The Bureau Of Loopholes

"They've done what?!" Marley Macmillan demanded, staring at the face in his fireplace. "How could they . . . I'll be right on it," he answered, scrabbling to throw his official robes on over the day robes that he wore during 'time off'.

"Good." Chris Fletchley, the chief officer for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, shook her head. "I know your ways, Macmillan. Don't do anything that could get us in trouble. Your prejudice won't help anyone."

"Got it. I'll get the others." With that affirmation from her subordinate, Chris took her head from the fire.

"I hope he doesn't hurt anyone," she murmured, thinking of her own radical days. Though her protests had been in the name of feminism, she could reluctantly sympathize with any civil rights cause. It felt wrong to order a supremacist pig like Marley to handle a job that he'd enjoy too much, and accomplish with sick, sadistic glee. He was in charge of the Hit Wizard units, though, and so it followed that he should handle this task. Still, the thought of what brutalities he might commit drove Chris shuddering into the kitchen, where she drank two cups of coffee – black. The wireless reports would surely be out after a bit, though it would be hideously late when they did come out, and she wanted to be awake to hear about the inevitable violent acts that her men would perform. So I'll know not to make this mistake in the future.

 

Marley Macmillan was preparing a team of Hit Wizards for an assault on a most unexpected place – the Minister of Magic's lawn.

What did those . . . those things think they were? What right did they think they had to invade a human's property? Were they even capable of thought? Marley frowned. It did no good to get philosophical about a bunch of creatures that claimed to be human. It just made his job more difficult. He didn't need complications in his job.

The Hit Wizards were to Apparate within the crowd, stun everyone in sight, and then perform banishing charms on them that would send the freaks off government property. The next step in their mission was to erect a magical barrier around the place, ensuring that these H.W.A.I.P.C.'s would be unable to return to the grounds. It was a simple mission, and one that suited him. An added benefit: they could be as rough as they liked, if they met with resistance. It was clearly stated in DMLE regulation 42b, Marley's personal favorite and the one that Fletchley had campaigned the hardest to eradicate.

"Ready?" he asked his team. "Remember your Apparation points. Five. Four. Three. Two. One!" As the countdown ended, fifty wizards disappeared from the small, crowded chamber and reappeared among the protestors.

 

It was pandemonium. Remus had been about to reply to Rita Skeeter with a polite demurral when a witch in black robes with 'DMLE' emblazoned on the back suddenly appeared in front of him. She'd caught her breath, shuddered, and had begun to cast Stunning Spells with terrifying alacrity, sending people toppling right and left. Those few who had realized what was going on had scrambled for cover, some screaming, those with more presence of mind Apparating away, some, like Remus, dodging behind flower pots and pillars in hopes that they would be spared. As Rita Skeeter had fallen, a tower of yellow with flamingo-hued spots, Remus had sprinted to a topiary garden. And watched the bloodless battle continue with wide eyes.

From his place, hidden in the shrubbery, Remus saw the Hit Wizards check everyone for signs of consciousness with sharp raps to the fleshy parts of their bodies. Sometimes, a choked cry would rise, followed swiftly by a shout of "Stupefy!" A few sentences spoken by the Hit Wizards were audible, not that they did him any good. ("We've hit some journalists, Marley! The press is going to hate us for this." "Is that a hag, then? Must be, she's so horrid-looking.")

"You! What're you doing here?" demanded a harsh voice from behind him, and Remus froze. "Turn around," the voice ordered; he slowly complied. The man was thickset, dressed in DMLE robes, with a wand out.

"Sir?" Remus tried, biting his lip and extending a hand. The man recoiled, stepping back, his wand quivering.

"Hands up, you inhuman thing! Stupefy!"

Remus didn't hear the sickening crack that his head made as it met the flagstones.

 

When Sirius came to, he found himself buried in a pile of bodies. Their dead weight pressed on him, and he fought a wave of nausea. That skinny man with the weasel face had kicked him in the stomach and Stunned him . . . and then he was here, surrounded by a stinking, oppressive mass of flesh that might or might not be alive. Ugh.

Fighting his way through the heap, Sirius finally reached the relatively clean air of the city. He surveyed the mound that he had only seconds before been a part of – a grim sight. Robes in a miasma of hues were strewn through a sea of limp, corpselike bodies with limbs flung out at grotesque angles and faces wearing only abject terror or betrayed surprise . . . it looked like some scene from a holocaust.

Sirius slid down the pile, trying not to crush anyone more than necessary, and made his way to the edge of the property, where a pale fire had been lit against the impending gloom. The forms that huddled around that fire somehow seemed more pathetic than the heap of hundreds; these hunched figures, unlike their unconscious counterparts, knew that they had lost their battle.

He joined them, feeling the same overwhelming defeat. A man he didn’t know offered him some chocolate, which he declined – perhaps the hunger strike was still on. The man shrugged, popping the candy into his own mouth and leaning back. He obviously didn't think it necessary to abstain from eating.

"A bit of a fiasco, wasn't it?" he asked, tossing the wrapper into the fire. "Still, we're one step closer."

"One step closer?" demanded the woman sitting on his right. "We were rounded up before we'd even begun to protest! If that's what you call progress, I'd hate to see what you consider backsliding!"

"Don't you see?" asked the candy-eater. "They got the journalists, too. Writers and newscasters have their pride; they'll send out scathing reports on police brutality. Which can only make us look good. And if we have the media on our side, how long will it take for the people to follow?"

