Chapter 16
"Wake up, Gellert!"
At the sound of his name, Gellert shot from a deep sleep to total alertness instantly, passing through the intermediate stages without touching them.
"What is it?" He demanded, his wand and clothes flying to him even as he asked. "Damnit, Albus, the sun's not even risen yet! What's so urgent that it can't wait till I'm rested?"
"Voldemort has responded."
Such was the chaos of the scene that their arrival caused no notice.
A flaming building greeted them, the harrowing screams of those trapped within drowning even the yells and alarms of the muggle emergency personnel swarming the area.
Even through the smoke, he could smell that terribly enticing aroma of crackling human flesh.
There were firetrucks by the dozens, their operators trying pointlessly to fight a magical conflagration.
Hundreds of firefighters ran about, endlessly attempting to establish a means of entry into the building and rescue of its occupants.
The flames were as hot and hateful as any Gellert had seen bar Fiendfyre; they shrieked while billowing out of the windows, tormented faces appearing momentarily in their tongues.
"A hospital," Albus said in disgust, "he strikes a hospital."
"Only a fool thinks there are rules to war," Gellert said quietly. "This is doubtless meant as a distraction as well as a lesson. While we help the poor muggles, he will go after your allies."
Albus was staring at the hospital, his face carved of granite, his fingers tight around the wand that still haunted Gellert's dreams.
"Albus—"
"Find Sturgis," Albus said, "he was here and said that he would await me. He blends in well with muggles."
Without another word, Albus began casting surreptitiously at the hospital, whispering to himself as he did so.
It was a lost cause, though Gellert did not bother to tell him so.
The screams from within were dying already, and the flames, from what he could tell, would not last long once there was no more life for them to feed on.
"Find Sturgis," he muttered, "Come, Gellert, it's time for me to remove you from Nurmengard. Come, we need to defeat an egomaniacal dark wizard and seize the government. Oh, here's an obvious distraction, I'll rescue the muggles who are beyond saving while you search for my pet idiot. Nothing could be a better use of your—"
He caught a whiff of deliciously twisted power, of magic being used for torment and pain. He snapped his wand out instantly, cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and spun into apparition, using the spell he'd sensed as a marker.
He arrived in an alleyway close enough to the hospital that the stench of smoke still filled the air, but far enough that the screams were silent and the Muggle respondents' racket was distant.
Three figures stood between the narrow buildings, two masked and cloaked while the leader, a tall, dark man with wild hair and shockingly bright eyes, cackled at the sight before them.
Sturgis Podmore had curled into a heap, his shaking head slipping into the puddle of vomit on the brick street.
His shrieks still echoed in the alleyway.
Nothing but the Cruciatus for these Death Eaters.
Gellert would never speak against its effectiveness, but by god, was there something in the air of this stupid island robbing everyone but Albus of any hint of style?
"Come on, Podmore," one of the masked idiots said, in a gravelly voice, his wand rising. "Go easy on yourself, and just tell us what we want to know."
"You will tell us," the leader—Macnair, Gellert recognized his face from a paper Albus had shown him—added. "You know you will. A blood traitor like yourself doesn't have the strength to withstand pain in the name of a higher service. You will tell us Dumbledore's plans."
He nodded to the one with his wand out and said, "Make him scream."
"I think not."
Gellert's curse took the trio by surprise, neatly beheading the fool with a drawn wand and drenching his companions with his lifeblood.
He acted before they'd had a chance to recover from their surprise enough to so much as raise wands. With a sweeping motion, he raised a dense watery shield around Podmore, ending his stroke with a twist that cast an Anti-Apparition Charm, and finally, with a thought and the lightest tap of his wand to his skin, removed his Disillusionment charm.
"It's him!" Macnair screamed, firing off a terribly executed curse which Gellert blocked with ease. "Goyle, help me you coward!"
His cry was to no avail. Goyle had been quick enough to realize that Apparition was no longer available to him, and smart enough to understand he could not face Gellert.
He was also dumb enough to run, arms pistoning as he fled down the alley.
Gellert's curse took him in the torso, blowing a hole the size of his forearm clean through like a muggle cannon. His momentum carried him forward, legs still working for a few moments before they received the message that the body which they served would run no more.
Then Goyle fell, twitching in death, just one more undignified corpse.
Macnair's terror was writ large in every line of his face, every muscle in his body. His spellcasting grew sloppier and more frantic as Gellert approached, each less likely to cause damage than the preceding. The curses bounded off course to splash into buildings, leaving smoking dents and acidic burns in their wake.
Still, Gellert made no counterattack, only continued his blithe stride, his wand flicking as he conjured shields and dismissed Macnair's curses as if they were no more than the words he'd spoken in incantation.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
Furious, Gellert tore at the air with hands of power; the street rippled with a concussive wave and rose, bricks shattering with emerald flame as they intercepted the killing curse.
