Rumored Nervous Breakdown

A rather harassed house-elf has come down to send me breakfast. As I sit at my small dining table, I realize I am afraid of odd thoughts coming into my head about Rupert, my parents, and all those mistakes I have made this year. It hurts to think and feel. Sometimes I wish I were with Rupert now; so far away from the pain and chaos. Why didn't Severus just leave me on the floor for Bellatrix to finish off?

A soft whine and a doleful-looking Jack Russell terrier wrestle my attention away from the inner demons of my subconscious. Daisy is willing my half-eaten toast and coffee dregs into her mouth. A stab of amusement hits me that my dog needs the caffeine fix as badly as I do.

There are too many memories in this room, and I want to retreat to my office until revisions begin later in the day. I long for the solace of my dusty sofa and watching spiders spinning their webs in far corners of my prison.

I walk almost blindly down the hallways of the school. I feel like a ghost out of a Dickens novel, floating in and out of people's lives. Like them, I can only bring cold comfort to those I come in contact with.

A derisive huff catches my attention. I startle at the noise and notice Dolores is standing in the hallway outside my office. She is holding a letter with the Ministry seal; however, what draws even more attention are the absence of those horrible rings and the angry-looking scratches on her hands. She seems totally out of sorts, with that 'I-want-to-punish-someone' glint in her eye. I reach into my opposite sleeve, ready to defend myself. I am ejected from the abyss of self pity by a screaming rush of adrenalin.

"Here," Dolores barks. "The original recommendation has been sent to Canada, so I can be rid of you once and for all." She tosses an envelope at me, and I catch it clumsily. My excitement over the papers is overshadowed by the curiosity of why her hand has the appearance of a Kneazle's scratching post. This is not an attempt to express condolences or concerns, but one of morbid enjoyment and living vicariously a revenge wrought by some unseen person or thing.

"What happened to you?" I inquire, attempting not to smile spitefully. "Step on Mrs. Norris last night when you were raiding the kitchen for your favorite pastries?" From the malevolent expression on her face, I know immediately I should have kept the comment to myself.

"Shut up, you repulsive, unbalanced whore! If you have anything to do with putting a Niffler in my office..." She rushes forward to grasp my wrist, twisting it roughly with strength I had no idea she possessed. "Our bargain is off, and you will end up in prison or locked in a psychiatric ward for the rest of your life."

I wrestle my arm away from her forcefully. "What are you talking about?" I inquire, baffled by her accusation. "We both have what we want. Why would I do something that childish and stupid? Have you lost your..." Before I realize it, she back hands me across the cheek.

Something snaps in me as I go for my wand. Before I realize it, I have her hooked under the chin, chasing her backwards into the locked office door. "I warned you not to touch me again."

I thrust harder under her chin as her pupils dilate in panic. I decide to back off before I over-play my hand. "We agreed one reference so I can get the hell out of here for the last receipt. Don't forget one of the conditions is to leave me alone!" I growl dangerously, backing away from her to gain some distance. "I told you earlier that I couldn't care less for the goings on with you, the Ministry, and what other stupid plots you have going on here." I can feel burning in my chest as the realization hits I'm out of breath. Rage is breaking over me like an avalanche. "Get away from me! You don't scare me anymore!"

She opens up her mouth to say something; however, the bell rings for the next class. She quickly gains her composure to retort, "Last day of the term; my office; in my hands by noon, you thieving, cowardly bitch. I want you out of the country by nightfall, or I will make other arrangements for your lodgings," she spits, turning on her heel.

I can hear protests from the occupants of several portraits roused suddenly out of slumber by our violent confrontation. I mumble my apologies as I hastily unlock my office door, unable to order my thoughts. It takes several tries, because I am shaking so much. When the lock clicks, I kick the door open in frustration.

My legs feel like they are full of jelly as I collapse on the dusty sofa. Tears of frustration fall down my cheek unchecked. I shouldn't have blown up like that. It could have seen me in prison or worse. Dolores doesn't know when to back off. She pushes and pushes until the situation is out of control. I need to get myself under control before I make myself sick and end up back in the Hospital Wing again.

So many thoughts are racing through my mind right now I cannot pick one to sort them out. The whole world is crashing in towards me. Why can't my life just be normal again? I can only lie here listening to the students chatting happily with their classmates about various subjects as they pass by my closed door. As I start to concentrate on picking through the voices, I find the din rather comforting; however, I am let down as some eight minutes later as the tardy bell rings, announcing class has begun.

It has been several hours since my confrontation with Dolores, and I am feeling a little worried about doing revisions with Charity this afternoon. I am embarrassed and apprehensive for some reason. I keep analyzing my feelings out of habit from too much therapy as a kid. Am I worried the kids are sniggering about me behind my back like when I was a student? Do they see me as the unbalanced, tragic whore the newspapers made me out to be?

