Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.
Chapter Eight
The still quiet of the small bedroom was broken by a loud pounding on the door. Heather, who had only crawled into her bed hours before, didn't even notice. She was deeply asleep still, flying fast through clear skies. She was herself, fully female, chasing after a speeding metal object. Was it the snitch? She couldn't see it clearly enough yet, but soon. Her broom sped up, and she realized that in her hand was a stout wooden bat, like the ones used by beaters. The object was closer now, and she saw that it was a bludger, crowned with streaming blonde hair. Heather raised the bat, preparing to strike even as she pondered why a bludger had hair. It didn't matter, her job was to hit it, so that's what she would do. The bludger turned in midair and beneath the wisps of hair Heather saw the face of Rita Skeeter cackling back at her. She reacted instantly, swinging the club with all her force. Now she would get her revenge.
She awoke abruptly as Ron pounded on the door again. "Oy, mate!" his shout was muffled by the thin would but only barely. "Mum says you need to get up now and eat something!"
"Urrggghh" Heather groaned in reply. Ron didn't repeat his summons, so he must have been satisfied that she was awake.
She rolled over in bed, luxuriating in the warmth of her blankets, reliving the look of terror on Rita Skeeter's face as her bat had swung. It was too bad Ron hadn't waited another handful of seconds before waking her. Still, it had been a very good dream. She dozed off again without realizing it. Again, heaving pounding on the door snapped her awake again. "Heather, come on! We've got to be at the Ministry in two hours. Mus says that if you aren't up in five minutes she's sending Ginny up to get you."
That got Heather up. Her eyes forced themselves wide open, going momentarily blind in the bright sunlight streaming in through her open curtains. She must have forgotten to draw them before going to bed. She sat up for a few seconds, recovering and gathering her senses. Now that she was aware of it, she felt like an absolute troll. It was roughly comparable to the time she had awoken in the Hospital Wing after being smacked in the head by a bludger hit by Cormac McLaggen. Her mouth was dry with a none too pleasant taste and she tried licking her dry lips to bring some relief there. Thick black tangles hung across her vision, and she could feel how matted her hair was. As she worked her jaw, she was disgusted to feel strands plastered to her cheek with dried drool.
Only one thought forced her to get up. It wasn't breakfast, or coffee, or even the threat of whatever Ginny had in mind to get her out of bed. No, the only thing that would help her feel even remotely human was a strong, skin meltingly hot shower. Snatching up her towel and a fresh pair of underwear, Heather yanked open her bedroom door and stormed across the landing. The bathroom was thankfully empty, because she didn't bother to knock before pushing the door open and slamming it behind her. Before she could stop herself, she grabbed the hot water tap and turned it all the way to full, completely ignoring the cold water. Steam quickly filled the small bathroom, and she dove into the stream. Pain radiated across her back, and she danced in the water while emitting loud gasps and squeals of pain. Weariness was driven away as she hopped back and forth from one foot to the other, never letting the water stay on one part of her body for longer than a second. When she could take it no longer, Heather rapidly turned on the cold water and allowed the temperature to moderate. Her skin was bright pink and hurt, but at least she was now awake.
As her goal was less to wash and more to wake up, the shower itself didn't take very long. A quick rub down with some soap made her skin feel better, and within ten minutes she was done. When she was dried and dressed in the few clothes she had brought along with her, Heather cracked open the bathroom door and announced her presence to the empty landing. No one replied, so she launched herself forward wearing nothing but her knickers and a bra. According to her watch, she still had over an hour before they were due to leave for the Ministry. That was plenty of time to get ready, but it didn't leave much to waste if she wanted to try and force down some breakfast. Plopping herself down at Percy's old desk, Heather conjured a mirror and considered her reflection. Her supply of make up was running low. It was something she was going to get more of during their trip to Diagon Alley, but that hadn't been an option with the swarming press. Besides, that would have only given Rita Skeeter something else to write about. Still, she had enough to hide her scar and the remnants of the bags under her eyes. Halfway through applying eyeliner to her right eye, her hand shook violently with anger as words from the article filtered through her mind. She lowered the hand and forced it to relax. A wave of her wand removed the now squiggling line, and she started again. Rita Skeeter could ruin a lot of things, but there was no way Heather was going to let her ruin her make up.
