London, Grimmauld Place
Smells of dust, parchment, spilled ink and stolen millions wafted through the musty air. When he breathed it all in, Percy's nose tingled and began to itch. He sneezed, promptly, and then rubbed his hands together. Being ambidextrous meant that both his limbs suffered, despite the numerous times he had switched quills from his left hand to his right and then back again. The cramping, along with a sting in his eyes and a persistent ache in his back, was a regular occurrence these days. You don't work dawn to dawn in a sitting position without any physical repercussions.
It was all worth it.
He was on his sixth quill by now; the others had been ground down to nothing. Carefully organized stacks of parchment rose around him like smokestacks in a factory. They belched the foul stench of corruption and misdeeds, and Percy was weeding out all the guilty parties one by one.
He didn't focus too much on where Hermione had obtained the Ministry's financial dealings. Or how. Certainly, there hadn't been any permission involved, which made possessing these papers highly illegal. Percy let his mind slide around that fact, however, focusing instead on future laurels. What he had already uncovered would rock the upper echelons of wizarding society and reshape the established power structures with him as a shining star that people would follow.
Oh, the scandals that were coming...
The Hogwarts Restoration Fund was the perfect example. One of several postbellum accounts, it had been formed to aid a country torn by war. Pensions and benefits were dispensed to families with dead or wounded, money was directed towards rebuilding efforts. Hogwarts was one of the priorities, and yet, after three and a half years, the project was still unfinished. The clincher was that not only had several rounds of fines on pureblood estates been contributed to it, but taxes on the citizenry had gone through several increases. The justification was that there was simply not enough money to cover all the expenses.
And Percy now knew why.
The money was being stolen.
It wasn't obvious. Following all the misspent Galleons would be a job for scores of forensic accountants, but Percy had grabbed the gist of what was transpiring.
Ministry officials claimed that all new money was directed towards the reconstruction fund. They had even offered proof. And that was true. The part they left out, however, was that, whenever any money was added, old revenue streams were redirected, leaving the net balance either unchanged or in the red.
So if the Ministry put 300,000 Galleons of taxpayer money in, they would quietly take 300,000 out. It was a scam of gigantic proportions. Percy had been focused on tracking that money's serpentine journey for the past several days.
So far, he had traced some of it to significant increases in many 'competitive compensation packages' the Ministry offered as well as 'an upgrade to the Ministry fleet of vehicles'. In general terms, higher salaries, perks, and an order of twenty brooms from the top-of-the-line V-1 series, which outperformed the Firebolt by a whopping 7.3%. He had also found receipts reimbursing several high ranking officials for a vacation in Aruba, where 15,000 Galleons alone was spent on booze and hookers. Roughly fifty-fifty.
On one parchment, Percy had written down a list of names. Several of them were circled in red. In time, the hammer of justice would descent on their unsuspecting heads, and it would be Percy that wielded it.
A part of him couldn't help but observe that all of this was due to a criminal lack of transparency. The Appropriations Committee that was charged with regulating expenditures by the government was closed; its minutes were not available to the public. In fact, only the members of the committee had any knowledge of how, why, and when money was spent. The regular people had no say in this, unless they were connected by personal or other means. Looking at the inequitable way money was distributed among the the various projects was a significant tell. An orphanage in North Ireland received a fraction of the money disbursed to an upscale rehabilitation center in Sussex, and there were many more examples.
Prior to the war, there had been a balance between those in charge. Now, due to death or incarceration in Azkaban, a number of notable pureblood representatives were absent, their empty seats filled by either incompetents, individuals with limited governance experience, or those who had quickly figured out how to abuse their new stations of authority.
Needless to say, the balance had shifted.
It the chaos of the war's aftermath, it wasn't even that unexpected.
When Percy would be put in charge of this committee (and he would be put in charge), he would make all its decisions open for public debate. This thought kept his mind fueled and body running. And so, he scribbled away, tabulating data and logging names. There was a whole stream of them, one leading to another. An undersecretary to the Minister was already involved, and Percy was confident this was just the tip of the iceberg.
An iceberg that would sink this corrupt barge of greedy civil servants.
Percy cracked his knuckles, stretched, and picked up a seventh quill. The door to his room opened and closed, but he paid it no heed.
He had a job to do.
. . . .
. . . .
Ron put the platter of sandwiches Ginny had made on a table and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. Percy was so engrossed in his work, he hadn't even noticed his brother's entrance. Ron hoped he was making progress; Merlin knew they some good news about now. He sighed, took a breath, and exhaled with a tinge of exhaustion. The last week had been difficult.
