"ᴀʟʟ ᴡᴀʀꜰᴀʀᴇ ɪꜱ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴅᴇᴄᴇᴘᴛɪᴏɴ. ʜᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ, ᴡᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴇᴇᴍ ᴜɴᴀʙʟᴇ; ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴜꜱɪɴɢ ᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇꜱ, ᴡᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀ ɪɴᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ; ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴇᴀʀ, ᴡᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍʏ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ꜰᴀʀ ᴀᴡᴀʏ; ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜰᴀʀ ᴀᴡᴀʏ, ᴡᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʜɪᴍ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴇᴀʀ." ― ꜱᴜɴ ᴛᴢᴜ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀʀ
Chapter Fourteen: Iron Fist, Velvet Glove
"This is what fish must feel like in a fishbowl," noted Thaddeus Nott, crouched in the grass behind the line of trees, a bulky outline punctuated by his black Death Eater robes and face hidden behind his mask, the village of Hogsmeade behind him. In the sky above him, the Dark Mark glittered violently.
Off to the side stood Bellatrix, holding her sister's wand, her long, dark hair streaming behind her in the bitter wind. Her head was lifted to regard the glowing image, with a sort of reverence. Only the top of her face was concealed, hidden behind an ornate opera mask; but her appearance was so changed that none would recognise her.
"My son is in that fish bowl," continued Nott Senior, his voice even, "yet it does not frighten me."
"You should be proud he serves the Dark Lord so cleverly."
"Yes."
She shook her wand in the face of an old man with a stringy, grey beard in a dirty apron who stood in front of the gathering of frightened Hogsmeade residents. One of them was a corpse; pinned to the building by their robes, head lolling against their body, robes covered in long, bloody streaks. Thirty minutes ago he'd squealed out like a pig being butchered under the full brunt of Bellatrix's Cruciatus Curse, until he'd bit through his tongue and the screaming suddenly stopped, blood streaming past his lips. "Keep casting, fool, unless you wish the others to die."
An enormous silver goat glistened in the twilight, glowering menacingly at the figures in the distance; it had been flickering slightly over the past few minutes. It was the only light between the village of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts Castle, the space between which was occupied almost entirely by foreboding black-hooded figures.
True, the Dementors were under the Dark Lord's sway; but, after over a decade with the dark guardians, Bellatrix was wary.
"So this is how the great Lord Voldemort chooses to reveal himself," said the old barman gruffly. "Threatening children."
Bellatrix's face went white with fury; it was only Nott who stayed her hand.
"We need the barman's Patronus. Leave him be; he is merely the illiterate, ill-tempered shadow of Albus Dumbledore. Besides," he added, gesturing to the Dark Mark glowing above them, "the work is done."
Bellatrix turned on her heel, and Nott Senior a second after.
Then the town was silent.
"Bloody fools," muttered the old man, hunkering down where Nott Senior had been as the crowd dispersed.
Hassan Shafiq, at his cubicle, was drumming his fingers rhythmically while looking at the front page of the Daily Prophet, to Mafalda's great annoyance. The sound went right through her skull; but she couldn't be bothered with the ensuing drama that would result from telling him off. He rolled his shoulders back and sighed.
It was four hours since she'd peeled the sleep off from her skin and began the task of brushing off the constant anxiety of being hunted by a Dementor. In the cold morning light, she'd dressed in Muggle clothing, only switching to robes when it was time to flush herself in.
"Morning Un- Mr. Weasley," said Mafalda as Arthur Weasley entered the near-empty office, shaking off rain and hanging up his coat.
Arthur ran a nervous hand over his thinning hair and looked about. His nose twitched in a way that reminded Mafalda of a meerkat in a wildlife documentary. "Only you two in today?"
"Quite," said Hassan, looking up briefly before returning to his incessant drumming. "The Dark Mark was cast over Hogwarts last night. Well, more accurately, Hogsmeade. But it amounts to the same, really..." He trailed off, for Arthur Weasley had let go of his briefcase which tumbled against the floor, his face a pale mask of shock and horror.
Mafalda watched, her stomach squeezing, as he sank into a chair, trembling.
When he spoke, his voice was feeble. "Could have been — could have been an imitation, couldn't it?"
Mafalda shifted, engaging an uncomfortable glance with Hassan; his expression was implacable, and she could discern no emotion behind his warm, cinnamon eyes. Her stomach squeezed again; all she could think of at the moment was Ginny's frightened face, and how scared all the children must be, trapped inside like rabbits in a burrow.
