The Tutshill Summit (After the Flaw: Oligarchy, Chapter 31)
Title: The Tutshill Summit (After the Flaw: Oligarchy, Chapter 31)
Author: kanedax
Spoilers: Previous Chapters
Rating: PG13 for language
Summary: Minister Weasley receives a dignitary
Notes: I own these characters. The others belong to JK Rowling.
Muggle Issues / Previous Chapters / Regrets
Ron Weasley shivered as he pulled his sweater (green and orange with black buttons, vintage 2011, Molly Weasley Designs) tightly around himself. His hand shook only slightly, however, as he poured himself another cup of scalding hot tea.
If there was a downside of being married to the Minister of Magic during a global crisis in January (and there were many downsides to being married to the Minister of Magic during a global crisis in January), it's that the windows never closed. There were owls and Patronuses to receive, owls and Patronuses to send, owls to poo all over the furniture. Not just owls, either. There were pigeons and parrots and peacocks, herons and hawks and hummingbirds, falcons and pheasants and flamingos.
Each and every one of them had one thing in common: They carried more bad news.
Things had not been going well since the Oligarchy had made their move. Their first move, Ron amended. Of course there would be another move after Tower Bridge. But unless they were able to take down this new, mysterious organization, all they could do was hold their breath until the inevitable happened.
The Ministry was doing their best to find any information that lead to the capture of anyone connected to the Oligarchy. Unfortunately, they were also so busy putting out the small fires, figuratively and literally, that kept sprouting up that there were very few warm bodies left to do the research, interrogations, and general footwork required to hunt down a terrorist organization.
And they planned it this way, too, Ron thought as he poured a second cup. They kept us occupied with the Muggle attacks, the public duels, the various assaults and deaths and general mayhem that resulted from telling wizards that they don't have to hide anymore. Meanwhile, the Oligarchy kept moving, stayed hidden, reorganized for their next move.
Send out your pawns, thought Ron. It keeps the knights busy as you position yourself to take the king.
Pawns. Ron wondered if half of the witches and wizards they had arrested in the last few days actually knew that they were nothing more than game pieces to the Oligarchy. The few will rule the many, that was the Oligarchy's motto. But did any of the wizards suddenly playing Beater on Muggle skulls stop to ask who the few really were? Did they think that it was simply the wizards ruling the Muggles? Or was the Oligarchy considering the few to be a more exclusive circle, and the rest of wizard kind simply more of the many?
Ron honestly didn't believe many of them thought very much at all. Hell, he thought with a bitter smirk, he and Harry's first job lasted a good five seconds. A simple case of public dueling by two eighteen-year-old wizards, Ron, Harry, and a third Auror arrived at Tottenham around eight pm. A large crowd had already gathered by then, both wizards and Muggles, watching the duelists hurl ineffective sparks back and forth at each other. The three Aurors approached, the two teens turned at them, brandishing their wands...
They caught one look at Harry's lightning scar and surrendered.
"We should have had Voldemort's destroyer on payroll years ago," the third Auror, Jessica Orwell, had said as they cast restraining spells on the two teens and did their best to cast Memory Charms on the surrounding crowd, less of a priority than it used to be. "If they're all this easy, then the Oligarchy doesn't stand a chance."
Ron and Harry exchanged a concerned look as Harry slipped the combatants' wands into his cloak pocket. They weren't all going to be this easy. No way. If anything, things were going to even harder than they were before they had joined up. For every wizard scared pissless over facing Harry Potter, there would definitely be others out there that would want nothing more than to prove themselves against him in battle.
Which led to even worse ideas.
"Maybe this wasn't the best idea," Ron had said to Harry later. They were sitting in Harry's old Muggle Liaison office, now Harry's Auror office. With so many new recruits, as well as temporary offices for visiting internationals, space was at a premium in the Auror Department, and Harry was forced to keep separate from the rest of their new colleagues until space opened.
"I wouldn't say that to Hermione," Harry had replied. "Getting cold feet after you talked her into this? She'll never let you live it down."
"Not me, mate," said Ron. "I'm thinking maybe this wasn't the best idea for you. You saw how those kids acted when they caught a glimpse of you. You're a fucking legend."
"I'm not," said Harry uncomfortably.
"You are," Ron insisted. "You don't want to admit it, but you are. Everybody knows your story, Harry, whether you like it or not. They know who you are, they know what you did. What's worse, they know about the Elder Wand."
"The Elder Wand's safe," Harry had replied. "It's sealed up in Dumbledore's tomb with as many protective curses as we could pile on it. No one's getting to it."
"Maybe not," said Ron. "But you think they know that? Twenty years ago you stood in front of hundreds of wizards and announced exactly what it would take to get the most powerful wand on the planet into their hands. All it's going to take is one wizard with balls of steel to make it their personal goal to hold the Elder Wand. You're lucky it hasn't happened in the last twenty, but that's because you kept out of the limelight. Plus you had the Ministry on your side, dealing with any threats that might have come your way. But if we're out there now, seeking them out, it's just a matter of time before someone decides they can take you."
"If they disarm me, then they disarm me," Harry argued. "They're not getting to the Wand. Voldemort was the only one who could."
"How do we know there aren't any V-V-"
"Damn it, Ron!"
"Old habits, mate," Ron said, his face turning red. "Nothing like a war to bring out my old fears, I guess. But how do we know there aren't any Oligarchy as powerful as he was? If one of them takes you out--"
"Look, what do you want me to do?" Harry snapped. "You want me to sit here, file paperwork, maybe run dispatch? You want me to not go out and find those bastards who killed your brother and put your sister, my wife, in a wheelchair for life?"
Ron didn't have a response for that. Because he knew that, if he were in Harry's position, he wouldn't stop, either. But that didn't stop him from being worried. Worried for himself, worried for his wife, worried for his best mate, worried for the world. They weren't young anymore, any of them. Not counting Harry's once-a-year special DADA classes, none of them had been in a proper duel in decades. They had gotten lucky so far, facing wizards that weren't nearly as talented. But if they met someone that actually had some skill, would they still have the strength, the reflexes, the quick thinking required to stand a chance?
Unable to find an answer to that question, either, Ron instead carried the two cups of tea into the spare bedroom, converted into a home office when Hermione was pregnant with Rose. The room was currently occupied by three owls, one crow, and one very tired-looking Hermione Weasley, hunched over her desk and scribbling notes onto a piece of parchment. The room was warmer than the rest of the house, thanks to the Floo burning in the corner, but it still was a bit chilly, with the cold January wind blowing in from the office's western window. If Hermione noticed the cold, however, she didn't show it. Her cloak and business robes were tossed haphazardly across the corner sofa, and the sleeves of her white button-up blouse were rolled up past her elbows, her bare arms stained with ink splatters. Her hair was pulled back with a lengthof ribbon, but one lock hung loose, coiled beside her temple.
"Brought you something to drink," said Ron in an undertone.
"Thank you," Hermione replied, her eyes staying lowered, her quill continuing to flutter. The crow emitted a loud caw from beside Ron, causing him to jump. He hung on to the tea, though, if just barely, and set it on Hermione's desk.
"You're going to get sleep, right?"
"Yes," said Hermione, her eyes still down.
"Cuz, you know, you came home from the office to rest."
"Yes."
"And you said that were going to sleep--"
"Yes."
"--last night," said Ron. "At midnight. Hasn't happened yet."
"Ron, I know!" Hermione snapped, her head jerking up. Her eyes were red, bloodshot, gray and tired around the edges. "Yes, I will sleep, alright? But not now. I'm too busy now. This can't wait."
"I just--"
"I'll sleep when I'm done," she said sharply.
"Alright," he said, deflating. "I'll just leave you to it, then."
"Ron, wait," said Hermione, her voice softening slightly as he turned to leave the office. The wheels of her chair squeaked slightly over the crackle of the fire as she pushed herself away from the desk and stood up, walking over to him and taking his hands.
"I'm sorry," she said, staring up at him gently. "I know you're just trying to look out for me--"
"Like I said I would," he said, squeezing her hands.
