Chapter Fifteen
Wednesday July 5th 2000
Consciousness returned to her in a tide of water and pain. She was floating, at least, she thought she was floating, half submerged in the cold water and half on the floating pile of flotsam.
The floating pile of flotsam that had saved her life.
Hers, and only hers.
The world was unclear.
It was a haze of suffering and confusion. A haze of wind and water.
It was all just a haze.
Angelica! Matt!
Their faces returned to her in a crashing tidal wave of fear. It gripped her heart and twisted it in ways that she couldn't even begin to fathom in her confused state.
She jolted herself upwards, as much as she could, feeling her legs buffeted by the gentle current of the Thames.
She looked around desperately. Looking for a car that she knew was no longer on the surface. Looking for a car that had been submerged. Looking for a hope that was long gone.
The obscured memory of the boot of her car being claimed by the river swum into her mind.
It was a memory that brought on a fresh wave of pain. Pain that dwarfed anything she felt in her shoulder. Her back. Her hips.
Everything hurt. Everything.
She had vague memories of being tossed from the car and skimming along the water. She had vague memories of the car. Of clutching to the flotsam
Of the darkness taking her.
"Easy there, Lass." Came a voice from next to her.
She twisted her head around slowly to see the mop of brown hair of a man who swum up next to her. He was clutching an orange flotation ring in his hand.
"No need to go flopping around as you like there. I've got you. Let's get you back on dry land." He said, his accented voice breaking her revere.
"Angelica." Her voice coming out as a pained rasp. "Matt."
The man reached out as he reached the flotsam and grabbed a hold of it.
"I saw." He said, his voice a mix of sadness and anger. "I'm afraid they're gone lass. Your car went under. There's no helping them now. It's been too long. I'm sorry."
His voice only reinforced the truth. The truth she found almost impossible to accept.
"They can't be." Said weakly. "They can't."
The man only reached out and took a hold of her shoulder.
"I know, lass. I know. The dive team will be around soon. They'll be the ones to go down there."
She shook her head. "No." She mumbled. It was weak, but defiant.
The man just shook his head sadly.
"Come on now lass, let's get you on the kisbee. Let's get you on dry land and get a paramedic to have a look at you."
He started peeling her off the flotsam, and gently placed the lifebuoy around her, so that she was lying back. She could only see the grey skies. The grey skies and the miserable falling rain that had mercifully slackened off somewhat.
It was about the only merciful part of the day.
Several helicopters flew around. A couple were news media, and two were Police helicopters. They had search lights beaming through the gloom and into the water, undoubtedly looking for survivors.
What brought her attention in the sky, however, was a floating green beacon of light. It had formed the shape of a skull. A skull with a snake billowing out of its mouth like a long and deadly tongue.
It floated above the destroyed bridge. The destroyed bridge that still echoed with screams and sirens.
The floating skull seemed to be like a signature. A mark. A sign.
It appeared to be taking credit.
"We did this." It seemed to say.
She would not soon forget that skull.
She felt a pull on the lifebuoy as the man started to swim back towards the shore. He was using one hand to hold himself partially on the bouy and was kicking with his feet and swimming with his other.
"Are you hurt, lass?" He asked. She could tell he was trying to keep her talking. Trying to keep her lucid and conscious. Trying to keep her from slipping back into the darkness.
"My leg. My shoulders, hips and back."
"That was quite the tumble you took. Saw it from the shore I did. And I thought to myself, that's a survivor that is, so I grabbed this here kisbee and came looking for you. Glad I did. Might be that I found you in time."
She couldn't bring herself to speak. She had been found. She had. But not her husband. Not her daughter.
She wanted to blame the man. Blame him for not being quick enough to get to her car and save those who meant the most to her. But she couldn't. She couldn't bring herself to do it.
"I'm Mick, by the way." He said, continuing to talk idly to keep her with it. "What'll they call you?"
"I'm Jane." She said with some effort.
"Glad you're still with us Jane. Glad you made it out of there. A feckin' disaster is what it is. Saw the bursts of light from over here. Came running. Good thing we did too. There's people all over the place. There's other bobbies all over the bridge, figured we'd help out down here in the water until Water Squad can arrive."
For what it was worth, she appreciated him talking to her. It helped to stave off the other thoughts that wanted to desperately to invade her mind.
She could get lost in the sing song cadence of his voice. She could get lose in the nothingness of his small talk.
Angelica. Matt. Gone.
"Are you a bobby, Mick." She asked. Desperate to keep her mind away from the dark thoughts that continued to invade. "You talk like one."
"I am indeed Lass." He said, continuing his strokes through the water. "I'm a Sergeant. Came over from the Ulsters a long time ago now. Catholic and all that."
She nodded, knowing he couldn't see it.
"Do you have a family, Mick."
"Aye." He said gently. "A wife and a lad. It's my dearest hope that they aren't caught up in this mess."
There was something. Something about his tone. Something about the way he said that that was more than slightly concerned. Something that told her that he knew a little bit about this. Something that told her he had some serious suspicions about something.
But she couldn't put her finger on it.
"What about yourself, Jane." He said conversationally, steering the topic away from his own family. "What do you do for work?"
He hadn't asked the obvious. She was grateful for his tact.
"I work for the government." She said, hesitantly. "I'm a civil servant."
"Aye." He said as he continued to swim. "Nearly there now lass. We'll have you on dry land in no time. Looks like the ambulance is already waiting for you."
She nodded again. Grateful. She didn't know for how long she would be grateful. She didn't even know if she would have preferred if he let her die in the water. She just knew that she should be grateful.
"Thank you." She said, softly.
"No need, Lass." He said. "It's my duty afterall. Like I said to you, I saw you clinging to the flotsam and came for you. I just hope we can pull more from the water."
She didn't reply.
"Terribly sorry Lass. I didn't think about that. What a horrible thing to have said."
She didn't reply. She instead chose to lay there in silence and focus on the gentle sounds of his strokes through the water. Using it as best she could to block out the sounds of screaming and sirens coming from the bridge.
Angelica.
Matt.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
Thursday September 10th, 2012
"Seamus." Ron said by way of greeting, determined to approach his old Gryffindor alums in his more natural way, and avoid the unpleasantness that had occurred with his brothers. "Look at you mate. It's been a bit!"
Seamus looked up at him and gave him a broad grin. "Hello Ron!" He said, walking around the workbench to greet his old mate. They embraced and thundered on each other's backs.
They parted and Seamus turned towards Malfoy and gave him a nod, extending his hand. "Malfoy." He said formally, bordering on politely.
Draco took the hand and shook it, giving him a polite nod. "Finnigan."
"Dean, Ron's come to see us." He called out through a door. "With Draco Malfoy, of all people!"
Ron saw as Dean Thomas stuck his head around and nodded at Ron and Draco. "Be right with you, you blokes. Give me a moment."
"Look at you mate." Ron said, turning back towards Seamus who had walked around to sit back down on his bench. "You don't even limp anymore."
