A Difficult Night

A Difficult Night

Chapter One: Benedict

The end of July, not long till midnight. Benedict Nott supposed it must be dark outside, even given the long days of midsummer. He glanced mechanically at the window, though he knew it would give him no real help. Down here in the institutional labyrinth of the Ministry, the views were magically controlled; it looked like a serene, star-lit night out there, but who was to say whether that was accurate? He'd been in the building since six that morning; he'd no idea what the true state of affairs might be. Those in charge of managing the weather were, of course, finding the current situation extremely difficult. Constant storms, which might most accurately have mirrored the times, would have given an embattled, depressed air to the Ministry; glorious sun, which in fact typified much of the summer outside, would have seemed hideously inappropriate when deliberately chosen. They had settled for an uneasy compromise of spring-like uncertainty, in which the showers were brief and tended to be accompanied by rainbows, and there were frequent, tremulous shafts of sunlight. The general message was meant to be one of hope, he supposed, though in fact the swift changes set him on edge and the rainbows had an unearthly, lurid gleam. Things glowing in the sky - he would have thought they would want to avoid anything of that kind.

In fact, though nights usually created much less of a problem - peaceful, with a bright moon and stars, like tonight, seemed an obvious choice - there had been an awful occasion last week, at about this time, when the Dark Mark had appeared in full sight of all the Ministry windows. It had had the desired effect, certainly: screams, panic, complete distraction from vital work all that night and several nights afterwards. Even now he could see that some of the looks directed towards the windows by the others in the office were uneasy. They had found the young witch who'd done it and she was in Azkaban awaiting trial, but he was pretty confident she'd been under Imperius. Not that he had been informed - that constant paranoid secrecy which meant that one hand never knew what quite the other was doing, let alone in which direction the feet were marching - and he had found himself just as shaken by the Mark's appearance as the others. He wished it had not been sent up, in fact. He did not like sharing that sense of shock, no, terror. He was sharing an uncomfortable amount already, because of this job; it was imperative that he maintained an inner sense of distance between himself and his colleagues. And he did not at all like being reminded of the worst aspects of their programme, from which he was usually able to bury himself away in his work. Gathering information, spreading a little mis-information; pushing a quill here, helping to find ways round curses he knew the Dark Lord had already moved far beyond there - that was what he did, for long hours every day, and he was glad to do it. He was no Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Hey, Nott? Are you still with us?" The voice of Caradoc Dearborn, sitting opposite him, broke into his thoughts. Dearborn, an overly enthusiastic half-blood ex-Quidditch player, continually jarred at his nerves, all the more so because he had to credit the man for talent in Charm work. "You've been staring out of that window for ages."

Benedict took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes for a moment. "My apologies. It is late, and I am tired."

"Maybe you should go home. See your wife." Benedict was sure a smirk had just flickered across Dearborn's features, even though they now expressed nothing but friendly concern. Obnoxious impudence.

"No, I should stay a little longer, I think. The Arithmantic relations on that latest curse are nearly worked through: I know it will be impossible for me to sleep unless I get them finished." He paused for a moment, then forced himself beyond his habitual reticence on family matters. He knew his position at the Ministry was by no means secure. His lifelong study of the Dark Arts, though he had of course emphasised that it had only been theoretical in nature, and though it made him so valuable within this new emergency research group, was enough to arouse suspicion. And there had been recent rumours concerning the reputation of his brother-in-law which made his life no easier. But, it was generally accepted, one of the worst things about the crisis was the way it divided those who should be closest. He was not automatically damned because of his connexions to Evan Rosier. Nevertheless, all opportunities to create a bond with his colleagues should be seized, no matter how irksome they may be. "My wife may well be awake when I return, in any case. Our son is not sleeping well at the moment."

"He's not the only one." Dearborn scratched at his ear with his quill, then grinned broadly. "Theodore, isn't it? How old is he now?"

There was no need to simulate joy and pride here. "Theodore is just over seven months. He's not the noisiest of infants, but we're sure he is currently pondering deeply on many important matters. Here." Benedict pulled out a slightly creased photograph from his inside pocket and passed it across to Dearborn.

"Yeah, I reckon you're right. He's a thinker. Looks like you, you know."

"Poor child."

"No, no..." Dearborn looked up, shaking his head a little. "Your wife's a very beautiful woman."

"And I a very fortunate man." Benedict stretched out his hand. Reticence could only be battled to a certain extent, and he already regretted sharing the most precious things in his life with this bumptious sportsman. He held the photograph for a while himself before putting it away. It had only been taken a week or so ago. Theodore's pale eyes were wide, his brow gently crumpled in a frown. He did look like his father: Benedict was glad of that for many reasons, of which paternal pride was only the simplest. And Isabel - as always his breath caught in wonder at the simple fact that she was his wife, the mother of his child, whose little hand she was waving in hers for the camera. A very fortunate man indeed, and for all of this he had to thank the Dark Lord: firstly for insisting that it was inappropriate that he should continue in his scholarly bachelorhood and let his house decline, and secondly for introducing him to such a fine woman: so lovely, spirited and intelligent, so many years his junior. He smiled briefly at the idea of disclosing all this to his colleague.

