Posted: 11/22/2015

Beta: the artful scribbler

Scabior and the Ginger-Haired Thief

2nd June, 1998

The Greatest Wizard who ever lived despised not knowing things, and for the past two years He had known that He was missing a vital piece of information. Wonderfully, inexplicably, through very little effort of His own the situation was beginning to rectify itself. He'd had to do some work though. Once the most pertinent part of the puzzle had fallen into His mind, He had to track down the piece. There was still so much He did not understand. But He wouldn't stop until He knew everything.

It all began a few weeks ago. Scabior had come to Malfoy Manor to find Him, and he had brought Him a present. At first sight, it was the shabbiest gift anyone could ever imagine receiving.

On His arrival to the manor for his weekly meeting, someone told Him that Scabior claimed to possess information that might be of interest to Him. Inwardly He had scoffed. Scabior wasn't exactly known for his intelligence; however, The Greatest Wizard had to concede that the Chief Snatcher could be cunning. He had to be, really, for the work that he did. So, after the meeting He had gone to the parlour to see what Scabior thought he had to offer.

When He walked into the room two things drew His eye, Scabior, reclining in a plump wingback, his leg thrown over the armrest and, off to the side, the bound disheveled figure of a grimy, thick-waisted man that The Greatest Wizard had never seen before. Upon His entrance Scabior immediately arose, crossed the room to his Master, and bowed to Him. Then he waited to be addressed.

"Well, Scabior," He began, "what have you brought for me?"

"My Lord, this man says 'e 'as information tha' you want. All 'e asks in exchange is 'is life," Scabior said, his head still bent.

The Greatest Wizard was irritated. What could Scabior possibly mean by this sort of interruption? He should know better. In fact he did know better, and that was the only reason he wasn't on the ground writhing in pain. Stifling a sigh, He gestured Scabior back into his chair and, taking a seat in the chair next to it, He conjured up some wine. Slightly shocked by this honor Scabior poured the wine; first for his Master, then for himself. He took a sip, grunted his appreciation of its superior quality, and once again waited for Him to speak.

The Most Powerful Wizard was tired. No one understood how hard it was to be Him. He leaned back in His soft chair and drank some of His wine, running His mind through the meeting He had just presided over. A year after Dumbledore's death and His plans were finally beginning to unfold properly. Since He had regained His power it had been an uphill battle, but the way forward was looking smooth at last. Regardless, there was still so much to do, so many new ideas to explore, new paths to tread, and new laws to write and invoke for England and all of wizard-kind. It was a brave new world - and it was up to Him to design and create it all single-handedly. Some days this burden weighed heavily on Him.

The Muggle world was infiltrating everything. They were everywhere you looked, brazen and oblivious, crowding every scene with their cars and their sky-scrapers. They even polluted the skies with those ludicrous flying machines. Their stench invaded Him. Those filthy breeders were like cockroaches, feasting on refuse, hiding behind the walls of His mind and they made His skin crawl. Since He had come to power His every move had been a step closer toward crushing them. But again and again He had been thwarted by those traitorous wizards and witches who pitied and petted the mudbloods. His blood boiled when He considered it. However, He had decided that dwelling on the past was a fruitless endeavor, so He moved His mind forward. He had overcome every obstacle, as was inevitable, and the future was dawning bright and clear before Him.

He looked at the unconscious wizard on the floor. The boozy, sweaty smell of him was wafting toward The Greatest Wizard, as though calling His attention. So He turned to Scabior and said simply, "Tell me."

Scabior had been politely surveying his luxurious surroundings, trying to grant his Master some privacy until he was ready for the meat of it. Once asked, however, he began his explanations straight away.

"You asked me to ge' a crew up for overseein' some of your d'liveries, over Diagon Alley way. "

His Master nodded to indicate that He understood the reference. He had selected certain dark objects to be...reallocated to His personal collections. The items were to be tracked down from the shops in Knockturn Alley and, once collected, they were meant to be moved to previously specified locations. He was expecting the merchandise to arrive tomorrow.

