Part 5

"It's... the poof from last night," he said over his shoulder as he was rushed out of the lift.

It took him a second, but Collins remembered who he had called a poof in jest the night before.

"Ashworth," he grumbled under his breath, fire in his eyes as he stormed out of the lift. With each step he took, he imagined a different way to slaughter the bastard, so by the time he got to the Magical Law Enforcement, his head was a bit clearer.

The double doors swung in as he entered the hall and marched down an aisle between rows of cubicles, his boots clicking on the smooth wooden floor.

"Collins!"

He turned around and spotted Dawlish peeking from his office door. He beckoned him with a silent gesture, and Collins grit his teeth as he swivelled on his feet and zigzagged between cubicles to the Director's door.

"Get in," Dawlish said, his eyes darting to and fro as he opened the wooden door just wide enough so that Collins could slip through.

"What are you looking at, Pike?" he spat to the Auror in the nearest cubicle, who couldn't help but cast a look their way. "You wanna go back on patrol?"

"No! Erm... no, sir. Sorry-" Pike started, but Dawlish cut him off by slamming the door shut.

"Collins," He said, turning around to face the Auror in question. Collins couldn't help but stand up straighter. It was reflex born from thousands of hours in Auror Academy.

"I won't pussyfoot around," Dawlish continued, walking around his desk. "There'd been some scandals in my times, but never something like... this."

With a sigh he sunk down in his office chair, tilting his head back to rest it upon the soft pillow installed above the backrest. The chair looked more like a car seat than anything else, and the portly wizard looked ridiculous in it, but Collins didn't dare say that. Not to his face, anyway.

"'E di'n' do it, sir," Collins said.

"I didn't ask for your fucking opinion. I need a solution for this problem. And right now, you're that solution," Dawlish said, getting out a bottle of brandy and a glass from one of his drawers.

"Me?"

"You're a muggleborn," Dawlish said as if it explained everything. He poured himself a liberal amount of the brandy before stashing it away.

"What's that go'a do with anything?" Collins asked. Dawlish downed the glass in one go, pulling off a bitter face as he swallowed and then drew breath through his teeth.

"Politics. The P.M.R. are getting their panties in a bunch, and I've been told," he said, his index finger jabbing towards the ceiling, "that the open position should be taken by a muggleborn. Since you and Greene are the only muggleborns currently in A division..."

He reached down into a drawer in his desk and retrieved a golden badge from within, before tossing it onto the desk, where it clattered in the silent office for a few seconds.

"Congratulations."

He'd always wanted to be the head of A division. But not like this. Not because his best mate got sacked and thrown in jail on trumped up charges.

"Sorry sir, but I can't accept that," he said, eyeing the badge wistfully, wishing that it had been given to him under different circumstances.

"Would you rather Greene have it?" asked Dawlish. "Because, frankly, I don't think he has his head in the game. He's rash and undisciplined, and I don't think A division would stay afloat with him in charge."

Dawlish had been promoted to Head of the Magical Law Enforcement not because he was the best auror, or because he had twelve NEWTs upon graduation Hogwarts. It was his talent to assess people that made Kingsley put him in charge of all Auror and Hitwizard divisions. If he thought that the division wouldn't do well under Greene, he was most probably right.

With a sigh, he took the badge and pinned it to his robe. The gold glinted against the scarlet uniform, but he didn't feel any pride.

"Thank you sir," he said, and Dawlish waved a dismissive hand at him.

"Don't thank me, thank the P.M.R. If my hands weren't tied, I'd have McDowell take the badge," he said. At Collins' raised eyebrow, he elaborated. "Apart from Ron Weasley, he's the most connections in the department. Less red tape from above means more bad guys in jail and less money spent. Besides, he scored seventy on his last tactical evaluation. That's almost ten more than you."

Collins nodded. He'd always known that McDowell would be better than him as head of the division, despite the fact that Collins was better with a wand. Still, it didn't stop him from wanting the position.

"If that's all, sir," he said and stood up to leave.

"Not just yet, Collins," Dawlish said. "I know you want to speak out and defend Ron publicly. Don't. That'll only bring more heat to the department. Don't say a word, especially to the press, unless you have some hard evidence to support your claims. And no, your testimony and incident report don't count."

Collins nodded.

"Understood, sir," he said, and after receiving a dismissive nod from Dawlish, he left his office.

He navigated between the bustling cubicles moving towards the six desks in one corner of the large hall. Everyone around him seemed to be too busy filling out reports and forms of all kinds, so with a frown on his face, he asked one of the Aurors from C division.

"Hey, Donald, what's with all the papers?"

"Don't you know?" the freckled redhead, who looked like he jsut stepped out of Hogwarts asked. At Collins' blank look, he added, "There's a full audit scheduled for Friday. Everyone's got unfinished reports and evidence forms, and since it's all so short notice, everyone's been pulled from the field."

