"ɪ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ꜰᴇᴀʀ. ꜰᴇᴀʀ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪɴᴅ-ᴋɪʟʟᴇʀ. ꜰᴇᴀʀ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ-ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙʀɪɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟ ᴏʙʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴍʏ ꜰᴇᴀʀ. ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪᴛ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴀꜱꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴍᴇ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ ʜᴀꜱ ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴɴᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ɪᴛꜱ ᴘᴀᴛʜ. ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴇᴀʀ ʜᴀꜱ ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ. ᴏɴʟʏ ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴ." ― ꜰʀᴀɴᴋ ʜᴇʀʙᴇʀᴛ, ᴅᴜɴᴇ
Chapter Twelve: Litany Against Fear
Tee realised that he had never been to the Ministry of Magic. Then again, there had been no reason to.
Presently, he and Dumbledore were standing in a long, grand hall, the smooth dark wood floor, polished and varnished to a marble shine, squeaking underneath their feet. Tee tilted his head up to look at the ceiling — a rich, deep blue with golden symbols diffusing all over it before the whoosh of a witch stepping out of one of the massive fireplaces lining the Atrium drew his attention away.
"It would not do to be late, Tom," said Dumbledore with a beneficent smile. The light of the fire made the edges of his spectacles glimmer, as well as the golden patterns on his robes that matched the ceiling.
Despite his misgivings about the whole thing, Tee trailed after Dumbledore as the older wizard strode down the hall towards the security desk, beside a set of golden gates.
A sloppy-looking wizard with uncombed hair, two-day-old stubble, and a creased set of uniform peacock-blue robes greeted them with a bleary look.
Dumbledore smiled again. Tee fidgeted with his silver visitor's badge.
"Step over here, please," said the wizard in an I-don't-get-paid-enough-to-care voice. He waved a thin gold instrument at Tee first, then Dumbledore. If he had recognised the Headmaster, he didn't show it.
This is stupid, thought Tee. If we were trying to break into the Ministry, we would have overwhelmed him five minutes ago. Anyone would think that an upper-level official wasn't assassinated two months ago.
The wizard weighed their wands with the same lethargic air, and then they were finally able to move on past the golden gates into a smaller atrium, flanked by lifts on every side of the room.
Shouldn't someone have come to escort them? After all, Dumbledore was the Headmaster of Hogwarts — and no mere Headmaster at that.
It was disrespectful, Tee decided, making them shuffle down to Level One like everyone else, intentionally at that.
Why was Dumbledore bearing it all with a saintly smile?
But they were already stepping into a lift, the initial acceleration making Tee feel weightless, like he'd been flung off a cliff. Several people peered at Dumbledore, murmuring amongst themselves, but he merely gazed straight ahead with a serene air.
"Level One," chimed a cool, disembodied voice. "Minister for Magic and Support Staff."
When they stepped out, plush purple carpeting swallowed their footsteps as the lift behind them rocketed down. Dumbledore drew a folded piece of parchment out of the folds of his robes, peering at it — it read 126.
They walked past door after mahogany door, all seeming to blend into one indeterminate mass. The corridor was eerily quiet, the floor almost immaterial below their silent feet. With every step, Tee felt a strange anticipation mounting, like a spring pulled all the way back.
Finally, they came to a door with a plaque reading Conference Room #26, and beside it, printed, 126 in brass, serif letters.
There was no handle. Dumbledore put his hand to the door, and knocked sharply, checking his watch as he did. It opened, not on its hinges, like an ordinary door, but slid into the walls, and Dumbledore stepped through. Tee followed, unsure of what to expect.
Kitschy wallpaper surrounded him; animated prints of cherubs, or cupids. Tee had never cared to learn the difference, if there was one. Still, the space was large; from where he and Dumbledore were standing to the end of the room, Tee guessed the distance must have been at least the basilisk's length from nose to tail. An antique wooden table took up about a third of the room, and at its head sat a familiar figure.
Tee recognised her from the Halloween feast — Narcissa Malfoy.
Her long platinum hair was loose, hanging on either side of her face like two pale curtains. She looked up as they approached, laying aside a swan-feather quill.
"Thank you for coming, Dumbledore," she said, in a calm, cultured voice. "I see you have brought your assistant — Tom, was it? I never did catch your last name."
His first day at Hogwarts all over again. The breath caught in Tee's throat, stilling his voice. He opened his mouth and—
"Tom was orphaned as a child," said Dumbledore smoothly, with the slightest hint of a rebuke in his tone. "I'm afraid we have no idea whom his parents were."
"How unfortunate," said Narcissa, surely before the words had time to sink in, uncaringly polite. "Please sit. There is much to discuss."
