Chapter Twenty-One
Thursday 17th September 2012
Before the Ambush.
It had formerly been a Police Station. This was evident by the standing sign, which somehow had retained power. It showed a blue and white chequered pattern, with the word 'Police' under it. It was illuminated, but only sometimes. It blinked in and out as if making an effort to draw further attention to itself.
The sign flickered brightly amongst the darkness and smoke that filled the air.
It was now wreckage. The building had completely collapsed in on itself. It looked like the old photos that Rufus has seen in school, the ones from the blitz. The pile of rubble, of bricks and wood and glass that had formerly been proudly standing buildings.
That had previously been people's homes, businesses, and their places of work.
It was made eerie by the constant flash of red and blue lights from the Police vehicles that formed the cordon, with their chequered tape and uniformed officers who stood behind them.
It was dark, but the sun hadn't set. The plumes of smoke and the dust clouds that had been kicked up had caused unnatural darkness to descend upon the scene.
Some kept glancing at the wreckage, others resolutely refused to look. It was an internal battle, one that was unique to each officer. Whether they chose to look or not, depended largely on how long they had worn the blue. The older and wiser made sure not to look, knowing that it was trauma they did not need.
The younger and keener couldn't help but stare. They needed to see it. Even if it did shatter that feeling of righteous protection that they believed the badge and tartan offered.
For here, that protection was rendered empty. Destroyed. Like their great representative on earth had been removed.
"If you're not thinking it, sir, I'd suggest you had best be." Paul said, from next to him, his own eyes glancing over the wreckage. "The surrounding buildings are not touched, like. They all stand up. No damage, not even any scorch marks."
"Of course, I'm thinking it, Paul." Rufus didn't exactly snap, though his voice was full of frustration. He'd have to brief the Commander about this. Maybe even the Commissioner himself. This couldn't have been timed any worse. The big sit down was tomorrow.
Rufus pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly, if for no other reason than to have an excuse to avert his eyes.
"I just don't want to jump to conclusions."
"I'd say there is no other conclusion to jump to," Paul replied evenly. "My instincts say it was them lot, and I'd wager that yours say the same."
"Of course, they do." Rufus offered a sigh that came from the very depths of his soul. "How many?"
"Eleven, sir," Paul replied, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Including one injured. She's unconscious but stable. Paramedics are still working on her, sir. She's not hospitable bound yet. Seems like she's in perfect health, but out of it. I've asked them to hold off on their departure."
Rufus nodded. "She's the only witness?"
"Only one, sir. All other eleven were killed, sir. Not pleasantly either. Almost like they had a tornado in their muster room. Lots of trauma and the like. Looks like a fucking horror movie. Limbs, bones, flesh. You name it. It was there."
Rufus grimaced at that reply. "I think I need to make a telephone call." He said to Paul with a knowing look.
"I'd imagine you might, sir."
"Work on the CCTV in the meantime, won't you Paul?"
"Digital Forensics are already on it, sir. They seem to think it's undamaged."
Strange that. Thought Rufus as he walked off to make his phone call in privacy. Normally, the CCTV was destroyed. That was something at least. There would be some evidence they could use.
"Sir?" Paul called after him. "We aren't going to lose this one, are we?"
Rufus turned and shook his head. "No, Paul. Police casualties. The Commish isn't letting this one go. The Security Services will be hungry for it, but there's no way he will budge."
"I thought as much, sir." Paul finished.
When Rufus was far enough away that he was sure he wouldn't be disturbed. He pulled out his phone and dialled a number.
He didn't know what to expect. He did not know this person. He did not know if they could be trusted. He just knew that maybe they could provide an alternate perspective on a situation like this.
He held up the phone away from his ear slightly, as he had been warned, though he didn't know why. All he knew was that Hermione had been insistent.
"If you value your hearing, keep the phone away from your ear when you call him."
The line rang for what felt like an age before it finally answered.
"Ron Weasley speaking."
His tone was flat, maybe a little confused, but not at all as loud as he had been warned it might be.
"Hello, Auror Gold Class, Weasley. My name is Detective Superintendent Rufus Thompson. A mutual friend told me that you might be expecting my call…"
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
Ron Weasley had never truly believed in Divination. He had taken the class, sure, but that was for an easy credit. All he had really had to do was predict that Harry would be seriously injured or killed by a series of increasingly unlikely catastrophes.
The longer he had taken the course, the more creativity it had required.
But that didn't mean he was one not to take stock in dreams. Especially since he had been mates with Harry. He had seen, not to mention experienced, the full horror of what could happen if one either ignored, or believed their dreams.
Sirius Black had died because of a series of dreams.
Luna firmly believed in the power of dreams. Even she had found his recent ones troubling. Nightmares. Nightmares of grey clad men with long sticks that made a cacophony when they went off.
Witches and wizards dying all around him. Him being helpless to do anything as the Muggles marched, in perfect synchronicity over the top of him.
Over the top of his family, and his civilisation.
But perhaps the worst part of his dreams was when the grey clad men had pulled down their masks.
They were Harry. They were always Harry.
Luna had attributed them to being only nightmares, troubling, to be sure, but nightmares, nonetheless. A symptom of the shock and stress he had experienced, one week prior, in Diagon Alley. She had reassured him that they would pass in time, with care, and with appropriate treatment. She had encouraged him to go and see a mind healer.
He hadn't. Not yet.
There simply hadn't been time.
Nightmares, he had assured her, could sometimes just be nightmares that passed with time.
Until they came true. And right now, it seemed as though Ron had apparated right into the middle of one.
They surrounded him on three sides. Clad in black, not grey this time. But they had that grim look in their eyes. Their faces were bare, which did more than Ron would like to admit when it came to reassuring him slightly, that these were in fact human beings.
Not faceless, grey, soldiers who were trained, capable and put to task, in the murder of his kind. Not Harry Potter, returned to destroy.
But it did not stop that rise in his chest. It wasn't panic, not yet. But it sat there, making it harder for him to draw breath. Making it harder for him to keep his thoughts on the situation, and not on the desperate need for him to disappear to somewhere, anywhere, else.
They clutched weapons across their chest. Rifles, the last week's research had taught him, They clutched them firmly and with purpose. These were trained men.
Prominently across their chests was that same word. That word that had floated through his mind and his dreams as the focal point of everything that had occurred in Diagon Alley.
Police.
He didn't like it. Not at all.
He fought to take solace in the fact that the rifles weren't pointed at him. And that gave him the space he needed to draw breath.
The faces, Ron. Look at the faces. They are human, too. They are just like you. Just like you and James and Hermione and Luna. Just like your unborn son.
Except they weren't. Not really. They had no magic. They worshipped and relied on their technology, the same as Ron's kind relied on magic. They still fought each other, and from what he had learnt, that was on a much larger scale. Their battles involved thousands, sometimes, millions of men and women, all at arms with each other.
Ron was glad, and not for the first time, that he had been born a wizard. Their wars weren't as brutal. Their wars weren't as uncivilised.
"Trusting lot, aren't we?" He said aloud, to the small crowd that was gathered around.
He did well to keep the anger out of his voice.
It sat in his gut, simmering, like some form of indecipherable gloop that Neville had concocted in one of Snape's Potions Classes. It was unsalvageable. Unnamed. It just sat there as a presence that existed in the lowest part of him.
And he couldn't get past it.
A dull fury, like a burning ember that sat there, ready to turn into rage at the drop of hat. He had lived with it, since the shock had worn off. But it had continued to sit there the whole time. Almost a week.
But it wasn't the usual kind of glowing flame that kept him angry or alert. This was the kind of ember that you would find as the remnant of your home. The dull traces of all your treasured belongings, right after they had been burnt to the fucking ground.
Since the day after the attack. He couldn't give it voice, nor could he give it any understanding. It just was. It just existed.
And he hated it.
It was the crack in the glass that couldn't be unseen.
It was something that Luna couldn't even get through to, and she could get through to anything. She had a knack for seeing into his very soul and ripping the answer out from where he had hidden it, even from himself. She had the ability to make it seem like it was not hiding, but sitting in plain view, the most obvious thing in the world.