"--and I appreciate it," she said. "More than you know. But I'm Minister now, and the work has to come first, especially now."
"I know that," said Ron, pushing the lock of hair from her face with his fingertips. "You have a lot of decisions to make. Big ones. And I know you think that they can't wait for one minute. But you haven't slept in three days, and what's better for the country: Making the right decision a few hours later, or making a decision now while you're brain's exhausted?" As he said this, he looked down at the floor, where dozens of crumpled balls of parchment were littering the carpet, letters that Hermione had started to write, but had to restart over and over.
Hermione's eye followed his, took in her numerous mistakes, and reluctantly nodded. "I guess I could... Ron, I'm so tired," she said with a sigh that sounded like half a sob.
"You're going to sleep, alright?" he said, wrapping his arms around her as she wrapped hers around his waist. "You're going to put on your pajamas, and I'm going to turn down the sheets, and I'm going to make you drink a sleeping potion."
Hermione nodded against her husband's chest. "I have a recipe for you," she said. "I used it a lot during finals at Hogwarts. Puts me down hard and deep for two or three hours, like a temporary coma. It's easier to make than Living Death--"
"What isn't?" Ron chuckled.
"--so you shouldn't have any problems. I need sleep, Ron, but I can't take a full night. I can't afford to..."
"I can accept that," he said, kissing the top of her head. She looked up, and he kissed her softly on the lips. "I love you," he said. "I'm worried about you."
"I love you so much," she said back. "Just let me take care of these owls, and then I'll pull out the recipe."
"Alright," he said, kissing her once more then backing away. "I'll go get your pajamas ready."
"Thank you," she said gently, giving his hand one more squeeze before turning back to the piles of work on her desk. Ron breathed a sigh of relief as he left the office. Hopefully this time Hermione would follow through on her promise of actually getting some rest, actually not killing herself with the responsibility that had been thrust upon her like a locomotive thrusts against a cow grazing on the tracks.
Ron walked through the sitting room towards the stairs, aiming to go upstairs to their bedroom when there was a knock on the door.
He stopped in his tracks, glanced up at the clock. 10 pm. More bad news. Had to be. When the Ministry went into war mode last week, numerous new directives and procedures went into effect. Many of them involved extra protection of the Minister, mainly the setting of various protections spells around his or her residence. No witch or wizard could get in or out without prior approval, and, to prevent the transfer of poisons or cursed objects, no owl or other messenger animal could enter or exit carrying anything more than parchment and ink.
As of now, Hermione's list of people who could cross the threshold was as thin as possible, by request of Finnigan and the Aurors: immediate family and five high-ranking officials only. They might be carrying bad news, but at least they were safe.
Yeah, tell that to Harry's parents.
Ron pulled his wand from his pocket and slowly approached the door. Pressing one hand against the solid wood, he leaned forward, his wand pointed at what he calculated would be chest level for your average, not-tall-and-gangly witch or wizard.
"Who is it?" he called out.
"I come in peace to speak to the Minister of Magic," said a male voice from the other side of the door.
"Didn't answer my question," Ron said, his wand hand tightening.
"You would do well to lower your wand, Ronald Weasley," said the voice. "I would vanish before you got a spell off, and a thousand more would die for your foolishness. I am Prospero, Mask of London, of the Circle of Thirteen, and when I wish to speak to the Minister of Magic, then I shall."
---------
Hermione Weasley stared blankly at the parchment for a good thirty seconds, ink dripping from the tip of her quill, before realizing she should be writing something.
Okay, maybe I really do need sleep, she thought, trying to remember the subject of the letter. The Kenyans attempt to use the Secrecy Wave without Confederation authority? Response to the Egyptian overthrow? The coup attempt in Norway? South Africa? Australia? An order to Seamus Finnigan to put more resources into the search for Patrick Cullen, aka Dennis Creevey, on the lam since slandering the wizarding world in a globally-published news article? She still didn't know what exactly they could do, should do with the former Gryffindor when he was found, but as long as he was safe in Ministerial custody he couldn't stir any more cauldrons.
Maybe it was something more personal. Perhaps a letter to Dudley Dursley, fired from his job after it came to light, through a heated exchange with his co-workers, that he was married to a witch. She had gotten that particular bit of news from Susan three days ago, and for his part, Hermione was glad that Dudley hadn't backed down from the numerous threats those in his crew had been levelling on wizards in general, and Susan in particular.
"Not like they could do anything to us," said Susan with a weary shrug. "They know where we live, but I don't think they have the guts to go head-to-head with a wand. It's a lot of bloated machismo, that's all."
Or maybe it was some sort of letter to Bill and Fleur regarding the renewed hunt for the Stymphalian Birds. The two of them, and...
and...
What was he thinking? What was Teddy Lupin thinking? How could he do that to little Caroline? How could they do that to her? Hermione's hand tightened hard against the quill, threatening to snap it in half. She had been given the news from her mother a few days ago about what really happened to Teddy the day of the convention, why he wasn't there with her baby sister during the typhon attack, why she had had to run for her life alone, with no magical protection to speak of.
Victoire, Fleur, and Bill were currently studying the journal that had been kept by the memory-addled Luna Lovegood, hoping to find some clue as to the whereabouts of the Stymphalians, some way that they could be stopped, or any information that could lead them to the Oligarchy. While they did, they were also keeping their distance from Hermione, and from everyone else, limiting their communications to owls. Hermione supposed that made sense. Victoire wouldn't want to be alone in a room with her right now, wouldn't want to face the trouble she had wrought in the Granger family. Her and her Veela-ness.
That's not fair and you know it, Hermione's logical mind argued. You know how Victoire's felt about Teddy. It's not something that she hid as easily as she thought she did. Love makes people do stupid things. Or did you forget about Cormac?
"At least I kept my knickers on with Cormac," Hermione grumbled.
"Hermione?"
Hermione looked up at the sound of Ron's voice. She had flitted off yet again. She needed to focus, get her work done, and get some sleep.
"What is it?" she called back, wondering if he had heard her grumbling about Victoire and Teddy's sexual endeavours.
"We have a visitor," Ron called.
Hermione sighed. Probably Dewey Nielsen, head of the International Magical Cooperation. Or Dean. Or Seamus. Or Margaret, the Minister's assistant, carrying a pile of messages from any of the above or any number of other dignitaries.
"I'll be out in a few minutes," she called to Ron. "Let me just finish writing this letter first."
"Nooo," Ron said slowly, carefully. Strangely. "I think... I think you want to get in here, um, now."
Hermione's brow furrowed at Ron's odd response. Who could it be at this time of night that would seem out of the ordinary?
It might be Victoire, coming to make her peace. Of course Ron would want me in there as soon as possible. Less time sitting in awkward silence.
Hermione pushed herself away from her desk and made her way to the sitting room. A thousand thoughts rolled through her mind. She wanted to be fair, she wanted to not hurt her eldest niece, but the vengeful elder sister in her also wanted to drive the young girl from her house in tears. She felt a quick savage joy in that thought, then just as quickly felt sick with herself for even allowing such an idea to enter her brain.
She turned the corner into the sitting room and instinct took over at the sight of the man clad completely in black, black hood over his face, the same swatch of simple cloth that had haunted Hermione's dreams since he had invaded the world's minds over a week ago.
"Stupefy!"
"Protego!"
Hermione's spell deflected away from the Mask of London, glass shattering as it instead slammed into a hanging photograph of Hermione and her parents, taken on her wedding day. Her head darted to the right, her eyes wide with surprise as she realized who it was that had actually cast the protection spell.
"A wise decision, Ronald," said the masked wizard (Prospero, Hermione remembered) through the shimmering air. "Attacking a distinguished guest is a poor way to start relations."
"Sorry, love," Ron said meekly to Hermione, his wand holding the spell strong. "The bloke makes some good threats, and Merlin knows he's backed them up so far. Better safe than dead."
