Chaos Theory
A Harry Potter fan-fiction by DiscountNinja
A/N - Thanks again to all who've reviewed. So ... horribly, apocalyptically late, for which you are all due apologies for. Hope you all enjoy this, the second chapter, things won't be all doom and gloom.
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November 1st 1981 - 15:00 hours
It had been several hours since Albus Dumbledore had found the Longbottoms in Safe-house 19. He was exhausted, battered and bruised, but that was nothing compared to the injuries that his longest friend, Alastor Moody, had sustained. Most maladies were easily curable with the wonder of magic, anything from diseases to broken bones. It was not unheard of for an especially skilled Healer to be able to bring patients out of comas that Muggle doctors would have considered permanent.
Sadly, in the case of Alastor Moody, magic could not fix everything. Dumbledore had spent some very tense hours in St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, waiting for what seemed like forever for news of fallen friends. He sat, hoped and wished that the Healers would be able to do something for Alastor, Frank, Alice, Neville, Gordon and even Wilkes, or at the very least he could have some news of their progress.
When that news arrived, he very often found himself wishing that it had not. The first blow had been the confirmation that Auror Swindon had been killed in the intense crossfire that had pinned his group down upon their arrival. Albus had treated what wounds he could on the battlefield, but there was a reason he was Headmaster and not Healer, while his skill was admittedly considerably more than most, he could not simply wave his magic wand and cure all ails. This was tempered slightly by the report that Wilkes would make it through, but they had decided to keep him in overnight for observation due to the head wound. However, the same could not be said for Gordon, who would be in a critical condition in a spell damage ward tonight, still fighting for his life.
Second had come the news that little Neville would be fine. The poor child was sedated in the children's wing, but other than superficial scratches, physically fine. This was a great relief, Bellatrix was a heartless lieutenant and Dumbledore had seen her handiwork personally before. He still shivered to think of the way they had found Edgar Bones and his family. On dark nights, he woke up in cold sweats, he would practically leap from the bed in fear that he might go back to the nightmare. His body, broken, children forced to watch before they too met their end. He had shaken himself of these thoughts, with great effort, only to learn of yet more ill-fortune.
When the healers told him, the breath left him as though he had been gut-punched. The heartbreak was physically painful. The war was supposed to be over! Why then, was he still losing friends? Frank and Alice, tortured to insanity, their minds lost in a fugue somewhere inside their heads. He could not imagine how horrible their last lucid moments must have been. Frank, a model of a man, strong-willed and determined brought low in his youth, the prime of his life, by foul cur like the LeStranges. In a strange, detached way he noted he had seen the passing of three generations of Longbottom males. Tobias Longbottom, Neville's great-grandfather, had been a friend of Dumbledore's father and Alfred Longbottom, Neville's grandfather, had been in Europe with him in 1945. He had passed of natural causes not 4 months ago, Neville and family at his bedside. Worst of all, perhaps, was that it should happen to wonderful, little Alice. So full of life and vigor, and where Frank had been slow to rouse she had been all fire and passion. Nothing but shells sitting in their beds where lives should be.
The Potters, the Longbottoms, Black's apparent treachery ... in the last two days alone. In a cold, sterilized and lonely corridor, Dumbledore had allowed himself to shed tears for those left by the wayside for the first time since he had broken down over Marlene McKinnon. He was not a man for tears, Albus had gotten as far as he had in life by a willingness to pick himself up when he was knocked down. Ariana, Kendra and so many others were lost to the grave, and he carried on. He even stomached those painful betrayals - Gellert, Sirius and his muggle-loathing father Percival, experiences that he could put behind him and make him a stronger man. Albus Dumbledore was a man tempered like steel, but even an iron man feels and today the weariness of a decade of dark, shadow war was catching up to him. Daggers in the shadows, and daggers in friends. It was another hour before the Healers came again, who gave him a moment to recover with as much dignity as he could muster.
Desensitized and numb, he then listened to how Alastor Moody, the greatest Auror of the age and the man with the highest catch and conviction rate in the last two decades, would lose the vision completely in his left eye. Flames were potent, they said, and they killed the cells faster and more thoroughly than any other weapon in a Wizards arsenal. By the time Moody arrived in St Mungo's there simply wasn't enough of his eye left for the Healers to repair, and they opted to remove rather than risk infection. There were artificial replacement options, but it was explained to him that given the severe damage to the muscles and nerves around the eyes it was likely that the magical eyeball would be incredibly sensitive. Healers had spoken of cases where the eye had constantly twitched, leaving most people to choose a simple eye patch.
Alastor Moody was never a man to be ordinary, however. While they could not undo the damage done, they could at least fix him up well enough that he was physically able to leave the hospital and nothing short of LeStrange herself showing up was going to convince him to stay a moment longer. He revealed to Albus, almost as soon as they met up in the waiting room, that he would be opting to get the replacement after all.
"Har! Are you kidding Albus? Of course I'll be getting a replacement. Can't fight wizards that I can't see, am I right?" he grinned at Dumbledore, but the both of them knew it was false humour at best. "Anyway, the job's what matters right now. Maybe someday down the line I can do without two good eyes, but right here and right now there's work to be done, and I damn well don't trust it to anyone else. Besides," his expression grew grim, "someone is going to have to reign Barty in now. He was always like a dog, baying for blood, but now we've picked his son up as one of them, well ..."
"Between the two of us, the Minister mentioned that she thought Barty might be verging on a breakdown."
"Barty? Breakdown? Never. She just wants him out of the way by the time the next election comes around. No, if anything, this will just spur him on. I honestly don't know how I'm going to be able to temper him. There'll be no mercy for anyone now. He was never exactly easy on the lad, and he can't back down or let him off light, because he's been saying for years that these people need firm punishment."
There was a contemplative pause, "I was sorry to hear about Swindon."
