The Magical War Detective I: The New Protector

The Magical War Detective I: The New Protector
Chapter One: Green is the Colour of Death

Wednesday, November 13, 1974
St. John, Jersey

The radio in the kitchen played on but the last listeners were beyond caring for the music. A freckle-faced woman, her arms still covered up to the elbows in soapsuds from a sink full of dishes lay across the linoleum floor. Her husband was slumped beside her, a damp dishtowel still held in one hand. The shattered remains of a glass littered the floor. Upstairs, a teenage boy lay dead in his bedroom.

* * *

Of the way we were.
Scattered pictures,
Of the smiles we left behind

Morris Jakes, a local official with the Ministry of Magic, banished the Dark Mark floating above the Landry cottage.

Ten minutes earlier, his only Wizard neighbour, the elderly Mr. Bradley, had alerted him to the presence of the Dark Mark. Jakes had thrown on his dressing gown, hurried out the door and across the street to the cottage to dispel the hateful symbol before any Muggles saw it, and asked inconvenient questions. He had then made a quick search of the house for survivors. As expected, there were none - even the family rabbit was dead.

As he stared at the rabbit, he suddenly remembered the instructions the Ministry provided for those who stumbled onto such a scene: remove the Dark Mark, search for survivors from a distance with Detection Charms, then leave immediately and contact the Department for Magical Law Enforcement. He had completed the first two steps, but Jakes realized that he had yet to alert the Ministry or local officials.

Jakes had never trusted Floo powder, especially now with rumours of Death Eaters within the Floo Network. Owls would serve his needs. He dispatched two owls: his Brownie and a tawny bird borrowed from Mr. Bradley. One owl would fly to London and the other to the nearest Department of Magical Law Enforcement office in St Peter Port. All Jakes could do now was to wait until others came to deal with the aftermath of this tragedy.

Jakes ran a hand through his thinning hair; in his youth, he had worked in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Once he had even hoped to be an Auror, but now, after having been sick over Colette Landry's roses, he thanked his lucky stars that fate had set him on a different path.

He stared at the empty patch of sky where the Dark Mark had been hoping help would arrive quickly. All around him Muggles slept on, unaware of the horror perpetuated in their midst.

* * *

Smiles we gave to one another
For the way we were
Can it be that it was all so simple then?

Andrew Ketterly, Chief Protector for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Guernsey Office, knew something was wrong as soon as he heard the owl scratching on his window. He grabbed his wand from under his pillow and rolled over, glancing at the clock and frowning at the time. There was only one reason anyone would owl him at this early hour. While he thought it extremely unfair that bad news required immediate notification while good news could wait, Andrew knew his duty, and so turned toward the window.

He checked the owl for nasty surprises before opening the window. The bird hooted at him thrice before it perched on the headboard to wait for a reply - never a good sign.

He opened the letter. Until tonight, the only local casualties of the Death Eaters were a Ministry witch assassinated while holidaying on Alderney and a Sark wizard caught up in a rare daylight raid on Hogsmeade. Neither attack really hit home for him - one was a tourist and the other far away in Scotland. With a heavy heart, Andrew knew the war once relegated to what islanders called 'the Continent' had at last reached 'the states'. As his eyes skimmed the letter, they found what he feared: The Dark Mark hovered above three Muggle corpses on Jersey.

Andrew dressed quickly and Apparated to the address scribbled as a hasty postscript, and with a soft pop arrived in front of a darkened cottage.

"Ketterly?" An older wizard in a blue dressing gown squinted at him. He had his wand out, but his hand shook. Andrew thought that if it came to a duel, it would be easy to disarm him. Not that he expected anything of the sort, of course, but one could never tell.

"Are you Jakes?"

"Yes," the wizard confirmed. He looked immensely relieved to see Andrew. "Your robes are on inside out."

Andrew sighed. Not the impression he might have hoped for, but he had been in a hurry. "Is that the house?"

"Yes," Jakes said.

