The Second Wizarding War Part 3 of 4
“Snape,” Even said, confirming it to Braig's sceptical face.
Braig sighed and relaxed back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. “Talking to your pop,” he murmured. There was a thoughtful expression on his face, which was rare to see. “About some unnamed kid, and some plot of Lord Hissypants about Dumbledore.”
“Yes,” Even said. He frowned, and rested his forehead in his hand. “I wish I could have got details, but I'm sure we can both hazard guesses at what the plot might be.”
Braig nodded, still thoughtful, before he muttered, “And which kid.” Even glanced at him, unhappily, and Braig returned the look and murmured, “Malfoy was heading up the ministry invasion. That was a,” Braig grinned despite himself, “pretty epic disaster for them, and Malfoy's kid is still in school.”
Even nodded, sadly. “I suppose there isn't very much the Aurors can do about it, of course?”
Braig shrugged. “Probably not. It's too vague. Besides,” he looked up at the ceiling, “the Auror department might be a bit heavy handed for something this delicate. It sounds like a kid's life is on the line. If the ministry went parading in, things could get difficult.”
“So what do you suggest?” Even asked. “We can't sit back and do nothing.”
Braig shook his head. “No, we're just not going to do anything official.” He gave Even a cocky, teasing smile. “I'll speak to Mad Eye. Tell him what you heard.”
“You think Mad Eye is good at subtlety?” Even asked; he couldn't help himself.
Braig laughed, brightly. “Yeah, you might have a point there!”
It was more than two weeks later when there was another visitor to Even's office. He didn't look up, expecting it to be Braig, as usual, until he heard the mismatched clunk of a clawed wooden leg on the floor. He glanced up sharply to see the approaching figure of Alastor Moody. He looked less gaunt than he had, and his hair had grown back, although it was still uneven in places. His scarred face was twisted, and more than a little intimidating.
He didn't speak until he got right up to Even. “Johnson told me you gave him some information,” he said, his voice a low growl that was painfully familiar. Even had been taught by that face, that eerily spinning eye, and that voice for a whole year. That none of them had actually been this man was just unsettling.
Even nodded, faintly. Mad Eye was just as intimidating now as he'd seemed back then, and was no less so for being close up like this. “I did,” he confirmed.
“Selling out your own father,” Mad Eye growled, testing Even, or praising him, Even couldn't be sure which. “Dangerous business for someone like you.”
Even scowled at him, and drew himself up. He wasn't about to be brow beaten by Mad Eye, and he certainly wasn't about to let an accusation of selling out his family go by without comment. “I have sold out no one,” Even snapped. “I asked for nothing in exchange, nor have I received anything. Nor,” he continued, holding Mad Eye's gaze as the freakish blue prosthetic eye ceased its dance inside his skull and came to rest squarely on Even, “do I intend to. If you're going to do anything about what I overheard, I'm sure you can do so without coming to menace me.”
There was a long pause as the two men continued to stare at each other, and then Mad Eye's mouth curled into what Even hoped was a smile, no matter how menacing it looked. “Johnson has faith in you. He says you're a blood traitor.”
This time it was Even's turn to pause before he answered, “I'm not. The notion that it's a betrayal of my genetics to view muggleborn wizards as equals, and muggles as fellow humans is ridiculous. I'm not a traitor; I simply try to be an enlightened human being.”
There was that twisted smile again from Mad Eye before he muttered, “Good answer.” Without any further ceremony, he turned away, and left Even with the distinct impression that he'd passed some sort of test.
The rest of the year was sort of quiet. There were a few rumblings from the direction of the Death Eaters, and both the Auror office and muggle liaison were kept busy with them. Even got a few field assignments when there'd been an attack, or when they had someone to protect. He wouldn't admit it, but he was dearly jealous of Shacklebolt's position as the muggle prime minister's secretary. Still, it gave him an excuse to visit muggle London, and, though Braig despaired, even an excuse to buy some muggle clothing.
Braig grumbled that Even could dress like a dork in any culture when Even came in to work wearing a muggle three piece suit and a large grin. Not that Even cared very much.
As the year drew to a close and merged into the new one, Braig was there in his ear with whispered rumours. A girl at Hogwarts had been cursed by something, Rufus Scrimgeour had tried to get Harry Potter on side, and failed, something had happened to Dumbledore; his arm was withered, he spent long days away from Hogwarts. They were sinister mutterings, and Even paid attention, but there wasn't much he could do about them, and the same was true of Braig. Something was building; for a war, things were quiet. It was like the calm before a storm.
In March, Even found himself dragged from his desk at the end of the working day and into a pub. “It's a nephew!” Braig said, his face bright with a grin as he pushed a glass of wine into Even's hands. He woke up the next morning with another hangover, flat out on Braig's bed, with Braig flat out on the sofa, wearing only his socks and underwear.
In his hungover state, Even was excessively glad that Braig wore underwear.
By the time June rolled around, there had been little more than a few tragic deaths or disappearances. Ollivander was nowhere to be found, Florean Fortescue had been discovered dead, there were a few others, too, some of them having obviously put up a fight, where others seemed to have come relatively quietly. What there hadn't been was the significant death toll they would have expected, either muggle or wizard.
And then it happened.
Even was alone for the evening. His father was out, and Braig wasn't responding to his owl. He was left alone with the house elf, in the large family home. He spent time with his horses, to stave off the creeping sense of isolation, and the memory of finding the house empty after a trip to the hospital. It was after midnight that the owl arrived with a message, quickly scrawled on a scrap of paper.
Hogwarts attacked. Dumbledore dead.
Even read it, and felt his stomach collapse, icy cold and heavy. It was in Braig's handwriting, which clearly meant that Braig was okay, but that left a lot of possibilities. Being alive enough to write a letter wasn't the same as being uninjured. Worse still, there was the fact that his father was absent from the house. The possibility that his father had been there became the probability, in Even's mind, and then there were the dozen things that could have happened to his father, and the million heinous things he could have done.
Even almost set off for Hogwarts, but another letter arrived, shortly afterwards, as if it had been an afterthought, but an urgent one.
Not hurt. Stay where you are.
It was probably already over, Even realised. Braig would tell him if there was anything important he needed to know. Still, he felt awkward being sat at home, doing nothing, knowing that people would be hurt, that if Dumbledore was dead then other people would be seriously hurt, and others might be dead or dying too. He found himself pacing, nervously, waiting for either his father's return, or another letter.
He received another letter first, written in a shaky hand, but Braig had obviously had more time to spend on this one.
Dumbledore's dead. Killing curse off the top of the astronomy tower. Messy. Snape did it. The guy was in the order, but it looks like he was a spy. Watch out for him if you catch him talking to your pop again.
Few other injuries, some serious, but no one you know. Fenrir Greyback was in the school, but he only fucked up Bill Weasley's shit. None of the kids seem to be hurt beyond cuts and scrapes. The Death Eaters all got away. Don't know what their damage report is. They took the Malfoy brat with them.
Nothing else to report just yet. Gonna crash. Nothing more to do here. I'll see you in the morning.
Stay safe.
Even turned the parchment over, half wondering if there was going to be a post script on the other side, but there wasn't. It sounded like there was nothing more he could do. Going to Hogwarts now certainly wouldn't help.
He felt completely useless, and he hated it. He paced the sitting room for a while, before he finally settled enough to sit down, waiting for his father to return. More than anything, Even was hoping he would, and that he hadn't been there. He didn't want to consider his father part of the group that had attacked a school.
He didn't remember falling asleep, but there was a blanket over him, and the embers of the fire were dying away, so someone had tended to it in the night. Sunlight was pouring through the windows. Even had no idea what time it was, but it was safe to guess that it wasn't very early in the morning.
“Binky?” He asked, and waited for the elf to appear.
“Master called?” The house elf asked, appearing nearby.
“Did you put the blanket over me?”
“Yes master,” the elf bowed low. “Your father instructed me to. He did not wish to disturb you.”
“So he came back in one piece,” Even murmured, with a sigh of relief. “What time is it?” He asked.
“Nine am,” Binky answered. “The master instructed I was not to disturb you,” she added, as if apologising for the late hour of the morning.
Even winced, and stood up. “I have to go to the ministry,” he said. “Tell my father I'll be back this evening.”
The house elf bowed low again, and Even, still wearing the clothes he'd fallen asleep in, left for the ministry, his mind boiling over with worries. They were done for. Without Dumbledore, how could they possibly beat He Who Must Not Be Named? He had nothing to fear any more except for one, underaged, teenage wizard. Harry Potter was a mere child, and how long would he last without Dumbledore's protection?
The mood in the ministry was one of shock. The news had got around. One Death Eater had died, struck by a killing curse from another. Even didn't much care about the circumstances. Instead he found Braig. Even he looked ashen faced and serious; it was an unsettling rarity.
Even attended the funeral. Special permission had needed to be given to allow Dumbledore to be laid to rest in Hogwarts grounds. There was no precedent for it. It felt like everyone was making things up as they went along, now. Braig was there too, and he teased Even, briefly, about the fact that Dolores Umbridge had invited him to sit next to her. It was an opportunity Even had declined as quickly and politely as he dared.
He watched Harry Potter during the funeral, and wondered how this boy that he'd gone to school with, that he'd told off for making noise in the library, could possibly be capable of destroying someone like He Who Must Not Be Named, without a protector, without a mentor, just all on his own.
It seemed to hopeless.
“Cheer up,” Braig told him, a few days later. “You're depressing the whole floor.”
“Pardon me for being aware of the gravity of the situation,” Even replied, managing to be both distracted and peevish at the same time.
“Hey, we're not screwed yet,” Braig told him. “We've still got Mad Eye, Potter,” he paused as if to think and then shrugged and gave Even a cocky grin, “me.”
Even looked at him, and sighed as a hopeless little smile crossed his face. “I hope you're right.”
