September 1st, 1991
"You can wait here, Perks," said the slender, severe old woman. "The Headmaster will be with you shortly."
The words reminded Sally-Anne of trips to the doctor, but the professor — how pompous were these people; they taught at a secondary school — was far more animated than the bored and overworked nurses Sally-Anne had met. The woman looked down at Sally-Anne with an expression that was probably supposed to be equal parts exasperated and bemused, but which came across as terrifying. Then the professor — McGonagall? Something Scottish, at any rate, Sally-Anne thought — left her alone in the room. Albus Dumbledore's office. The holy of holies.
Her heart beat faster. Could the trap be any more obvious?
Slowly and carefully, Sally-Anne walked over to the squat, plush chair that stood in front of the Headmaster's large, imposing desk. She sat down and looked over at the enormous chair across the desk from her and pictured the most powerful wizard in the world sitting in it, looking at her with annoyance. His chair was practically a throne, while hers was obviously designed to sink its occupant into a ludicrous position: forced to look up, uncomfortable, exposed.
She stood up and, gently gripping the back of the comfy chair, tried to look around the room casually. How was she being observed?
Much of the room was cluttered with nick-nacks that continuously puffed smoke and sputtered. She supposed that to Dumbledore the sound had long since faded into the background as white noise. Since this was her first time here, however, she found it distracting. A clever tactic, she thought.
There, the portraits. Only several of them were currently occupied, and the men she could see were pretending to sleep, but it was clear they were watching her. With instructions to report to Dumbledore, undoubtedly.
The awkward, low slung chair. The irritating, uncontrollable background noises. The row of authority on the wall, as though she had been brought before a tribune of the Inquisition. Her opinion of Albus Dumbledore went right through the floorboards. She was familiar with bullies.
And his open, engaging manner at the Sorting fitted with that, she thought, as she scrambled to figure out a game plan before he arrived. Dumbledore evidently saw himself as the chummy authority figure, the man with power who condescended to understand the powerless. Staying on good terms with such a man was easy. All it required was showing you had as exalted an opinion of him as he did of himself. But by having declared she wished to leave Hogwarts, after less than a day at the school, she had already, unknowingly, insulted him. And such an ego, Sally-Anne knew, would bruise easily, even when challenged by someone as inconsequential as a first-year.
So how could she calm the waters and be allowed to leave? If she told him the truth, she had no doubt he would force her to remain, citing Sally-Anne's immaturity and best interests. And Sally-Anne couldn't count on her mother to help. A familiar feeling.
But perhaps she could use her mother in another way.
Just then, Sally-Anne heard the door open and the tall, bearded wizard she had seen earlier, at High Table in the Great Hall, came into the room and seated himself on his throne-like chair. With a twinkle in his eye, he motioned for her to be seated as well. She obeyed.
"Minerva tells me you no longer wish to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You must be quite precocious, to have decided on your first day that we have nothing to teach you."
With a shock of recognition, Sally-Anne realized that she wasn't the only one who was hiding something. It seemed absurd that he too could be afraid of exposure, she thought; it's not like we're Muggles! But there it was. His secret. Unfortunately, she had no time to think about the ramifications, not with a non-question like that hanging in the air.
"Hogwarts is lovely, sir," she replied, refusing to take the bait. "I just don't think it's right for me."
"Because you were sorted into Hufflepuff? All the houses have produced excellent wizards. And witches. I wouldn't let that dissuade you." He said it gently and kindly.
Could Dumbledore wear his contempt for Helga's House any more plainly, Sally-Anne wondered. How typical of Gryffindors to dismiss anyone different than themselves. She was proud she had been sorted into Hufflepuff; patience and discipline were the foundational virtues and, without them, rashness, cleverness, and ambition accomplished nothing.
Despite having been at Hogwarts for only a few hours, Sally-Anne had talked to several of the older students in each House. This had not been easy. Talking between the years seemed like a taboo and as for mingling between Houses... But she'd learned what she'd needed; the trick had been asking each House what they thought of the others. The Sorting Hat's song had told her what they thought of themselves.