Seamus beamed again and thrust out his right leg. He magically rolled up the legs of his jeans and showed the metal leg that covered him, thigh to foot.
"Aye." He said proudly, looking down at his leg. "Newest muggle leg prosthetic, infused with a few charms of our own of course. Only had it put in a few weeks ago. It's so good and so well connected, I sometimes forget I lost a leg in that fecking war."
Ron bent down and had look. He even saw Draco leaning over his shoulder to see. It was all sleek black metal and polymer, with the tell-tale lighting of infused charms and enchantments.
Ron knew that they didn't have to glow, but it was part of the aesthetic. Dean and Seamus did love putting on a show in a lot of their work. It sold.
"Looks fantastic, mate." Ron said, looking back up at Seamus, who rolled his pants leg back down.
"What are you working on there?" Said Draco, contributing to the conversation at last.
Ron sat down and looked at the broom that sat across the work bench.
Seamus picked it up and spun it around in his hands. But it was Dean who answered, walking into the work room, and cleaning his hands.
"New Cleansweep model, 'The Cleansweep Lux'." He said, walking over and giving Ron a hug, and Draco a cordial handshake. "Trying to get a wireless installed into the stem, so you can listen to all your Celestina Warbeck tunes while you fly around."
Ron nodded, impressed. "Yeah, right?"
Dean just shrugged. "What the client wants…"
He sat down next to Seamus, as Ron and Draco took a seat across from them.
Ron looked around at the messy work room and saw that it was full of tools, some wizarding, some muggle, not to mention all the different muggle items that were in various states of disassembly.
It was the kind of room that his father would live in, if he didn't have to work. More organised than his shed back home. However, Ron, in his limited experience observed that the muggle items seemed more complicated and dare he say, useful, then the ones in the shed at the Burrow.
Ron had been here before, several times. For all their talk of not having caught up in a while, it had realistically only been a few months. They just hadn't been able to catch up to take in a Quidditch game lately, with work being so busy with all of them.
And Ron would hardly call the memorial day a catch up.
Ron saw that the two men had placed a few family photos around the work room, to give it a homely feel. This was new. Ron saw several photos of Dean Thomas and his parents. Dean Thomas and his wife, Susan Thomas.
Seamus and Lavender Finnigan, nee Brown. He smiled as he remembered their wedding, just last year.
But it was a different photo of Seamus that caught his eye.
Seamus was standing in between his mother and his father. They both had an arm wrapped around him and were smiling broadly at the camera. It was a muggle photo, it didn't move. Ron knew that Seamus had a preference for photos that captured a moment.
"You just don't get that with moving photographs." Seamus had said to Ron when he had asked.
He always attributed it to his Muggle half.
He also felt a pang of sadness when he looked at Seamus's father.
It had clearly been taken during the first half of their time at Hogwarts.
"Can I just say." Ron said, nodding at the photograph. "That's a fantastic photo of Patty, you and Saoirse. I didn't see that at the funeral."
Seamus turned and glanced at the photo. He turned back to Ron and gave him a sad nod.
"Padraig." Said Seamus. "Please, mate.'
Ron's eyebrows shot up. "Sorry mate? Por-rick?" Ron drew out the sounds.
Seamus nodded. "He's passed on now Ron. I prefer to refer to him by his actual given name now. Not the name he took on when he moved to England."
Ron held his hands up. "Sorry mate. I had no idea. Of course."
Seamus just smiled back at Ron. "Nothing to it mate. No harm done."
Ron nodded, before continuing.
"How is your Mam? By the way, Seamus?"
"She's well, mate. Still working. I'd imagine Malfoy would be the one to ask."
Ron nodded then turned to Draco.
"How's Seamus's Mam?" He asked with a grin.
Draco just nodded. "She's well, from what I see of her at the office. I don't think she'll ever retire. She works so hard that she would give Hermione a run for her money." Draco said, in a rare moment of giving away information freely. "Though I would imagine that they both have similar reasons for working as hard as they do."
Since when was Draco Malfoy an expert on emotions.
Seamus nodded. "Well since my Da passed. She keeps busy. 'Idle hands are the devil's plaything' she used to say. But I think she stole that from Da. Being an Unspeakable will certainly keep her hands busy."
Draco nodded. "That it will. I've certainly never seen her idle."
Seamus nodded at Draco. It was almost appreciative. Ron was a bit surprised. Seldom was Draco as sentimental, unless he was dealing with Ron's own sister.
Not that that said very much.
"So, what brings you here?" Dean said, half conversationally, half suspiciously. Obviously trying to turn the subject away from the dearly departed. "I don't think you brought Malfoy to hang out his fiancé's ex-boyfriend for a laugh."
Ron's own smile faded.
"You aren't wrong, Thomas." Draco sat back in his chair crossed his leg over the other. Surveying the three Gryffindors careful.
Ron sighed.
"Yeah, look fellas. Bit of business I'm afraid."
Seamus and Thomas looked at each other.
"Is this about the Prophet article?" Dean asked. "The tension with the muggles?"
Ron nodded.
"I'm afraid so."
Seamus shook his head. "What's it got to do with us?"
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
Wednesday July 5th 2000
It took three of them, but they managed to pull her from the water and place her on the ground.
They did their absolute best to be as gentle as possible. They tried to prevent further soft tissue damage, but it was difficult work.
Jane was proud of herself that she didn't scream. Just a few grunts and a groan as parts of her were stretched during the retrieval. Parts of her that she would prefer were not stretched in their current state.
She figured if she started screaming, she was unlikely to stop.
So, she bit her lip as best she could and let the waves of pain wash over her. It made her realise that she was still alive to feel that pain.
She was alive.
Just her.
Several paramedics came to treat her. They checked out her leg, her back and her hips.
It was all she could do just to let the waves of sobs and tears come to her unbidden as she lay on her back.
"Let's get her to hospital." Said one of the paramedics as they placed her on a stretcher.
She hated when people spoke about her as if she was not there. As if she wasn't present. As if she couldn't feel every bit of pain from what had happened. As if she couldn't feel every bit of pain inside from what had happened.
She saw a bald man in a dark, immaculate suit approach and say something into the ear of the paramedic. The paramedic looked at the suited man, who just gave the paramedic a nod.
The paramedic shrugged and looked down at something the man was holding. He then looked up at the suited man and nodded.
She made eye contact with the suited man, who just nodded at her and turned on his heel and walked away.
The paramedics approached the rear of the ambulance and began to load her. As they did, Mick approached.
He had placed his Police coat back over his shoulders but was still a sodden mess from the water.
She could see that he was middle aged, probably in his early forties. He was a handsome man, despite his hard features and wrinkled worry lines.
He was solid and strong. Built like a man who had fought his whole life.
But then, she realised. He probably had.
She was vaguely aware of the sounds of raised and heated voiced in the background. She wondered if the suited man was involved. He seemed like the type.
"You'll be alright, Jane." He said, taking her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "The world hasn't ended yet. It just feels that way. The sun will rise again in the morning, I promise you that."