Gellert roared, words lost to his rage.
That this cockroach who did not deserve the right to magic should even think to make an attempt on his life—
Macnair rose into the air, invisible ropes tightening around his arms and legs, splaying him out and stretching.
He began to scream, tendons in his neck standing out as his limbs broke with cracking noises.
"You disgusting little maggot, you think to kill me? Who are you? You putrid vermin, who do you think you are to strike at me?"
Gellert punctuated his words with harsh gestures from his wand. Macnair soared through the air, crashing first into the building on one side of the alley, then across and into the one on the other.
"Despicable little man, in service to a small minded fool, and you think to kill me?"
Gellert cracked his wand like a whip; with each rise and fall, Macnair was hurtled into the air and then smashed into the ground.
Macnair groaned as Gellert approached, body battered and broken. He lay in an indent in the street, blood pooling in the smashed bricks around him, his clothes ripped.
"Miserable worm," Gellert spat.
Macnair tried to speak, his mangled mouth opening to reveal shattered, blood-stained teeth.
Gellert ignored him, ignored the scent of blood and death, ignored, even, his own pounding rage.
He looked into the dying man's eyes and tore into his mind.
There was no occlumency to speak of barring his way. Even if Macnair had been a master, he would not have managed to maintain it in his current state.
Macnair's mind was a jumble, thoughts and memories racing to be heard before death. Gellert cast them aside, focusing, focusing—
A cold, cruel voice was speaking, a voice not only used to giving commands, but to having those commands obeyed to the letter.
"Macnair, I trust you will not disappoint me?"
"No, my lord."
Voldemort turned around, scarlet eyes glittering in the candlelight and piercing Macnair's very soul.
There was no room for pity in those eyes, no knowledge of mercy.
"Won't you? But you have disappointed me so often of late. I find myself wondering if you are truly as loyal as you claim. I wonder if perhaps you grew too comfortable in my absence."
Sweat broke out on Macnair's brow, despite the coolness of the room.
"My lord, I—"
Voldemort moved, swifter than a striking viper. One instant he was across the room, the next he was standing before Macnair, holding his wand with the tip right between Macnair's eyes.
"Your sycophantic mewling sickens me," he hissed, "It moves me nearly to rage. Your mission, Macnair, is to send a message and provide a distraction. Dumbledore is so desperate to prove he is better than the Ministry that one of his lapdogs is sure to come. Or do you doubt me?"
His eyes crossed as he tried to focus on the wand. He was sure he could make out motes of light gathering at its tip: but what colour?
"Never," he managed.
"When they arrive," Voldemort continued, "you will allow them enough time to contact him. And then you will remove them, far enough that he will have to search, but close enough for him to find. He will want to help the muggles, soft-hearted fool that he is, but you will ensure that he remains there for as long as possible."
Macnair's hand began to shake, betraying his terror.
"I do not ask you to lay down your life for me in this," Voldemort continued. "You are not to attempt to engage Dumbledore. Return with your companions, and you will have regained my trust. But you will complete your mission, Macnair. Else you will have lost Lord Voldemort's faith forever. Ask Karkaroff if that would be an enviable fate."
"I will not disappoint you."
"Good."
Voldemort removed his wand and Macnair relaxed an inch.
"Now go. Carry out my will, my trusted servant."
Gellert tore his way from the Death Eater's mind, a frantic search quickly revealing no further knowledge on the rest of Voldemort's plans.
"A distraction, of course" he muttered, pulling himself together. "Who could possibly have predicted it?"
Macnair coughed, spraying out a fine bloody mist as he did.
Almost as an afterthought, Gellert beheaded the man as he twisted into Apparition.
Gellert's magic hurtled through the air, a maelstrom of his hatred and fury bringing doom in its wake.
None of his opponents were worthy of his attention.
He found himself laughing as he strode forward through blood and viscera, death flying from his hand toward the last enemy that still stood.
He was a dark young man. Terrified out of his wits though he was ,he had some measure of talent; he'd survived this long, though he hadn't had a chance to fire off a single attack.
A smidge of talent, maybe, but no wits. He hadn't escaped with the bitch and the other leaders upon Gellert's arrival.
The house was near collapse with the pure might that had suddenly been unleashed within it.
It had been utterly ruined, the furniture mangled beyond recognition, bookshelves and their occupants strewn across the living room, the carpet smouldering in parts.
It had been a nice home, once. No longer.
A graceful twirl of Gellert's wand sent the remaining armchair at the trembling fool, its cushions transfigured into a gaping toothy maw which seized out and bit…
Gellert was now the only living being in the house.
He hurried onward, mindful of the urgency of this mission, but knowing, already, that it was pointless, that he had arrived too late.