"It's fine, Ron," said Hermione, turning back to Prospero, her own wand still pointed directly at his heart. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm here to do something that I've been meaning to do since the day I delivered our message," said Prospero, a hint of a smile showing in his eyes. "We've been terribly busy, as I'm sure you understand."
"I'm sure," said Hermione coldly.
"If you could lower your wand, please, Minister Weasley," said Prospero. "If I were here to kill you, you would have been dead a week ago."
"As you're the one who killed my predecessor," said Hermione, adjusting the grip on her vine wood wand, "I'm quite comfortable as I am, thanks."
"Ronald, if you could tell your wife what I told you earlier," said the Mask of London to Ron.
"Attack him, he goes poof, lots of bodies," Ron said to Hermione.
"Thank you," said Prospero dryly. "My words were more elegant, but you did embrace the rough outline."
"Ron, lower your wand," said Hermione.
"Sure," said Ron, still extended. "No fighting, though, yeah?"
"Ron, are you Imperiused? Lower your wand!"
Ron glanced back and forth between Hermione and Prospero, hesitated, then pocketed his wand. As he did, the air between them ceased its wavering.
"Just trying to keep people alive," said Ron under his breath.
"A smart move, indeed," said Prospero, eyes behind his mask fixed on Hermione's wand with mild anticipation. After a few moments of trying to glare him down, Hermione relented, slipping her wand into her pocket.
"So you're not here to kill me," said Hermione.
"It's the last thing on my mind."
"Not even taking into account how you're here in the first place," she continued. "This place is sealed up tighter than Fort Knox. You couldn't be here without permission."
"Not as tight as you believe, obviously," said Prospero. "It was quite easy to penetrate."
"I think he's just here to be an arrogant berk," Ron grumbled.
"On the contrary," Prospero replied, "I am here to offer the Oligarchy's belated congratulations, Minister Weasley, on your ascension to such a prestigious position. The selection of a Muggle-born to the highest office in wizard England will be seen as nothing but an inspiration for generations to come."
"Difficult to think of myself as an inspiration when the previous Minister was assassinated," said Hermione, "and the people who killed him are the ones congratulating me. You killed him to get me into this position, right? You think I can be manipulated more easily?"
"Oh, you would have gotten the position with or without our assistance," said Prospero. "We didn't have any influence regarding your promotions over the years. You don't mind if I sit, do you?" he added, motioning to the chair beside him.
"Then why kill him?"
"It was a necessary death," said Prospero, moving to sit down. "We needed to provide the proper distraction. Kingsley Shacklebolt would have proved a more difficult obstacle, true, thanks to history as an Auror, but--"
"You've killed hundreds!" Hermione said imposingly. "Then you break into my home expecting to be treated as an equal and you will not sit without an invitation, do you understand?"
Prospero halted, mid-bend, over the chair. He looked up at Hermione, and his blue eyes narrowed behind his mask. "If we are to work together in the new world," he said, his voice laced with venom, "then we will have to trust one another."
"Trust?" said Hermione, her hand twitching beside her wand pocket. "Trust? You expect me to trust mass murderers who hide behind masks?"
"Then let me help you with that," said Prospero, slipping his fingers beneath the bottom of the black cloth hanging over his face. He lifted it up, pulling it back with his hood to reveal a man not much younger than Hermione and Ron. He carried a pointed beard on his chin, a round face that hinted at a heavier childhood, and a face that overall seemed vaguely familiar. Very vaguely...
"You went to Hogwarts," said Hermione. "With us. You were in Gryffindor."
"I was," said Prospero. This time as he seated himself in the Weasleys' chair, Hermione didn't stop him, as struck as she was. "My name is Nigel Melling. I reveal this because I want to build trust between the Oligarchy and the Ministry for the future. Also, as my very identity had been struck from Ministry records years ago, I'm an only child, and my parents and grandparents are all deceased, you will not be able to track me using any information I give about my history."
"Don't know you," said Ron simply.
"It's understandable," Nigel said with a shrug. "I started school in 1994, the year Riddle returned to power. I was never a member of Dumbledore's Army, didn't fight in the Battle of Hogwarts. Didn't, in fact, even go to Hogwarts that year. I'm a Muggle-born as well, you see."
"You went into hiding," said Hermione. "You and your family."
"My family was already gone," said Nigel. "My parents both died in an auto accident in early 1997. Around the time of the Quidditch match where you were replaced by Cormac, if I recall, Ronald."
"But that's impossible," said Hermione, looking at Ron with confusion. "A Gryffindor whose parents had died during the school year... We were prefects. We would have been told. Someone would have been given that information."
"It wasn't a major trouble," said Nigel. "I received the letter, but I never told anyone. Not Professor McGonagall, not my friends, not anyone. It didn't concern me, you see. I had separated myself from my parents years before, after I found out that I was meant for something more. You understand that feeling, don't you, Minister?"
Hermione started. "Excuse me?"
"Your parents," Nigel explained. "Your Muggle family. After you found out that you were a witch? After you found out that you were better than they were? More powerful, more important?"
"Better?" Hermione spat. "I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you do," said Nigel, leaning forward. "Minister, you can't honestly tell me that you didn't feel different after your powers were revealed. You can't tell me that you felt as close to your Muggle upbringing after that. You can't, because you didn't. I didn't know you three personally, but I knew enough to know that you barely spent any time with your parents after you began school. How many holidays did you spend at Hogwarts rather than at home? How many summers did you spend with Harry Potter and the Weasleys rather than with your own flesh and blood?"
"That's not true," Hermione said, suddenly uncomfortable. "I love my parents."
"Oh, I didn't say that you didn't," said Nigel, sitting up again. "But you didn't exactly rush out to bring them back after the war was won, did you?"
"There were circumstances..."
"Hermione," said Ron quietly, "don't listen to him."
"By the time my parents died, I had grown quite distant from them," said Nigel. "It hurt when they died, yes, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as if I were still a part of their world. I embraced the world of magic as my new family, and saw my Muggle parents as, say, distant relatives. Second cousins, perhaps. I mourned their loss, yes, but it didn't grind my world to a halt."
"You're sick," said Ron. "Hermione would never feel that way about her family."
"Well, everyone feels differently, of course," Nigel said, brushing it off before turning back to Hermione. "But the fact remains: We are better than Muggles. Always have been, always will be. That's what the Oligarchy embraces, what those of the past have failed to recognize in their blood purity bigotry. It's not about half-blood, pureblood, Muggle-born. It's about power. Who has it, who doesn't. Minister, do you realize how remarkable of an achievement it is for people like you and I to even exist? To be born from such squalor, only to rise above their mediocrity to become something more? To become like gods?"
"We're not gods," Hermione said through clenched teeth, trying to control the shake in her voice that was noticable in her hands. "Gods don't kill hundreds to prove a point. Gods don't toy with humans like they're... they're... dolls. Gods don't destroy worlds."
"You've been reading the wrong books, Minister," Nigel smirked. "Ask Job about gods playing with humans. Or the numerous women and goddesses who were Zeus's conquests. Gods don't hide their power. The good ones don't, at least. Real gods, they're all about stepping in when they're needed. They part seas. They give manna to the hungry. They send their own messiahs, their only begotten sons, to rule those who don't deserve their blessings. That is what we, the Oligarchy wish to bring to the Muggles."
"A messiah..." Hermione said under her breath.
"The Next will fix this world, use their power to bring about real change. To elevate the wizard world to their natural place, to rule Muggles as they deserve to be ruled, and to fix the horrors that simple science has unleashed."
"Sounds psychotic to me," said Ron.
"O Pio Kontinos," said Hermione. "You think that Victoire is your messiah? Your Next?"
"What?" Ron said, his head snapping to Hermione. "Victoire?"
"The Greek who attacked the campground wanted to see if Victoire had what it took to become O Pio Kontinos. Next. He called her Protected, um, Prostatevmenos. You've been protecting her? You think she's your messiah, the one who's going to lead you in this new world order?"
"Well, now," said Nigel, his face surprisingly calm despite Hermione's revelation, "that's the mystery, isn't it? Fortunately, it is also none of your concern."