She couldn't speak for a moment, a gigantic lump seemed to fill her throat.
"I promise you. It will get better." He said to her again.
She saw him glance over, obviously towards the sounds of a commotion.
"Mick." She gasped, regathering his attention.
"Yes, Jane?" He said, his dark eyes turning back upon her.
Once again, her voice failed her. The thoughts of Angelica and Matt at the bottom of the Thames filled her mind.
A strong knot formed in her throat and she couldn't speak. She was completely at a loss for words.
He seemed to understand.
She felt the tears rush to her eyes.
He knelt down beside her.
"Hey there, lass." He said soothingly. "There will be plenty of time to grieve. Plenty of time to mourn. Let's just focus on you getting better first, eh? Let's worry about that. I, for one, am glad we still have you here among the living. I'm sure I'm not alone in the sentiment."
She nodded at him.
"You're young, lass. You've still got plenty in front of you, plenty. And you're a battler, I can see that. I can see how much spirit you have in you. This won't break you. It will hurt. God knows, it will hurt worse than anything in the world. But it won't break you. You're a fighter. And the world needs you to fight."
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
Thursday September 10th, 2012
"Everything I'm about to tell you is strictly between us, lads. Yeah? Secrets on secrets. Stays with us. Auror business." Ron said, conversationally. Trying to keep it tactful. The last thing he needed was another episode like he had had upstairs.
Both men nodded back at him.
"I've got it on good authority that the muggles have managed to enchant their technology so that it works despite the presence of magic."
The men shrugged.
"And by technology, I'm talking about weapons, radios, equipment. Think their army. Think all the stuff that we don't particularly want to work around wizards. The stuff that can hurt and kill us."
Dean and Seamus's eyebrows raised.
"So naturally you suspect us?" Dean said, his voice firm, his jaw set, his eyebrows raised. "Naturally, because we have patents and business in that field, it must be us. Because my mum and stepdad were muggles, and Seamus's Dad was a muggle, it must be us!"
Dean's voice had become hot.
But Seamus reached out and patted him on the shoulder. "Hold on, Dean." He said, placating his mate. "Let the man speak."
Ron nodded thankfully at Seamus. Draco just continued to look almost bored as he observed the scene.
"No one is accusing anyone of anything, Dean." He said, with a placating shake of his head. "I'm just following up on a lead. You two would be the closest things to experts on muggle enchantment in London, wouldn't you?"
Dean nodded reluctantly. Seamus nodded and shrugged.
"So, I was actually hoping you might be able to provide some input. Do you know anyone else who does what you do? Anyone who might have reason to make weapons of war for the muggles?"
Dean and Seamus looked at each other. Seamus let out a long breath.
"The MacBeth clan up in Edinburgh?" Seamus said questioningly to Dean.
"Can't be. Purebloods all of them. They hate muggles. Shakespeare writing out your clan's darkest secrets and putting it all over the world will do that to you. The only thing they enchant that has any bearing is armour and swords. Unless the muggles are charging in with a kilt and a claymore, their gear would be useless."
Ron had vague memories of Shakespeare. It was not familiar to him except that Hermione may have mentioned the name once or twice.
Seamus nodded. "Not wrong."
"The Riordens out of Dublin?" Dean said, just as questioningly.
"The Riordens of Dublin help the British government?" Seamus started laughing. "You're kidding yourself."
Dean looked unconvinced. "They did make bombs and the like for the IRA!"
Ron didn't know who the IRA were. But he was happy to watch the exchange. To examine it. Especially with Draco next to him.
Draco was making a show of looking bored, but Ron could tell how carefully he was examining the exchange.
"And remember how close they came to losing everything? The Druidi A Bhailiu came down on them together with the Garda Siochana. You know you've fecked up when Magical and Muggle governments crack down on you together. They have never been able to recover from that. No way they are making weapons."
They both looked thoughtful for a moment.
"Probably an independent." Dean said finally.
Seamus nodded next to him. "Likely, yeah."
Ron nodded. "Know anyone?"
"Who would make weapons?" Seamus looked thoughtful. "There's likely plenty of motivated people."
Ron looked at him thoughtfully. "Why do you say that?"
Seamus shrugged. "Isn't there always?"
Dean turned to him and nodded. "Always."
Seamus continued. "How many people did Voldemort and his Death Eaters kill? What about when they brought down the bridge." There was a hitch in his voice there. He didn't need Draco to know that was a sensitive issue. "Get a muggle born who has been trampled on by a pureblood." Seamus's eyes darted between the pair. "And offer them the right incentive. You might have yourself the person."
Dean nodded as if he agreed. "As long as they knew what they were doing."
"Goes without saying." Said Seamus. "Enchanting items is complex. Enchanting electrical items is even more so. Working with weapons is on the next level."
Ron nodded.
He didn't miss it.
Draco definitely didn't miss it. The slip of the tongue. The little moment.
"Is it?" Ron asked, curiously.
"Well yeah." Seamus said absently. "You'd really want to know what you're doing there. Highly complicated and volatile things. The wrong enchantment on a bomb or ammunition and it goes off. And if it does, you're all kind of fecked. Trust me, when it comes to weaponry, the Muggles have us well beat. That's not even begging to mention the rest of the gear like the radios. Look at the dramas the Lux is causing us."
No one spoke. No one.
Seamus continued to look thoughtful.
Dean stared at him.
Ron stared at him.
Draco glanced at him.
Seamus seemed to blink himself out it.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
Wednesday July 5th 2000
"Mick who? So, I can send a thank you."
He looked at her for a long minute, then chuckled briefly.
"It's not actually Mick. My name is Sergeant Patrick Finnigan. Everyone calls me 'Mick' because when I first joined the Met, my first ever Sergeant heard my name and flat refused to call me 'Paddy' like everyone else. He said I must have been the most 'Mick', 'Mick' he'd ever seen, heard, or met. The name stuck."
He gave her hand another squeeze.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, Jane. You need to get to hospital, and I need to go see what this ruckus is about."
He turned and walked towards the other two Policemen who had helped him remove her from the water. They were dealing with a highly irate person.
Homeless. Or drug affected. Clearly by the man's dress.
It was outlandish. Like he was deliberately subverting modern fashion trends but doing it in a way that showed a hint of it not being deliberate. He was arguing with the bobbies who were telling him to go away.
A paramedic busied himself with some final checks on her as she watched Mick approach.
"What's the craic?" Mick asked, his voice loud and booming.
"See Sarge," One of the bobbies turned towards Mick. They were close enough that she could hear. "This boyo insists that he needs to speak with the lady from the water right, I told him he needs to jog on. Some form of nutter right. But he won't go away."
Mick nodded.
"You listen here, Laddy." Mick said, towering over the strangely dressed man. "That lady has been through quite enough without you making a menace of yourself. Leave. It's time to go. You're interfering where you're not wanted."
The strangely dressed man began arguing with the Sergeant. "I need to see her! I need to get to her." He started yelling.
The Sergeant stood firm.