Still, this would be to their benefit. If Voldemort was doing what Gellert thought, he and Albus would be forced to act, to truly unleash their might, to no longer wallow in hiding and in half deeds–
He reached the study.
A good fight had taken place here, ending just before Gellert's arrival. The bitch had walked out of the study, and though she had fled, Gellert wished she hadn't. From what he heard, she would at least have made it an interesting fight.
Gareth Robards was dead in the center of the room, and from the looks of things, he hadn't gone easily.
"Good for you," Gellert whispered, taking in the other bodies and limbs around the room, the scorch marks and dents in the walls.
With a click as he straightened his back, he began to walk around the room, gazing at Robards' corpse. The man showed clear signs of torture. It couldn't have lasted too long, not with Albus receiving the alarm and sending Gellert with such haste, but those moments must have dragged on with syrupy slowness for a lifetime, enough for the man to choke on his own screams.
"What did you tell them? Not that I blame you. In the end, it will all serve to our benefit, I think. I'm sorry you had to end in such a fashion, though. I hear you could have been an asset if you'd simply abandoned your boss and joined us. We wouldn't have forced the information out of you, not in this manner."
He shook his head sadly. Albus had believed that Gareth Robards could possibly be pulled away from the Ministry. For what reason he thought so, Gellert neither knew nor cared. All that mattered now was that a peaceful resolution was less likely.
Cold electric fingers danced across his nape. An immediate Disillusionment Charm hid him even from his own eyes an instant before a crack split the air and he sensed her.
"Ah," he said, coming back into view. "Good morning, my dear. What alarm does Albus have for me now?"
Wide-eyed and pale-faced, Tonks glanced around the room, slipping slightly on the bloody hardwood floor.
"We need to go now," she spluttered, "We need to get out of here, they can't find you here, we have to-"
"It's a set-up?"
She nodded frantically, gesturing to the dead.
"Hit-wizards," she said, "and others from Magical Law Enforcement. Must have been Imperius, there's no way Lenny here—oh god, Lenny, Lenny—"
Gellert kicked one of the bodies, cursing himself. He should have seen it. He should have fucking seen it. He would have, if he hadn't been so excited for a fight.
None of the dead were dressed as the Death Eaters were, none of them bore that ridiculous brand on their arms.
"Calm yourself," he said. "I have taught you the methods of doing that, have I not?"
She looked at him as if he had gone mad.
"The Aurors will be here soon! If they see us here—"
"I am blessed with enough wisdom to know they should not. Now, you will use what I have taught you to calm yourself or I will not leave."
She shook her head, mouth opening and closing wordlessly, only giving a little shriek as he seized her shoulders with a sudden motion.
"You want to access your powers again, hmm? Well, we need you to do so, and we don't have time for coddling any longer. Now, control your fucking emotions and listen to me."
For a moment, she looked as if he'd slapped her.
And then, standing amongst the bodies of those she'd undoubtedly called friends, emotion vanished from her face.
"Good," he said. "See? You can control your feelings at will. You do not need to allow them to shackle your abilities. Now, change something for me. Anything. An eyebrow, your chin, a fingernail, I don't care. Anything."
"The Aurors are still coming," she said, not betraying a hint of fear. "Is now truly the best time?"
"Now is the only time. If we are still here when the Aurors arrive, I will deal with them."
That sent a momentary flicker of fright and shock across her face. Her eyes screwed up in concentration and Gellert hoped, still planning what else he could do, but hoping nonetheless—
"Nothing," she snarled, "yes, I can still feel my abilities just out of reach, and yes, I'm still clear of emotions, but—"
"Not quite."
"What?"
"You're still feeling something," Gellert said, heart racing. This was it, he knew. He'd known from the beginning that an integration of some sort would be necessary, but here, at the edge, he finally felt the thrill that always preceded an accomplishment.
How long did he have before the Aurors arrived?
And what would it matter if they saw him, if the fix
was in?
"You're furious," he said, "and you have been for a while. That's what made you lose access to your abilities, as much as the loss of your parents. More, because nothing can give your parents back, but you can vent your fury."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Your anger, dear child, is fit to boil over, but you're not giving it a chance, are you? You've got it tightly linked in your mind with your aunt, and nothing else you do will give you surcease from that. Release your rage! Let your power flow!"
"Now is not—"
Gellert roared, twirling his wand through the air, a trail of golden smoke in its wake.
The corpse she had named Lenny rose. No true Inferus, he was barely more than a marionette.
Tonks blanched, taking a step back and stumbling over an outstretched arm on the floor.
"Destroy him," Gellert said, "or he will destroy you. Pardon me, she will destroy you."
He acted hastily, throwing illusion and transfiguration together in an unholy mixture upon the dead man. The result was close enough to Bellatrix Lestrange, however, and that was what mattered.
Tonks was pushing herself back, shaking her head and imitating a fish again.