Hassan cleared his throat. "The dark charm can only be cast by one bearing the Dark Mark. That's the information we have from Karkaroff, correct?"
Mafalda could only think of Shafiq the elder, giver of bribes and (rumoured to be) Voldemort sympathizer. However, Hassan's shirtsleeves were rolled up, his unmarked forearms bare to the world. Almost as if to prove his innocence.
And so what if he's not a Death Eater?
"You're right, you're right," said Arthur glumly. He appeared to have melted into a skin-coloured, misery-flavoured pudding. "So Ben was right all along."
Poor Benjamin. He is right. There's clearly been a mass breakout, and the truth's staring us right in the face. We can't run from it any longer.
"Fudge's giving a speech in the Kissed Ward today," Hassan read off the article. "Aurors and Hit Wizards have been dispatched." He paused. "And if you read the Quibbler, which is filled with conspiracy theories from front to back, so I discount anything in there as a general rule — well, you see, Dumbledore's brother has given a statement saying that one of the Death Eaters present was Thaddeus Nott. Now, he never saw his face, but he thinks he caught a glimpse of his infamous broken pupil."
"From behind his mask?" scoffed Mafalda.
"Aberforth Dumbledore might not be his brother, but he's still a Dumbledore," Hassan insisted. He kicked up his legs on the desk opposite and leaned against the back of his office chair, resting his head on his arms. "That family, you know — they're all either monsters or geniuses. Sometimes both. One thing's for sure. Aberforth wouldn't say that for no reason."
Arthur seemed to bristle. Mafalda wisely kept her mouth shut. It didn't matter; Fudge wouldn't arrest Nott unless he showed up to the Ministry in Death Eater robes and a nametag.
But won't you think of the poor kiddies, Miffy?
"But it's obvious what to do," she said quietly. "Round up everyone who can cast a Patronus, like Aberforth, and brute force our way into the school."
"And bring the children here? Where there are Dementors crawling around anyway? At least we know Hogwarts's walls will hold for a while."
Arthur cleared his throat, still green in the face. "I'd feel better about Hogwarts's walls if Albus Dumbledore was still Headmaster."
Mafalda had to agree. She'd met Dolores Umbridge, in passing; she certainly didn't inspire confidence.
The sick feeling in her stomach remained even as they left the Ministry and headed towards St. Mungo's. The Wiggentree bark bracelets that they'd all been given were supposed to provide a mild form of protection against Dark magic, but she doubted it would actually do much if the worst came to the worst. Mafalda fiddled with hers as they went down the busy street, shaded by an umbrella, her eyes downcast and left elbow jostling against Hassan. The three of them solemnly slipped inside what looked like a condemned shopfront.
All around them burst into a frenzy as soon as they stepped inside the brightly-lit hospital; people were everywhere, frantic hands jostling and pushing. The Welcome Witch's sharp voice could barely be heard above the cacophony. Arthur made his way through first, muttering apologies, and Hassan and Mafalda followed after him. She thought she saw a few people from Hogwarts, but didn't bother to linger.
An entirely new floor had been put in to accommodate Kissed patients; Arthur, prompted by the displeased Welcome Witch, asked the lift's silver grate, "Sixth floor, please."
"Minister Fudge's conference will be held in the new sixth-floor atrium in the Abraxas Malfoy Memorial Ward in fifteen minutes," a disembodied, calm male voice offered. "We would like to thank Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy for their considerable donation to our newest ward."
Of course you would.
Once they got there, Mafalda noted that you could almost smell the shiny Malfoy money in the atrium. Bright sunlight streamed down from a massive skylight into a sterile, white room, and corridors led off the atrium into what must be the rooms on the ward.
She saw Rita Skeeter at the front amongst a gaggle of journalists, and beside her, Xenophilius Lovegood, a slightly cross-eyed wizard with shoulder length white hair and a fashion taste not dissimilar to Dumbledore's. Rita, if facial expressions meant anything, didn't look pleased to be sitting with him.
The only seats left for the general public were all in the back, but the three of them hastily flashed their Ministry badges to the usher, who hooked a silver rope sectioning off the middle seats.
"At least we can see from here," Hassan remarked, squinting in the blinding light.
Fudge was standing on the low stage that had been set up, squinting too. He did not look very dignified, Mafalda noted, even in his pinstriped robes and pointy purple boots. Sombre colours would have been a better choice.
He should have left the lime-green bowler hat at home, I think.