*****
The following month was tense. Without Dumbledore around, it was almost as if there was no reason for the Death Eaters to try and keep their activities quick and infrequent. One of the Hogwarts teachers disappeared, and although there was a hunt for her, it produced no results. Worse still, Death Eaters that had been sent to Azkaban since the removal of the Dementors had escaped. The place now had more holes in its security than a bank made of swiss cheese.
Even's father was away more often. Weekends that used to be spent together at the family home were now spent with Even rattling around his spacious apartment. Braig was also kept too busy by the Order to keep Even company a lot of the time, and sitting on his heels, waiting for news was frustrating.
Toward the end of July, Braig told Even some more news. “I'll be busy,” he said, “we're moving Potter to a safe house tonight.”
“Why don't you let the ministry do it?” Even had asked, and he'd known the moment the words escaped his mouth that it was a bad idea. They both suspected that the ministry had sprung a leak, or maybe two. The Death Eaters seemed to be too steadily one step ahead.
“We don't even want to use any method the ministry can track right now,” Braig told him, in answer. “I'll let you know how it goes.”
Even scowled, but there wasn't much he could do about it. The Order didn't want him involved, yet. Braig had explained it, although Even had suspected Mad Eye's take on things had been inserted in there too. What it boiled down to was that Even was an extremely valuable informant, or at least had the potential to be. The moment any single Death Eater recognised him, that value was wiped out.
And given the likelihood that Even's exposure as a blood traitor and Order informant would get him personally hunted down by Bellatrix Lestrange, it simply wasn't worth it. Even was more use to everybody if he stayed behind the lines, listening in and passing information on.
Even strongly suspected that the first part of the explanation came from Mad Eye. It was practical, and brutally, and unfortunately honest, and the truth of it was frustrating as hell and didn't make Even feel any better, but there was no sentimentality to the explanation. The second half, where the threat Even would be under from his own family if he was discovered, he strongly suspected had come from Braig. It sounded like the sort of thing Braig would say.
What it all boiled down to was that, even if Even did join the Order, he'd still be left at home to twiddle his thumbs.
Even passed it with the aid of the stereo system Braig had bought for him, trying, and failing, to find a muggle station on the radio before he resorted to using the CDs again. He couldn't sleep, knowing his father was out there, doing god knew what, and he couldn't even report him to anyone, either. The Order of the Phoenix viewed him, and Even, as useful sources of information. The ministry had been infiltrated, or someone within it had been bribed, so if Even so much as tried to hand his father over, he'd not only find out about it, but so would all the other Death Eaters. Add to that the unlikelihood of his father remaining in Azkaban when the island prison was now broken out of in a regular basis and the whole thing seemed painfully pointless.
Even dwelled on it all night. By morning he was exhausted, and frightened by the lack of word from Braig. He didn't know how he'd react if Braig were to die, but every day that he went on one of these expeditions it seemed like a very real possibility. The thought of it made Even's stomach roil in uniquely unpleasant ways.
Just as he was beginning to get impatient, there was a knock at his door. He flew to answer it, darting around furniture as quickly as he could.
Braig looked to be in shock on the other side of the door. “What happened?” Even asked, pulling his friend inside and doing a brief visual check. Braig had been patched up by someone at the shoulder, but it was his only apparent injury.
“Mad Eye,” Braig spoke, quietly. He seemed to be in a daze. “They got Mad Eye.”
Even tried to gather the words for a moment before he settled, instead, for leading Braig to the sitting room, and forcing him to sit down on the couch. He had to push Braig quite hard for him to get the idea, and then he sat, his eyes wide. “Tell me what happened,” Even said. “What do you mean they got Mad Eye?”
“He's dead,” Braig answered, flatly. “They knew.” He groaned, then, and put his head in his hands. “I can't work out how they knew, but they knew that we were going to move Potter now instead of waiting. We used polyjuice potion,” Braig added, glancing up at Even as if looking for help or some clue as to where and how it all went wrong. “Got six other people to take it and turn into Potter. One each of the rest were their escorts, and the rest of us were just general security.” He looked up at Even again, and this time he kept eye contact. “They knew we were moving him. They were waiting. The man himself was there, all of them.”
Even frowned. He knew how bad things must have been simply because it was unheard of for Braig to refer to He Who Must Not Be Named with anything other than a mocking take on his name. He looked grey, and pale, and Even found himself with his arm around his friend as he waited for him to finish.
“They hit Mad Eye. Probably with a killing curse. I didn't see. Someone's gone to retrieve the body, now. A few of the others are injured, but most of them seemed to get through.”
Even blinked, and held Braig tight. He'd never seen him like this. He hadn't even been like this when Dumbledore had died, but this was their second major loss in just over a month, now. And it was Mad Eye. Mad Eye had been a teacher, for Braig. It had been Mad Eye that had taken him under his wing.
He'd just been starting to trust Even, too. Even couldn't help but wonder if he thought that might have been misplaced, in his last few moments. The idea made him ill, but Braig would probably be the only person in the Order who wouldn't even think to ask Even if he'd betrayed them all.
“It wasn't me,” Even said, quietly. “I didn't tell anyone.”
It seemed to snap Braig out of his stupor, and he looked up at Even as if thinking his friend had finally cracked. “I wasn't even going to ask.”
Even smiled, faintly, and then tugged Braig in for a tighter hug. “You must be exhausted,” he said, after a moment. “I'll make up a spare bed.”
Braig only nodded in response, and Even left him on the sofa. If he kept busy, he wouldn't have to think about the significance of the blow their side had just taken, especially so soon after Dumbledore. They were just being picked off, now. The Death Eaters could take their time with them. They had no one to rely on to protect them, like they once had.
Over the next few weeks, the change was becoming obvious. The Aurors seemed to be fighting a losing battle as information failed to pass to them until it was too late, and outright wrong information seemed to land on their desks. Braig expressed his frustration, but Even could tell how worried he really was by the fact that Braig stopped visiting him at work. He'd drop by at Even's flat, after work, but he stopped coming by the office.
They used the Fidelius charm to hide Even's apartment. That, at least, made it a safe place for them to go, if anything happened. Braig insisted that he didn't want to be the secret keeper, but Even refused to take no for an answer.
“It has to be someone I can trust,” he said.
“Yeah, and when you can't tell someone your own address, isn't that gonna look suspicious? Think this through, Even.”
“I have,” Even replied, with a slight snap. “If you think there's anyone I should trust more than my best friend, and an Auror, I'd like to hear the suggestion.”
“Make yourself the secret keeper,” Braig growled, his arms folded.
“The charm,” Even replied, his voice calm and measured, “does not work that way. It requires a bond of trust and friendship. You cannot be your own secret keeper; it has to be someone you trust, with your life. That is also,” Even continued, heading off another protest from Braig, “why it cannot be a stranger off the street, or an acquaintance from years back. I would not trust them as I trust you, and we would risk the charm failing.”
Braig glared at him for a moment. Eventually he managed to retort, “You sound like a textbook.”
“It isn't a direct quote,” Even muttered, evasively. “Now give me your hand.”
Braig scowled, and over the following days, he scowled even more, but the charm seemed to have worked and, importantly, held. It made Even feel rather better to know that there was now a place magically, and impenetrably hidden from unwanted eyes, should the worst happen. The only way the secret could be divulged would be if Braig told someone else, and Even trusted him not to cave under torture. Not that it would come to that, of course.
Or so he thought. It was the middle of the day and Even was quietly at work at his desk when the message came. He had to read it a couple of times before it sank in, and the alarms sounded.
Minister for Magic Rufus Scrimgeour has stepped down with immediate effect. The following people are to be apprehended immediately pending investigation into accusations of illicit activity.
It was an extensive list, and Even's heart froze when he saw Braig's name there, along with Kingsley and half the Aurors Even knew to be in the Order, as well as the names of people who were relatively inconsequential within the ministry but who were, as far as Even could tell, largely muggleborn.
Even ran from his desk, the letter still in his hand, his wand brandished in the other. There was chaos in the foyer; it looked as though someone had done a lot of damage facilitating their own escape, but the floo network had been blocked off, and a few who hadn't made it were trying to put up a fight.
There were people in black cloaks and hoods, and awful masks that made Even feel sick, rounding up the stragglers. There was no sign of Braig, and Even hoped it meant he'd got away before the alarms sounded.
A bang reverberated through the floor as someone, Even didn't see who, cast a jinx that blew the wall apart. Even had to use a shield charm to protect himself, and some of the others, from being showered in falling glass and masonry. It drew the attention of one of the masked men, who raised his wand at Even and cast a whiplash of fire at him. Even countered with a wave of water that rose up and crashed over the Death Eater before freezing him to the spot as the foyer became a skating rink.
The others rounded on Even, then, but one slipped on the ice, landing hard. Another tried to ensnare Even with ropes, but Even burned them up with a flick of his wand, and then quickly waved his wand like a conductor's baton as he directed a marble hand the size of a man to reach up and then pin the fallen one to the ground.
No one was paying attention to what the escaping muggleborns were doing, now, and Even kept it up, keeping the Death Eaters distracted as he saw two of them run for a fallen third and drag him to safety. A flash of Even's wand sent the two Death Eaters who were still standing flying out of the way, hasty shield charms breaking as sharp icicles crashed from the air above them. The one who was frozen to the spot was knocked unconscious while trying to melt away the ice that had frozen, inches thick, and up to his knees.
Even protected himself with another shield charm as one of the two remaining hit out with a blasting curse, and then he replied with Levicorpus, hoisting the man into the air before sending him flying back with a loud bang. The Death Eater hit the fireplace behind him with a loud thud, and Even was left to reply to the attempt to box him in by the last one standing with a quick gouging charm, tearing through one encroaching wall, and showering his assailant in shrapnel. Even finished the duel by encasing the remaining man in thick ropes, binding his hands and twisting them until he dropped his wand, and then creeping over the rest of him until he was cocooned.
Even looked around to see where the muggleborns had gone, and was relieved to see the visitor's entrance lift had departed to the surface. He hoped they'd be able to escape from there.