"Off with you, lad. Or it will be the Watch house with you. You're obstructing Police. That's a charge, that is." Said the big Irish Sergeant. His voice was serious. His tone was offering no alternative.
His Policeman's voice.
"Get out of the way you stupid muggle!" the man called and tried to push past the bobbies who were standing by.
They did not allow this. A struggle broke out. She could only watch on as the three Police officers tackled the man to the ground. They piled on top of him.
"Stop resisting pal!" Called one of them.
"Leave it out, mate!" Cried another.
"Just stop it!" Roared Mick.
They attempted to take the man onto his back, but he continued to scream at them. He called them 'muggles' over and over.
He's crazy.
Somehow in the melee she could make out that his hand was outstretched to the side. One of the Policeman was trying to control it, as he tried to thrash it around.
In that moment, her heart froze.
He was clutching a stick.
The exact same type of stick she had seen on the bridge.
They're here for me.
The realisation broke over her like a cold wave.
She tried to cry out. She managed a garbled yell.
But the Policeman couldn't hear her.
"Drop the baton!" cried one of them.
"Let it go!" cried another.
"Drop the fecking wand!" yelled Mick.
"Obliviate!" screamed the strangely dressed man in apparent desperation.
Jane turned her head at the last moment, but still caught a massive flash of green light that burst through her closed eyelids.
As soon as it faded, she turned back to the ruckus.
The three Policemen paused for just a second. They seemed frozen in place. All three were on their knees. She could see that one of them who was facing towards her was kneeling with his eyes seemingly glazed over. He looked like he was completely lost in thought. Like he was daydreaming.
It was enough time for the strangely dressed man to scramble to his feet.
The man started to brush himself off and walked towards her, the stick still in his hand.
The cold fear and panic built up inside of her. Was he going to finish her off? Was this it? Was it her fault that the bridge had been attacked?
This is all my fault. This new department. They know. They are hunting me.
The strangely dressed man was crash tackled by a recovered Mick.
He delivered a hit so ferocious, that the stickman's head was jolted horribly to the side. He crashed into the ground in a crumpled heap, with Mick on top of him, wrestling his hands behind his back.
The other two bobbies with him also recovered and started wrestling the again screaming man into handcuffs.
The last thing she saw before the paramedics hurriedly pushed her into the ambulance was the stick rolling out of the grasp of the strangely dressed man, as Mick fought him into cuffs.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
Thursday September 10th, 2012
"What? What's everyone looking at me for."
"Seamus." Ron said gently. "Can you place your wand on the table please."
Seamus looked at Ron with scrutiny. "What? Why."
Ron continued with his placating tone. "I'd really appreciate it if you could please place your wand on the table."
Seamus looked at Dean. Dean's eyes were a mix of fire, horror, and confusion.
And sympathy. There was sympathy there.
Seamus gingerly pulled his wand out and placed it on the table.
Ron did the same.
He then looked at Draco, who with great reluctance pulled his out and placed it on the table.
They both looked at Dean.
Who threw his on the table in a huff.
Dean folded his arms and looked away. Seamus looked at him.
"What?"
"Fuck you." Dean said.
"What?" Seamus said. "What's up your arse?"
"You fucking made weapons for Muggles?"
"No, I didn't!" Seamus said hotly. But his eyes darted around at the other men who were seated at the bench. "No, I didn't." He repeated. Less hot.
"Well, I don't fucking remember any contracts coming through to make weapons and gear for muggle weapons. I've never worked on any muggle weapons or equipment. I've worked with you for damn near a decade and we've never ever dealt with anything like that. But you seem to know exactly how to do it."
Seamus sighed. The realisation of what he had said dawned upon him.
"Ah."
He glanced down at his wand.
"Please don't." Ron said. There was evident strain in his voice. It hadn't meant to go this way. "Don't Seamus. You're my mate. Let's not make this uglier than it needs to be."
Seamus's eyes raised up to look at Ron. Ron was sure that Seamus could see the pleading in his eyes. He didn't want to fight another mate this week.
I don't want to fight another mate this week.
What is going on in the world, that I have to think that?
"Just tell me why. We need to figure this out. Get to the bottom of it."
Ron's voice was defeated. This was not good. Not good at all.
Seamus's eyes glanced with fire. The anger built up there. The fury.
"Why? Now you wanna know why? Now you care?"
Ron was affronted.
Dean looked like he had been slapped in the face. Then his face fell. Ron saw Dean close his eyes as the realisation set in.
"Padraig?" Dean asked softly.
Seamus stood suddenly and Ron's hand darted to the bench.
"Relax, Weasley." Seamus spat. He went and picked up the photo of his family and slid it across the table to Ron.
"Tell me, Weasley, if you will. What is my father wearing in that photo?"
Ron glanced at it.
"He's a muggle Policeman."
"He was. He was a Policeman. A Sergeant." He spat it at Ron. "Same equivalent as you. In the muggle world."
Ron nodded. He could see the three chevrons on the shoulder plate. Aurors, unlike most Wizards, weren't entirely ignorant to the muggle system of law enforcement. They were taught about their muggle counterparts during their training.
There were times when they had to work alongside, or even imitate their counterparts.
The anger was positively boiling inside Seamus as he looked at Ron. "I don't expect you to know anything about muggles, Weasley. So, I'll fill you in a little from the perspective of those who grew up with it. Not that you purebloods ever gave a flying feck."
Seamus looked across at Draco in disgust. Draco did not react.
"My Da, joined the Royal Ulster Constabulary straight out of school. A Policeman in Northern Ireland he was. A Catholic Policeman. For four years. That's like being a muggle-born under Umbridge. You aren't liked. You're hated. You're a menace. You've no right to be there. You're lower than vermin. And most people wish you were dead."
Ron nodded. He didn't know a great deal about the troubles in Ireland. It hadn't really been of concern to wizards.
He just knew bits and pieces, again through Hermione.
"Twice, he and another Catholic Policeman were sent to serious and violent crimes where they were attacked, and no Protestant Copper would help them. None. So, imagine for me, if you will, Weasley, that you went to fight a Death Eater, and when you were losing, none of your mates would back you up because of your blood. Sound familiar?"
Seamus's tone was fire and brimstone. He was angry. He was so so angry.
Ron knew better than to interrupt.
"Finally. His so-called mates bombed his Police car when he was working with another Catholic. And that was it. He had enough. He loved his job, his work, but he began to hate the very land that hated him. He thought about going to the Republic but decided to head to London instead. In London he found the bottle. And then, despite the bottle, he found Mam."
Seamus looked down again. Not as his wand. But at his lap.
Ron had never heard any of this is in all their time in Hogwarts.
Instead, a memory of an eleven-year-old Seamus came to mind. An eleven-year-old Irish wizard with an easy smile and a happy laugh.
An eleven-year-old boy who came from a family who loved him.
"I'm half and half. Dad's a muggle, Mam's a witch. Bit of a nasty shock for him when he found out."