"SHOW ME YOUR FURY," he yelled, "NOW!"
Something went off in her mind. She leapt to her feet with a screech, her wand flashing off a urine yellow curse at the corpse.
"You can do better than that! Is that what you'd do to your parent's killer?"
He laughed at her emerald curse, as it impacted with nothing more than green flames.
"You cannot kill what is already dead, girl! Destroy it! Destroy it! Let your anger think for you, destroy the fucking thing!"
He felt her next curse building, knew what it would be before, he thought, even she did. A shield formed around him as he began to cast, calling to the other dead to rise, all except Robards.
Her curse flew. Lenny's body exploded, limbs and head flying from torso and crashing into the walls and against Gellert's shield.
"Now them," he called, sending the rest of the dead at her, all cloaked in the same visage as Lenny had been, "destroy them."
Tonks looked like a creature from another age, a callback to the days when children were sacrificed on stone altars to unknowable gods. She was drenched in blood, her hair thick with it, her eyes crazed and wild and entirely alive.
If only he'd met her fifty years earlier.
"Gellert!" She screamed furiously, "end this!"
"You end it! Change for me, or destroy them!"
She shrieked, flames spurting from her wand and engulfing two of the dead.
He neatly batted away the curse aimed at him, and jeered.
"Come now, is this all you are capable of?"
Her next scream was so loud he half-thought his eardrums would pop.
Something burst from her wand, a black, half-formed beast, with tusks so large they ought by rights not to exist. It bellowed as much in the agony of existence as it did in hatred as it charged the remaining corpses, tearing them apart.
It turned to Gellert, its dozens of eyes focused on him, its great maw heaving.
And then he felt it. Cold electric fingers dancing across his nape
Fuck.
His wand flashed, charms settling around the house along with a thick mist even as the cracks of Apparition split the air.
It had to be now. He could not back down from her, not on this.
Her creature's muscles coiled, preparing to leap—
"Enough of that," Gellert said with a slash of his wand.
The beast shuddered, flickering in place for several moments before shattering like it had been made of glass, with all of its shards dissipating into dust.
The room looked like all hell had been unleashed there. It was not too far from the truth.
Robards' body still lay untouched in the center, but flesh and chunks of bones were scattered around the place, intestines draping a bookshelf like a demented Christmas decoration. Blood coated the floor, sodden parchment floating along like makeshift boats. The walls were caving in, teeth glittering where a skull had been smashed into one and then pulled back.
Voices echoed through the fog he had created, mingled incantations and calls for their surrender.
Yet Tonks still stood in place, a mad smile tearing her face, silent sobs shaking her body.
"Change for me," he said softly, entreating now, "you can do it, my dear. Show me what you can do."
Tonks began to laugh, a hysterical, insane sound, a perfect melody to her tears. She dropped to the floor with no warning and huddled with her arms wrapped around her knees.
Blood soaked through her socks, through her robes, but she cared not.
Dimly, Gellert could feel the Aurors working on his defensive charms. Minutes or seconds remained, depending on their skill and knowledge.
He would not back down, even if they all barged in. He would force her to fight them, if it came to that.
"Please," he whispered, the thrill of anticipation beginning to fade, worry creeping in its wake.
Could he have been wrong?
"Please, Nymphadora, show me I was right about you."
She looked at him, eyes still alight with madness, still laughing and sobbing.
And for a moment, her hair rippled. From a listless brown it became a shock of jet black, with streaks of pink.
Just for a moment.
He grabbed her by the arm, facing no resistance, her hair mousy brown once more.
The Aurors broke through the front door.
"You have done so, so well. And we will do wonders together. I promise you."
He kissed her gently on the forehead and dragged her into Apparition with him, the last sight as they vanished that of the ruins of Gareth Robards' home.
Albus sipped at his tea, wishing it was something stronger. Firewhisky laced with a Calming Draught, that would be nice.
They were back in the cottage, the strain of a long night seeping into Albus' bones. He did not quite need to sleep yet. The torrent of rage in his heart and furious planning in his mind would do well for wakefulness for some time still.
The sun had risen not long earlier. Albus had gone outside to watch it, thinking his vengeful thoughts, his mind filled with plots that could blacken the very air.
"You are certain the tack you are taking with Nymphadora is the correct one?"
Still lounging on the couch, Gellert barely looked up from his parchment.
"How many times do you plan to ask me that? I am right, Albus. I know it. A week or so and I will have her right where I want her. It would have been earlier had you not neglected her education so."
Not looking up, Gellert raised a hand to forestall Albus' comment.
"Yes, yes, you didn't wish to push her toward the dark side. Putting your ethical gibberish aside, how many methods do we have of proving that the witnesses' memories were tampered with?"
"None that the Ministry would allow or even accept," Albus said, taking another sip.