"So was I, he was a damn fine man," Alastor looked away, hiding his one remaining eye, and Dumbledore fancied if the other had still been there he might have seen it mist over. "A damn fine man. Worked with him for 8 or 9 years now."
Another, more pained pause, "Anyway, come on, let's get me out of this hell-hole. I hate hospitals."
Dumbledore frowned, and replied "You know that they don't think you should be leaving, but you really ought to give yourself a few days to recover. You know that Barty won't let you work without a clean bill of health, don't you?"
"Of course I do," a superior smile formed on his face, "but he'll have to fill out the damn forms first. Until then I'm on active duty, and I'll be leading my team out tonight with the rest of them. I've got a date with some Death Eaters."
"Really Alastor, please reconsider. Now, I can't force you to-"
"No, you can't", growled Moody, "We're so close to finishing this. I might be limping, but I'm going to make it past the finishing post on my own steam and still pull my weight. I might be blind in one eye, unsteady on my one good leg, but it takes more than this to take me ought of the fight."
Dumbledore was taken aback, he could see the knuckles going white, the fingernails nearly drawing blood from Moody's palm where he balled his fists "I never suggested that you weren't capable," Moody's hard look softened, "far from it. You're still the first man I'd trust to have my back."
"Aye, well. You know I've always had your back. Heh, you know that Rufus has taken to calling me 'Dumbledore's Man' at department meetings?" Rufus Scrimgeour was a couple of years younger than Moody, and had recently been promoted to oversee the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol. "Used to call Benjy that too, come to think of it."
They shared a sober moment. "I'm sorry to have doubted you, I must remember that I ought to support you as much as you do me," replied Albus, feeling more than a little guilty. Shame was always a surprisingly bitter medicine to swallow.
"That's not what I meant, man ... but, it's appreciated all the same. "
Alastor handed in some forms to the receptionist on the way out and, ignoring the advice of his healers, the two of them left the hospital, turned sharply on their heels and were gone with a crack.
-
November 1st 1981 - 22:30
Darkness had long since fallen over Warlocks Spire, where candles dimly lit the corridors and roaring fires lit the rooms. It was shaping up to be a cold winter and Dumbledore, who had never had a child of his own, decided it was better to be safe than sorry. A drafty spire is good enough for a sprightly man such as I, he thought wryly, but it would not do to allow my charge to acquire a cold on his first day. He had Botzler, his house-elf for these past 30 years, return to the Spire with his things and set about making the place properly habitable.
Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew were still out of contact, highly unusual for Order members who all had orders to check in with another member on a regular basis (a provision made after the disappearance of Caradoc Dearborn), and in his bones Albus knew that little Harry was here to stay. He was a curious thing, Dumbledore thought, small and pink but with black hair that contrasted so sharply. Those green eyes were painfully familiar in their own way, but Albus was thankful that they did not look at him accusingly as he had feared they might.
Harry was, thankfully, at an age where he mostly slept and ate - by all accounts from the Potters, Harry had been an unusually quiet child, there was little crying or screaming on his part (though James would often joke that Lily made up for that in spades). Words were starting to form, and bright little eyes peered at everything with a keen interest and, though Dumbledore was somewhat biased, obvious intellect.
Albus had never seen himself as a father figure, fatherly perhaps, but the practical aspect of raising children was a situation he had never expected himself to need to confront, so he was grateful for the (currently) pleasant nature of his charge. As he sat in his arm chair by the fire, a good book in his lap and dark-wood wand in his hand, which caused the cradle on the other side of the room to rock gently, he found himself looking forward to raising the boy.
Casting his gaze around his modest, yet pleasing, sitting room he saw that things were right for the first time in what seemed like an eon. A gorgeous fire to warm the bones, hot coco and a good book were three of the finest things a man can enjoy, at least in the opinion of the great Albus Dumbledore. The only thing missing was a good pair of woollen socks, and perhaps a plate of biscuits, but greed never lead anywhere good he supposed. Filled from wall to wall with books, old wooden furniture and comfy arm chairs it was the picture perfect grandfather's house, complete with clock that pre-dated the owner, inherited in fact from his own father and wound with religious observance.
His own father had been a difficult man to like, and there had never been chance to learn to ride a broomstick or play chess or go fishing with him, something that Albus deeply regretted, though not always admitted. Percival Dumbledore had been a bigot, but he was still Dumbledore's father. In darker hours Dumbledore had reflected upon the road not taken and, though he knew it was a case of the grass seeming greener on the other side, it was impossible for him not to mourn the loss. He resolved that he was not to be that sort of guardian, from day one he wanted to be involved.
Nobody had mourned the passing of Percival Dumbledore. Everyone would mourn the passing of Albus Dumbledore. It was a conceited thing to think, but true nonetheless. It was hard to disguise that he was the pride of British wizards and witches, a symbol of what can be achieved with effort, a guardian of the innocent and helpless and crusader against the unjust.
None mourned Percival, all would mourn Albus. Yet these things were the same. He would leave behind many friends, Elphias, Minerva and Alastor chief among them, but he had no family, or so claimed Aberforth, and certainly no lover. He lived in an almost literal Ivory Tower, at arms reach from others. Though he refused to let it claim him, he was a lonely man. Selfish of him surely, but little Harry Potter was the only hope for him. He knew one day that Harry would likely understand exactly how he felt. Heroes are often lonely men, and Albus had little doubt that Harry would be hero. History and fate would make him a hero regardless of his wishes.
Though he had only been in Dumbledore's care for less than a day, it pained him to think of the boy growing up with such heavy expectations upon his shoulders. He had devised a plan to allow Harry a childhood, however meagre it may have been with such a family, but his own weakness had robbed Harry of that. He would be idolised from day one, and living with Albus Dumbledore it was likely that the boy would be built into some paragon of good. Such terrible, incredible expectations, but if anyone was capable of helping him deal with that, then surely it was Albus Dumbledore.