She could hardly imagine a system where students were more set up to fail.
Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, continually reassured of their virtue and wisdom, were almost certain to become arrogant egomaniacs, substituting credentials for achievement, test scores and self-regard for experience. As for the clearly belittled Hufflepuffs and hated Slytherins, well, could any child suffer through seven years of ritual insult and humiliation without breaking or becoming what they were expected to be? Only the strongest could hope to survive without a debilitating inferiority complex.
No, her House wasn't the issue.
"No, sir," she said, softly.
"Well, what then? You can trust me, Sally-Anne; tell me the truth." Dumbledore leaned forward, templing his hands.
She did trust him. To be himself. He cared about the students, she saw that, and would help them so long as they conformed to his conceptions of what a student should be. So long as they played their roles properly. As for the others, he would simply have no use for them. Perhaps that benign neglect was healthier, in the end, than the fragile attention of such an ego. She wondered, idly, if his wars against Grindelwald and Voldemort had broken his mind.
No matter. As long as she could appear irrelevant and insignificant without opposing him, Dumbledore would lose interest and let her leave.
"It's just, my mother needs me at home. My father…" Sally-Anne twisted her hands, as though the details were too much to bear.
"She let me come, but I've realized, it's not right, sir. It's selfish of me. My place is there." She looked up for a moment to gauge his reaction. For just a moment, his blue eyes met her wide brown ones and she felt a flutter at the edges of her mind. Immediately, she wrenched her gaze back down to the floor, as though overcome with nerves.
Legilimency!
Her mother had taught her enough to recognize the signs. Unfortunately, Dumbledore has obviously realized that she realized what he had done.
"Impressive, I must say, for someone of your age to have even rudimentary training in Occlumency." His tone was light, as though he hadn't just attempted to violate her mind. How many of the students had Dumbledore abused in this fashion? Sally-Anne felt slightly ill and tried to focus.
"Thank you, sir. My mother, she works at the Ministry. She's had some bad experiences, I think; she told me she doesn't want anyone else to be able to access my thoughts." She grimaced, but only slightly, as she caught her mistake. Luckily, Dumbledore hadn't noticed.
"Mrs. Perks, Mrs. Perks. Ahh, in the Obliviators office." He sounded amused. "Well, I certainly commend your mother for having your best interests at heart, and you for learning even a little of such a subtle skill at your age.
"Although," Dumbledore continued with a wise and knowing air, "going to such lengths does strike me as bordering on paranoia."
Not paranoid, enough, Sally-Anne thought, continuing to look at either the floor or the enormous desk, flushed from anger and fear. She hoped he interpreted her color as embarrassment, but a cold fury swept through her.
Here was a crime, a willful transgression against those he was supposed to protect — no matter the supposedly noble ends he would surely claim it served — and she was absolutely powerless to do anything about it.
Dumbledore was untouchable.
The most magically powerful wizard in the world. He could murder her in a blink.
The most politically powerful wizard in the country. Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Head Mugwump. He could destroy her with a word.
Her eyes grew hot at her own impotence, at the scope of the abuse she could not prevent. Not yet.
"However, it does speak to her concern as a mother, and her ability as a teacher. She does intend to homeschool you, I presume?" He smiled genially, inviting her to agree that such an education, while perhaps not completely worthless, could never hold a candle to what a Dumbledore-managed institution could provide.
Sally-Anne wanted to scream. Old enough to know that her mother was a self-absorbed tyrant, she had hoped, she had prayed, that Hogwarts would be different, that it would provide an escape from a house without privacy and, given what her mother had made of her father, without relief. But no. She couldn't stay here, and it wasn't just the grotesque House system, or the genial authoritarianism.
It was the pedagogy.
