Chapter 300 - 300
The corridors of the Ministry were full of wizards despite the late hour. In fairness, it should be noted that not all levels, nor all corridors, could boast such a density of wizards at this time — but that was a nuance.
Amid all this commotion, among the wizards rushing between offices like lunatics, one single wizard walked with an important but brisk stride, favouring a classic Muggle grey three-piece suit. Beside him, keeping pace, walked two wizards considerably older and in some ways even more distinguished, in dark robes — but even to an untrained eye it was clear that the one in charge of this trio was the wizard in grey.
"What do we have on the detainee?" the wizard in grey asked calmly, addressing no one in particular.
"He's silent, Mr Dawe," answered a wizard of about fifty with curly, greying hair. "We've applied every conceivable means, sir… But I'm certain that you, being such a powerful wizard—"
"You needn't continue with your cheap flattery, my venal friend," John Dawe waved him off. "Better tell me about the state of the detainee."
"The capture went smoothly — credit is due to Madam Bones's foresight and the artefact procurement. The detainee himself is behaving as though under the Imperius, but… as though he was never given instructions to behave naturally — only to carry out the task. He reacts to nothing, does nothing, says nothing. Nothing at all, like a doll."
"I see," Dawe nodded gravely, turning a ring on his finger. "Summon the most qualified Healers from Mungo's and determine what's wrong with him and how to extract information."
"Yes, Chief."
The little man turned off into one of the lower-level corridors of the Ministry, tiled in black like everything else here, while Dawe continued along a path known only to himself, through the thinning crowds of wizards. Once he'd waited until almost no one remained around, he cast, with an imperceptible flick of the wrist, various anti-eavesdropping wards, and addressed the second wizard — considerably older, but still spry.
"What artefacts, and why don't I know about this?" Dawe asked calmly, continuing along the corridor.
"Very little information. They were being distributed through the Weasley children."
"The owners of the new shop in Diagon Alley, I presume?"
"Precisely."
"It sounds as though you have more to add."
Dawe glanced briefly at the older wizard, as if to make clear that he knew — something, at least.
"Yes, my lord."
They turned into an empty corridor in the Ministry's dungeons and now walked alone, though no one lifted the anti-eavesdropping charms.
"The maker of these artefacts isn't being especially careful about concealing himself," the elderly wizard continued the thought. "And he's still a student at Hogwarts."
"Even so?"
"Yes. Though I should note there's no absolute proof."
"And who is it?"
"Based on the information gathered, my lord, it's one Hector Granger, Muggle-born."
"Granger, is it…" Dawe drawled thoughtfully.
The two wizards reached the doors of the Head of the DMLE's office and went inside. Dawe settled behind the massive desk, while his older colleague stood opposite.
"Is the information reliable? And I trust you've tested the artefacts, my faithful friend. What were the results?"
"The information is unverified, and there's no apparent way to verify it without forceful intervention. As for the artefacts, they're excellent, but they have a powerful blood-bond to the user, and the artefact is destroyed upon the user's death. My colleagues and I haven't found a way around that protection."
Dawe turned the ring on his finger again, gazing thoughtfully into the depths of the office, not at his companion.
"Should I do something about it?" the elderly wizard decided to break the silence.
"No. There's no need," Dawe shook his head smoothly, folding his hands into a steeple before him, elbows braced on the desk. "I was looking through a file... Either Hector Granger can stand up for himself if pressed, or someone stands behind him. And right now we don't need to draw unnecessary attention."
"The Plague Doctor?"
"A mysterious figure," Dawe nodded. "And evidently a rather powerful one. An unknown variable, which means it's best not to include it in the equation. Back to our artefacts. Of the staff who possess these artefacts, how many work in combat units?"
"Fewer than ten percent, my lord."