Scabior continued. "Me and Puffer was takin' care of it las' night. We was jus' tyin' up loose ends like, makin' sure we 'ad the las' lot. We was in a shop that's been abandoned for a while, figured it was safe. So we locked the doors and 'eaded over to the Witches Teet Pub for some...libations. We just nipped in an' out for a quickie see, but when we got back we caught 'im," and he gestured to the crusty heap on the floor, "an some others goin' through your valuables. We disarmed 'em quick enough, told 'em they was tryin' to nick your personal property. And you know 'ow it is. They was babblin' and blubberin' 'bout 'ow's they didn' know and couldn' we spare 'em as they all got such big families to feed. The usual duff. " He rolled his eyes and scoffed. "But then this one 'ere," and using his black boot he gently toed the crumpled heap on the floor, "starts goin' on and on bout 'ow 'e knew Dumbledore and 'e kept insistin' 'e 'ad some information you'd be wantin' pretty bad. So I asks 'im and 'e said 'e knows 'oo Dumbledore was gettin' all that info'mation off of las' year." Scabior had practically mumbled this last bit while he lowered his eyes to the floor.

The Greatest Wizard studied Scabior's stiff posture. He was obviously scared, as he should be.

What he was speaking of was something that wasn't spoken of. Everybody knew, Him, His Death Eaters, members of the Order of the Phoenix, and even certain highly placed Ministry officials. But it was a mystery, something that had no name - rather like Himself; and it was subtle. So subtle that it had managed to elude even Him. Dumbledore had...something. A spy or a spell, some secret source of information that he had wielded, quite effectively, against The Greatest Wizard. But no matter how many people He tortured or force fed Veritaserum, no matter how many minds He had plundered, enlightenment had evaded Him.

It had started off slowly, especially that first year when the Ministry and the whole wider wizarding community were in denial about His return. It was His secret plans being unearthed and blocked. He had always operated with the utmost stealth. What choice did He have? People were unreliable imbeciles and couldn't be trusted. But He had to delegate; His goals would have been insurmountable otherwise. And whenever He did, whenever He had met with them, one-on-one, privately, in rooms enchanted with the strongest spells of protection, it was as though some unseen...thing had followed him.

He didn't see it that way to begin with, and who would? At first He had simply blamed the cretins who called themselves His 'servants', and He was doling out the Cruciatus Curse on them daily. But after a while it became obvious that nothing was really adding up. His traps were being ambushed, and His Death Eaters were being captured left and right. He Himself had almost been apprehended... twice!

His most complex plans were utterly overthrown; His unspoken spontaneous ones were not. He kidnapped key people, tortured them, but whether they were members of Dumbledore's Order or Ministry officials, they all told Him the same thing. Dumbledore. Dumbledore had known. But how did he know? Nobody could tell Him because nobody knew. Dumbledore was keeping a secret.

The Most Powerful Wizard was stymied. He was bloody enraged. He had felt so...powerless. He became unhinged by it for a while there, everyone could see it. Those were dark days. He had grown so paranoid. It was as though Dumbledore had fastened an unseen ghost to His side that was watching and listening to Him everywhere He went. It must have been some kind of magic He didn't know about, but He couldn't see how. There was no magic that He didn't know about. Certainly not something this powerful. He had searched the world over, more than once, gathering books, powerful objects, spells, and arcanna - everything that mattered in life.

The pinnacle of it had been His house. No one in the world knew that He had His own home. It wasn't grand, like the Malfoys and the Lestranges, but that wasn't what it was meant to be. It was just a little place that He had magically erected for Himself, out the in wilderness. It was located in one of the most isolated places in the whole country and He had put in place every piece of protection that He knew. It was a stronghold. A place for Him to eat and sleep and every other weak human thing that He detested to do, but had to anyway. He utterly loathed sleeping. It was so much like death to Him. He was unconscious, vulnerable, and...resting. The opposite of doing. How anybody could stand it was beyond Him.

One day, after another failed undertaking, He had decided to go home and gather His strength. He always approached the house from the south. He could have just flown in, but sometimes stretching His legs felt good. Suddenly He could feel it, a minute, whisper of a thing. A foreign spell. It's origins were untraceable but He knew it wasn't one of His own. Someone had been there while He was gone. He transformed his body into vapor and began circling the dome of enchantments, probing, prodding, discovering. He found more little detection spells. His only consolation, and it was also the most unnerving thing about it, was that, whoever it had been, they hadn't tried to penetrate any of the barriers. Had some nosy wizard just happened to stumble upon His house and decided to make a quick once-over? It hardly seemed likely. It had taken Him ages to settle down for rest that night; it was a violation unlike any other.

Now He turned to Scabior.

"Did he tell you?"

Scabior shook his head. "'E wouldn't say, my Lord. I tortured 'im a little. But 'e just kept sayin' 'ow I wouldn' believe 'im, and 'e wan'ed you and a truth potion. I wouldn' 'ave bothered you with it, my Lord, but if 'e do turn out to be makin' with the shiny lights, I'll be sure 'e gets it good."

