The Bureaucrat

The Bureaucrat

'Under a dictatorship, active resistance can only be practised by those who pretend to collaborate with the regime.' Werner Heisenberg, 1901-1976.

And so the trials begin.

The initial arrests were easy enough. Any one with a Mark. Anyone who had killed. Two independent witnesses, and off to Azkaban. As to people who'd used the other Unforgiveables - well, there weren't cells enough for those. Then the next tier. This was a bit more tricky. Too many of us had been complicit; had, if you like, collaborated with the regime (and more of that later); and then there were those who, whilst not directly part of the Dark Lord's circle, were enthusiastic enough about his ideas. And of those, target number one was, of course, Dear Dolores. Dolores Umbridge. Dear Dolores, as she was known to many of us in the Ministry. You needed something to relieve the fear, and making up belittling nicknames for those in power is one way out.

I have been instructed to write a report for the tribunal on my dealings with her, which will be used as evidence in the trial. Perfectly straightforward, you might think, but there is also another agenda at work here, a subtext if you like. How enthusiastic were her subordinates? Did they carry out their tasks with reluctance, or with apathy, or with vigour? Well, in times such as those, you can divide people into three categories: those who backed her, those who opposed her, and then the vast majority: those who kept their heads down and got on with things because it was their job to get on with things. I suppose I come under the last category - at least, in the beginning.

One of my friends is an historian. Frank Hampson. His speciality is 'the interface between the magical and mundane worlds'. He was Muggle-born, and so well equipped to see issues from both sides of the fence - a fence that became a wall. One of his interests is the Muggle war that ended in 1945. I remember a conversation we had one evening after a good meal and plenty of wine.

'You know, those death camps wouldn't have worked if it hadn't been for all the little men sitting in their offices. They did nothing wrong. All they did was make sure the trains ran on time. But those trains were filled with people destined for Auschwitz.'

It is a conversation which has haunted me for the past few months. Why did those men in their offices not do more? That was the question Frank was asking. Well, some of the more junior weren't to know. It was all just trains and timetables to them. The more senior did know, and even if they didn't, they could have worked it out from the destinations. So why didn't they do something about it?

Apathy and fear, in Frank's opinion. Apathy we can all understand - but fear of what? Fear of being sent on those trains themselves. Some might have been brave enough, but for others, it wasn't just that - it wasn't only their lives that they would be putting in peril, but the lives of their families too.

I am going to write two versions of this report. One is the version you are reading now, where I shall try to be as honest as I can. The other - well, that's going to be the 'official' report. As a bureaucrat, I know how to write such reports. Careful use of conditional clauses, of the subjunctive. Important details hidden away in Annexe B, or in Attached Report Number 17. It'll all be there: the difficult part will be finding it. No-one will be able to say: 'You never mentioned this, or that,' because I have done - but only if you know where to find it. Another bureaucrat, on reading that report, would know I was hiding things. They'd know how to hunt through the document for the detail. But I was relying on the document being read through by some Auror, who was used to writing reports which were a blunt summary of events. Never let it be said that bureaucratic skills are wasted.

Some background first. I joined the Ministry about twenty five years ago. To begin with, I was a humble civil servant, but soon I became known as a 'high flyer', marked out for early promotion. You catch the eye of someone senior, who moves you on to a more responsible job. You do well, and they move you onwards and upwards. Frank, as an academic outside all of this, was amused, and referred to something he called the 'Peter Principle'.

'It's an idea a Muggle had some time ago. Someone is good at their job, and so they're promoted. They succeed again, and are promoted again. But sooner or later, they're going to be promoted into a job they can't cope with. They've been promoted to their level of incompetence.' He looked at me with a grin. 'What's your level of incompetence?'

I shrugged.

'Perhaps the best example in our world would be Cornelius Fudge, don't you think?' he went on.

I gave another non-committal smile. Whatever you may think about the people at the top, don't make your views known. It may get back to them.

They say the Civil Service is not political, that their job is not formulate policy - Ministers do that. Instead, we advise. It's a nice theory, but wrong in several important aspects.

Internally, it's incredibly political. There is nothing as bitter as office politics. Indeed, often the more trivial the issue, the more bitter the dispute. Secondly, although our function is to 'advise' Ministers, there are ways and means of doing this. If a Minister is pushing a policy forward against our advice, a policy we don't approve of, or don't think will work, there are a hundred and one ways of blocking it, or, at least, slowing it down. You find mistakes in policy papers, and instead of making a simple correction, you refer it back for amendment. You set up 'Special Study Groups', which take six months to write their report. You make sure that the 'Special Study Group' consists of important people - but people who will write the sort of report that we want. We know all the tricks, and the more senior you become, the more you are able to apply them. And the greatest trick of all is that the public out there doesn't know any of this. All he or she knows is that the Minister is not fulfilling his promises. Never underestimate the inertia of a bureaucracy when you are trying to make changes in a hurry.