"Fix that," with that single word Dawe made clear there were no alternatives to be entertained. "There's hardly any special training in the DMLE anyway, unlike in the Auror Office. Send forty percent of the artefact-holders for additional training and skills development in the Auror Office. Bring in field agents to fill their places in the offices and the investigative department. Motivate them financially — training will be harsh, reward progress with bonuses, penalise avoidance with fines. If they balk — dismissal by resignation. If they balk badly — dismissal outright. Naturally, the sick, the crooked, the stupid, and the incapable are not to be taken."
"We still don't have a Minister… The Wizengamot, which has temporarily taken on the Minister's duties, might not approve such a thing," here the old wizard allowed himself a smirk. "As, incidentally, ought to have been the case from the start."
"I needn't tell you, my faithful friend, that the Ministry has long since begun turning into a refuge for the feeble, the untalented, and the foolish. By preliminary estimates and reckonings, how many truly competent staff and truly necessary and important departments are there? Fifteen percent? Twenty? But that's not what matters right now, not that… The DMLE needs more capable wizards and operatives for fieldwork, for real work and real confrontations — not for bullying the wretched, not for collecting bribes, and not for chasing addicts around Knockturn. Even Bones couldn't bring order here — we have hard work ahead of us. And time doesn't wait."
Suddenly, though quite predictably, a paper aeroplane flew into the office and landed on the desk in front of Dawe. Without a word, he took it in hand, and the little aeroplane turned into a message. Running his eyes over the text, Dawe rose from the desk briskly but without haste and headed out of the office, his old friend in every sense of the word following silently behind him.
They walked through the Ministry's corridors, descended by lift to the level of the holding cells, and the whole while the old man didn't say a single word, not letting his curiosity show. Dawe spoke first, as soon as they'd left the lift and set off down yet more black corridors.
"Our flatterer summoned the best Healer who was on shift at Mungo's. Remarkably, we already have answers — or so I've been told, at least. I'll allow that instead of answers, we may simply end up with more questions."
Dawe paid no attention to the guards, both visible and disguised, though he noted that at least they weren't asleep. Passing by numerous doors and the nearly imperceptible magical fields of the security systems, Dawe arrived at the object of his visit — cell "one-oh-two." Technically, it wasn't a cell but two rooms — an interrogation room, which doubled as the holding space for the suspect or other detainee, and a second room from which the interrogation and so forth could be observed.
Dawe and his friend went into that very room, where they were already expected, watching the detainee through special wards set into the wall.
"Ah, here's the Chief," the curly-haired wizard, head of one of the DMLE's sub-departments, automatically slipped into flattery. "Allow me to introduce, esteemed Chief, Master Healer Smethwyck — Hippocrates Smethwyck."
"I feel I've seen you somewhere before," Smethwyck said with a polite smile, extending his hand.
"Anything's possible, sir," Dawe shook the offered hand with an equally polite smile. "I've travelled a great deal, seen many places — and, if I'm honest, ended up at Mungo's more than once."
Smethwyck gave no sign of just how struck he was by this Dawe's uncanny resemblance, in expression, to Granger. Yes, different faces, different small details or overall impression, but the expressions… That particular expression of Hector's spoke of forced politeness towards someone he wasn't yet sure how to regard, and the gaze — calm, studying, analysing. Smethwyck was certain Dawe's expression meant precisely the same thing.
"As I understand it," Dawe clasped his hands behind his back, "you're already able to say something regarding the detainee?"
Everyone turned briefly towards the image on the wall. There, in a solitary cell with perfectly smooth grey walls, a nearly bald middle-aged wizard sat on the edge of a solid stone bunk. He sat as though he weren't a living person at all, but a golem that had lost its animating control. Empty gaze, straight back, feet together, hands on his knees. He didn't so much as twitch.
"Yes, Mr Dawe," Smethwyck nodded and shifted into a businesslike tone. "I happened to deal with a similar case quite recently. As you understand, I can't disclose personal information — oaths."
"Of course. Of course."
