The Bureau Of Loopholes

"Death Eaters? You don't mean the cult?" Lemuel asked, taking an involuntary step back.

Severus Snape shook his head. "That's our difficulty," he explained. "We, like you, are hated by the populace. And also like your people, we're all thought to be vile and dangerous because a few can't or won't control themselves."

Mr. Claret nodded, ashamed that he had reacted on preconception—exactly the kind of thing that he was trying to campaign against. The Death Eaters were suspected culprits in mass murders of Muggle-born families, were said to be raving monsters . . . but was that any better than the reputation that vampires, werewolves, and hags had acquired? Was it any more justified? "I see what you mean. But your . . . why do you call yourselves 'Death Eaters'? The name does make one think of barbaric things like killing, sacrifice and such . . .."

The young man waved off the hesitant comment. "We haven't altered the name out of respect for tradition. It's a very ancient group, with a basis in the early, barbarian ages. It was founded by Salazar Slytherin, and eradication of 'impurity' was its goal. However, we live in more . . ." and he cleared his throat meaningfully, " . . . civilized times. Some dunderheads still hold the old values and methods, but the majority of us maintain the group as a chance to keep up with our acquaintances. And our leader, Mr. Riddle, is interested in getting some new recruits. When I heard about your benefit dinner, and how you'd like to have allies in high places, I thought that we could . . . collaborate. You could get money and support, and we'd have a chance to recruit. Mutually beneficial."

Lemuel was visibly relieved. But then a thought struck him, and he frowned. "Seven hundred and fifty galleons is quite a lot to pay, to get new members for a club."

With a sympathetic smile that looked as out of place on him as a whale in the desert, Severus Snape answered, "Look at your people. They need the money. It would be so helpful to programs like the one for werewolf children, and you wouldn't have to do anything but let us talk. Even Death Eaters can have hearts."

Though still mildly suspicious, he was melting at the thought of what could be done with the kind of funding that was being proposed. And if the Death Eaters gave their word that they'd only talk to his followers, rather than force them into membership, what harm could it do? "All right, Mr. Snape. I accept your offer." The Death Eaters' offer. "But . . . would you mind just going as representatives of the D.E. Club?" He offered a hand to shake.

Severus reached out a long-fingered hand, briefly clasping it around Lemuel's. His hand was cold. "Certainly," he replied, pulling away with the kind of haste that comes from dislike of physical contact. "Just send me an owl with the place and date, and we'll transfer the money to your account—you do have a Gringotts account, don't you?"

"Yes. And thank you very, very much, Mr. Snape. You have no idea how much this will help us!" With a nod of acknowledgement from both men, they went their separate ways.

Severus Snape retrieved his book from its place on the counter and headed out into the humid summer air. He looked over his shoulder at the bright lights and cheery sounds of the tavern, and shuddered. Why on Earth had he gone in there in the first place? How could others enjoy such close quarters? All those bodies, the incidental contact, the . . . the sheer concentration of people made him queasy. But he still mustered a sharp laugh at the thought of how trustingly Mr. Claret had extended a hand, the excited half-grin, the confidence in his eyes. That poor man believed him! And perhaps that belief stemmed from the fact that Severus had never exactly lied. The group was old, and some members thought it to be outdated. And Lord Voldemort—or 'Mr. Riddle', a name that the Death Eaters had agreed to use when talking of their lord in the company of the unaffiliated—did want new recruits. Faced with a choice between acceptance and denigration, where would the loyalties of vampires and werewolves lie?

"Sir, it is you who have no idea how much this will help us." He tried a chuckle, but all that he could manage was a somewhat painful cough. Perhaps the situation wasn't quite as humorous as he'd supposed. Or perhaps he was just developing a virus. Either way, Severus slunk down the road with considerably less good cheer than he'd had.

Lily woke from her slumped position on Sirius' couch as a loud bang resounded through the house. She shook off James' loose embrace and began searching for the source of the crash. There'd been word from Patrick McKinnon, a freelance writer and a full-time Auror, that a cult was assaulting Muggle-sympathizers . . . could it be a raid? She slid her wand out of her pocket and, crouched low to avoid detection, moved toward the door.

