Disclaimer: If we assume that time is wibbly wobbly and then accept the possibility of reincarnation it becomes clear that I could have theoretically been/be JKR in a past/future life. At the moment however, I am not J K Rowling and I don't profit at all from these works.
Note: Massive Delays between chapters are at an end! My first semester ended last week and my final exam was yesterday meaning the next month and a half will be devoted to getting a considerable chunk of this story written. It's been so long so I'd like to thank any of you who have indeed stuck around and can still even remember this fic!
You see I'm against hunting, in fact I'm a hunt saboteur. I go out the night before and shoot the fox.
Tim Vine
He hadn't meant to slap the nurse.
Honestly, the woman could stop blubbering about it though. He'd been jolted awake, it was an automatic reflex. She'd copped it quite well on the jaw really, only the merest trickle of blood.
Plus he was in a foul mood. Crying and wailing weren't going to garner an apology out of Emmanuel now.
The Granger bitch had got away.
The lab was in ruins, the corridor splintered with wood and scorch marks, Sullivan's office ransacked, his officers still tied up and unconscious in the ward's lunchroom. Nurses had been running up and down the stairs for the last five minutes trying to get a look in to the barred off ward with the magical law enforcement officers doing absolutely nothing to soothe the mayhem- running around instead like a flock of headless fucking chicken.
And this silly nurse was sobbing about a sodding slap. He'd half a mind to go over there and give her something to properly cry about, but taking in a deep breath, he let his rage seep below the surface.
Calm.
He was in control.
If he didn't get this situation in control now, he'd end up Obliviating half of St Mungo's and god know he didn't have time for that rubbish.
Not when he had a few hours at the most to catch onto Granger's trail. Beckoning over two of the more non-descript MLE officers, Emmanuel dusted down his robes and set a measured glance down the corridor.
"Orright, I want you two to separate your men. I want the stairs above and below this landing sealed off, tell the Mungo's lot to use the service stairs. I'll need a half dozen to remain on this ward, then I want you two to escort all hospital staff on this floor upstairs. Standard obliviation. They saw one of the more volatile potion experiments go astray. Spontaneous combustion. Nothing unusual. Understand?"
"Yes sir." With sharp nods, the two officers spun around and Emmanuel was left standing on the ward, his eyes glazed over until the room was quiet once more. Looking up, only six of the law enforcement squad remained, standing upright by the doors, awaiting orders.
Wasting no time, Emmanuel strode into the wards small lunch room, levitating the faded leather couch out of the way before forcibly awakening his men with a bang from his wand. Tied up as they were, their starts of alarm were almost comical. Almost. Not nearly as comical as their looks of terror once their eyes focused on Emmanuel.
"Gentlemen."
His voice was barely above a murmur- deep and devoid of any emotion.
"Sir- I can explain-"
"The mudblood bitch was-"
"It wasn't our fault sir-"
Emmanuel looked down at them, cocking his head as though thinking the situation through. He wasn't of course. There was no reprieve he could give these men. Pity. It was so difficult training new lackeys. He'd almost grown to tolerate them as well.
"You have three seconds to tell me exactly what happened."
Emmanuel nodded through the men's stammered tale of the witch hiding in the lunchroom before he went downstairs. His nodding stopped as the men skimmed over exactly how they came to enter the lunchroom when he'd specifically instructed them to wait in the lab. He barely contained his look of disgust as they told of being disarmed and neutralised.
Neutralised. Their words. As if they'd been facing a horde of vicious death eaters, not some slip of a witch hiding behind a door.
Emmanuel looked down at the wand in his hand, twisting it through his fingers, twirling it in front of the two men who sat dazed, following the movement with bated breath and looks of utter terror. The room was empty, the MLE officers outside silent. He let the tension grow steadily.
It was a shame really.
They were almost sure to scream.
Sighing, Emmanuel spun his wand into his hand with lightening speed, quickly stupefying his men once more. He didn't have the time for this now. After all- a career transfer to the newly reclaimed Azkaban would probably prove more painful than any quick round of Cruciatus. Even without the presence of Dementors, the place was bloody miserable.
Leaving the two morons on the ground, still tied up and slumped against each other, Emmanuel set down the corridor and properly examined the wreckage for the first time. Prodding aside the splintered remains of Sullivan's door, he lowered to his knees and ran his finger along the black lino of the corridor's floor.
His hand came up crimson with blood. Straining his eyes now, Emmanuel noticed the dark splotches of blood pooling beneath and even marking some of the larger splinters of wood. Drawing his wand, he siphoned off the congealed blood into a newly conjured flask, grinning all the while. Even the morons he worked with would be able to get a positive ID from blood left at a crime scene. Stoppering the vial and stowing it in the pocket of his coat, Emmanuel quickly ducked into Sullivan's office, heading straight for the filing cabinet at the end of the room. He'd placed the files there himself last night and he doubted the girl had been able to recover them. The warding meant only Sullivan and himself could recover the files, and he'd only included Sullivan to placate the whinging bastard. Brightest witch of her age or not, she wouldn't have had time to re-configure the warding.