She'd met junior employees at the Ministry who couldn't cast the Patronus. Who couldn't do nonverbal spells. She'd dismissed them as cases of nepotism, but here at Hogwarts she'd mentioned spells she'd already mastered and been told they were only taught in Seventh Year. The students, even in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, seemed more focused on Quidditch and class pecking orders than mastering Transfiguration or Battle Magic. And some of these students had memories of Voldemort! Did they think mastery a matter of osmosis, or exams? It seemed absurd, but if she wanted to learn, really learn, and become powerful, Hogwarts was the last place she should be. Her mother, for all her volatility and intrusiveness, at least knew how to teach. Probably so that her daughter wouldn't be a bigger embarrassment. Somehow, that was reassuring.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then, I guess you have my blessing. I'm glad we got to talk, though, aren't you?" Dumbledore smiled, wrinkling his nose, as though they had really connected, were best friends now, and had braided each other's hair.
How could he know so much, and understand so little?
What was it, Sally-Anne asked herself, that made communication impossible between adults and children? Surely adults had been children once upon a time. Surely they had to remember the absolute power adults had. How defenceless children were, how at the mercy of adults. Surely they had to remember how they had been actual people at that age, not toys or dolls to be treated casually. But she had yet to meet an adult who saw her as a real person. Who treated her with dignity and not with a patronizing tolerance. Who looked her in the eye.
Unless, Sally-Anne reminded herself bitterly, they were trying to violate her mind.
"Yes, sir. An honor, sir."
"No need for such formality, now." Dumbledore winked. "I suppose I'm no longer your Headmaster, am I?" He stood up to show her out, rearranging his robes and hat. Sally-Anne was careful not to raise her eyes until she was safely out of his office. Walking back to McGonagall's office, she started trembling, uncontrollably.
May 16th, 1998. 2:07 P.M.
"Green," said Zhu.
Sally-Anne set the American penny on the TV stand and pointed her wand at it. Immediately, Lincoln's head began to rotate clockwise.
Before it had turned halfway there was a loud crack. Knabby appeared. He had plaster on his ears.
"Green," Knabby said.
Sam seized the penny and vanished.
Sally-Anne Apparated to a small room, dusty with neglect, overlooking Diagon Alley. Across the street, a floor down, she could see Ollivander's shop. Arun was standing next to her. He was wearing a backpack that seemed almost too heavy for him and he was looking through a pair of binoculars. On a table directly in front of them a black sniper rifle with sound suppressor was mounted on a bipod.
Sally-Anne put her eye to the scope. She breathed out and pulled the trigger.
"Green," said Arun.
Sally-Anne vanished. Arun picked up the rifle and disappeared in turn.
May 16th, 1998. 2:07 P.M.
Two women burst into the restroom. For a moment, the sound of the crowded bar spilled in with them, only to be cut off as the oak door swung back into place. Of the three roomy stalls, only the middle one was available.
"You go, dear," said one of the women. She turned to look at herself in the mirror over the sinks. The mirror showed her making faces and, behind her, pairs of shoes in the narrow gaps between the stall doors and the wooden floor: the first two stalls now contained pairs of heels while the last, pressed up against the restroom's far wall, showed a pair of trainers.
"...she came out at all." The voice of the woman's friend was muffled by the door of the middle stall.
"Did you see what she was wearing? A little bold, I think," commented the woman pouting at herself in the mirror. For a split second, there was a second pair of trainers in the far stall. The second pair were right in front of the first pair, almost directly beneath the stall door. Then a toilet flushed and the first pair vanished. The stall door opened and the woman glanced over in the mirror.
"All yours," said Sally-Anne. She stepped up to the adjacent sink and smiled over at the waiting woman. The woman smiled back automatically and then began to rummage in her purse for something as she turned to enter the open stall. Sally-Anne washed her hands and pushed the restroom door open, stepping through the lintel and into the noise and heat of the Three Broomsticks.
At the bar, Sam handed her a pint of butterbeer.
"Or did you want something stronger?" he asked. Sally-Anne shook her head in a satisfied sort of way and took a long sip from the glass.