It's time to put on the 'I'm a big girl' panties and get into the classroom. I need to have a bit more faith in people. Children can be blunt, but their opinions are often honest.

When I open the door there are squeals of surprise. Several of my former students rush up to me like I never stopped coming to class. To my disappointment, this class does not have Ursula in it.

The class contains a group of O.W.L. students and a few N.E.W.T.s. Charity decides to take the N.E.W.T. students, because the test is a bit of a joke. My third years could have taken it in their sleep and achieve an Outstanding.

As I walk around the tables, I catch glimpses of a student named Bethany peering nervously down into her lap. When she realizes I can see what she is doing, she scrambles madly to pretend I didn't catch her in the act.

"Bethany, let me see what you have. That is obviously not the revisions we are working on." I can hear an anxious sigh escape from her as I look at the book with a review paper inside. I look at the cover, and I can see it is a Defense book by Slinkhard.

Slinkhard has been a joke with law enforcement for years. He advocated for non-confrontational solutions to conflict. The results of his movement cost many lives when the Death Eater movement was at its height. What is really tragic is he was one of the first ones to die. Now, the Ministry sees fit to implement the same dangerous philosophy that allowed evil to spread unchecked throughout the country.

When I sat the written exams, I knew Slinkhard's book would have little or no information for the questions. Most of his defenses collectively are the same: stop, drop, and beg for your life if you are unfortunate enough to live through it.

I am outraged. I can't stand here and let my revisions take precedence over a subject as diverse as Defense. I feel sick and guilty. While I have been used for target practice by Dolores, students were being short changed.

"How many more of you are worried about your other exams?" All twelve students raise their hands into the air with the look of condemned men standing upon the gallows. "Pull out your Defense practice exams, and don't breathe a word of this to any other teacher, got it!" Slinkhard's books are put on the table in front of the students, who are anxiously flipping through them in an effort to get started. I pull out my wand and banish the waste of paper and ink to a corner of the room, where the useless tomes hit the stone wall with a loud thud. "Now that rubbish is out of the way, let's get down to how you are going to pass this exam."

What I am dying to say is: "Now that rubbish is out of the way, you won't just stand there and wait for some bastard to hit you with a pretty green light."

"What would a Muggle Studies teacher know about getting more than a passing grade on a Defense exam? My uncle is on the testing board. He says you only need one O.W.L. to get a Ministry job in the Muggle Liaison office." The student is one that I pegged as my hemorrhoid of the term. My total pain in the arse from the beginning of the year, Ben has a high opinion of himself. His uncle is the same way, and he is just as irritating as his nephew.

Before I can even take points away, I hear an annoyed female voice from the opposite end of the table. "Professor Howard was an Auror, you thick-headed tosser. My mum said she even saved the Minister's life." The voice belongs to Christen Jefferies, the daughter of a high ranking Ministry official. "So, shut it before I permanently remove your mouth!" She jumps to her feet with her wand drawn.

Ben jumps up so quickly, he upsets his chair, tripping over it as he backs away from the table. His formerly arrogant air disappears in an instant.

As much as I am pleased for the defense, I take control of the situation by confiscating Christen's wand and taking points from Ben; however, I really should give some sort of reward to her house. Although Christen's wand is in my pocket, Ben keeps watching her out of the corner of his eye.

The bell rings sooner than I expected, and Charity has decided lunch in her office might be a good idea. She informs me that eating in the Great Hall is not a pleasant affair with Dolores watching every teacher's slightest move or conversation. Apparently, Dolores has decided that 'pass the salt' is code for: assassinate Fudge.

Charity says the mood is rubbing off on the students, and the scene with Christen and Ben was only one example. Exams are in two days. I and I wonder how are the students expected to do a good job with this going on?

Since revisions in Muggle Studies have been over, I have been very depressed by the lack of activity. I don't know what to do with myself. Daisy decides to solve the problem by demanding a walk during lunch.

The walk through the grounds does little to lift my mood, but the bout of melancholy is broken by the sight a flower arrangement on my dining room table. The card is from a Canadian Ministry official, welcoming me to my new position. He is inviting me to dinner tonight around seven o'clock. I am sure this is probably a way of planning for the move to my new home.

For a moment, there is a pang of grief as I remember how Rupert used to send me flowers twice a week. For a moment, it seems like he is still here.

I glance at my watch and notice that it is already after six. I want to put on something a bit more cheerful than what I am wearing now. Even Severus would think my grey ensemble is not only boring, but rather depressing.