Dumbledore selected a chair and sat down; Tee took the seat next to him, folding his hands in his lap and putting on his most attentive expression. He remembered the memory he'd seen when looking into Umbridge's mind — her poisonous, dangerous nature, lurking under that composed, impassive demeanour — The Dark Lord has a plan, Dolores.
She's much more than a pawn, thought Tee, equal parts apprehension and intrigue. She's a fanatic. She really believes. She had Crouch Senior killed, after all.
"I suspect you've done your own investigation into the Hogsmeade Inferi," said Narcissa, lifting her head slightly, her gaze not quite fixed on Dumbledore's.
"Merely Charmed skeletons, last I heard," said Dumbledore. His tone was light, but Tom knew better than to be deceived by appearances. "Unless you disagree with the findings of your own Aurors?"
It was a challenge, indeed — a sharp item for Narcissa to impale herself on, like Ajax. What would she do? Tee was certain she was behind the Hogsmeade Inferi attack; he'd seen Umbridge's memory, after all. But he hadn't gotten the measure of her at the Halloween feast. All he really knew was that she was far more dangerous than she looked.
"If you have evidence to the contrary, Professor, I would be glad to see it."
"Oh, I have none at all," said Dumbledore, that light tone growing warm, too, like hands before a fireplace. "You must admit, Narcissa, the reason for your summons was rather clandestine. I suspect there is something else you wish to discuss?"
She seemed to be pondering something, staring into space.
"Yes— yes, there are some papers I've neglected in my office which might be useful to our discussion. If you'll excuse me, I will be as quick as I can."
Narcissa stood with a strange rush of energy, her face pale and eyes bright, and strode out of the room, leaving Dumbledore and Tee in stunned silence.
"That was quite unexpected," said Dumbledore, with a short laugh.
Still shocked himself, Tee slouched in his seat, glowering at one of the particularly cheerful cupids (Or cherubs?) on the wallpaper. It was a horrible juxtaposition to the sinister atmosphere. Their playful expressions looked sadistic now.
It was some kind of interrogation tactic, he assumed, going out of the room for a long time and then coming back in all of a sudden. Maybe she hoped it would loosen their tongues.
Tee resigned himself to silence; he planted his feet on the floor, stuck his hands in his pockets, and stared at the wall. Beside him, Dumbledore appeared mediative.
It was unclear how much time had passed. The curtained windows looking out onto the street were false; they were underground, after all, and there was no clock in the room. The minutes oozed by.
This didn't make sense. Narcissa's office was on this very floor. Surely it couldn't take her more than ten minutes to find what she needed and return, and it must have been much, much longer than that.
"I believe we have been abandoned," said Dumbledore, startling Tee back into reality, a golden pocketwatch sparkling in his hand.
He had just risen to his feet when a cold presence entered the room. It was felt before it was seen — icy despair encasing the room — five hooded figures like great, black coffins, chilling Tee to the very bone. It was the library in London all over again. His fingers reached for his wand in an almost instinctive movement, but they were as numb and clumsy as if he had been walking through a snowstorm. His heartbeat was quick in his throat, like an animal before the butchering blow, mouth dry—
And then something soared through the air, warm and silvery, spreading light throughout the room, which had suddenly gone dark. The phoenix Patronus repelled the Dementors, sending them stumbling back in a rush to wherever they'd come from.
How? wondered Tee, shaky with relief, still trying to catch his breath, to catch up with his heart stuttering in his ribcage. The silver phoenix had perched on the table, folding its wings, refracting light like liquid opal.
"Just the beginning, I fear, Tom," said Dumbledore, assuming a defensive position, his gaze shrewd, all the levity drained from him. "On your guard."
Tee slipped his hand into his pocket, fingers brushing the warm length of pine, still unsettled. The room looked a little darker than it had when they first entered, and the cherubs had that same sinister quality.
Dementors in the Ministry — where did they come from?
And he was incapable of calling forth a Patronus. Though they weren't very interested in his shattered and torn soul, that didn't protect him from their other effects. He was helpless against them; as helpless as a boy from a lifetime ago, curled under an iron bed as bombs shook the earth and heavens, hiding from Death.
"I think it best that we find our way to Narcissa's office."
Tee nodded, trying to regain his composure as Dumbledore's attention turned from the wall that the Dementors had disappeared into to the door that they had come through; or rather, the space where it had been. He just couldn't shake the feeling of being led into a trap as Dumbledore raised his hand to the wall, and the door slid open at the slightest touch.
When he mentioned this to Dumbledore, the latter only said with a wry smile:
"Well, Tom, then surely we must spring it."