"I was thinking," said Sam casually, as though continuing a recent conversation, "about practice. Strange for him to have been so powerful, without anyone knowing. Motivation isn't strength, you know."
Sally-Anne took another swallow and pictured sessions with her mother. "Sparring partner, I suppose. Perkins?"
"Mmmm." Sam leaned over, putting an elbow on the bar. "What did you hear? About the last battle. At Hogwarts, I mean. Other than You-Know-Who, the most powerful wizard there was...?"
"Black, probably." Sally-Anne shrugged. "But she's dead."
"I'm terrible at remembering rumors," replied Sam. "Remind me who killed her."
The color drained from Sally-Anne's face.
May 16th, 1998. 2:07 P.M.
Between Arun and the sea there was nothing but thick green grass and brush. Behind him rippled empty, endless, time-worn hills. He set the rifle onto the wet ground with a squelch, then slung the backpack down next to it.
Arun knelt and opened the backpack. First, he pulled out a mask. Then he strapped on a heavy cylinder that was attached to the mask by a length of hose. The cylinder was yellow and said SCOTT in sturdy black letters. He put on the mask and adjusted it.
He took a moment to check the wind.
Standing up again, Arun drew his wand and transfigured the rifle into what looked liked a piece of white paper. He mumbled a spell and a small flame appeared, instantly consuming the paper. A pause, then his wand moved again. There was a short rain of infinitesimal fragments of plastic and metal onto the grass.
Arun looked out over the water, took a deep breath, and vanished.
May 16th, 1998. 6:15 P.M.
The room was empty, save for a bed and a dresser, as though anything else had been rejected as superfluous.
A young woman came in. She wasn't particularly attractive. She wore an unbecoming outfit. She took clothes out of the dresser and placed them in neat piles on the bed.
An older woman appeared in the doorway. She looked unhappy. She was also semi-transparent. Clearly agitated, she started to rant at the young woman.
The young woman pulled down a suitcase from the closet and continued to pack.
The older woman's ranting grew louder, more threatening. Outrage and martyrdom were written in the deep lines of her face.
The young woman zipped up the suitcase, then paused. She glanced around the room, giving it a final once-over.
The yelling trailed off and an expression of surprise, almost shock, crossed the older woman's face. For a moment she looked as though she had just been startled out of an unpleasant dream. Then she faded away into nothingness.
Tears stood on the young woman's face. She turned off the ceiling light, stepped out of the room, and closed the door behind her.
May 17th, 1998. 8 A.M.
"... that's unfair. By the time this office even learned of what was happening, it was all over," the man in the pillbox hat said defensively.
"Two weeks, Kingsley!" raged Minerva McGonagall. "We promised support. In. Two. Short. Weeks. Meanwhile, you bullied the ability to hire at your own discretion through the Wizengamot. Show us the new Aurors. Show us the new Unspeakables. Where are they? You can't, because you didn't. But apparently, under your nose, Arthur Weasley was building an army and plotting a coup!"
"Impossible for us to have known," Kingsley protested, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.
"You lost control, Kingsley. Admit it. Of both the Death Eaters — you promised they were under strict surveillance — and your own staff! And this is the result." McGonagall threw the morning edition of the Daily Prophet across the Minister's desk. "And frankly, that I had to read the story in the paper… insult to injury."
"We have people out looking…"
McGonagall silenced the Minister with a look and slumped into a chair. Kingsley's office was, if anything, more disordered than it had been a week ago. Auror Savage, Sally-Anne, and Sam were trying not to lean against one of the piles of papers and risk an avalanche. Auror Dawlish, who had been half-escorted, half-carried back from St. Mungo's, looked like he was simply trying not to pass out. All four of them, however, were doing an excellent job of not drawing attention to themselves.
"Correct me when I make a mistake. I'm still catching up." McGonagall's voice was quieter now, thought Sally-Anne. It was no longer machine gun fire. It was piano wire.