Smirking, Emmanuel slid the drawer open, picturing the files in his minds eye. As the drawer clicked, he opened his eyes to a slate of blank metal. Slamming the drawer shut once more, he drew a shuddering breath. Calm.
He was calm. He was in control. The files swam in the darkness before him as he waited for the echoing click of the drawers lock. He exhaled haltingly as he opened his eyes once more.
Empty.
Stalking to the shattered doorway, Emmanuel stuck his head around the corner, beckoning one of the Law Enforcement officers over. Wasting no time on words he grabbed the fellow by the wrist and dragging him through the splinter-covered floor to the old brass filing cabinet. Setting the man's arm on the drawers handle, he instructed him to open.
As the officer shot him an alarmed look, the drawer pulled open beneath his hand, revealing a slew of ordinary department files. It shouldn't have opened at all. Slamming the drawer shut once more, Emmanuel set the officers hand upon the drawer again.
"Think about a file on Agrippa"
"What's Agrippa-"
"Just. Do. It."
As the drawer clicked and the young officer swung the drawer out smoothly, Emmanuel looked down at the almost tauntingly bare brass.
"Get out."
The lad didn't need telling twice, speeding out of the room and away from Emmanuel's presence without a second glance. It was only once the lad had cleared the threshold of the room that Emmanuel let out a sincere throaty chuckle, a grin springing to his face. She was good. She was better than good.
But then, so was he, and this had only just begun.
Reg was no stranger to great muggle expressions. His wife had bought him a book full of em, tired as she was of hearing his bungled up versions. Not that he thought 'the cat's pyjamas" or the "Bee's knees" made any sense to begin with, but he kept that to himself, and read the book to keep her happy. After all, the secret to domestic bliss was really just the matter of a happy wife. The book hadn't been too bad mind you, and there were certainly some moments in life that only a muggle maxim could capture.
Like how no good deed went unpunished.
Reg's heart had almost given out at the sight of Emmanuel striding through the floo office, his usually cheery grin gone in favour of a grim look of determination.
He'd found out he'd put Weasley's floo on the register as late as practically possible- no worse, he'd probably found out he tipped Arthur off about it. Or that he'd delayed reporting on the floo's activity. Why else would the man be here?
Reg anxiously watched on as the tanned wizard drew nearer and nearer. He didn't have time to nip into the outer office. They'd notice if he got up now. All he could do was sit there. No- he'd look busy, keep busy, keep his head down, maybe he wouldn't be noticed, maybe-
"Reginald Cattermole?"
Reg looked up from the paperwork in front of him, his face a mask of fear rather than outright guilt- his only consolation.
"Yes sir?"
"It was you who helped me this morning, wasn't it."
Reg couldn't help but hear the slightest trace of accusation in the man's quite monotone voice.
"Yes sir."
"Good man. There's only been one hit, I understand."
"Yes sir, I sent off the transcript to the Auror Offices sir."
He was overdoing it with the sirs. He sounded like an idiot. Sounded guilty. The man had to know. Emmanuel's eyebrow quirked up as waited for Reg to continue.
"It was gate 493, the Weasley Residence. The ex-minister Kingsly Shaklebolt, sir." Reg' voice had hollowed out and his stomach felt sick. After what this bastard had done to his wife, done to the Weasleys, and no doubt a load of other miserable sods, and he was helping him. How could he look Mary in the eyes?
But how could he lose his job? Not with little Ellie about to attend her first year at Hogwarts.
"Thank you, excellent." Emmanuel's smile was wide as ever, his eyes glinting as he continued. "I need you to place a wide-scope alert on two magical signatures. Just you, and you're to keep it to yourself mind. Here's the file on the first suspect, and I'll need you to extract the second signature from this." Reg set the standard manila ministry file on his desk and reached out to take the thin strip of card off Emanuel. Staring horrified down at the plain card, Reg recognised the single, murky dot for what it was, a blood sample. Struggling to contain his reaction and the sudden aversion to the card now heavy in his sweaty hand, Reg nodded once more and heard himself let out another 'yes sir'
"It's Cattermole, isn't it."
Reg's mouth went dry and he nodded again, not trusting his voice.
"I just want you to know, your co-operation is appreciated, and you will be rewarded for all your help. I'll see to it that you and your family are given every compensation for your troubles during service."
Reg really hoped his thoughts weren't plastered all over his face. He could probably get into a fair bit of trouble for telling this bastard to stick his compensation up his arse- even if it was through facial expressions alone. As it was it didn't much matter, Emanuel hadn't bothered sticking around to gauge Reg's reaction, and his form could be seen retreating across the offices, the light grey of his robes flickering as he made his exit.