For me, it all began at Hogwarts. During our first year or two, I watched people who became successful - at least, within the House. I was in Ravenclaw. There were the sportsmen, the Quidditch players, large and hearty. At that time, I was neither large nor hearty, although I've now grown to just over six foot. There were the prefects who kept discipline; those who could walk into a room of rowdy juniors, and silence the miscreants merely by their presence. I wasn't one of those either.

Professor Dexter was our Head of House - Flitwick's predecessor in Charms as well as Ravenclaw. He was a dear old man; bright, a good teacher, and very approachable; but not even his best friend could call him well organised. I saw my opening. I suggested to him that our house noticeboard should be sorted out. I ripped down curling brown parchments three years old. I divided the board up: Lost And Found, Quidditch Practices, Academic Notices, Club Notices, and so on.

Frank watched all this with his usual detached smile. He began to call me 'Mr Organisation'. But it worked. I sorted out the House library. I set up arrangements for selling old textbooks to the years below. By my seventh year, Professor Dexter was asking: what shall we do when you're gone? So I found a junior to take over, and trained him up. And when I applied to the Ministry, Professor Dexter wrote my reference.

I remember my interview at the Ministry. There, on the desk, was a parchment which was obviously my reference. Whoever it was interviewing me kept on looking down at it. I was very nervous, and kept on speculating on what it might say. But it was good enough to get me a job.

I started off in the Department of Magical Transport.

'Transport,' I remember saying to Frank. 'Boring, but necessary.'

'And it no doubt needs organising.'

Which was true. Timetables, and all the rest of it. Whilst it suited me, it was mechanical stuff. No policy making, just making sure everything worked smoothly.

It was there I first met Dolores Umbridge. She was a few years older than me, and already making her mark. Her reputation had already been established - efficient and effective, but a complete .... well, I won't give the word, but you can guess. Even then, she could write watertight memos - every contingency had been thought of and taken care of. There were no loopholes in anything she wrote - a quality very much appreciated by her superiors. There was no doubt she would be in great demand. But Heaven help you if you had to work under her. Even then, some of the stories circulating were to become Ministry legend.

And then, thankfully, I was moved on. Four years in International Magical Co-Operation (effectively the Foreign Office). Four years in the Finance Department - the Treasury, if you like. Six years in the Minister's Private Office. It was then I realised that I was being seen as a high flyer, as someone who could make it to the top. You see, if you're going to make the top, you need as much experience of as many different departments as possible. Some people join a department, and they're still there ten years later. That's professional suicide. You won't get moved on, and you won't rise much further - oh, maybe to near the top of that department, but that's all. No, to make it to the top, you've got to have sampled as many departments as possible.

My last promotion turned out to be a disaster. Oh, I was overjoyed at the time. Head of the Administrative Department of the Magical Law Enforcement Office - known irreverently to the Aurors as the 'back-up staff'. The trouble was that Aurors may have been very good at what they did - and there's no way I could have done their job - but they were babes in the woods when it came to Ministry matters. Sometimes an Auror would get it into his head that we needed some new programme, and rather than go through us, he'd go straight to the Finance Department and demand the money. They'd say no. The Auror would complain about 'bureaucrats' and march into the Minister's office, and twist his arm. The Minister would then march into the Finance Department and demand the money. You can imagine the conversation.

'We need more money for ... whatever it was.'

'Certainly, Minister. Whose budget should we cut to make it up?'

'What? We can't cut other people's budgets!'

'If you say so, Minister. Which taxes shall we raise then?'

'Raise taxes? We can't do that!'

'So where's the money going to come from?'

Exit Minister in perplexity.

You see my point? I, on the other hand, having worked in Finance, knew my way around, who to ask, where to go.

'Any chance of ...?'

'Could be. Do you think this is a good proposal?'

'Yes - and I've costed his figures.' That always went down well. 'Now, if we were to ...'

And we'd work out some compromise deal.

Too many Aurors had to learn the hard way. One of my jobs was to persuade them that to go through me meant less trouble for them. Also strengthened my hold over them, too.

But things began to go pear-shaped quite quickly. You see, I had been appointed six months ahead of the Quidditch World Cup. The idea had been to give me plenty of time to settle in and to organise all the security. It was damned hard work - but it was fun, too. Until the end. I think the Dark Mark was the final straw. No one blamed me - but on the other hand, it had all been my responsibility, and it had gone wrong. My first black mark. At least not a Dark Mark, I consoled myself with gallows humour after too much whiskey.

Then the TriWizard Tournament. More security. And look what happened at the end of that. I wanted a proper investigation, but it was all shoved under the carpet by Fudge. I didn't find out why until later, of course. Then the absurd attempt to frame the Potter boy. Things couldn't get much worse, I thought. I was wrong, of course.

The return of Voldemort. I suppose we can call him that now. Suddenly a massive panic. Money thrown at the department like never before. But money wouldn't solve the problem. More than ever, we needed people on the ground, and they were becoming fewer. Several Aurors took early retirement to get out of the firing line. We were desperately trying to recruit, but precious few people were coming forward.