What's he even going to say? Sorry everyone, we've made a significant mistake; the Death Eaters have broken loose, the Dementors are running amok, and oh, where's a hero when you need one?
She looked to her left and saw the Goldsteins sitting all the way at the end of the row. Is Elizabeth allowed to be here? She's not a witch.
Then again, she was wearing robes. No one must have noticed.
Fudge stepped towards the front of the stage; the illumination from the skylight dimmed.
"Thank you all..." His hesitant voice was magically carried out over the crowd; with a slight turn of her head, Mafalda caught the sight of Rita Skeeter enthusically beginning to scribble.
"... thank you all for coming, especially during this trying time. I have witnessed the great strength of fortitude of the wizarding community in the wake of the current Dementor crisis..."
I don't want to gain 'strength and fortitude' by hiding from Dementors!
"... which has been particularly trying, but most of all upon the children who currently have been isolated at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
And funnily enough, Fudge doesn't have a child at Hogwarts.
Beside Fudge was a tall, imposing man dressed entirely in black, from his wizard's hat to his sharp, polished shoes. His hair was dark grey, slicked down on his head and parted down the middle, almost unnaturally straight, carrying a black cane. Bartemius Crouch Senior. Brutal, cruel, and serious. Kill, then capture. The mass murderer, Sirius Black, had been his greatest triumph.
Crouch had been initially favoured over Fudge for Minister. Fudge, being Fudge, never forgot it.
"We are doing quite well. After the past month, the number of newly Kissed victims has decreased by twenty percent. We have the enemy on the retreat."
And so the speech went on, meandering in Fudge's usual way, soporific and meaningless and self-congratulatory.
"If the press has any questions for the Minister?"
Rita sprung to her feet immediately, balancing on one high heeled shoe, the hand holding her enormous, lime-green Quick-Quotes Quill waving in the air.
"Minister Fudge! Could I get a statement for the Daily Prophet on how you attempt to help the children given that a Dark Mark has been cast over the school!"
Now this will be interesting, thought Mafalda, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve, and Hassan, beside her, leaned forward to see Fudge's reaction better. How do you sugar-coat such a shitshow?
He gulped. "There will be measures... taken... to prevent... further damage... Headmistress Dolores Umbridge."
"A statement, though, if you please, Minister?" Rita tapped her quill impatiently against her notebook, the pile of curls atop her head quivering. "Or Mr. Crouch, perhaps?"
Someone in the back, where the lucky few civilians who had gotten in first were sitting, stood up and went to the aisle between the two groups of seats. From here, they stood directly in front of the Minister; a witch of average height with strawberry-blonde hair.
She had a timid air about her.
Something feels off. Hassan had sat up straight, and Uncle Arthur, too.
The witch stepped slightly forward.
"Strange times are upon us, Minister."
Her voice sent an icy chill down Mafalda's spine, though she did not know why, although her voice was unusually deep, a bright, warm lyric tenor. It wasn't only her; the entire crowd seemed to still. Crouch had gone white, clutching his cane like a weapon.
"Let me tell you a story. A story about a child and a snake."
The entire room seemed to be under a spell, and Mafalda listened to the witch's tale with mounting dread.
"Once upon a time there was a child, who lived out in the woods alone with her mother who loved her very much. The mother was terribly afraid of the child bringing home a snake, for although the mother was sure her magic was strong enough to kill a lion, snakes are the cleverest of predators. And so, the mother vanished any drawings or writing of snakes from every book in the house, so the child would never see a snake and be tempted to bring it home.
One day, the child was out in the forest picking berries.
The child heard a voice cry out 'O! I am wounded!'
'Who's there?' called the child, for she was naïve and soft-hearted, being only seven years old. 'Show yourself and I shall bring you home if you are not dangerous, and then Mother shall tend to you.'
The snake, for that was who the voice was, thought slyly to himself of how he could make two very good meals for himself if only he were patient and careful, responded: 'I am but a pitiful worm, Child. But I am ugly to look at and may frighten those who look upon me; so hide me well inside your basket.'
The child put the snake inside her basket, and covered him well with berries. By the time she returned home, she had quite forgotten all about the snake, and so, it crept out of the basket and bit them both to death in their sleep."
As if in a trance, Mafalda watched the witch raise her wand at Fudge, eyes trained on her target.
"You took me home. I'm in your house. I'll kill your children, and I'll kill you, too! Confrin—"
Crouch unfroze first, leaping in front of Fudge and brandishing his cane. Whatever spell he'd cast, the witch tumbled to the floor, and Mafalda caught the sight of her fixed, dead eyes, blood pooling under her head.