There were ways, of course, methods of proving that he and Gellert had not intimidated any of the Wizengamot members who had been leaning against them, had not murdered Amelia or Dawlish—as if he would ever waste his time on Dawlish, of all people.
Voldemort had acted brilliantly, as was his way.
No Dark Marks left flying over the victims' properties, multiple witnesses all remembering Albus or Gellert at the scenes of the crime or actually committing the crime—as if Albus would leave a witness unless he wanted one!—all the victims people who had spoken out or acted against Albus.
An extra spanner in the work, the sign of the Deathly Hallows, forever to be associated with Gellert, carved into Amelia's chest.
With everything else that had happened, the muggle hospital fire and the scores of muggles attacked by dementors, few would take a close look at who the other wizardly victims were associated with.
Emmeline Vance had vanished, signs of a struggle readily apparent within her house. Dedalus' body was barely recognisable, as were those of his wife and children. Bill Weasley was in Saint Mungo's—he would live, but would require at least a day or two of recuperation.
If Kingsley was, as Albus knew, giving the Ministry information, they would know none of those could possibly have been Albus targets. Doubtless, it wouldn't matter to the Ministry. With the misinformation already flying and terror in the air, they would try and make use of it.
It was working. He'd had to reassure Arthur and Molly that he'd had no part in any of it, and the St. Mungo's staff had clearly wanted him out, for all their famed neutrality. Nymphadora's contacts, similarly, were no longer an option, too frightened of even talking with Albus.
His way forward, unfortunately, was clear.
"Albus," Gellert said, finally sitting up and looking out of the window. "Your bird's gone mad."
Just beyond the small hedges that Albus had tended to which marked the end of his property and protective enchantments, Fawkes was fluttering madly around, looking to all the world like he was having a stroke.
Flame erupted as he vanished, reappearing several feet to the left, his beautiful wings stretching wide as he screamed out a horrific song before vanishing and reappearing again, talons outstretched, feathers dropping to the dirt, his song now one of great distress.
"An attack?" Gellert asked, rising and drawing his wand.
Frowning, Albus drew his own wand. He'd seen Fawkes react to danger before, but he'd never seen him act this way—
He hadn't seen him act this way for a long time.
"I do not think so…I think, in fact—"
An enormous lighting bolt tore the heavens, as if God was photographing the earth. Its afterimage burned into Albus' retinas, bright as the midday sun. No thunder accompanied it.
When the spots cleared from Albus' eyes, Fawkes was back in the cottage, perched on his shoulder, and a large black bird could be made out in the distance. Even from several miles away, it looked cruel.
Lighting struck again, less intense this time, and the bird was suddenly far closer.
Albus and Gellert shared a look before walking to the door.
"So the old bastard's still in the game?"
"It would be more accurate," Albus said, stepping into the sunlight as another, dimmer stroke of lighting brought the bird within walking distance. "To say that he is the game."
The bird swung into a steep dive, its descent clearly bringing it to land right beyond Albus' hedge.
Lightning struck.
A young man was standing on the other side of the hedge, mother-naked.
He would have looked exotically beautiful from afar, with his perfect proportions and those dazzling white and red whorls etched across his pitch-black skin.
Up close, however, was an entirely different story.
Up close, he could not be mistaken for human.
The bones in his shoulders were moving slightly, rippling beneath the skin, and he was wrapped in a frightful aura of tightly coiled menace.
When he smiled, which he did often, his lips seemed to stretch across his face, and his mouth opened far too wide. This gave a perfect view of his teeth, of which there were far too many rows, all of them carved into gleaming tips.
His cheekbones were moving too, constantly shifting as if at war with his skin.
Worst of all were his eyes. He had no pupils, no iris'; nothing but glistening whiteness with no indication of where he looked, though he always seemed to be staring into a bloody future.
He was said to be the last of his kind. He, like his race, had no known name, but anyone who lived after meeting him knew his master.
Albus had met him before, several times. So had Gellert.
When he spoke, his voice was chocolate and wine.
"My master wishes your presence this evening," he said. "Sundown, at the place you last met in London. He expects both of your presences. And no one else's."
"We shall be there," said Albus, "and we will come alone."
Lighting flashed once more, and the large bird was in the air.
"Well," Gellert said brightly, "that was unexpected. What strings do you think he'll attach?"
"I think he finally sees another solution, and will attach whatever strings can get him there. It's been fifty years since the last opportunity passed him by, after all."
"This will be very interesting. I'd almost forgotten about him, you know."
"It's a talent of his," Albus said with a sigh. "This should not have been unexpected. Well, I foresee a busy day before us. Let's proceed, shall we?"
Barnabas Cuffe's office was a shrine to fame that even Horace Slughorn would envy.