It was a long year. I remember Frank referring to it as 'the phoney war', and, thanks to him, I knew enough Muggle history to know what he was talking about. But when would the blitzkrieg come?

Well, we found out one Monday morning, when the new régime took over. No one knows what happened to Scrimgeour. He had disappeared, and having disappeared, no one dared mention his name again. No body was ever found either.

I wasn't even sure whether I should go in to work on that Monday. Eventually I decided I'd better go in, and so did most other people. But the atmosphere - I've never known anything like it. People moved through the atrium in complete silence. It was eerie. And scattered around at strategic points were witches and wizards who were keeping a very close eye on things. No need to ask who they answered to.

The department was almost deserted. I couldn't imagine many Aurors turning up now. A few did. Some were immediately hustled away. Some - well, they were Ministry workers, and as far as they were concerned, they were still working for the Ministry. As for me - well, I went and sat behind my desk. In fact, I think that's all I did. Just sat, and thought. Nothing coherent. I think I was too frightened to think coherently.

Should I just go home? Which would be worse - sitting here, waiting to see what would happen, or abandoning my post? I sat and dithered.

Around mid-morning I received a visitor. The door to my office was open, and I could hear footsteps echoing through the empty department. The sight of the figure in the doorway gave me another shock. It was Dolores Umbridge.

The smirk on her face was wider than ever. She looked - well, as if a maiden aunt had died and left her a fortune. She surveyed me with a gloating gleam in her eye.

'Mr Harley. I never expected to find you here.'

'Madam Under-Secretary,' I said formally.

'Indeed. And Special Assistant to the new Minister.'

'Really?'

'Oh, yes. I think the new Minister is going to be placing a great deal of trust in me.' Another wide, sweet, sickly, smile. I said nothing. 'But I am glad to see that some Ministry officials are still in their offices.' Again, I had nothing to say. 'There are going to be some changes in the Ministry. Somehow, I don't think the Auror Department is going to be the force it once was. Still, we can no doubt find a use for you. Providing, that is ...'

I raised an eyebrow.

'Providing your ... background ...' - she laid a delicate stress on that word - 'is suitable.'

I knew what she meant.

'I am Pureblood, if that's what you mean.'

I had never taken any great pride in the matter. So my ancestors had been witches and wizards. So what?

She raised an eyebrow. 'You have proof of that?'

'I don't have a great family tree at home, if that's what you mean. But you can always check through the Hogwarts Book.'

There was a flicker of uncertainty on her face. 'The Hogwarts Book?'

'That's right.'

'And what might that be?'

I felt a flicker of amusement - Dolores Umbridge being caught out? But then - provoking her was probably not a good idea.

'On entry, every student is recorded, together with their parentage. Mine would read something like "Donald Harley (R), son of Eric Harley (S) and Jane Harley, née Tomlinson (H)".'

'Really?' I could see something turning over in her mind. 'That is really most useful to know. Most useful. Now then - given the present state of your department, I think you might as well go home today. But I think I might have an assignment for you. Report to my office - on the top floor - at nine o'clock tomorrow morning.'

I had visited the top floor of the Ministry often enough. The top floor is the Minister's floor, in effect, and Dear Dolores was now ensconced in a large office adjacent to the Minister's. In a bureaucracy, do not underestimate the power of propinquity: you cannot never be too close to the centre of power. Whether or not the new Minister was the centre of power was now a debatable point, but I imagine someone like Dolores found it difficult to believe there could be anyone more important.

I had spent part of a sleepless night debating with myself whether Umbridge was a follower of Voldemort, or whether she was merely taking advantage of the situation to further her own interests. That could be a dangerous business: I could imagine that, under the new régime, getting something seriously wrong might have a rather greater penalty than a temporary demotion. On the other hand, her own personal agenda meshed in well with everything I'd heard about Voldemort. Knowing the woman as I did, my guess was she was going for what she could get out of it. As I said, a dangerous business - and it turned out to be dangerous in a way she hadn't anticipated. It's all very well throwing your hand in with a homicidal lunatic - but you're got to be sure he's going to be the winner. And he wasn't.

I arrived at her office - actually her suite of offices - at nine o'clock. I was kept waiting for the obligatory fifteen minutes before being shown in. My word, she looked smug.

'Mr Harley.'

'Madam Under-Secretary.'

'I am afraid your department remains a little - what shall I say? - depleted. I have suggested to the Minister that you be assigned to my department for the moment.' You're really loving this, aren't you, I thought to myself. 'Now, your mention yesterday of the Hogwarts Book has given me an idea. We have certain measures in the planning stage, and the information in the book will be extremely useful. Now then,' she picked up a parchment from the desk and held it out, 'here is a list of names.'

I took the parchment and scanned it. There were indeed names - about fifty or so.