But this was different. She had tried. Merlin knows she had. But it had not gotten either of them anywhere. He was just angry. He was always so fucking angry.
It wasn't helped by the situation. It wasn't helped by these bloody Muggles.
The four Aurors did their best to look as calm and relaxed as they did in normal, everyday life. They were failing, miserably. They had all been there, on that day. They had all seen the carnage. What separated these from them?
How was Ron to know if these were imperiused? If this was all an ambush.
There was plenty of distrust in the four of them as they eyed off the surrounding Policemen.
Except for Drisco of course. Drisco looked almost bored, as usual.
And surrounded they were, by close to a dozen of them. They carried firearms. But Ron thought that these ones looked less intimidating than the ones from Diagon Alley.
For starters, they weren't shooting at them. But they were by no means relaxed. They held their firearms in front of them, both hands on them, as if ready to bring them up and to bear on the four Aurors at a moment's notice.
Ron figured that that was exactly why they were standing that way. They were ready. They looked grim. They had those faces that Ron had seen so many times before in his fellow Aurors. It gave nothing away, but in the eyes, it spoke of a nervous energy that said they were more than ready for anything to be thrown at them.
Ron couldn't help but glance at the weapons. It gave a rise in him, in the back of his throat, or even further down in the pit of his stomach. It caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. He knew that even his breath had quickened slightly.
They aren't the same men. They aren't the same people. These people want your help.
Help them, Ron. People need help, and you need to help them. It is what you have chosen to do with your life.
He heard it in his mind. The voice. The voice of reason that came to him when everything was being unreasonable. It wasn't his though. It was not his voice at all. It was Luna's. It was pleasant, ethereal and encouraging.
In most circumstances, it calmed him. It brought him back to reality. Centering him in the things he could control.
But not this time. He still felt uneasy. Uncomfortable. He still felt that pit of anger in his stomach. That knot that wouldn't go away.
"I do apologise." Rufus said with maybe a hint of embarrassment. "But I have been made aware that I should take all necessary precautions when dealing with your -well- with you magic folk."
Ron raised an eyebrow at the Policeman, who was as well-dressed and immaculate as if he had just stepped into the office in the morning with a tea in his hand.
"Precautions?" Ron said, turning to the nearest Policeman..
He, like his armed colleagues, wore dark blue, almost black uniforms. They had peaked caps on their heads, with a chequered Tartan pattern around the band. The presence of his face gave the man a humanity that his colleagues who had attacked Diagon, did not possess.
"Is that what this is called? Precautions?" The edge was there. The distrust. That tone of his voice said that he still felt like he had been called into a trap.
"Yes." Rufus continued. "I have been made aware that it is fairly standard practice for you to take the memories of those who see you in action, or learn of your existence."
"Oh? And who made you aware of that?"
"Our mutual friend, naturally…" Rufus said, as if surprised he was even being asked that question.
That smouldering pit of burning embers caught alight. It burst into a stirring flame and spit sparks everywhere and threatened to spill out of the very ends of his fingers.
He felt his magic crackle beneath his skin.
James? James said that? James set me up? This is some form of bloody ambush. James set me up for an ambush. James has fucked me. Good and proper.
He fought for control. He fought to breathe through it. To reduce the fire back down, to contain it and starve it of oxygen. To douse it with all the water he could find.
It came in the form of the voice again. Luna's voice.
James is your best mate. You are being unreasonable. This isn't you. You've conquered this anger. This irrationality. You have beat it before. You can beat it, again.
His breath flowed through him in a shaky manner.
James isn't Harry, said the first voice. That voice that screamed at him to take action. To fight. To move. To push forward. How well do you truly know him? Sure, he looks like Harry. He talks like Harry. But is it truly him? What if he is working with the Muggles? What if Harry Potter has fallen?
Ron fought hard to fight back the urge to throw up shields and pull the team away. James had told him this might happen. Ron had agreed with the plan.
He forced himself to listen to the second voice that entered his mind. Luna's voice.
There must be a reasonable explanation. Memory is a sensitive issue for him, that's all. It would be, wouldn't it? He doesn't have a memory. He would of course take precautions to make sure that Muggles who are working with him, work to protect their own.
With that thought, he felt the knot in his chest loosen somewhat. That had to be it. It had to be just that. James wouldn't do that. He wouldn't work with these Muggles if they were going to hurt people. Harry wasn't like that. Harry was a good person.
He was Harry after all. And Harry was Ron's best mate. Harry worked his guts out to make sure that his friends weren't in danger. That they were safe. It was that which had inspired Ron to live up to Harry's dream. It was the reason why Ron had gone on to wear the Red Coat in the first place.
It had been Harry's dream. Harry had wanted to live this life, but he hadn't lived to do so. It had left Ron to do it for him. He had done it without any complaint, because Harry had deserved to see at least one of his dreams come true.
But it still stabbed at him that after all of this. They didn't trust him. Hermione hadn't trusted him to know that Harry was alive.
And James hadn't trusted him with the muggles.
He took another shuddering breath, and it drew Bev's attention. Bev was highly perceptive. It showed in his frown as he surveyed his Gold Class. He knew something wasn't right. Bev hadn't known him when he had been a grieving mess of anger.
He had always and only known the more stoic, and calm version of Ron Weasley. The one who had been a natural choice to lead a team.
"I assure you that I wish the precautions weren't necessary. I wish that we could just work together on this, but unfortunately, this relationship building is going to take time. I called you. I called you here to help. For us to work together on this. I called you here, so that MI5 wouldn't come and use this as further evidence that Magical Kind is out to destroy our world."
"This feels like an ambush." Ron said back, as he eyed the positioning of the armed Police around him. "You have us at a disadvantage."
Rufus nodded easily. "If it was an ambush, it would have already happened. No one is trying to ambush you here, Mr Weasley. I'm trying to work with you. We are on the same side."
Rufus's words hung in the air as Ron eyed him up and down. It might just have been the strangest thing that Ron had ever heard. It was most definitely something he never expected to have said to him by a Muggle in his life.
He had never been on a Muggle's side, and a Muggle had never been on his.
Ron had always firmly believed what he had always been taught. Magical Folk were better off being left alone.
And the recent events had only served to reinforce that.
Though, having been friends with Hermione, for as long as he had, had of course altered that world view somewhat. He agreed that magic should be used to help Muggles, cure them of diseases and the like, as long as it was done with great care and subtlety. He was not by any stretch a cruel man, nor was he the type to horde the type of potions that could help other people.
But when it came down to it, the magical world and the Muggle world were separate for a reason. It was better that way.
The Muggles had proven that they could cause serious damage when unleashed. Ron was not at all eager to repeat that experience.
"Are we?" Ron asked, meeting Rufus's gaze. "Because I was present when a certain group of your men attacked our citizenry, just last week."
Rufus paused. He seemed to be considering what to say, before he slowly nodded at Ron and turned, pointing towards the destroyed building behind him.
"And now, eleven of our own people are dead," he said. There was a strain in his tone that threatened to develop. It was a hint. A slip. The man appeared to be the type who maintained control. Not cold like Draco, but certainly a well-measured man.
"Not to mention the one who is unconscious." Ron watched as Rufus indicated to a nearby ambulance. "Perhaps, it would be in our best interest to work together on this?"
Ron looked over at the wreckage of the building. At the ambulance that sat nearby. At the faces of the Policemen and women standing nearby.
He recognised those faces. He had seen that exact face, in the mirror, following the attack on Diagon. It was shock. There was a sense of familiarity in that. Almost like they knew what each other had been though.
"Perhaps you're right. Perhaps we need to approach this free of emotion." His voice was a calm that he did not feel. It was directed towards his own team, but in his heart of hearts he knew the truth. It was directed at himself. "Let's see if we can figure this out. What do you have, and what do you know?"
Rufus indicated back towards the destroyed Police Station.
"Not much. Twelve Police officers started their shift at 4 o'clock this afternoon. Shortly afterwards, a cry for help came over the radio, saying they were being attacked. By the time reinforcements arrived, this is what they found. Eleven dead, one unconscious."