"My family is always my concern."
"Despite those negative emotions that were screaming out of your head like an air raid siren as you came into this room? Something about driving your eldest niece from your house in tears?" As he spoke, his mouth twitched with slight mockery. "You really should brush up on your Occlumency, Minister."
"If you do anything to her--"
"Again, this is none of your concern," said Nigel, pulling his cloak back up over his head, the black mask dropping back into place. "It is also not the reason I visit. I wish to speak to you about relations between the English Ministry and the Oligarchy once we have seized control of the Muggle governments. We will, of course, allow you to continue your regulation of magic England while we deal with the Muggle side, but if you choose to integrate this region we will welcome you into our new regime with open--"
"We'll discuss no such thing," said Hermione, standing from the chair that she had found herself sitting in at some point over the last few minutes. "If you think you can come in here with such... such..."
"Another time, perhaps," said Nigel, Prospero, bringing himself to his feet. "When you are rested and more receptive to negotiation. I should add, as well, that we are fully willing to offer our assistance regarding the outbreak of crime in the area. If your Aurors need help in arresting those who are committing violence against other wizards and Muggles, we will gladly support them. We wish to rule the world, but we're not barbarians."
"I want you out of my house."
"Of course," said Nigel. As he reached into his pocket, Hermione and Ron drew their wands. Expecting an attack, they were surprised to see the Mask disappear instead, not even pulling his own wand.
thump
"The hell?" Ron said, stepping forward to stare at the small object no sitting on their sitting room carpet.
"Don't touch that!" Hermione said, grabbing his shoulder.
"He turned himself into a rock," said Ron, his eyebrow arched. "Why'd he do that?"
"He didn't," said Hermione, running to the Floo in her office and grabbing the jar of Powder from the mantle. Tossing a handful into the flame, she stuck her head inside.
---------
"Dualkey," said Seamus Finnigan, bent to his knee and running his wand along the edge of the rock, no larger than a chicken egg. "Definitely a Dualkey."
"That's how he got past the protective barriers," said Hermione, nodding in understanding. "They set the Dualkey in our yard before the barriers were raised, before I was even Minister."
"They knew they were going to kill Shacklebolt," said Seamus. "And they knew you were going to be next in line, and they knew that they'd need to get to you through all the countermeasures."
"So, what now?" asked Ron, standing over Seamus and Hermione. "If they could get inside the barriers, do we have to go further? Are we going to need to do a Fidelius Charm?"
"Only as a last resort," said Seamus. "If the Minister needs to go into hiding indefinitely, we'll initiate Fidelius. Secret Keeping can be a messy business if she still has to communicate with the rest of the Ministry."
"I'm not going into lockdown," said Hermione.
"I'll bring in a team," said Seamus. "We'll scour everything, make sure there aren't any twigs or pebbles with Dualkey elements within the boundaries of the protective charms. It's going to be a lot of work, but it's our best course of action."
"How'd they get a hold of a Dualkey, though?" asked Hermione. "They're recent creations, Ministry only."
"Well, we know there's a leak somewhere in the Ministry," said Seamus, standing up. "The same leak that knew Shacklebolt was going to be at Puddlemere, and the same one that got the bomb into the Department of Mysteries."
"Or more than one leak," Ron sighed. "I doubt it's a one-wizard operation."
"Dualkeys are still heavily regulated," said Seamus. "Lots of difficult work goes into making them, and only a few people have the authority to assign them to missions. That narrows down our list of suspects quite a bit. I'll check around tomorrow, see what I can find."
"Can you still activate it?" asked Hermione.
"Maybe," Seamus said, sighing. "But if we can I doubt it'll get us anywhere. Prospero--"
"Nigel," Ron corrected.
"Either name, I doubt he'd leave the entrance to his secret base on your sitting room rug. Hang on, I think I got it."
Seamus mumbled a few words under his breath, then with a pop vanished into thin air, leaving the rock behind. Hermione and Ron looked at each other anxiously.
"Shouldn't he need, like, backup or something?" Ron asked.
A moment later, the rock jumped into the air and, with a second pop, Seamus reappeared, catching it in mid-air.
"That's what I thought," he said. "I came out in the middle of a field somewhere. I wager Prospero just Apparated away to wherever he's holed up and left the Dualkey behind. I'll get some people out there as soon as I can, anyway. There might be some evidence left behind. They haven't been sloppy yet--"
"But they're getting cockier," Ron said. "It's just a matter of time before they fuck up, yeah?"
"We can only hope," Seamus said with a sigh.
"Get someone to Shell Cottage, as well," said Hermione. "We have reason to think that Victoire might be in danger. Protective barriers and a Dualkey scour, just like here, and she doesn't leave without some sort of guard, even if it's just Bill or Fleur."
"Prospero said something?"
"He might have hinted, yeah."
"But why would she be in danger?" Ron asked. "If they think of her as some sort of messiah, why would she be in any trouble?"
"The problem with messiahs is that they turn into martyrs."
"Oh. Good point."
"I'll get right on it," said Seamus. "I just wish we had more bodies to spread around. Are you fine here, Hermione?"
"I suppose," said Hermione, shaking her head to clear it. "It's been a very... interesting night."
"It won't be your last, I wager," said Seamus. "I'll tighten up the barrier before I leave, try to press it to the door instead of the yard. Ron, you were with Prospero the whole time. Did he touch anything? Leave anything behind?"
"Besides the rock?" said Ron. "No, nothing."
"Good," said Seamus. "He didn't leave another Dualkey behind. I'll take this one with me. If he tries to use it again, which I seriously doubt, he'll 'Port straight into a cell in Azkaban."
"Stick him in the Dementor cave," said Ron grimly. "That'll learn him."
"Any other need of me, Minister?"
"No, thank you, Seamus," said Hermione. "We'll be fine for the night."
"You need anything, you know where to Floo," he said, throwing his cloak around his shoulders as he stepped out the door. As soon as it closed, they heard a slight humming noise coming from outside, the sound of Seamus pulling the protective barrier from the Weasley front gate to their stoop.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Ron asked Hermione after Seamus did his work.
"Yes," she said.
"You know he was just trying to play you, right?" said Ron. "All that waffle about your upbringing and stuff. He was just trying to press your buttons."
"He did a good job," said Hermione. Despite her desperate fight against it, she couldn't help Nigel's words working their way into her brain. Because she had felt that way on occasion. Why else had she always felt this need to get away from her parents as soon as possible when she was at Hogwarts?
The worst thought of all was her memory of the day she had found out she was a witch. What was one of her first thoughts?
I knew I was special. I knew I was meant for more than this.
It was selfish. The selfish thoughts of an eleven-year-old girl who was easily the top of every class growing up. Wasn't it natural to feel that way? To feel that you were a hare in a world of tortoises, only to have those feelings of underachievement washed away when Professor McGonagall came to visit with your letter?
Dorothy always said there's no place like home. But wasn't that just a lie? In the books, didn't she keep going back to Oz? Didn't she only return to Kansas because she was obligated? Because they needed her more than she needed them?
Don't. You're not better than them. You're just different. Remember that. Mum, Dad, Caroline, they're just as important as you. Just as powerful, in their own way.
"You alright?" said Ron, putting a hand on her back.
"I'll be fine," said Hermione, trying to clear her head. "I could use that potion, though."
But as she sank into bed, as the potion worked its magic, she couldn't help but think of all of the times she had seen what was going on in the Muggle world and knew that wizards could do better. She viewed all the pain and suffering and often thought We've cured diseases that have plagued Muggles for centuries. We've created clean energy, safe transportation, a stable economy. We could help them. We could change their world.
Even Arthur Weasley, one of the sweetest and most understanding wizards Hermione had ever known, thought of Muggle technology as cute and quaint, Muggles themselves like they were some primitive culture that should be studied and pitied. Didn't that say something?
The Oligarchy might be going about it the wrong way, Hermione thought with her last thoughts before rest, but, deep down, don't we want the same thing?