Earlier that morning, Mafalda Prewett stood in front of the employee entrance to the Ministry of Magic, pacing in front of the black, spiked railings. Something about the surroundings seemed unusually ominous today.
It must be her nerves.
She'd always wanted to get promoted, so she should feel ecstatic to finally get one of the coveted Auror trainee slots.
But given the circumstances…
Mafalda leaned her head against the cold stone wall behind her and sighed deeply.
…trying to become assigned to either Umbridge or Narcissa's security detail and act as a double agent for the Order…
Without another thought, she pushed open the black door marked LADIES in brass lettering, and stepped through. A moment later, she was stepping into the toilet bowl and pulling the chain, and then she was in the familiar surroundings of the Ministry Atrium. Several people were toppling out of fireplaces beside her and hurrying towards the golden gates at the end of the hall.
Well, best not to be late. That would make a poor impression.
She was already trembling a little. Her clammy hands slid down the smooth fabric of her robes, trying to self-soothe.
No point. If she stood here any longer, she was going to throw up breakfast.
Mafalda headed into the slow-moving queue that disappeared past the golden gates. If only the short scarlet over-robes didn't make her stick out so much, evidently a trainee Auror. People kept looking at her, and though Mafalda wouldn't exactly call herself a shrinking violet, given the circumstances, she didn't appreciate the attention as she inched along. It was a relief when she finally found herself behind a set of golden grilles and safely in a lift, sandwiched between a wizard with a smelly lunchbox and another wizard who desperately needed to take water and soap, or at least a Scouring Charm, to at least three out of his four areas.
The lift chimed out, Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and about half the occupants of the lift, including Mafalda, scrambled off. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of strange guilt for going straight past her usual turn down the dark, drab corridor that led to the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. But the double oak doors of Auror Headquarters beckoned.
Beyond them was the sight Mafalda remembered from her recent visit — when Crouch had just gotten murdered, when she'd still been in the most inconsequential subsection of the department — merry, despite the circumstances, in a flurry of commotion. For a second, she stood in the middle of the floor, taking it all in.
"Um… where's orientation?" asked Mafalda of the first scarlet-robed person to brush past her.
"Ohhhh, new trainee? Second door down to the right — good luck!"
The tone with which the person said 'good luck' did not seem promising, but they were out of earshot before Mafalda could ask for any clarification.
At least the scarlet over-robes didn't stick out when everyone around was wearing the same colour. She'd be grateful for small mercies.
Stepping through the second door on the right, Mafalda realised that she was not quite early enough. Almost all of the seats were already taken in the darkened room, and she sheepishly slid into one of the few remaining seats in the back.
A wind-beaten wizard with short, wiry grey hair stood in the very front of the room, surveying the murmuring crowd. Beside him was a familiar figure — Mafalda's spine prickled with ice — Hassan, wearing his little gold Designated Security Detailbadge.
What's he doing at orientation? He's only just finished his first year of training!
She half-wanted to leap out of the chair and escape, but then the lights flickered on, searing her eyes. Everyone around her stirred, the murmuring slowing to an uneasy quiet.
"Morning, everyone," said the wizard, his arms crossed behind his back, looking out at the neat rows of five-by-five. "I'm John Dawlish, and I'm here to welcome you to Aurorial Appraisal. Now, I know you've all been through a series of quite gruelling tests—"
Mafalda hadn't. She'd had the requirements waived by Shacklebolt. Even now, the other recruits were peering at her, whispering that they hadn't seen her before. It was all she could manage to keep staring directly at the front of the room.
"—but that's only the beginning. Here, we'll test your mettle, build your skills."
One of the trainees at the front had pulled out a roll of parchment, starting to take notes, in an obvious play at appearing 'serious about this wonderful opportunity.' Mafalda, for her part, had no desire to resort to brown-nosing. She crossed her arms and slumped in her chair, resigning herself to the rest of Dawlish's lecture. Hopefully, he would be merciful, and it would be short.
"You have a long path ahead: three years of training. And with the return of You-Know-Who—" The room grew cold, even the lowest whispers snuffed out. Hassan looked up, glancing at Dawlish with apprehension.
"With the return of You-Know-Who," Dawlish repeated in a firm tone, "you will be expected to take on more responsibility. The programme has also become somewhat accelerated. Though the time to completion won't change in the foreseeable future, we expect higher levels of competence at earlier stages."
His gaze swept over the room, cataloguing each trainee. Some of the other trainees looked disturbed at his words, whispering amongst themselves again, but Mafalda had assumed as much. The first war had massively revolutionised the Auror office, after all.
"Those of you deemed to be particularly competent will find yourselves in certain positions of responsibility, for example, aiding with the investigation and apprehension of Death Eaters, or protecting our own VIPs, if you catch my drift, like Auror Shafiq here."