Knowing full well that pictures of her would cover the front of every newspaper tomorrow, Heather took more time to do her make up than she had in a long while. It felt good in a way it was hard for her to describe. It felt like the old days during her, Hermione, and Ginny's frequent trips to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, like she was finding an old friend again in something so simple as painting her face.
Her hair was the next item to tackle. It was still damp from the shower, hanging down in a thick bundle over her left shoulder. Yesterday Ginny had suggested a couple of different hairstyles, but all Heather had been planning on doing was a tight ponytail. That was no longer an option. With a few rusty waves of her wand, she dried her hair and began to style it. If she had more time, she would have braided it by hand, enjoying the feeling of it sliding through her fingers. With time running low now that she had taken longer than expected with her make up, magic would have to do. The end result was a complex half up braid, which swept back from either side of her face to meet just below the crown of her head. From there the two braids intertwined until they ended in a hair tie. Now her hair would stay out of her face and looked much better than it would have in a simple ponytail.
She checked her watch again and jumped. They had less than half an hour before they were supposed to leave. How had just her hair and make up taken so long? She sprang to her feed and grabbed the outfit that was hanging on the inside of her wardrobe. Considering the drab choices Heather had picked out, it was the best Ginny had been able to do. A simple grey blouse that would hang across Heather's shoulders showing a hint of collarbone, and underneath a pair of plain black slacks and grey flats that would match the top. It had looked fine to her yesterday. Now it was so…plain.
Forgetting that she was running out of time, Heather tossed the outfit onto her bed and was pulling open the door when her senses caught up with her. Her current state of dress, a purple bra and white knickers, was hardly appropriate for leaving her bedroom, and the thought of running into the other residents of the house, George in particular, made her cheeks go pink. She wrapped her wet towel around her, announced her presence, and sprinted downstairs to Ginny's room. Once more without stopping to knock, Heather pushed open the door. Her heart hammering in her chest, she jumped nearly a foot in the air when someone shrieked.
"Wha-Heather!" Ginny cried. She was sitting at her own vanity wearing as little as Heather was. "Knock next time!"
"Err, sorry Ginny," Heather stammered, her cheeks going pink. While she was comfortable wearing close to nothing around Hermione after their time on the run, Ginny was still another matter.
"Is there a reason you're running around the house starkers?" Ginny asked, eyeing Heather in the mirror as she applied her own make up. "If that's what you're wearing to the Ministry, the papers are going to love it."
"What? No!" said Heather, trying to remember now exactly why she had come. "Right, can I borrow some of your stuff?" Among Ginny's many purchases the other day was a set of robes that Heather now had her mind set on. She felt light and cheerful, and even though she couldn't identify exactly why she felt that way, the robes certainly matched that feeling.
Ginny arched an eyebrow. "Aren't you a bit old to still be borrowing my clothes? Besides, I thought you wanted to look plain."
"I-err, well I guess I changed my mind." Heather said defensively.
Ginny shook her head and smirked. Standing up, she extracted the robes Heather asked for from her wardrobe and handed them over. The outfit wasn't particularly fancy, and certainly not what one would wear to a formal event, but it would be perfect for meeting with Kingsley. The robes themselves were the pale yellow she remembered, trimmed in white cloth. Beneath this was a matching blouse and white pants. Heather pulled the top over her head, allowing Ginny to step behind her and zip it up. She'd been right. It clung tightly to her small chest, accentuating it a good deal.
The pants were almost like a second layer of skin, and Heather had to do a kind of jumping dance to get them all the way up to her waist. Below the knee they flared out just enough to swish a little bit when she walked. She could feel Ginny's eyes on her bottom. "It's a shame you're going to be wearing robes over this," she said, giving Heather a good-natured swat. Heather chose not to respond to this.
The robes themselves clasped just below Heather's throat with a simple button. She was very conscious at the amount of visible skin between the clasp of the robes and the top of the blouse. For a half second, she wondered if this was really a good idea or not.
"Stop worrying," said Ginny, who could see the oncoming fit of nerves in her friend's eyes.
Heather nodded, meeting Ginny's gaze and reminding herself that this was how she wanted to look. What was it Mrs. Figg had said the night Heather had practically carried Dudley back to the Dursley's house? "Might as well be hanged for a dragon as an egg?" She hadn't really understood it that night, but now the phrase seemed appropriate.
"You know," Ginny said teasingly to distract her, "I thought you were done borrowing my stuff."