That was when a voice that he knew more commonly as being girly and breathy, feigning sweetness and innocence, asked from the other end of the foyer, “What is going on here?” Umbridge was less girly and breathy now, but sounded both as if she'd done some running, and as though she was in a temper.
“These men attacked me,” Even replied, coolly, turning and leaving them in their disoriented or unconscious states. The ice was beginning to melt away quickly now that the battle was over, but it mattered little.
“They attacked you, Mister Lestrange?” Umbridge's voice sounded as if she was trying to feign innocence again, but her annoyance was preventing it. “Surely you must have provoked them, if accidentally?”
“I cast a shield charm to protect myself from falling debris when someone blew up the wall,” Even answered. “That does not give them carte blanche to attack me in a four on one duel.”
“No,” Umbridge answered, hurriedly. “I'm sure it was a misunderstanding.”
She was being obsequious towards him, a fact which made Even's blood run cold, but it would, at least, be useful in allowing him to walk out of the building in one piece. He may have taken down four, but any more than that and he'd struggle, and if they were better than those four he could easily be killed. “A large one,” Even muttered. “On a related note,” he continued, assuming the arrogant air of his bloodline, “why are we now chasing muggleborns and Aurors? Of what crime are they accused?” He hoped that Umbridge's sudden and unnerving deference to him would get him an answer.
“You haven't heard?” She asked, giving him a creepy little smile that Even was sure was meant to be pleasant. “Treachery and the theft of wizard's powers. There are individuals in the Auror office that have, sadly, taken it upon themselves to act independently of the ministry and ignore direct orders, working against the ministry, and the minister, to undermine us. It cannot be tolerated.”
Even felt sick. Umbridge sounded as though she was enjoying herself. When he didn't reply, she continued, “Sadly, it seems as if the individuals we were on the verge of apprehending have escaped in the confusion with you.” She paused, and then gave him another one of those smiles and told him, rather too cheerfully, “But no matter. I'm sure we will have them apprehended again soon.”
Even huffed, and turned away, heading back towards his office. The alarms had ceased at some point, though he couldn't say he'd noticed when. He'd been in the middle of a duel, and now it was over, his heart was racing and his stomach doing flips as he wondered what had become of Braig.
He'd have escaped, there was no question of it. Except that there was, because Braig was not the type to abandon fellow muggleborns and save his own skin. It had been one of the things that had drawn him to being an Auror. It had been one of the traits that he'd displayed at school that had first made Even suspect he was actually not so bad underneath all the bravado and accent.
He couldn't send a letter. An owl could be tracked, and in any case, he didn't know where to find Braig. He'd be smart enough not to go to his own home. Even only hoped that he'd been smart enough to go to Even's own apartment, where he couldn't be found. Perhaps he'd take some of the other Aurors, too, or a few of the more scared and confused muggleborns, whose world had turned on its head in an instant, and they'd gone from ministry employees to the most wanted in the space of one interdepartmental memo.
New files were put on Even's desk. A request for the full list of all registered wizards of muggleborn or otherwise questionable status was made. The muggle liaison office was suddenly inundated with a whole new line of work, most of it centring on the potential prosecution of every known muggleborn in the wizarding world, and a few more besides, just in case.
Shifty looks were cast across desks as the officers in the department glanced at each other, and away again in a hurry. Even ignored the pile of work that was building up in his inbox, finding excuses to get up and help to repair some of the damage made by duels as Aurors or muggleborns escaped their place of work.
The new minister was to be Pius Thicknesse, they were informed a mere couple of hours later. What had happened earlier on was nothing more than undesirables escaping, and was nothing worth mention as those few who had escaped (Even tried not to scoff, knowing they'd succeeded in apprehending a mere handful) would quickly be found. A new regime was in place, ladies and gentleman. A new golden age of wizardry.
Umbridge was there right alongside the new minister. Even watched him carefully; he'd never taken Thicknesse for being sympathetic to the Death Eaters before now, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was something even more sinister afoot.
Importantly, Even noticed, they would no longer be pursuing Death Eaters, and would instead be pursuing 'Undesirable Number One,' a title which Even suspected had Dolores Umbridge's doing all over it. He doubted Harry Potter would be pleased with the change from The Chosen One to that, but wasn't about to say anything.
Even went home at the end of the day, praying he'd find Braig there, waiting for him. He didn't, but there was a note.
You might have noticed it's all gone tits up. I hope you get this. You better be okay, because if you're not, I'll find you and kick your ass.
I've gone to stick by my family for now. I let some of the other Aurors know your address, so if you find the place being used a safe house, it's my fault. We just needed somewhere to go in a hurry. We're working on finding somewhere to send the muggleborns we helped so they can be well out of it.
Stay safe. Keep your head down. I'll try and drop by soon.
He'd signed it, and Even found himself tracing a finger over the signature. He hadn't realised how tight his chest had felt until he'd read that letter and finally had the proof that Braig was safe.
It made sense that he'd go to be with his family. At this time, they were in a lot of danger, nearly as much as Braig was in, and his sister had a young baby to think of, too. Even frowned, but didn't dare send an owl on to Braig to prove he was all right.
It would have made more sense, Even thought, if the next day the world had been buzzing with the news of the fall of the ministry. It would have felt better if the whole world could tell, but instead the newspaper barely looked any different. The headline was about the resignation of Scrimgeour, but it was infuriatingly sketchy on the details. Even supposed he'd been killed, and that was a worrying thought because he'd been another quite powerful Auror. Braig's opinion of the man might have been that there was definite room for improvement in the obedience to authority stakes, but the man had been the head of the Auror office; there was little room for criticism of his ability.
There was nothing at all about the duel in the ministry. Even supposed that he should be thankful that his name wasn't mentioned as causing trouble, but it also worried him. It all looked as if the transition had been very peaceful. Right now it looked as if there hadn't been a transition at all, and that was worse. People would find out differently in a few days time; he doubted it would take longer than that. Changes in policy were underway within hours of it all happening.
He travelled to his father's house for the weekend, as usual, unsure of whether he would have a job to return to on Monday, and as to whether he would want to return to it. The ministry had suddenly become an unfriendly place, and his department would likely see some of the biggest changes.
His father seemed to be in a good mood when Even met him, and it was a good mood that continued over the course of the weekend, even though the changes at the ministry were never once discussed. Even tried not to think about it, but it was difficult. The world had given a lurch, and suddenly Even, and many, many others, were trying to tap dance on a landslide.
On Sunday night, Even got back home, expecting it to be empty. Instead he was greeted by two people, and one of them was Braig. Even had a strong urge to hug him, but he resisted due to their audience; Dilan Aer.
“Next time you get into your head to get up to some heroics,” Braig said, “try not to do it when the bad guys are winning.” He was on Even's sofa, drinking from one of his cups. Even had to bite back a sarcastic invitation for Braig to make himself at home.
Instead he scowled, and replied, “I could say the same to you.”
Dilan was stood in a corner of the sitting room, an impassive statue. He seemed deep in thought. Even remembered him from school, when he hadn't been much different; he'd been another one who had come along to Durmstrang as part of Hogwarts' potential champions. Even had got along with him, then, and he didn't seem much different now. He and Braig were chalk and cheese, but they worked together well despite being fundamental opposites in many departments.
“I've got their attention anyway,” Braig pointed out. “You don't want to draw it.”
“I shall do as I see fit,” Even replied.
“We would prefer,” Dilan cut in, his voice slow and calm, “that you did not put yourself at undue risk.”
“While you're out there being hunted down by Death Eaters? You want me to sit at home twiddling my thumbs waiting to hear back from you?” Even sneered. “Do I need to remind you of who I am?”
“A poncy toff with a superiority complex,” Braig answered, just a little too matter-of-factly for Even's liking. “Thing is, that's exactly what we need you to be right now.”
“Are you returning to work tomorrow?” Dilan asked, as Even puffed up on the edge of a long winded diatribe about Braig's personal failings that would keep them occupied until next week, and that was the short version.
It put rather an unexpected hole in Even's indignation and he faltered before replying, honestly, “I wasn't planning on it.”
“You should,” Dilan answered.
Braig lounged back on the sofa. “We could do with a spy.”
“What do you expect someone from the muggle liaison department to be able to tell you?” Even asked, testily. He could see the horrible places his department may go, the heinous things he might be asked to do. He didn't want any part of it.
“As if you were gonna stay there now all this has happened,” Braig said, rolling his eyes and waving a hand dismissively.
“The important thing is what we expect a Lestrange to be able to find out,” Dilan said. “You are in a uniquely privileged position within the ministry.”
“You mean that half the people who share my surname sit at He Who Must Be Named's right hand,” Even snapped. The thought of playing on his name, in light of that, made him feel more than a little ill.
“Look,” Braig sighed, “even someone who isn't a Lestrange can tell us about new laws, new powers, things they're doing to try and track us down. If you don't find out anything else, that's still enough to keep us one step ahead of the Death Eaters.”
“Ideally,” Dilan admitted, “you would be in a position to tell us who is at most risk, and even to plant false information, but if that is not possible, anything you can tell us before we read about it in the Prophet is of benefit to us.”
“Especially since reading it in the Prophet means we'll be reading it from our Azkaban cells,” Braig said, cheerily. “And that's only if we can still read.”
Even sighed. They had a point, which was infuriating in itself. It wasn't as though he'd refuse to keep his friends safe, of course; it was just that the idea of going back to work in a ministry that was now under the control of He Who Must Not Be Named. “How do you expect me to contact you?” Even asked. “I presume you're not going to be sat here waiting for me every day.”
“Nope,” Braig replied, “we've got a trick to show you.”
The next day, Even returned to work as if nothing had happened. The first thing he did, however, was draft a formal request for a transfer out of the muggle liaison department. A few of his coworkers hadn't turned in, and Even couldn't say he blamed them.
