The last warning
July 7,1985
Azkaban,
10 pm:
Through the desolate hallways of the wizard's prison, the dementors loomed in a sinister dance, engulfed in their billowing black capes, as if consuming the very light. Their chilling presence paved the way for the languid figure that trudged forward, his face concealed behind a gilded mask adorned with haunting arabesque patterns.
With an air of unwavering confidence, the man pressed on, callously disregarding the pleading eyes that followed his every move. His relentless march came to an abrupt halt as he reached the final floor, where the most depraved criminals were confined. This floor, a wretched abyss, lacked any semblance of humanity—no windows to let in a sliver of hope, no beds for comfort, not even a meager hole for basic sanitation. Standing before an iron cell door, its surface adorned with a row of silver keylocks, he methodically removed his glove, exposing his bare hand to the frigid touch of the metal.
As his flesh made contact, the locks emitted a haunting click, surrendering to his command. The door swung open, releasing a scurrying swarm of rats into the gloom. Undeterred, he ventured into the cavernous cell, an ominous sphere of light emanating from his outstretched index finger, casting eerie shadows across the grim confines. Amongst the filth-stained floor, weighed down by heavy chains, a defeated figure slowly lifted his head, trembling with fear as he gazed upon the intruder, his eyes brimming with despair.
"Have the dementors already broken you, Fenrir? Were two days enough?" inquired the man, drawing his wand.
Fenrir's eyes flickered towards the wand, and he whispered, "I only answer to the Dark Lord," just before the man deftly twisted his wrist. Fenrir began to levitate, his toes barely grazing the floor, while his broken nails left a trickle of blood behind.
"PUNISH THE VERMIN! KILL HIM!" a woman's voice bellowed from a cell farther down the hallway.
"SHUT UP, BELLA! OR WE'LL BE NEXT!" promptly followed a terrified male voice.
Ignoring their pleas, the man focused on Fenrir, pointing his wand directly at him. Within seconds, the werewolf convulsed in agony, his anguished scream reverberating between the walls until he crashed heavily onto the ground.
"You will choose your words carefully," the man spoke coldly, gesturing with two fingers to levitate Fenrir once more. Gasping for breath, Fenrir struggled to regain his composure before being forcefully hurled against the wall. Gazing down at the fallen werewolf, the man spoke sternly, "We entrusted you with a straightforward task and set you on the path to acquire new power. Yet, you have deeply disappointed us. We demand an explanation. Now!"
Fenrir spat blood onto the floor, then responded, "I had the upper hand... but I couldn't maintain control for long enough. I became distracted, and he..."
"Lies," the man interrupted, casting the Cruciatus Curse upon Fenrir once again, holding it relentlessly until Fenrir's eyes seemed on the verge of popping out. Finally, he released the spell, leaving Fenrir sprawled on his side, his head against the floor, staring fixedly at the man's boots.
"Shall I ask again?" inquired the man.
"Please, don't..." Fenrir pleaded, his voice barely audible.
"Then speak the truth. My patience is limited, as is my time," the man declared.
"I couldn't keep my mind clear for more than a few seconds after transforming... I only recall regaining consciousness on a rooftop, disoriented, before falling," Fenrir confessed, breathing heavily. "I attempted to catch him off guard, but he was constantly shadowed by Ludvik Balasko."
There was a brief silence as the man pondered, then he turned his back to Fenrir and spoke again. "Before I depart, Fenrir, there was something troubling in your earlier statement. You claimed to answer directly to the Dark Lord, and I cannot let that pass without clarification. Serving the Dark Lord is indeed an honor for pureblood wizards. However, for the lowly vermin who do not meet that criterion, the Dark Lord merely tolerates your kind's existence."