"Well, it's not my fault you have such good taste," retorted Heather.
Ginny glowered at her. "You're right, I do. It's not fair that you look better in it than I do though."
Heather ran her hands down the soft fabric to flatten the wrinkles. Ginny was right, she did look good in this. "Guess that means you should just give it to me then," she replied in what she hoped was a joking tone. Her hands were trembling slightly.
Ginny punched her in the shoulder hard enough to make Heather grunt in pain. "You ok?" she asked. Heather doubted she was referring to the new ache in Heather's shoulder.
"I think so. Besides, what choice do I have?"
"None," said Ginny with a shrug. "Doesn't mean you can't be nervous though."
There wasn't any time to wait for Ginny to get ready before heading downstairs for breakfast. Heather had barely five minutes left before Proudfoot would arrive to escort her and Ron, and she needed to try and eat something. Mr. Weasley had already left for work hours ago, so he wasn't there when she arrived in the kitchen. In his seat at the table was Bill, who had decided to visit his mother and George on a random day off. He and George were in the middle of some conversation while Ron paced nervously by the back door and Mrs. Weasley was reading the paper. Talk died as she entered and the four Weasley's saw her. She felt instantly self-conscious.
"Heather," Mrs. Weasley said, the paper, still clutched in her hands, falling forgotten to the table.
"Blimey mate," added Ron. He was wearing black robes very similar to their old school uniforms but missing the red trim and Gryffindor crest on the front. "I didn't think we were supposed to dress that nicely."
Heather's response was cut off as George sprang to his feet. Gone were the dark, bloodshot eyes and pale skin of the last week. As far as any of them knew he hadn't had a drop of firewhiskey in days. Every now and then when he thought no one was looking, that haunted look would return, but that was only to be expected. The wounds he, all of them, had suffered would never go completely away, and certainly not in such a short time, but it looked like he was going to stay with the living for now. Certainly, as Heather knew well, his sense of humor had returned. "Milady!" he cried, flinging himself at her in what he clearly thought was a gallant manner, grabbing her by the hand while dropping to one knee. "You are the essence of perfection, the center of all my wants and desires, simply name your wish and it shall be so." He punctuated each of these with a kiss on the back of her hand. Ron groaned loudly and Heather saw Bill roll his eyes.
"Alright," she replied. "Go jump in the pond." She pulled her hand out of his, doing her best to hide the smirk that she couldn't entirely repress.
"Ahh, milady is cruel," George cried in a wounded tone. "Very well, think fondly of me!" Rather than go running off into the yard, he rose and pulled out a chair for Heather.
"No time," she said, grabbing an uneaten piece of toast off of Ron's abandoned plate and stuffing it into her mouth.
"You'll do fine," said Mrs. Weasley bracingly once Heather had swallowed. She adjusted the collar of Heather's robes, then checked Ron. Very suddenly she pulled them both into a tight hug.
"Mum!" cried Ginny who had appeared just then, "you'll wrinkle it!"
Chuckling back tears, Mrs. Weasley released them. Heather waved to everyone, catching sight of that look in George's eye again. There was still a long way to go. She and Ron left the kitchen, walking down the garden path towards the edge of the wards. It was just after ten o'clock, which left them almost an hour before their appointment with Kingsley. Like with their trip to Diagon Alley, it was hoped that they would miss the rush of Ministry workers arriving and thereby not attract a crowd. Heather doubted that would be the case. Both Proudfoot and Honeywell were already waiting for them. She was leaning casually against the fence while he paced back and forth. It was Honeywell who spotted them first.
"Looking good Potter!" she called loudly.
Proudfoot whirled around, catching sight of them. If he was exhausted after their conversation only a few hours ago, he didn't show it. His eyes ran up and down Heather. "Bloody hell, Potter," he grunted. "I know I said to face this head on, but you aren't messing around are yeh?"
Proudfoot took her arm while Honeywell grabbed Ron's. Under the current security measures, only authorized Ministry workers were allowed to travel directly to the Atrium, either by apparition or floo powder. Everyone else had to use the employee entrance that Heather remembered less than fondly or enter via the visitor's entrance disguised as a dilapidated telephone box. As Mr. Weasley was one such authorized employee, they should have been able to travel directly to the Atrium using the Burrow's fireplace, but the Order had requested that the house be disconnected from the network temporarily. There was just no way of knowing whether all the death eater's and their supporters had been cleared out of the Ministry yet.