At lunch time he saw Yaxley, walking alongside the new minister. It was horrifying to see Death Eaters walking so openly in the ministry corridors, and Even had a moment where he wanted to leave and never return when Yaxley spotted him, and gave him a familiar nod and a knowing smile. It was all Even could do to return the nod as politely as he could and continue on his way.
Things got worse later that afternoon when he saw Tiberius Selwyn discussing something with Fenrir Greyback. Tiberius didn't look especially pleased to be having the discussion, but it was always hard to tell with him; he wore a lip curled expression of unhappiness all the time anyway. Even at the christening of his son, the man had looked as if he was having to endure a severe trial for the sake of his wife, although in fairness, a family affair such as a christening in their family did involve inviting every aunt, uncle, and cousin for five or six generations of removal.
Selwyn and Greyback parted ways before Even passed, so he couldn't hear what they were discussing. He nodded politely to Selwyn, acknowledging him as he approached. “Good afternoon,” he said, but only because it was polite.
Selwyn eyed him for a moment before it seemed to click and he replied, “Ah, Lestrange's son.”
“Even,” Even informed him.
“You've grown,” Tiberius said, and there was the faint trace of mocking amusement in his expression.
“Indeed,” Even replied, mildly. He'd tried his best to steer clear of Selwyn at school, and had generally stayed out of the way at the christening, too. It had been two years since he'd last seen Selwyn, and that had been as brief as politeness would allow. “How is young Isa?” Even asked.
For a brief, a very brief moment, Tiberius' face seemed to settle, and he almost seemed to be happy as he answered, “Walking, and talking, at length.” It passed quickly, but Even couldn't forget it being there, and for a moment he had to remind himself that even Death Eaters could be loving parents; he should know that from the example of his own. “Also showing a strong aptitude for magic, even at this age,” he continued, and there Even could hear the pride in Selwyn's voice, and not all of it was benign, parental pride.
“Understandable,” Even answered, “given his lineage.” It pained him to say it, of course, but it was the kind of thing Selwyn was thinking himself.
“Naturally,” Selwyn answered. Then he changed the subject; “I hear you are working in the muggle liaison department,” he said, his tone dripping with distaste, and he said the word 'muggle' with particular care, as though he didn't want the word to stick to his teeth and taint him just by being spoken out loud.
“For now,” Even replied, aware that he had to be careful. He adopted the familiar, snotty tones of someone who considered themselves too good for the work they'd been given. “Of course, now that things are beginning to change, it seems to be a good time to hand in my request for a transfer to another department.”
“Just when things are about to get interesting in muggle liaison,” Selwyn answered, almost teasingly, and with that same mocking amusement in his tone once more.
“I have spent enough time working around muggles,” Even told him. “It's hardly a fitting position for a Lestrange.”
Selwyn very nearly cracked a smirk. With the exception of that one glimpse of fatherly affection, all of his expressions were like that; muted, distant, as if they were being felt somewhere much further away and all that was left was the ghost of them to flicker. “There will be plenty of positions far more fitting of your name within the next month, Lestrange.”
Even wished he wasn't right. It was only a few days after his request for a transfer had been sent that he received word back. It came in the form of Dolores Umbridge, who walked into the rapidly emptying department where Even worked, and announced her presence with a 'hem hem' that made Even furrow his brows and wonder if Braig was playing tricks on him with Weasley products, again.
The other two people who remained in the department looked up from their desks, and, after a short moment, Even followed their line of sight to find a squat, mousy brown haired woman, wearing an awful, fluffy pink cardigan standing in the doorway with a clipboard. “Even Lestrange?” She asked, quite sweetly.
Even blinked, and then asked, “Yes, Miss Umbridge?” He was fairly certain that she wasn't married, after all. He couldn't imagine anyone who would want to marry her, for starters.
“Dolores, please,” she said, with another one of those smiles that was supposed to be sweet and utterly failed on every possible level. “I'd like a word,” she said, “regarding your letter.”
Even stood up, and followed her outside. “Is there a problem, Dolores?” He asked, thinking it best to use the term of address she'd said she preferred. Or at least, that she apparently preferred with him.
“Not at all,” she answered, “on the contrary, we'd simply like to know where you would like to be placed.”
Even hadn't been expecting that, and he looked at Umbridge with a blank expression before he got his brain back into working order. “Obviously, my choice would depend on what positions are available,” he answered.
“Well,” Umbridge said, sounding very pleased with herself and tapping him on the arm with her clipboard in a way that was just a little more familiar than Even would have liked, “fortunately, that won't be a concern, you see, the ministry is changing, Even, and while some outdated departments will be shut down, we will be creating new ones. Ones better equipped to serve our community. There will be new positions opening in every department, and there will be whole new departments for you to choose from.”
Even had to hurry to cover his indignation at being called by his first name by this woman. It was the first time she'd done it, and he doubted it would be the last. When he'd worked for her during his summer internship, she'd always stuck to calling him by his family name. Her cheerful explanation that things were changing boded ill, as far as Even was concerned, but he could hardly say that, either. “What kind of new departments?” He asked.
Umbridge looked up at him. She seemed to be thoroughly in her element, and she seemed to be enjoying talking to a Lestrange on first name terms far too much. “The first new department,” she said, quite happily, “will be the muggle-born registration commission. It's currently a work in progress, but the signs from the department of mysteries is that it's very necessary for the protection of the magical community.”
Even was horrified at the very idea. The department sounded twisted already; he could imagine what kind of pursuits a muggleborn registration commission would get up to under the wing of someone like He Who Must Not Be Named. He covered it well, however, and nodded. “To be perfectly frank,” he said, “I've had quite enough of muggles and muggleborns.”
“Then might I suggest,” she replied, entirely unfazed, “a posting in another, entirely new department?”
He let Braig know what was going on that night. His new posting would put him in a good position to pry, and he'd certainly be able to pass information on before it reached the Prophet. It was a pity he couldn't guess just how useful that information was going to be just yet, but at least it was better than nothing, and he wouldn't be forced to do any active harm to anyone.
They'd raided the Weasleys, and the Tonks, Even had discovered. Everyone who was in the Order had their homes invaded, the Death Eaters were able to penetrate past all their charms and safeguards now that they had the ministry behind them. That included, Even had been horrified to learn, Braig's flat in Manchester.
His message to Braig included a yelling at for failing to tell him an important detail like that. The reply from Braig came a few hours later, and completely ignored the fact that Even had yelled at him for failing to tell him the Death Eaters had been to his home. On the bright side, Braig was still safe, holed up with his family.
The painful part was knowing that state of affairs couldn't last.
*****
“Blah blah blah, ministry, blah blah, new evidence from the department of mysteries,” at this point Braig ceased his out loud reading of the Prophet in order to snort, loudly, before continuing, “oh here, 'A ministry spokesman revealed to the prophet that, 'The ministry is taking this new evidence exceedingly seriously'',” Braig put on his best impression of Even's upper class accent, which was actually painful to listen to, “''and as such will be acting upon it with immediate effect. The new Muggle-Born Registration Commission requires that all wizards and witches of muggle origin, including half bloods, register with the commission and submit details of their family tree to show the source of their magical ability.''” Braig looked at Even, thankfully dropping the accent. “That sounds like you.”
“That's because it was,” Even said. “Officially, I'm titled a spokesman. In reality, I'm a propaganda agent.” He didn't sound terribly pleased about it, until he gave Braig a faint little smile and said, “I can only hope that my telling people exactly what was going to happen is enough of a warning.”
Braig grinned at him, all teeth and sharkish amusement, “Well, people might only be talking about the coup in whispers, but that means they'll be suspicious enough to pick up on it.” Then Braig stopped, and sighed, “The smart ones, anyway. How many have actually signed up with the commission?”
Even sighed, sadly. “Far too many. Some people are much too trusting.”
“Yeah, well,” Braig muttered, “the takeover was nigh silent, and the ministry before had less than a stellar record where casual racism towards muggles and mudbloods was concerned.”
“Braig,” Even scolded. He'd told Braig about using that word before, but he never did seem to listen.
“Hey,” Braig retorted, defensively, “I'm amazed that ain't an official name for us now.”
Even sighed. “They keep pushing to capture the Order, and Potter, too. The reward for capturing him has just gone up again.”
Braig grumbled, wordlessly. Then he smirked at Even, “Look at it this way, if a kid like Potter can hide from them, we can manage, too.”
“Easy for you to say,” muttered Even, “you don't walk into the viper's nest five days a week.”
“Did I ever give you the impression that I don't appreciate it?” Braig asked, swinging his legs off the back of the chair as he folded the Prophet up and flung it onto the coffee table.
“No,” Even admitted, after an awkward pause. “I know you do. I just despise working alongside that vile woman. Yaxley now heads the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Selwyn is the new head of the Auror office.”
Braig snorted again. “You mean he spends all day twiddling his thumbs,” he said. “It's a bit hard to be a Dark Wizard catcher when you're a Dark Wizard.”
Even had considered that point himself when he'd been told. He'd been surprised that the Auror office was still in existence, and would remain so, and then, when the Auror office was taken over by Selwyn, it had begun to fall into place. “Someone has to capture Undesirable Number One,” he pointed out, “and his friends.”
“Yeah, and the Order,” Braig added. “At least it's keeping them too busy to go for the muggles just yet.”
Even frowned, but he nodded his agreement. He wasn't sure how long it would last. Certainly, for now, the focus of the more powerful was on finding the Potter boy. He wanted to think that would last, but realistically, once the Death Eaters had their house in order where the ministry was concerned, they would work on the magical world, and then, finally, the muggle one.
“Do you really think we can make it?” Even asked, a shade glum.
Braig looked at him, considering the question, and then he shrugged. “No one's immortal.”
Even scowled at him. “That is not an answer,” he said. It sounded like Braig was avoiding the question.
“Sure it is,” Braig replied. “Even Lord Mouldy Wart isn't going to live forever. The question is whether we can outlive him.”
“Someone like that, I expect, will find a way,” Even whispered, and hoped that Braig wouldn't hear.
