Bohemian Rhapsody

moment sixteen: ozymandias (December 9, 1975.)

John slumped in his chair, and ran his hands through his hair, taking a moment to make some vague attempt to knead out the mounting pressure in his neck. Rod was still typically composed, fingers curled in front of him on the desk. Their investigation had grown substantially since those early days: the squad of eight (including themselves) had grown with the body count. Eighteen months later, they had roughly 15 permanent bodies working underneath them, from most of the boroughs around Greater London and the Home Counties, not to mention various temporary support staff or specialists breezing in and out. Eighteen months, and another 37 more dead Muggles.

Not to mention that, but two new taskforces had had to be set up: there were mysterious leaks being reported from the Ministry and Home Office, and wizards had turned up dead, if in smaller numbers. A few wizards had even been captured in the process of torturing Muggles, but when arrested, they claimed to have known nothing, using Imperius as their defence. Moreover, the attacks had spread to continental Europe, with Muggles turning up dead in every darkened laneway and disused ditch from here to Prague. The Ministry was approaching blind panic, and the United Nations' closed committee on the Magical Arts was already past sensibility. The incursions by magical creatures continued, with werewolves and giants attacking isolated communities in the Baltics, Ireland, and most recently, Eastern Europe. Everything showed signs of a larger, malign influence. The coincidences were too chancy to just be coincidences. Someone, it seemed, had a plan. The last time a dark wizard had been dealt with, the world had gone to war, and from the signs of things, this new player in the game could make things much, much worse.

And against all odds, they had finally gotten a break. An off-duty Auror had visited an old Muggle friend, to find the Muggle dead and a wizard in his kitchen. This wizard. John opened the file once more: it was a typical delaying tactic, used by police to stretch out the time of the interview, and thereby the suspect's nervousness, and likelihood to snap. The piece of paper didn't tell him anything he didn't know before, but he couldn't help feel he was missing something. Michael Hadsen, mid-thirties, never married. Graduated from Durmstrang in the late 50s and then worked freelance as a consultant to various magical defence firms. Name popped up every now and then as a petty arms dealer in the magical Cold War, dealing in bent wands, and fragmentation charms, and the like. Never enough evidence to build a case, however. And now he was killing Muggles.

Rod's voice was clinical. "Please tell us what you were doing at 41a Acadia Street Southwark, please, Mr. Hadsen."

Hadsen was just as cool in his reply, but there was an undertone of humour, like he was laughing at them. "I honestly have no idea. I suspect I was placed under the Imperius Curse, you know. I hear there's a lot of that going around."

"So you were under Imperius?"

"I could have been. I'm sure I didn't intentionally kill those Muggles, you know. I love Muggles. After all, it wasn't till I washed the blood off my hands that I even knew they were dead."

John smacked the folder onto the desk, satisfied that it made the sick bastard jump a bit. This was getting nowhere. "You're going to tell us who you work for, or are you going back to your cell?"

Hadsen examined his fingernails. "Oooo. Scary. Guess it must be the cell for me then."

Just as John was about to pull out his wand to summon someone from custody to take the suspect away, there was a knock at the door. Duly, John went through the correct procedure.

"D.I. Tanner has just left the room, and the prisoner is about to be returned to custody, therefore the interview is terminated at..." He checked his watch in the harsh glare of the lumos charm that hung suspended from the ceiling. "Sixteen-fifteen hours, on the ninth of December 1975."

Rod poked his head back through the doorway, and jerked his thumb, clearly indicating John to come outside. John glared at Hadsen, warning him not to try anything funny while he was gone, and rose from his chair, shutting the door behind him. His deputy was leaning against the wall, his heart clearly racing, doing his best not to sniffle. Both uniform and plainclothes police were scurrying around every hallway, from the looks of things.

"What the fuck happened?" demanded John.

Rod avoided his gaze. "There's been an attack on the ministry."

"Merlin. How many dead?"

"Forty-eight at last count." There was a pause. "Another thirteen aren't expected to pull through, and there's roughly sixty or so who have injuries of various degrees. It looks like about twenty wizards managed to apparate past the wards somehow - obviously sabotage is suspected. They, uh, John, they brought fucking trolls and banshees with them. They brought fucking trolls."

John breathed deeply, and tried not to give into a total sense of futility. "Anything else?"

"They were being led by a mean-arsed motherfucker in a big black robe. Witnesses - survivors, more like - said he had red eyes. Other than that, nothing."

"Right." The D.C.I. allowed the younger man a few minutes to regain his composure - and that in itself was disturbing; he'd never seen Rod show his emotions like that, before turning the door handle and pushing open the sound-proofed door.

The first thing they noticed was the smell of burning flesh. Hadsen was up on the table, his hands clamped around the lumos charm, the horrid smoke and stench as the heat coursed through his body, cooking him.

Without time even to hurl an expletive, John pulled off his jacket and wrapped it round his hands, reaching out to jerk the man sideways, seeing Hadsen's body fall hard against the desk. The man was a smoking wreck of charred flesh and fabric...You could even see what looked to be bone in places. And yet somehow, he was still alive. Barely. "Get a fucking healer in here!" John roared, and Rod ran down the corridor.

"Why?" John asked him, without emotion.

"I was dead already. We are all dead, Detective Chief Inspector, unless we turn to him."

"Who is he?"

"He has died, and so cannot die. He is the life eternal, and you cannot stop what you cannot kill. He will baptise you in blood and fire, and he will take your soul."

"Oh, by Godric Gryffindor, give me a name!"

Hadsen laughed weakly, the last of his energy slipping away. "He has many names. But he knows himself best as Voldemort." John watched the light in the man's eyes slip out. Rod arrived with the healer, although upon reflection, there was never anything that could have been done. The healer left with a nod, and the two men were alone in the small interview room, with a corpse on the table.

"He's fucking with me," John growled suddenly.

Rod blinked. "Who is?"

"Voldemort. Our char-grilled friend was kind enough to tell me the name of the dark-power aided wizard while you were running down the corridor screaming like a girl."

Rod didn't take the insult personally; he'd worked with Tennyson for far too long for him not to recognise that the D.C.I. lashed out when he was frustrated. "Why do you think he's fucking with you?"

John absently stroked his upper lip. "After three years of killings, we just happen to get lucky and arrest someone? On the night before they launch a major attack? No, this was intended. He knows we're investigating him. He wanted to send a message."

"What was the message?"

John chuckled softly under his breath, and looked at the mottled corpse lying on the table next to him. "'Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.'"

"What?" Rod looked at him as if he had gone insane.

"A quote. Or, in other words, we're fucked."