She was quite focused on me just a few days ago. I thought she would be itching with curiosity about who sent me flowers. The card does not seem to be tampered with, and she hasn't charged through my door like a rabid hippogriff.

The chiming of my clock reminds me that I am due in Hogsmeade in half an hour. I give the vase one last glance before running to my closet and changing clothes. I can only hope her lack of attention will allow me to slip away unnoticed for my dinner in the village.

I have not entered Rosmerta's since my birthday surprise with Rupert. It is getting harder and harder to banish him to the remote corners of my mind; he keeps popping up in the oddest places.

The pub is nearly empty, so it is not hard to pick out my visitor; however, I was not expecting to see two of them. Why would the Canadian Ministry send two people out for such a low-level position? I don't have to wait long to find out.

"Hello, Eleanor," says a portly, tall gentleman with a familiar Canadian accent. "I am so glad to meet you at last.

He shakes my hand with a too-firm grip. "I'm Christopher Berns of the Toronto Home Office, and this is my associate, Tim Parks."

Parks appears to be about my age, and the polar opposite of Rupert. He has a heavier frame and is close to my height, with dark hair. He doesn't have the same flicker of laughter in his eyes. Parks is all business.

My stomach gives a queasy lurch with the realization that I shouldn't use Rupert as a yardstick to compare people. It's just wrong.

We have a few awkward moments as we take our seats and order our meals. I can't wait to see what is in store for my future.

"We have arranged a rather lovely home in downtown Toronto," says Parks, this time without the timid look. "Your parents are there, would you prefer to stay with them?"

"What do you know about my parents?" I ask him suspiciously.

"We ...er... have our sources, so to speak." Parks looks uncomfortable again. "We were alerted by some parties who were rather concerned for your parents' safety. We are keeping an eye on them."

"You're keeping an eye...?" I am bewildered. Why would the Canadian Ministry of Magic get involved in this one? "How did you get involved?" That is a weight off my shoulders. "...Not that I don't appreciate it."

"First, I need to explain the current situation. Then, I can answer your questions," Berns says in a low, somber tone. "There have been some serious concerns of the United States and our Ministry about the intensity of Death Eater activity. Although it remained isolated to Britain during the seventies, times have changed, and it could easily spread to North America."

I can only sit here as the thought washes over me. I never considered what would happen if the rhetoric of Voldemort spread beyond the confines of Britain. What forms could it twist into? If another war were to break out, what would happen with the flood of refugees and their families, seeking shelter in North America? Could a supporter of Voldemort embed himself among these lost people and perpetuate the movement?

"Eleanor, I have evidence the movement is very much alive and on the move," Berns says, putting a large manila envelope on the table. "Open it."

I'm almost afraid to. This is one of my worst nightmares: The infection of Death Eater Mania spreading around the world.

I look around cautiously, and I dump out the contents. Oddly enough, it contains Muggle photographs and copies of the receipts, including the ones Dolores does not have that I smuggled out from the Ministy.

"Do you understand why those receipts are worth killing for?" Berns's stare is chilling. "I know the real circumstances behind Rupert Osgood's death." His face softens when he mentions Rupert's name. "He contacted me the day your parents left for your aunt's in Toronto after their house was attacked." He points to the receipts, saying, "He also sent me copies of these and explained what they were. This was quite a can of worms you have opened."

"It's just little scam to launder some money through the Ministry," I say while trying to keep my emotions under control. I gingerly pick up one of the papers. "Very expensive gifts are bought for a Ministry employee, but that sod is dead and now dust. What to do with said gift? Take the cost of the gift and give it to a remote family member who is connected with the Death Eater movement. My other favorite is pay a huge sum of money for a party, but only buy cheap supplies and pocket the cash. As far as the party fund money went, I have no idea what happened with the embezzled cash. The spending was authorized by Dolores Umbridge herself. Who knows where she sent it." I want them to stop running me in circles. "I still don't understand where this involves the Canadian Ministry." I'm tired of the subterfuge and double talk.

"Eleanor, you have no idea what has been uncovered, do you?" Berns asks pointedly.

I shake my head, feeling more stupid by the moment. I am about to find out the horrible secret everyone has been keeping from me. "I know the money is being shifted to families of former Death Eaters, but I thought that was just a little home-grown terrorism. It's spreading, isn't it?"

"That has us concerned, and so does this." He stops speaking, turning the photo so I can get a better look at it.

It takes me a moment to process the fact that it is not moving. It is a grainy blown-up photo from what looks like one of the surveillance cameras that are so plentiful in many cities now.

"Anything look out of place?" he asks as I unconsciously shoot him a scowl.