*****
Braig sighed and relaxed back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. “Talking to your pop,” he murmured. There was a thoughtful expression on his face, which was rare to see. “About some unnamed kid, and some plot of Lord Hissypants about Dumbledore.”
“Yes,” Even said. He frowned, and rested his forehead in his hand. “I wish I could have got details, but I'm sure we can both hazard guesses at what the plot might be.”
Braig nodded, still thoughtful, before he muttered, “And which kid.” Even glanced at him, unhappily, and Braig returned the look and murmured, “Malfoy was heading up the ministry invasion. That was a,” Braig grinned despite himself, “pretty epic disaster for them, and Malfoy's kid is still in school.”
Even nodded, sadly. “I suppose there isn't very much the Aurors can do about it, of course?”
Braig shrugged. “Probably not. It's too vague. Besides,” he looked up at the ceiling, “the Auror department might be a bit heavy handed for something this delicate. It sounds like a kid's life is on the line. If the ministry went parading in, things could get difficult.”
“So what do you suggest?” Even asked. “We can't sit back and do nothing.”
Braig shook his head. “No, we're just not going to do anything official.” He gave Even a cocky, teasing smile. “I'll speak to Mad Eye. Tell him what you heard.”
“You think Mad Eye is good at subtlety?” Even asked; he couldn't help himself.
Braig laughed, brightly. “Yeah, you might have a point there!”
It was more than two weeks later when there was another visitor to Even's office. He didn't look up, expecting it to be Braig, as usual, until he heard the mismatched clunk of a clawed wooden leg on the floor. He glanced up sharply to see the approaching figure of Alastor Moody. He looked less gaunt than he had, and his hair had grown back, although it was still uneven in places. His scarred face was twisted, and more than a little intimidating.
He didn't speak until he got right up to Even. “Johnson told me you gave him some information,” he said, his voice a low growl that was painfully familiar. Even had been taught by that face, that eerily spinning eye, and that voice for a whole year. That none of them had actually been this man was just unsettling.
Even nodded, faintly. Mad Eye was just as intimidating now as he'd seemed back then, and was no less so for being close up like this. “I did,” he confirmed.
“Selling out your own father,” Mad Eye growled, testing Even, or praising him, Even couldn't be sure which. “Dangerous business for someone like you.”
Even scowled at him, and drew himself up. He wasn't about to be brow beaten by Mad Eye, and he certainly wasn't about to let an accusation of selling out his family go by without comment. “I have sold out no one,” Even snapped. “I asked for nothing in exchange, nor have I received anything. Nor,” he continued, holding Mad Eye's gaze as the freakish blue prosthetic eye ceased its dance inside his skull and came to rest squarely on Even, “do I intend to. If you're going to do anything about what I overheard, I'm sure you can do so without coming to menace me.”
There was a long pause as the two men continued to stare at each other, and then Mad Eye's mouth curled into what Even hoped was a smile, no matter how menacing it looked. “Johnson has faith in you. He says you're a blood traitor.”
This time it was Even's turn to pause before he answered, “I'm not. The notion that it's a betrayal of my genetics to view muggleborn wizards as equals, and muggles as fellow humans is ridiculous. I'm not a traitor; I simply try to be an enlightened human being.”
There was that twisted smile again from Mad Eye before he muttered, “Good answer.” Without any further ceremony, he turned away, and left Even with the distinct impression that he'd passed some sort of test.
The rest of the year was sort of quiet. There were a few rumblings from the direction of the Death Eaters, and both the Auror office and muggle liaison were kept busy with them. Even got a few field assignments when there'd been an attack, or when they had someone to protect. He wouldn't admit it, but he was dearly jealous of Shacklebolt's position as the muggle prime minister's secretary. Still, it gave him an excuse to visit muggle London, and, though Braig despaired, even an excuse to buy some muggle clothing.
Braig grumbled that Even could dress like a dork in any culture when Even came in to work wearing a muggle three piece suit and a large grin. Not that Even cared very much.
As the year drew to a close and merged into the new one, Braig was there in his ear with whispered rumours. A girl at Hogwarts had been cursed by something, Rufus Scrimgeour had tried to get Harry Potter on side, and failed, something had happened to Dumbledore; his arm was withered, he spent long days away from Hogwarts. They were sinister mutterings, and Even paid attention, but there wasn't much he could do about them, and the same was true of Braig. Something was building; for a war, things were quiet. It was like the calm before a storm.
In March, Even found himself dragged from his desk at the end of the working day and into a pub. “It's a nephew!” Braig said, his face bright with a grin as he pushed a glass of wine into Even's hands. He woke up the next morning with another hangover, flat out on Braig's bed, with Braig flat out on the sofa, wearing only his socks and underwear.
In his hungover state, Even was excessively glad that Braig wore underwear.
By the time June rolled around, there had been little more than a few tragic deaths or disappearances. Ollivander was nowhere to be found, Florean Fortescue had been discovered dead, there were a few others, too, some of them having obviously put up a fight, where others seemed to have come relatively quietly. What there hadn't been was the significant death toll they would have expected, either muggle or wizard.
And then it happened.
Even was alone for the evening. His father was out, and Braig wasn't responding to his owl. He was left alone with the house elf, in the large family home. He spent time with his horses, to stave off the creeping sense of isolation, and the memory of finding the house empty after a trip to the hospital. It was after midnight that the owl arrived with a message, quickly scrawled on a scrap of paper.
Hogwarts attacked. Dumbledore dead.
Even read it, and felt his stomach collapse, icy cold and heavy. It was in Braig's handwriting, which clearly meant that Braig was okay, but that left a lot of possibilities. Being alive enough to write a letter wasn't the same as being uninjured. Worse still, there was the fact that his father was absent from the house. The possibility that his father had been there became the probability, in Even's mind, and then there were the dozen things that could have happened to his father, and the million heinous things he could have done.
Even almost set off for Hogwarts, but another letter arrived, shortly afterwards, as if it had been an afterthought, but an urgent one.
Not hurt. Stay where you are.
It was probably already over, Even realised. Braig would tell him if there was anything important he needed to know. Still, he felt awkward being sat at home, doing nothing, knowing that people would be hurt, that if Dumbledore was dead then other people would be seriously hurt, and others might be dead or dying too. He found himself pacing, nervously, waiting for either his father's return, or another letter.
He received another letter first, written in a shaky hand, but Braig had obviously had more time to spend on this one.
Dumbledore's dead. Killing curse off the top of the astronomy tower. Messy. Snape did it. The guy was in the order, but it looks like he was a spy. Watch out for him if you catch him talking to your pop again.
Few other injuries, some serious, but no one you know. Fenrir Greyback was in the school, but he only fucked up Bill Weasley's shit. None of the kids seem to be hurt beyond cuts and scrapes. The Death Eaters all got away. Don't know what their damage report is. They took the Malfoy brat with them.
Nothing else to report just yet. Gonna crash. Nothing more to do here. I'll see you in the morning.
Stay safe.
Even turned the parchment over, half wondering if there was going to be a post script on the other side, but there wasn't. It sounded like there was nothing more he could do. Going to Hogwarts now certainly wouldn't help.
He felt completely useless, and he hated it. He paced the sitting room for a while, before he finally settled enough to sit down, waiting for his father to return. More than anything, Even was hoping he would, and that he hadn't been there. He didn't want to consider his father part of the group that had attacked a school.
He didn't remember falling asleep, but there was a blanket over him, and the embers of the fire were dying away, so someone had tended to it in the night. Sunlight was pouring through the windows. Even had no idea what time it was, but it was safe to guess that it wasn't very early in the morning.
“Binky?” He asked, and waited for the elf to appear.
“Master called?” The house elf asked, appearing nearby.
“Did you put the blanket over me?”
“Yes master,” the elf bowed low. “Your father instructed me to. He did not wish to disturb you.”
“So he came back in one piece,” Even murmured, with a sigh of relief. “What time is it?” He asked.
“Nine am,” Binky answered. “The master instructed I was not to disturb you,” she added, as if apologising for the late hour of the morning.
Even winced, and stood up. “I have to go to the ministry,” he said. “Tell my father I'll be back this evening.”
The house elf bowed low again, and Even, still wearing the clothes he'd fallen asleep in, left for the ministry, his mind boiling over with worries. They were done for. Without Dumbledore, how could they possibly beat He Who Must Not Be Named? He had nothing to fear any more except for one, underaged, teenage wizard. Harry Potter was a mere child, and how long would he last without Dumbledore's protection?
The mood in the ministry was one of shock. The news had got around. One Death Eater had died, struck by a killing curse from another. Even didn't much care about the circumstances. Instead he found Braig. Even he looked ashen faced and serious; it was an unsettling rarity.
Even attended the funeral. Special permission had needed to be given to allow Dumbledore to be laid to rest in Hogwarts grounds. There was no precedent for it. It felt like everyone was making things up as they went along, now. Braig was there too, and he teased Even, briefly, about the fact that Dolores Umbridge had invited him to sit next to her. It was an opportunity Even had declined as quickly and politely as he dared.
He watched Harry Potter during the funeral, and wondered how this boy that he'd gone to school with, that he'd told off for making noise in the library, could possibly be capable of destroying someone like He Who Must Not Be Named, without a protector, without a mentor, just all on his own.
It seemed to hopeless.
“Cheer up,” Braig told him, a few days later. “You're depressing the whole floor.”
“Pardon me for being aware of the gravity of the situation,” Even replied, managing to be both distracted and peevish at the same time.
“Hey, we're not screwed yet,” Braig told him. “We've still got Mad Eye, Potter,” he paused as if to think and then shrugged and gave Even a cocky grin, “me.”
Even looked at him, and sighed as a hopeless little smile crossed his face. “I hope you're right.”