"Arthur Weasley, driven mad by grief, somehow tracks down Rookwood and kills him, at the same time collapsing half of Monroe Manor. The other Death Eaters, apparently having suborned Williamson some time ago, again without your knowledge, and fearing for their own safety, get MacNair to put a Muggle bullet through Arthur's head in the middle of the afternoon in Diagon-I-can't-believe-I'm-actually-saying-this-Alley. In front of families. In front of children!"
McGonagall took a deep, steadying breath and continued.
"His son, without bothering to count to ten, immediately attacks the Death Eaters in response."
Sally-Anne and Sam, having already read the paper, maintained their sangfroid.
"And it gets better," McGonagall continued icily. "Body count from that little vigilante raid: Williamson, dead. Yaxley, dead. Rowle, dead. Percy, may he rest in peace, dead." The Headmistress swallowed and looked at the ceiling. "He was always loyal to a fault, but what a moment to start thinking for himself."
"And Doholov and Travers on the run. With Macnair," she added. "At least his escape is cleared up. Although," and here McGonagall's voice started to crescendo again, "perhaps it would have been better to learn of it in some other way than by having him learn his comrades' Muggle methods and murder one of our own in broad daylight!"
Kingsley cleared his throat. "I think this entire incident has already received enough publicity. Although there are rumblings in the Wizengamot about passing an Arthur Weasley Law."
"Giving the Ministry even more power, I suppose," commented McGonagall dryly. "At least what's left of it." Here she turned and looked sharply at the others.
"That's why you're here." She took a deep breath. "The situation was bad enough a week ago. Today, I'm afraid to say, it's teetering on unrecoverable. I have another piece of bad news, one you may not be aware of. The Minister told me only just before we asked you lot to come in. Mafalda Hopkirk was particularly close to Mr. Weasley and has, despite our best efforts, decided to resign. Effective an hour ago.
"We need to start rebuilding. Immediately. Robert, I know you were making progress on recruiting new Aurors. Do it. Faster. With three Death Eaters loose, time is against us." McGonagall looked at Sally-Anne.
"Sally-Anne, effective immediately, you are the interim — I say that again, interim — head of the DMLE. Sam will replace Mafalda. Not that your shiny new titles mean much right now. I'll be blunt. What we need now is the appearance of continuity. Of competence. Do not let us down." McGonagall made it sound like a threat.
"Kingsley, Horace, Filius, and I will decide on a permanent head as quickly as possible," McGonagall continued, "but in the meantime I expect you to perform brilliantly. That means new blood. Bodies, Ms. Perks. We need bodies. Starting with, I think, Goldstein and Zabini in your office. A breach of the Statute is the last thing we need. Robert, we'll put Granger and Longbottom under you for now. Expect them by end of day."
"And maybe a nice desk job for Dawlish. Of course, as long as everything I've said is all right with you, Minister," McGonagall said meaningfully. Kingsley nodded hastily.
"Glad to hear it. All right, people, get to work!"
The Aurors and Sam dutifully filed out. McGonagall glanced questioningly at Sally-Anne, who had stayed. Sally-Anne looked at them challengingly.
"I'm afraid we have some loose ends, Headmistress, Minister. Where exactly did MacNair get a new wand?"
May 17th, 1998. 9 A.M.
After all the commotion yesterday, Ollivander expected business to be slow. Just like every day between October and July, he thought, with a twist of his lip. Just as great things were starting to happen. Again. Although perhaps it was better, the whole affair ending prematurely in failure. He'd never trusted Arthur, for all the man's fine talk and promises. Ollivander looked out at Diagon Alley. Already the shoppers were returning. Oblivious sheep.
Was there any evidence connecting him to Arthur? He congratulated himself on having insisted on private discussions. And that forelock-tugging boy of Arthur's wouldn't be squealing either, according to the paper. Not that it mattered, he thought. He was an institution. He was indispensable. Who would dare accuse Ollivander, the great wandmaker?