"Thank you for the owl." Andrew cast a simple Detection Charm on the cottage, but the outline of the building remained dark. Nothing lived in that house. "Did you notify London?"

"At the same time I owled you. Aren't you going to go in?" Jakes asked, curious. Now that he was no longer on his own, his courage grew.

Andrew indicated he would not be going in just yet. "Ministry procedure stipulates that we're not allowed to enter a Dark Arts crime scene alone. Sometimes dead bodies aren't the only things Dark wizards leave behind." It was best not to mention that sometimes even the corpses were dangerous. After surviving the war against Grindelwald, Andrew was not afraid of many things, but Inferi were definitely on that short list.

Jakes paled. Evidently, the possibility of a trap had not occurred to him. "But I..."

"You already went in," Andrew finished. Jakes nodded. "Now you know better," he said grimly as he checked him over and did not find any trace of curses. He had not really expected any. "But it's not a problem this time. You're clean."

"How long do you expect it will be before we hear from London?" Jakes asked.

"At least an hour," Andrew said as he wrapped his inside-out robes closer around his lean frame. It was freezing outside.

"Perhaps we could wait at my house," Jakes suggested. He had a need to feel useful. "We could have a cuppa."

"Which house is yours?"

Jakes indicated a house across the street from the Landry cottage.

"Good idea," Andrew said gruffly. He could correct his clothes inside, and could really do with the tea.

* * *

Or has time re-written every line?
If we had the chance to do it all again
Tell me, would we? could we?

Being an Auror turned out not to be the glamorous occupation Frank Longbottom and his girlfriend Alice Henshawe had expected. If anything, Frank felt he was combating sleep deprivation more than Dark Wizards, and was failing miserably at the former.

It was Wednesday now, but so early in the morning that sensible people were still in their beds. Frank could barely remember when the last time he had seen his bed.

The words of the report he was studying blurred beyond all recognition. He rubbed his eyes and the smears revolved back into something almost comprehensible. This was his third straight night on duty at Auror Headquarters.

He stiffened and reached for his wand at the sound of footsteps approaching from behind; he no longer felt secure even buried in the heart of the Ministry. Frank turned to find Weatherby, Mr. Crouch's secretary, coming towards him. He recognized the secretary's stiff stride; this would not be good news. These days it never was.

"This arrived for an Auror." Weatherby slapped the letter down in front of Frank. Until now, it had been a quiet week, but the Death Eaters would often conduct a series of attacks and then fade away for weeks. Frank feared that another round of attacks was about to commence.

Frank slit the letter open with his wand and winced as he read the contents. Three innocent people were now dead. He did not have to owl his superiors with news of this latest attack; he knew Moody and Crouch had sequestered themselves in Crouch's office to discuss the need for more personnel to join the fight.

Frank got up to inform Crouch. He would send an owl to Dumbledore later. There was no need to employ the techniques designed for Order members to communicate securely, not that he felt capable of a Patronus now. No, an owl would do. This was just a simple warning for the sake of an orphaned girl. No one deserved to learn such terrible news from a schoolmate or a newspaper.

* * *

Mem'ries, may be beautiful and yet
What's too painful to remember
We simply choose to forget
So it's the laughter

Bartemius Crouch had a map of the British Isles in his office. The map was a work of art, but littered with little jewels indicating the locations of Death Eater attacks. A handful of rubies labelled attacks where no one had died; emeralds marked most of the locations, jewels the same hue as the Killing Curse, the colour he now associated with death. The map invariably attracted the attention of visitors, which was the point: drive home the threat of You-Know-Who and his followers.

Alastor Moody studied the map while his boss read the latest reports. Jewels obscured London and Hogsmeade, even after Crouch enlarged the map and began to employ smaller markers.

"Almost everyone has been affected," Crouch said heavily.

A conspicuous vacancy of jewels in the lower right corner of the map drew Moody's attention. "Channel Islands are unmarked, excepting that incident on Alderney last year."