Here, Dawlish gestured at Hassan, who stepped forward, with a polite smile, nodding to the trainees. He looked directly at Mafalda as she did so, and that desire to escape came rushing back again.
"Not what you expected?" Dawlish's voice seemed to come from far away. "Being an Auror is a dangerous job. Not everyone has the stomach for it."
No, indeed he was right. From Mafalda's limited and unprofessional experience — fighting with the Order, training with Tonks — it was a harrowing task. She must be mad, for part of her to still covet it.
Now, Dawlish had paused, as if baiting one of them to get up, place their scarlet over-robes on the chair, and leave. Mafalda wondered if that had ever happened. Unlikely. Who would get into this without having some understanding of the risks?
Satisfied when no one left, Dawlish continued. "Now, find a partner."
It seemed that everyone had already turned to the person next to them before Mafalda had finished processing Dawlish's words, and then there she was, looking around like the child on the school playground whom no one wants to play with.
Hassan cleared his throat, and Mafalda's worst fears were confirmed.
"There's an odd number of you, so whoever's the leftover, you're with me."
She wished the ground would come up and swallow her. Mafalda debated the merits of Disillusioning herself and slipping away.
His eyes found hers, and Mafalda looked around again, hoping against hope that someone else hadn't been chosen. But it was not to be.
"Looks like you're the lucky one, Prewett," said Hassan, in that same arrogant, lilting tone that had filled the Slytherin common room, and the space between their old cubicles in the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects*.*
People were staring at her again. Won't they stop? thought Mafalda, feeling hot, prickly and irritable.
"Great," she bit out. How she loathed this old game, how he crossed his broad arms, sleeves rolled up, smirking and snarking at her with his false flirtations. How dare he stand there when he was the very one who had tried to recruit her to Voldemort's side, when he himself was a traitor.
You're being headhunted for a position in the Dark Lord's ranks. I was supposed to sway you.
She almost growled at the memory, struggling to keep her expression neutral. Don't let him rattle you.
Besides, it was the interest on Voldemort's side that made this double agent assignment viable in the first place. For the Order's needs, getting information as soon as possible, this arrangement was ideal.
And now Dawlish was giving instructions again. What was it now? Stand by your partner? Hating every moment of it, Mafalda got to her feet, only to see Hassan walking over to stand beside her, stopping a little too close.
"Fancy seeing you here, Prewett," he said, too softly for anyone else to hear. "I hear Shacklebolt personally expedited your application."
"I applied last year," said Mafalda, refusing to face him. That was true; Narcissa Malfoy had rejected it, probably the same day that she had accepted Hassan's.
"You haven't been at work for a while," Hassan murmured, sending icy shocks down her spine, "and then you turn up with a reference from Shacklebolt in hand? Colour me surprised. Maybe you really do have what it takes to succeed."
"I'm a Slytherin, aren't I?" said Mafalda, daring him to challenge her. Heat rose in her face. How dare he question her, when he'd gotten his slot in the training programme the exact same way as her! What did he call this logic? Cronyism for me, but not for thee?
"Forty-five per cent of Aurors are Slytherins, so yes, that does help."
Mafalda snorted. "Think that's because of 'cunning' and 'cleverness,' or family connections, Shafiq?"
He shifted, smiling through his obvious discomfort. Hassan turned to Mafalda, running a hand through his dark curls in a manner that he probably thought looked rakish. "Well said from the scion of one of the proudest and oldest wizarding families in Britain, Prewett. Even if your parents are both Squibs — well, the name still counts for something, doesn't it?"
Dawlish's voice again cut through the rising chatter.
"Alright, I'll be passing out your manuals. Make sure your name is written on the front, and make sure you don't lose it."
A short wizard with a balding patch raised his hand, bare pate shining like a polished marble. "Excuse me, Auror Dawlish," he said in a stuffy voice. "What happens if we lose the manual?"
Hassan laughed, curls falling back as he tilted his head back, the haughty sound filling the room. "Extra push-ups."
"Push-ups?" asked another wizard, this one stringy and tall with oversized glasses that had somehow defied gravity to stay perched on his nose. "We have to do push-ups?"
"While brute strength is far less important than your other skills," said Dawlish, flicking his wand at a stack of bound notebooks, "you'll need to be agile to avoid curses, and, well, a bit of brute strength is always nice to have."
A witch who looked as if she was perpetually smelling something bad muttered, "How Muggle."
Mafalda scarcely had time to roll her eyes before a notebook floated into her hands. It was surprisingly heavy, the new leather hard and smooth against her fingers. As Dawlish instructed, she opened it to page five, which had a list of skills, and next to each one, an empty space.
