A Difficult Night

Chapter 5: Freefall

It was almost two in the morning. Benedict was rather surprised that news of their operation seemed not to have reached the Ministry; surprised, and a little unnerved. Still, there were numerous possible explanations. The business could even have been called off at the last moment; there had been worries, recently, that the other side were revealing too great an insight into their plans. Whatever the reason, he felt that he could not defer his return home for much longer without arousing suspicion. The office was deserted but for himself and Dearborn, and his colleague was yawning heavily and would surely soon be leaving. Benedict began to put his desk in order: straightening parchment, wiping quill nibs meticulously. Yes, it was time to go. He thought Isabel would still be awake; she might well have heard something from her brother. But as he was about to get to his feet, the doors at the end of the room burst open and a young wizard sprinted in, face smeared with ash and blood, almost tripping over his robes in his haste.

"Dearborn, any of your Healers around? We're sending out a call to St Mungo's, but the sooner the better..."

Dearborn, who had been tilting back in his chair again, let it down foursquare to the floor with a crash.

"No, they've all gone home. What's wrong, Dawlish? Maybe I could help - there are some Charms that could come in handy, until the Healers get here."

"It's Moody - he got rather badly injured when we tried to bring a group of Death Eaters in, and you know what he's like, wouldn't go to St Mungo's before he'd made his report, wants to be out again as soon as possible..." Dawlish thought for a moment. "Yes, please do come up. God, it's been an awful night."

Dearborn stood up. "Let's go, then. Allowed to tell me what's been going on?"

"We received information that there were likely to be Death Eater operations in a number of places tonight," Dawlish began to explain as the two hurried away; Benedict strained to catch what they were saying. "Moody took us up North - we Apparated there but we were too late - they'd just sent up the Dark Mark...."

Just at the door, both men paused and looked back for a long moment at Benedict. He returned their gaze with what he hoped was a concerned, quizzical expression, though his heart was beginning to beat fast. Then they were gone, and he was alone with, he knew, little time to determine the best course of action. He knew at least one of their men in the North tonight. Tried to bring a group of Death Eaters in, Dawlish had said. There had been no suggestion that the Aurors had succeeded; if Moody had been hurt, the opposite was surely more likely. Obviously, his own position should be his primary concern. Death Eater raids were not so rare that he would be expected to wait to see what had happened; given the circumstances, it might be better if he did not. Had Evan's cover been blown? He looked down, and found he had been twisting his favourite quill in his hands with such agitation that it had split and splattered them with ink. He reached for his wand to perform a cleansing spell, cursing.

It was not even as if he felt any great affection for his brother-in-law. Evan was too canny to show disrespect openly to one of the Dark Lord's intimates, but still, he was not as unreadable as his young arrogance let him believe, and Benedict had a good idea of what he thought of him. That his life was one of dusty hesitation, lacking ambition and desire and strength of purpose; that he was too old. An intelligent man, certainly, and a useful one - but not one worthy of his sister. Only the last time they had met, to discuss some of Benedict's most recent research, Evan's studied praise had managed to convey surprise that he so rarely took the opportunity to put it to the test in the field himself. A faint smile had met his half-truth, the easy answer, that working as he did so much under Ministry eyes he had to do all he could to preserve a distance from direct action. How familiar was the smile, the insouciant charm, the disdain; Benedict had sat often enough beside Evan's father Ywain, dead these fifteen years, in the best circle of seats before the common room fire, in the hired back rooms of damp and dingy inns. Ywain's ambition had always been primarily for himself and his, and his son was no different. But then so many of the new recruits seemed to think that they could use the Dark Lord as merely a stepping stone to their own success. He had watched them: Evan, Lucius Malfoy insinuating himself into favour with smooth efficiency, Rodolphus Lestrange shiftily calculating the advantageous effect of his wife's ardour. They would never attempt to cross the Dark Lord directly, of course; they knew the penalties incurred by the most minor transgression, their respect for his power was real. But it was not complete. Too young to remember the difficult days after Grindelwald's fall, let alone the world before it, they could have no idea of the sacrifices their master had made, no true concept of his greatness. What had he, Benedict, in common with them?