Ron nodded.
"Where is the unconscious person?"
"Here." Rufus indicated towards the ambulance that hadn't yet left. "She is stable and breathing normally. The paramedics couldn't identify anything physically wrong with her. We have held her here, hoping you might know what her ailment is."
"Bev?"
"Got it, Ron."
Ron watched as his Silver approached the back of the ambulance. Three of the armed Police officers sought out to follow him. Ron couldn't help but feel a flash of anger.
They attacked us. Now, they have the gall not to trust us?
He took a deep breath and squashed the feeling of unease. Something about this wasn't right, and it wasn't just that it was the Muggles who were asking for help.
But he would do no one any good if he failed to remain calm and in control. He needed to be at his best.
He watched as Bev approached a stretcher with a body on it.
Ron began to wander over. Drisco and Van Guerick followed him. He was pleased to see that they maintained their spacing and positioning. They were ready to cast shield charms for full coverage, at a moment's notice.
They had started to learn.
As he arrived at the stretcher, he saw that it contained a woman of about thirty. She had a pretty, round, face, that was deeply relaxed. Her uniform was still on, but unkempt, torn and dirty from what had happened.
Bev was in the middle of diagnosis, but he finished rapidly.
"Stunned."
Ron nodded.
"Should we wake her up?"
Ron turned and gave Rufus a questioning look. "She's fine. We can wake her up in an instant. But she's your Muggle. We don't want to make any sudden movements."
Rufus gave Ron a long look. Then he nodded.
She woke with a start. Like an unexpected alarm clock, a fright or a scare.
She bolted upright. She took one look at Bev and Ron, standing nearby.
Then she screamed. It was blood curling. It was coupled with the violent thrashing of her arms and legs.
The two paramedics jumped in and tried to calm and restrain her. As did a pair of nearby, unarmed Police officers. But it was to no avail. She could not be contained.
"No!" She screamed. "Not you! Not them! Please! Please not them!"
She screamed it to the high heavens. To the high and holy hell.
Nothing they did seemed to work.
"Them!" She belted out. "It was them! It was them."
Ron looked at Bev, who shrugged.
"Shock?"
"Maybe."
They looked back at her as the attending people tried to calm her. But it still didn't work. Nothing they did seemed to work.
Bev stepped forward and produced a small vial from underneath his uniform.
He stepped forward, and without asking permission, uncorked it, pinched her nose, and emptied the contents into the screaming woman's mouth.
"What the fuck?" called one of the cops who was trying to restrain her.
The paramedic turned. "What did you just give her?"
"Calming Draught." Bev said, as if it was the most common thing in the world to give someone in the middle of a panic attack, the contents of small vial. It was. To them, maybe, but less so to the Muggles.
It was certainly not common to a group of trained medical professionals who used only prescribed medication.
"We need to know what is in that? We can't have it acting against any of our own medications, not to mention the anaesthesia!"
"I assure you, it won't impact anything you give her at all." Bev said with an easy confidence.
The effects were almost instant. Her jaw slackened, and her screams died. She lay back into the stretcher and stopped fighting the uniformed Police who were trying to hold her down.
She took a long slow breath, then she looked around at them, as if for the first time realising where she was.
The paramedics stared at Bev, who just nodded and placed the empty vial back in his uniform.
"Nothing to it."
A look was exchanged between uniforms. It was a look that said there was certainly a lot more than 'nothing to it'. Nothing but a whole lot of something. A whole lot of something that they did not know, and therefore did not trust.
"Janet?" Rufus stepped forward. "PC Janet Ross?"
The woman nodded. "Good Evening, sir. Apologies for my little episode. I just, We had a lot happen."
"How are you feeling, Janet?"
"Warm, Sir." She sighed, and relaxed against the stretcher. "I'm warm. And, well, I'm peaceful."
"Good, Janet." He said in the same calm tone. "That's wonderful. We have some questions about the evening if you feel up to it."
"Of course, sir. I'm only too happy to help!"
The paramedics looked at each other, then at the two red-coated men who were standing by with their arms crossed. They looked about them as if the Muggles around them were struggling with such basic things as the alphabet. This was normal for them.
But in the Muggle world, this was abnormal. Ron could almost hear them doing the maths in their head, trying to determine what had happened.
To the paramedics, they were wondering if opiates had just been administered and if they need to track her levels, less she be poisoned.
"What happened tonight? At the station."
Janet sighed again. "We were attacked." She said, as calmly as if someone had asked her what she had had for breakfast. "We were attacked by four persons of interest. They came in and they waved these little sticks about. They flashed red lights and killed the rest of my shift."
"Thank you for telling me that Janet, you're doing exceptionally well. Is there anything you can tell me about the four POI's?"
Janet nodded. "Easy done sir, I shan't soon forget what they look like. They wore red coats, just like those four people right there."
She pointed straight at the four Aurors.
Ron and Bev looked at each other. Ron's hand slipped into his jacket pocket and wrapped around his wand.
He couldn't help but notice the tension in the air ratched up a notch, as the surrounding armed Police gripped their weapons just a little bit higher, and a little bit tighter.
"I'm sorry, Janet. Could you please clarify what it is you just said?"
Janet nodded.
"Of course, sir." She pointed at Ron and Bev, leaving no room for error. "Four people walked into the Police station and attacked us. They killed my entire shift. But they left me alive. I don't know why. I just got struck and that was the last thing I remember."
The armed Police had definitely raised their weapons at that.
They weren't pointed at the Aurors, to Ron's relief. But it was enough to make them all stand back, ready to fight or flee.
Drisco and Van Guereck each took a step towards them. Now, if the four Aurors cast shields, they would have full 360 coverage between them. They were almost back to back.
"Everyone stay calm." Rufus called to the Police, who were starting to glance at each other and at the Aurors with renewed interest. "Dressed like those four people there, you said?"
"Exactly like them." Janet continued. "And that man there, with the red hair? He was in charge."
There was a long and pregnant pause as Janet pointed straight at Ron. It was silence. No one seemed to know what to do. No one seemed to know what to say.
It lingered in the air for a good long moment. A moment that seemed to last an eternity to the stunned audience.
Ron was the one who finally broke it.
"It wasn't us," Ron said, doing his best to remain calm. Doing his best to keep the bite of anger and fear that was rising up in the back of his throat.
He had trusted the Muggles, and here he was. Lured into a trap. Lured in for revenge by the so called Muggle Police.
I should have known better. I should have known that these men were just like those who attacked Diagon. James has some fucking questions to answer.
"Take a breath everyone." Rufus said, raising his hands placating. "Just take a breath. Let's get to the bottom of this."
Ron could see the Police were nervous. It mirrored his own feelings. It mirrored how tightly he was holding his wand. How close they were.
How close they were to having a live battle in the middle of the street.
At least this time it's a Muggle street.
Shut up!
That gave him pause. No matter how bad things got, Luna's voice in his head was always calm and collected. It never yelled at the other voice like that.
He shook his head, desperate to clear his mind. But it still ran at a tempo he struggled to control.
He felt his hand start to shake as the adrenaline flowed through him.
I could use a calming draught of my own, right now.
One of the Police raised their weapons and the shields went straight up. All four. Almost exactly at the same time, hence was their speed.
Then they were surrounded. They were surrounded by muzzles. Muzzles that pointed right at them.
Ron felt his mind get transported back to Diagon Alley. Back to the battle.
He remembered the muzzle at the end of the Grey Man's hands. The last one. The one they, now, knew was in charge.
The one who had almost shot him, who had the drop on him.
The one who had come within milliseconds of ending his life. Preventing him from meeting his son, when he was to be born.
That's not going to happen. I'm not dying here. None of us will die here.
"Everyone just take a breath, please." Rufus's voice was calm. The hint of reason amongst the chaos. It was there to stop everyone. To bring them all down.
Ron was reminded a little of Dumbledore. His ability to keep his head while everyone else was losing there was legendary. Ron was slightly impressed, despite the situation, to see that Rufus had the same ability.
