Bohemian Rhapsody

moment twenty-two: norwegian wood (September 1977).

Detective Chief Inspector John Tennyson waited in a chair, and fiddled with his tie. He had a pretty good idea of why he'd been summoned to the Chief Super's office: rumour had been flying round the station faster than a snitch, and John always did like to keep himself informed. Finally, the communications charm on the secretary's desk glowed white, and she nodded politely to him. "The Chief Superintendent will see you now."

John stood up, and knocked on the door before entering. Chief Superintendent Brownlow sat his seat, a slightly portly figure with brown hair, greying at the temples. He closed a manila folder, and set it straight on the surface of the desk, before looking up at the other man, gesturing for him to take a chair.

"We're closing down your investigation, John."

John squirmed in his chair. "Can I ask why?"

Brownlow sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Your taskforce was originally created due to Ministry support. Now, it's believed that the Aurors could do a better job, especially after their restructure is complete."

"We're being taken off the job because Barty Crouch wants to show off his private army, you mean."

"I don't deny his appointment as Head of Magical Law Enforcement changed a lot of things, John. He has a lot of new ideas, fresh ideas-"

"It's also a well known fact that Albus Dumbledore opposed his appointment, and he's the only wizard who's faced a dark wizard in living memory and defeated him!"

The Chief Super looked fit to spit. "Oh yes, and when asked to be Minister, and actually do something to help, he smiles and makes noises about 'having to keep the halls of learning open for future generations'. Man's gone senile, if you ask me. He certainly hasn't got any kind of real solutions."

John raised an eyebrow. "And Crouch has?"

The other man picked up the manila folder and tossed it across the desk, papers spilling out. "More than three years, John, three years, and you've got fuck all to show for it. Yes, you managed to get this loon's name, but that's it. The few suspects you managed to apprehend have claimed to have been under Imperius, and conveniently know nothing."

John near exploded, and slapped the folder shut with a hand. "We're dealing with a dark fucking wizard, not some punk who uses accio to lift people's wallets in Diagon Alley!"

"Exactly," replied his superior, evenly. "And that's why the Aurors are better suited to the job."

"They haven't got the detecting skills."

"And just how have your detecting skills helped you, hmm?"

D.C.I. Tennyson glowered. "The Aurors aren't police. From the way things are heading, they're going to be soldiers."

"Remember what happened in March, John? The Battle of Reykjavik? I'd say we're already in a war."

The attacks on isolated communities had come to head earlier in the year, when entire hordes of ravaging giants and trolls had come sweeping down from the Arctic steppes, attacking Northern Europe with a vengeance. The wizarding community of Reykjavik had fought a particularly bloody conflict, giving the Muggle population three days to escape whilst they kept the giants at bay. In the end, the city had fallen, and it was estimated that several hundred wizards and witches had been lost. The Muggles had been told it was volcanic activity they were fleeing from, and memory charms had managed to keep the truth from being outed, while the magical world mourned for its lost sons and daughters. The city had been retaken by an international force of Aurors two months later, but the very fact it had fallen was enough to shake everyone up - and had, indirectly, lead to calls for more direct action: hence the appointment of Barty Crouch.

John, of course, chose to skip over it. "Have you seen the new powers they're being given by the Ministry? Merlin, they're little more than Dementors with wands!" He snorted. "And of course, putting the Dementors in charge of Azkaban is a master stroke."

When the Chief Superintendent spoke again, it was in a cool tone, with the full force of his authority. "John, you have another twenty years in the service. I'd hate for you remain at D.C.I. for those twenty years, just because you like pissing off people. And the people in charge won't like you mouthing off about them, if they hear about it."

John met the other man's eyes. "Who's going to tell them about it?" He broke off, and nervously tapped his fingers on the leather armrest of his chair. "Alright then. When are we being formally reassigned?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"And where am I being sent?"

"You're going to Manchester. We've got a whole group of Ministry employees - and their families hiding out in safe houses there. I'll assign you to take over the protective detail."

John gave a wry grin. "You tell me you're concerned for my career and then you put me on protective detail. Merlin, why don't you just bury me?"

Brownlow looked at him, his face betraying no emotion. "If you'd prefer."

"I'll go to Manchester," said John, somewhat defeated. "And I'll take care of these people." He rose to go.

"This is for your own good, John. Upstairs thinks you were getting too involved; you need to cool down, take a step back. And don't tell everyone how much of a tosser you think Barty Crouch is. Word does get round."

"Fine. I still don't trust the man. What's the point of trying to beat a tyrant if we end up tyrants ourselves?"