Collins grimaced.

"Thanks for the info, buddy. See you around," he said, continuing towards the desks of his division.

Everyone was there, except for Ron, of course, and they didn't even raise their heads when he sat down on his desk.

"How's the head, Griffith?" he asked. The man looked up.

"It's all right, though the Healers told me I won't be able to grow sideburns anymore," he said.

"Shame. 'Cause we all know how much you wanted to grow sideburns," said Greene, and the rest of the men snickered without taking their eyes off the reports.

It was McDowell who looked up first and spotted the new badge on Collins' uniform.

"Look who's moving up in the world," he said, a scowl spreading across his face. "I fucking knew this was going to happen."

Greene and Griffith looked up from their paperwork to see what was going on, while Collins noticed that Ashworth had already been staring at him with a dispassionate intensity. The quill in his hand had been raised ever since he came up to the table, if the blotches on his report were any indicator.

"Wha're you on about, McDowell?" he asked, his brow furrowing "You know damn well I had no'ing to do with wha' happened to Ron." He had expected this to happen, but not so soon after Ron's arrest. Someone had to step up and take the position, but everyone figured it would be McDowell.

"Don't play dumb with me, Collins. You know exactly what I'm talking about. You always wanted the position, but all of us knew who was going to get it," McDowell said, the tone of his voice rising steadily with each word.

McDowell was a pureblood, and Collins had been long enough in this world to know that being one came with a full baggage of pride, haughtiness and thinly veiled contempt towards muggleborns such as himself. Seeing how he worked hard for it and deserved it, Collins knew that McDowell wanted the position, but he didn't know that he wanted it this much.

"Guys, this isn't the time or place for this-" Greene started, trying to calm his nearly hyperventilating colleague.

"You fucking love it, don't you? You're probably happy Weasley got the shackles when it means you're moving up in the world."

That was enough. With speed born out of anger and pure reflex, Collin's stretched over the desk and swung his arm. The clenched fist connected with the side of McDowell's face, knocking him off his chair and onto the marble floor.

The entire hall descended into silence, before a breaking into a cacophony of excited mutters.

"Speak to me like tha' again, and I won' stop a' a single punch," Collins said. McDowell stood up shakily after spitting a mouth full of blood on the floor. He reached for his wand, but stopped at Collins smirk.

"Go ahead. You know what I can do with a wand."

McDowell hesitated, but put his hand down after casting a look over Collins' shoulder.

Turning around, Collins met the stern face of Dawlish.

"I saw what happened McDowell. No need to open your mouth," he grumbled over Collin's shoulder, before turning to him. "As for you... I'm warning you, Collins. Don't fuck this up."

Before he could say anything in his defence, Dawlish swivelled around and faced the hall.

"Anyone that breathes a word of this outside this department will face serious consequences," he warned, his voice immediately silencing the Aurors as his eyes darting from one face to another. "Back to work!" He stormed off, leaving a hall full of half confused, half excited Aurors. Many of Collins' colleagues turned to each other, already speculating on the recent occurrence, despite the mounds of paperwork on their desks.

It seemed he had made a huge mistake. This would certainly make tomorrows paper. What was worse, he hadn't even been head of A division for more than five minutes.

"I'm going to ge' some air," he said, turning around and grabbing is coat from the nearby rack, before he walked out amidst the murmurs and hushed conversations of his colleagues.

In truth, what he needed was a stiff drink. After taking the elevator up to the Atrium, he stepped into one of the Floo exits, muttering "The Hog's Head," while buttoning up his woollen coat.

The raunchy and dim bar sprawled before him as he stepped off the spinning connection. The place was nothing special, a bar on one side and a few circular tables spread out on the other, the fireplace behind him and the exit leading to Knocktrun up front.

The floor had seen better days, being only a collection of long planks of wood nailed together, strictly to keep worms and critters away from the customer's ankles.

It was a place that Ron had showed him, more than ten years ago, and it had became their regular meeting place. Despite the fact that it looked more like a sty than a bar, the drinks served were good and their prices low, and that was good enough for him. Considering that most of the petty thieves and small-time smugglers gathered here it was also one of the best places to get the word on the street.

Knowing who he was, the criminal clientele left him alone more or less, even though there were a few incidents in the past. They had an odd sort of respect for him, as strange as that was. He hunted the big fish – the men who were making thousands of galleons illegally with no regard to life and taking most of the well paying heists – coincidentally allowing them, the small time crooks, to prosper.

Ignoring the illegal card game two cloaked and shady individuals played two tables away, he walked up to the bar and sat in his usual seat, keeping an eye on the pickpocket that was drinking on the other end.

"Dean," he said to the barman in greeting.

"Collins. Good to see you," Dean said, before hesitating. "I heard what happened with Ron. Bloody shame."