An earsplitting laugh made her flinch, and then there was the sound of something breaking . . . perhaps it wasn't an attack, but more of a stunt, a teenage act of vandalism. Rowdy juveniles . . . that kind of person made her blood boil. A harmless, well-intentioned prank that got a laugh from everyone was all well and good, but breaking and entering to defile someone else's home . . .! Lily felt a righteous anger spurt up. With decidedly more confidence, she stood and stalked into the small foyer.

And smacked into Sirius Black.

"Sirius?!" She backed away. He'd gone and gotten himself drunk again; she could smell it.

"What? Why are you here?" he asked, and his slurred voice confirmed it: Sirius was completely intoxicated. He cocked his head to the side, squinted, and then shut one eye. "Lily?"

Lily looked around, seeing the other two for the first time. Remus looked the most sober of the bunch, and even he was wobbling (though that might well have been from exhaustion). She crossed her arms. "All of you, to bed, now! I don't want to know why you've been out this late, and worrying us! We were afraid you had died, Sirius! And I suppose you were both involved in this protest fiasco, too?" she demanded. Remus looked defiantly guilty, and Peter seemed almost ashamed. "And topping off the night with drinking, of all things! What were you thinking?!"

Remus volunteered a comment. "We hadn't intended to. But we ran into a friend of Peter's from work, and he kept us on for a few hours. Sirius is the only one who was drinking." Peter hiccuped. "Er, Peter was introduced to champagne," he amended.

Lily felt her ire die; she'd never been able to stay mad at any of them for long. She shook her head, and offered a smile to Remus. "I hope one of you knows a charm to cure hangovers, because Sirius will probably need it in the morning."

Sirius claimed his bed, falling onto the mattress with a thud that shook the furniture. Peter peered through the doorway for a moment before finding a blanket and curling up comfortably on the living room floor, where he surrendered to sleep.

Lily returned to her husband's arms, regretting the debacle just a bit. She hadn't meant to be so harsh. She hadn't meant to . . . whatever she hadn't meant to do was drowned in a warm clasp, the rhythm of James' heartbeat, and soon, the ebb of a soothing dream.

Watching these others make their own peace with slumber, Remus sat and stared through a window at the waning moon. It was only a sliver, too thin for most to see . . . but he knew where to look. All over the world, and particularly here, a race of monsters, a race of beasts, a race of humans was glaring at this imperceptible sliver and hating all that it stood for.

"We're human. All of us. Doesn't that mean anything?" The whisper was too dim, too thin, for most to hear. But perhaps, all over the world, and particularly here, thousands of voices lifted, and whispered the same words. Perhaps, where one voice was insignificant, thousands of voices might reach someone's ears, and be heeded. Perhaps . . ..

Perhaps it was just wishful thinking from an exhausted optimist.

Chris Fletchley had slept two hours. This had occurred somewhere between six and nine o'clock in the evening. She had woken with the owl from Peter Pettigrew, and that had been the first of a flood. Yelling voices were still ringing in her ears, from Howlers and the neighbors shouting about the racket . . .. It was currently seven in the morning, and she was reporting in to work at the office.

Work began at eight on Saturdays.

Sitting on the sidewalk outside the DMLE office, feeling morose and irritable and most of all tired, Chris yanked the many letters she had received last night out of her coat pocket. There had been Howlers and to spare, angry threats of legal suits or personal violence, frantic pleas to release the names of the casualties from relatives and loved ones of H.W.A.I.P.C's, suggestions that she do several physically impossible things, and worst of all: one letter praising her.

Dear Head of the DMLE,

I would like to congratulate you on your attitude toward these monsters. The only way to deal with such creatures is to kill them, or else they get notions of their humanity. And you did it very neatly and methodically, good job. I'll be available to help you with your next strike, and I'll be sure to bring my friends. We are very proud that you've finally seen the light on this issue.

Sincere Thanks,

Jason Macnair and friends

That letter was perhaps the most disgusting thing she had ever read. The thought that someone could feel that way about people . . . feel like Marley Macmillan felt. He was exactly as prejudiced, and furthermore was sexist; he thought she was unworthy of heading the department because she was a woman. And she didn't even want to think about the Board of Judges, now presided over by that insufferably old-fashioned Margaret Blake. Not one compassionate edict since she had taken over. Their last ruling, permitting headmasters of schools to discriminate on basis of 'purity', was despicable. Other countries had those laws already; Jarvod Polovsky, Muggle-born international liaison between the British and Hungarian ministries, had been turned away from Durmstrang, and had had to travel to a smaller, less adequate school in Italy to receive his education. A brilliant man like that, denied decent teaching!