"You'll notice there are ten key skills," said Dawlish, "each of which is covered by a module, scored between zero and ten. Fail the module and you fail training. Score lower than eighty-five in total, and you fail training."
So that was what the empty spaces were for.
"And how close are you to failing?" asked Mafalda, under her breath.
Hassan's mouth twisted in a self-confident smirk. "I have all nines and tens so far."
Before Mafalda could retort, Dawlish boomed out: "Any questions?" Without waiting a second, he barrelled on. "Now that's sorted, let's move on. Today, each pair's been allotted a current Auror trainee to shadow for the week — except you, Prewett, since you're already with Auror Shafiq."
"Just like old times, isn't it?" asked Hassan, his deep voice like an old cello resonating in her ear. It was all Mafalda could do not to flinch. "Sneaking around the professors' offices, spying on meetings, up to no good."
"At least you can admit you're up to no good," Mafalda hissed back, and then quickly composed her face before Dawlish noticed something was off.
"Alright — Prewett and Shafiq, you two are dismissed. The rest of you, the Aurors you'll be shadowing will be here in a minute."
With that, he hurried out of the room. Hassan made a motion with his arm that Mafalda was sure he felt appeared chivalrous, and she marched out of the room. She refused to hold the heavy door open behind her, but he caught it before it swung shut, falling in beside her and matching her footsteps.
Despite still being a trainee, he wore the longer over-robes of a full-fledged Auror, tailored to fit his broad, square shoulders. Mafalda supposed it wouldn't look so impressive if one of Umbridge's security detail was wearing the short scarlet capelet that she currently had on.
"So, what do you do on a normal Tuesday?" asked Mafalda, not bothering to keep the bite out of her voice.
She needed to pay attention, after all. Pass the training modules with flying colours, distinguish herself, be assigned to Narcissa or Umbridge as soon as possible.
Hassan laughed, the rich sound filling the already cacophonous Auror Headquarters. "Today, I report to the Minister herself."
Of course. Mafalda's heart beat fast with anticipation. Umbridge already? This was good. But if there was to be an interrogation, Mafalda wasn't sure she was prepared. Yes, she and Tonks had practised and practised, but this was the real thing. No room for mistakes.
"Are you alright, Prewett? Starstruck?"
"Hardly." Mafalda gulped in a deep breath and checked to make sure her hair was still in place. "Lead the way."
They emerged from the double oak doors into the maze of corridors, heading from the nearest lift. The looks from earlier had turned from curiosity to a sort of envy and reverence, likely due to Hassan's full-length Auror robes and his golden, sparkling Designated Security Detail badge. Several people even nodded at him, exchanging a few words. Mafalda spoke to no one.
"Going up," the empty lift chimed as they stepped in. Mafalda pointedly stood as far from Hassan as she could.
"Level One. Minister for Magic and Support Staff."
"After you…" murmured Hassan, and she stepped out into the lush, purple-carpeted surroundings of Level One. The corridors were wider here, office doors and bulletins interspersed with false windows showing the snow-covered streets of Whitehall, and Mafalda even spied a fully stocked tearoom down one of the hallways.
They stopped in front of a handsome mahogany door. The gold plaque beside it read in black, inky letters:
Dolores Umbridge
Minister for Magic
Well, this was what Mafalda had always wanted. Proximity to power, influence, recognition. Why did it feel like she'd picked up the monkey's paw?
But there was no more time to ruminate because Hassan lifted his hand to the door and knocked sharply. A saccharine voice emanated from the office beyond.
"Come in, dears."
Mafalda's heart set up a shattering rhythm in her chest as Hassan pushed the door open, revealing a mahogany interior just as handsome as the door, if not more. However, the diamond-paned false windows were adorned with blossom-pink swag-and-tail curtains, the mahogany walls covered all over with ornamental plates emblazoned with technicolour kittens. Instead of twee, or childish, the decorations gave the office a sense of paradoxical foreboding, like a nursery shown in the opening scene of a horror movie. You just knew a murder was going to happen there.
The door shut behind them with a sharp click. Hassan was walking forward, but Mafalda found herself still rooted to the floor.
"As punctual as usual, Auror Shafiq."
Mafalda whirled around. Behind a mahogany desk hung with lacy doilies sat none other than the Minister, Dolores Umbridge. A black swan-feather quill rested between her fingers, a sharp contrast to the coquettish decorations strewn around her.
Hassan stopped just before the desk, between two chairs in floral upholstery, and made a short bow.
"Of course, Minister. I'd like to introduce you to one of our new Auror trainees, Mafalda Prewett."