Returning to work did not prevent him from continuing with his own thoughts, though he took better care than before to appear absorbed in his occupation. It was all a pretence, anyway: he knew the Arithmantic relations of this particular curse backwards, having devised it himself not so very long ago. All he had to do was keep up apparent concentration, maintain a plausible alternation between trying things out on parchment and crossing them out; much as, when eavesdropping behind the covers of a book, the most important thing was to keep turning the pages, at a fairly constant rate but with suitable pauses for consideration from time to time. He would have liked to carry on thinking about Isabel and Theodore, but other figures kept intruding upon his quiet dreams of home.

It was hardly surprising: after all, what was the real reason he was working so late, tonight? Major plans had been laid, and their men at the Ministry needed to be in place: keeping eyes and ears open; ready to influence reactions when the traps were sprung, to delay action if possible. So here he sat, quill scratching at parchment, whilst under the real sky, he knew, Evan and others were at work. On what, he knew well, though he shrank away from that knowledge. His free hand went instinctively to touch the pocket where the picture of Theodore lay above his heart. He could see why the Dark Lord needed this to be done; there was no doubt as to its necessity. He was just very glad that he had not been called out, tonight, in one of those periodical tests of strength and commitment to which all the Dark Lord's servants were subjected. He was not sure he could have performed well. Bellatrix, Macnair, they had their uses, after all. Not least of which, he realised, with immediate sick unease at his formulation of the thought, was the opportunity they provided for others such as himself to distance themselves from what was done. I am not like them. If I must do this, I do not relish it. I remain myself.

And Evan, who was out there tonight, who may even be riding with Bellatrix - they had been friends at school, after all - did he keep that distance? And Isabel? The questions that are not to be asked of others, even those nearest to you, since you would do better not to ask them of yourself.

And the Dark Lord? He drew three diagonal lines, deliberately, through the last set of figures on the page. Do not even start, there.

Vanborough, another colleague, wandered up to their desk. "Looks like it might be another long night - I was thinking of going and finding some Butterbeer, do you want any?"

"Best suggestion I've heard in an absolute age." Dearborn threw his wand down, with a complete lack of due care and attention, and stretched extravagantly, tipping back his chair. "You shouldn't have far to look. Sure I saw some in the Aurors' kitchen earlier - ask Dawlish, he owes me a few bottles from last week."

"I think Dawlish is out on duty this evening. But thanks, I'll try there anyway." Vanborough looked at Benedict. "Do you want some, Nott?"

Benedict hated Butterbeer. But the idea of a drink was a very attractive one. "Might there be any chance of a Gillywater?"

"You're such an old woman, Nott," Dearborn said with great delight, amidst the exaggeratedly loud laughter common, in those times, when there was even the slightest grounds for humour. Even Bode looked up and managed a smile.

Vanborough patted Benedict on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I should be able to get some from Tabitha Figg in Wizengamot Administration. Consider me a man on a mission."

"Don't ask her about her cats!" Dearborn called after him. "You'll still be there in three hours' time, and we'll be dying for our drinks! Gillywater, I don't know..." He picked up his wand again and resumed his creation of an intricate network of lights which hovered in the air above the desk.

There had seemed to be genuine warmth in that little exchange, Benedict thought, despite the fact that they'd laughed at him. No, because of it. He might be a stuffed-shirt, poker-faced Slytherin, but he's not such a bad old stick. Good. So why on earth did he feel regret? He had never had such simple companionship as was offered here, even taking war and suspicion into account, perhaps that was the reason. Certainly not at school. Not with Tom Riddle at the heart of their little circle. He had tried to resist these thoughts, a short time ago, but now he was drawn irresistibly back into them. There were not many to remember Tom, now, as Benedict did: the new boy who combined charm and vulnerability to such an extent that the older boys whom he approached as if searching for protection were lost with one look down into his dark eyes, the instant before they realised his strength; the Heir of Slytherin who could give a snake's hiss the sweetness and power of the words of a lover. No difficulty establishing what had been wanted of him; he had only to think of Tom's face when he first saw the Nott family library, the books that not even the Restricted Section of Hogwarts could hold. Tom's joy then had been so great, so fierce; he had had to turn away, guilt-stricken for having intruded upon what was not meant for him to see. But ultimately, in providing this access to arcane knowledge, as with all else he was required to offer up, he was made to feel more the fortunate receiver than the giver.

"You understand what this is, then?" Tom, bestowing upon the slim book one last, fleeting, brush of his hand.

"Yes, but not how...Genius, yet again!"

"No time for praise. I am entrusting my life to you, in a sense." That intoxicating smile. "It is not something I do lightly, Benedict."

Naturally, he had wondered how many times that little conversation had been played out, in various ways, with others. But that was not the point. There were few of those others left, in any case. His loyalty had remained absolute, throughout the long years of solitary waiting which he dedicated to toiling along that same path of dangerous learning; unaltered, despite the changes that had overtaken the world, Benedict himself, and his master most of all. The diary he kept hidden in the most secret place of his house, protected by the strongest and most complex spells he knew; he had done something very similar with his memories of Tom Riddle. Both, he was well aware, were dangerous gifts, though perhaps it would be more accurate to describe them as loans, which might be called in at any time.

"One Gillywater, served up cold." Vanborough, re-appearing at his side, presented the glass with a flourish. "I'm afraid I couldn't get you a cocktail onion. Figgy says she can't stand them."

"A woman after my own heart, then." He raised the drink in an old-fashioned gesture. "Your health, gentlemen."