Some of the weapons lowered, but it was not enough for Ron's liking. Not nearly enough.
"Sir," called Paul, from over near a truck that had several computer monitors on it. "Sir, you are going to want to see this."
Rufus continued encouraging everyone to lower their weapons. Which they started to. One by one, by blessed one. The weapons came down.
But Ron could see that they did not let them go. They still held them carefully across their chests.
Ron did not drop his shield, neither did his team.
He watched as Rufus gave him a placating look, before he strode over to the screen.
"They've recovered the CCTV sir, figured you might want to have a look at this."
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
To Tiberius Calick, it was a waste of his incredible talents to lead these three misfits.
To lead these three 'followers' as they were called, into their first real action since they had 'joined', was almost an insult.
Under the Dark Lord, he had been a most trusted soldier. He had carried out daring raids. He was not generally thought of as a leader, that was true, but he didn't care. As long as he got the opportunity to put his life on the line, to show his worth, he was there.
He loved it. He had had the distinct pleasure of killing a few Aurors in his time. He had developed a healthy enjoyment of the times when he would best them and the light would leave their eyes. It was so quick, that if you blinked you would miss it. But it was there, it could be seen, as long as you knew to look.
He never felt more powerful than when he was putting Aurors and blood traitors to bed like that.
Though, as he walked in through the front doors of the Police station, he knew that he wouldn't have to disgrace himself with the Green Dream.
Strictly speaking, he hated using it. It couldn't be blocked. If it couldn't be blocked, were you truly besting your opposition? Were you truly the better duellist?
He had never managed to duel Dolohov, but that was one bastard he would love to have a go at.
Everyone thought that Dolohov was the master of duelling. Everyone thought he was amongst the best, but Calick knew that if he had his chance, he could beat him. It was just a matter of when and where.
It would be a duel for the ages. Then, he could put that arrogant, foolhardy swine to rest. Permanently. And Calick had every faith that he wouldn't need to use any green dreams to do so.
But that duel for the fates, would have to wait. It would have to wait until this unpleasantness was dealt with. They were rebuilding, and Calick was loath to admit it, but Dolohov had been the right man for the job.
But the moment the Dark Lord was back. The moment he surveyed the faithful and realised that they had held true, when everyone else had abandoned him, again, Calick would call Dolohov out.
One of them would die that night. It would be a good night. A glorious night.
There were worse ways to go out, but Calick could imagine few better. He was not the kind of wizard to want to die in his bed sorrounded by family. Give him the glorious death of having been bested by the next wizard to come along and use him as a benchmark. To slay him and knock him off his position on the top of the power ladder.
Yes. That was a good way for him to go. One night, having best all and sundry that came before, someone would look him in the eyes and kill him.
But it was not this night.
"Can I help you, fellas?"
The voice carried a hint of suspicion. It came from the Muggle Policeman who had emerged from the door that hid the wider Police station, from the front office.
Calick leaned on the counter that separated the muggle from the wizards and gave him a long look.
The Policeman looked to be in his late thirties. His hair had specks of grey and his eyes were lined with the wrinkles of a man who had spent a greater part of his life in laughter.
Calick just fixed him with a glare.
What could this man possibly have to be happy about? He didn't even know magic. He was barely a man. More an animal. An invalid. Disabled. He lacked the fundamental power that separated the truly great from the weak.
The muggle met his look evenly. He raised an eyebrow. Here was a muggle who was used to dealing with those who would attempt to intimidate him. He remained calm, planted his feet and waited for Calick to speak.
Calick liked that. He liked that a lot. A muggle who might know what he was doing. What a kill he would be. What a soul to take. It was a shame he wasn't magical. That would make it more glorious.
It was a pity the muggle was completely out-matched. He just didn't know it.
But the more of the pity was the living, breathing, organic mask that sat over Calicks own hard and pointed features. He detested masks. A person should get to see the eyes of the one who bests them. It was an honour to see your killer like that.
It was how Calick hoped to go. Staring into the eyes of the one who beat him. Seeing in his last moments, that triumph of he who had defeated him.
But Calick very much doubted that person had been born yet.
But then, this Policeman was just a muggle. What did he know about honour?
"Did you blokes coordinate your outfits?" The Policeman asked, a hint of mirth in his tone that didn't match his narrowed, suspicious eyes. "Or was it accidental? Do you all need to go home and change?"
Calick offered him a smile. Not a normal smile, mind you. Not a smile that showed even the slightest hint of happiness. No. This smile was entirely malice. It was full of hatred and disgust. The kind of smile one might expect from a predator who was enjoying the display of defiance from its prey.
But the worst thing for Calick, about his own smile, was that it wasn't even his.
"It's a uniform, actually."
Calick's tone crackled with an edge of warning.
The Policeman didn't seem bothered. Calick was right. He liked the Muggle. He was stalwart and strong. His death would be a good one. Muggle or no.
"A uniform, eh?'
"Oh yes," Calick continued, looking at his passive colleagues, who hadn't said a word. Their 'faces of others', not moving at all. But he could tell they were happy. Blissfully so. They just weren't allowed to show it. "We are much like you actually, we enforce the law."
The Policeman gave him another look. "Do you, now?"
"We do."
The Policeman leaned forward on the table that separated the public from the Police.
"And what law would that be, lad?"
Calick smiled that too big, too broad, too foreign, smile right back.
"The laws of the Ministry of Magic, of course."
"Of course," The Policeman said with a nod, still meeting Calicks now-blue eyes. "Of course. What else would it be? Can't be letting them lawbreakers get away with breaching the laws of magic then, can we? Sawing people in half like that. An outrage it is."
Calick nodded along as if they were just two coppers sitting in a pub, discussing their latest and their greatest jobs.
"Can I ask you something?" The Muggle cut in, in a conspiratorial tone.
Calick gave him a nod, as he pulled his wand out from his scarlet coat.
"Have you been sectioned lately?" he asked, somewhat politely. "Do you need to speak with anyone from mental health?"
Calick gave the man a fierce grin.
"I don't need to speak with anyone, Constable. I'm speaking with you," he smiled. "But if you have a God, you should probably start speaking to him."
The Constable stood up and reached for his radio.
It was a shame really, that the man had no way of defending himself. He was a Muggle, he wouldn't get the beautiful and pain-free death of a Green Dream. He would get a different death.
No.
It would not do, to show mercy on a Muggle like this. Muggles didn't deserve the mercy. They were swine. They were animals. They weren't murdered.
They were put down.
It would be a 'Reducto' for him.
"This is for Diagon." Calick said loudly. Too loudly.
He aimed low. Because he could. Because the man deserved to feel the sweetness of pain before he went onwards. It destroyed the desk and sent shards of wood flying each and every way.
The Policeman barely had time to scream, before he was lying on the ground, muted by the agony of what had formerly been two functioning legs. They clearly didn't work anymore. They were facing in directions that legs were not supposed to face.
Calick looked down and could see the bones protruding from the skin.
He gave the man a grim look.
"Death will come for you soon, friend. Until then, I trust you will enjoy the beauty of pain."
It was all the man could do to make a realisation about what had happened. To try and process his newfound station of being on his back with two legs that didn't work anymore.
Calick watched as he reached for his belt. Desperate to try and pull off what appeared to be a black strap. The man reached down and screamed in agony as he tried to wrap it around one of his ruined legs.
"It's no good, friend." Calick said with a sigh. "There will be no surviving this one."
The man looked up at Calick. His face was pale. His forehead sheen with sweat that poured from him.
His teeth were gritted as he desperately tried to fix the strap around his leg and tighten it.
Calick sent a reductor at his hand that caused every bone in it to shatter.
The man wasn't able to scream. He just stared at his hand in shock.
Which was when his colleagues came barrelling through the door.
XxxxxxX
The first man to come running through the door nearly had his head removed from his shoulders by a red beam of light from the wand of the 'Auror' standing nearest to the door. He had been waiting for him.
The second man barrelled into the first and both crumpled to the ground in a heap.