All of a sudden, everything was coming back alive, everything but Mafalda. Hassan's cloak brushed against her nose and she vaguely felt Uncle Arthur tugging on her arm as the stampede begun, but her eyes were fixed on the witch's.
The Dark Lord has returned, the dying witch mouthed, very much alive.
"Good morning," said Ruby as Tee came down the stairs.
It was Day 3 (counting mornings only) of Godric's Hollow. Morning meant the door was left wide open to air the house, soft spring breeze wafting along with a few curious woodland animals, who skittered away once they caught sight of Spot lounging in the doorway.
Ruby watched Tee over the plate of sausages. She fiddled with the corner of the newspaper that Bathilda had left by accident on the armchair in the living room. At least, Ruby thought it was an accident.
On second thought, it might not.
The image of the Dark Mark coiling over Hogwarts was etched behind her eyes. Her stomach turned at the thought, and she hadn't touched her food since she'd seen the newspaper, no matter how much she wanted to.
Tee sat down opposite her with an odd expression and began slathering clotted cream over a currant-studded scone.
Deliberately, she folded the newspaper so that the headline of the article that she had been reading was showing, and nudged it towards Tee, which he began to read under his breath. Ruby watched his face very intently, but could not tell if any emotion passed over it.
ATTEMPT ON MINISTER'S LIFE
by Andy Smugley
Tuesday March 21st, an unnamed terrorist attempted to attack Hon. Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic at the Rally for Hope at the Abraxas Malfoy Memorial Ward of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
The threat was neutralised by Bartemius Crouch Senior, Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation. No injuries nor deaths occurred at the scene.
Present at the event were members of the public, several Ministry employees, as well as high-level officials. The spokesperson for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (DMLE) highlighted that the Rally was an opportune time to target persons of political importance.
According to the DMLE, the main target of the attack was Minister Fudge and occurred following his speech and during the press questions. After telling what seemed to be a fairytale story, the terrorist insinuated that spies may exist within the British Ministry, before attempting to cast a Blasting Curse on the Minister, who was defended by Crouch.
The terrorist died at the scene.
The DMLE has suggested that the terrorist was acting alone; however, whispers of a conspiracy are swirling, especially given the recent casting of the Dark Mark above Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
An anonymous source told the Daily Prophet that they saw the terrorist mouth the words, The Dark Lord has returned, very much alive...
Tee, having gotten to that part, dropped the newspaper as if it had charred his fingers.
"What?" asked Ruby, regarding Tee though the half-empty jug of fresh goat's milk. She narrowed her eyes at him, wishing that she, too, was a Legilimens.
"Nothing," he said tightly. "Why don't you finish what's on your plate?"
"He's going for Hogwarts, Tee. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
She didn't know how to put into words the sinking, sickening feeling.
Harry.
"He's coming to Hogwarts! He's all alone and he's surrounded by Dementors and-and-and not even Dumbledore's there to protect them—" Ruby stopped because she was crying. She cupped her face in her hands, as pathetic as Moaning Myrtle, dry-heaving and sobbing, because it was her fault. She had left Harry. She had been selfish, leaving him in the Chamber of Secrets and going off with Tee to save herself.
"Stop... doing that."
"What?" Ruby scrubbed at her nose with her sleeve. Where was Bathilda? She didn't want Bathilda to see her like this. Childish and stupid.
You're just like your mother. She was an irresponsible girl, and then an irresponsible woman. She never thought about anyone but herself.
Think about that while you polish the dinner table.
"Crying." Tee was fiddling with the buttons on his sleeve. "Stop it. It's annoying. What have you got to cry for?"
"Can't you see!" she cried out. "Harry's going to die! They're all going to die! It's fine for you, isn't it — you've not got anyone in there to worry about!"
"They'll evacuate the school if it comes to that."
"But they can't, and they don't know that he's coming!"
She didn't need the fire-marble. Ruby could see it. The stairs littered with the dead bodies of students. The Great Hall stained with blood.
With or without Tee, she had to get back, somehow. Logically, there was no way that she could save anyone when Voldemort decided to storm the castle... But if they were warned! McGonagall, Snape, they could do something! The Ministry won't, not if the terrorist was right about spies.
Her mind made up, Ruby decided to appease Tee (and Bathilda, when she finally joined them), by shutting up and finishing her breakfast.
He's been funny ever since the cave, she thought while clearing the table. Ever since drinking the potion to be exact.