And yet... He was visited by a memory of Isabel's face, white and tense across a chessboard as she urged her pieces on recklessly, welcoming any engagement he offered as some small distraction from the agonies of suspense. Though the intensity of her fear was not altogether easy for Benedict to accept, yet he took some pleasure in a sense of connection between them, as he thought back to the days when his own existence had been dominated by thoughts of another, elsewhere, unsure of when he would next hear news and of what that news might be. His years of waiting, however, had required staunch patience rather than anxious vigils, whilst he had been sustained by the full strength of his youth and manhood. Isabel still had not recovered completely from Theodore's birth, and these long nights were taking their toll, shadowing her eyes, wasting her slender frame. He could not imagine returning to her, knowing only what he knew now. Before he had realised quite what he was doing, he found himself out of the office, in one of the Ministry lifts, and his finger was not upon the button which would send him down to the Atrium and a swift journey home. He felt the sharp jolt in the pit of his stomach as the lift set off upwards and he leant against the cool metal walls, grateful that he was the only occupant. This kind of impulsive action was most unlike him.

He attempted to reassure himself that he was doing nothing wrong. There was no reason why a Ministry worker, concerned by alarming news, should not go to see if he could offer assistance. And as regards his true employers, well, he was entitled to use his own initiative. This was a piece of careful double bluff, designed to secure his position; in addition, he might well be able to learn something of importance, even delay the Aurors' response in some vital manner. A more daring role than he was accustomed to, true, but surely one he was capable of fulfilling. As an extra precaution, he cast a swift spell - not a Disillusionment Charm, which the Aurors' headquarters would probably pick up, but one which would simply encourage others to ignore him, if they were caught up sufficiently in their own concerns. In that way he might have a chance to overhear the information he sought unnoticed.

"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including Auror Headquarters, Extra-ordinary Interrogation Supervision, Azkaban Liaison..." The grilles slid open, and he stepped out. This part of the Ministry was much busier than his own, even at this late hour. The door to Bartemius Crouch's office stood ajar; lights burned inside. Somewhere close by, he thought he heard a muffled scream. Figures hurried past, their focus on their affairs easily strong enough for his Distraction Charm to hold. But before he had gone very far, the eyes looking straight through him became unbearably disconcerting. Painfully aware of the sound of his own breathing, his footsteps shuffling along a corridor which seemed to stretch out ever further as he went on, he felt as though he had been cut off irrevocably from the rest of the world. It came almost as a relief to turn a corner and reach the double doors of Auror Headquarters. Taking a deep breath, he slipped inside.

Fortunately, he did not have to inch his way far into the room before he heard an unmistakable gruff voice. He took up a concealed position within a vacant cubicle, from which he had a good view of Alastor Moody and the small, solemn, group of men gathered about him - all but Dearborn looking distinctly bedraggled and battered. Moody was pressing a thick wad of cloth to his cheek and nose, blood bubbling up between his fingers, while Dearborn, frowning in concentration, performed an elaborate wand movement, like the tying-off of a knot, an inch above. He stepped back, surveyed his work.

"There, I think that's removed the last after-effects of the curse: the wound should start to heal now. But you should really go to St Mungo's. As it is, it'll scar terribly."

"Don't fuss, man." Moody gave a snort of dour amusement. "If you say it'll heal, that's good enough for me. Not as if I've much beauty to spoil, is it?"

The other Aurors exchanged eloquent glances with Dearborn, who shook his head. "All right, have it your own way. So what happened next?"

"Once Wilkes was down, he knew it was all over. Sent the hell-creature that did this straight at my face, claws out, and tried to make a break for it. But Catterick here fired his broom and brought him down. Think he broke his leg when he fell, but he still had his wand, and I couldn't take any chances. Mask off, teeth bared," Moody twisted his ravaged face in a horrific grimace, "and eyes totally wild, like an animal. Had to finish him."

Dearborn clicked his tongue exasperatedly. "Moody, at least try to keep still for a while. You're lucky you didn't lose an eye."

"Luck?" Moody growled "Don't talk to me about luck, tonight of all nights. I'd gladly give an eye to have Cinara Greville here now, let me tell you that."

"And it could have been much worse. If they'd both fought as hard and as dirty as Rosier, I doubt we'd have been able to take them." Catterick looked up from the pile of parchment before him. "Any reports of casualties on the other teams, do we know?"