For the third, a woman, she had managed to produce a yellow-looking gun and fire it at one of the Aurors. The two strings that shot from the gun bounced harmless off the shield he had already prepared.
The 'Auror' responded with a Crucio. A cruel effort to teach someone who would soon be dead in the folly of resisting the Aurors.
No one followed them out the door.
Calick turned to the three of them. "Well, what are you waiting for? There's more in there that need to pay for Diagon."
The three nodded and went through the door.
Calick followed behind and admired their work. They were coldly efficient, because of course they were. What other choice did they have? They were blissful in their lives. Happy even. They didn't have to worry about anything.
Calick despised them. That sort of life was for the weak. It was not for him.
He glanced at a female Police officer who came running towards him with a baton raised.
He amused himself as he thought that she looked almost like a witch, with her black wand held aloft. Screaming at him to get down on the ground.
He bound her with a flick of his wrist, and she crumpled to the ground. She would do. He liked her spirit. It took guts to charge at them like that.
Especially as curses were blowing your colleagues around you to pieces.
The 'Aurors' made quick work of the Police, and before long a silence had descended upon them. Well, not really silence. An alarm was blaring and screaming, but Calick silenced it with his wand.
His four companions stood around, watching him.
He saw that their eyes were still blank from the exertion. It was always more difficult when you forced them to do such things. When they were made to do things they were too weak to do otherwise. It seemed to generate this vacant, glassy eyes look.
Most of the time they looked like they always did. That was the trick you see. You had to be careful when you made them do something morally reprehensible.
Like put down a whole pack of animals.
Calick knelt down by the prostrate Policewoman. He could see that her jaw was clenched and fighting hard, as were all her limbs, but it was no good. She was in a full body bind. There was no release for her.
"I admire your courage, you know?" Calick said, looking at her desperate eyes. Watching the tear run down the side of her face. "Really, I do. It's why you get to live. It's why you get to survive this day."
Calick looked around and saw that his four companions were returning to their normal states, their eyes returning to focus. Such a unique curse.
"But I need you to do something for me, do you think you can?"
She said nothing, because she couldn't.
"That's very kind of you," the dinner theatre continued. "I need you to pass on a message for me. You see, I am Auror Gold Class Ronald Weasley. I fought alongside the great Harry Potter in the war against Voldemort. We won. We defeated the Dark Lord."
Calick felt the distaste in his words, but he couldn't let it show. This was for those who were watching at home.
"You tell them all, that we are not to be trifled with. You tell them that they will lose everything in this war. We will never surrender. We will never stop fighting you. You may win the battle, but we will continue to rise up, to strike at you when you think you are safe. You will never, ever be safe, if you continue to wage this war."
Calick gave the Policewoman as sad a smile as he could.
"And you tell them that this was for Diagon."
Then he stunned her.
He gave her a good long look.
Then he stood up and cast a muffliato around, so he could talk to his 'friends.'
"Well done. Good blooding from all of you. Don't worry. It gets easier. It gets easier every time."
He smiled at the three 'Auror's'.
"Now, what say we get back to the farmhouse. We can stop for some booze on the way, I know just the place. I think we've all earnt a round with the Farmer's wife. But first, this building needs to come down I think."
He became vaguely aware of the sounds of sirens that were coming ever closer.
"No dallying about. Let's get it done."
XxxxxxxX
Ron watched on nervously as Rufus stared at the computer monitor. His face had gone tight and his eyes had narrowed. They glanced continually from the computer monitor, to Ron, and back again.
Ron didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit.
"Keep the shields up," Ron whispered to his team. "If this gets ugly, we apparate to the collection point. But we do it at the same time. No breaks in the shields. We go home together."
Each member of his team mumbled their ascent as they kept their shields raised.
The muggles had lowered their weapons, but they were still eyeing them off, with a large degree of suspicion.
"Auror Weasley." Rufus called. Picking up a smaller laptop and approaching the Aurors. "You should perhaps take a look at this."
He pressed play on the screen and Ron watched the attack. Well. He watched himself. He watched himself sidle into the Police Station with a swagger that he certainly didn't possess.
There was no sound, but he watched himself lean against the counter, as cocksure as you like. It was in a manner that was certainly not him, and then he watched on the screen as he brutally murdered the Muggle Policeman he had been talking to.
He also watched him as he went off and murdered a whole bunch more.
When Rufus finally closed the computer, he gave Ron a good long look.
"I assume there is an explanation for this?" Rufus's voice was hardened and had been sharpened. It cut through the tension like a knife. It almost sent a shiver down the back of Ron's spine.
"Polyjuice potion, most likely." Bev answered, before Ron could offer a reply. "It's a potion that can turn you into another person. Lasts about an hour."
Ron nodded.
"And how am I supposed to know this to be true, or believe it?"
Ron thought desperately. Thought for something to come to him. He had never met these men in his life before. They had never spoken, or never seen each other. There were no Polyjuice Polygraphs he could use to prove himself.
"Would I have really come back, if I had been responsible?"
"You might," the voice came from Paul, who had approached and was now standing over Rufus's shoulder. "I've seen stupidity before."
"I'm a trained law enforcement officer. Do you really think I would return to the scene of a violent crime like this, knowing you have cameras?"
Ron could see the one named Paul was thinking. He had not relaxed. He carried his shoulders set, in a way that Ron could tell meant the man was looking for trouble.
"You may not have known about the cameras." Rufus said.
Ron turned and fixed him a look. Then it started to occur to him. "You've investigated reports involving magic before, obviously?"
Rufus nodded, his eyes boring as hard into Ron's as Ron's were boring into his.
"How often are witnesses left? Or CCTV footage?"
Rufus didn't react at all, except to answer. "Almost never."
"Exactly," Ron continued, hardening in his resolve. "Almost never. We are trained in this. We remove the memories of witnesses and we delete any muggle cameras that might have captured what we did. Awfully convenient that a witness was left alive and unharmed and the CCTV of a destroyed station wasn't damaged."
Ron watched as Rufus and Paul looked at each other. He was getting through to them, so Ron tried to push the advantage.
"Think about it," Ron said, almost pleadingly. "It's too perfect. There is too much evidence. It's clumsy. I was the one who led the counterattack on Diagon Alley. I'm the one who managed to stop the Police there. Do you really think I would introduce myself? That I would keep looking at the camera like that? Clearly the man in the footage is boasting about everything. That makes absolutely no sense."
Rufus raised an eyebrow at him. Ron pushed the advantage.
"So, it makes sense to discredit me by using me as the attacker here. Come for a bit of revenge on the Muggles that killed my people. A false flag operation, the day before the big meeting of the heads of state."
Rufus gave Ron a good long look. Ron kept his shields up. There was no need to gamble and put himself in danger. Not now. Not this close.
"I'd wager a year's pay, that this was Death Eaters looking to further drive us apart. To further cause issues between us. They want us at each other's throats. They want Muggles to be the enemies so that they can lure more people to their cause. They can get support for their war."
Silence greeted him. Even his team members had turned to watch him as he spoke. He could see it was starting to get through to the two detectives.
"You told me you wanted us to work together. Well, here we are. Let's work together. But the first thing you need to do. Is lower those fucking guns."
Rufus gave him another long look. Then, after what felt like an age he nodded. He turned towards the assembled Police and waved a hand at them.
The guns came back down.
Ron felt like he could breathe again.
"Now, let's get to work." Ron turned to his team. "You know what to do."
His team nodded, and the shield came down with a reluctance that couldn't exactly be ignored. He didn't need to direct them what to do, they knew. They knew how to check for signs of magical activity, and to attempt to determine its source.
Rufus wandered over to him.
The two men stood next to each other and watched as the Aurors fanned out and began to speak with the detectives. Pointing out things on the footage, or amongst the wreckage. The muggle detectives frantically took notes.
This is going to be a mammoth effort to clean up. A mammoth effort.
"Tomorrow is the big day." Rufus said allowed, after a period of silence.
Ron nodded.
"How's your Minister of Magic? He a reasonable sort?"