'What I would like you to do, Mr Harley, is to go to Hogwarts, and for each of those names, find the details for their parents and their grandparents - year and house, or,' she paused delicately for a moment, 'if there is no house listed for a parent or grandparent, to make a note mentioning said parent or grandparent was a Muggle.'

She gave a wide, beaming, entirely insincere, smile. 'Is that clear, Mr Harley?'

Indeed it was. It was a job that could have been done by a clerk, or at best an administrative assistant. To give it to me ... I swallowed the insult.

'It is.'

I tried to keep the curtness from my voice, but probably failed.

'That is all, Mr Harley.'

Another sickly sweet smile of farewell. I had trained myself to seem as impassive as possible in these sorts of situations, but, my word, it was difficult then. I gave a nod and left without a word.

I left the first floor as quickly as I could and made for the atrium. I needed time to gather breath - but even there, I could feel the oppressive atmosphere. I needed to get away from the Ministry.

I took the Floo to Hogsmeade. I could have Apparated from there to the school gates, but preferred to walk. The walk would give me time and exercise - time to bring my feelings back under control.

The school was still on holiday, of course. I hadn't even checked whether the librarian was there, or even indeed whether it was still Madam Pince. I stopped for a moment and peered up at the tower from which Dumbledore had fallen. I'd been there at the funeral. The last time I'd been to Hogwarts.

I arrived at the steps up to the main doors, and saw someone standing at the top, watching me. I couldn't quite see a face in the darkness of the doorway, but I guessed from the stature.

'Professor Flitwick?'

'Yes. Who is it?'

'Don Harley.'

He took a step forward into the light.

'Ah.' There was a touch of relief in his voice.

'Expecting someone else?'

It was intended to be facetious, but from his face, I realised the joke had fallen flat.

'In these times ...' He sighed. 'What can I do for you, Mr Harley?'

'I've been sent from the Ministry.'

'Oh?' His voice was wary again.

'Professor - I think your opinion of the present régime is probably the same as mine.'

He looked at me again, then nodded. 'Difficult times.'

'Difficult indeed.'

'So then - what can I do for you?'

'I need access to the Hogwarts Book.'

'The Book?' he asked, in a tone of surprise.

'Yes,' I answered wearily. 'The Book.'

'Pardon my curiosity, but ...'

'Why the Book? Dear Dolores has sent me to list the parentage of various people.'

'Dolores Umbridge?'

'Yes.'

'In that case, no good can come of it.'

'I know. No good will come of it. Tell me - why do you think she wants me to do this?'

'To sort out people of -' his voice took on a touch of disdain '- less than pure blood.'

'Exactly.'

'And you're prepared to do this?'

I was. Why, you might ask? Well, yesterday morning, when I sat down behind my desk, still pondering on what to do, I saw a couple of memos. Still on autopilot, I picked them up and scanned through them.

New decrees from a new Minister. They had been circulated as a matter of routine to all heads of department, which included me. The decrees had concerned two things: money and travel.

First, money. Changing Galleons into any other form of currency was now forbidden. In particular: ' ... given the dubious nature of the Muggle currency, we feel it inadvisable that members of the wizarding community ...' - and so on.

Second, travel. Bluntly, all forms of foreign travel were banned, unless specially authorised by the Minister himself. There was no attempt to wrap this one up in fancy language.

So, no way to get out of the country, and no money to do it with. Now, if I'd been a braver man, I might have decided to walk out there and then, and join whatever underground movement there was. But matters weren't as simple as that. You see, I had commitments. Well, we all have commitments of one sort and another, but in my case, a wife and two ten year old twin sons. James and Mark. Oh, without the children, Emilia might have come along with me - but what use would we be to an underground movement against the likes of the Death Eaters with two ten year olds in tow? And we could hardly leave them with Grandma - they'd have made excellent hostages.

Not that I was going to tell Flitwick all of this.

'At the moment, I don't have a lot of choice.'

He looked at me. To be fair to the man, he didn't press the point. Indeed, he gave something of a sigh. 'I think many of us are going to be faced with that.' I raised an eyebrow, and he made a gesture with his hand, waving up at our surroundings. Yes, what was going to happen to Hogwarts under the new régime? James and Mark had another year to go before they started here - but I didn't want to think about that just yet.

'Very well, then. I'll take you along.'

It was a tedious, repetitive job. As I said, it could have done just as well by some Ministry clerk. This was Umbridge's way of rubbing in my lack of status in the New Order. At the end of the afternoon, weary, I closed up the Book and sealed the parchments. On my way out, Flitwick appeared once more in the entrance hall, and I asked if I could use one of the school owls. At least that meant I didn't have to face Dear Dolores again.

And early the next morning, before I had had time to set off for the Ministry, another owl arrived with another list of names. I made my way up to Hogwarts once more. And again the day after.

Only this time - this time I had just started on the Hs when a name leapt out at me. Frank Hampson (R). Frank. Born of Muggle parents. He'd even married a Muggle. Lived in his parents' old house somewhere on the fringes of London. A prime target for Umbridge.