Ever since the attack in Diagon Alley, every auror had been put on high alert. They were all working double-shifts: investigating; following any and all leads; and interrogating individuals with even the most remote connection to Death Eaters – specifically, Corban Yaxley.
Forensics had tied the magic from the explosion to his familial line. Yaxley was one of the high-profile Death Eaters who had successfully escaped after the final battle and had evaded capture for years. There was speculation he had fled the country, but, as the attack showed, that was not the case. Ron and Harry were part of a team tasked with his apprehension. So far, they had little to show for their efforts.
It didn't help that the death toll had risen, as several of the wounded in the attack succumbed to their injuries. More lives lost to a war that was supposed to be over years ago. The public was in shock; an emotion that was experiencing a swift metamorphosis towards outrage. The Ministry and the Auror Department were on the verge of becoming an object of ridicule and public wrath. Their competence was already being put under question, and that was grating on the nerves of every single auror. Sooner or later, such pressure would lead to a mistake.
Ron turned around and slowly took the staircase down to his room at Grimmauld Place. He was planning on getting some rest before his next shift. He passed a mirror on his way and grimaced – he looked like hell. Just like everyone else, pretty much.
He stopped at the entrance of his room, reaching for a curved handle, which gave easily; the door swiveling quietly on well-oiled hinges. That was the trap.
He always forgot about it – the rickety floorboard right after the door. It stood out half-an-inch taller than its compatriots. Ron's foot snagged on it, and he tumbled over. His hands shot out, scraping over the floor, stopping his nose an inch away from the smirking wood.
"You bitch," Ron swore at the house. It was out to get him – he knew it. He slowly stood up, picking up a piece of paper that had fallen out of his pocket. Carefully unfolding it, he read its contents with a heavy sigh.
It held the names and addresses of missing MCU personnel. Even with all the additional work, Harry and Ron had continued their investigation, trying to find some clue as how the people had disappeared and who had done it. There were three names left on the list. Maybe, maybe, one of them would bring light to the dark.
Ron hoped he and Harry would have time to look into the matter tomorrow, but it was doubtful. Maybe the day after that.
Maybe…
He sighed again before going to sleep. His next shift was in four hours.
. . . .
. . . .
Somewhere in England
Corban Yaxley paced the length of the room – seven steps in one direction and seven in the other. As of this moment, it was number 5,673. His hands tugged on the edge of his sweater, fiddled with the ends of its sleeves, and then fell to his sides only to rise again with ceaseless anxiety.
Yaxley took a breath to calm himself. It was cold and crisp, a nip of air wafting in through an open window. The snows had been unexpected, heavy – a rare occurrence for this part of Britain. Yaxley continued his pacing.
He knew the symptoms – cabin fever. He'd been cooped up in this house for days, not daring to peek his nose out. The aurors were out in full force, raiding, patrolling; like a pack of hounds, they were sniffing around every corner, hoping to catch a whiff of his scent. The citizenry had been alerted – again – and, once the Ministry linked his magic to the explosion, his face had made the front page of the Daily Prophet for three days in a row. 'Wanted', the headlines had read, 'for crimes against humanity.'
It made Yaxley annoyed. Could it sound more pompous?
Yaxley sighed, bringing his mind back to the present, and pausing to gaze out the window. He had expected nothing less, after all. He knew the consequences of his actions, but, at least the main mission was secure, as any attention that had potentially been on Dolohov was now focused squarely on him. Without the Granger girl returning, Dolohov should remain safe.
Yaxley was confident in his own safety as well. Any chances the Aurors had of finding him were slim. There was simply nothing to lead them here.
His neighbor was on her porch, waving her wand to clear the snow. "Old hag," he sneered, but she didn't hear him. As far as she was concerned, this house was empty. Had been for years now, ever since its previous owner met his untimely fate at the end of Dolohov's wand. Although, to the world, the man who had lived here had abruptly cut off all ties and moved to India. It helped that he had no relatives, no next of kin, nobody to worry about him except for his co-workers, and those had met similar grim fates. The house was free to live in.
The old witch paused, rubbing a crick in her back. Looking at her, Yaxley thought he was running low on essentials – he'd need to raid the witch's pantry again. He'd been doing it since he first took up residence here, and, although she had noticed items and food disappearing, no one in the Auror Department had taken her complaints seriously. She had 'cried wolf' one too many times. Merlin bless these old, naggy hags that always managed to alienate the world.
He whirled away from the window, resuming his counting: 5,674; 5,675; 5,676. Maybe he'd go out… just for a little bit. Aurors couldn't patrol every street and park. Something hinted at him that he wouldn't have to wait long. Something significant had changed… he'd seen it in the whites of Dolohov's eyes at that cemetery. Something was coming.