Perhaps it was the old teacher's soul inside him, but he yearned to impart knowledge and wisdom. A smaller part of him thought of the small orb that even now resided in the Department of Mysteries, and began to consider exactly what the young boy would need to know. A strange pride filled Albus, and he could almost see the man that Harry would be.
I mean, there's so much to start with! One needs a firm grounding in Latin to even begin with magic - from there I suppose it's safest to start with some history and magical theory. See if the teacher in me remembers how to grab the classes attention, eh? Potions and perhaps some alchem-
His reverie was interrupted by the fireplace, which had been burning such a bright, comforting orange, suddenly turning the hideous green that was the indication of Floo powder. Immediately he stood, wand trained above the fireplace readying a spell to his lips that would see an unwelcome intruder introduced to 700 years of chimney.
Through the flames appeared a head, just the head, of a man who coughed violently. Soot and dust fell from his hair in a shower. "What in the blazes?! Albus! For Merlin's sake, can't you keep that chimney clean?" shouted Alastor Moody.
The wand was lowered, "What did I want for my birthday last year?" he asked.
"Ha! Woollen socks, of course." The laugh was hollow.
"And what did I actually get from you?"
"Books and fire whisky, of course. Ogdens finest!" Alastor had presented him with the same present every year for the last 20 years, after the first 5 Albus has resigned himself to the fact and at around the tenth year he had come to look forward to it - on a cold night such as this, a new book and a drop of the good stuff could really see a man though the evening. "Really though, no need for your questions, war's over didn't you hear? At least, Barty Crouch has declared it officially over now."
"Oh? What exactly do you mean by that?" Albus knelt down in front of the fire, the joints in his knees aching as he lowered himself to the ground, and hoped he wouldn't need the help of Botzler to return to his feet. Sadly, as one aged, it become something you hoped every time you met the floor. He made the extra effort however, because he had charged Moody with keeping an ear open for him at the Ministry. To bother him at home so late would have to mean something big had gone down.
"We made a string of arrests while we were gadding around in the forest today," the words were jovial and light, but his tone was terse and stressed, "I even made it back to the office in time to pick up a few myself. Karkaroff in particular," the smug look on his face matched his attitude, though it was a little strained. Igor Karkaroff and he had shared bad blood for years, to have been the arresting officer should have made Moody positively gleeful, and yet speaking to Dumbledore he was nothing of the sort, "but there's bad news for you Albus."
"Sirius Black was brought in tonight, but ... we were too slow. I arrived on the scene too late, damn it!" his anger was palpable, and the colour drained slowly from Albus' face as the diatribe continued, "If we'd have made it there sooner we could have avoided the whole bloody mess! I mean, "he took a deep breath, "we'd gotten reports of sketchy sightings for the last half an hour in the Kent area, maybe if I'd just sent a team to sweep the streets we could have done something about it..."
"Calm yourself, Alastor - I know you perhaps better than any other man, and if there's one thing to be said about Alastor Moody it is that he does his duty, and he does it well. You have no need to be so hard on yourself. Take a breath and tell me straight, from the beginning, please."
"I was practically the first man on the scene ... Albus, you couldn't imagine. The smells and the sounds ... suffering, hell and the devil it was. Blood and fear and tears ... the street was torn to pieces, bits of ..." he coughed and choked, "everywhere. Mad man blew half the street to buggery just to get him, Albus. Twelve Muggles killed in a single spell, and the poor bastard at the centre was damn near obliterated by it ..."
Albus felt his mouth and lips go dry, he tricked to lick them and speak, but he couldn't seem to move them. Instead he could look only into the haunted stare and wait for him to continue.
"He killed Peter, killed him. Poor, silly bastard should have known better than to try and track Black down. Black was always the better wizard, I mean, how did he think it could end? Shouted to the whole street that Sirius had betrayed them, sold them to the Dark Lord ... they only found his finger."
Dumbledore could only sit there, speechless.
The stare grew distant and unfocused, as if he was looking at some point a thousand miles behind Albus, "You know what the worst part of it all was?" Dumbledore could only shake his head in response.
"He laughed Albus ..." Moody swung his gaze around to meet his, the left eye already covered by a black patch "he laughed. Damn well stood there and howled himself silly while we hauled him off in cuffs." The visible left hand side of his face was pink and raw where the skin had sloughed off and his nose was a dried, bloody mess, the dread in Dumbledore's gut increased as he really took in for the first time all the damage that had been done to his old friend these past ten years.
Dumbledore finally managed to part his cracked, dry lips to respond, but Moody shook his head clear and beat him to it.
"Thing is, Barty's got him down in a cell now, with orders for an immediate transfer to Azkaban. He'll be on his way by the end of the night, along with Karkaroff and Mulciber. Barty thinks we have enough evidence on those three that he's declared them an open and shut case, there's not even going to be a trail."
"But that's preposterous! It undermines the very foundation of our legal system!"
Moody's head did it's best to shrug. "If you'd seen that street Albus ..."
"Regardless, as a member of the Wizengamot I must protest. I will come down to see to Mr. Crouch myself! Stand back, if you would."
Dumbledore called for Botzler who appeared with only a momentary pause, the old elf looking increasingly wrinkled and leathery, and left him with instructions to pay very close attention to Harry while he was away.
He stepped through the fireplace in a single stride to find himself inside the Head Auror Office. It was much the same as it had been earlier in the day, only now it was filled with mountains of paperwork that looked ready to cascade, like the deadliest of landslides. Moody himself sat at the desk, unconcerned, with his hip-flask of whiskey in hand. He placed the silver container against his lips and took a swig, decided it wasn't enough and upended it, draining the last drops. He grimaced as it burnt inside, before slamming it to the desk and following Dumbledore as he swept from the room.
"Take me to the cells first, Alastor. I need to speak to Sirius Black."
Moody looked incredibly uncomfortable, "You know that I can't let you do that, more than my job's worth to let non-DMLE personnel into the holding area without written permission."