The bell over the shop door rang suddenly. Probably some fool who'd broken his wand trying magic above his abilities. Ollivander looked up. A plain young woman walked up to the counter.
"Mr. Ollivander?"
"Yes?"
"Sally-Anne Perks. Interim head of the DMLE. You are under arrest for arranging the sale of illicit wands."
Ollivander laughed hollowly, reaching slowly under the counter for his wand. Kingsley must be desperate, he thought, if this was the best he could field now. Was she that much of a fool, to come alone? She hadn't even drawn her wand. As his fingers touched wood, he heard a cough from behind and to his right.
He glanced around. Filius Flitwick, dueling champion, his wand very much drawn and pointed, shook his head slowly.
June 12th, 1998
"... so I told him he was absolutely correct, and if there was any more trouble we'd be forced to ask the Salem Witches' Institute to get the American authorities involved as part of a new global policing cooperative. And he bought it," said Anthony Goldstein.
Everyone in the room laughed, the sort of laugh people give when they are experiencing a small amount of power for the first time and when using that power, or threatening to use it, is still a fresh pleasure and not yet a corrupting habit.
"I swear, his lower lip trembled," Anthony finished, his face flushed with excitement and pride.
Everyone laughed again. They were sprawled out on the solid oak and leather chairs in the conference room adjacent to the Minister's office. Blaise Zabini actually had his feet up on the long, polished table. The window today showed the early evening view west from The Shard. London Bridge was lit up. The door to the Minister's cluttered office was open but Kingsley wasn't there; he'd been putting in shorter hours recently. Perhaps that added a certain zest to their laughter, a sense that the old guard was making way. The unspoken attitude was that it was about time, too.
"All right, people," chided Sally-Anne gently from her seat halfway down the far side of the table.
Unconsciously or not, everyone was seated in the chairs closest to Sally-Anne's. She looked around before continuing. Zhu sat to her left, proud of being the old hand and clearly enjoying the attention she attracted. To Zhu's left sat Blaise, with his sly grin and insouciant air. Idly, Sally-Anne wondered if he was making a play for Zhu. Across the table were Sam and Anthony, one calm, the other bristling with eagerness. Finally, to Sally-Anne's right, sat Torvik, a recent Durmstrang graduate, and Andy. Sally-Anne had admired her ability and decided not to hold Andy's brief stint as a Weasley lieutenant against her. Arun was missing.
"Incremental integration ideas," continued Sally-Anne, trying to get her group back on track. "Throw them out: messy, absurd, whatever. Get them out there so we can discuss."
"And so we can mock them," drawled Blaise. "In a good-natured, Devil's Advocate sort of way, of course," he added, with just the right amount of injured innocence.
"Have you seen Arun?" whispered Sally-Anne to Zhu, ignoring Blaise. She refused to act as den mother; the group would work better with looser reins. Besides, other than Sam, she was practically the same age as everyone at the table. She was glad Robert Savage had taken Granger and Longbottom, but a little sorry for the Auror as well; their experience and reputation would likely make them difficult employees.
"Chain of shops based on Reparo," suggested Andy. Torvik groaned.
"How boring," he said, rolling his eyes. "We need to think bigger! Aguamenti for irrigation. We could invent a new condensation system that's advertised as highly technical, requiring company-certified installation and monitoring."
"He's around," whispered Zhu in response to Sally-Anne's question. "I'm sure he'll pop in shortly."
Sam finished jotting down the idea, then looked up. "Ambitious. Might work, if you can control access to the site."
"What's our perfectly reasonable explanation?" asked Zhu. "Are we creating black boxes? Waving a hand and invoking the miracle of technology?"
"Step three, profit!"
Everyone stopped and looked at Anthony, who blushed.
"Underpants gnomes? Really? No one?" Anthony slouched in his chair, crossing his arms. "Bunch of philistines, you are," he grumbled.
"I don't know," said Sally-Anne slowly, drawing the group's attention back to her. "I think the danger is success will invite scrutiny. What happens then?"