Even with an auror escort, the furthest inside the Ministry they could directly apparate was the Atrium. It looked the same as Heather remembered, with the deep blue ceiling covered in moving symbols and runes. They had arrived halfway along the rows of fireplaces where only a few people were milling about. Proudfoot wasted no time and led them off towards the lifts at a quick pace.
Gone were the statues of the witch and wizard sitting atop their thrones of muggle bodies, replaced once more by the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Peering up at the figures as they approached, Heather noted once more the falseness of the whole thing. No self-respecting centaur or goblin would be caught beaming up at the humans like they were here. Only the house elf's simpering, overawed smile could possibly be real. Her stomach twinged violently. As much as things had changed since Voldemort's downfall, there was still a long way to go.
The hall opened into a wide, circular space around the fountain, and they saw hiding just out of sight from where they had entered, a large group of what had to be reporters. Restraining the group was a line of witches and wizards wearing black robes with silver badges fixed to their fronts stamped with the letters DMLE. Behind this cordon were close to two dozen reporters and photographers, who all started jockeying for the best view of her as soon as the group came into view. Bulbs flashed in cameras and loud voices began to call out.
"Mister Potter, care to comment on the article that was written about you yesterday?" called on wizard wearing a violently purple hat.
"Excuse me, Mr. Potter! Yoohoo! Do you plan to chance your name?" shouted a small witch who had fought her way to the front of the crowd by stepping on the feet of two taller photographers. On the back of her clipboard were two large W's, the logo for Witch Weekly magazine.
"What are your thoughts on Minister Shacklebolt's term so far?"
"Where have you been hiding for the last year?"
Heather kept her head low, ignoring each of these questions in turn. Proudfoot, Honeywell, and Ron were all doing their best to shield her from view. They had almost reached the lifts when one last voice was heard clearly above all the rest, causing Heather's blood to boil.
"Oh, Harry!" Rita Skeeter cried. Heather stopped cold and turned back to look. Rita was standing a few feet away from the rest of the crowd, still behind the cordon of DMLE officers, but very visible. Her Quick Quotes Quill was poised on a floating piece of parchment, scribbling away furiously. "Care to say a few words?" she asked with a malicious smirk, her eyes glinting behind her glasses. Heather started towards the woman before she was even aware of it. Her stomach was now a raging storm of anger, and any thought of restraint had vanished. Visions of hexing that foul woman coursed through her vision.
Ron stopped her before she could draw her wand. "Leave it," he whispered in her ear. "That's just what she wants." He grabbed hold of her robes and bodily pulled Heather backwards towards the lifts. To Heather's fury, Rita's smirk grew three times larger.
At a nod from Proudfoot, the wizard standing guard at the desk waved them through without checking their wands. It was something of a relief to finally reach the lifts. For one thing, Rita Skeeter was now out of sight and could no longer be easily hexed.
"Handled that better than I was afraid of" said Proudfoot as he summoned a lift.
"You alright, mate?" asked Ron.
Heather didn't answer but nodded. Gone again was her joy at being herself again, even past the nerves she had been feeling. Once again, Rita Skeeter had punctured her like a cheap balloon. All she wanted to do was get this meeting over with and get back to the Burrow.
A lift clattered to a stop in front of them and they all climbed aboard. It went all the way to Level One without stopping at any other floor. Its loud rattles brought Heather back to their break in the previous year, and then even further back. Even with the likes of Delores Umbridge, Cornelius Fudge, and Rufus Scrimgeour gone from this place, it was hard to forget how she had been treated by the Ministry. She had almost been expelled for no reason, discredited, and ridiculed just so one man could keep up the appearance of peace. And then, when it turned out she had been right all along, these same people had possessed the gall to ask her to support them and use her like a puppet. Not to mention, this was where she had lost Sirius forever. There was some hope now that Kingsley was Minister, but would he really be able to make any changes to the Ministry?
The lift stopped and the grilles opened out onto the richly carpeted and curving corridor of Level One. "Minister of Magic, and support staff," said the cool female voice. She had never actually been on this level before. Umbridge had dragged her off to the courtrooms during their break in. She stopped herself before she could continue that particular line of thought. "No, not today," she whispered to herself. The rich wood paneling and carpets gave off an aura of power as Heather followed her escorts. Much like the atrium however, it felt false and hollow. Perhaps that was just because she knew the kind of people who worked here.