"Please, I promise you that it won't take long. I simply wish to look Sirius in the eyes, that is all. Besides, if it turns out that Black is as guilty as it appears then ... well, there's no hurry to appeal the decision. I will have to make a complaint regardless you understand, we can't have Crouch deciding who goes to Azkaban on a whim but for guilty men it is hardly a rush."
Moody grinned an awful grin, "Too right. I know we've got to watch we don't go too far, but ... damn it all, I want to see Karkaroff sweat for what he's done. I suppose if you're only going to be a minute then I can let you into the block, come on."
He lead them down a quiet corridor towards the back of the department, which was seemingly empty - staffed only by a skeleton crew tonight. All the same, Dumbledore could see the lights were on in Barty Crouch's office, though thankfully the frosted glass obscured the view and they continued into more sensitive areas of the office unmolested.
At the end of a long corridor sat behind a desk was John Dawlish, who snapped off a salute to Moody as he approached, "Sorry Sir, no entry to non-authorised personnel beyond this point." The foreboding door blocking their access to the cell block stood ominously, almost oppressively, before them, and only Dawlish stood in their way.
"Come on lad, this is Dumbledore and me, let us through," cajoled Moody.
Unfortunately, John Dawlish was a man of rules and regulations. He felt safe knowing that there were guidelines to be followed, procedures for protection and he believed very strongly that rules were not meant to be broken. Alastor thought that he could disabuse the man of that notion, but John Dawlish was resolute, his firm belief in authority would never allow him to be compromised so.
"I'm sorry Sir, but that is clearly against regulations. Furthermore, how can I even be sure that you're the real Chief Auror Moody and Professor Dumbledore? You could be here in disguise to enact an escape plan," he gave them a wide smile, obviously amused by the idea, "Orders are orders, Sir."
"Any other day I'd have commended you for thinking like that, constant vigilance is exactly what we need around here. However, if you're so dead set on following your orders, then right now I am giving you a god damn order to open this blasted door! Do you understand me Auror Dawlish?"
Dawlish's face was dead set. "Sir," he said, coldly. He tapped his wand upon the desk and the door opened with a faint click.
"There," Moody smirked, "not so hard, was it?"
The two of them entered the room, and the instant they crossed the threshold they heard awful, maudlin laugher emanating from one of the cells further down the hall. Moody shivered and said, "Alright Albus, do your thing then. I don't want to go any closer, gives me the god damn creeps."
Albus nodded and began to move along the row of cells, most of the occupants were unconscious - those who had chosen to attempt to resist arrest were considered too dangerous to risk waking them from the effects of various stunning charms. However, in the second cell to his left, the occupant had been pacing around nervously until he recognised Dumbledore, at which point he was desperately pressing himself against the bars of the cell.
"Dumbledore! Thank god you're here! There's been some kind of awful mistake!" Karkaroff pleaded.
Albus looked the man straight in the eyes and felt out with his Legilimency, reaching into Igor Karkaroff's mind and searching hard for the truth. Vague emotions, feelings, memories assaulted Albus, not as any sort of mental defence, but simply because the human mind has no barriers to neatly separate these things into neat compartments. Legilimency in of itself was not a hard magic to perform, even wandless and silently, but it was the interpretation part that was the true art. It required skill and experience to sift through such a barrage of information to find the one thing the caster was looking for.
"No Igor, somehow I don't think there has been," the inevitable conclusion.
Karkaroff wailed, "I know na-"
"Quiet convict!" roared Moody, "just be glad that you didn't resist, like your good buddy Rosier." The shabby prisoner was clearly cowed by this violent outburst. Dumbledore smiled in thanks and continued down the corridor.
He looked from side to side, the prisoners were all dressed in regulation robes, their Death Eater garb and wands long since confiscated. He recognised some personally, some by description and others yet who were unknown to him, eleven of them all in all. The three LeStranges, Barty Crouch Jnr., Travers, Dolohov, Mulciber, three whose names he did not know and last of all Sirius Black.
As he got closer to that final cell the hollow laughter began to reverberate in his ears, a melancholy, manic laughter - as though the last joke had pushed him over the line between sanity and madness. The palms of his hands became sweaty, and he realised he was afraid. Not of Sirius Black, how could he be when he still remembered arriving for breakfast late one morning to find the entire faculty had grown antlers, but deathly afraid of his guilt.
To look into his eyes and to see the exact moment he had signed off on the Fidelus plan, effectively the moment that had condemned the Potters. To see the precise moment that had he failed to find the traitor in their midst. A fresh wave of guilt struck like lightening as he realised that if Sirius had been the traitor then Remus Lupin was innocent. The last three years they had been giving in to their prejudices and suspecting an innocent man.
Dumbledore felt intense shame. While he hadn't been pointing any fingers, unlike Sturgis Podmore, as the war had progressed he found himself trying to limit the amount of sensitive information that the werewolf was exposed to. A painful reminder that even Albus Dumbledore, champion of Muggle rights and the first Headmaster to allow a werewolf student at Hogwarts, was not above the same narrow-minded thinking he strove so hard to defeat.
He rounded the corner of the cell, and saw for the first time the incarcerated Sirius Black. He was lying on the small cot towards the back of the room, face towards the ceiling, dressed in regulation clothing. One arm lay languid over the edge of the cot, as though boneless. An innocuous thing, but one that seemed almost sinister to Albus.
Dumbledore cleared his throat and stood expectantly. The laughter slowly died, and ended in a small sob. Black slowly turned his head from facing the roof to the cell door, resting his face on the thin pillow at the head of the bed. A moment later his eyes shot wide open.
"Dumbledore!" His voice was horse, coarse, no doubt from the unceasing laughter, and he winced as he tried to speak, "Thank Merlin."
He pulled himself from the bed as quickly as he could, unsteady on his feet, and dashed towards the cell door. The parallels with Karkaroff were not unnoticed by Dumbledore. He clung tightly to the bars of the cell, and this close up Albus could see that his face was stained with soot and dust, except for two trails beneath the eyes were he had obviously been crying.