*****
The following month was tense. Without Dumbledore around, it was almost as if there was no reason for the Death Eaters to try and keep their activities quick and infrequent. One of the Hogwarts teachers disappeared, and although there was a hunt for her, it produced no results. Worse still, Death Eaters that had been sent to Azkaban since the removal of the Dementors had escaped. The place now had more holes in its security than a bank made of swiss cheese.
Even's father was away more often. Weekends that used to be spent together at the family home were now spent with Even rattling around his spacious apartment. Braig was also kept too busy by the Order to keep Even company a lot of the time, and sitting on his heels, waiting for news was frustrating.
Toward the end of July, Braig told Even some more news. “I'll be busy,” he said, “we're moving Potter to a safe house tonight.”
“Why don't you let the ministry do it?” Even had asked, and he'd known the moment the words escaped his mouth that it was a bad idea. They both suspected that the ministry had sprung a leak, or maybe two. The Death Eaters seemed to be too steadily one step ahead.
“We don't even want to use any method the ministry can track right now,” Braig told him, in answer. “I'll let you know how it goes.”
Even scowled, but there wasn't much he could do about it. The Order didn't want him involved, yet. Braig had explained it, although Even had suspected Mad Eye's take on things had been inserted in there too. What it boiled down to was that Even was an extremely valuable informant, or at least had the potential to be. The moment any single Death Eater recognised him, that value was wiped out.
And given the likelihood that Even's exposure as a blood traitor and Order informant would get him personally hunted down by Bellatrix Lestrange, it simply wasn't worth it. Even was more use to everybody if he stayed behind the lines, listening in and passing information on.
Even strongly suspected that the first part of the explanation came from Mad Eye. It was practical, and brutally, and unfortunately honest, and the truth of it was frustrating as hell and didn't make Even feel any better, but there was no sentimentality to the explanation. The second half, where the threat Even would be under from his own family if he was discovered, he strongly suspected had come from Braig. It sounded like the sort of thing Braig would say.
What it all boiled down to was that, even if Even did join the Order, he'd still be left at home to twiddle his thumbs.
Even passed it with the aid of the stereo system Braig had bought for him, trying, and failing, to find a muggle station on the radio before he resorted to using the CDs again. He couldn't sleep, knowing his father was out there, doing god knew what, and he couldn't even report him to anyone, either. The Order of the Phoenix viewed him, and Even, as useful sources of information. The ministry had been infiltrated, or someone within it had been bribed, so if Even so much as tried to hand his father over, he'd not only find out about it, but so would all the other Death Eaters. Add to that the unlikelihood of his father remaining in Azkaban when the island prison was now broken out of in a regular basis and the whole thing seemed painfully pointless.
Even dwelled on it all night. By morning he was exhausted, and frightened by the lack of word from Braig. He didn't know how he'd react if Braig were to die, but every day that he went on one of these expeditions it seemed like a very real possibility. The thought of it made Even's stomach roil in uniquely unpleasant ways.
Just as he was beginning to get impatient, there was a knock at his door. He flew to answer it, darting around furniture as quickly as he could.
Braig looked to be in shock on the other side of the door. “What happened?” Even asked, pulling his friend inside and doing a brief visual check. Braig had been patched up by someone at the shoulder, but it was his only apparent injury.
“Mad Eye,” Braig spoke, quietly. He seemed to be in a daze. “They got Mad Eye.”
Even tried to gather the words for a moment before he settled, instead, for leading Braig to the sitting room, and forcing him to sit down on the couch. He had to push Braig quite hard for him to get the idea, and then he sat, his eyes wide. “Tell me what happened,” Even said. “What do you mean they got Mad Eye?”
“He's dead,” Braig answered, flatly. “They knew.” He groaned, then, and put his head in his hands. “I can't work out how they knew, but they knew that we were going to move Potter now instead of waiting. We used polyjuice potion,” Braig added, glancing up at Even as if looking for help or some clue as to where and how it all went wrong. “Got six other people to take it and turn into Potter. One each of the rest were their escorts, and the rest of us were just general security.” He looked up at Even again, and this time he kept eye contact. “They knew we were moving him. They were waiting. The man himself was there, all of them.”
Even frowned. He knew how bad things must have been simply because it was unheard of for Braig to refer to He Who Must Not Be Named with anything other than a mocking take on his name. He looked grey, and pale, and Even found himself with his arm around his friend as he waited for him to finish.
“They hit Mad Eye. Probably with a killing curse. I didn't see. Someone's gone to retrieve the body, now. A few of the others are injured, but most of them seemed to get through.”
Even blinked, and held Braig tight. He'd never seen him like this. He hadn't even been like this when Dumbledore had died, but this was their second major loss in just over a month, now. And it was Mad Eye. Mad Eye had been a teacher, for Braig. It had been Mad Eye that had taken him under his wing.
He'd just been starting to trust Even, too. Even couldn't help but wonder if he thought that might have been misplaced, in his last few moments. The idea made him ill, but Braig would probably be the only person in the Order who wouldn't even think to ask Even if he'd betrayed them all.
“It wasn't me,” Even said, quietly. “I didn't tell anyone.”
It seemed to snap Braig out of his stupor, and he looked up at Even as if thinking his friend had finally cracked. “I wasn't even going to ask.”
Even smiled, faintly, and then tugged Braig in for a tighter hug. “You must be exhausted,” he said, after a moment. “I'll make up a spare bed.”
Braig only nodded in response, and Even left him on the sofa. If he kept busy, he wouldn't have to think about the significance of the blow their side had just taken, especially so soon after Dumbledore. They were just being picked off, now. The Death Eaters could take their time with them. They had no one to rely on to protect them, like they once had.
Over the next few weeks, the change was becoming obvious. The Aurors seemed to be fighting a losing battle as information failed to pass to them until it was too late, and outright wrong information seemed to land on their desks. Braig expressed his frustration, but Even could tell how worried he really was by the fact that Braig stopped visiting him at work. He'd drop by at Even's flat, after work, but he stopped coming by the office.
They used the Fidelius charm to hide Even's apartment. That, at least, made it a safe place for them to go, if anything happened. Braig insisted that he didn't want to be the secret keeper, but Even refused to take no for an answer.
“It has to be someone I can trust,” he said.
“Yeah, and when you can't tell someone your own address, isn't that gonna look suspicious? Think this through, Even.”
“I have,” Even replied, with a slight snap. “If you think there's anyone I should trust more than my best friend, and an Auror, I'd like to hear the suggestion.”
“Make yourself the secret keeper,” Braig growled, his arms folded.
“The charm,” Even replied, his voice calm and measured, “does not work that way. It requires a bond of trust and friendship. You cannot be your own secret keeper; it has to be someone you trust, with your life. That is also,” Even continued, heading off another protest from Braig, “why it cannot be a stranger off the street, or an acquaintance from years back. I would not trust them as I trust you, and we would risk the charm failing.”
Braig glared at him for a moment. Eventually he managed to retort, “You sound like a textbook.”
“It isn't a direct quote,” Even muttered, evasively. “Now give me your hand.”
Braig scowled, and over the following days, he scowled even more, but the charm seemed to have worked and, importantly, held. It made Even feel rather better to know that there was now a place magically, and impenetrably hidden from unwanted eyes, should the worst happen. The only way the secret could be divulged would be if Braig told someone else, and Even trusted him not to cave under torture. Not that it would come to that, of course.
Or so he thought. It was the middle of the day and Even was quietly at work at his desk when the message came. He had to read it a couple of times before it sank in, and the alarms sounded.
Minister for Magic Rufus Scrimgeour has stepped down with immediate effect. The following people are to be apprehended immediately pending investigation into accusations of illicit activity.
It was an extensive list, and Even's heart froze when he saw Braig's name there, along with Kingsley and half the Aurors Even knew to be in the Order, as well as the names of people who were relatively inconsequential within the ministry but who were, as far as Even could tell, largely muggleborn.
Even ran from his desk, the letter still in his hand, his wand brandished in the other. There was chaos in the foyer; it looked as though someone had done a lot of damage facilitating their own escape, but the floo network had been blocked off, and a few who hadn't made it were trying to put up a fight.
There were people in black cloaks and hoods, and awful masks that made Even feel sick, rounding up the stragglers. There was no sign of Braig, and Even hoped it meant he'd got away before the alarms sounded.
A bang reverberated through the floor as someone, Even didn't see who, cast a jinx that blew the wall apart. Even had to use a shield charm to protect himself, and some of the others, from being showered in falling glass and masonry. It drew the attention of one of the masked men, who raised his wand at Even and cast a whiplash of fire at him. Even countered with a wave of water that rose up and crashed over the Death Eater before freezing him to the spot as the foyer became a skating rink.
The others rounded on Even, then, but one slipped on the ice, landing hard. Another tried to ensnare Even with ropes, but Even burned them up with a flick of his wand, and then quickly waved his wand like a conductor's baton as he directed a marble hand the size of a man to reach up and then pin the fallen one to the ground.
No one was paying attention to what the escaping muggleborns were doing, now, and Even kept it up, keeping the Death Eaters distracted as he saw two of them run for a fallen third and drag him to safety. A flash of Even's wand sent the two Death Eaters who were still standing flying out of the way, hasty shield charms breaking as sharp icicles crashed from the air above them. The one who was frozen to the spot was knocked unconscious while trying to melt away the ice that had frozen, inches thick, and up to his knees.
Even protected himself with another shield charm as one of the two remaining hit out with a blasting curse, and then he replied with Levicorpus, hoisting the man into the air before sending him flying back with a loud bang. The Death Eater hit the fireplace behind him with a loud thud, and Even was left to reply to the attempt to box him in by the last one standing with a quick gouging charm, tearing through one encroaching wall, and showering his assailant in shrapnel. Even finished the duel by encasing the remaining man in thick ropes, binding his hands and twisting them until he dropped his wand, and then creeping over the rest of him until he was cocooned.
Even looked around to see where the muggleborns had gone, and was relieved to see the visitor's entrance lift had departed to the surface. He hoped they'd be able to escape from there.