Collins just nodded, preferring to keep silent on the matter.

"So," Dean spoke a second later, after making sure that the man wasn't willing to impart with a rumour or two, "what will it be?"

"A glass of your good stuff," he told the bartender. "And don't water it up, or I'll lock you up."

With a smile at the old joke, Dean grabbed a pseudo clean glass and poured him some brandy from under the bar.

"That reminds me," Dean said, reaching under the bar and producing a piece of parchment. "A man came by earlier. Told me to give you this."

Collins took it from his hand and unfolded it, watching as a spark of magic flew between the two halves of the sheet.

"I couldn't get it to open," Dean said. "I guess it's important, huh?"

His eyes roamed over the rough texture of the parchment. He hadn't seen the handwriting before, he was sure, and there was only one sentence scribbled down along the length of it.

Meet me upstairs.

"This man," Collin's asked, putting the parchment in the pocket of his robes and taking a sip of his drink "What did he look like."

"Somewhat on the short side," Dean said.

"That's it?"

"Well, he was wearing a hood," Dean said, his voice pitching in as he blabbed out his excuse. "I couldn't even see his chin, let alone his face."

"Well how did he sound then?"

"Youngish," Dean said, his thick red eyebrows almost connecting above his nose as he tried to remember more. "Didn't have an accent."

Collins groaned and downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp.

"You have rooms upstairs, right?"

"Not for rent, no. The former owner used them as private quarters. There must be a ton of dust up there," he said, before adopting a curious expression and leaning in. "Why ask?"

"This message says he's upstairs, waiting for me," Collins said, sliding off the barstool. "If I'm not back in ten minutes, floo the D.M.L.E."

He walked away from the bar and up the stairs, into a small dusty corridor. Muggle paintings hung on the wall, the colours on the canvas having faded to gray from time and dust, ever-burning gas lamps illuminating them, as well as a pair of doors. He pulled his wand out as he approached them, stepping carefully on the old wooden floor, trying to make as little sound as possible.

Twisting the handle, he pushed one of them open, revealing a bathroom that hadn't seen the business end of a mop in probably more than a year. Trying not to gag at the strong smell of stale air and rotten wood, he quickly closed it, turning to the other door.

Resting his shoulder on the wall next to it, he twisted the doorknob and the door opened with a loud groan, its hinges squeaking as it swung wide open. Nothing but darkness greeted him from the other side. Gritting his teeth, he flicked his wand in a precise circular movement, and a small luminous ball blossomed at its tip before sailing inside the room.

Yellow light spilled on the bare grey walls, only an old dusty bed on the floor visible from his vantage point. Moving across to his right, he could only see an old, rotting nightstand and a heavy black curtain partially covering a window.

Checking his angles, he put one foot in front of the other and stepped inside the room. Aside from what he'd seen from the other side of the doorway, there wasn't anything inside. He let out a breath, relaxing his shoulders, and he almost holstered his wand before he heard it.

The door behind him squeaked.

He whipped around, a spell on his lips, to see a large shadow darting towards him. He felt pressure on his wand arm, and before he knew it, the red light from his half finished stunner was glowing in his face. With wide eyes, he realised that his arm was bent at the wrist and elbow so that his wand was pointing at him.

"Careful there," a light-hearted voice said, and he looked up to his assailant.

Dressed in a black robe, the man had a large cowl covering his face. Grunting, Collins swung his free hand at the obscured face, hoping to catch the man off guard.

Instead of doing the expected and backing off to avoid the blow, the cowled wizard surprised Collins by stepping in closer to him. The tip of his wand now digging into his cheek and his left hand swinging behind the man, Collins felt his balance crumble, and with the barest of nudges from his opponent, he tipped backwards and started falling down.

Catching himself at the last moment, he pulled down whilst grabbing the man by the back of his collar. The wizards head went down, not even trying to fight him, and he thrust his left knee upwards, hoping to shatter the man's nose.

But it seemed that his opponent was far more experienced, and instead of letting go of his wand hand and blocking, he jerked his head to the side.

His knee came up, and not meeting its intended target, it smacked into his fist, which was currently gripping his opponent's robe. The cowled man took the opportunity to push him again, and seeing how he only had one foot on the ground, Collin's went down like a brick.

There was a sharp pain in his wrist and the back of his head, and before he knew it, he was staring at the ceiling. He brought his right hand up, and after he realized that his wand was no longer in it, he reached into his boot to bring about his backup.

But as soon as he pulled it out from its holster, there was a flash of light and it jumped from his grasp, landing down with a clatter somewhere under the bed.

With a sigh, Collins looked up at the man that had beaten him, wondering how he'd get away from this one, to see him pull back the black cowl that had been throwing a dark shadow across his face.

Green eyes stared down at him from behind an oval pair of wire rimmed glasses.

"Damn," Collins said. "Always though' you'd be taller'n this."