Ron turned to face Rufus. Rufus was watching him. His guarded expression only exposed a hint of concern. He was tense. Ron couldn't remember the last time he had been like this around a muggle before.
Ron almost liked the man. Almost. It would be a shame that when all was said and one, he wouldn't remember.
"He is. War hero. Fought in the last war with distinction. Also worked closely with your Prime Minister. Was his protection."
Rufus nodded. "That's good then. Our Prime Minister is also a war hero. Though he's not known as a forgiving man."
Ron nodded. That was less than ideal.
"Ron? Are you alright?"
Ron turned and saw the look that Rufus was giving him. The tension must have shown in his face. His clenched fist, held tight around his wand. He was still ready. Ready for them to turn on him at a moments notice. Ready for the muggles to start shooting.
He had to try and relax.
"I'm fine."
But he wasn't.
XxxxxxX
Thursday 17th September, 2012
He let half of it out. The air in his lungs. He had done it thousands of times before.
At the range. In combat. It had become second nature.
His feet were shoulder-width apart, his left in front of his right, with a slight bend in his hips.
It was textbook. Textbook shooting. His hand tightened around the old familiar grip of his pistol.
He didn't need his rifle. Not at this range. Not with the amount of people who could try and intervene. The short barrel of his pistol would come in handy for rapid target acquisition. He could drop all three. He knew it.
It would be quick.
He pulled.
Just as a massive hand closed around the outside of his. He pulled hard against it, but it was no use. It did nothing. The hand was too strong. The grip was too tight.
"Easy Pal," Mac's voice was a whisper and only James could hear it. "No need to do something we'll regret."
"Let me go," James hissed back. "I have to do this."
"The fuck yeh do," Mac hissed back. "Don't yeh fucking dare."
Mrs Jones had stopped to speak with Mr Rogers. Jones was pointing over at something and Mrs Jones was nodding along with whatever he was saying. It pissed James off even further. It was like they were fucking baiting him. Like they were fucking waiting in the optimal position for him to drop them. Right here. Right now.
"They fucked us, Mac," James hissed. His eyes not leaving Mrs Jones as she nodded along to whatever was told. "They fucked us. They made us drop friendlies. He was my friend. He was my fucking mate."
Mac's hand did not relinquish. He placed his free arm around James and pulled him close. James struggled, but it was useless. He couldn't pull away. Mac was just too strong.
"If they fucked us, we'll fuck them good and proper. Say the fucking word and we will bring their world down around them. But not here. Not now."
James pulled harder, but the vice-like grip of Mac meant that he got absolutely nowhere.
"Hermione ain't deserve to lose yeh this way."
The mere mention of her name finally caused him to pause. He had pushed her out of his mind, again and again. He had pulled away from the thought; rationalised and excused his behaviour. Behaviour that was not welcome.
Even when Delilah had invaded his mind, it hadn't stopped.
But now, with his mate holding him and making him actually face the music, the reality came crashing in like a tidal wave he was not at all prepared for.
He couldn't do it. Not to her. Not now.
Her voice swam into his mind.
"And then I lost you. You were gone. You were dead. And I was broken."
He stopped pulling and slumped against Mac, who pumped him on the shoulder with a huge hand.
He couldn't. He couldn't do it. Not to her. Not to Hermione.
He tensed into Mac and felt himself shudder.
He pictured it. The two officers arriving at the door. Not Regiment, Military Police. A chaplain telling her he was dead. That he had gone rogue. That he had shot three government agencies.
That he was a traitor to the Regiment. His name would be stricken from the Regimental History.
He saw her. Her horror. Her rage. Her fucking devastation.
He saw those eyes. Those wonderful, beautiful, gorgeous brown orbs. Those orbs that showed him that he was home. That he was where he belonged. That he was where he was loved.
He saw her. Sliding down the wall. He saw her body wracked with sobs. With anger. He saw those same eyes that bore into him as he promised; as he promised her that he would try to live.
He promised her. And one week later, he was throwing that promise away.
"You're alright, lad." Mac said, in the closest thing to a soothing tone that James had ever heard from the big man. "Sort it out, now, you're up."
James shook his head. To remove the image. To remove the thoughts of betrayal from his mind. That voice that crept into the back of his head and whispered the things he knew to be true.
You don't deserve her. You don't deserve her at all. You're a worthless piece of shit. The fuck is wrong with you?
James relaxed his hand. He pushed his pistol back into its holster so it sat snugly.
He let out a long and slow breath as Mrs Jones began walking over to him.
Mac's hand reached out and slapped him on his back. He nearly fell into the ground from the force of the impact.
It was good. It was enough. It broke him from his moment and he blinked.
"Is this some kind of strange primordial male routine on the field of victory?" She said, as Mac stepped back and away from James.
He gritted his teeth.
"No, Ma'am," he managed to push out from between his clenched jaw. "Call it a team tradition."
Mrs Jones looked at him. For a long moment, he met her cold eyes and was concerned that she could read his mind. He couldn't lie to her. He never had been able to. She was scarily like Hermione in her ability to stare deep into the depths of him and determine exactly what he had done.
"I see," she said, then she looked past him, past the Regiment men who were standing around, mostly chatting amongst themselves. Out past Mark, still holding a squirming and crying Delilah. "Shall we go and look at the dead?"
James couldn't speak. The horror was seeping back in through the very pores of his skin, he could feel it tingling. The loss. The thought that his mate was, now, no longer Ron Weasley.
He wasn't Ron Weasley, husband, father-to-be. He wasn't a wizard, or his mate. He wasn't the very first friend that James had apparently ever made.
That was all he was now. 'The dead.' Fallen. His name would only carry the connotations of what was lost, to those who knew him. He was just that now. He was 'the dead'. He was no more and he was no less.
James just nodded, and followed Mrs Jones, who hadn't even waited for an answer; too busy striding off towards the four crumpled bodies on the ground.
A small group of MI5 officers trailed in her wake.
James watched her go and went to take after her. But before he could move, he could feel Mac's eyes on him. He turned to Mac and nodded. Then he rearranged his mask, both the one he wore on the outside, and the one he wore on his face. He pulled it up to conceal his features. It wouldn't do for the MI5 people to see him like this.
He trudged after her and came across the bodies. He refused to look. Keeping his eyes glued on Mark, who was pointing at Daisy, over in the distance in an attempt to distract Delilah from what was occurring.
James saw out of his periphery as Rogers approached her and produced a torch, shining it into the faces of the men on the ground.
"Ah," Mrs Jones said. "Excellent. You got them."
James felt it in his chest. That burning sense of anger as it built up. She was fucking gloating. Gloating. After what she had made him do. After what they had all done, she had the absolute nerve to be like this.
"Yes. All four. Well done," she continued.
James pointedly looked over at Daisy. As if she could provide him a measure of comfort. As if she contained all the answers to all the questions that bubbled around inside of him. Questions he didn't know if he wanted answers to anymore. He didn't know anything. Anything at all.
Except he's dead. And it's your fault.
"Still no update on where they got the uniforms?"
Probably from their version of a quartermaster.
"No Ma'am," one of the lackeys said. "We are still trying to close that intelligence gap. Might be something worth bringing up with the Aurors tomorrow?"
"Of course," Mrs Jones replied. Almost bored.
Bored. BORED.
James flexed, and unflexed his hand. He wanted so desperately to reach for his pistol. To put her down. It was fair. It would be fair. They would share the ground. All of them. Vindication would be swift and easy.
Hermione.
He focussed in on her. The way she smiled. The way she said his name. The way she smelt, and felt, and tasted, when he kissed her. When he kissed her all over. He focussed in on how upset she would be if he was to die. Mac had been right. He couldn't do it. Not to her. Not now.
Not after everything.
He had done enough.
How in the fuck am I supposed to tell her about this.
An image swam into his mind, of her and she was crying. Accusing. She was yelling and screaming at him. Only this time, it wasn't over fucking bloke chat. It was over the fact that he had been largely responsible for the death of Ronald Weasley.
That he had come back into the world, and all he had brought, was death. Death and misery.