I gazed at the scroll, thinking what to do next. Leave out Frank's name? Not a good idea - Umbridge would spot that sooner or later. What then? There was no way I was going to put his name on any list for Umbridge. I wasn't sure yet what this was all about, but one thing I was sure of: nothing good would come of it. Suddenly sickened by the whole business, I pushed back my chair and strode out into the empty Entrance Hall. Outside, the sun was shining down from a cloudless sky. I walked out onto the steps, grateful for the warmth of the sun.

It would be impossible to imagine a more idyllic scene than this: the lake was blue in the sun, the trees of the forest were in full leaf, the grass a vivid green. And here I was, selecting people for heaven knows what fate, including friends from childhood. Disgusted with myself, I made my way down to the gates. I knew where to go from there. I'd been there often enough.

Frank lived on the outskirts of London, with his Muggle wife in a very Muggle house. A 'semi-detached', I think they called it. It was in a street full of identical such houses, in a suburb full of identical streets.

I appeared under a tree in Frank's back garden. It was a handy place to Apparate to - it was well hidden away from prying eyes. I walked up to the back of the house - the door out into the garden was open, and I tapped on the glass pane.

'Hello?'

There was silence, and I was just about to knock again when I heard Frank's voice.

'Who's there?'

'Don.'

I could hardly see into the dark exterior, but I was able to make out Frank's figure approaching.

'Come in, come in.'

'Thanks.'

Once inside, out of the bright glare of the sun, it was easier to see him. He looked just as ever - except that he was regarding me with a quizzical expression.

'What can I do for you? I take it this isn't a social call.'

'No ... well, it's rather difficult ...'

'You still working at the Ministry?' I nodded. 'So, what are things like there?'

'Not good.'

'Is that the usual Don understatement?'

'Something like that.'

'Sit down and tell me about it.'

I sank into a chair, and Frank settled himself down opposite.

'You remember that time when we talked about the men who made the trains run on time - the trains to the death camps?'

He raised his eyebrows. 'In the last Muggle war?'

'Yes.'

He gave me a long look. 'Is that what you're doing now? Making the trains run on time - metaphorically speaking?'

'Something like that.'

He settled himself deeper into his chair. 'Tell me about it.'

'Well, not the trains. Something slightly worse, really.'

'Which is?'

'I'm pricking the names. And I even gave the horrible woman the idea.'

'Umbridge?'

I nodded. 'She started making remarks about whether I'd still be suited to work for their new Ministry. I told her to go and look me up in the Hogwarts Book. She hadn't thought of that.'

'And so?'

'And so she's giving me lists of names, and I use the Book to work out their ancestry.'

'Ah.' Understanding flooded his voice.

'And this morning - this morning your name was on the list.'

I couldn't look at him.

'Hm. I was expecting something like that, to be honest.'

'You were?'

'Come on, Don, something like this has been on the cards for a long time now.'

'So what are you going to do?'

'Join Miriam in Germany.'

I stared at him. 'But the Ministry have blocked all overseas travel, and they're also stopping people converting Galleons into any other currency. There's been all sorts of propaganda about the unworthiness of foreign and Muggle money.'

To my surprise, Frank smiled. 'The trouble with the Ministry is that it wears the same blinkers that you do.'

'What do you mean?'

'They've blocked foreign magical money. They've stopped you converting Galleons to sterling. But with their rather ... shall we say ... limited world view, they haven't noticed that there are other Muggle currencies. Such as the German Mark.'

'Is that what you've done?'

Frank nodded. 'The goblins were more than happy to oblige. You think they like the restrictions?'

'So how are you going to get there?'

Frank suddenly stood up. 'Come with me into the garden.' I followed him, blinking in the sunlight. He pointed up into the sky. 'See that?'

There was a silver thing floating high in the sky. 'A Muggle aeroplane?'

'Exactly. If you want to go to Germany, you buy a ticket to fly on one of those, and off you go.'

'You need Muggle money to buy the ticket?'

'That's right. And Miriam has her own bank account - in Muggle money, of course. So that's not a problem.'

'Anything else?'

'A passport.'

I stared at him. 'Which is?'

'A sort of Muggle identity card. You won't have one - and you need a Muggle birth certificate to get one. You won't have one of those either.'

'Oh.'

'Mind you - we could do something about that.'

'What do you mean?'

'Would you like to leave the country too?'

I'd never thought about it like that. 'Emilia and I - we've never talked about it.'

'This is your chance - but I'll be gone in twenty four hours.'

'What would we need to do?'

'Well, I can easily fake up Muggle passports. There's money, of course, but there's plenty in Miriam's account. And I can get tickets easily enough. If you give me your vault number, I can have some of your money changed to Marks as well.' I was still absorbing all this. 'I appreciate you can't make any decision now. Do you want to go home and talk to Emilia about it?'

'I suppose I'd better. Where are you going?'