5,677.
5,678.
And then, hopefully, when Dark Lord's compulsions fell, he could leave this cursed country with its cursed weather. Warm. He wanted to be warm.
Yaxley took another breath, and steeled himself for what would come. Now, it was just a matter of time.
. . . .
. . . .
England, outskirts of London
"–leaving weather forecasters baffled. The storms have surged across mainland Europe, impacting millions, and several governments have declared a state of emergency within their borders, deploying troops to assist the thousands who are stranded without any power and heat. The issues are exacerbated by interruptions of–"
. . . .
"–as temperatures plummeted overnight. However, despite the bleak situation many face, for these children behind me, the snow is an early Christmas dream come true."
"Thank you, Sally. That was Sally Ride, bringing us the latest on weather conditions within the London area. And now, to breaking news: fresh allegations of corruption on Downing Street. The Prime Minister has–"
. . . .
"–as murder rates continue to rise, reaching unprecedented heights. Our guests tonight: Barry Lyar, a senior fellow at the Brookings Institute–"
. . . .
The noises were grating, rubbing the meat of his eardrums raw. Dolohov coughed, tasting bile and copper under his tongue. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling. After the bout of coughing subsided, he spit, feeling some of the wetness dribble down his chin, and took a breath. Deep and raspy, it was almost a choke. The air tasted stale and wrong.
Everything tasted wrong when he was awake.
He opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was, and the gloomy light from a single lightbulb wasn't nearly enough for any level of adequate illumination. Echoing from the depths of a corridor, a Muggle TV could be heard, the channels changing every minute or so. Mostly, it was just news.
Dolohov slowly rose. He couldn't remember a single thing since…yesterday morning.
They were a common occurrence now, these blackouts. They happened at irregular intervals, sometimes several in a day, sometimes none in a week. He'd wake up in some place, unaware of how he came to be there, or what he had done.
It was maddening. The Other paced in his head, hungry and…happy?
Absentmindedly, Dolohov wiped his hands on the front of his pants. They were slick, moist; glancing down, he saw red. Blood. There was a lot of blood in this room. Bits of bone too, if he was correct. The sight didn't trouble him; he'd seen rooms just like it. It wasn't his blood, and that's what mattered. Just some Muggle's. And was there any real difference between a Muggle and a, say, cow?
Of course there was. Cows gave milk, meat. They had their uses. Muggles were just foul, dirtying the world around them with their ceaseless expansion. It was amazing they hadn't drowned in their own filth yet; then again, shit always tended to float.
The television in the other room changed channels again, something about a missing family. Dolohov grinned. Yaxley was a fool if he thought he could 'lay low'. Even if Antonin wanted to, he couldn't stop infecting and killing muggles. It was in his mind, his soul. The Other demanded it, and Dolohov wasn't one to argue. He enjoyed the process – the screams, the begging, the blood. It made his heart sing. He'd infected scores more since his meeting with Yaxley in the cemetery. Filth should kill filth, he thought. It was only proper.
Dolohov walked along the corridor towards the room with the TV. There was a Muggle sitting there, his fingers pressing into a remote, changing the channels. The Muggle didn't respond at his entrance, didn't move in any other way in fact. Dolohov sensed the Imperius – his Imperius. He didn't remember casting it.
That was the true worry – the blackouts, the way his mind was going. He was afraid that, one day, he wouldn't wake up at all – that his mind would become wiped and The Other would have free reign. Dolohov didn't want to die like that. He didn't want to die at all.
The Other chuckled. It had been more active these past weeks, as if stimulated by an unknown outside force. It was stronger, bigger, more expressive. He could feel an echo of its feelings: something The Other was immensely pleased with, an object that would finally make it whole.
"It is almost grown now." The words were slimy, slithering like slugs through the caverns of his mind. "It will come…"
Dolohov stared at the muggle, but his vision was preoccupied with more appetizing visions. His muscles went rigid. The Key…? It was his chance to survive, to finally be rid of The Other.
"When?"
The Other chuckled again, a sound reminiscent of chalk scraping over blackboard. Dolohov cringed.
"Soon," he heard. "Soon…"
Slowly, Dolohov relaxed, and an ugly, inhuman grin twisted over his features. His journey was coming to an end. A laugh bubbled up from his belly, but one would be taxed in locating even a scintilla of mirth in its haunting sounds. Dolohov closed in on the helpless muggle. It was a present to him from The Other.
And, oh, would he have his fun.
My beta, Frogster, is responsible for so many edits. A huge thank you to her, and, if you enjoy marriage law fics, she's working on one now. Go check it out, it's called 'let it be me'.