Albus steeled himself, and looked into Sirius Black's eyes and found -
"DUMBLEDORE!" spat an enraged Bartemius Crouch, "What in the hell do you think you're playing at?"
Eye contact lost too soon, Dumbledore span around to face Crouch who had come barrelling through the door that Moody had stayed beside. Crouch was a squat man, and even from this distance Albus could see the dark rings underneath his eyes were the fatigue was showing. Crouch, in his curious dark purple suit and matching bowler, began to waddle towards Dumbledore with John Dawlish in tow.
"I said what in the hell do you think you're doing here? You know damn well that you're not supposed to be here, as do you Auror Moody! This is my department and I'll not have the interference of the Wizengamot here."
"You are in direct contravention of some of our most cherished laws Mr Crouch," Dumbledore replied serenely, "I am here in my official capacity to investigate that." He could see plainly at the other end of the corridor that Moody and Dawlish were engaged in a quiet argument, it was painfully obvious that after they had pushed their way past his sentry that Dawlish had ran to Crouch for help.
"Bah, for this filth? They hardly count as human," Crouch said derisively, "I intend to see them punished for what they've done, and I've the support of many behind me."
"We shall see about that Bartemius," said Dumbledore, thinking of the conversation he had shared with Minister Bagnold.
It was at this moment that Karkaroff choice once again to make an impassioned plea for his release.
"Barty Crouch! You've got to listen to me, help me, I know names! I'll do any-"
"For the last time convict, shut your filthy mouth!" shouted an enraged Alastor.
"Quiet Moody, you're in enough trouble as it is right now." Crouch turned to face Moody, "You singlehandedly bring in Bellatrix LeStrange, take an injury that would buy most men retirement, return in time to pick up Karkaroff and Dolohov. You even manage to bring Rosier to justice, costing you your nose in the process," he said gesturing towards his blood stained face. "It is only in light of these facts that I'm suspending you, and not demanding that you turn in your badge this very second for allowing non-department personnel in here. I'll have no more from you."
Finally he looked straight at Karkaroff, who was hanging from the bars in desperation, "Well then, talk. Prove to us you're of some use and maybe there might be a deal for you." Igor's dark eyes lit up, the relief on his face evident.
"You've made the right choice Mr. Crouch, you won't regret this, I assure you!"
"Get on with it, let's have a name I don't already know."
"Avery! He's one of them." The words tumbled over his lips, eager to avoid the imminent transportation to Azkaban island.
Crouch remained impassive, "Is currently under house arrest for Death Eater association. Has claimed Imperious. Another name, last chance Karkaroff."
"Wilkes, then! Jonah Wilkes."
Moody, Dawlish and Crouch all gasped. Wilkes, the very same Wilkes who lay half-comatose in a St. Mungo's hospital bed as they spoke. Flabbergasted, Moody could only reply "Liar! Filthy liar!"
"I said quiet Moody, I've had more than enough of you. Wilkes you say? It would explain the department leaks," Crouch ruminated, "but I'm not saying I believe you yet. If you can provide more names like that Karkaroff, then perhaps we can do a deal."
"NO! Not after I worked so hard Crouch, damn it all! Karkaroff is mine, you can't just let him go like that." Alastor was bright red in the face, anger swelling within him, almost close to drawing his wand. But Bartemius wasn't fazed by the legendary Auror's legendary anger, he had faced down the exact same expression in departmental meetings long enough to have gained a resistance.
"I said I'd had enough of your outbursts Moody. Remember your suspension? Dawlish and I will be leaving to pay a visit to Auror Wilkes, now, I know the two of you worked together for quite some time. As a personal favour to you, I will allow you and Dumbledore to accompany us, if you can keep your temper to yourself."
Still furious, but desperate to prove Crouch and Karkaroff wrong about Wilkes, he controlled his anger and nodded his ascent, and silently hobbled towards the exit, making painfully clear to stand on Dawlish's foot with his wooden leg.
Dumbledore suppressed a smile, and motioned for Crouch and Dawlish to go first. He followed, casting a forlorn glance behind him at the cell of Sirius Black, who stood still by the bars of the cell, arms wrapped tightly around the iron with his face cast down.
-
November 1st 1981 - 23:00
Moody took a deep breath. He pushed open the ward doors and entered, leaving Crouch, Dawlish and Dumbledore in the corridor. It had meant an argument in the lobby and an extra week of suspension, but he had fought Barty tooth and nail - he would go in first, and alone, to talk to Jonah Wilkes. He felt he deserved the right to confront him. Years of honourable service together tarnished in the face of Karkaroff's allegations. At this moment he didn't know who to hate more, Karkaroff or Wilkes.
The ward was quiet and empty as the more serious, but not permanent, spell damage wards are. With magic, nine times out of ten if they can't heal it right away they never can, so overnight wards tended to be next to empty. The sound of his wooden leg was incredibly disquieting, the only other noise breaking the silence his heavy breathing and the pounding of his angry heart in his chest.
The short walk from door to bed seem to last forever to Alastor, but all too soon he stood and stared at Jonah, who lay asleep recovering from his wounds. He sat down heavily on the visitors chair and tried for a moment to control the nervous twitch in his face.
It was quiet in the ward, much quieter than Moody had anticipated, and it was easy to sit there and simply do nothing. So much easier than the confrontation he'd arrived to have. At first he wouldn't even entertain the notion that Karkaroff was telling the truth, but now he was here doubt was beginning to creep in. It would certainly explain a lot of the leaks the department had suffered, and ... frankly, he was no longer surprised by duplicity and betrayal. It had been a long decade, during which he'd been stabbed in the back, though only once literally, by friends and colleagues too many times for this one to surprise him. It only seemed to prove to him just how little we really know those around us.