'Berlin. Miriam has a job sorting through the Stasi archives.'

'What are they?'

Another smile. I know Frank wasn't trying to be patronising, but I was beginning to find out how little I knew about the Muggle world.

'The Stasi? Well, after the war, Germany was divided in two. The eastern part was totalitarian, and the Stasi were their secret police. When the country was united again, all their records were still intact. Very thorough with their paper work, the Stasi.'

He didn't need to labour the point. Just like the Ministry.

'Right, well ... if you say you could get us out - with some money - I'd better go and talk to Emilia now. You'll be in later?'

'This evening, yes. I'd better go and buy those tickets, hadn't I? We should be able to get a flight for tomorrow afternoon.'

'Right, then.' I hesitated for a moment, then, 'I'll see you later.'

Explaining things to Emilia was not easy. It was not easy telling her what my new role in the Ministry was. It was certainly not easy persuading her to uproot her family to go to another country where we didn't even speak the language. Finally, I had to lay out things as I saw them.

'But Don, they won't do anything to us. We're not Muggle born or anything like that.'

'Look, I'm not going to carry on doing that job at the Ministry. That means no job. And it means being branded as disloyal. It'd probably mean no job anywhere.'

'Where will the children go to school?'

'There'll be schools in Germany. Or there's Beauxbatons.'

'They don't speak French or German.'

'Do you want them to go to Hogwarts?'

'Of course.'

'Where one of the teachers murdered the Headmaster? Not just any Headmaster either, but Dumbledore.'

'But the Prophet's being saying Potter was involved in that.'

I snorted. 'Look, Emilia, the Prophet will print whatever the Ministry tells it. Believe me - I've seen what's going on there.'

She took a lot of persuading. I think that, in the end, it came down to two things. First, she could see that I was obviously prepared to throw in my job at the Ministry; and second, Frank and Miriam.

You see, we'd been friends for a long time. Emilia had been at Hogwarts around the same time as us, but two years below. Frank had been a guest at our wedding, and then we at his. Theirs had been a civil ceremony in a Muggle registry office, and we had stood somewhat awkwardly in the background. We'd gone to the reception afterwards, and made vague noises about what we did to anyone who asked. 'Boring Civil service stuff,' I told people. We watched everyone else carefully, lest we made some slip up in Muggle etiquette. But we had enjoyed it.

Frank and Miriam were both historians, if on different sides of the fence, so to speak. But that gave their work a kind of synergy. And Emilia was an historian too. Many an evening had been spent with me as an onlooker, whilst the three of them discussed various historical events or trends. Perhaps we'd grown apart a little since the arrival of our twins, but we were still friends, and Emilia still valued their judgement.

Frank had sent an owl over in the late afternoon ... where had he got an owl from, I wondered? That back garden seemed very Muggle-like - perhaps he used concealment charms? Sorry. My mind often seems to split in two: half of it tends to go off on tangents like that, while the other half is thinking about the problem in hand. I knew it often gave me an abstracted air. There were those in the Auror Department who, I knew, made fun of my habit - but only behind my back.

Pack a bag each, he'd said, and come over early evening. He'd put us up for the night. Apparently the flight was early next morning. It had been difficult explaining things to James and Mark - why do we have to leave, Daddy? - but eventually they nodded their agreement, almost as if they were humouring us.

We appeared in Frank's back garden as the sun hung low in the sky. I glanced around, looking more carefully. There were concealment charms! So the place was not as Muggle-like as it appeared ...

Frank came out to greet us, and took us inside. The real surprise was his other visitor - Kingsley Shacklebolt. I knew Kingsley well enough from the Auror Department - but now he was a fugitive, one of the many on the wanted list. If he were here now, then it could only be that he wanted to speak to me. And I didn't think he'd want to hang around waiting for us to sort ourselves out. I gave an apologetic glance to Emilia, and stepped forward.

'Can we go into the front room?' he asked.

I nodded and followed him. I knew Kingsley by reputation even before I'd moved to the Auror Department, and since then, my respect for him had increased further. I knew he was linked to Potter, and to the rumoured group which everyone just referred to as 'the Order'.

He didn't waste words.

'You're working at the Ministry now?' I nodded. 'With Dolores Umbridge?' Again, a nod. 'But you're thinking of going abroad.'

It wasn't a question.

'If I don't do as I'm told in the Ministry,' I told him, 'then I'm going to be in trouble. And I don't want to do what they're telling me to do. This was Frank's idea - but it struck me as a good one.'

'Frank told me what you were doing.' I said nothing. 'The thing is,' he went on, 'it would be extremely useful to have someone fairly senior in the Ministry who can tell us what's going on - tip us off about future plans, what current thinking is, that sort of thing.'

'All very well,' I said dryly, 'but whilst I might have senior once, Umbridge has got me doing what's basically a clerk's job.'

'That's probably Umbridge being vindictive.'

'No doubt about that.'