Umbridge's beady gaze left Hassan to finally notice Mafalda, still standing by the door.
"Well, hello, dearie," she purred. "And here on Level One on your first day. What a lucky girl. I don't think we've met, have we?"
Mafalda, thankfully, had graduated Hogwarts the year before Umbridge's stint as Defence Professor.
"No, Minister Umbridge," she said. "I don't think I've had the… pleasure."
Almost imperceptibly, Hassan's mouth twitched with amusement. What right had he to laugh? They were both on the same side, after all.
"Hassan tells me you were the one to find the late Mr. Crouch's body, Miss Prewett," said Umbridge, laying her quill aside. All of a sudden, the air in the office was stiflingly hot, her capelet smothering. Sweat sprung on her brow, her arms prickled with goosebumps.
A choked "Yes, Minister," was all Mafalda could manage. Surely, it was all over. She would be dragged into an investigation room and—
"You did a commendable job, reporting the incident to the Auror Office with such speed."
Mafalda allowed herself to relax, but not completely. Incident! She calls dismemberment an incident! She's ice-cold, this woman!
"I must ask, though, why were you on Level Five, dearie?"
Here it is.
"We'd been discussing an employment opportunity," said Mafalda, edging closer to the desk. That was the truth, after all. Umbridge could look and find records of their previous meeting in his agendas, which Mafalda was sure she had already gone through.
"Hmm. I had heard rumours that someone involved in some vigilante activity was attempting to recruit Mr. Crouch."
She knows, she knows. Mafalda's insides swelled with fear, her brain sloshing around in her head like a trapped fish. Did Umbridge know of her involvement with the Order? Would Narcissa have told her?
"That doesn't sound like Mr. Crouch," said Hassan, tracing a finger over a pink fairy ornament whose wings fluttered like an insect's. "He was always loyal to the Ministry."
"Well, people have a habit of betraying you when you need them most to be steadfast."
It took all of Mafalda's willpower to remain calm. She could not help but feel as if she were being toyed with.
Umbridge sat up straight, smoothing her pink cardigan and fixing them both with a languid, toad-like smile before picking up her quill.
"Well, my first appointment begins at nine-fifteen, and we have only a half-day today. Make yourself comfortable, dears. Tea? Pumpkin juice?"
Tee and Dumbledore stepped out of Conference Room 26, wands raised. Both wizards were on guard, senses sharpened, concentration absolute. The hallways of Level One echoed just as emptily as they had when they'd first stepped off the lift. Narcissa Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.
Dumbledore stepped forward into the middle of the hallway first, Tee taking the opposite position so that they were standing back to back.
Nothing moved.
So that one, solitary Dementor — could it have been some horrible accident, a lone actor, left over from the scourge?
The hallways answered Tee's question with a terrible noise.
SKREEEEEEE!
"Inferi, Tom!"
Tee's stomach crawled with blinding, face-whitening fear. Yes, he'd faced Inferi before, in the Cave, in the shop in Hogsmeade — and defeated them too — but the second Dark creature to stumble upon them in the span of five minutes? He was loath to believe that twice was merely a coincidence.
This was an assassination attempt; just as Inferi had been used to kill Barty Crouch Senior, just as they had been sent after Ruby Potter in that shop. And Dumbledore would not die so easily as a government official or a fifth-year student. There would be more horrors.
SKREEEEEEE!
The ear-grating, nerve-burning sound seemed to be coming from everywhere. Every hair on Tee's body stood on end, attuned to the electrifying fear.
"Someone doesn't want us to leave the Ministry alive," he said, uneasy eyes scanning the ceiling, the hallway, the lines of doors. But no sign of the Inferi.
It was the Blitz all over again. The bombs were soaring, screaming — and just like those terrible months, he couldn't see the predators hunting him, intent on swallowing him alive.
"My thoughts exactly," said Dumbledore, his voice perfectly level, as if he felt none of the dread that had Tee in its grip.
Why aren't they hunting us? Why are they so coordinated? What are they waiting for? A signal?
A pale, bony hand wrapped around the corner of the corridor, and Tee's blood ran to ice.
"Remember," said Dumbledore. "The only thing they fear is—"
Something moved in the corner of his vision, and Tee shot a column of flame at it, his magic reacting before his mind could. The air filled with the noxious scent of burning corpse. Just as soon as the first Inferius fell, another replaced it, and another, another, another, until Tee and Dumbledore stood in the middle of a mass of dead men, women, and children, reaching their bony, bloodless hands out, muck coating their long, sharp nails, aching to rip, to pierce, to destroy, screaming their cruel song, a murderous mob stretching as far as the eye could see in every direction.
This was it. He was going to die.