Finally he steeled himself and, ignoring the ailing, nervous jittering in his gut, gently he shook Wilkes' sleeping form. He did not doubt that Crouch and the Department would have hell to pay with the nurses and healers, but this had to be done. Jonah roused slowly, still sluggish from whatever they had used to sedate him earlier, but already Moody could see that he wasn't anywhere near as battered as when he had been brought in.
The various bruises, cuts and scrapes were gone and the horrible looking head wound was now just red swelling and a scar, plainly visible where the healers had vanished the hair to get a better look. Alastor had, on more than one occasion, taken a foul smelling potion to re-grow hair lost to the healers.
"Huh?" Jonah looked up hazily, still trying to shake off that weird sensation that sleeping potions left you with when you woke. It always felt like trying to think through molasses, or so Moody thought.
"Thought you might-could do with a visitor Wilkes" Moody said, softly.
Wilkes smiled slightly, but grimaced and hissed as he hoisted himself up into a sitting position. "They say it's not so bad now. Think they said something about releasing me tomorrow morning, back at work two or three days. How'd we make out?"
"Pretty good, in some ways, pretty bad in others. We pulled in a bunch of-" he cut himself off, having been close to irrationally spitting 'your friends', swallowed and continued "suspects. Gordon will be fine, they think. It was close for a while, but he's pulling through. The Longbottoms on the other hand haven't been so lucky."
He clasped his hands together, and put them on his lap. Heart still beating madly, he realised he didn't want to know. He shifted uncomfortably, which Wilkes noticed "Something bothering you, Chief?"
Moody sighed, chest constricting, "Yeah, yeah there is ... Karkaroff wants to talk. And Crouch wants to listen."
Wilkes rapidly went white, a deathly pallor went over him and the bottom of Moody's stomach dropped. That sickly feeling brewed in his gut, churning and acidic. Wilkes tried to meet Moody's eye, but he wouldn't let him, just stared somewhere to the left above Jonah's head.
"He mention any names?" Wilkes began to shake slightly.
"Yeah. He may have done. Yours might've come up." Try as he might Moody couldn't summon the hate, that red blood lust that the white porcelain conjured. He couldn't hate the trembling wreck of a man before him. But he had a job to do, a duty to fulfil. And no one could say Alastor Moody did not do his duty. "I'm going to have to take you back to the Ministry with me, Jonah."
"No! No, I can't!" He looked about wildly, positively rabid, then reached out with sudden, surprising speed and grabbed Moody's robes, great big fist fulls of cloth, nearly tearing them in his desperation and he didn't even seem to notice Alastor trying to prise himself free of his grip. "I'm not one of them, not really, not really. I can't go there, you know that." Wilkes shook him, forced Alastor to look into his eyes and begged. Eyes like pits of bottomless fear that stretched, yawning at him.
Moody knew what he meant, Wilkes could never stand Azkaban. He had been there once, thrown up and fallen unconscious before he had even reached the shore. Refused to go a second time, which Moody understood - that terrible, foreboding hulk of a castle perched like some hideous vulture on the cliffs of Azkaban Isle would chew men inside out in the worst possible way. Minds and souls, like tatters when they left. If they ever did.
Fear had hold of Wilkes in its icy, vice grip as sure as he had hold of Moody. Dementors were foul, blasted, god-forsaken things. Husks of hate and fear, with nothing even close to approximating a soul. Death Eaters might have blackened, pestilent souls but Dementors were a void. A void which was always looking to be filled but never full, hungry and envious and hateful.
"ENOUGH!" The double doors at the entrance to the ward slammed open and Barty Crouch came striding through them, Dawlish and Dumbledore in tow. "Jonah Wilkes, you are under arrest for espionage and treason, and the charge of alleged membership of an illegal terrorist organisation."
There was no mercy in the stone face of Crouch Snr. Dumbledore pleaded "Let Alastor go and come in quietly, Jonah."
"No! I was never one of them, I swear!" Wilkes heaved himself from the bed, dragging Moody with him. Incredible strength fuelled by fear allowed him to stand and nearly lift Alastor from his feet.
"But you did, at the very least, pass them vital departmental information and that alone is a treasonous act. You allowed Voldemort and his Death Eaters to gain a foothold in my department and my ministry, and elongated a war. You will come with Auror Dawlish and I," Crouch responded, and Alastor could see that he wasn't interested in talking. The shape of the confrontation was laid out in front of him, and he knew it was only a matter of time before one of them resorted to slinging spells.
Wilkes hesitated, and realised for the first time that he was holding onto Moody when he spoke to him. "Come on lad, let's do as Barty asks, eh?" desperate to do anything to avoid the coming fight.
Wilkes swung his captive around and snatched the wand that Moody kept concealed within his robes before levelling it to face his former boss and comrades. "I'm sorry Al," he whispered, eying the unguarded door at the other end of the ward "but I can't go there."
"Auror Dawlish, detain him. If he resists you are authorised to use lethal force." Anger was etched into every line and wrinkle of Crouch's face as he spat his orders. Dumbledore fumbled for his wand, intent upon diffusing the situation, perhaps to disarm both Dawlish and Wilkes, but the fact of the matter was he was too slow. Wilkes and Dawlish already had wands drawn, Aurors in their prime.
Wilkes threw Moody forward and cast a shield charm to cover himself while he turned his back and ran.
He didn't even make it half way.
Even face down on the floor Moody could feel the awful nausea that was left in the wake of the killing curse and the dull thud of Wilkes' body reverberating through the wooden floorboards.
-
November 3rd 1981 - 15:00
Two days had passed since the incident in St Mungo's and they had been a mixed bag for Albus Dumbledore. The deal Barty Crouch was making (though who knew if he'd keep to his word?) with Karkaroff rankled with him but he could not deny that it was filling in some of the holes in the story and making the Ministry more secure in general.
Sadly, he had been unable to make any headway in the case of Sirius Black and Mulciber. While there was no doubt that Mulciber was guilty and no proof that Black was innocent it was in direct contradiction of some of the most basic of human rights, no matter Baty's opinion on their membership of that group.