"Reverse engineering," Sam explained to the others. "First thing a competitor will do is try to buy the products we introduce, take them apart, figure out what's going on."
"And when they realize they're fakes, just cover for wizards to cast spells…" Andy trailed off.
"Exactly." Sam nodded. "Statute's blown."
"We could be the competition also," Blaise chimed in. "Create the appearance of conflict and have the trade secrets be closely guarded."
"What's that rule?" fumbled Anthony. "Any technology sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic. Or something. So have a simple product and keep the supposed secret recipe — call it computer code or something — heavily guarded."
"What about healing spells? Little stuff, like Cheering Charms and, uh, Episkey?" asked Andy. "Place wizards as Muggle doctors."
"Barrier to entry is too high," objected Anthony. "We'd have to fake the credentials, which is risky, or wait years."
"Why not be blatant?" Blaise suggested. "Hide in plain sight. Hang out a shingle with a bunch of mystical mumbo jumbo that no Muggle believes in, so no one sticks their noses into it."
"What about customers?" pointed out Andy.
"No, that could work," said Zhu thoughtfully, then grimaced. "Muggles already use a lot of medicine and healing that doesn't work; it doesn't seem to stop them."
"Homeopathy," nodded Torvik.
"Yeah, then when it works people will just say it's the placebo effect or something." Anthony was getting excited again.
"Misdirection." Blaise snapped his fingers. "We could use banishing charms on toxic waste, but also create a really bad reputation for our firm so people assume we've dumping it..." Zhu arched an eyebrow at him. "But we're not," he finished.
"That's a high value service." Sam chewed on the idea for a minute. "Wizards would jump at the chance to join, which might solve the bad apple problem at the same time. Enough money would keep misuse of magic incidents to a minimum. Especially if they understand the party ends if our cover's blown. And it's boring. That's a good thing, by the way. Sorry, Torvik."
"I'll allow it as long as we get to have a love potion company. Dibs on head of R&D," said Torvik, half in jest. Everyone laughed again.
Arnie Peasegood came in with some files. "Have you heard the news?" he asked, clearly excited.
"We're all ears. As long as it's good news," joked Blaise.
"Someone leaked to the Daily Prophet. They're announcing a new permanent head of the DMLE tomorrow. Molly Weasley!" Arnie looked around the table as though expecting applause.
Sam looked at Sally-Anne with the whites of his eyes. She flinched.
June 12th, 1998
Sally-Anne was still having trouble sleeping in their new flat. The noises were the issue, she decided; she wasn't used to them yet. That evening, long after her father had gone to bed, Sally-Anne tiptoed to the kitchen. She started to make a midnight sandwich, wrestling with new problems. She heard a crack and spun around, wand drawn.
Knabby folded his legs and sat down on the kitchen table. He looked at her with a challenging expression in his bright eyes.
"After much discussion, we believe we have determined a solution to your task," he said, without preamble.
Sally-Anne sank quietly into one of the chairs.
"Tell me," she said.
"We ignored the political problem; convincing our masters is beyond our power and deceits that result in freedom, such as clothes," Knabby made the word sound like a taboo, "would invite backlash.
"Our focus was on implementation," he continued. "And our general conclusions are three-fold. First, an incremental approach. One house elf at a time, with enough time in between emancipations for each house elf to acclimate to freedom. Second, work. Freedom won't change what you've bred us to do. Steady, meaningful employment must be guaranteed. Without work, without purpose, we'll destroy ourselves. Finally, community. Not just a fragile chain of mentors, but a village where we can live together and share our common problems and culture."
Knabby stared at Sally-Anne unblinkingly. "You implied you had the power to help us. We hear there will be a new head of your Ministry department. Perhaps one not so lenient or willing to overlook the power you have assumed."
"Let me worry about that." Sally-Anne swallowed. When had she started using such phrases? "The freedom of your people is too important to be stopped by political infighting." She smiled at the house elf. "Thank you for putting so much effort into a transition plan. And for trusting me to help you with it."