There was a bit of comfort in the nasty letters; they showed her that people still cared enough about their fellow man to speak out. Humanitarianism wasn't dead yet.

Chris Fletchley, chief officer of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, rubbed her eyes and wished for a cup of strong coffee.

"Macmillan, you're fired."

The stout man stared in shock.

"Fired. You have two days to set your affairs in order. Then I want you out of here. You will be receiving your monthly paycheck and compensation for the lack of notice. You will not be receiving your bonus." Chris drained her mug and swiped at her bleary eyes.

"But . . . but you can't fire me!" he gasped.

"I can. You violated DMLE principles, disobeyed directives from your superior officer, and on top of that you're facing charges of murder. I suggest you hire yourself a lawyer or contact the Bureau of Loopholes, because otherwise you are likely to face up to twenty years in Azkaban."

Marley Macmillan gathered up his courage. "You can't fire me because I acted within the regulations. It specifically states that resistance to DMLE officers who are acting within their legal rights makes the resister subject to the officer's jurisdiction."

Chris glared. "You beat them for sport and you know it." She leaned over the desk so that her face was inched from his. "And I know very well that I can't prove it. But it also states in the regulations that a chief officer may hire or release officers on his or her initiative." Sitting back down, she added, "So I'd start packing."

Time to play the sympathy card. "But I have a wife, and a young boy! Berle doesn't work, and little Matt . . . he's only four, miss!"

Clenched fists, a deep, rattling breath drawn through her teeth. "These people you killed had families, too. And you left these families with no chance to pick up the pieces. You can get another job. They are DEAD."

She would not back down on this issue. Marley looked away. "I'll go. I don't need women like you breathing down my neck." He stood, and turned to go. She stopped him.

"Badge, Marley." He glared. "Badge." Reluctantly, he unpinned the thing and threw it at her. It knocked the coffee mug to the floor, where it shattered. Then Marley Macmillan walked out of the office for the last time.

Good. That was over with. Now, on to cleaning up the mess that Macmillan had created. "Reparo." The coffee cup became whole again. And now, on to his other mess. The one that no mere spell could fix.

Chris reached into one of the drawers of her desk, withdrew a bit of powder, and threw it in the office fireplace. "Cleatus Sullivan!" she shouted. A man appeared in the fireplace, spinning around and coming to a stop facing her. He coughed.

"I wish you wouldn't do that, Christine," he gasped. "The ashes . . . make it hard to breathe." More coughing ensued.

"You heard about what happened last night."

"Yes, I have," Cleatus answered. "Terrible muddle, I'm glad I don't have to fix it." He saw her uncomfortable expression. "I have to fix it, don't I." Chris nodded. He uttered a colorful phrase or two. "Well, best get to work, then. Do you know the bloke who was in charge of that strike?"

"Marley Macmillan. I fired him."

"That's good, but I meant the protest. You'll have to publicly apologize to this fellow first."

Which would be fine, if she knew the man. "I have to find him first. I don't know who he is."

Cleatus threw up his hands in exasperation. "You're just intolerable, Christine. What do you expect me to do? Put memory charms on everyone who knows about the incident? Beg on hands and knees to the world to forgive us, please? If you don't even know the name, how can you expect me to help you?"

"Find out. I'm assigning you to fix this, however you manage to accomplish it." Cleatus sighed. "And don't give me that. I know you like investigative work. Here's a chance to get on the inside, find a bit of information, and relay it back to me. Investigation at its finest."

He tried, and failed, to hide a smile. "It will be rather interesting, won't it? I've always wanted to meet vampires and werewolves and such." This time, his efforts to look serious were more successful. "But I'll need you to pull your end of this. I can't do it alone, and you'll have to bother with the media and arranging the talk and rubbish like that. It should be a ghastly amount of work, so I'll get a friend of mine to help you at it. His name is Robert Finch." Mr. Sullivan saluted, and made a move toward the door.

"What, don't you want to travel by fireplace again?" Chris asked, teasing.

Cleatus brushed at the ash that still clung to his robes. "I think I've been damaged enough, thank you. Good day, Miss Fletchley."

The relief that Chris felt at having someone else doing this job was smothering. Cleatus was good at what he did, and more importantly, could be depended upon.

Things were looking up at last.