Are we better?
Muggle Issues / Previous Chapters / Regrets
Author: kanedax
Spoilers: Previous Chapters
Rating: PG13 for language
Summary: Minister Weasley receives a dignitary
Notes: I own these characters. The others belong to JK Rowling.
Muggle Issues / Previous Chapters / Regrets
Ron Weasley shivered as he pulled his sweater (green and orange with black buttons, vintage 2011, Molly Weasley Designs) tightly around himself. His hand shook only slightly, however, as he poured himself another cup of scalding hot tea.
If there was a downside of being married to the Minister of Magic during a global crisis in January (and there were many downsides to being married to the Minister of Magic during a global crisis in January), it's that the windows never closed. There were owls and Patronuses to receive, owls and Patronuses to send, owls to poo all over the furniture. Not just owls, either. There were pigeons and parrots and peacocks, herons and hawks and hummingbirds, falcons and pheasants and flamingos.
Each and every one of them had one thing in common: They carried more bad news.
Things had not been going well since the Oligarchy had made their move. Their first move, Ron amended. Of course there would be another move after Tower Bridge. But unless they were able to take down this new, mysterious organization, all they could do was hold their breath until the inevitable happened.
The Ministry was doing their best to find any information that lead to the capture of anyone connected to the Oligarchy. Unfortunately, they were also so busy putting out the small fires, figuratively and literally, that kept sprouting up that there were very few warm bodies left to do the research, interrogations, and general footwork required to hunt down a terrorist organization.
And they planned it this way, too, Ron thought as he poured a second cup. They kept us occupied with the Muggle attacks, the public duels, the various assaults and deaths and general mayhem that resulted from telling wizards that they don't have to hide anymore. Meanwhile, the Oligarchy kept moving, stayed hidden, reorganized for their next move.
Send out your pawns, thought Ron. It keeps the knights busy as you position yourself to take the king.
Pawns. Ron wondered if half of the witches and wizards they had arrested in the last few days actually knew that they were nothing more than game pieces to the Oligarchy. The few will rule the many, that was the Oligarchy's motto. But did any of the wizards suddenly playing Beater on Muggle skulls stop to ask who the few really were? Did they think that it was simply the wizards ruling the Muggles? Or was the Oligarchy considering the few to be a more exclusive circle, and the rest of wizard kind simply more of the many?
Ron honestly didn't believe many of them thought very much at all. Hell, he thought with a bitter smirk, he and Harry's first job lasted a good five seconds. A simple case of public dueling by two eighteen-year-old wizards, Ron, Harry, and a third Auror arrived at Tottenham around eight pm. A large crowd had already gathered by then, both wizards and Muggles, watching the duelists hurl ineffective sparks back and forth at each other. The three Aurors approached, the two teens turned at them, brandishing their wands...
They caught one look at Harry's lightning scar and surrendered.
"We should have had Voldemort's destroyer on payroll years ago," the third Auror, Jessica Orwell, had said as they cast restraining spells on the two teens and did their best to cast Memory Charms on the surrounding crowd, less of a priority than it used to be. "If they're all this easy, then the Oligarchy doesn't stand a chance."
Ron and Harry exchanged a concerned look as Harry slipped the combatants' wands into his cloak pocket. They weren't all going to be this easy. No way. If anything, things were going to even harder than they were before they had joined up. For every wizard scared pissless over facing Harry Potter, there would definitely be others out there that would want nothing more than to prove themselves against him in battle.
Which led to even worse ideas.
"Maybe this wasn't the best idea," Ron had said to Harry later. They were sitting in Harry's old Muggle Liaison office, now Harry's Auror office. With so many new recruits, as well as temporary offices for visiting internationals, space was at a premium in the Auror Department, and Harry was forced to keep separate from the rest of their new colleagues until space opened.
"I wouldn't say that to Hermione," Harry had replied. "Getting cold feet after you talked her into this? She'll never let you live it down."
"Not me, mate," said Ron. "I'm thinking maybe this wasn't the best idea for you. You saw how those kids acted when they caught a glimpse of you. You're a fucking legend."
"I'm not," said Harry uncomfortably.
"You are," Ron insisted. "You don't want to admit it, but you are. Everybody knows your story, Harry, whether you like it or not. They know who you are, they know what you did. What's worse, they know about the Elder Wand."
"The Elder Wand's safe," Harry had replied. "It's sealed up in Dumbledore's tomb with as many protective curses as we could pile on it. No one's getting to it."
"Maybe not," said Ron. "But you think they know that? Twenty years ago you stood in front of hundreds of wizards and announced exactly what it would take to get the most powerful wand on the planet into their hands. All it's going to take is one wizard with balls of steel to make it their personal goal to hold the Elder Wand. You're lucky it hasn't happened in the last twenty, but that's because you kept out of the limelight. Plus you had the Ministry on your side, dealing with any threats that might have come your way. But if we're out there now, seeking them out, it's just a matter of time before someone decides they can take you."
"If they disarm me, then they disarm me," Harry argued. "They're not getting to the Wand. Voldemort was the only one who could."
"How do we know there aren't any V-V-"
"Damn it, Ron!"
"Old habits, mate," Ron said, his face turning red. "Nothing like a war to bring out my old fears, I guess. But how do we know there aren't any Oligarchy as powerful as he was? If one of them takes you out--"
"Look, what do you want me to do?" Harry snapped. "You want me to sit here, file paperwork, maybe run dispatch? You want me to not go out and find those bastards who killed your brother and put your sister, my wife, in a wheelchair for life?"
Ron didn't have a response for that. Because he knew that, if he were in Harry's position, he wouldn't stop, either. But that didn't stop him from being worried. Worried for himself, worried for his wife, worried for his best mate, worried for the world. They weren't young anymore, any of them. Not counting Harry's once-a-year special DADA classes, none of them had been in a proper duel in decades. They had gotten lucky so far, facing wizards that weren't nearly as talented. But if they met someone that actually had some skill, would they still have the strength, the reflexes, the quick thinking required to stand a chance?
Unable to find an answer to that question, either, Ron instead carried the two cups of tea into the spare bedroom, converted into a home office when Hermione was pregnant with Rose. The room was currently occupied by three owls, one crow, and one very tired-looking Hermione Weasley, hunched over her desk and scribbling notes onto a piece of parchment. The room was warmer than the rest of the house, thanks to the Floo burning in the corner, but it still was a bit chilly, with the cold January wind blowing in from the office's western window. If Hermione noticed the cold, however, she didn't show it. Her cloak and business robes were tossed haphazardly across the corner sofa, and the sleeves of her white button-up blouse were rolled up past her elbows, her bare arms stained with ink splatters. Her hair was pulled back with a lengthof ribbon, but one lock hung loose, coiled beside her temple.
"Brought you something to drink," said Ron in an undertone.
"Thank you," Hermione replied, her eyes staying lowered, her quill continuing to flutter. The crow emitted a loud caw from beside Ron, causing him to jump. He hung on to the tea, though, if just barely, and set it on Hermione's desk.
"You're going to get sleep, right?"
"Yes," said Hermione, her eyes still down.
"Cuz, you know, you came home from the office to rest."
"Yes."
"And you said that were going to sleep--"
"Yes."
"--last night," said Ron. "At midnight. Hasn't happened yet."
"Ron, I know!" Hermione snapped, her head jerking up. Her eyes were red, bloodshot, gray and tired around the edges. "Yes, I will sleep, alright? But not now. I'm too busy now. This can't wait."
"I just--"
"I'll sleep when I'm done," she said sharply.
"Alright," he said, deflating. "I'll just leave you to it, then."
"Ron, wait," said Hermione, her voice softening slightly as he turned to leave the office. The wheels of her chair squeaked slightly over the crackle of the fire as she pushed herself away from the desk and stood up, walking over to him and taking his hands.
"I'm sorry," she said, staring up at him gently. "I know you're just trying to look out for me--"
"Like I said I would," he said, squeezing her hands.