A stout, thick-armed wizard with a gold necklace and perfectly coiffed white hair, he sat perched in his velvet armchair with his back to the stained glass windows overlooking Diagon Alley, looking for all all the world like a king awaiting only for his subjects to kneel and kiss his bejeweled fingers.
His desk, a fine oaken piece, was all but covered with papers bearing the Ministry's seal, many of which were marked as top secret. A bronze plaque bearing his name and title stood front and center, flanked on one side with a picture of his family, his wife and son waving merrily from the beachfront.
On the other side was a photograph of him pumping Cornelius Fudge's hand.
Similar pictures dotted the wall, of Barnabus with political figures. There he was with Millicent Bagnold—that one with Barty Crouch was at the height of Voldemort's rise—with Albus, with an aging Vicência Santos. Foreign Ministers of Magic were a dime a dozen here, all placed neatly beside framed issues of the Prophet. Those issues, Albus knew, showed Barnabus' rise, from his first contribution all the way to his promotion to Editor-in-chief.
This was his temple, and Albus and Gellert had come to profane it.
He stared at them with the same expression he'd worn since they walked in, one of clinical detachment. He'd gotten quite good at it over the years, but the tic pulling at the dark shadows under his left eye showed his feelings as much as the way he fidgeted with his cigar and brandy.
He'd not offered Albus or Gellert either of the vices, and they'd not asked.
They'd been directed to sit in the hard wooden chairs before his desk, meant to give the impression of supplicants before a god, meant to humble them.
It had been barely a thought and an inkling of power to transfigure them into thrones that made his own look pitiful.
"And you expect me to simply…ignore such a story?" He finally asked.
"Ideally," Albus nodded. "If you prefer, though I do not, you could throw in a few lines about claims of memory tampering with the witnesses."
"There've been no such claims!"
"The witnesses' memories were tampered with," Gellert said. "There you go." He leaned back after his pronouncement, and with barely a motion, conjured his own cigar and glass of brandy.
"And why on earth would I do such a thing? You hijacked my presses quite recently, and I am not forgiving about such things."
"Hijacked is a strong word," Albus said, "we merely added an article the public would be interested in."
"And I suppose journalistic integrity never crossed your mind?" Gellert added.
Barnabus must have drawn strength from being on his own ground. He blushed deeply and pointed at Gellert as if to stab him with his cigar.
"I will not be spoken to of integrity by a man such as yourself, sir!"
"At least you admit I am a man. I assume the Ministry took your balls when they put you under their thumb?"
"Get out!" Barnabus yelled, rising, "Both of you, get out!"
"I rescued your son from the grips of the Inferi," Albus said. Barnabus paused, half-standing, face bloodshot. "I burned their ripping claws away from him, tore their gnawing jaws from his lifeblood. There, in the entrance hall of his quaint home in Hogsmeade, I gave him a minor healing and sent him to St. Mungo's at once. I saved your son's life, Barnabus, and you dare ask me why you should do me a small favor?"
Barnabus dropped back into his seat, face twitching, a palpable war between his desire to not show emotion and the feelings that were thrusting their way forth.
"I believe old Tofty," Albus gestured at one of the photographs on the wall, "helped you out of a very tight spot. One and a half thousand galleons, wasn't it, that you owed Christina? And she ended up giving a ringing endorsement for your promotion? I understand you've always felt very indebted to the man, that you've looked up to him almost like a father, especially with him so understanding even when your paper disagrees with his very fundamental principles. I'm sure you're pleased that Gellert saved his life, aren't you?"
Finally, Barnabus looked away. He extinguished his cigar and glued his eyes to the thickly-carpeted floor.
"Can you even believe that we did what they are claiming? Can you rest easy, peddling such lies about the people who have protected that which you hold so dear?"
When he spoke, Barnabus' voice was a ghost of its previous self.
"What would you have me do, Albus? If I did as you suggest, I'd be as much as declaring allegiance to you."
Ah. An opening. The closest Barnabus could come to a plea.
"I could offer you protection."
"Like you protected Emmeline Vance and Dedalus Diggle? The Ministry might threaten to shut me down, or arrest me, but in a few days, they won't even need to do that . Between now and then, though, He Who Must Not Be Named will come for me."
"You will have my protection. Emmeline and Dedalus—" Albus sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, they were assumed to be safe, or capable of protecting themselves. You have my word, Barnabus. Voldemort will be too busy to worry himself with you, and if he or his minions come, I will meet them."
Barnabus' head rose, his eyes watery. He wanted to believe. He wanted to do the right thing, for once in his career.
"What's happening in a few days?" Gellert asked intently.
"What?"
"You said the Ministry won't need to do anything in a few days. What's happening in a few days?"
"Of course," Barnabus frowned, "you haven't heard. The Minister will be putting a formal vote on the table before the Wizengamot. He wants a return to Crouch's laws. And—and he wants to officially declare a state of war, and bring out all the powers on the books."