"She helped him. She helped him rid his demons. She gave him a choice between her or his demons. He chose her. So, she married him. Told him then that she was a witch. He took it all in stride. As difficult as it was, learning that, he never turned back to the bottle. He kept it together. He kept it together for my Mam. To have a family with her. To have me!"
He took a deep breath then. Some of the anger seemed to fade, if only for a short while.
"Then I came along. He didn't touch the bottle since I was born. A proud teetotal he became. Didn't touch it. Not once. And that's how I knew my Da. A big man with a bigger heart, who put my Mam and me first. Put my Mam and me before everything. Everything. We were his fecking world.
He worked his arse off he did. For his community. Went above and beyond. Made Sergeant. An Irishman working in the 80's in London and he made Sergeant. Loved it so much he stayed there. Someone had to looked after his troops, he used to say."
Seamus paused, his eyes glazed over with memory and tears.
"Then, the Brockdale bridge comes down. Da's there. He helps people in the water. Does his thing. Same thing he's done for years. Helps people.
Then, as his reward, along comes a fecking obliviator. Samuel Treckdel."
Ron gave a sharp intake of breath. Treckdel was old blood. Old Pureblood. He had a bit of a reputation for being a bit too rigorous in his obliviations, especially around Muggles.
Despite that, or maybe because of that, he had risen far. He was now the Deputy Chief Obliviator.
"He goes to obliviate a woman who has just come off the bridge. But he fecks it up. He fecks it right up. He panics when the Police try to stop him. You know. Do their do their fecking jobs. He puts too much spice into it, doesn't he? Permanent obliviates all memory of magic. Keeps no trace to use for restoration. All gone. All deleted."
Ron sat in stunned silence as Seamus spoke. He could see the tears in Seamus's eyes.
He could see the tears in Dean's. Dean obviously knew this story. Ron didn't. He had shared a dorm with the man for seven years. Seven. And at no time had he learnt this story.
Ron felt like the worst mate in the history of the world.
He knew that Seamus's father had had an incident during the later years of their schooling. But there had been so much going on with Harry and the war that was building up. He should have paid more attention.
He should have.
But he didn't. He didn't know.
"So, guess who my dear ole Da can not longer remember."
Ron put his head in his hands and gave a long sigh.
He glanced over at Draco. Draco had at least the good graces to look interested in the story.
"And because he over spiced it, the memory is forever damaged. He can't retain any memory of magic. So, he can't remember Mam. He can't remember me."
Seamus wiped the tears from his eyes.
"But he can remember the bottle." Seamus's voice said softly.
"He's back there. Every morning he wakes up and he can't remember us. He can't remember how he got through all that. How he came out the other side."
Ron sighed again.
Bloody hell.
"He can't even remember that he did."
Seamus's voice was defeated. It was just pain and pure defeat.
"The Police retired him on mental health grounds. The medical practitioners could do nothing for him. Said he'd lost it. The stress had overcome him. He drank himself to death a few years later. You know that part. You were there. You saw me at the funeral."
Ron couldn't look at Seamus. He remembered the funeral very well. A lot of muggle Police were there, now that he thought about it. He had known. He just hadn't put much stock into it.
Seamus was right. What did Purebloods know about muggles?
He gave another long sigh.
He remembered Seamus at the Wake. It had taken both Ron and Dean to get him home from the pub after he tried to fight another patron.
He'd never seen Lavender so helpless.
He had never seen Seamus so angry.
Until now.
"And the Ministry?" Ron asked gently.
"Feck the fecking Ministry." Seamus replied.
His eyes shone dangerously.
"Obliviator Headquarters had conducted a thorough investigation into the matter." He said, clearly reciting something. "Obliviator Treckdel was operating within the realms of his duties when he sought to obliviate a muggle who had witnessed a clear and obvious case of magic. In the course of his duties, he was beset by agents of the Muggle government and while defending himself reasonably against muggle aggression, he accidentally overcharged his Obliviation. It was reasonable, due to the ongoing attack that was occurring nearby, and the need of the Obliviators to respond as quickly as possible to the many thousands of muggle witnesses.
Obliviator Headquarters regrets the loss of memory of Patrick Finnigan, however, cannot be held to account."
Ron didn't say a word. He simply looked at his mate.
"So that was the summation of my Da's life. 'Too bad, so sad.'" Seamus said, his voice steadying. "They of course didn't reach this decision until after the war was done."
Dean was looking away, the tears forming in his own eyes. "So, you went to the muggles."
Seamus shook his head. "No. They came to me."
Seamus sniffed.
"And I thought to myself. Aye, maybe its time that the muggles had a means of defending themselves against us. Maybe it's probably right that they prevent this kind of wanton power that wizards have over them. Maybe we don't have a right to take everything from them,"
Ron looked back at him. "Seamus." He said gently. "Fuck mate. This is our world. It's all to protect our world.""
"I fecking fought to defend out world!" Seamus roared at Ron.
Ron did not flinch. He did not reach for his wand. Seamus didn't, so he wouldn't. He couldn't blame Seamus for being so angry at the Ministry.
Merlin knows he had had his moments. But nothing like this.
"I lost a fecking leg for our world! I stood alongside you, and Harry and Hermione. I even stood alongside you, Malfoy. I fought alongside my friends. I fought for us. Against Voldemort. Against the Death Eaters. And it cost me my leg."
Seamus was no less calm, as he wiped another tear from his eye.
"And in response. As a thankyou for the loss of my leg. The Ministry of Magic told me that my father's memory and life weren't worth a damn."
Ron ran his hands over his face again. This was not supposed to go this way.
"What did you give them?" He asked.
"No idea." Seamus said.
"What?"
"I've no idea."
Ron shook his head. "Give us something Seamus. You're already staring down the wand of some very serious charges. It won't surprise me if they want to charge you with treason. Help me out here. Help save yourself."
"I can't." Seamus said with a shrug.
"Seamus. They attacked Aurors. The killed four Death Eaters. They are a threat. We want to prevent a war here, not start one."
"You think I give a flying feck about dead Death Eaters?" Seamus said, raising an eyebrow at Ron. "I hope they kill them all."
"No." Draco said.
Seamus glanced at him.
"But you give a 'feck' about your mother."
"You leave my Mam out of this!" Seamus growled at him.
"It's come too far, Finnigan." Draco said, calmly. "Your mother is an Unspeakable. She has access to certain items of magical sensitivity. Items that are related to this matter. Items that have been stolen." Draco took the time to unfold his hands and refold them. "The implication is clear."
Finnigan growled at Draco.
"Please, Seamus." Ron said, almost begging. "This is way out of hand. Help us to help your mother. Help us to help Saoirse."
"I – I can't" Seamus said, looking stricken. "I really can't."
"We can protect you, Seamus."
Seamus shook his head. "Every time I meet with them, I obliviate myself. I can't remember what I give them or what we do. I mean, I can remember the techniques and how to enchant things, but not exactly what I do. I can't remember where I go."
Ron looked his mate in the eye, but he saw no lie there.
"Where are the memories?" Draco asked.
Seamus shrugged.
"Where indeed?"