"You didn't notice what I didn't ask for." His tone was almost threatening. "Wands." Knabby watched Sally-Anne closely. "Why do you think the Trace was invented? Not for errant school children. Certainly you don't believe that convenient lie."
"I don't know," answered Sally-Anne. She was going to throttle Sam.
"The Trace was a weapon used to control us, from before we were house elves. There was a war, one you won't find in history books. We lost, despite our greater natural magic. Humans make use of what is useful. We were useful, if contrary." Knabby scowled. "So they bred the contrariness out of us, and neoteny in..." Sally-Anne didn't know what neoteny was, but didn't ask. There'd be time to look it up later.
"... just as Muggles bred proud wolves into obedient, floppy-eared dogs. But they left our magic. You will never convince a wizard to let us go if there is any chance we will acquire wands. So we do not ask for them.
"Knowing this, knowing the additional difficulties you will have in helping us, do you still wish to?" Knabby looked at her as though expecting betrayal.
"I do, " Sally-Anne said, and saw him relax, fractionally. "And I recently met someone who agrees with me; I think she can help."
June 12th, 1998
Arun sat at his old desk outside the tiny office that Sally-Anne and Sam had once shared. It was almost midnight and he had to meet Zhu before work to practice. They were learning how to resist the Imperius. But he knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep, and he found the deserted Ministry peaceful.
It was so easy to be a follower, Arun thought. He'd been doing it for as long as he could remember. Doing his best to survive and succeed. Doing his best to earn a better life. Top marks at Hogwarts. A Ministry job right out of school. And now a trusted lieutenant to Sally-Anne Perks, who was clearly headed towards the top. And she was taking real action, trying to help Muggles, modernizing the Ministry.
So why had his trust in Sally-Anne started to crack?
Arun closed his eyes, seeing again Arthur's head. The bullet had left only a small red dot on the man's forehead. But coming out the back…
Arun knew Sally-Anne hadn't seen it, through the scope, and by the time Arthur had fallen she'd already been replacing Zhu at the Three Broomsticks. Sally-Anne hadn't seen the blood. Hadn't heard Percy scream, as though the son had lost his mind right there at the sight of his father's brains.
And now Molly Weasley would be the head of their department.
Arun opened his eyes. The question sat there in front of him and he finally asked it. What were the odds, forgetting everything else, that what Sally-Anne wanted to do to Arthur, and what Sally-Anne was good at doing, and what was right, were all the same thing? That they aligned so perfectly?
That was the sort of narrative-serving coincidence you only found in fiction. The excuse and the means to be awesome. Simultaneously.
Awesome. He thought of Mark Regan's arm, laying peacefully on the floor.
Killing Arthur was supposed to have solved their problems. But now, with Molly, they had new ones. Were they going to kill her, too, to protect the progress they'd made? Or, if necessary, would Sally-Anne meekly stop working towards integration and stop trying to disperse power away from the Ministry? It was difficult to imagine.
Which side would he be on, if civil war broke out, again?
Sally-Anne had said acting based on consequences was immoral because predicting those consequences, and their second-order effects, was impossible. Molly's appointment was certainly evidence of that.
Sally-Anne had argued they had to act based on universal rules and duties, so that if everyone followed those rules — cooperated — everything would work out. But The Golden Rule was too subjective; it couldn't dictate actions consistently across situations and cultures. And there were no universally accepted objective rules. Sally-Anne had broken the best contender for that title, Thou Shalt Not Kill, at least twice. Would that make it easier for Sally-Anne to justify her next murder?
Arun didn't know the answer, but a creeping realization settled over him. The next time there was a war — if there was a next time — he wouldn't be able to blindly obey Sally-Anne. In the meantime, that meant he had to learn how to think for himself. Perhaps Zhu could help.
THE END
A/N: Any feedback, especially constructive criticism, would be greatly appreciated. Please tell me especially what bored or confused you. I hope to do better next time. :)