Exiting the cell, the man watched as the iron door closed resolutely behind him. Turning to face the dimly lit hallway, he spoke with utmost clarity, each word enunciated with precision. "Every one of you gathered here proclaims yourselves to be the Dark Lord's most loyal followers. Yet do not delude yourselves, for you are nothing more than his pitiful, worthless disappointments. Confined within these cells while his valuable assets roam freely, furthering his cause, fortifying the ranks of the Wizengamot with those who faithfully execute his commands. The resurgence of the Dark Lord is imminent, his triumph inevitable! Upon his return, he shall bestow rewards upon the deserving, while mediocrity will find no refuge deep enough to escape his judgement!"
With those words, he strode away, leaving the dementors to flood in through the windows, resuming their eerie presence within the hallways, as he continued his journey towards the exit.
Ministry of Magic, Aurors Office.
11 pm.
Sitting in his cubicle at the Aurors' office, Kingsley, on duty for the night just like every other night over the past two weeks, casually placed the evening issue of the Daily Prophet on his desk. Ever since the trial of Peter Pettigrew, there had been no further arrests made by the Aurors.
It seemed like the Voldemort chapter had finally come to a close, and Kingsley had no complaints about it. Five years ago, the same press that relentlessly covered the most gruesome news and events in the magical world was now giving prominence to Quidditch stories on their front pages.
Even the Ministry had noticeably relaxed after the election of Cornelius Fudge as the Minister of Magic, following the official end of Millicent Bagnold's term. The new administration appointees seemed to suggest a change in direction.
Bartemius Crouch had been transferred to the Department of International Magical Cooperation, while several department heads were gently nudged into retirement to make way for technocrats from Cornelius Fudge's inner circle. Rumors were even circulating about the imminent retirement of Alastor Moody, which would leave the leadership of the Aurors' office vacant after his decades-long tenure of holding the fort.
However, as Kingsley silently observed the end of his cigarette turning into a dark grey smoke, he knew all too well that this war was far from over. Lord Voldemort's remains were never discovered in Godric's Hollow, and not all of his Death Eaters had been apprehended. According to Pettigrew's testimony, it wouldn't be the first time Lord Voldemort had vanished without issuing instructions to his ranks.
Pettigrew also mentioned the existence of seven Death Eaters who held higher positions within the dark lord's army. Who were they? Did their positions stem from their power, their other abilities, or a combination of both? But most importantly, what were they up to now? Were they rebuilding Voldemort's army?
Kingsley's gaze fixated on the large, opened envelopes scattered across his desk, bearing the unmistakable stamp of 'DENIED' in bold red ink. He took a drag from his cigarette before exhaling with a heavy sigh, visibly disappointed by the rejection of his numerous requests to reopen certain investigations and reinterrogate high-profile prisoners and individuals. However, since his last denied request, Moody had assigned him to assist the likes of low-level troublemakers Weasley and Perkins usually deal with, endure night shifts, and undertake a few bodyguard missions for foreign diplomats.
Crushing his cigarette in the ashtray, Kingsley glanced at the clock and let out an annoyed sigh. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. But before he could close his eyes, a soft knock on the wooden walls of his cubicle broke the silence. Turning his head to the right, he found Moody standing there, his stern gaze fixed upon him.
"Don't let your guard down, kid. Especially within the confines of the Ministry," Moody warned.
Kingsley nodded and replied, "I thought you had already left, sir." He then retrieved his bag from the chair, making room for Moody to sit.
"I was on my way out when I noticed the light," Moody explained.
"Do you have any assignments for me, aside from shadowing some politicians?" Kingsley inquired.
"No, that's what you'll be doing for the time being... At least until you calm down," Moody responded, gesturing toward the stack of denied requests. "So, am I the only one who picked up a few things from Pettigrew's trial?"
Kingsley's eyes met Moody's magical eye, and he simply shrugged. "I have no idea what you're referring to."
Moody chuckled and remarked, "Fair enough. I'll talk to myself, and you can listen... Just remember, if you want to last in this office, you must be cautious."
"Why? I simply want to fulfill the duties I was sworn to... Unless I'm wrong, that's what's expected of me," Kingsley replied, growing irritated.