"The gist of it is that this wizard, if my quick diagnosis is to be trusted, is in the same condition. Interrogating him now would be pointless — not even Veritaserum would get him talking. The reason is simple. He carries out whatever task the 'leader' sets him, and then forgets everything. I've examined the complexes of potions, charms, and curses laid on such wizards, and I don't see a way to extract information. Even after treatment, the wizard won't remember anything of his 'service.' For him, it will be as though he fell asleep and now suddenly finds himself here."
"Unwelcome news," Dawe remarked, keeping his expression calm, while the tousle-haired wizard clearly wanted to speak up but... chose to hold his tongue. "Is there anything else you can share with us, Mr Smethwyck?"
"As far as I'm aware, there should be a wizard with unwashed brains somewhere nearby. Perhaps even his partner. He wasn't alone, was he?"
"That's classified information," the tousle-haired wizard puffed up at once, clearly eager to ingratiate himself with his new superior.
But protocol doesn't always help with complicated matters. Or rather, protocol, regulations, and so forth help one do what's proper, setting reflection aside — but the outcome isn't always the best.
"Only he was detained. The rest is of no concern to you," Dawe replied, turning his gaze to Smethwyck.
"Evidently so," Smethwyck smiled kindly. "I'm a Healer, not an investigator. But it's obvious to me, having untangled these knots of curses and potions, that proper control over a wizard like this requires a controller, and constant — forgive me — control. Possibly something mental. One of the potions has a magical signature remarkably similar to the ordinary Protean Charm, though clearly deeply modified. Ah, yes… the detained 'controller' mentioned belonging to some organisation."
"Well, out with the name already, don't keep us waiting!" the tousle-haired wizard couldn't restrain himself — but the moment Dawe shot him a quick glance, he lost the power of speech. Literally.
"Forgive my colleague. A high post and a circle of fawning subordinates have somewhat robbed him of the ability to conduct himself with the restraint befitting a decent wizard. The question, however, does indeed remain open."
"The name I don't know," Smethwyck shook his head. "What I do know is that at least the ones I've encountered were gathering 'living' material for some experiments and rituals."
"Wizards?"
"Yes. What's more, the captured 'controller' started raving one particular phrase — Purity of blood above all. In German."
Hearing this, Dawe frowned imperceptibly to the others, and only Smethwyck, accustomed to dealing with Hector, once again noted with surprise the striking similarity in the two men's facial "patterns."
"Blutreinheit über alles…" Dawe said quietly. "I think I know which organisation is being spoken of. But what would they be doing in England? They've no business here at all…"
"Then it isn't them, esteemed Chief," the tousle-haired wizard nodded gravely, having regained the power of speech. "Whoever they are."
"Mr Smethwyck," Dawe looked at the Healer. "Was there a system of potion capsules in the 'golems'' bodies?"
Smethwyck could only look back in silence and smile — such particulars he couldn't reveal even had he wished to.
"I see," Dawe interpreted the Healer's silence quite correctly. "So it is them. But why?"
"May I ask, Mr Dawe," Smethwyck went on smiling politely, radiating the kindness he was, incidentally, generously endowed with. "Why do you believe they've no business in England?"
"During my long wanderings in search of magic's secrets, I came to understand a few things. First — our beloved magical England has nothing to be proud of. England is as stagnant a swamp as you could hope to find anywhere in the world, and I'm not sure you'd find a worse one. We've quite successfully lost nearly all knowledge of serious magic, of its secrets. We don't manufacture or create anything we needn't be ashamed of. We even import our tin cauldrons from abroad. Tin — and this from us, whose islands were once called the Tin Isles. There aren't two dozen Masters of magic to be found, and truly powerful wizards you could count on the fingers of two hands. Even the research wing of the Department of Mysteries holds nothing either mysterious or interesting."
The Healer nodded with understanding, while the others simply listened to Dawe's spontaneous speech as he gazed thoughtfully at the image of the prisoner.