"You did the right thing, Scabior," The Most Powerful Wizard offered.

He could practically see relief oozing out his pores. "'Is name's Mundungus Fletcher, Master, and 'e 'as been known in certain circles to be connected with the Order."

"Go ahead and get him up," The Greatest Wizard instructed, getting to His own feet.

Scabior followed suit, setting down his wine and standing up in front of the captive. He used his wand to untie him and then he cast a spell to wake him.

The grubby little man lay there blinking for a bit, getting his bearings, and then made to stand up. The Greatest Wizard performed a little charm to keep him bent at the knee.

"That's as far up you need to go," He chided.

"Yes, sir," he grumbled.

"Well, I understand there is something you would like to share with me."

The tubby thief rubbed a dirty hand over his face and looked up at the Dark Lord, his eyes widening a little in shock. Every one who looked at him the first time seemed surprised, as though the rumors about His face were unbelievable.

"I hear you were fingering my property," He said, wanting to toy with him a little.

"I didn' know, sir. We wouldn' never touched it, Your Lordship, if we'd a known it was your b'longings, I swears it."

"The penalty is death. Did you know that?"

By this time the grungy little pick-pocket was trembling and sweating. Disgusting.

"Please, sir, spare me, an' I can tells you somethin'," he importuned in a timorous voice.

The Greatest Wizard smiled. He loved it when people were foolish enough to rely on words. It was absolutely delightful the way scared people seemed to forget the existence of lying.

"If you do offer me something valuable I can certainly agree to spare your life, however, you'll have to convince me," The Most Powerful Wizard warned him.

"You-you wouldn' believe it."

"If I won't believe it then why are you here?" He inquired, his voice getting a bit higher as his patience wore thin.

"It's the truth." And, seeming to decide he had better just get on with it, he began, "It were abou' a year and half ago. It were righ' before Chris'mas and I was jus' released from Azkaban. Got caugh' in a bad job, see. "

~x~}{~x~

The Thief's Tale:

15 November, 1996

Dung was in London. He had been released from Azkaban a few days before and had gone to visit his cousin to see if he knew about any good jobs. They'd supped and talked and had a jolly good time. Afterwards, he hadn't wanted to go home. When he was alone he was haunted by the images of his time with the dementors, so instead, he headed toward a pub that he knew a few streets down.

It was a dark evening, cold and damp too. He noticed someone walking down the street in front of him. He would recognize the back of that man anywhere - he'd known Dumbledore for years. He almost called out to him, but for some reason he didn't. Instead he had followed him. He was a bit put out with Dumbledore, truth be told. Dung had thought that Dumbledore would try to help him get out of going to prison again, the way he had before. But he wasn't trying to spy on him, not really. He was just curious. Dumbledore was dressed like a Muggle.

After a bit Dumbledore turned in the gate at a narrow two-story house. Dung saw that the house had been sectioned off to create four seperate flats, two downstairs and two upstairs. Dumbledore headed for the left downstairs flat and, once at the door, he pulled out a key and let himself in. Dung couldn't have said why he was doing it, but it was all so...odd. The way Dumbledore was dressed and using a key, instead of magic, to unlock the door. So Dung decided to take a peek around the house, just to see what he could see. He pulled out his wand and cast a disillusionment charm over himself, then crept soft-footed toward the back of the house, keeping to the deep shadows created by a gently lit window.

Sure enough, Dumbledore was in there. He was with a little girl. Dung looked around and saw what looked like a bedroom. He could see the girl and Dumbledore sitting in two chairs, facing each other, talking. There was a little table beside Dumbledore and it was holding all sorts of bottles. Big ones, little ones, and they were different colors. As Dung watched Dumbledore took a bottle, poured some of its brown liquid into a glass and then handed it to the girl. She drank it and then Dumbledore made a note with a quill and parchment. He picked up a different bottle and poured something green into the same glass, handed it to her, watched her drink it and then wrote something down. It was a strange tableau.

Dung used his wand to open the window, just a sliver, and then snaked a clever little invention called an 'Extendable Ear' into the room so he could hear what they were saying.

"How are you getting along with Mrs. Carrington?" Dumbledore asked the girl as he handed her the glass again. This time it was pink.

She downed it one gulp and shrugged. "Alrigh'. She mos'ly leaves me 'lone."

They were quiet for a moment and then gesturing toward the table she asked, "This all ya got?"