Would she leave him? Would she go? The thoughts swam back into his mind. She'd be right to. She'd be right to go. To abandon me again. I've done her no favours. She came and she found me and all I brought her was the death of her best friend. All I brought her was pain and suffering.
Maybe he should go.
No.
That he could not do. The thought, as soon as it had entered, had fled from the same door from whence it had come.
Because he was too weak to flee. If she left, then that would be her decision. She would have to go. He couldn't. He was in it now. He was stuck. The very thought of a life without her only caused him to feel the grounding down of the last shaky pillar that was serving to hold his life together. He couldn't do it.
It would have to be her. She would have to be the strong one?
"Can we confirm that these four are the ones responsible?"
A silence greeted her question.
But it pissed James off. The anger burned through him again. A wildfire running loose over the prairie.
Finally, he turned his head to look at Mrs Jones. She was standing by as the suited individuals inspected the bodies of the Aurors.
She looked up and caught James's eyes. And she read the anger immediately.
"James?" she called. Her voice was lighter than usual. It contained none of the gravitas that was normally a permanent fixture. None of the air of superiority that swam out of her. Instead it was the closest thing to kind he had ever heard from her. "Come here, please."
James just stared at her. His right hand clenched and unclenched again. He was furious. It would be so easy.
Hermione. She can't lose you both in one day.
He shook his head.
"Please," her voice was seemingly almost genuine. It was as if she was actually asking, not giving the orders he was used to. "I think you need to see something."
James could see there was a body near her feet. Ron. Ron was at her feet.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't go over there and face this. He couldn't. He had seen Ron. That was enough. That was all he had needed to see. He didn't need to see anymore. Not at all.
"James. I promise you. You will want to see this," her voice had become more insistent, though it still did not contain the tone he had come to know as the one she used when she expected something.
James let out a breath and turned to look at Mac, who was standing closer than normal. His machine gun hung easily in front of him and he had removed his face wrap, revealing his long and bushy beard.
Mac was giving him the look. That look. The look that told him to be careful.
James gave him a nod and moved over to Mrs Jones.
"Look."
She pointed at Ron's body.
James kept his eyes fixed on her, but his eyes bore through her. He was miles away. He was at home. He was at home in bed, snuggled up with Hermione and breathing in the scent of her hair. She was in his arms.
It was fine. She was fine. They were fine.
They really weren't.
"James," her voice was kind. Insanely close to it. As close to kind as Mrs Jones could get. It broke his reverie. He blinked and focussed in on her. "I see what's happened. You looked too early. Look now."
She pointed down at Ron's body.
James kept his eyes fixed on her for a good long moment. He felt it. His hand. It flexed. It flexed in and then it flexed out.
He heard movement next to him and realised that Mac was now standing next to him. Closer than was usual. It was a good read on Mac's part. The urge was still there.
But then he let out a long breath and tore his eyes from her and looked down at Ron.
Only it wasn't. Not anymore.
The body was still bloated. It was still contorted. It still had all the wounds that it had sustained during the ambush. But it lay there. Staring up at him.
The white light only served to make the body look even paler. It showed the wide dead eyes that were no longer light blue, but dark brown. He had angular, pointed features, and hair that looked like a dull shade of brown even if it was not under a ridiculously bright and pointed torch.
He couldn't look away. He could only stare as his world came crashing in. As it all tumbled down on top of him. Like he had been a building marked for destruction and all the supports had been hit at once.
He could almost feel the dust clouds rising, off what was left, of what he knew in the world. He could almost see them around him.
He didn't react. There was no initial scream, gasp, or jump for joy. There was nothing like that.
He just stared at the body that was not his mate. And he took it in.
He took it all in.
Then he tried. He tried to rebuild everything that had collapsed, but it was too heavy and he had nowhere to start.
He didn't know how.
It spilled out of him with a long breath. But still he stared at the man's angular features. The man's angular and pointed features. The man's features, that were not Ron Weasleys.
"Name?" James's voice was hoarse. There was no hitch. It just sounded broken. As if he had just downed a pint of broken glass. It was almost unintelligible. He was not only surprised then, when Mrs Jones answered, but that she had understood the question to begin with.
"Tiberius Calick," her voice was light, still. Normal. As if they were exchanging pleasantries on a warm summer's day, instead of looking over the body of a man who had expired. "He's a Death Eater. One of those that escaped. And today, these four individuals attacked a Police station in London. They killed eleven and left one survivor."
James just nodded.
"The other three are Death Eaters as well. Not sworn in ones though. Calick is the only true believer here. We believe the other three are disenfranchised youths who were swayed by the promises of money and power."
James began to feel his heart pounding in his chest, as if it was the subject to artillery bombardment.
"If you ask me, all they needed was a sports team, not a terrorist organisation. They just needed somewhere to belong. Outcasts. Misfits. Fit the general mould of those recruited into Terrorist organisations. As it is in our world, it is in theirs."
James could barely take in the words.
"And-" he whispered. Breathless. Desperate. Both wanting to hear the answer and not at all wanting to feel the rise of hope, back up into his chest, again.
"Your friend Ron Weasley attended and is helping with the investigation."
"He's not – "
"He's alive and well. He's not harmed."
James felt it then. The confirmation that seemed to crack him on the back of the skull. It threatened to buckle his knees. But he was proud that he remained standing. He was glad for the face covering. Maybe, that hid the fact that he was biting his bottom lip so hard he was drawing blood.
What in the fuck is happening to me?
He looked at Mrs Jones again.
"A false flag."
He nodded and looked back at the body.
"Did – " his voice failed and he fought to find it again. It was a battle that challenged him more than he expected. "Did you know- "
"That he was going to look like Mr Weasley?" Mrs Jones asked as they locked eyes again. "No. All we knew was that four Death Eaters were staying in this location, and they would likely be used in some form of attack soon. We had no intelligence as to where the attack would be, so we staged you here to hit them on the return. By the time we found out they were disguised, you had gone into a communications blackout."
James nodded. The rest of the world had been bait. They had all been bait.
Fuck, they all still were.
"For what it's worth. I'm sorry, James. There was no way to warn you once we knew what was happening."
That did it for him. He spun on his heel and took off. His strides were long and purposeful as he moved away.
"James." Mrs Jones called out to him, and he gave an involuntary pause. "There may come a time, that you are going to have to make a choice. An important choice. Not just you, but your lovely Dr Granger aswell. You know what I mean. Make the choice, James, otherwise the world will make it for you."
He turned his head, but he didn't look at her. His lips quivered as he went to speak.
But he didn't. He couldn't. He strode off with his big meaningful strides. He was desperate to get away from the ambush site. Away from everyone.
He strode past Delilah and Mark. He heard her little voice.
"James chose the nice lady Mark! Did you see. He chose her! He chose the nice lady."
"I saw." Marks's voice was hard in its return. "I saw everything."
He ignored it. He kept going. As far as he could. As much distance as he could put between them all.
He could feel it. The saliva building up in his mouth. He knew what was coming.
He ripped his face wrap down around his neck and approached the wooden fencing that kept him from Daisy.
His dinner reappeared in a spray that narrowly avoided the end of his boots.
It was wretched and he was disgusted by the heaves in his body.
He spat on the ground. Trying to rid his mouth of the taste.
Then he went down on his haunches. Spitting.
What the fuck is happening to me?
Another wave of nausea hit him. And he tried to breathe through it. But it was no use. He could feel it coming. There was no stopping it.
A cough. A splutter. More came out. All over the ground.
He looked and saw that Daisy was eyeing him. She had wandered over to him. He gave her a gentle pat on the snout, which she seemed to appreciate.
"Don't judge me Daisy. I'm falling apart. I'm supposed to be pathetic," he said to her, as she swished her tail around.
She looked at him. Despite his protestations, it was all he could do not to see the judgement in her big eyes.
He looked back down at the pile of sick in front of him.
"Daisy, when you were a calf, did you ever get the feeling like the world would be a better place without you in it?" he said, as he continued to stroke her face. "It's a horrible feeling. But I think we all have it, from time to time."
He gave a deep, guttural, sigh. Then he continued to stroke her neck.