Across the fire from Sirius, a man nodded. "If we'd stayed where we were with no DMLE interference, the public at large would have eventually grown sick of coverage. Those few that supported us would probably turn away, finding some less publicized cause to advocate. However, this defeat has presented us with a better situation. We will be depicted as a movement worth supporting, an 'underdog', if you will. And another important fact: Rita Skeeter was among the journalists that were Stunned. She takes any available opportunity to disparage this group or that – with this turn of events, it'll be that group rather than this one." His accent was mildly French; were foreigners joining the protest, then?

As more people gathered around the fire, Sirius finally permitted himself a smile. Yes, the people around the fire knew that they had been defeated. But for the first time, that was beginning to sound like the winning position.

 

 James and Lily had stopped paying much attention to the wireless after Tricia Snyder's transmissions had been 'mysteriously cut short'. They had decided by mutual, unspoken agreement to straighten up the results of their arrival while they waited for Sirius to return. While magic was used where nothing else would have sufficed, tasks like reinstating the pictures on the walls and restoring the hapless desk to order were performed by hand. Once the room had been restored to its previous state, husband and wife sat together on the couch, listening with half an ear to the wireless as they watched the gloom deepen.

After some time, the announcer stated in a relieved tone that Tricia was back with the results of 'crowd control' on the part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

"While on assignment at the site of the protest, I was witness to cruelty and barbarism initiated by a pack of howling animals – I am referring, of course, to the DMLE Hit Wizards. They Apparated within the crowd, gave the protestors no opportunity to disperse, and fired Stunners into the throng. I kept from being shot down for some time by pretending to have been Stunned, but this only gave me an opportunity to view the true face of the DMLE. They systematically beat everyone, checking for those like me who were pretending unconsciousness. I wasn't spared their shameful violence; a man kicked me in the stomach three times, stepped on my chest, and then Stunned me. When I awoke, it was at the edge of a huge pile of bodies: this was where they had unceremoniously dumped us. After asking among other victims, I found that, even as bad as it looked on the outside, the truth was far worse. As it stands, there have been thirty-seven casualties reported. Fifteen of those were results of severe beatings or other intentional bloodshed, nineteen deaths were caused by suffocation, and the remaining three are cause undisclosed. The names of the victims are not being released at this time. If the Department of Magical Law Enforcement can casually kill humans – yes, these so-called 'monsters' are, indeed, human – then I lead us to the question: how much will we let slip by? Will we ignore the real monsters in this case?"

Tricia Snyder's tirade died down, to be replaced by The Brooms' new hit single, 'Poison for the Soul'. James and Lily didn't look at each other, though they clasped hands. The unspoken question remained, poised, unasked. Was Sirius one of the thirty-seven nameless casualties?

 

Peter Pettigrew began writing, paused, and then scratched out the sentence. It didn't have the right tone, didn't grab the interest . . . no good. And so Peter rethought the sentence, checking its wording, and wrote it down. Much better! He liked writing, and hoped to become a novelist some day. Not a journalist; Lily had told him enough horror stories about that line of work that he doubted he would ever want to enter her profession. Anyway, he had a full-time career at the Bureau, and he didn't need another all-consuming job. Writing for relaxation, though, was to his liking. Settling into his desk chair, Peter turned on the wireless for some good writing music. And he caught the broadcast of the aftermath of the protest.

"Will we ignore the real monsters in this case?" The phrase, though it referred to the Hit Wizards who had been the perpetrators of mass murder, cut at him. The Bureau was as much a guilty party as any other, if only because of its refusal to jeopardize a successful business by taking a stand.

Peter found another piece of parchment and began to write a letter. He wouldn't ignore the real monsters; how could he, when he was one of them?

 

Chris Fletchley woke at the harsh tapping sound on her kitchen window. She had expected this, of course. After the stunt Marley had pulled, criticism was only natural. Welcome, in fact; she felt that she deserved some Howlers for being so stupid as to sanction such official action. But to her surprise, only one owl awaited her. It was a smallish creature, rather sad-looking, and it carried a white envelope.

"Whose are you?" she asked the bird, opening the window to the night. The owl landed on her arm, dropped the letter, and flew out as quickly as it had come.

Four years ago, before she had entered the DMLE, she would have stooped to catch the envelope before it hit the ground. Now, though, she led a more sober life. Chris bent to pick up her mail, then sat down again by the counter.

 

Christine Fletchley,

I am sorry that I could be no more polite with you, but I think you should reconsider your job as chief officer of your department. If prejudice is going to color your judgement to the extent that you condone or are negligent of the murder of humans, I don't believe that you are fit for the position. Previous to this, I held you in high regard; you seemed willing to make necessary changes for the sake of mercy. How could you have changed so much? I am willing to help anyone who wishes to bring charges against you and/or the Department of Magical Law enforcement. You may be facing legal suits in the future. Prepare yourself.

 

Peter K. Pettigrew

Co-director of the Bureau of Loopholes

 

This simple letter hurt her more deeply than any other message could have. How could someone think she didn't care? How could they think that this was on her orders? Because it was. Because, no matter how much you try to deny it, this is all your doing. Your orders, your directives, your bad decisions.

Chris put her head down on the counter. No tears. She didn't like crying. No, Chris Fletchley was doing something more relevant than weeping. She was planning a defensive move that would get her out of this mess. That is, provided there was one.