"All of them?"
"All of them," Barnabus said with a nod to Albus. "No need for warrants, arrests on suspicion, shut down the floo network at will, permission to search all post owls, tracking of Apparition, the works."
"And, of course…" Albus gestured toward the floor, from where they could feel the rhythm thumping of the printing press.
"Yes. Complete control over all press. Maybe people like Xenophilius will get away with it for a bit, he never officially registered, but we won't, nor will any of the registered wireless networks. Even if we want to print something against them—"
"The spells will prevent it. I suspect Gellert and I will be named enemies, as will Voldemort?"
"Or course. And they're beefing up law enforcement. Well, I say beefing up—they're taking anyone they can get. The draft will be a part of it, too."
Albus wasn't quite sure whether he wanted to weep or laugh. If he'd known it would have been this easy to marshall the Ministry, why, he might have acted years ago.
A vote like this would have to take place before the full Wizengamot, of course. No proxies, no absentees. They must have found a replacement for Amelia already, and poor Griselda. It could only begin once Tofty was released from St. Mungo's, but he was only being held under observation.
It would be a vote before the entire Wizengamot, assembled and sworn in according to the ancient statutes and laws…
What an opportunity. What foolish naivete had gripped Scrimgeour, to first make an enemy of Albus, and then hand him this golden chance?
A chance which could easily go to Voldemort, of course.
"Scrimgeour will put it to a vote when Tofty is released, I assume?"
"Tomorrow," Barnabus nodded.
"Who has taken Amelia's place?" Albus asked, wheels in his head spinning away.
"Her seat? One of Shafiq's lot. Her position in the Ministry though, that's currently being filled by Pius Thicknesse. Robards' position, on the other hand—"
Barnabus swirled the brandy around and gave Albus a sickly grin. "Alastor Moody is the acting head of the Auror Department, but Corban Yaxley is now head of the other Magical Law Enforcement squads."
That almost brought Albus to laughter; the mental image of Alastor having to work with Yaxley, one of the men they'd all known to be a Death Eater, Imperius claims or not.
"How wonderful. And still you will listen to their demands and print their lies?"
"A man has to survive," Barnabus said, shuffling the papers on his desk. "That's how it goes, Albus. If I throw my support behind you, they'll arrest me."
"You're a shriveled up spineless worm, a craven maggot whose only thought is where next he can find a piece of rotting meat."
Gellert stood as he spoke, his voice rising as he pointed at a now trembling Barnabus.
"They are going to seize your only source of power from beneath you, and like a worthless dog you will roll over and beg them for more. Did you sell them all of your dignity along with your soul?"
"I'm not asking you to throw your support behind me," Albus interjected, even as Barnabus prepared to yell, "I'm simply asking you to not mention my name in connection with the attacks that you know full well I did not commit."
Albus leaned back, comfortable in the long silence that followed. Several times, Barnabus opened his mouth as if to speak and then thought better of it.
"A man's got to stand for something," he finally said, "but a man's got to survive, Albus. I can't lose everything I've fought so hard to get."
"And you won't. I'm quite sure the Ministry will be too busy to worry about what you are not printing. After all, as you said, it's only a matter of days. As for Voldemort—he will not trouble you. He, too, will have bigger issues."
"You really think you'll win this," Barnabus mused, eyes full of wonder. "You really do."
"Of course we will," Gellert said. "Stop playing the fool."
"I do, Barnabus. And—this is not a threat, mind you, I prefer my threats to be more direct—but I will remember to whom I owe favours, once this is all over and done with."
Nodding, his face finally regaining colour, Barnabus stood and stretched out his hand. "I'll do it. I'll leave your name out. Hell, I've got enough clout with most of the wireless networks that I should be able to get them to do it too."
"Thank you, Barnabus. You are doing the right thing, my friend."
"I know. Why doesn't that make it easier?"
"Doing the right thing is never easy," Gellert said, his grin that of a skull. "I should know."
Moody eyed his companions warily, hating every minute of this.
It had all made more sense, at the beginning.
The passion of his righteous fury with Albus was beginning to ebb, now, and though there was still no hope for reconciliation—he'd pushed for this course, he'd started it—he was beginning to wish it had gone any other way.
"This would go easier if you let Shafiq stay in," Scrimgeour growled at him. "It's his bloc that's guaranteeing that it will pass."
"There's enough support without them, if it comes to it—"
"No there isn't, we need a two-thirds majority, we've gone over this a dozen times—"
"I don't give a shit, I'm not having that man in this room while we plan any more than necessary."
Kingsley, looking resigned as ever, tried to interject, tried to make some peace, but Alastor would not allow it.
"He's tried to eavesdrop on us twice. Yes, you say it's all politics and we must just smile and wave, but the man brought Yaxley—Corban fucking I was just under the Imperius Yaxley—into a position of power. How many of Yaxley's recruits do you trust, eh?"