Minister Bagnold had been content to let them be transported to Azkaban, assured of their guilt by Barty and by the weight of public pressure on her. It was remarkable that the other suspects were getting trials at all in light of the angry and revenge driven public. Albus supposed that it was all she could do to keep them from being Kissed.
Harry had been placed with him without legal trouble and the Potters will finalised. In truth, there was little to distribute. A few personal effects were given to various friends (including some trinkets for Black and Peter) and Harry. The money, what very little of it there was, was rationed out into a trust fund for Harry, in order to see him through Hogwarts. The land at Godric's Hollow was to be left moribund until Harry was old enough to decide what he wanted to do with it, and the frankly disturbing aura the area had left him with little concern that anyone would disturb it.
It had, however, become apparent that Minerva was not entirely incorrect when she had asked if he and his house-elf were up to the task of raising the child. They were both old, one already had his hands full with maintaining the Spire and the other had his hands full of Wizengamot business. They needed another pair of hands, and Dumbledore could think of no one better than Remus Lupin.
He ignored the small voice that told him he could think of no one else because of his silent assent to Lupin's position as the chief spy suspect, and that this was simply a way to try and make amends.
Remus lived in a small cottage in the very heart of the Whinfell Forrest in Cumbria, another advantage in that it was relatively close to the Spire. It was a fairly small forest and hardly the densest in England, but it was enough for the purpose of secluding Remus from the world during the full moon.
Albus had always been partial to visiting Remus here, before the suspicion set in, simply because of the peaceful and calming nature of the woodland. Nature was a luxury that Dumbledore savoured whenever he could. The winding forest path was a pleasant walk and the temperature was unseasonably reasonable, the last of the rusty leaves falling from trees and last bright blooms of autumn flowers conspired to fill this copse with colour before it's long winter sleep.
Through the trees Albus could see Whinfell Cottage, though he was at least another five minutes from his destination, and the small barn that belonged to his erstwhile werewolf friend. Rustic perhaps, but well kept - Dumbledore could hardly imagine Remus allowing it to become disorganised, his scrap of land in the British heartland was his pride and joy. It was difficult for a werewolf to own property, simply due to the harsh employment laws and general prejudice that meant a steady income was impossible, so Lupin maintained this house with a vigour that almost bordered on fervour.
The barn and the house made a right angle with each other and a chest height fence created a small courtyard in the centre, which had been cobbled. You could be fooled that it might once have been an actual farm, but Remus had been the first occupant and never kept anything larger than chickens.
Just past the open barn doors Albus could make out a large shape covered with brown tarpaulin that he assumed was Sirius Black's motorcycle. Hagrid, being unable to find Sirius, had naturally left it with one of Black's oldest friends and what with the subsequent arrest Albus supposed the motorbike would be there to stay. If Whinfell Cottage was Lupin's prize possession then it would be apt to compare it to the sleek Triumph Bonneville that Sirius had spent so many hours enchanting himself.
Albus strode past the open gate and made straight for the front door of the one-story cottage. He could not see inside the house, haphazardly drawn curtains were obscuring his view and for an instant he imagined he would find some terrible scene inside, just like how LeStrange had caught up with the Longbottoms.
However, he swallowed such fears and rapped on the green door. He was greeted seconds later by the face of Remus Lupin and the smell of Fire Whisky. The door opened wide enough to admit his head, but Albus could quite clearly see the bolt and chain allowing it no further.
"Afternoon Professor, how do you do?" croaked Lupin, who looked the opposite of the building. He always looked ill (especially as the full moon was due on the 11th), but this time he even looked scruffy.
"How do you do? How are things?" replied Dumbledore.
"Oh, doing fine considering."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, "Helped along by Mr Ogden I assume?"
A thin, weary smile pulled the corners of Lupin's mouth skyward, "Hardly. One side effect of being a lycanthrope is an unfortunate resistance to the effects of alcohol."
Albus grinned, "Then perhaps Mr Ogden would be better off aiding me. I'm sorry to impose, but perhaps I might have ten minutes of your time?"
Remus nodded and disappeared to undo the chain.
The door closed, rattled and opened again. Remus gestured for him to come inside with a tired wave of his hand, and promptly turned his back on Albus before walking off away down the hall. Dumbledore took a few moments to divest himself of his hat, cloak and scarf which he hung upon the hat stand in the corner before following him with a sigh.
It was dark and smoky in Lupin's living room, small rays of light barely made their way past the curtains and what little light did venture in only served to illuminate the cigar smoke that hung in the air. Dumbledore could see a tumbler of amber liquid on a small table by an armchair. Also plainly visible was a crystal ash-tray, which contained ash, a finished cigar butt and a second, still lit and softly burning. A fancy, polished wooden box lay open on the table, and Albus would hazard that there was another 10 or so cigars left inside it.
"Taken up smoking, Remus?" Albus asked, surprised. He was unaware of what effect smoking would have on a werewolf, but he couldn't imagine they would get off any easier than the rest in the long term.
"No ... They were a gift. Bought in Cuba, as a matter of fact. It was told to me that they were particularly fine," he sat down heavily, and cast his gaze around, despondent, "He said that when the war was over we would smoke them together. In the light of what Sirius did though, they just taste like ash to me."
"I'm sorry for your loss Remus. I can't imagine ..." Albus trailed off to nothing.
"No," Remus said softly, after a moment "I don't suppose you can."
Albus could see the pain engraved on Lupin's face. He had no blood family, both parents had passed away many years ago, no lover and now the three men who had been akin to brothers had been taken from him in one night.
"How are you handling things? You look rough."
"I know Albus," Remus smiled thinly, "full moon in a few days, nothing more."
Dumbledore looked at him, disbelieving.
Lupin looked at the floor, clearly abashed "I won't lie, it's been hard, for ... many reasons. But I'm doing alright now." Classic British stiff-upper lip, but then Remus always had been reluctant to share his troubles - even more so than the average male reflected Dumbledore.