"--and I appreciate it," she said. "More than you know. But I'm Minister now, and the work has to come first, especially now."
"I know that," said Ron, pushing the lock of hair from her face with his fingertips. "You have a lot of decisions to make. Big ones. And I know you think that they can't wait for one minute. But you haven't slept in three days, and what's better for the country: Making the right decision a few hours later, or making a decision now while you're brain's exhausted?" As he said this, he looked down at the floor, where dozens of crumpled balls of parchment were littering the carpet, letters that Hermione had started to write, but had to restart over and over.
Hermione's eye followed his, took in her numerous mistakes, and reluctantly nodded. "I guess I could... Ron, I'm so tired," she said with a sigh that sounded like half a sob.
"You're going to sleep, alright?" he said, wrapping his arms around her as she wrapped hers around his waist. "You're going to put on your pajamas, and I'm going to turn down the sheets, and I'm going to make you drink a sleeping potion."
Hermione nodded against her husband's chest. "I have a recipe for you," she said. "I used it a lot during finals at Hogwarts. Puts me down hard and deep for two or three hours, like a temporary coma. It's easier to make than Living Death--"
"What isn't?" Ron chuckled.
"--so you shouldn't have any problems. I need sleep, Ron, but I can't take a full night. I can't afford to..."
"I can accept that," he said, kissing the top of her head. She looked up, and he kissed her softly on the lips. "I love you," he said. "I'm worried about you."
"I love you so much," she said back. "Just let me take care of these owls, and then I'll pull out the recipe."
"Alright," he said, kissing her once more then backing away. "I'll go get your pajamas ready."
"Thank you," she said gently, giving his hand one more squeeze before turning back to the piles of work on her desk. Ron breathed a sigh of relief as he left the office. Hopefully this time Hermione would follow through on her promise of actually getting some rest, actually not killing herself with the responsibility that had been thrust upon her like a locomotive thrusts against a cow grazing on the tracks.
Ron walked through the sitting room towards the stairs, aiming to go upstairs to their bedroom when there was a knock on the door.
He stopped in his tracks, glanced up at the clock. 10 pm. More bad news. Had to be. When the Ministry went into war mode last week, numerous new directives and procedures went into effect. Many of them involved extra protection of the Minister, mainly the setting of various protections spells around his or her residence. No witch or wizard could get in or out without prior approval, and, to prevent the transfer of poisons or cursed objects, no owl or other messenger animal could enter or exit carrying anything more than parchment and ink.
As of now, Hermione's list of people who could cross the threshold was as thin as possible, by request of Finnigan and the Aurors: immediate family and five high-ranking officials only. They might be carrying bad news, but at least they were safe.
Yeah, tell that to Harry's parents.
Ron pulled his wand from his pocket and slowly approached the door. Pressing one hand against the solid wood, he leaned forward, his wand pointed at what he calculated would be chest level for your average, not-tall-and-gangly witch or wizard.
"Who is it?" he called out.
"I come in peace to speak to the Minister of Magic," said a male voice from the other side of the door.
"Didn't answer my question," Ron said, his wand hand tightening.
"You would do well to lower your wand, Ronald Weasley," said the voice. "I would vanish before you got a spell off, and a thousand more would die for your foolishness. I am Prospero, Mask of London, of the Circle of Thirteen, and when I wish to speak to the Minister of Magic, then I shall."
---------
Hermione Weasley stared blankly at the parchment for a good thirty seconds, ink dripping from the tip of her quill, before realizing she should be writing something.
Okay, maybe I really do need sleep, she thought, trying to remember the subject of the letter. The Kenyans attempt to use the Secrecy Wave without Confederation authority? Response to the Egyptian overthrow? The coup attempt in Norway? South Africa? Australia? An order to Seamus Finnigan to put more resources into the search for Patrick Cullen, aka Dennis Creevey, on the lam since slandering the wizarding world in a globally-published news article? She still didn't know what exactly they could do, should do with the former Gryffindor when he was found, but as long as he was safe in Ministerial custody he couldn't stir any more cauldrons.
Maybe it was something more personal. Perhaps a letter to Dudley Dursley, fired from his job after it came to light, through a heated exchange with his co-workers, that he was married to a witch. She had gotten that particular bit of news from Susan three days ago, and for his part, Hermione was glad that Dudley hadn't backed down from the numerous threats those in his crew had been levelling on wizards in general, and Susan in particular.
"Not like they could do anything to us," said Susan with a weary shrug. "They know where we live, but I don't think they have the guts to go head-to-head with a wand. It's a lot of bloated machismo, that's all."
Or maybe it was some sort of letter to Bill and Fleur regarding the renewed hunt for the Stymphalian Birds. The two of them, and...
and...
What was he thinking? What was Teddy Lupin thinking? How could he do that to little Caroline? How could they do that to her? Hermione's hand tightened hard against the quill, threatening to snap it in half. She had been given the news from her mother a few days ago about what really happened to Teddy the day of the convention, why he wasn't there with her baby sister during the typhon attack, why she had had to run for her life alone, with no magical protection to speak of.
Victoire, Fleur, and Bill were currently studying the journal that had been kept by the memory-addled Luna Lovegood, hoping to find some clue as to the whereabouts of the Stymphalians, some way that they could be stopped, or any information that could lead them to the Oligarchy. While they did, they were also keeping their distance from Hermione, and from everyone else, limiting their communications to owls. Hermione supposed that made sense. Victoire wouldn't want to be alone in a room with her right now, wouldn't want to face the trouble she had wrought in the Granger family. Her and her Veela-ness.
That's not fair and you know it, Hermione's logical mind argued. You know how Victoire's felt about Teddy. It's not something that she hid as easily as she thought she did. Love makes people do stupid things. Or did you forget about Cormac?
"At least I kept my knickers on with Cormac," Hermione grumbled.
"Hermione?"
Hermione looked up at the sound of Ron's voice. She had flitted off yet again. She needed to focus, get her work done, and get some sleep.
"What is it?" she called back, wondering if he had heard her grumbling about Victoire and Teddy's sexual endeavours.
"We have a visitor," Ron called.
Hermione sighed. Probably Dewey Nielsen, head of the International Magical Cooperation. Or Dean. Or Seamus. Or Margaret, the Minister's assistant, carrying a pile of messages from any of the above or any number of other dignitaries.
"I'll be out in a few minutes," she called to Ron. "Let me just finish writing this letter first."
"Nooo," Ron said slowly, carefully. Strangely. "I think... I think you want to get in here, um, now."
Hermione's brow furrowed at Ron's odd response. Who could it be at this time of night that would seem out of the ordinary?
It might be Victoire, coming to make her peace. Of course Ron would want me in there as soon as possible. Less time sitting in awkward silence.
Hermione pushed herself away from her desk and made her way to the sitting room. A thousand thoughts rolled through her mind. She wanted to be fair, she wanted to not hurt her eldest niece, but the vengeful elder sister in her also wanted to drive the young girl from her house in tears. She felt a quick savage joy in that thought, then just as quickly felt sick with herself for even allowing such an idea to enter her brain.
She turned the corner into the sitting room and instinct took over at the sight of the man clad completely in black, black hood over his face, the same swatch of simple cloth that had haunted Hermione's dreams since he had invaded the world's minds over a week ago.
"Stupefy!"
"Protego!"
Hermione's spell deflected away from the Mask of London, glass shattering as it instead slammed into a hanging photograph of Hermione and her parents, taken on her wedding day. Her head darted to the right, her eyes wide with surprise as she realized who it was that had actually cast the protection spell.
"A wise decision, Ronald," said the masked wizard (Prospero, Hermione remembered) through the shimmering air. "Attacking a distinguished guest is a poor way to start relations."
"Sorry, love," Ron said meekly to Hermione, his wand holding the spell strong. "The bloke makes some good threats, and Merlin knows he's backed them up so far. Better safe than dead."
"It's fine, Ron," said Hermione, turning back to Prospero, her own wand still pointed directly at his heart. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm here to do something that I've been meaning to do since the day I delivered our message," said Prospero, a hint of a smile showing in his eyes. "We've been terribly busy, as I'm sure you understand."