He shrugged. 'They're going to need your talents sooner or later. A lot of people have already left.'

'So what are you proposing?' I asked cautiously.

'That you stay behind. Stay working in the Ministry. And give us regular reports.'

'There's one snag.'

'Which is?'

I was blunt. 'What if your side don't win?'

'As far as you're concerned, you're onto a winner. If we win, you get rewarded. You'll have done your bit for the "war effort".' He gave a simulacrum of a smile. 'If they win - well, you'd have been a loyal Ministry worker. And if you've still got your Muggle passport, you can still get out at any time.'

I thought about it. He was right. Whichever side came out on top, I would be all right. Apart from one tiny snag. If I was caught passing information, then ... but I think the factor that motivated me most of all was shame. Shame for what I had done so far. And I knew I'd have to keep on doing it.

I looked back at Kingsley. 'There is one problem.'

'What's that?'

'To impress people at the Ministry, I'm going to have to do ... things - things which won't help your cause.'

'We know that. But if you don't do them, other people will. Maybe not as efficiently, but they'll still get done. This way, we get to find out in advance.'

'Fair enough. I'll be zealous - but not over zealous.'

'It's the best compromise we can hope for.' He hesitated. 'So you'll do it?'

'Yes.'

'Good man.'

Curious, I asked, 'Do you really think Potter's got a chance?'

Weighing his words, he said, 'He's the best chance we've got.'

He obviously wasn't going to say any more. I thought of what he'd said, then shrugged. What did I know? Other than one side was putting up a teenager against - against, well, we won't say any more.

'Fair enough. Well, I'd better get back to Emilia.'

The children were out in the garden with Frank. Emilia was waiting for me in the room at the back. Kingsley nodded to her, then went out into the garden to talk to Frank. Emilia and I looked at each other. Eventually I said, 'Come through into here.'

I took her into the front room where Kingsley and I had just had our chat.

'You're staying behind,' she said.

'How did you know?' I asked, startled.

She smiled a sad smile. 'I knew it would be something like that.'

I told her the story, and at the end of it, she nodded.

'You'll be all right?'

I did my best to re-assure her. 'I can't say I'm looking forward to it. Particularly without you here. But - well, it's something that needs to be done.'

'I suppose.' Then she buried her head in my chest. 'I'll miss you.'

I hugged her close. 'And I'll miss you.'

She pulled away, sniffing, then attempted a smile. 'A brave face for the boys, I think.'

'Of course. I'll miss them.'

'And we'll miss you.'

There was another pause, then she said, 'Come on,' pulling me out of the room.

Kingsley had gone, and Frank was still in the garden with the children. He saw us and waved. The children came racing over.

'Uncle Frank's coming with us!'

'I know. But I'll staying behind.'

'Why?'

'A few things to do here. I'll join you when I can.'

'Oh.'

Some of their bounce disappeared, but like all boys of that age, they soon recovered. After supper, they went up to bed, while Frank and Emilia sat and started discussing the Stasi. I listened with half an ear. I could see that Emilia was already thinking of the research ahead. Perhaps, when she returned, I would be able to help her in a similar research project rather nearer to home.

I went with them to the airport the next morning. I was completely bewildered by the whole place, and so was Emilia. The children seemed to take it more in their stride, but without Frank, we would have been babes in the wood, lost in this mad swirl of people and incomprehensible signs. Finally we said our farewells, and they went through the check out. I watched them go. When would I see them next, I wondered?

Then I had to return to the Ministry to grovel to Umbridge. Lying awake in bed the night before, I had invented a cover story which I hoped would pass. I stood in front of her desk whilst she surveyed me, a sharp little smile on her face.

'And where have you been for the past few days, Mr Harley?'

'Domestic problems.'

'Oh?'

She was not going to let that pass unquestioned. I now had to feign embarrassment.

'Well ...' - I had to be hesitant here: too glib, and she'd spot it - 'my wife ...'

'Yes?'

I took a gulp. In truth, this was not entirely acting. Trying to put one over on Umbridge was a frightening enough experience in itself.

'When I got home ... she'd left. Taken the children with her.'

'Oh, dear.' The sincerity was as fake as her smile. 'Do you know where she's gone?'

I nodded. 'Germany.'

'Germany?' she squawked. Now I had jolted her out of her complacent ... the Germans have a word for it ... schadenfreude. 'How did she get to Germany? Our borders are supposed to be sealed.'

I shook my head. 'No idea.'

Always mix as much truth as you can with your lies.

She picked up a little bell sitting on her desk and rang it vigorously. A timid looking assistant appeared. 'I need a word.' Umbridge turned back to me and gave me another simpering smile. 'Thank you, Mr Harley. I shall investigate this at once. In the meantime, you may report back here in the morning.'

Shacklebolt had been right. The ranks of the Ministry had become very much thinned. Part of it was a self inflicted wound: those whose parentage was deemed to be ... shall we say ... dubious had been moved on. Or out. There were those who weren't prepared to go along with the new régime. Some, as I had, carried on as usual, but their hearts weren't in it. Some, with fewer ties, were able to 'go underground', as the phrase had it.