"The Ministry of Magic doesn't want you to make any waves... Actually, let me rephrase that. The new inept Minister of Magic is terrified of the waves you could create," Moody explained.
"Where are you going with this?" Kingsley asked, his brow furrowing.
"I'll be straightforward, then... Fudge revels in the privileges and power his new position affords him, but he's terrified of the complications and responsibilities that come with it. He's the type who sweeps the dust under the carpet and hopes it goes unnoticed," Moody stated.
"So, he denied my requests because he wants to sweep everything under the rug and hope it vanishes?" Kingsley inquired.
"No, that's why I denied your requests before they could reach higher up in the chain of command," Moody confessed.
"You... You did?" Kingsley exclaimed.
"You bet I did... Fudge despises being contradicted or challenged. That's why he went to great lengths to transfer Crouch to the most tedious department, hoping he would disappear within it! And you would have followed suit if any of your requests had landed on his desk," Moody explained, rubbing a hand over his face. "His entire panel is a bunch of imbeciles... Ludo Vervey, head of the magical games and sports..."
"How does he expect to govern without a competent administration around him?" Kingsley wondered aloud.
"Considering he handpicked them in the first place," Moody remarked.
"What?" Kingsley questioned.
"Reflect on who funded his campaign. Especially how his candidacy was approved by the Wizengamot, given that he was inconsequential during his tenure as head of the Department of Magical Disasters," Moody revealed.
Kingsley fell silent, deep in thought, before whispering, "Pettigrew's trial..."
Moody nodded. "That's why someone whispered in Fudge's ear that having Dumbledore as his advisor would send a confident message to the wizarding community, and Dumbledore graciously agreed. He aims to counterbalance whoever lurks in the shadows, mitigate the damage Fudge could cause, and investigate more astutely than any foolish plan you may have conceived."
Kingsley nodded, then asked, "And what about us? How can we help?"
"Us? There's nothing we can do, as tomorrow I'll be retired," Moody revealed.
"Oh... So, the rumors were true..." Kingsley whispered.
Moody nodded, his gaze shifting to the other vacant cubicles surrounding Kingsley's. "My time has come to an end. I've sacrificed an eye, a leg, my nose, and half my face, and I refuse to answer to Fudge... However, I have one final mission for you."
"Name it!" Kingsley responded eagerly.
"Keep your head down and play along... Work your way up to becoming the head of the office, if not the entire department. Because, mark my words, we will need you when the day arrives," Moody declared.
"The day Lord Voldemort returns," Kingsley said.
Moody nodded. "Dumbledore is certain that his followers are already mobilizing, strategically positioning themselves in key positions. They'll strike us with full force when he gives the command... Therefore, we must do the same. You better start navigating the realm of politics, kid."
"You can count on me," Kingsley assured him.
"Then, you'll need this," Moody said, tossing a silver badge to Kingsley.
Kingsley caught it and examined it. "Are you promoting me?"
"I managed to get it approved, and the paperwork was signed by Amelia this evening. She's probably the only new department head with a functioning brain. Starting tomorrow, you'll be in command of a team of five Aurors... Make the most of it," Moody revealed, reaching for his walking stick and rising to his feet. "There will be moments when you'll want to do things your own way... When that happens, remember this conversation. Until then, remain constantly vigilant!"
With that, Moody exited his cubicle, and Kingsley's eyes, filled with a heavy heart, trailed after the departing veteran Auror until he halted at the entrance of the office. Moody's gaze swept slowly across the room, his magical eye unusually still. A deep sigh escaped his lips before he gently rapped his knuckles on the wooden sign, bidding farewell to the Ministry of Magic forever.
End of Arc III
Note:
Hello, everyone! Thank you for reading up to this point, and I hope you have been enjoying this story so far. For those who have been following this story, you would have noticed an upgrade. Moreover, after delaying numerous times the fourth Arc for personal reasons, I finally can say that I wrote it. I'll post very soon after a last reading.
I would appreciate it a lot if you could leave some reviews and follow the story. Your support means a lot to me!