Ruby glanced over to where he was sitting in one of Bathilda's rocking chairs, gazing out the window with a serene expression, chin placed almost delicately on one of his long-fingered hands. Like a watercolour painting.
It looked wrong; she thought he should have been dirtier. The first time they'd met, after all, he'd been dripping with filth and muck from the Chamber.
"What?" snapped Tee, his head twisting in her direction.
"Nothing," said Ruby, clutching the stack of plates and stomping off in the direction of the kitchen, where she placed them in the sink and they proceeded to magically wash themselves.
"I'm going for a walk just down the street," she called out, and nudged Spot, fastening the leash to his collar (for show) and hurrying out the door.
It was a brisk April morning, and green shoots were pushing up from the muddy ground. Ruby thought briefly about walking out of Godric's Hollow that very moment.
But I might run into something, like a Dementor, that I can't fight off alone.
Once they were alone enough in the back garden, Ruby nudged Spot again. "Did you hear the conversation before? Blink twice if you did."
For a second, she felt rather silly. But the dog did blink twice, edging behind a bush, and then, all of a sudden, Sirius was there instead sitting under the rosebush.
Bathilda's roses were nothing like Aunt Petunia's, which, under her and Harry's diligent tutelage, had been well-manicured and impeccably non-descript. These roses were wild. Angry. Bursting with life. Each bough over-laden with rich, blood-red blooms and jagged dark-green leaves which thirstily drank up the weak sun.
"Hi," said Ruby, somewhat awkwardly.
Sirius glanced up, shredding a blade of grass between his fingers, his face tilted towards the sun with a quiet reverence. It was an impression she'd seen before. Tee had done the same thing the first morning out of the Chamber.
"Without Dumbledore, they haven't got a chance. Hogwarts wasn't built to hold back the likes of Voldemort. And I expect whoever is leading Hogwarts now is a puppet, in the Minister or Voldemort's pocket... or even both."
Every word was an additional stone in her stomach. By the time Sirius was done speaking, they were piling up in her throat.
"C-Can't we do anything about it? Can't we warn them? I know no one can get in or out—"
"I can," said Sirius quietly.
Ruby sprang forward, quivering with anger. "Why didn't you say so earlier!"
"I'd forgotten," he half-mumbled, avoiding her gaze. "There's a secret passage from the Shrieking Shack in Hogsmeade to the Whomping Willow on the castle grounds. The four of us... it's not important. That will get us two hundred or so feet from the nearest entrance. It's just the question of the Dementors! Simple, that!" He laughed, rather like in the memory, harsh and slightly hysterical.
"Well, you said that you avoided them by turning into a dog, didn't you?" she asked. "Can you do a Patronus?"
Sirius fell into a moment of deep thought. "I could summon a shield... should hold some of them off for a bit, I think." He paused. "What about him?"
"I'll call him out."
Ruby went to the window, and knocked twice. She thought she could hear Tee tsk in annoyance through the glass; he clambered off the rocking chair and towards the window, pressing his palm against it. For a moment, he stared deep into her eyes, and her stomach churned.
Then, he phased through the glass as if it were nothing but a sheet of water, and slid gracefully off the sill.
"The protection goes in, not out," he said, as if that were a comprehensive explanation. Tee shifted the neck of the patched jumper he was wearing. "What's going on?"
Ruby thought back to the library, the awful moment in which he grasped the Dementor by its neck... "You can't cast a Patronus, can you?"
"Need happy memories to cast a Patronus," he said curtly. With deft fingers, Tee reached for one of the roses, carefully avoiding the thorns and snapped one off.
"Why don't you want to cast a Patronus?" asked Ruby, crossing her arms. "You must have at least one."
Tee leaned against the house, pulling velvety petals free from the bloom, letting them float to the ground. "No. I've tried it before. I can't. Not a mist. Not even a wisp of anything. Trust me, I was disappointed, too."
"There are other ways to head them off, besides," Sirius offered. "Shielding your mind, for instance. An inferior protection, but nonetheless."
"So you two are sorted, but what about me?"
She'd been in the midst of them before, in the chill of their presence, reaching out with their scabby, hungry fingers.
"I'll practise my shield on the way," offered Sirius, but it didn't do much to reassure her.
If I were a better witch...
"Side-Along Apparition, well, that's another story." Sirius stood and brushed himself off. "I hope the both of you have strong stomachs."
"What?"
"Well, who do you want to get to Hogsmeade first? Us, or Voldemort?"