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
July 2000
Jane slowly came back into consciousness.
She seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
Though this time there was no pain. No cold water, or gentle tide. There was no broken limbs, or torn joints.
She could hear no screams, no cries, no helicopters.
No gigantic, illuminated skulls with snakes for tongues.
It was just a white light, and steady beeps. And loss.
It was still there. That unending sense of loss and grief. Nothing dulled that.
The last thing she truly remembered was 'Mick' her big burly Irish Bobbie protector diving on the man with the deadly stick who was approaching her with malicious intent.
The light became brighter, it hurt her eyes. Her eyes that she didn't quite know when she had last used them.
A nurse tended to her. She was fussing around looking at all the machines that were beeping around her.
Checking screens and looking at the fluids that were running into her arms.
Slowly and groggily as she came into the world, her thoughts reorientating themselves.
Her head was heavy. Very heavy. It felt like lead. The very action of trying to move was an ordeal.
Her breathing was a struggle. Not that she couldn't, just in the way that it felt like so much more effort than it ever had before.
"Angelica. Matt." She mumbled out into the ether.
Her voice was like breaking glass. It was raspy and unclear.
The nurse who was attending her offered her a glass of water and she took a grateful sip. Drinking and drinking until she coughed and spluttered.
She was grateful for the liquid that poured down her otherwise parched throat.
When her coughing fit subsided, she managed to focus on the room around her. It was a hospital room. As for which hospital, she didn't know. She just knew that it was a brightly lit hospital room. She was in a bed.
Machines blinked and winked around her.
A man sat on a chair nearby.
He was comfortable. He was relaxed. He had one leg crossed over the other. It wasn't just how he was relaxed and that he read from a folder that drew her attention, but his bearing.
He wore an immaculate black suit with a white shirt and a black tie.
She blinked away her foggy vision and the man came further and further into vision.
He looked familiar. Very familiar, even to her groggy, semi-conscious mind.
He looked up at her as she tried to focus on him.
"Good afternoon, Jane. Glad to have you back with us."
His voice was calm. It was relaxed. It spoke with the comfortable timbre of a man who was used to people doing as he said. It was the relaxed tone of a man who not only had power but wielded it in a way that was unquestioned. Here was a man who was used to his power being complete, and unquestioned.
He was a man who exuded an effortless control of said command.
Finally, she managed to focus in on him.
He was a fit man. In his late forties. He had well cut dark hair that sat neat and tidy on top of his head that was peppered with grey. His face was clean shaven, and he wore dark, fashionable glasses that he used to affix his glares. He would soon prove to be adept at looking down them as though interested, or over them in disapproval.
He looked at her, interested.
"You know me." He said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
"You're Sir Richard Hollister MP." She said, her voice returning with the appropriate lubrication of her throat.
"I am."
"You're the Secretary of State for the Home Department."
"I am." He repeated.
"You're the former Director of Special Forces."
"Also, correct."
"In which you were a Major General who came from the SAS."
He smiled at her.
"You know your politicians."
She looked at him. She worked in Government. It was her job to know who people were and what they did. Sir Richard was one of those people. Though she suspected that a great many people knew who he was and what he did.
He had been all those things when last she checked.
Which was today, wasn't it?
What day is it?
"How – How long have I been out?"
"A couple of weeks." Sir Richard said simply.
"A couple of weeks? How badly was I injured."
He smiled at her. It was an apologetic smile. "We decided to keep you induced for a couple of weeks. I'm sorry. It was for your protection."
She nodded confused.
My protection?
The memory of the stickmen came into focus. The masked and the strangely dressed.
The strangely dressed man as he advanced upon her.
"Where am I?"
"You're in a hospital. Somewhere on the British Isles. As to where, well, that's not important right now." He affixed her with a look.
"Angelica? Matt."
Suddenly it was Sir Richard who could not meet her eyes. The steely eyed former Special Forces commander looked almost ashamed.
"Their bodies were recovered from the Thames a week ago. I'm very sorry Jane. Bad Business. The worst. You've got my condolences. Their funeral was held yesterday."
The pain hit her again. Muted only by the painkillers that flowed through her body.
It was met by a wave of anger. Of pure and unadulterated anger.
An anger that turned her veins to ice.
"Their funeral?" She said, her voice rising in hostility, but never losing its tightly held control. She didn't care who he was, she didn't care what position he had. They had no right, no right to hold the funeral without her.
"Yes, their funeral. It was a beautiful service. Very charming."
"And you held it without me."
This time, Sir Richard held her gaze. He didn't look away. He didn't look guilty. He looked almost resolute.
"Yes. We did."
If she had had the strength, she would have ripped herself out of the bed and stormed from the room. She would have demanded she be released to go to the graves.
"And why." Her voice was as cold as ice, and as dangerous as a breaking glacier. "Why, did you feel the need to hold their funeral without me."
He continued to meet her challenging gaze. But there was something there. Something in his eyes. It was challenge, for sure, but maybe, maybe it was something else.
Almost like she was under assessment.
"Simple. We needed to protect you."
Jane didn't know it. But the tightening of her eyes as she assessed the politician in front of her would go on to become a trademark of hers. It would go on to strike fear into the hearts of many of her subordinates.
"Protect me? From my family's funerals."
"Yes." He said simply.
He was baiting her. He was testing to see how she would react.
She didn't care.
"You didn't have the right."
"No. We didn't."
His agreeance and acquiesce were maddening. Infuriating. But she could play the game, she had for most of her career.
"Then why did you?"
Sir Richard sat back in his chair, a small smile gracing the corners of his mouth.
"Because I know what we are dealing with."
Jane's eyes matched Sir Richards in both intensity and fury.
"Are you going to make me ask?"
Sir Richards small smile threatened to break open upon his face.
"Yes."
Another test.
"What are we dealing with?"
This time, Sir Richard uncrossed his legs and recrossed them. He settled back into the chair in a way that was too comfortable, almost smug, and he appraised her with a long look.
"Magic."
"Magic?
"Magic."
She must have taken a harder fall than she thought. She could have sworn that a former Major General from the Special Air Service was telling her that magic was a thing.
Mrs Jones slowly and painfully pulled herself up so that she was sitting up in a straighter manner.
She fixed him with a stare.
Two can play at that game.
It was almost a staring competition. Almost. It would have been awkward if both parties weren't perfectly capable and happy in a silence such as those.
Sir Richard broke it. A smile formed across his handsome features.
"They told me you were good."
"Did they?" She said simply, in a manner that said she didn't care who they were or what they had told him.
"They did." He said, with a slight chuckle at her borderline insolent behaviour. "You came very highly recommended."
"Oh?" She said. Her drawl was almost bored. If he was going to play games, she wasn't going to. She wouldn't play into them in the slightest.
"You haven't asked the obvious questions."
"No. I haven't."
They stared at each other again for a good long time.
Finally, Sir Richard actually let out a long laugh. His head held back.
"Alright. Which question first?"
"Magic."
