarity that he was now actually looking forward to murdering the man.
"I wonder. Rookwood. Macnair. Crisis after crisis. And now all these changes. Although, between us, Percy, the Wizengamot was more easily persuaded than I would have guessed. Power that no Minister has had in centuries. You've seen corrupt men in my position, Percy. Is so much power healthy?"
"Power is just a tool. What matters is the man who wields it." His father's sentiments.
"Perhaps. We have better precautions in place, now, of course." Kingsley looked up at the Thief's Downfall. "But Cornelius was not Imperiused. Rufus believed he was doing the right thing, hiding the truth and preventing panic. What if I'm doing the wrong things now? What if my successor tries to take us in a different direction? Now that it has been given, this power will be difficult to take away."
"I believe in you, sir," lied Percy.
But Kingsley's self-doubt had sent a ripple of uncertainty down Percy's spine. Again, he couldn't deny the truth of what the Minister had said: Percy had been too loyal to each in a string of tainted bosses, he had followed orders without fully considering their implications. Was it possible that his father was another of them, a man making mistakes despite his good intentions, a man doing the wrong things for the right reason?
No! Percy rejected the hypothesis with such vehemence he almost physically shook his head. No. His father was doing what had to be done. His father was trying to save everyone. His father was right, had to be right. Without that foundation, Percy would have nothing. He felt a bewildering moment of vertigo.
Percy hated Kingsley for making him doubt Arthur, even for a moment. He wanted to kill the Minister immediately, right now, to prove to himself that he trusted Arthur completely, that he was on Arthur's side. He promised himself never to question Arthur again.
"Let's hope your faith is not misplaced this time." Kingsley gave Percy a self-deprecating grin. "Anyway, I've kept you long enough. And I suppose I really should try to get through some of these letters today."
"Thank you, sir." Percy hesitated. "But sir…" He had no idea what he was about to say.
Kingsley looked up again. "Yes, Percy?"
"Nothing." Percy fled.
They were barely back in the office before Zhu burst in.
"Sally-Anne, finally! You won't believe who I saw… at Arun's last night. Um, his kid sister's back in town from boarding school," finished Zhu lamely.
A sudden look from Sam, and a flicker of his eyes over her shoulder, had prompted her to take that sentence to quite a different place than she'd intended. But now Zhu could smell the heliotrope notes in the perfume behind her and winced.
"Fascinating, my dear," said Mafalda Hopkirk brightly. "However, if you could waste Ms. Perks' time outside, I would be most grateful.
"You see," Mafalda continued, clasping her hands together and speaking insultingly slowly, "I need a word with Sam here. On. Actual. Ministry. Business. Thank you so much. Yes. Thank you," Mafalda chirped insincerely. She closed the door firmly.
Sally-Anne scrambled to get clear in time, realized she'd forgotten her coat, and tried to open the door back into her office to grab it.
The door wouldn't open. Sally-Anne tried again, frowned, and then carefully put an ear to the door. Her eyebrows shot up.
"Well, well, Ms. Hopkirk," muttered Sally-Anne to herself. "Moving up in the world are we? Welcome to the adult table."
"What's she saying?" asked Zhu curiously. A Mafalda sighting was a rare occurrence.
"Absolutely no idea. She's put an Imperturbable Charm on the door," Sally-Anne said matter-of-factly.
"Good thing we've got a man on the inside, then."
"Quite. Arun, if she asks, I'm buying Zhu a cup of tea to calm her nerves from the shocking news of the return of Priya."
Once they were outside the Ministry, Sally-Anne took Zhu's wrist.
Zhu looked at her boss with surprise and found herself standing at the side of a deserted roundabout. Just to her left, a small white sign at just the right height for rabbits to read proclaimed they were now on Aliwal Road. Wherever that was.
"Oh," Zhu sighed. "Is this a walk and talk?"
"Something like that." Sally-Anne smiled cheerfully. "Better than discussing anything back there, for sure. Although it was a foolish spell for her to use."
Sally-Anne started walking briskly along the road, rubbing her arms. Zhu followed, wondering how far north they'd come.
"Cambridgeshire," said Sally-Anne, answering the unspoken question. "Let's leave it at that, for now. Anyway, I apologize for Mafalda's interruption. You were saying?"
Zhu quickly filled her boss in on what she'd seen in Diagon Alley. Sally-Anne frowned in concentration.
"Curious behavior, certainly." Sally-Anne pushed her glasses back up her nose. "Let me ask you a question, Zhu. You're clear on what we're doing, correct?"
"Figuring out who kidnapped Macnair. Because it's likely they're trying to take over the Ministry, perhaps even all of magical Britain," replied Zhu promptly.
"Correct answers ask for harder questions. What will we do once we find them?"
Zhu didn't blink. "Kill them."
Sally-Anne glanced at the girl out of the corner of her eye for a moment. "Explain to me how that's evident."
"Azkaban no longer exists. Given the odds of a traitor in the Ministry plus what we know about Rookwood, prison of any sort at this stage would be useless." Zhu shrugged. "I suppose we could try to Obliviate them permanently, but isn't that the same as murder? No, given the crimes they must be committing, the danger they pose, and the power they already possess, the only sensible solution is to simply eliminate them. Better than having to do it all over again this time next week."
"Yet every Muggle religion and Muggle society places murder at the top of Thou Shalt Not," Sally-Anne reminded her.
"Muggles." Zhu shrugged again.
"And our own society places the Killing Curse as the first of the Unforgivables."
"Oh, like Avada Kedavra is the only curse that kills!" retorted Zhu. "Tell that to Mark Regan. Come on, Sally-Anne, don't tell me you don't think there are people who deserve death."