Their voices ran on, but Benedict listened no more. To begin with, curiously, he found it difficult to focus on anything beyond the curse. Celaeno, he had named her: the Harpy. He did not often see the results of his research at first hand, and the difference between lines and symbols on a page and the traces they left on the human form shook him each time, however convinced he was that his work was essential for the success of the cause. Yet this was a curse he had not perfected: much of that last meeting with Evan had been taken up with discussion of its remaining problems. Evan's attempt to send her out must have been a final gamble, evidence of utter desperation. He lowered himself into the chair at the desk beside him. The figures in a group of family photographs pinned to the cubicle wall returned his blank stare with distrust; a woman shepherded her children away beyond their frame, out of sight. That Evan had not let himself be taken alive did not surprise him. But that the situation had ever reached that point... Despite his sympathy for Isabel in her fears, he had always supposed them to be unnecessary: her brother was a formidable dueller and had, moreover, a healthy instinct for self-preservation. Now...Benedict struggled to imagine what it must be like to know one was lost, to fight on beyond all hope. He felt a sharp pang, which could almost have been jealousy. Evan had, at the last, died for the Dark Lord - that was a redemption of a kind, was it not? And under everything ran the unanswerable question: what could he possibly say to Isabel?

He could not postpone his return home any longer, however, and he pushed himself wearily to his feet. Dearborn was re-examining Moody's wound, and the other Aurors were conferring with a newly arrived team, who seemed to have had a considerably easier night of it. But he knew that soon they would be pursuing their leads from this raid, would be knocking on his own door. The procedures to be adhered to if a relative or close associate was found to be a Death Eater were well established. If there was no way that connection with the Dark Lord could be proved, then the important thing was to maintain one's position in the community and thereby one's greatest possible value for the cause. Therefore, he and Isabel should co-operate fully with the Ministry: go willingly into custody, employ Occlumency to defend themselves against Veritaserum if necessary - instructions with which he himself would have no difficulty complying. But Isabel? Hastening back along the corridor as best he could, the situation weighed ever more heavily upon him. Somehow, maybe because he had not been able to believe completely in circumstances such as these, he had never considered how hard it would be to win her acquiescence. It was surely unlikely that she would respond to Evan's death with anything less than a burning desire for vengeance. When the Aurors came for them, why would she agree to surrender herself to the Ministry, any more than her brother had? And then the reason for the vague horror that had long been scratching, barely registered, around the edge of his mind dawned: he may have failed to foresee this outcome, but its likelihood had not escaped the Dark Lord.

With hallucinatory clarity, he saw what was expected of him. Evan was dead; Isabel had served her purpose and was to be deemed of no importance. Benedict would be required to distance himself from her, to abandon her to the Ministry - or worse. If he had been forced to analyse his feelings for his wife before tonight, he would, he supposed, have felt them to be but part of his vast debt. And then there were the words that customarily met new recruits at the beginning of their initiation as Death Eaters. All that is yours you place at my disposal. Your possessions, your family, your lives. To follow this doctrine had been no great hardship for Benedict in the past, though it had brought about the greatest changes in his life, and he had renounced much in the course of his service. But then there had been nothing for which he had cared besides the Dark Lord, before the Dark Lord himself had given him Isabel. His thoughts twisted hopelessly, a writhing serpent gnawing on its own tail.

In the lift once more, he pulled out the photograph he carried in his pocket with a trembling hand. Isabel's head was bent over Theodore's sleeping one. He traced the hair falling across her face. Perhaps he could appeal to her feelings for their child, convince her that submission to the Aurors would be best for him. What certainty could he have, though, that she would listen? Suddenly she raised her head, and her proud eyes, so like her brother's, communicated to him a sickening message. He saw the night as a test, one that he had failed already, had failed long before, when, alone in his office, he had made the decision to go up to Auror Headquarters. No weight would be given to his subsequent self-justification, his panicky attempts to rationalise the moment of madness in which he had allowed himself to place familial concerns before the needs of his service. He heard words spoken almost fifty years ago, as burning letters sifted softly into ash at the top of the Astronomy Tower, beneath a sky of glorious stars. You will help me, Benedict? And his own reply - I will do anything for you. You have only to ask. Then Tom's dark gaze, meeting his, had caught slivered reflections of the bright expanse above, so that he could fancy that the universe was being offered to him as a reward. Whatever happened, when next they met his mind would be laid open, and he would be found grievously wanting. All loans would be called in.

Fear and loss fought for mastery within him. Yet he also thought he could feel something of what Evan must have known as he faced Moody with bared teeth and wand raised, the kind of desperate freedom that only came when there was no further to fall. In the Atrium, as he prepared to Apparate, he looked blindly up at other stars: the golden constellations wheeling in serene detachment above the empty hall. There was more he could tell Isabel, if he had to. Strange; in his lifetime of loyalty he had never realised how many kinds of betrayal there were: speech, action, inaction... The words squatted already in his mouth; they had the dull, metallic tang of blood. He did not know what effect they would have on Isabel. He did not know whether he would be able to use them.