A short chapter, but I thought it deserved to be by itself.

Gus Rawlings had never been anything special. He'd never held the highest achievements in school, nor taken the top prizes on the sports fields. He just didn't stand out: neither in looks, brains or even basic human qualities. Even his heritage worked against him. He came from a pureblood family, but one that was lacking in both influence and money. Sorted into Slytherin, that meant Gus was always the poor kid at the rich children's table. They mocked his tattered robes and second-hand books, his lack of a good broom and the way his beady eyes made him look like an overgrown rat.

There was, however, one quality that Rawlings possessed in excess: he had a very keen nose that could always figure out where the wind was blowing. He knew which side to pick, who to follow and also when, like a rat fleeing a sinking ship, to break free.

Just like now.

Because Rawlings was very well aware of what happened to his colleagues at MCU as well as the reason behind their demise. And when Ronald Weasley, as subtle as a stampeding elephant in a china shop, came asking about those issues, Rawlings's nose twitched and told him that the winds were a-changing; that the hand that had fed him so well these past several years was about to go down in flames.

So one day after Weasley's inquiries, Gus Rawlings packed some bags, sent an owl to Ministry requesting leave to visit his ailing mother (his mother was dead), and took a portkey to France. His plans for the near future had been meticulously planned out and were rather simple: get a new identity and run away.

Thanks to the last few years at the Ministry, Gus was rich. It wasn't because of the job in the traditional sense of the word – a government employee's salary was nothing to boast of – but due to a rather profitable arrangement with a not-so-mysterious benefactor. It had begun several months before MCU was shut down in the shape of an owl carrying a simple letter. It offered heaps of galleons in exchange for cooperation.

The terms were simple: Gus would gather information, obstruct investigations, remove/misfile certain paperwork, and destroy evidence. In return, he was promised money and a position in the Auror Department, where he could use the full power of his new station for personal gain.

Gus didn't turn down the offer; it was lucrative, it would make him wealthy, and it would give him a chance to get back at all the people who had laughed at him in school. The same people who had sided with You-Know-Who and were now reaping the rewards of their ill-fated decision.

To be perfectly honest, Gus had once fleetingly considered joining the evil wizard himself, looking for an easy way to rise to the top of some hierarchy. The problem with that was that Gus never did have much of a propensity for violence. Violence required guts and taking risks; Rawlings had little of the first and no desire to participate in the second.

But this proposition seemed worth the risk; the biggest danger with paperwork, after all, was a paper cut. All he had to do was be careful. So he accepted, covering up suspicious muggle deaths until the funding for MCU was redirected and most of its workers received letters of termination. Then he floated around the Ministry for a bit until his application to the Auror Department was accepted. Rawlings knew he would have never been admitted based on pure merit, so someone powerful must have pressured the Head Auror to hire him. He didn't wonder too much of how high this conspiracy went; some things were dangerous to know. Rawlings reasoned that as long as he was useful and didn't pose a risk, he would be safe. It seemed he had been right.

Working at the Auror Department was like a dream come true. The stuck-up, parochial purebloods that had treated him like second-class were now supplicants at his feet. He could arrest them, take their property, frame them for all sorts of crimes… many pureblood families were pariahs now, and the public was only too happy to condemn them for any injustice, real or fabricated. This had become something of a social norm, and it reflected on the policies within the administration and the Department. No one looked too closely, for example, if there were inconsistencies in an arrest report, or if some "evidence" – opulent goods confiscated from wealthy estates – disappeared from lockup.

Many aurors – with the exception of a few idealists like Potter and Weasley – supported these actions, believing that families with You-Know-Who's supporters hadn't been punished enough by the new Ministry.

Some went even further. He knew of at least two more aurors that also received instructions by owl from the same source as he did. Together, they impeded certain investigations (like the one into the Granger's disappearance and the missing MCU personnel) and raided properties, depositing the proceeds of their criminal acts into overseas banks.

He didn't think the others knew that the source of these instructions and tips was a Death Eater, which Rawlings had figured out years ago, when he was still at MCU. He didn't care, as long as he didn't get caught.

The likelihood of which was increasing now that Potter and Weasley were looking into MCU and muggle deaths. His nose was telling him so, and Rawlings had grown to trust that part of his body. He didn't need to remain in this position any longer anyways – he had two bank accounts in Switzerland and two in the States. The money in them was more than enough to provide for a life of comfort until the end of his days.

He could live with that.

His portkey took him to the giant underground Parisian caverns. The crowds here were thick and foreign; the merchants in the commercial districts more than willing to sell illegal goods and a new identity… for the right price. Several hours later, the individual named Gus Rawlings ceased to exist, and a new man took his place. He bought a series of portkeys, a couple tickets to various destinations and some generic supplies.

He mixed in among the crowds of people and magical creatures, one more ingredient in a melting pot of cultures and nationalities. There wasn't anything particularly noticeable about him, nothing that stood out to grab your attention and make you say, "Hey! Look at that guy!"

This was the most average man, someone you see on the street and instantly forget. When he finished his business, he walked over to a little park, filled with crooked fungi and giant mushrooms, and rested on a bench until one of the portkeys in his pocket activated.

And just like that, he was gone.