"So, from the standpoint of material wealth or knowledge, there's nothing here for them. However, I encountered this nameless order during my travels, and I know at least a few of their spheres of interest. The artificial or natural creation of the perfect wizard, the superwizard — for that goal, they'll stop at nothing. To that end, they 'collect' members of magical peoples who interest them, but wizards chiefly. Experiments that would chill the blood of even the most hardened. The number of victims is of no consequence. Their other goal is the elimination of 'spoiled biomaterial' from the world. Put simply — genocide of those who don't fit their notion of what a wizard should be."
"Hm… If you say so, Mr Dawe," Smethwyck mused, "then this order sees no value in England's wizards at all?"
"Yes. At least, that was so before. These relics of Grindelwald's era and the Third Reich have taken their magical Nazism to an entirely different level. Although," Dawe turned to his companions, smiling politely, "I find it rather amusing that they consider us practically an 'unworthy' people, given that the roots of Nazism grow out of England itself."
"Not especially amusing," Smethwyck shook his head.
"That's subjective," Dawe looked once more at the magical image of the holding cell.
"Perhaps they've moved on to the part where they eliminate the undesirables?"
"Unlikely. On the other hand, I know for a fact that they never, under any circumstances, activate field agents without an extensive and powerful network of sleeper agents already in place, without infiltration into state institutions and other support — which means…"
Dawe sharply raised his hand, in which a wand had appeared, and pointed it at the curly-haired wizard.
"Obliviate…"
A dim green flash briefly lit the office, and the curly-haired wizard's gaze turned glassy. Dawe had mentally embedded the instruction into the spell, so there was no need to speak it aloud.
"…their man could be anyone," Dawe finished his thought, watching the curly-haired wizard, who walked mechanically out of the office and set off in an unknown direction.
"A non-verbal Imperius?" Smethwyck asked, genuinely astonished.
"Don't you know the Unforgivables can't be cast non-verbally?" Dawe feigned astonishment in turn, but Smethwyck caught in his eyes that same mischievous glint he'd seen more than once in Hector, whenever he was dodging a question.
"Indeed, quite so. But then how…" Smethwyck glanced towards yet another wizard, who always stood at Dawe's shoulder and preferred to remain silent. "…Or, well, me?"
"Guild Healers, Masters especially," Dawe began to answer, smoothly sliding the wand back into the holster on his sleeve, "are excellent in that one can always do business with them and trust them entirely. As for this one… a friend, tried and tested by time."
Dawe returned to studying the image of the wizard in the cell, who hadn't moved a single time the entire while, only blinking.
"See to his treatment, Mr Smethwyck," Dawe said. "Our staff will provide you with everything necessary, along with security measures."
Dawe nodded to Smethwyck and left the office with his companion. They walked in silence to the lift, and only once the grille had closed behind them did Dawe cast Silencing charms and speak.
"It seems we'll have to significantly accelerate the execution of our plan."
"Are these people truly that dangerous?"
"Extremely. Back in the seventies, they all but destroyed several small magical countries in Southeast Asia. And in such a way that it looked entirely natural — as though, well, a small closed-off country, much like our own England, simply had its wizards fail to share something and slaughter one another, razing everything to the ground."
"Regrettable."
"It is indeed, since you yourself know full well how easily magical England could be destabilised. Hm… Very well, then. We're accelerating the plan to the utmost. There are currently at least six powerful lone wizards in England — we need to draw them into the problem with the Germans. I have no idea where they are or what they're doing — find them, since that's your family's favourite occupation, gathering information, isn't it, Parkinson?"
"It shall be done, my lord," Parkinson nodded. "What about the Plague Doctor?"
"He's on that list. As I understand it, he's simply a powerful wizard who periodically earns money removing 'unremovable' curses. Recruit him — you know the budget. As for those joining the DMLE's operational unit — set even harsher training. Difficult times lie ahead of us…"
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