Waiting for the Bus

Waiting for the Bus
~ by Chthonia ~

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack

It's always the waiting that's the worst. Cornelius knows it well.

He's remembering it now, as he stands at the window of Room Eleven, gazing past his reflection at the red lights at the back of the Muggle train getting smaller and smaller until they disappear into the darkness. Remembering those nights in the Department of Magical Catastrophes, when he'd wait to hear the extent of the damage while even the office clock seemed to tick more slowly.

Times like now.

Harry Potter blew up his aunt. The wind blew her away.

There's a procedure to follow, of course, a formula that will tell him the number of Obliviators required to deal with an Unauthorised Flying Object, given the speed, trajectory and time of day. But there's nothing to be done until the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad find the woman, and although running through the calculation is a soothing oil to the cogs of Cornelius' mind, it's been a long time since he could immerse himself in such details. He's a wizard of importance now, and he has to look at things differently. Take the wider view.

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, don't come back, clickety-clack

Steel wheels screech against steel rails. Like the shrieking of the boy's aunt, the one he didn't blow up, when she was told she'd have to take the boy back next summer. She came round in the end, though. A little Charm goes a long way...

The fire hisses and crackles and flickers around Obliviator Peasegood's head. "Sheffield," he says. "Obliviator Squad Uruz on its way."

One problem solved. One problem remains: Where is Harry Potter?

Cornelius gives a curt nod of acknowledgement. The Obliviator disappears.

Cornelius isn't entirely sure where Sheffield is. One of those Northern cities where no one of import lives, just a couple of cauldron manufacturers. And that in itself means it's some distance away. He thinks of the Muggle-exposure formula and thanks Merlin it's night-time.

He almost envies Peasegood. For him, the waiting is over. The Obliviators know what they need to do.

Cornelius watches the sway of his Quintessential Quill as it commits the hour and the essence and the outcome of Peasegood's words to parchment.

Doing – now, doing is easy. It's knowing what needs to be done that's difficult.

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, Sirius Black...

Another train shakes the room. The lighted windows frame fleeting portraits of a sleeping man, a bearded face, a long-haired woman, a family with two small children. All going home, or wherever it is Muggles go at night.

Like the ones who got in Sirius Black's way, all those years ago. Cornelius remembers that night. Remembers how he went with the Obliviators because he couldn't stand the waiting any longer.

He's never been out in the field since.

Nothing but a finger, that's all they found of that – what was his name? – Pettigrew. Peter Pettigrew. Should never have tried to play the hero. Poor sod.

Cornelius doesn't want that to happen to Harry Potter. A terrible tragedy, that would be. And it wouldn't do the Ministerial reputation any good at all. Sirius Black shouldn't have escaped. Certainly shouldn't have stayed escaped. Not with Cornelius in charge.

Dementors, that's the answer. He can rely on the Dementors.

He has to.

Because if Black rejoins his master... If Y-You-Know-Who rises again...

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, get the sack, clickety-clack

Blue-white sparks burst bright beneath the wheels of the train. Must be something to do with the Muggle magic that drives it. It's called electricity, Cornelius knows. Cornelius knows a lot about Muggles.

But he doesn't like Muggle London. Never has. Dirty grey town, London is – grimy grey streets, crumbling grey buildings, dreary grey sky. Pale grey people, scurrying underground like wily grey rats.

Cornelius didn't take Muggle Studies because it was easy, although it was, or because Muggles are quaint, because they're not. No, Cornelius knew that top-level Ministry officials need to conduct meetings with top-level Muggles. And Cornelius likes to plan ahead. Always did, even at school. Everything comes right if you follow the proper procedures.

Dull grey life, some would say. And do.

Well, better grey than Black.

Clickety clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, don't look back...

The clock in the corner gives twelve mournful chimes and resumes its lugubrious ticking.

The moon sails out from behind a ragged grey cloud, bathing the buildings in pale light so that the crooked rooflines and soaring spires glisten like a dream of a shining new world.

And something moves, a speck of pure white against the gloomy sky.

It's an owl, slicing down through the air with such elegant precision that for a moment Cornelius stands transfixed. And then it swoops straight towards the window and he has to fumble with the catch to stop the thump thump thump of feather and bone on glass.

Dumbledore said that Harry Potter had a snowy owl. Cornelius isn't sure whether this one is cause for hope or horror.

But then the fire blazes up, orange and bright and warm around his assistant's face.

"It's all right, Minister. He's on the Knight Bus."

Hope, then.

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, all on track, clickety clack

Cornelius doesn't like the Knight Bus. It's... undignified. It makes him sick. And he can't help feeling that one day the Muggles will notice.

But he's glad of it tonight.

And he can't deny that it comes in useful when one doesn't want to Apparate, or fly. Of course, now that he's the Minister, Cornelius has access to a Private Portkey. But that doesn't always agree with him either – the lurching is almost as bad as Floo travel, though at least a Portkey doesn't cover one in soot.

Better not to travel at all. Better to stay put. That's why Cornelius takes this room in the Leaky Cauldron when he knows he's going to be working late for a few nights.

This is late. Past one o'clock, in fact.

He stares down at the empty track. No more trains at this hour.

Cornelius doesn't know what takes the Knight Bus so long. He's tried to regulate it in the past, but it's always squeezed past his attempts just as it squeezes past anything else in its way.

The clock chimes the quarter-hour. Cornelius hears the faint squeal of brakes.

Five minutes later, the boy walks into the room.

At the window, Cornelius draws himself up. He checks his reflection one last time before turning to take up the reins of power.

"As the Minister for Magic..."

He measures his words by the ticking of the clock.

Outside the window, the night waits in silence.