That was when a voice that he knew more commonly as being girly and breathy, feigning sweetness and innocence, asked from the other end of the foyer, “What is going on here?” Umbridge was less girly and breathy now, but sounded both as if she'd done some running, and as though she was in a temper.
“These men attacked me,” Even replied, coolly, turning and leaving them in their disoriented or unconscious states. The ice was beginning to melt away quickly now that the battle was over, but it mattered little.
“They attacked you, Mister Lestrange?” Umbridge's voice sounded as if she was trying to feign innocence again, but her annoyance was preventing it. “Surely you must have provoked them, if accidentally?”
“I cast a shield charm to protect myself from falling debris when someone blew up the wall,” Even answered. “That does not give them carte blanche to attack me in a four on one duel.”
“No,” Umbridge answered, hurriedly. “I'm sure it was a misunderstanding.”
She was being obsequious towards him, a fact which made Even's blood run cold, but it would, at least, be useful in allowing him to walk out of the building in one piece. He may have taken down four, but any more than that and he'd struggle, and if they were better than those four he could easily be killed. “A large one,” Even muttered. “On a related note,” he continued, assuming the arrogant air of his bloodline, “why are we now chasing muggleborns and Aurors? Of what crime are they accused?” He hoped that Umbridge's sudden and unnerving deference to him would get him an answer.
“You haven't heard?” She asked, giving him a creepy little smile that Even was sure was meant to be pleasant. “Treachery and the theft of wizard's powers. There are individuals in the Auror office that have, sadly, taken it upon themselves to act independently of the ministry and ignore direct orders, working against the ministry, and the minister, to undermine us. It cannot be tolerated.”
Even felt sick. Umbridge sounded as though she was enjoying herself. When he didn't reply, she continued, “Sadly, it seems as if the individuals we were on the verge of apprehending have escaped in the confusion with you.” She paused, and then gave him another one of those smiles and told him, rather too cheerfully, “But no matter. I'm sure we will have them apprehended again soon.”
Even huffed, and turned away, heading back towards his office. The alarms had ceased at some point, though he couldn't say he'd noticed when. He'd been in the middle of a duel, and now it was over, his heart was racing and his stomach doing flips as he wondered what had become of Braig.
He'd have escaped, there was no question of it. Except that there was, because Braig was not the type to abandon fellow muggleborns and save his own skin. It had been one of the things that had drawn him to being an Auror. It had been one of the traits that he'd displayed at school that had first made Even suspect he was actually not so bad underneath all the bravado and accent.
He couldn't send a letter. An owl could be tracked, and in any case, he didn't know where to find Braig. He'd be smart enough not to go to his own home. Even only hoped that he'd been smart enough to go to Even's own apartment, where he couldn't be found. Perhaps he'd take some of the other Aurors, too, or a few of the more scared and confused muggleborns, whose world had turned on its head in an instant, and they'd gone from ministry employees to the most wanted in the space of one interdepartmental memo.
New files were put on Even's desk. A request for the full list of all registered wizards of muggleborn or otherwise questionable status was made. The muggle liaison office was suddenly inundated with a whole new line of work, most of it centring on the potential prosecution of every known muggleborn in the wizarding world, and a few more besides, just in case.
Shifty looks were cast across desks as the officers in the department glanced at each other, and away again in a hurry. Even ignored the pile of work that was building up in his inbox, finding excuses to get up and help to repair some of the damage made by duels as Aurors or muggleborns escaped their place of work.
The new minister was to be Pius Thicknesse, they were informed a mere couple of hours later. What had happened earlier on was nothing more than undesirables escaping, and was nothing worth mention as those few who had escaped (Even tried not to scoff, knowing they'd succeeded in apprehending a mere handful) would quickly be found. A new regime was in place, ladies and gentleman. A new golden age of wizardry.
Umbridge was there right alongside the new minister. Even watched him carefully; he'd never taken Thicknesse for being sympathetic to the Death Eaters before now, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was something even more sinister afoot.
Importantly, Even noticed, they would no longer be pursuing Death Eaters, and would instead be pursuing 'Undesirable Number One,' a title which Even suspected had Dolores Umbridge's doing all over it. He doubted Harry Potter would be pleased with the change from The Chosen One to that, but wasn't about to say anything.
Even went home at the end of the day, praying he'd find Braig there, waiting for him. He didn't, but there was a note.
You might have noticed it's all gone tits up. I hope you get this. You better be okay, because if you're not, I'll find you and kick your ass.
I've gone to stick by my family for now. I let some of the other Aurors know your address, so if you find the place being used a safe house, it's my fault. We just needed somewhere to go in a hurry. We're working on finding somewhere to send the muggleborns we helped so they can be well out of it.
Stay safe. Keep your head down. I'll try and drop by soon.
He'd signed it, and Even found himself tracing a finger over the signature. He hadn't realised how tight his chest had felt until he'd read that letter and finally had the proof that Braig was safe.
It made sense that he'd go to be with his family. At this time, they were in a lot of danger, nearly as much as Braig was in, and his sister had a young baby to think of, too. Even frowned, but didn't dare send an owl on to Braig to prove he was all right.
It would have made more sense, Even thought, if the next day the world had been buzzing with the news of the fall of the ministry. It would have felt better if the whole world could tell, but instead the newspaper barely looked any different. The headline was about the resignation of Scrimgeour, but it was infuriatingly sketchy on the details. Even supposed he'd been killed, and that was a worrying thought because he'd been another quite powerful Auror. Braig's opinion of the man might have been that there was definite room for improvement in the obedience to authority stakes, but the man had been the head of the Auror office; there was little room for criticism of his ability.
There was nothing at all about the duel in the ministry. Even supposed that he should be thankful that his name wasn't mentioned as causing trouble, but it also worried him. It all looked as if the transition had been very peaceful. Right now it looked as if there hadn't been a transition at all, and that was worse. People would find out differently in a few days time; he doubted it would take longer than that. Changes in policy were underway within hours of it all happening.
He travelled to his father's house for the weekend, as usual, unsure of whether he would have a job to return to on Monday, and as to whether he would want to return to it. The ministry had suddenly become an unfriendly place, and his department would likely see some of the biggest changes.
His father seemed to be in a good mood when Even met him, and it was a good mood that continued over the course of the weekend, even though the changes at the ministry were never once discussed. Even tried not to think about it, but it was difficult. The world had given a lurch, and suddenly Even, and many, many others, were trying to tap dance on a landslide.
On Sunday night, Even got back home, expecting it to be empty. Instead he was greeted by two people, and one of them was Braig. Even had a strong urge to hug him, but he resisted due to their audience; Dilan Aer.
“Next time you get into your head to get up to some heroics,” Braig said, “try not to do it when the bad guys are winning.” He was on Even's sofa, drinking from one of his cups. Even had to bite back a sarcastic invitation for Braig to make himself at home.
Instead he scowled, and replied, “I could say the same to you.”
Dilan was stood in a corner of the sitting room, an impassive statue. He seemed deep in thought. Even remembered him from school, when he hadn't been much different; he'd been another one who had come along to Durmstrang as part of Hogwarts' potential champions. Even had got along with him, then, and he didn't seem much different now. He and Braig were chalk and cheese, but they worked together well despite being fundamental opposites in many departments.
“I've got their attention anyway,” Braig pointed out. “You don't want to draw it.”
“I shall do as I see fit,” Even replied.
“We would prefer,” Dilan cut in, his voice slow and calm, “that you did not put yourself at undue risk.”
“While you're out there being hunted down by Death Eaters? You want me to sit at home twiddling my thumbs waiting to hear back from you?” Even sneered. “Do I need to remind you of who I am?”
“A poncy toff with a superiority complex,” Braig answered, just a little too matter-of-factly for Even's liking. “Thing is, that's exactly what we need you to be right now.”
“Are you returning to work tomorrow?” Dilan asked, as Even puffed up on the edge of a long winded diatribe about Braig's personal failings that would keep them occupied until next week, and that was the short version.
It put rather an unexpected hole in Even's indignation and he faltered before replying, honestly, “I wasn't planning on it.”
“You should,” Dilan answered.
Braig lounged back on the sofa. “We could do with a spy.”
“What do you expect someone from the muggle liaison department to be able to tell you?” Even asked, testily. He could see the horrible places his department may go, the heinous things he might be asked to do. He didn't want any part of it.
“As if you were gonna stay there now all this has happened,” Braig said, rolling his eyes and waving a hand dismissively.
“The important thing is what we expect a Lestrange to be able to find out,” Dilan said. “You are in a uniquely privileged position within the ministry.”
“You mean that half the people who share my surname sit at He Who Must Be Named's right hand,” Even snapped. The thought of playing on his name, in light of that, made him feel more than a little ill.
“Look,” Braig sighed, “even someone who isn't a Lestrange can tell us about new laws, new powers, things they're doing to try and track us down. If you don't find out anything else, that's still enough to keep us one step ahead of the Death Eaters.”
“Ideally,” Dilan admitted, “you would be in a position to tell us who is at most risk, and even to plant false information, but if that is not possible, anything you can tell us before we read about it in the Prophet is of benefit to us.”
“Especially since reading it in the Prophet means we'll be reading it from our Azkaban cells,” Braig said, cheerily. “And that's only if we can still read.”
Even sighed. They had a point, which was infuriating in itself. It wasn't as though he'd refuse to keep his friends safe, of course; it was just that the idea of going back to work in a ministry that was now under the control of He Who Must Not Be Named. “How do you expect me to contact you?” Even asked. “I presume you're not going to be sat here waiting for me every day.”
“Nope,” Braig replied, “we've got a trick to show you.”
The next day, Even returned to work as if nothing had happened. The first thing he did, however, was draft a formal request for a transfer out of the muggle liaison department. A few of his coworkers hadn't turned in, and Even couldn't say he blamed them.