"I'm sure," said Hermione coldly.
"If you could lower your wand, please, Minister Weasley," said Prospero. "If I were here to kill you, you would have been dead a week ago."
"As you're the one who killed my predecessor," said Hermione, adjusting the grip on her vine wood wand, "I'm quite comfortable as I am, thanks."
"Ronald, if you could tell your wife what I told you earlier," said the Mask of London to Ron.
"Attack him, he goes poof, lots of bodies," Ron said to Hermione.
"Thank you," said Prospero dryly. "My words were more elegant, but you did embrace the rough outline."
"Ron, lower your wand," said Hermione.
"Sure," said Ron, still extended. "No fighting, though, yeah?"
"Ron, are you Imperiused? Lower your wand!"
Ron glanced back and forth between Hermione and Prospero, hesitated, then pocketed his wand. As he did, the air between them ceased its wavering.
"Just trying to keep people alive," said Ron under his breath.
"A smart move, indeed," said Prospero, eyes behind his mask fixed on Hermione's wand with mild anticipation. After a few moments of trying to glare him down, Hermione relented, slipping her wand into her pocket.
"So you're not here to kill me," said Hermione.
"It's the last thing on my mind."
"Not even taking into account how you're here in the first place," she continued. "This place is sealed up tighter than Fort Knox. You couldn't be here without permission."
"Not as tight as you believe, obviously," said Prospero. "It was quite easy to penetrate."
"I think he's just here to be an arrogant berk," Ron grumbled.
"On the contrary," Prospero replied, "I am here to offer the Oligarchy's belated congratulations, Minister Weasley, on your ascension to such a prestigious position. The selection of a Muggle-born to the highest office in wizard England will be seen as nothing but an inspiration for generations to come."
"Difficult to think of myself as an inspiration when the previous Minister was assassinated," said Hermione, "and the people who killed him are the ones congratulating me. You killed him to get me into this position, right? You think I can be manipulated more easily?"
"Oh, you would have gotten the position with or without our assistance," said Prospero. "We didn't have any influence regarding your promotions over the years. You don't mind if I sit, do you?" he added, motioning to the chair beside him.
"Then why kill him?"
"It was a necessary death," said Prospero, moving to sit down. "We needed to provide the proper distraction. Kingsley Shacklebolt would have proved a more difficult obstacle, true, thanks to history as an Auror, but--"
"You've killed hundreds!" Hermione said imposingly. "Then you break into my home expecting to be treated as an equal and you will not sit without an invitation, do you understand?"
Prospero halted, mid-bend, over the chair. He looked up at Hermione, and his blue eyes narrowed behind his mask. "If we are to work together in the new world," he said, his voice laced with venom, "then we will have to trust one another."
"Trust?" said Hermione, her hand twitching beside her wand pocket. "Trust? You expect me to trust mass murderers who hide behind masks?"
"Then let me help you with that," said Prospero, slipping his fingers beneath the bottom of the black cloth hanging over his face. He lifted it up, pulling it back with his hood to reveal a man not much younger than Hermione and Ron. He carried a pointed beard on his chin, a round face that hinted at a heavier childhood, and a face that overall seemed vaguely familiar. Very vaguely...
"You went to Hogwarts," said Hermione. "With us. You were in Gryffindor."
"I was," said Prospero. This time as he seated himself in the Weasleys' chair, Hermione didn't stop him, as struck as she was. "My name is Nigel Melling. I reveal this because I want to build trust between the Oligarchy and the Ministry for the future. Also, as my very identity had been struck from Ministry records years ago, I'm an only child, and my parents and grandparents are all deceased, you will not be able to track me using any information I give about my history."
"Don't know you," said Ron simply.
"It's understandable," Nigel said with a shrug. "I started school in 1994, the year Riddle returned to power. I was never a member of Dumbledore's Army, didn't fight in the Battle of Hogwarts. Didn't, in fact, even go to Hogwarts that year. I'm a Muggle-born as well, you see."
"You went into hiding," said Hermione. "You and your family."
"My family was already gone," said Nigel. "My parents both died in an auto accident in early 1997. Around the time of the Quidditch match where you were replaced by Cormac, if I recall, Ronald."
"But that's impossible," said Hermione, looking at Ron with confusion. "A Gryffindor whose parents had died during the school year... We were prefects. We would have been told. Someone would have been given that information."
"It wasn't a major trouble," said Nigel. "I received the letter, but I never told anyone. Not Professor McGonagall, not my friends, not anyone. It didn't concern me, you see. I had separated myself from my parents years before, after I found out that I was meant for something more. You understand that feeling, don't you, Minister?"
Hermione started. "Excuse me?"
"Your parents," Nigel explained. "Your Muggle family. After you found out that you were a witch? After you found out that you were better than they were? More powerful, more important?"
"Better?" Hermione spat. "I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you do," said Nigel, leaning forward. "Minister, you can't honestly tell me that you didn't feel different after your powers were revealed. You can't tell me that you felt as close to your Muggle upbringing after that. You can't, because you didn't. I didn't know you three personally, but I knew enough to know that you barely spent any time with your parents after you began school. How many holidays did you spend at Hogwarts rather than at home? How many summers did you spend with Harry Potter and the Weasleys rather than with your own flesh and blood?"
"That's not true," Hermione said, suddenly uncomfortable. "I love my parents."
"Oh, I didn't say that you didn't," said Nigel, sitting up again. "But you didn't exactly rush out to bring them back after the war was won, did you?"
"There were circumstances..."
"Hermione," said Ron quietly, "don't listen to him."
"By the time my parents died, I had grown quite distant from them," said Nigel. "It hurt when they died, yes, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as if I were still a part of their world. I embraced the world of magic as my new family, and saw my Muggle parents as, say, distant relatives. Second cousins, perhaps. I mourned their loss, yes, but it didn't grind my world to a halt."
"You're sick," said Ron. "Hermione would never feel that way about her family."
"Well, everyone feels differently, of course," Nigel said, brushing it off before turning back to Hermione. "But the fact remains: We are better than Muggles. Always have been, always will be. That's what the Oligarchy embraces, what those of the past have failed to recognize in their blood purity bigotry. It's not about half-blood, pureblood, Muggle-born. It's about power. Who has it, who doesn't. Minister, do you realize how remarkable of an achievement it is for people like you and I to even exist? To be born from such squalor, only to rise above their mediocrity to become something more? To become like gods?"
"We're not gods," Hermione said through clenched teeth, trying to control the shake in her voice that was noticable in her hands. "Gods don't kill hundreds to prove a point. Gods don't toy with humans like they're... they're... dolls. Gods don't destroy worlds."
"You've been reading the wrong books, Minister," Nigel smirked. "Ask Job about gods playing with humans. Or the numerous women and goddesses who were Zeus's conquests. Gods don't hide their power. The good ones don't, at least. Real gods, they're all about stepping in when they're needed. They part seas. They give manna to the hungry. They send their own messiahs, their only begotten sons, to rule those who don't deserve their blessings. That is what we, the Oligarchy wish to bring to the Muggles."
"A messiah..." Hermione said under her breath.
"The Next will fix this world, use their power to bring about real change. To elevate the wizard world to their natural place, to rule Muggles as they deserve to be ruled, and to fix the horrors that simple science has unleashed."
"Sounds psychotic to me," said Ron.
"O Pio Kontinos," said Hermione. "You think that Victoire is your messiah? Your Next?"
"What?" Ron said, his head snapping to Hermione. "Victoire?"
"The Greek who attacked the campground wanted to see if Victoire had what it took to become O Pio Kontinos. Next. He called her Protected, um, Prostatevmenos. You've been protecting her? You think she's your messiah, the one who's going to lead you in this new world order?"
"Well, now," said Nigel, his face surprisingly calm despite Hermione's revelation, "that's the mystery, isn't it? Fortunately, it is also none of your concern."
"My family is always my concern."