Letting out a breath, that he hadn't realised he was holding, Reg glanced down at the file before him, flicking it open. Sure enough, with a sickening drop of his stomach, the face of former minister Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared before him. It was odd. Reg felt removed as he collected the blood sample and made his way to the department's small workstation. For some reason, none of this surprised him at all. He had the strangest feeling the events unfolding before him were not half-way finished, and that none of them would prove to be good.
"What does he want us to do with this lot?"
"Box it."
Without further ceremony Jeremy swept the precariously piled stacks of parchment and records off the desk, before flourishing his wand and floating them into a floating, newly conjured box. If there had been some system to the chaos of paper and carefully annotated notes, it was now long gone. Emmanuel had pulled him and Charlie out of Admin Services and given them 15 minutes to gather everything Ex-Minister Shacklebolt had been working on for the past two months- and by merlin, the man had been busy.
Jeremy didn't envy him a jot. The small office was the same dull brown colour throughout all the lower offices of the Ministry, and the room far too insiginificant to warrant a magical window. The only light emitted trickled down from the aged magical lamps on the walls faded panelling and the stacks of paper covering every surface deepened the clinging shadows of the room. Admin Services was bad enough, but the finances division- now that was a nightmare. He could only imagine the adjustment between hunting down deadly renegade death eaters and chasing down misplaced decimal points- and if what he could make out from the heavily revised files as he shoved them artlessly in the box, the old Malfoy estate had more than a few figures out of place.
"What do you reckon they'll do to em?"
Only three years working by the same desk as Charlie let him identify the responding grunt as that of confusion. The man was all robes and no neck, a predicament only emphasised by the stiff buzz cut and rather deplorable lexicon.
"I mean the seized Malfoy Estates."
The next grunt as accompanied with the collapse of the largest tower of notes as Charlie toppled it into the box for effect.
"Sell it off, it they can manage it, I reckon."
It was now Jeremy's turn to scoff.
"Who do you know with the gold to buy a fucking mansion?"
Charlie looked at him derisively here, holding up a fist full of parchment and letting them rain down from his fingers.
"More than one fucking mansion mate. As for who's got the gold? Not the malfoy's , that's for sure. If I get to sleep at night it's purely in the knowledge that somewhere, bunked up on a dirty cot and living in rags, Lucius Malfoy has to ration out the bog paper to wipe his arse with. Works better than dreamless sleep, I'm telling yeh."
Charles had always been charming- a real wordsworth.
"Now stop your useless wondering and help me shift this lot. He said he wanted them upstairs before he left and it'll take a good five minutes to haul this up to Teddy Burges' office."
Kreacher had just finished masters onion soup when they came.
Thud.
The walls shook, the ceilings creaked ominously and the crystal chandeliers clinked, teetering as tufts of dust rose up in the air. Kreacher knew how his mistresses portrait must be screeching in the house's dingy attic.
Thud.
"Nasty urchins! Besmirching the house of black- of Potter. What will master think." Kreacher's usual mutter had risen to a distressed growl. Paying no mind to the creaking of his knees, he carefully made his way out of the kitchen, soup ladle held high in the air and his faced pinched furiously.
Thud.
Standing in the hallway, the old elf could now make out the glow of magic pulsing at the door, or rather, slowly penetrating the wards of the ancient dwelling. Kreacher shook his head. What would master thing. The House of Black, had not been breached in two centuries. The wards was strong! Strong wards for a strong house! That's what Kreachers past master had said. The House of Black could never be breached!
Thud.
The Door slammed open and a horde of wizards ran through the still glowing light, wands held aloft until Kreacher was surrounded in the cramped hallway. What would Master think. Kreacher had let the House of Black be breached.
"It's just a house elf, search upstairs for Granger."
Kreacher was shoved to the ground as four of the men streamed past him, running up the stairs and infiltrating his master's house.
What would master think?
Mustering up the furious song of magic from the depths of his bones, and further, from the very foundations of the house he had been born to serve and protect, Kreacher let everything within him ring out- The men still pouring into the house froze as the waves of magic radiated out from the small elf. As the men toppled from the top of the stairs, the doors of the house slammed shut. The walls of the house rippled, as though infused with the old elf's rage. The House of Black could not be breached. What would master think?
Thud.
Kreacher tried to reach within once more as the front door smashed open and still more of the nasty wizards poured in to his master's house, but there was nothing left- the dull hum of magic faint and his old, old bones empty. Kreacher's last thought, as he crumpled to the dusty timber floor, was of what his Master could possible think of him. He had failed the noble house of Black.
A/N: Nothing says welcome back like a nice cliff hanger, right?