He was doing it again, Alastor knew, finding comfort in the familiar, uncomfortable argument. Oh, it was all true, and he let Scrimgeour's counter-arguments wash over him like a restful blanket, but it didn't help.
His magical eye was focused on the door and hallway behind them, but he couldn't keep his regular one from twitching toward Thicknesse.
He had no way of proving anything, but he'd be willing to bet his remaining leg that the man was under the Imperius.
And put under it by a master, at that. None of that glassy-eyed thousand yard stare bullshit or any other tell-tale signs.
No, there was just something about him which felt wrong to Alastor.
Maybe slightly less emotional than usual, but Thicknesse had always been a stiff upper lip type.
Maybe a bit slower than usual, slightly dimmer? But Alastor hadn't interacted with him that much, and it fit his reputation.
Was it the way he leaped to defend Shafiq and Yaxley? So did Scrimgeour, and so had Amelia.
Whatever it was, it pulled at Alastor's tightly strung nerves, telling him to be exceptionally wary.
It just felt wrong, to have Thicknesse sitting there in Scrimgeour's office, with its large map of England and pins where He Who Must Not Be Named or Albus and his bastard friend had been seen; with its reams of top secret parchments full of plans and countermeasures; with its promise of safety.
Thicknesse felt wrong.
Perhaps it was the paranoia getting to him, but was it really paranoia when the three most powerful wizards in the world were against you?
Shacklebolt and Scrimgeour were both of the opinion that it was nothing more than paranoia. They said that Thicknesse was exactly as he'd always been, and besides, with him having taken Amelia's position, he needed to be brought on board.
A good argument. Nothing much Alastor could say to that besides have a fit, and that hadn't worked either.
His suspicions had kept Shafiq and Yaxley out of the well-decorated and comfortable Minister's office, but would not do the same for Thicknesse.
"Dumbledore will try to stop the vote," Thicknesse said. "We should prepare for a full attack on the Ministry."
Did nobody else notice it, the way his mouth twisted slightly as he spoke? He'd never done that before.
"Nothing more we can do on that front," Alastor said. "We've got every protection up we can." As well as a few that Thicknesse didn't know about, and one or two that even Scrimgeour and Shacklebolt didn't. "Not that they'll do any good if Albus and him come. Nothing will hold against them for long, unless we're extremely fucking lucky."
"Once the vote has begun, Albus won't be able to stop it." Kingsley said. "Once it is put on the table, the vote needs to take place. That's all we need."
"If only we knew what Albus was planning!" Scrimgeour slammed his fist on the table. "Once we've got that vote passed, we'll be able to arrest and interrogate his Order of the Phoenix—"
Scrimgeour didn't notice Shacklebolt's wince, but Alastor did. It turned his stomach too, especially when he thought about Molly and Arthur, and that poor bugger Sirius, with his name cleared only a few weeks earlier.
But what the fuck else were they meant to do? Let Albus just do whatever he wants because he was Albus? And with that monster by his side, whispering in his ear?
The Ministry desperately needed information on Albus' plans, and if that meant dosing Alastor's friends with Veritaserum—or worse, god help him—it needed to be done.
Alastor would die a thousand deaths before he allowed Albus to become the tyrant he'd originally formed the Order of the Phoenix to combat.
"What about the muggle?" Scrimgeour asked, "Have we had any luck there?"
"What muggle?" Thicknesse asked, frowning.
"Jeremy Watts," Kingsley said. "The private detective. Albus had him do a job shortly after he broke Grindelwald out. We haven't yet tracked him down, but Albus seemed to believe Jeremy's assistance to be of utmost importance."
"And someone waited as long as he could before telling us about that," Alastor snarled, acidic rage burning his throat along with the words.
"Our liaisons in the muggle world haven't had any success either," Kingsley continued, ignoring Alastor even as a blush crept up his neck. "The man's gone to ground."
"Like I said he would. He's not a fool, unlike some."
"If it's that important," Thicknesse said, rubbing his chin with a distant look in his eyes, "I could assign a squad to it. Get Yaxley to send some of his men too."
"We've got everyone we need on it," Alastor snapped. "Everyone else needs to be on call, and needs to be in the Ministry and around it tomorrow."
"It's not set for tomorrow yet. We don't have the official release from Tofty's healer that he'll be fit to attend. Might need another day or two."
"Doesn't matter," Alastor said, eyeing Thicknesse who still wore that distant look. "Because all Abus needs to do is prevent the vote. I don't even want to cement our plans for afterward until we've got the vote."
He wouldn't rest easy until Albus, the bastard, and He Who Must Not Be Named were all taken down.
As he watched Thicknesse's mouth twitch, though, Alastor was beginning to think that he would never rest easy.