"But Avada Kedavra is the only curse that only kills," explained Sally-Anne patiently. "It's the intent to kill that makes it unforgivable. Tell me, Zhu, how many have you killed?"
Zhu's jaw clenched in anger. "What it does matter? Can only killers decide who is worthy of death?"
"No, but only killers know the cost of having killed. Some, like Voldemort, it drives insane. The rest of us have to remind ourselves that we're not."
Zhu shook her head. "Are you telling me killing a rapist keeps you up at night?"
Sally-Anne was silent for a moment and seemed to focus on the pavement. The country they were walking through was very flat and still. And they were walking away from the only cluster of buildings Zhu could see.
"Do you know what Chesterton's Fence is?" asked Sally-Anne suddenly.
"No," Zhu replied defiantly. Sally-Anne hadn't answered her question. Did her boss think she wouldn't notice?
"It basically states that if you want to change a rule or custom that's been in place for a long time, do so only after you fully understand why it's there to begin with. Just because its purpose isn't obvious doesn't mean there isn't a good one."
"And that applies how?" asked Zhu. She was starting to fume. What was the point of all this? And why was Sally-Anne making her have this discussion in the middle of frozen nowhere? Then Zhu remembered that Sally-Anne didn't have her jacket and felt momentarily guilty for her own peacoat. Not that it would have fit Sally-Anne, anyway.
"Just that we need to be careful to think through the second order effects of our actions. What if murder solves this problem, but everyone starts thinking Avada Kedavra is acceptable to use as long as your reason is really, really good?"
"Kill them in secret," said Zhu. "Or make it look like an accident."
"So establish a precedent that legitimizes not only political murder, but also clandestine political murder?"
Zhu was silent.
"Difficult questions don't have easy answers," said Sally-Anne. "I agree with you that a memory charm is murder. Although perhaps not many others would agree with us. I was always surprised that Obliviate wasn't an Unforgivable curse, but I suppose people consider it a local anesthetic. And our other alternatives are, as you say, not promising. Azkaban was worse than murder. I don't have the capacity to be sorry it's no longer available. A conventional prison might work on a full sweep, but in a case of conspiracy, if we miss someone…"
"So you agree we have to kill them," said Zhu sharply.
"Not so fast. Suppose for a moment we found all this was being done by Mafalda. She's no extremist. Would we have no other options, once we learned her motivation? Could we dissuade her? Seduce her, perhaps, with status or money."
"If it's Mafalda, you don't know Mafalda," Zhu pointed out. "You're picturing a person who doesn't exist. A relationship between her and the world that doesn't exist."
"And you can't fix what doesn't exist. It took me a long time to accept that." Sally-Anne was speaking slowly, as though she were actually thinking it through.
I'm confused, Zhu realized. I thought she brought me out here to try to convince me of something. But she's not. What is she doing?
"What if we only manage to scotch the snake?" continued Sally-Anne. "I mean, assume there are three conspirators and we eliminate two of them. The third would know who we are and could come after us." Sally-Anne pushed up her glasses. "Or those we love."
"So we need to be sure we know who's guilty and then hit them simultaneously." Several shabby warehouse-looking buildings were coming into sight, Zhu noticed, a couple hundred meters down the road. Is that where they were heading?
"Easier said than done. And complex plans have a way of failing in unpredictable ways."
"That's true," Zhu admitted.
We're only going to have one chance to get this right." Sally-Anne's hands went into her pants' pocket. "Well, we are, at least. And I prefer to make my mistakes in alternate universes."
"Har har." Zhu rolled her eyes. "So nothing fancy. Keep it simple. And we'll find a scapegoat to punish so people understand the consequences of murder and your chestnut fence stays in place."
"Chesterton's," said Sally-Anne, absent-mindedly.
We should have the element of surprise as well," continued Zhu. That much, she thought to herself, was obvious. After all, why did Sally-Anne think Zhu dressed like this? Zhu knew perfectly well what people saw when they looked at her, and what they thought of what they saw. The girls were even quicker to stereotype her than the boys. It no longer bothered her; their predictability was her advantage. That was the benefit to looking superficial and egotistical; no one saw you coming.
"We certainly have that. I'm just a mousy girl who lives with her parents," said Sally-Anne, smiling.
Zhu looked over at Sally-Anne again, wondering. Was Sally-Anne being snarky? Was it possible that her boss was using a similar approach, just from the other side? Zhu tried to see her objectively, tried to overcome the instinctual blind spot that beauty has for plainness. The terrible outfits. The posture. The glasses. Sally-Anne certainly was meek around others, although not her team. Could it be deliberate? Had she, who was so contemptuous of others' underestimation of her, underestimated Sally-Anne?
Sally-Anne had stopped in the road and was looking at Zhu curiously.
"Zhu," said Sally-Anne slowly, "if I had to guess, I would say your parents were pretty strict. In that respect, at least, we're similar. But what I lost in freedom I invested in self control. Because discipline has a reservoir.
"Do you read fiction? Pity. You can learn a lot from what it gets wrong. Fiction tends to be neat, NPCs and tropes playing out the narrative fallacy. The bosses, the Big Bads, get tougher as the story goes on, more challenging. Often the final villain, or the penultimate, is the dark side of the protagonist. The worst of what you might become, personified. But, Zhu, that's not how it works in the real world. You're the first villain that you must overcome." Sally-Anne's voice was very quiet. Zhu had to step closer to hear.
"Most people fall at the first hurdle. Are you one of them?"
"No," said Zhu firmly.
Sally-Anne smiled again. It was a warm smile, and it made Zhu feel warm.
"I believe you." Sally-Anne looked up. "Now, let's go shopping."
Zhu turned around. They were standing in front of a single story brick building. There were no visible windows. Her heart rate accelerated as she read the sign over the door.