"Ah! That." He said. "Well, that ties into why I'm here. Not everyone who survived the Bloodbath on Brockdale wakes up in a hospital with the Home Secretary at their bedside."
"No, I imagine it's hardly common."
"Indeed." He said, smirking. "The only ones who do are the ones who are about to be offered a job."
"What sort of job?" She said, her eyes flashing at him.
"The sort you have already interviewed for." He said, a slight smile still on his features. "The sort you have been found highly suitable for."
She continued to look at him, like an unimpressed teacher may look at a student who was only talking himself further into detention.
Not that it had much of an impact on here. This was clearly what he had come to speak about.
"On the 5th of July, 2000, Brockdale Bridge in London was attacked by a radical group of people, or 'wizards' if you will. Extremists. 'Death Eaters', they like to be called."
She nodded for him to continue.
"We've known about the existence of magic for some time. For the most part it has been a highly secret subsect of society. It governs itself, it is responsible for itself, and it takes care of itself. Mostly."
She couldn't miss the hint on 'mostly'.
"Normally, only the Prime Minister knows. But thanks to some developments in society and technology, some incidents of magic have become harder and harder to ignore."
She said nothing.
"Deaths. People forgetting things. All sorts of violations of the rights of our citizenry. Most sitting Governments trusted the magical types to take care of themselves. But it has become increasingly obvious that they are failing to do so."
Jane was starting to pick up where this was going.
"So, we've decided to intervene." He said, his eyes searching hers, hunting for a reaction she refused to give.
Her refusal only made him smile.
"Several years ago, a branch of MI5 was created. It was entirely not official. It had only a name. Officially, the Office of Strategic Services is a front. It incurs background funding that is channelled through so many channels that it would make even the most dedicated bureaucrats head spin. But it does exist. It works entirely out of black sites and answers exclusively to the director of MI5, and to me."
Jane had heard of such organisations existing. But even with her clearance, she had never heard a name. They were a myth. A legend. As unable to prove as actual, genuine, magic.
But hadn't that all changed recently. The memories of the stickmen came to mind.
"We approached you because we recognised your potential within our organisation. Now with everything that has happened, we've decided that the least we could do was provide you with the opportunity."
"For what? Revenge?"
Sir Richard raised a placating hand and shook his head.
"No, Jane. The opportunity to make sure that incidents like what happened in London never happen to any person within our beloved nation ever again."
She nodded. She would like that opportunity. She had gone to work for the government initially with her naïve hopes of making the country a better place. In fact she had chosen to work the interior because she realised a long time ago that the world was a very big place. Much too big for one person to fix. But maybe she could fix a little bit of her own corner of the world.
"And how is the nation reacting to the incident in London?"
Sir Richard smiled at her sadly.
"A tragic accident, I'm afraid."
"What?"
He nodded, his eyebrows raised in a way that said he knew exactly what her exasperation.
"That was a deliberate attack."
"Yes. Yes it was." He looked at her again, appraisingly. "But most of the witnesses think it was a tragic accident. The ongoing investigation into the cause will likely determine that that is what it was. A freak accident."
She glared at him.
"There were witnesses! Thousands of them. Hell, contact Sergeant Finnigan from the Met, he was there, he saw. He pulled me from the water!"
Sir Richard angled his head as she spoke.
"Sergeant Finnigan's memory is not what is used to be."
Jane didn't speak, she just stared at Sir Richard.
"I'm afraid you might find he doesn't remember the day." He exhaled some air between his lips. "In fact, he doesn't even remember his own wife and son."
A flash of cold fury swept over her again. He had done her a good turn.
"He was obliviated."
The word sounded familiar to her.
"They can delete our memories at will. Looks like with Sergeant Finnigan they butchered it. Can't remember his own wife and son. Probably were trying to remove any memory of magic. So, what would that imply?"
Mrs Jones looked at Sir Richard for a moment.
"His wife and son are wizards."
Sir Richard smiled.
"They said you were sharp."
"But an accident?"
He nodded.
"You see, what we do know is that it was the magical version of terrorists that carried out the attack. However it is the wizarding government that has covered it all up. Altered thousands of memories, many of whom will never be the same."
She thought of the burly Sergeant who had come to protect her. It angered her.
Her mind then shifted to her daughter and husband. Killed in a tragic accident. Murdered by terrorists. And covered up.
Covered up by a government within the nation.
She pushed those thoughts aside for the moment, focusing instead on the man who sat before her. He was clearly focused on her.
"So why did you come personally? I'm sure this area has plenty of management that could have come and told me the good news."
Sir Richard nodded at her.
"Well, that part is very simple, Jane." He said, his eyes never leaving hers. "Who better than I to show you just how deep this goes. Just what resources you will be able to command. What will be at your disposal. I had to show you how serious this is."
Jane said nothing.
"Not to mention. Would you believe some government representative? You saw clear use of magic, but would you truly believe someone you didn't know. Someone who's sanity isn't entirely proven."
It was a good point. She would admit that to herself.
"They were waiting for you at the funeral. They were waiting to delete your memory."
She looked across at him at that and her eyes tightened again.
How dare they. It was her memory. Hers. They had no right to it. No right to change everything she knew and believed.
He nodded at her as if he read her thoughts, before he continued.
"That should show you the extent of their resolve. You will be going up against a group of people that we know only bits and pieces about. People who can remove memories at will, who can and do interfere with the running of our country. People who can manipulate events to their benefit with relative ease. People who think that we should be okay with this."
Sir Richard again affixed her with a long look.
"This could be the most dangerous threat to our country in recorded history. And we know next to nothing about it. It's no easy job I'd be giving you Jane."
Jane looked at him.
"How many people?" She said after a long moment. She knew that she didn't have to clarify what she meant.
"166"
Jane looked at him. She let out a long slow breath. 166 people died on that bridge.
And no one knew the truth.
She would have signed up on the spot. Not just because of her family, not just because she had a burning need for justice.
But because how dare they. How dare they interfere with everyone's lives.
How dare they ruin people's lives by destroying their memories.
Sir Richard clearly saw the fire in her eyes. He seemed to like what he saw.
He leaned forward on his chair now.
"So, tell me, Jane." He said slowly, that smile creeping back over his features. "How do you feel about helping your country?"
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
"So where do we go from here?" Asked Seamus, sitting defiantly back in his chair.
Ron let out a long breath. He once again ran his hand across his face, processing everything that had been said. Processing how such a steady part of his world had been completely upended in the space of an hour.
"Well. You'll be taken into custody. We'll take you back to the Ministry and intern you into the Auror Cells. You'll be held there while you seek legal counsel, before questioning in relation to this matter. By then the DMLE will decide on appropriate charges. Thought because your charges are related to the defence of the Magical world, you may be considered for Veritaserum."
Ron said it flat. Similar to Seamus, he was reciting something. Something that didn't grab a hold of him and make him believe it.
Since when had everything, everything gone to shit.
How did we get here?
We won! Didn't we? Why are we still paying the price?
Seamus just nodded. "You do what you need to do Weasley."