I look down again, and I can make out two people. One of them resembles a low-ranking yet rabid supporter of the Death Eater movement, coincidentally also a second cousin to the Carrows. He has obviously made little attempt to disguise himself on the Muggle street. Arthur Bogg sticks out in my mind, because he gave me the run around when I questioned him about Alecto Carrow's whereabouts.

"Who is this?" Berns asks, pointing down at one of the men.

"I think that may be..." I don't want to look like an idiot and give them a wrong name. "It could be Arthur Bogg. He is the cousin of a brother and sister team of Death Eaters who have a particular interest in one of the receipts." I shove the photo back at him.

Berns pulls out another photo, and it shows the same two people meeting with a new third person on a street corner, dressed in the same manner, making no effort to blend in with the Muggle crowd.

"Okay, now who is that?" Berns inquires a second time.

"It's Emory Stokes from the Muggle Liaison department," I groan. "I don't recognize the third one. That really bothers me." I feel sick.

Berns reaches over to point at the face I don't recognize and says, "I didn't expect you to know him, that one is one of our home-grown sympathizers. He has been playing host to several interesting dinner parties."

"Where were these photos taken from?" I inquire, covering my eyes in disbelief.

"They are from surveillance cameras in my own backyard, downtown Toronto," Berns states. "Unfortunately, your Mr. Stokes and Mr. Bogg have been seen in Boston as well."

I look up in shock and say, "Now, I am worried." I didn't mean to blurt anything out; it just happened. "What do you want from me? Unless they cursed some poor creature, my job does not exactly allow me to chase them down. That belongs in your Auror department, remember? I believe that was in the letter you sent me last summer."

Berns holds one of the photos up and exclaims, "Eleanor, you would be useless to me behind a desk, sending out Howlers to an idiot who broke secrecy laws. I need someone who can think on her own. If they are moving out in the open, the worst strategy to follow is the same thing. You can blend into either community. You know all the key players, understand their mindset, and know their weaknesses. With you, the Canadian Ministry at least has a head start on this." He stops for a moment, puts down the photos, and retrieves his bag. "I've a list of applicants scrambling to work with you since they read this." He pulls out the report I wrote on Dolores. "This report is wonderful." He puts it on the table next to the photos. "The original position still stands; however, I created this new job opportunity just for you."

To be wanted, needed, validated, and vindicated all in one evening. What an incredible feeling. I am being handed my dream on a platter in front of me. I could say no, because I want to be lazy and retire. I have plenty of money. I can say yes to a stuffy desk job and be bored to tears. I can say yes to a job that is created just for me. Rupert would have loved this.

"I'll take the new position." I have so many mixed emotions I don't know if I want to smile or cry right now. "I am just... the Prophet and..."

"Just what..." Parks asks. "Let me guess, it's the bad press this year."

I nod stupidly, looking down at my lap. I shouldn't have brought it up. I need to control my verbal diarrhea. It would have to be brought up at some point.

"Something happened to you, and Rupert Osgood made that abundantly clear. He also explained about your little 'winter holiday in hell'," Parks relays emphatically. "Information coming from this side of the Atlantic is a bit suspect to us. We tend to take it with a grain of salt; make that the entire mine." He gives a wry smile.

We spend the better part of another hour discussing living arrangements, travel, my parents, and our common school experiences. At first, I thought Parks was a bit of a prat, but he is growing on me a bit.

I walk back up to the school happier than I have ever been in years. There is purpose in my life at last. My parents and I can live out in the open. I will be away from the Ministry's crap and politics at last. The North American Ministries operate closely with the Muggle government. There is little "us versus them" attitude. I am sure the Muggle government sees the Death Eater movement as any other terrorist threat, and action must be taken. We have weapons that the Muggles could never know in their worst nightmares.

Before I realize it, I am walking into the Entrance Hall. There are several Aurors I recognize and a very disheveled Dolores. She seems to have not seen me, because she continues to shout out instructions.

"Keep looking for that stupid oaf, Hagrid. I am posting a reward for his capture!" Dolores shouts. She turns to look at one of the injured Aurors who is trailing behind. "Go to the Hospital Wing and get cleaned up. I can't believe you were caught off guard by an old woman."

I try to sneak away before her temper finds me as a target; however, I am too late.

"Eleanor, I have attempted to arrest that useless, Hagrid, and Minerva is lying in the Hospital Wing after interfering. If you get involved, your fate will be the psychiatric ward at St. Mungo's. Prison would be too easy on you." She gives me a sinister stare and walks away.

My impulse is to see Minerva, to pay her back for all those times she was there for me. I know it would only be a token effort, but it is better than nothing. Hagrid is the lucky one. At least he has escaped from here. Now, Minerva is in the same position I held so many months ago. We are now back to square one.