The corridor came to an end with a solid wall, in which was set a pair of mahogany doors embossed with large, gold letter M's. Surrounding these letters were the words Minister of Magic. Honeywell stepped forward to open them for Heather and Ron before stepping aside. The outer office was as richly appointed as the corridor outside had been. In the center, blocking the way to another set of double doors, was a large desk. Behind it, reading a long piece of parchment, sat a youngish looking witch with wispy brown hair. To the left of her was a sitting area complete with thickly cushioned purple leather sofas and chairs surrounding a table covered in various wizarding magazines and papers. Along the right-hand wall were two smaller desks staffed by wizards.
In between these two desks was a large fireplace of white marble. It was larger than any fireplace Heather had seen before and was easily large enough to fit half a dozen grown men inside without feeling cramped or anyone having to stoop. On the mantle was an ornate clock, and above it hung a small portrait of a rather ugly little man. He sat there in a silver wig on a stretch of muddy brown canvas with a squat face that was otherwise unremarkable. This painting was so at odds with the rest of the office that Heather momentarily wondered why it had been afforded such a prominent place of honor. She didn't recognize the wizard but given that she had slept through most of her History of Magic lessons, this was hardly surprised. The rest of that wall, behind the two desks, was taken up by large bookshelves crowded with thick, leather spined tomes.
The woman at the desk, who Heather supposed must be the Minister's senior secretary, looked up as they entered and did a triple take when she saw Heather. She hopped to her feet and scurried around the desk to greet them. "Miss Potter, Mister Weasley," she said in a high, squeaky voice that did not match her face as she extended a small hand to each of them in turn which they shook. "The Minister is just finishing up a meeting that has run a little long. Please, have a seat." She gestured towards the chairs and sofas. Behind them, Heather sensed Proudfoot and Honeywell backing out of the room and heard the door close quietly. When they were both seated, the witch offered them tea or coffee. "No thanks," said Heather uncomfortably. Out of the corner of her eye she could feel the eyes of the other secretaries watching her. She wished they would just take a picture and be done with it. Ron began tapping his leg nervously, which did nothing to help Heather's nerves.
They hadn't been sitting there for more than two minutes when the doors to the inner office were pulled open and Kingsley Shacklebolt swept into the room. He was dressed in black robes flecked with golden stars, looking much more like the Minister for Magic than he had at Remus and Tonk's funeral. Everyone in the office, including Heather and Ron, rose when they saw him. "Heather, Ron," he said in his slow voice. His arms opened wide and took both of their hands in his. "I am so pleased to see you both. I'm sorry it's taken this long to bring you in, but" he gestured past them towards the door leading back into the rest of the Ministry, "it's been busy. Besides, I imagine you both have needed the rest." He led them through into his proper office, saying "No interruptions" to his secretary before closing the doors behind them.
His office was, if it were possible, even grander than the rest of Level One. The room was a long oval, with the doors leading into the outer office along one of the long sides. Opposite them were three large, wide enchanted windows showing an impossible view of muggle London. Almost every other inch of wall was taken up with shelves cluttered with knickknacks and awards, as well as several portraits of important and dour looking wizards. To their left was Kingsley's desk, complete with a high armchair for the Minister and three smaller seats for visitors.
Rather than leading them towards the desk, Kingsley gestured to their right towards a pair of sofas facing each other across a coffee table before another large fireplace. Heather could see his shoulders slacken the moment the door was closed. The Minister was gone again, replaced once more by their friend Kingsley, or so she hoped.
"It's good to see you, Minister," said Heather, lowering herself onto the sofa facing away from the windows next to Ron.
"Yeah, you're doing well…sir" Ron added as an afterthought.
"Please," interjected Kingsley holding both hands up in front of himself, "It's still just Kingsley when I'm among friends. This," he gestured around the grand office, "wasn't my idea. Most of this junk belonged to Fudge and Thicknesse. If I had it my way almost all of it would end up in the bin, but I have to maintain the look for propriety."
Heather nodded, running her eye over the assorted medals and trophies coldly. Yes, it would be just like Fudge to surround himself with such reminders of how impressive he was.