"Despite those negative emotions that were screaming out of your head like an air raid siren as you came into this room? Something about driving your eldest niece from your house in tears?" As he spoke, his mouth twitched with slight mockery. "You really should brush up on your Occlumency, Minister."
"If you do anything to her--"
"Again, this is none of your concern," said Nigel, pulling his cloak back up over his head, the black mask dropping back into place. "It is also not the reason I visit. I wish to speak to you about relations between the English Ministry and the Oligarchy once we have seized control of the Muggle governments. We will, of course, allow you to continue your regulation of magic England while we deal with the Muggle side, but if you choose to integrate this region we will welcome you into our new regime with open--"
"We'll discuss no such thing," said Hermione, standing from the chair that she had found herself sitting in at some point over the last few minutes. "If you think you can come in here with such... such..."
"Another time, perhaps," said Nigel, Prospero, bringing himself to his feet. "When you are rested and more receptive to negotiation. I should add, as well, that we are fully willing to offer our assistance regarding the outbreak of crime in the area. If your Aurors need help in arresting those who are committing violence against other wizards and Muggles, we will gladly support them. We wish to rule the world, but we're not barbarians."
"I want you out of my house."
"Of course," said Nigel. As he reached into his pocket, Hermione and Ron drew their wands. Expecting an attack, they were surprised to see the Mask disappear instead, not even pulling his own wand.
thump
"The hell?" Ron said, stepping forward to stare at the small object no sitting on their sitting room carpet.
"Don't touch that!" Hermione said, grabbing his shoulder.
"He turned himself into a rock," said Ron, his eyebrow arched. "Why'd he do that?"
"He didn't," said Hermione, running to the Floo in her office and grabbing the jar of Powder from the mantle. Tossing a handful into the flame, she stuck her head inside.
---------
"Dualkey," said Seamus Finnigan, bent to his knee and running his wand along the edge of the rock, no larger than a chicken egg. "Definitely a Dualkey."
"That's how he got past the protective barriers," said Hermione, nodding in understanding. "They set the Dualkey in our yard before the barriers were raised, before I was even Minister."
"They knew they were going to kill Shacklebolt," said Seamus. "And they knew you were going to be next in line, and they knew that they'd need to get to you through all the countermeasures."
"So, what now?" asked Ron, standing over Seamus and Hermione. "If they could get inside the barriers, do we have to go further? Are we going to need to do a Fidelius Charm?"
"Only as a last resort," said Seamus. "If the Minister needs to go into hiding indefinitely, we'll initiate Fidelius. Secret Keeping can be a messy business if she still has to communicate with the rest of the Ministry."
"I'm not going into lockdown," said Hermione.
"I'll bring in a team," said Seamus. "We'll scour everything, make sure there aren't any twigs or pebbles with Dualkey elements within the boundaries of the protective charms. It's going to be a lot of work, but it's our best course of action."
"How'd they get a hold of a Dualkey, though?" asked Hermione. "They're recent creations, Ministry only."
"Well, we know there's a leak somewhere in the Ministry," said Seamus, standing up. "The same leak that knew Shacklebolt was going to be at Puddlemere, and the same one that got the bomb into the Department of Mysteries."
"Or more than one leak," Ron sighed. "I doubt it's a one-wizard operation."
"Dualkeys are still heavily regulated," said Seamus. "Lots of difficult work goes into making them, and only a few people have the authority to assign them to missions. That narrows down our list of suspects quite a bit. I'll check around tomorrow, see what I can find."
"Can you still activate it?" asked Hermione.
"Maybe," Seamus said, sighing. "But if we can I doubt it'll get us anywhere. Prospero--"
"Nigel," Ron corrected.
"Either name, I doubt he'd leave the entrance to his secret base on your sitting room rug. Hang on, I think I got it."
Seamus mumbled a few words under his breath, then with a pop vanished into thin air, leaving the rock behind. Hermione and Ron looked at each other anxiously.
"Shouldn't he need, like, backup or something?" Ron asked.
A moment later, the rock jumped into the air and, with a second pop, Seamus reappeared, catching it in mid-air.
"That's what I thought," he said. "I came out in the middle of a field somewhere. I wager Prospero just Apparated away to wherever he's holed up and left the Dualkey behind. I'll get some people out there as soon as I can, anyway. There might be some evidence left behind. They haven't been sloppy yet--"
"But they're getting cockier," Ron said. "It's just a matter of time before they fuck up, yeah?"
"We can only hope," Seamus said with a sigh.
"Get someone to Shell Cottage, as well," said Hermione. "We have reason to think that Victoire might be in danger. Protective barriers and a Dualkey scour, just like here, and she doesn't leave without some sort of guard, even if it's just Bill or Fleur."
"Prospero said something?"
"He might have hinted, yeah."
"But why would she be in danger?" Ron asked. "If they think of her as some sort of messiah, why would she be in any trouble?"
"The problem with messiahs is that they turn into martyrs."
"Oh. Good point."
"I'll get right on it," said Seamus. "I just wish we had more bodies to spread around. Are you fine here, Hermione?"
"I suppose," said Hermione, shaking her head to clear it. "It's been a very... interesting night."
"It won't be your last, I wager," said Seamus. "I'll tighten up the barrier before I leave, try to press it to the door instead of the yard. Ron, you were with Prospero the whole time. Did he touch anything? Leave anything behind?"
"Besides the rock?" said Ron. "No, nothing."
"Good," said Seamus. "He didn't leave another Dualkey behind. I'll take this one with me. If he tries to use it again, which I seriously doubt, he'll 'Port straight into a cell in Azkaban."
"Stick him in the Dementor cave," said Ron grimly. "That'll learn him."
"Any other need of me, Minister?"
"No, thank you, Seamus," said Hermione. "We'll be fine for the night."
"You need anything, you know where to Floo," he said, throwing his cloak around his shoulders as he stepped out the door. As soon as it closed, they heard a slight humming noise coming from outside, the sound of Seamus pulling the protective barrier from the Weasley front gate to their stoop.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Ron asked Hermione after Seamus did his work.
"Yes," she said.
"You know he was just trying to play you, right?" said Ron. "All that waffle about your upbringing and stuff. He was just trying to press your buttons."
"He did a good job," said Hermione. Despite her desperate fight against it, she couldn't help Nigel's words working their way into her brain. Because she had felt that way on occasion. Why else had she always felt this need to get away from her parents as soon as possible when she was at Hogwarts?
The worst thought of all was her memory of the day she had found out she was a witch. What was one of her first thoughts?
I knew I was special. I knew I was meant for more than this.
It was selfish. The selfish thoughts of an eleven-year-old girl who was easily the top of every class growing up. Wasn't it natural to feel that way? To feel that you were a hare in a world of tortoises, only to have those feelings of underachievement washed away when Professor McGonagall came to visit with your letter?
Dorothy always said there's no place like home. But wasn't that just a lie? In the books, didn't she keep going back to Oz? Didn't she only return to Kansas because she was obligated? Because they needed her more than she needed them?
Don't. You're not better than them. You're just different. Remember that. Mum, Dad, Caroline, they're just as important as you. Just as powerful, in their own way.
"You alright?" said Ron, putting a hand on her back.
"I'll be fine," said Hermione, trying to clear her head. "I could use that potion, though."
But as she sank into bed, as the potion worked its magic, she couldn't help but think of all of the times she had seen what was going on in the Muggle world and knew that wizards could do better. She viewed all the pain and suffering and often thought We've cured diseases that have plagued Muggles for centuries. We've created clean energy, safe transportation, a stable economy. We could help them. We could change their world.
Even Arthur Weasley, one of the sweetest and most understanding wizards Hermione had ever known, thought of Muggle technology as cute and quaint, Muggles themselves like they were some primitive culture that should be studied and pitied. Didn't that say something?
The Oligarchy might be going about it the wrong way, Hermione thought with her last thoughts before rest, but, deep down, don't we want the same thing?
Are we better?
Muggle Issues / Previous Chapters / Regrets