"I think the only thing worse than asking that question, is finding out the answer."
He pulled back and looked into her big, confused, eyes.
Then he began to laugh.
XxxxxxxxxxxX
Friday, 18th September 2012
"The suit looks good on you," Kingsley said, eyeing his Chief of Aurors, as they sat in the magically enlarged back seat of the BMW.
"If it's all the same to you, Kingsley, I'll take my uniform and robes, any day of the week." He reached up and adjusted his tie. "These suits are just so stifling. So restrictive. I don't know how you did it for so long."
Kingsley let out a slow, booming laugh, before reaching up to adjust the small Ministry of Magic pin that sat on his lapel collar.
"You get used to them. Plus, you forgot the little trick."
"And what's that?"
"Magic."
Robards just gave him a look. A signature look. A look that said he wasn't impressed by his former subordinate and now boss's attitude towards the situation.
But his lips twitched and he couldn't help but smile. It broke the tension. Neither would admit to it, but they were nervous. There was no saying that this was not an ambush. A chance to wipe out the head of Government and the head of the defensive sector of the wizarding government, in one fell swoop.
But they had decided, in the end, that peace was the goal. And if peace was the goal, they had to take the chance on diplomacy.
But that didn't mean they had to love the circumstances.
A silence fell over them. They would not admit it, but that would not stop them from thinking about it. From dwelling on it. From playing over every contingency in their head, time and time again.
They had three teams of Auror's. Twelve people. Twelve, good, loyal, trustworthy people. They would be allowed entry into 10 Downing Street.
Eight more, the drivers and cover people, would remain with the cars out the front.
It was agreed. It was protocol.
Everything was above board. Kingsley had noted that there was no difference, from what he had seen, when he had been assigned to protect the Muggle Prime Minister, all those years ago.
"The new cars are nice."
It was said to break the silence. Kingsley hated silence like this. There had been too many times in his life and in his career where he had sat on the end of tension, ready to go. Waiting, waiting, endless waiting. Wishing it would start already because the waiting was worse.
He found talking helped.
"Yes," Gawain agreed. "They're top of the line. From what I understand, they are the vehicles used by the most paranoid heads of Governments. We warded them against everything, naturally, but they also came fixed with extra armour fittings. These vehicles will stop most of the handheld Muggle weapons."
"Do you think it will come to that?"
Gawain just looked out the window and watched the streets of London pass him by.
"I don't know, Kingsley," he said finally, fatigue in his otherwise strong voice. "I just don't know. Especially with everything that's been going on. We've been completely blindsided. We had no idea this was coming. We saw nothing. We read no signs. And we still are short on information."
Kingsley said nothing, content to let Gawain speak.
"But, I have to believe that their intent is real. That they actually want to speak to us. That there is a chance for peace. A chance that we can work something out that means that we remain secret and left to our own devices. A chance that we can just move past this and make a new normal; a better one."
Kingsley just continued his stare.
"Because if we can't, Merlin help us all, with the war that will come. We have so many advantages. But there are things we aren't seeing. Things we are missing. Things that just don't make any sense. It's aggravating."
Gawain looked back at Kingsley.
"I almost miss the Voldemort days. That was an enemy we could fight. An enemy we had trained to fight. We could figure out his moves, make reasonable guesses. We buried friends, of course. Too many. Too bloody many. But that was the way it was. That was the war we fought. And we were supposed to fight it. In a way, that made sense. That war was something we could live with, because, we understood it, we trained for it, and we were able to stand on even ground."
Gawain looked down and checked his watch.
"This is something different. This is unnatural and wrong. It does not feel right. Something about it aggravates me. It's like it shows itself when I blink, but disappears when I open my eyes. Like it dances outside my vision. Like it is teasing me, almost. Trying to keep me off guard.
I don't understand the connection with the Death Eaters and the Muggle Government. I don't understand how Voldemort and Potter come into this. I don't understand much."
Gawain then looked back out of the window, seeing that the cars were slowing, now, and men, stationed and in uniform, were standing on the street.
"I just know that if we don't stop a war, a lot of people are going to die. Ours and theirs. Innocent people. This isn't evil, blood purists against society. This is one society against another. And that is much worse. We won't need to teach our children this story, Kingsley. They will see it with their own eyes."
A silence settled in as he stopped speaking. Neither man knew what to say. Kingsley wanted to offer words of comfort, but felt it inappropriate.
If anything, he was satisfied that Gawain felt the same as he did. His speech had, appropriately, settled them into a sombre mood.
"Thank you, Gawain," Kingsley said finally, as the passenger of the vehicle disembarked to let him out. "For everything."
"You got it, Minister," Gawain said, returning to formality.
The door opened, and they exited.
Several men in suits stood near the door. They had straight backs and hands clasped tightly in front of them.
They were all immaculately manicured. Short, neat hair, mostly clean-shaven, with some neat beards.
Several Police stood around, in full uniform and holding firearms across their chests.
Their eyes darted around, and small cables hung from their ears.
Kingsley looked at their waists and saw that they had Police badges hanging from their belts, as well as firearms.
The security detail.
For their part, the Aurors, dressed in black suits, with red ties, and bearing official Ministry of Magic Pins, which doubled as personal protection portkeys, had fanned out and stood in position to move forward, to protect Kingsley, at a moment's notice.
Tension hung in the air.
Until a man in a neat suit, greying, in his late fifties stepped to the door and announced.
"Good Evening, Gentlemen," he said in a pompous voice. "The Right Honourable Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, extends his warmest welcome to his guests. If the Minister would please, follow me, he will be greeted for a light supper."
The man looked at Kingsley and offered a small bow.
"As to the security, if you would like to accompany me inside, you will be free to remain in the drawing room for supper, while the heads of state have there meeting. "
He then promptly spun on his heel with a trained precision and moved inside.
Kingsley followed, his powerful strides taking the stairs with ease.
His ensemble followed, with Gawain at the head.
They stepped into an ornate entrance hall and several men arrived and offered low bows. They ushered the security detail into a large drawing room, to the right.
"If the Minister of Magic would kindly follow me." The Prime Minister's chamberlain said, before leading Kingsley down the hall to a different door. He spun towards Kingsley and opened the door, allowing Kingsley to step through first.
The chamberlain then entered and spoke in a loud clear voice, despite Kingsley being alone in the room with a well-dressed man who was standing, easily, behind a leather sofa.
He was a fit man, in his late fifties. He had well-cut, formerly dark hair that had gone almost completely grey. He was clean-shaven and he wore thick, dark glasses.
"The Minister of Magic. Kingsley Shacklebolt," the chamberlain announced.
Kingsley bowed his head courteously. It was not a full bow, that would be unbecoming. More like a respectful inclination of the head. The leader of a nation did not bow to the leader of another. They were equals. They both held the position of authority in their governments, and it would not do to cede authority to the other.
The man returned the half bow.
"Minister Shacklebolt, May I present The Right Honourable Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Sir Richard Hollister."
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
Hello,
Welcome to Chapter Twenty One of Remember What I Forgot.
Ron's not dead everyone!
Once again, a massive thankyou to all of you who have read, reviewed and left kudos on this story. It means much more than you know, and your support is so gracious.
Not to mention a thank you to those of you who are still reading.
Sorry for the delay on this one. There's been a huge amount going on in the background of ATG's life. But I did write two other pieces/chapters in between posting this one. One of those 'Last Night' is a RWIF story. It is some happiness in what has otherwise not been a happy story. It can be found over on AO3. Where you can post things in a series. So if you want more RWIF, it's there to be found.
I do so hope you enjoy this chapter, and I hope that I can get the next chapter to you in a couple of week's time as we build towards the end.
Cheers,
ATG
P.S A MASSIVE thank you to LancashireWitch for all her hard work in beta'ing this work. She is tireless and work her butt off to help everyone she betas. I cannot put into words how grateful I am to her for her assistance. This is the first chapter I have posted that she has beta'd beforehand. However, More has been added since she looked at it, so any mistakes are purely on me. Do not blame her. She's wonderful.