"I do have to admit that it helps," Kingsley continued. "Too many of our community get caught up in the trappings of the Ministry, you know. So just being here and seeing all of this stuff bowls them over. It makes it easier to get what I need from people who don't want to give it."
"Right, I can tell," Ron said in a tone of amazement that just went to prove Kingsley's point.
Kingsley massaged the bridge of his nose tiredly before speaking again. "Well, I'm sure you both are wondering just why I've asked you to meet with me." Heather's spine stiffened and she gave a short shake of her head. "First and foremost, I want to express my gratitude to both of you, and Hermione, for everything you've done over the last year."
Heather lifted her hands now to ward off whatever other platitudes he was preparing to use. Not only had she heard every variation of those sentences enough in the past week, but she also certainly didn't need to hear them from Kingsley, who had been just as deep in it all as she had. "Forget it," she said, "from what we hear you lot had a harder time of it than we did."
"Possibly," said Kingsley slowly. "I'm given to understand that you gave Professor McGonagall and account of everything you three did, Heather."
Ron looked around at her confused, but Heather nodded again.
"Well, I was hoping you would be willing to do the same with me. She said in her letter that Dumbledore's portrait had suggested as much."
"He did," she said.
"Then, I hope you won't mind if we dive right into it?"
Heather took a deep breathe and began to speak. It was easier than it had been with McGonagall. Once again, she left out no detail of Tom Riddle's horcruxes and traps but made no mention of the Deathly Hallows. Every now and then Ron would jump in with something she had forgotten of that he felt needed further explanation. Kingsley remained quiet the entire time, his eyes moving thoughtfully between them as each spoke in turn. It took over an hour for Heather to reach the events of the forest.
"Merlin's beard," whispered Kingsley.
"Yeah," Heather replied, feeling as though this were a rather lame way to conclude her story but unsure of what else to say.
Kingsley's eyes were far away as they sat there in silence. "You three really did save the world," he muttered, almost to himself.
"We didn't do it alone" said Ron, his ears going pink.
"Yeah, we needed everyone" added Heather.
Kingsley's eyes refocused on them. "Well, that was almost everything we needed to chat about, only two things left." The hairs on the back of Heather's neck stood on end as Kingsley rose to his feet and became the Minister for Magic again. "It is my great pleasure as Interim Minister for Magic," he said in a booming, official sounding voice, "to award you, Heather Potter and Ronald Weasley, with the Order of Merlin, First Class."
"What?" said Ron, his jaw going slack and hitting the floor.
Heather grimaced. She almost wished he had shouted at her. "Kingsley-" she began slowly but was instantly cut off.
"Hermione will also receive her Order of Merlin when she returns from Australia. I know, this isn't what you want, but it's the very least of what you deserve."
"But-" Heather began again.
"Heather, I need to you listen." Kingsley sat down, his back ramrod straight and staring at her with an firm expression. "The Ministry isn't as strong as it needs to be. We are still dealing with threats every day, and not just from rouge death eaters who are still at large and very dangerous. The last year has shaken the Ministry to its core, and most of the witches and wizards across Britain don't trust us."
"I can't entirely blame them," said Heather a bit too darkly.
Kingsley winced. "I know where that's coming from. I felt the same way when they asked me to become Minister. I'm not even going to try and argue with you about the actions of my predecessors. But I am going to ask you to trust that I'm doing my best to rebuild the Ministry the way it should be. It isn't easy. Too many people want things to simply return to how they were in the days of Fudge, before he began drastically overstepping his authority. They just don't want the Ministry to have the sort of power it's had since Voldemort's return."
Heather opened her mouth to say that she agreed with those people, but Kingsley held up his hand.
"Yes, I know," he sighed, "and in a perfect world I would be one of those people too. But I don't have that luxury. That's the real reason I've asked you both here today. I need your help."
"What sort of help?" Heather asked hesitantly. Her heart was beating a drum solo in her chest, waiting for the axe to fall. Since she had awoken in the Hospital Wing, it had only been a matter of time before she would be expected to continue the fight.
Kingsley spoke even slower than normal, enunciating each word. "The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been gutted. Anyone with the remotest sympathies with the previous regime is gone. That hasn't been a popular move, but it was necessary. Now I need to fill the gaps in our ranks quickly with trustworthy people. In addition to your Orders of Merlin, I am also extending you both an offer to immediately join the Ministry as Aurors.