That hurt.
Ron shot him a look. "I'm not the enemy here, Seamus. I'm really not."
Seamus shrugged.
"Bloody well feels that way." He said, bitterly.
"You're not the only one who lost someone in the war." Draco said. Ron almost missed it, but there was an undeniable hint of emotion in his voice. Draco's mask had slipped.
Twice in one day. It was unheard of.
Seamus turned to Draco. His eyes were still fire and brimstone.
"No." He agreed. "But I lost my Da every day after."
"And?" Draco drawled. His cruel streak had never truly faded. It sometimes reared its ugly head.
And sometimes at the worst possible time.
Seamus focussed his wand in on Malfoy, ready to curse him. Ron didn't think he would have blamed Seamus if he had.
"And." Seamus hissed. "And, look what you did when you lost your father. You turned on Voldemort and fed us all that information. The loss of your father is the only reason you've been granted clearance to work for the fecking Ministry."
He spat the word government like it was a particularly distasteful word.
And for Seamus, it was.
Draco gave Seamus a mirthless smile.
"I lost my father because I fed you all information." Draco said back. His voice as cold as the presence of Dementors.
"And look at the damage you managed to do in revenge. Look at what you did after that." Seamus said, his voice a burning inferno next to Draco's ice cold.
Ron looked between the pair. He didn't really know what to say to that. All these years later and the war was still weighing everything down. It was dragging them back into the past. Into a past they had all tried so desperately to move on from.
"That is not even mentioning all the muggles who lost someone. They lost someone and they don't even know that it was a blatant act of evil. Sometimes, I wonder if that would be preferable."
Ron felt inclined to speak.
"You know we have to protect ourselves, Seamus. You know this."
Seamus nodded.
"Aye. Aye I do. But I also know that the muggles have too as well."
"Is it protecting themselves if they are attacking us, Seamus?"
Of course, he had to say that. Of course, he did. He just had to jinx everyone in the figurative sense. He had to open his mouth.
Because as soon as the words left his mouth, a loud resounding boom echoed around the room. It was distant, having clearly come from Diagon Alley.
It cut off Seamus's hot reply.
Immediately a siren went off, giving its long, mournful warning cry as it ascended in volume.
Diagon Alley was under attack.
The four men leapt to their feet and grabbed their wands.
It was a standoff of the worst variety. They were in a tight space, with two exits. Around them were tools that could easily be used as weapons, weather by enchantment or the old-fashioned way.
There was no way that anyone could miss. And even if they did, that could prove even worse.
The wands were pointed at each other.
Ron and Draco at Seamus.
Seamus alternating between Ron and Draco.
Dean at everyone, as he backed himself into a corner.
If you had told the thirteen-year-old Ronald Weasley with his ferocious appetite and unending jokes that he would one day be in the workshop of his brothers shop, wand to wand with his Gryffindor classmates, standing side by side with Draco Malfoy, well, he just didn't know what he would have done.
"Rightio boys." Ron said calmly, his wand still pointing at an angry Seamus. "Let's all take a breath here, eh? Let's not let this get silly."
Seamus's eyes glanced at him as his wand moved back to Draco.
Draco stood tall in his duelling stance, his eyes never leaving Seamus.
"Let's not do anything we might regret. We are all friends here." Ron said, as placatingly as he could, given the circumstances.
Another boom shook the building.
He had to get out there. He was needed out there.
"Lower the wand, Finnigan."
"After you, Malfoy."
Seamus's eyes were darting towards the exit where Dean had come from.
This was getting horribly out of hand. Diagon Alley was under attack and here they were, about to start murdering each other in WWW.
"Right." Ron said, making a snap decision and taking charge. "Here's the deal, Seamus. You get those memories, find out what the muggles know and what they are up to, and it will be submitted in regards to your sentencing. You check in with me and feed me the information we need to avoid a war, and you may not even spend a single day inside a cell."
Seamus looked at him with a scowl. "No deal."
Ron growled in frustration. "We don't have time to this Finnigan. War is brewing. There's two of us. We've got you in this duel. You can't win."
He absolutely loathed saying that to a good mate of his. A good mate who was staring at him over the top of his wand.
"But at the same time, we can't have a war. And it's heading that way. Hell, it may not even be preventable anymore. Just give us something, anything. Help us avoid further bloodshed. I know you mate. I know you don't want more suffering."
Ron was pleading.
"Please mate. I know you better than this. You don't want war. You don't want people to lose their loved ones. You don't want other people to go through what you have!"
Seamus glowered at him.
"He's right, Seamus. You don't. Please mate." Dean lowered his wand and looked at his best mate, giving him a suffering look.
Seamus just looked at him. He clucked his tongue in thought.
"Just give us the name of your contact. Then get the memories, and not only can we reduce your prison sentence, but we can also stop so many deaths."
Seamus looked thoughtful.
Draco glanced at the exit behind him. Ron could see he was listening to the siren as well. He knew that they had to get up there.
"New deal, Finnigan." Draco said, coldly. "Same as what Weasley said. But your mother gets the same deal."
Seamus looked at them both.
His anger and fury turned his face into a grimace.
"Jane Jones. I deal with Jane Jones from MI5. Now leave my Mam out of this!" Seamus barked at them.
Ron lowered his wand. Draco glanced at him.
Seamus and Draco looked like they were still about to duel. Until Ron put his hand on Draco's arm and forced his wand down.
"Go Seamus." He stared as his mate slowly lowered his wand and darted out through the rear door.
Draco watched him go, his face again unreadable.
"To Diagon." Ron said.
Draco slowly nodded, and they went.
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A/N:
I decided to start placing them at the bottom, as I've seen a few people do this and it works much better.
Firstly, let me apologise for the wait for this chapter. Work has been absolutely insane, and I refused to publish this chapter until I was happy with it. I've noticed I'm becoming more and more critical of my own writing as this story goes on. Leading to more vigorous rewrites.
I hope you enjoy this chapter. It was a challenge to write. I tried to balance the scenes against each other as well as possible, but it was a delicate process. People seemed to praise the bridge scene from last chapter, and there was always going to be repercussions.
I'm enjoying exploring the ramifications of wizard actions. I hope that you enjoyed Seamus and 'Mick' in this chapter. I also hope you enjoyed Mrs Jones, she's a fun character to write.
Just a few points of clarification, I couldn't find any canon records of the Republic of Irelands Wizarding Government, so I made one up. 'Druidi A Bhailiu' is Google translated into 'Collection of Druids'. My apologies to any Irish reading this story that shook their head at that translation. I liked the idea of their Ministry having a traditional Gaelic influence.
It was also fun to imply that the MacBeths were real wizards who got written as muggles and that angered them.
Anyway. Once again, sorry for the delay. I'm trying to stick to me weekly posting, but I won't rush chapters out if I think they aren't up to scratch.
And once again my massive thanks to those of you who take the time to review. It's always wonderful to read peoples perspectives. Also to those who follow and favourite. You make this passions project worthwhile.
Cheers,
ATG