At lunch time he saw Yaxley, walking alongside the new minister. It was horrifying to see Death Eaters walking so openly in the ministry corridors, and Even had a moment where he wanted to leave and never return when Yaxley spotted him, and gave him a familiar nod and a knowing smile. It was all Even could do to return the nod as politely as he could and continue on his way.
Things got worse later that afternoon when he saw Tiberius Selwyn discussing something with Fenrir Greyback. Tiberius didn't look especially pleased to be having the discussion, but it was always hard to tell with him; he wore a lip curled expression of unhappiness all the time anyway. Even at the christening of his son, the man had looked as if he was having to endure a severe trial for the sake of his wife, although in fairness, a family affair such as a christening in their family did involve inviting every aunt, uncle, and cousin for five or six generations of removal.
Selwyn and Greyback parted ways before Even passed, so he couldn't hear what they were discussing. He nodded politely to Selwyn, acknowledging him as he approached. “Good afternoon,” he said, but only because it was polite.
Selwyn eyed him for a moment before it seemed to click and he replied, “Ah, Lestrange's son.”
“Even,” Even informed him.
“You've grown,” Tiberius said, and there was the faint trace of mocking amusement in his expression.
“Indeed,” Even replied, mildly. He'd tried his best to steer clear of Selwyn at school, and had generally stayed out of the way at the christening, too. It had been two years since he'd last seen Selwyn, and that had been as brief as politeness would allow. “How is young Isa?” Even asked.
For a brief, a very brief moment, Tiberius' face seemed to settle, and he almost seemed to be happy as he answered, “Walking, and talking, at length.” It passed quickly, but Even couldn't forget it being there, and for a moment he had to remind himself that even Death Eaters could be loving parents; he should know that from the example of his own. “Also showing a strong aptitude for magic, even at this age,” he continued, and there Even could hear the pride in Selwyn's voice, and not all of it was benign, parental pride.
“Understandable,” Even answered, “given his lineage.” It pained him to say it, of course, but it was the kind of thing Selwyn was thinking himself.
“Naturally,” Selwyn answered. Then he changed the subject; “I hear you are working in the muggle liaison department,” he said, his tone dripping with distaste, and he said the word 'muggle' with particular care, as though he didn't want the word to stick to his teeth and taint him just by being spoken out loud.
“For now,” Even replied, aware that he had to be careful. He adopted the familiar, snotty tones of someone who considered themselves too good for the work they'd been given. “Of course, now that things are beginning to change, it seems to be a good time to hand in my request for a transfer to another department.”
“Just when things are about to get interesting in muggle liaison,” Selwyn answered, almost teasingly, and with that same mocking amusement in his tone once more.
“I have spent enough time working around muggles,” Even told him. “It's hardly a fitting position for a Lestrange.”
Selwyn very nearly cracked a smirk. With the exception of that one glimpse of fatherly affection, all of his expressions were like that; muted, distant, as if they were being felt somewhere much further away and all that was left was the ghost of them to flicker. “There will be plenty of positions far more fitting of your name within the next month, Lestrange.”
Even wished he wasn't right. It was only a few days after his request for a transfer had been sent that he received word back. It came in the form of Dolores Umbridge, who walked into the rapidly emptying department where Even worked, and announced her presence with a 'hem hem' that made Even furrow his brows and wonder if Braig was playing tricks on him with Weasley products, again.
The other two people who remained in the department looked up from their desks, and, after a short moment, Even followed their line of sight to find a squat, mousy brown haired woman, wearing an awful, fluffy pink cardigan standing in the doorway with a clipboard. “Even Lestrange?” She asked, quite sweetly.
Even blinked, and then asked, “Yes, Miss Umbridge?” He was fairly certain that she wasn't married, after all. He couldn't imagine anyone who would want to marry her, for starters.
“Dolores, please,” she said, with another one of those smiles that was supposed to be sweet and utterly failed on every possible level. “I'd like a word,” she said, “regarding your letter.”
Even stood up, and followed her outside. “Is there a problem, Dolores?” He asked, thinking it best to use the term of address she'd said she preferred. Or at least, that she apparently preferred with him.
“Not at all,” she answered, “on the contrary, we'd simply like to know where you would like to be placed.”
Even hadn't been expecting that, and he looked at Umbridge with a blank expression before he got his brain back into working order. “Obviously, my choice would depend on what positions are available,” he answered.
“Well,” Umbridge said, sounding very pleased with herself and tapping him on the arm with her clipboard in a way that was just a little more familiar than Even would have liked, “fortunately, that won't be a concern, you see, the ministry is changing, Even, and while some outdated departments will be shut down, we will be creating new ones. Ones better equipped to serve our community. There will be new positions opening in every department, and there will be whole new departments for you to choose from.”
Even had to hurry to cover his indignation at being called by his first name by this woman. It was the first time she'd done it, and he doubted it would be the last. When he'd worked for her during his summer internship, she'd always stuck to calling him by his family name. Her cheerful explanation that things were changing boded ill, as far as Even was concerned, but he could hardly say that, either. “What kind of new departments?” He asked.
Umbridge looked up at him. She seemed to be thoroughly in her element, and she seemed to be enjoying talking to a Lestrange on first name terms far too much. “The first new department,” she said, quite happily, “will be the muggle-born registration commission. It's currently a work in progress, but the signs from the department of mysteries is that it's very necessary for the protection of the magical community.”
Even was horrified at the very idea. The department sounded twisted already; he could imagine what kind of pursuits a muggleborn registration commission would get up to under the wing of someone like He Who Must Not Be Named. He covered it well, however, and nodded. “To be perfectly frank,” he said, “I've had quite enough of muggles and muggleborns.”
“Then might I suggest,” she replied, entirely unfazed, “a posting in another, entirely new department?”
He let Braig know what was going on that night. His new posting would put him in a good position to pry, and he'd certainly be able to pass information on before it reached the Prophet. It was a pity he couldn't guess just how useful that information was going to be just yet, but at least it was better than nothing, and he wouldn't be forced to do any active harm to anyone.
They'd raided the Weasleys, and the Tonks, Even had discovered. Everyone who was in the Order had their homes invaded, the Death Eaters were able to penetrate past all their charms and safeguards now that they had the ministry behind them. That included, Even had been horrified to learn, Braig's flat in Manchester.
His message to Braig included a yelling at for failing to tell him an important detail like that. The reply from Braig came a few hours later, and completely ignored the fact that Even had yelled at him for failing to tell him the Death Eaters had been to his home. On the bright side, Braig was still safe, holed up with his family.
The painful part was knowing that state of affairs couldn't last.
*****
“Blah blah blah, ministry, blah blah, new evidence from the department of mysteries,” at this point Braig ceased his out loud reading of the Prophet in order to snort, loudly, before continuing, “oh here, 'A ministry spokesman revealed to the prophet that, 'The ministry is taking this new evidence exceedingly seriously'',” Braig put on his best impression of Even's upper class accent, which was actually painful to listen to, “''and as such will be acting upon it with immediate effect. The new Muggle-Born Registration Commission requires that all wizards and witches of muggle origin, including half bloods, register with the commission and submit details of their family tree to show the source of their magical ability.''” Braig looked at Even, thankfully dropping the accent. “That sounds like you.”
“That's because it was,” Even said. “Officially, I'm titled a spokesman. In reality, I'm a propaganda agent.” He didn't sound terribly pleased about it, until he gave Braig a faint little smile and said, “I can only hope that my telling people exactly what was going to happen is enough of a warning.”
Braig grinned at him, all teeth and sharkish amusement, “Well, people might only be talking about the coup in whispers, but that means they'll be suspicious enough to pick up on it.” Then Braig stopped, and sighed, “The smart ones, anyway. How many have actually signed up with the commission?”
Even sighed, sadly. “Far too many. Some people are much too trusting.”
“Yeah, well,” Braig muttered, “the takeover was nigh silent, and the ministry before had less than a stellar record where casual racism towards muggles and mudbloods was concerned.”
“Braig,” Even scolded. He'd told Braig about using that word before, but he never did seem to listen.
“Hey,” Braig retorted, defensively, “I'm amazed that ain't an official name for us now.”
Even sighed. “They keep pushing to capture the Order, and Potter, too. The reward for capturing him has just gone up again.”
Braig grumbled, wordlessly. Then he smirked at Even, “Look at it this way, if a kid like Potter can hide from them, we can manage, too.”
“Easy for you to say,” muttered Even, “you don't walk into the viper's nest five days a week.”
“Did I ever give you the impression that I don't appreciate it?” Braig asked, swinging his legs off the back of the chair as he folded the Prophet up and flung it onto the coffee table.
“No,” Even admitted, after an awkward pause. “I know you do. I just despise working alongside that vile woman. Yaxley now heads the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Selwyn is the new head of the Auror office.”
Braig snorted again. “You mean he spends all day twiddling his thumbs,” he said. “It's a bit hard to be a Dark Wizard catcher when you're a Dark Wizard.”
Even had considered that point himself when he'd been told. He'd been surprised that the Auror office was still in existence, and would remain so, and then, when the Auror office was taken over by Selwyn, it had begun to fall into place. “Someone has to capture Undesirable Number One,” he pointed out, “and his friends.”
“Yeah, and the Order,” Braig added. “At least it's keeping them too busy to go for the muggles just yet.”
Even frowned, but he nodded his agreement. He wasn't sure how long it would last. Certainly, for now, the focus of the more powerful was on finding the Potter boy. He wanted to think that would last, but realistically, once the Death Eaters had their house in order where the ministry was concerned, they would work on the magical world, and then, finally, the muggle one.
“Do you really think we can make it?” Even asked, a shade glum.
Braig looked at him, considering the question, and then he shrugged. “No one's immortal.”
Even scowled at him. “That is not an answer,” he said. It sounded like Braig was avoiding the question.
“Sure it is,” Braig replied. “Even Lord Mouldy Wart isn't going to live forever. The question is whether we can outlive him.”
“Someone like that, I expect, will find a way,” Even whispered, and hoped that Braig wouldn't hear.
*****