After surviving the scarlet fever, and the Blitz, and the diary, and the Siege, and his fight with Mordred — he was going to die, despite everything, painfully, slowly, a pointless, agonizing death.
Endless dread filled him. Fear was a hole with no bottom.
The shadow of death was cast over him. The Reaper had come for him a final time.
Tee felt sick — beyond sick. Tears sprung to his eyes, stinking of salt and desperation.
His hand went to the albedo in his pocket, feeling the smooth surface. It did not comfort him.
I want to live. I want to live more than I fear to die.
He repeated it under his breath, like a spell, like a prayer.
Their hands loomed ever closer. Even as Dumbledore's ropes of fire lashed at the army, they never faltered, only stepping around their fallen, only focussed on their quarry.
I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die—
No matter how much he wanted to clamp down on his fear, still it within him, regain control, he could not. He was the rabbit in the noose, heart beating fast against his killer's hand. He was staring into the eyes of the basilisk.
"Tom!" shouted Dumbledore, voice cutting through the chaos, the screams of the Inferi, the deafening sound of Tee's blood rushing in his own ears. "They are being controlled by someone here! I will hold them back for now, but you must find their master!"
Their master. Of course. But how could he use Legilimency in this state? With the thousands of hands reaching for him with the sole intent to rip and tear, how could he form his addled mind into a clever weapon? Tee felt as if all the magic had drained out of him.
"Master your fear, or it will be our very destruction!" Now, Dumbledore sounded frantic. "As I once told you, you have more power than you know!"
Another burst of Dumbledore's fire seared Tee's eyelids scarlet. He forced in a deep breath, shoulders shaking with the exertion. And then another. It felt like swallowing a mouthful of stones. Breathing hadn't been so difficult since his revival in the Chamber of Secrets.
Tee couldn't see the Inferi through his eyelids, but he could hear their howls, sense their hunger.
But he breathed.
He forced life back into his body.
I want to live. I want to live more than I fear to die.
And he let his mind unspool, like yarn falling from a skein, rolling, rolling…
"Legilimens."
He felt Dumbledore jolt in surprise. Tee had never needed a wand nor an incantation to focus his power, not even as a child, ignorant that what he could do was magic. But with his heart still beating against his ribcage as if it was trying to shatter bone, he needed all the help he could get.
The Inferi, mindless as they were, popped out of existence, as Tee devoted all he had to his sixth sense. Though he still knew they were surrounding him, his inability to sense them stilled his nerves.
As far as he could tell, the corridor was deserted but for him and Dumbledore — and no wonder. Tee couldn't find Narcissa — she must have dismissed the staff for the day, gone straight up to the Atrium, stopped the lift from going to Level One and abandoned them to their fates!
To lie to two Legilimens's faces! Tee found himself admiring her nerve, and then cursed himself and Dumbledore for not going on the offensive from the start.
Stop it.
He was wasting precious seconds on rumination.
Tasting the air like a snake, Tee searched for the closest living thing.
And then, he felt it. Panic that matched his own. An eagerness to please. Cold, simmering envy.
Found you, said Tee, speaking directly into the wizard's mind. The wizard shied like a spooked stallion, but Tee held on. The fear only helped him sink deeper, to penetrate his target's mind with ease.
What was it Dumbledore had said? Master fear?
Tee tore through the wizard's mind, images flashing past his eyes—
He stood in the living room of the cottage from Godric's Hollow, no longer crumbling and abandoned. It was spring outside, boughs laden with white and pink, and a cat gazed knowingly at him from a comfortable square of light that had fallen through the window.
Voices drew Tee's attention to the centre of the room.
"Are you sure about this?"
Tee looked to see Harry Potter before him — but a second later, he realised his mistake. There was a definite similarity, but this wizard was older, with an easy air of arrogance, and without that startling gaze.
"Positive," said a voice he recognised. "It's a good idea."
On the blue sofa sat someone he knew — a young Sirius Black, lounging on the chair as if it were far grander than it was.
"Peter, you've been quiet."
Beside Sirius sat a woman, a woman Tee did not recognise but for the startlingly-green eyes that seemed to stare right through him.
Poppy's words came to mind. We don't know, but it seems to have been a protection spell involving blood and a willing human sacrifice. We all agree it's of Lily's invention.
Dumbledore says Lily cast a spell, Sirius, before she—
Lily, Lily, Lily. Ad nauseam, he'd heard the name. So this was her. She who had drawn the marks under the crib. She who had defeated the Dark Lord. She who had — dare he say it — matched his power.
Doesn't look like much, thought Tee, but as Grindelwald had said, when their eyes had met in that crowded theatre, power may come from the most unlikely places.