"Yes. But I also have some new spells to try, if you don't mind."

She shrugged again.

"Did you manage to slip away last night?" Dumbledore asked.

She nodded.

The girl was dark-skinned, with short, frizzy, black hair, bushy eyebrows, puffy red lips, and thick spectacles. Dung thought that she looked about ten years old; maybe eleven.

"Well?" Dumbledore prompted.

She took another glassful from him, this time it was blue, drank it down and said, "'E wen' to Lestranges." She handed him back the glass before continuing. "They was all there. 'E talked to Dolohov 'bout 'ow 'e was plannin' to get the Wakefields up to scratch. Dolohov didn' seem to know. So 'e tortured 'im for a bit. Then 'e wanted to know who Runcorn found for the Scrimgeour job."

When she started speaking, Dung noticed she had shiny little squares of...was it metal?...across her teeth.

"And what did Runcorn say?" Dumbledore asked.

"Tha' 'e thought Yaxley'd be bes' for it."

"Yaxley," Dumbledore repeated. His head was bent down over his parchment and he was writing something for a bit.

Looking bored, the girl took a small metal box off the dresser beside her chair and pointed it to a corner of the room Dung couldn't see. Suddenly, loud fastly-paced music was filling the room.

"Do you mind, Jane? I'm trying to focus," Dumbledore said.

She pointed the little box again, the music went off, and she set it back down on the dresser. She crossed her arms and slumped down in her chair a little.

Finally, Dumbledore stopped writing, waved his wand over the table and all of the bottles disappeared.

Then he pointed his wand at the little girl, Jane.

"Is that all you saw?" Dumbledore asked. Dung couldn't have been more surprised as he watched Dumbledore wave his wand at her. A soft purple light shot out of the end of it and hit the girl right in her chest. He had no idea what spell it was, but it must have been harmless. She didn't bat a lash.

While Dumbledore continued to cast different colored spells at her, stopping now and then to take down more notes, the girl started talking again.

"I stayed ou' abou' two hours. They wen' over some o' the same stuff, really. 'E wan'ed to know 'oo they fought migh' be spillin' secrets to you an' the Ministry. Weren' no new ideas 'bout it. 'E says fer a while abou' a bill bein' passed by the Ministry for lettin' Muggle-borns get more jobs. Then 'e's sayin' abou' the Daily Prophet's new angle. 'Ow they's goin' round sayin' Muggles is good as gol'. 'E didn' like a story bout this Muggle man 'oo saved this little witch 'oo were drownin'."

He cast a spell that shot off a jet of dark blue light at her chest. She giggled.

Dumbledore smiled at her. "Did that one tickle?"

She nodded.

He bent over his parchment again. "What else?"

"Well, then 'e ask MacNair bout some bus'ness wif the giants."

Dumbledore stopped mid-spell, lowered his wand and looked at her hard. "What did he say?"

"'E says the Gurg 'greed to 'is terms."

Dumbledore didn't say anything for a moment. Then he nodded and bent over the parchment again.

"You ain' sprised," she stated.

"No, not surprised," he calmly agreed, "just disappointed."

"Yeah," she agreed.

"Any other items on Voldemort's agenda?"

"Uh...," she brought a thin finger to her chin for a moment, "'E brough' up Junior, again."

"Yes, I imagine he's getting quite desperate to get rid of me once and for all. Anything else, Jane?"

She shook her head.

"Are you positive?" he prodded.

She gave him a long hard look.

"Sorry, my dear."

They sat in silence for a bit while he cast more spells at her and made more notes on his paper. After a few minutes he rolled it up and magicked it away. Then he focused on her.

"How's school?"

She shrugged. "'S'okay. You?"

Dumbledore conjured up a tray with some tea and biscuits, then set down his wand. Jane immediately began to pour some tea for them.

"Hogwarts is quite well. Thank you for asking."

Dung was shivering with cold. He listened to them chatting about Jane's life and her little girl problems for a few more minutes and he decided he'd heard enough. He needed a drink, and he needed a think.

What in the name of Merlin's saggy left nut was that?

~x~}{~x~

"You expect me to believe this?" The Most Powerful Wizard asked the man on the floor. He hadn't detected any sense of falsehood while he spoke but it was the most preposterous story He had ever heard.

"Damn," he mumbled to himself, "Forgot to ask for the truth potion."

"Stand up," He commanded.

The little man got laboriously to his feet and The Dark Lord leaned over him and dived into his mind.