There were some very rapid promotions as a result. Some of these were for people who were 'reliable', or who felt they were owed favours. The quality of their work, however ... well, you can guess that for yourself. I used their inefficiency for my own ends: whereas in the past, I'd have seen the inadequacies in a particular proposal and sent it back with a stiff note; now I'd let it go through, and watch the resultant cock ups with an inward smile. After all, no one could blame me if the proposal had been no good; it hadn't been my proposal. It wasn't a technique I could use too often, for, after all, part of my job was to spot such inadequacies. An variation on the technique was refer a proposal back on the grounds of one particular fault, wait until it was re-submitted, send it back on the grounds of a second fault, and so on. Never under-estimate a bureaucrat!

The ironic part of it was that I ended up with my old job back with the Aurors. I say 'Aurors', but there were few genuine ones left, and a good deal of their functions had been taken away from them. Most of the 'law enforcement' was now carried out by, shall we say, more unofficial routes. And these routes weren't open to appeal, either. The niceties of evidence, or trials, had long since been dispensed with.

One job we were given was to help in the search for the 'Undesirables'. To do this effectively meant liaison with the more unsavoury of the régime, but to Shacklebolt, the information I could pass along was pure gold. My conscience was a little easier too: no longer was I the man who was naming names, who was sorting the sheep from the goats. On the other hand, I was helping many an unsavoury measure to get through; measures which were being pushing along by people with their own particular axe to grind - like Dear Dolores.

Compared with many, I suppose I had an easy life, although it didn't seem like it at the time. Now those of, shall we say, dubious parentage had been removed from the Ministry, what might be called the Muggle channels of communication were easier to use. I could keep in touch with Emilia and the children by telephone, or by Muggle post. In the same way, I used the Muggle post to pass information on to Kingsley: I don't think that Dear Dolores or any other of her Pureblood friends had any idea of what a postage stamp was. Mind, I hadn't either, before I had a crash course in the subject from Frank before he left.

I learned a lot about the Muggle world. I used the telephone at Frank's house to talk to him and to the family. I paid his Muggle bills for him. I used Muggle post, free as it was from Ministry surveillance. I realised how blind I was to that vast world, being brought up in a Pureblood family, educated at Hogwarts, and then working at the Ministry. I contemplated making it compulsory for all Ministry employees to spend six months in the Muggle world as part of an induction course. If, of course, Potter succeeded ...

As time went by, and Potter and his friends remained at large, I could feel nervousness creeping into the air. There were rumours about things that had gone wrong, rumours that the Dark Lord hadn't had the success he had hoped for. But these were only rumours, only to whispered between friends at times when you could be sure you weren't being overhead. Then, of course, came the big night. I was told to remain at my desk, whilst most of the 'law enforcement' - an oxymoron if ever I heard it, given the present state of the Ministry - was summoned to Hogwarts. And we all know what happened that night.

The first I knew of it was when Kingsley made his triumphant return. The place was in chaos, of course, but it was amazing how many Potter supporters emerged from the woodwork in double quick time. The problem was sorting out the opportunists from the genuine supporters, but in some ways, it didn't matter - there was simply too much to do.

As for me? Well, I was one of the first people Kingsley sent for when he reached the Minister's office. Restoring order was the overriding priority, and he needed to know just who he could trust in the law and order department. Since then, the workload has been immense, but worthwhile. And for Kingsley to have credibility, justice not only had to be done, but seen to be done. In very many cases, this was easy enough. A Dark Mark was in itself sufficient. For the casual murder, things were more difficult: Kingsley insisted on a minimum of two witnesses. Use of the Unforgiveables - well, as I've said, we'd have stuffed the jails if we'd convicted everyone. Extremely hefty fines were the order of the day, and we used what money we could to pay out compensation to the victims.

And then we get to the lesser offenders. Now politics comes into play. The prisons are already bursting. And whilst attributing guilt, what sort of sentences do we give? What, for example, do we do with the likes of Umbridge? At this point, my own conscience began to stir. I had, after all, provided her with lists of names. Not an offence in itself, but ... somehow I felt tainted. I felt that I was in no position to judge others.

There was a solution. Frank. He had the historical background, the knowledge of what had worked elsewhere, the times when you had to weight morality against expediency. I used my influence to have him appointed 'Special Adviser to the Tribunals'. All the papers now go through him, and he advises - and they listen. And it is for Frank that I have to write my report about Umbridge. The one I submit will be written in dry Civil Service language; language fit for use in a court. It will leave no room for moral doubt. But I write this account for the future. Perhaps in twenty years' time, when it has all blown over, become past history, I may circulate this story. But until then, it will have to live in an envelope in a vault. And I shall have to live with my conscience.

'But thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare thou them, O God, who confess their faults. Restore thou them that are penitent ...'