But what was so fearful about this memory?
"Peter?" asked Lily again, her voice insistent.
Someone else spoke — a man with a round face and nervous hands, placed on top of his knee, one clamped over the other as if to stop his fidgeting.
"Well — Sirius and I discussed it, and the problem is, er, everyone knows James would choose Sirius as Secret-Keeper. You are best friends, after all."
Tee detected a note of jealousy lingering in the man's voice. He pushed past the Harry look-alike, peering at Peter instead. This one was a known Death Eater. More than likely, he was in this man's mind. So who was he? A banal figure of petty revenge against those whom he envied? From what did his fear stem?
"No one would suspect it. Wormtail's — well, Wormtail." Sirius leaned forward, almost eager at the opportunity to share his brilliant plan, blissfully unaware that he had signed two death warrants.
Unaware, too, of Peter's flinch, of the blink-and-you'll-miss-it flush of anger across his pleasant face.
"You'd be putting yourself in danger," said the Harry look-alike — James, turning towards the group. "Sure you can handle it?"
"Just as much as Sirius can!" said Peter, now letting his fury show a little.
But where was the fear? It had been consumed by anger, anger Tee could not easily exploit.
"You'd be hunted, Pete," said Sirius, and then a flicker of amusement crossed his face, blossoming into a grin. "Like, well, a rat!"
Lily snorted, erupting into pealing laughter, her hand flying up to her mouth.
Opposite them, Peter forced out a matching laugh, eyes burning with hatred all the while, sneaking his shaking hands under his legs to still them.
Fear of discovery, Tee realised. Well, he could work with that.
He crouched down to be eye-level with Peter, staring into his watery, shifting eyes. So tightly wound, teetering on the edge of control.
"You think they don't see right through you?" murmured Tee, right into his ear, and the living room shuddered around him.
The pupils shrunk to pinpoints, mouth dropped slightly open.
"Padfoot's just having a lark," said James. "Don't look like that, mate."
What was it he had overheard Sirius saying once?
"Must be the best moment of your miserable life," said Tee, and now the whole tableau trembled. "Enjoy it, Wormy, because it's all going to be downhill from here."
"I'll just need some time to prepare," Lily was saying. "Think I've got enough chalk for another Fidelius."
"She's covered the whole house in scribbles, she's mental, Sirius."
"She's not mental, she's brilliant," said Sirius in a rebuking tone. He wagged a finger at James. "If that annoying man ever bothers you again, you come and tell me, young lady."
Lily laughed again, but the sound was quieter, as if the other three had walked down the hall.
"I'll find you, Wormtail," he went on, and the light dimmed in the room, leaving him and Peter alone in the darkness. "Whatever hole you're hidden in. The truth will come out. Whatever's done in darkness will come to light."
"You're not real!" howled Peter. "I'm imagining you! You're in my head!"
"Oh, how does that make me any less real?"
Tee's knowing hands reached out in the darkness, curling around Peter's shoulders with a crushing grip, holding him in place as he struggled. Peter's fear encircled them, a cold, dark monster of oleaginous shadow, coiling and concentrated. Sticky black tendrils held him down, caught in a web of his own creation.
"Now, Tom!" called Dumbledore, shocking Tee back into the material world. "With me!"
The Inferi had stilled, as unmoving as the corpses they were, without Peter's instructions to guide them. At once, Dumbledore was beside him. Perhaps some after-effect of the Legilimency lingered, for Tee found his mind was clearer than ever as they faced the Inferi once more.
An entire corridor of Inferi caught aflame under their barrage, filling the hallway with billowing heat.
"Well," said Dumbledore, "As curious as I am to learn what other entertainment has been planned for us, I do not think we should linger."
"Agreed," said Tee. He looked over his shoulder at the other Inferi, still unmoving, with a shudder.
They hurried through the burnt corridor, over the now-ruined carpet, smouldering with embers. Dumbledore blasted the golden grilles in front of the lift apart, and they both stared up at the empty shaft.
"Will you do the honours, Tom?" asked Dumbledore, extending his arm as if they were going on an afternoon stroll.
With a tense glance at the Inferi again, Tee nodded, taking his arm, and they slowly floated up the shaft. It felt surreal. That shouldn't have happened. Inferi in the Ministry! Not one, not two, but a whole horde of them!
True, Peter had been controlling them, but something else was going on. They were disappearing and appearing without a trace or a warning — not at all like the Cave Inferi. Tee could not work it out.
As the light of the Atrium grew closer, Dumbledore murmured, "Well, I suppose now you cannot say I do not take you anywhere interesting."
Tee's nerves were still far too raw for jesting. He turned his head towards the light, and grimaced.