"Very well Remus, just remember that you may place your confidence in me. You've done it once before, as I recall," they shared a smile, and that helped Remus more than Albus would ever know. He might never take Dumbledore up on that offer, but it was enough to know that someone was willing to listen. Especially considering it was the same man who granted him a childhood that he would never have been capable of otherwise.
"However, now it is my turn to confide in you, I think. Please listen carefully Remus, for the apologies from this old man are often difficult. I have done you a great disservice," Lupin looked confused and moved to dismiss Dumbledores claims but Albus was adamant, and now that he had come this far would not be stopped.
"No, I have Remus." Dumbledore looked down at his hands, the apology gurgling in this throat, "I allowed others to give in to their prejudice. I allowed others to treat you unfairly, unjustly. I am a great believer in that old motto 'Innocent until proven guilty', but it seems that even I am not infallible."
Lupin sat back in his chair, and crossed his legs, though Albus could not bring himself to look at him. "I even began to believe the rumours that I had neglected to quash. I can do nothing now but apologise unreservedly for ever allowing myself to entertain the notion that ... that you might have been the spy in our midst."
Lupin sighed, "You really ought not to worry too much Professor. It's behaviour I am used to. Truthfully ... we all suspected each other. No one was above suspicion, about the only person we never seriously considered as a candidate for the spy was you, Albus. My condition amplifies these things," Remus shrugged, "I forgave you long ago."
"Thank you," Albus croaked, "Another regret to add to the list, but I am glad at least that I was able to find a certain amount of absolution. I would hope that you will still consider me to be one of your friends."
Lupin smiled, "Of course I do Albus. In turn, I really must thank you. It was ... a long, hard war. Yet you did your level best to keep us all safe, each and every one of us. You're not infallible, but you guided us through better than anyone else could have. I know Alastor thinks so, and Caradoc felt the same. We're proud to call ourselves your friends."
Dumbledore nodded his thanks, not trusting his voice to stay level.
"So," Remus breaking the silence and changing the subject. He shifted his weight to the edge of the chair in subconscious concern, "what has become of Harry?"
"I have been granted guardianship, though I assure you I was not the only one who expressed a desire to house him. I'm certain that half of the families who sent letters to the Minister had never met the Potters."
"Yes, he's going to be quite the figure when he grows up, isn't he?" he paused a moment, "Did my letter even make it through to the Ministers office, do you know?"
Albus smiled regretfully, "I'm sorry, not to my knowledge Remus. However, that does make it easier to bring up my main reason for my visit. Am I correct in surmising you are between jobs?"
Remus bristled for a moment, "Well, there are some options I'm looking into." He only held the elderly Professors gaze for a few seconds, before sighing heavily and conceding, "but yes, I am."
"Good!" to which exclamation Remus looked surprised, "By which I mean, I have an offer for you. I am going to need some help at home with Harry. I don't mean in terms of maintaining my home or any other menial domestic work, but even having resigned as Headmaster of Hogwarts - to which you are invited to the 'surprise' retirement bash the staff and students are throwing me, by the way - I will still find myself unable to look after him all day everyday due to my Wizengamot commitments. Chief Mugwump is a life-time position, one that I could not retire from even if I felt I could. So, I would like for you to come and work for me, to care for the boy when I am required to be elsewhere."
"No," Remus said firmly, "you know full well that I would have done that for free. I don't need to be some kind of glorified babysitter. You've been careful not to call it babysitting, but that's what it would be, at least for the first few years. I know you mean well, and I thank you ... but I'm afraid I must decline."
Dumbledore sighed, "I suspected you would say as much. I apologise if I have offended you by suggesting this. I simply wished to reimburse you for your time."
"I understand, and while my ego might be taking a knock, I can handle it" he smiled slightly, but his tense hands betrayed him, "I don't need charity, though. I'm sure you had the best of intentions and didn't mean it that way, but ... you must forgive me if I am a little sensitive. I will however, if you still need someone to help you look after him, be more than pleased to give you what time I can spare. He's practically my nephew anyway."
"Very well, thank you Remus. I will more than gladly take whatever you can offer me." They stood, as Dumbledore left they shook hands amiably at the door, and despite the miscommunication there was a new energy in the tired eyes of Remus Lupin.
Back in his lounge, he pulled the curtains open, bight rays invaded the room illuminating the faded furniture, cloying smoke and the gossamer dust which hung suspended in the air. He pushed open a window, took a deep breath of fresh air and felt like a younger man. With surprise he realised he was probably feeling, for the first time in a long time, the age he actually was.
He stoppered the whisky bottle and returned it to the creaky drinks cabinet, poured the last of his glass down the kitchen sink before washing his face in the water trough by the barn. The November-cold water was another wakeup call, but this was far more sharp, intense and frankly freezing.
Feeling happier than he had in months he returned to the sitting room, and his eyes landed upon the still-open cigar box. Sirius had brought them for Remus, James, Peter and he. He lifted up the cigar that he had been smoking when Dumbledore had called, and stubbed it out in the ash tray purposefully. It had been his fathers, and it had taken some hours rummaging through boxes in the loft before he found it. Remus' father had been a smoker for many years, but had mostly smoked a pipe. It spoke volumes about the relationship Remus had with Romulus Lupin, his father, that the pipe was the only item mounted on the mantelpiece above the hearth.
Slowly he closed the mahogany lid and ran his hand over the bas-relief on the lid. Gently his fingers traced the silhouettes of dog, rat, stag and wolf. It was a beautiful box, he thought, either custom made or carved by Sirius himself, but the peaceful woodland scene was forever marred by harsh realities.
He stood up and hid the box beneath his bed, where it stayed for many years after.
-
A/N - Thanks for sticking with me so far -please keep the comments, questions and critiques coming as they all go towards making this a better story!
Discount,