Crouch nodded at the single emerald blotting Alderney. "Gwendolyn Galloway. I believe she was a Junior Minister in Magical Catastrophes."

"Holidaying with her husband," Moody shook his head, as he pressed his thumb against the emerald and a brief description of the attack unrolled in front of him. The Galloways were once his neighbours and he had been a frequent attendee of their dinner parties...

Crouch shuffled through a stack of parchment nearly as tall as he was. "One attack and the office on Guernsey have never stopped petitioning for extra personnel," Crouch grumbled. "I personally think we developed language because of our deep inner need to complain."

Moody scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Isn't Guernsey just Andrew Ketterly and that ancient secretary of his?"

Crouch blinked in surprise. He was not as familiar with the situation in the Channel Islands as he ought to be, but as Department head he had to focus on the areas under a direct threat. Still, even for a quiet office, Guernsey was woefully understaffed. "Two people?" Crouch repeated. "And one a secretary?"

"Ever since Claire Dupree retired," Moody confirmed.

That explained Ketterly's pleas. Ketterly's late brother Louis had been set to take over the Crouch's Department a few years previously and Crouch had always dismissed the brother as a man accustomed to special attention. "We don't have any trained people to send him."

"Then send him someone to train up," Moody suggested. "Ketterly used to train Hit Wizards back during the forties. He transferred to Guernsey after Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald. I don't think the transfer impaired his skills too much; he trained Dupree, after all."

Crouch knew a great deal about Lewis Ketterly but his knowledge of Andrew was limited. He decided to review Andrew Ketterly's file, though he expected it to contain even less insight than Moody had provided. His predecessors had not been interested in the keeping of detailed records.

Moody's idea was an attractive one. Crouch could envision sending someone for Ketterly to train, then transferring the trainee back to London after a year or two. Field experience was field experience. Even if the Dark Lord were defeated tonight, Crouch was all too aware that the wounds of civil wars had a tendency to linger and fester. "Do we have anyone suitable to send?"

A consultation with the applications ensued. The Aurors and Hit Wizards had just begun a new training program and had reduced their stack of applications to the questionable and the unqualified.

Moody was considering the rejected applications. "There is this one," Moody said, scrutinizing a slender file before passing it over to Crouch. "Nineteen, no criminal record, good references. NEWTS... 'O' in Defence Against the Dark Arts, 'E' in Charms and Herbology, but only an 'A' for Potion and Transfiguration."

Crouch scanned the file. Officially, the Aurors and Hit Wizards took only candidates who earned 'Exceeds Expectations' or better on at least five NEWTS. Unofficially, it was a requirement often bent in these darkening days. "Alice Pevensey." The surname was familiar but it took Crouch a moment to place the family. "Her mother is a known sympathizer who associates with the Malfoys and contributes to the Wizarding Genealogical Society. There were rumours about her father and Greyback."

"Doesn't mean she feels like they do," Moody insisted. Crouch wondered what Moody knew about Pevensey, but as he offered no evidence, Crouch suspected the veteran Auror was relying on some combination of instinct, rumour, and intelligence from Dumbledore. While Crouch preferred solid facts with verifiable sources, he had learned to trust Moody's instincts, which were usually good. Moody did not provide his endorsement lightly and Crouch decided to give Pevensey a chance.

"You want to send her to Guernsey as a test, and if she shakes out we can use her here?" Crouch fully approved of Moody's reasoning. If Pevensey proved to be a Death Eater or even a sympathizer, the damage she could do on Guernsey would be limited. They might even be able to use her to provide false information or in tracking the Death Eaters. If she proved loyal, they would gain another desperately needed Auror or Hit Wizard in a year or so. "Good thinking."

"Thank you, sir." Compliments from Crouch were rare but always sincere when offered to a subordinate. Flattery was strictly reserved for those in more senior positions.

"I'll owl Ketterly," Crouch said. He could already see an additional benefit: it would get Ketterly off his back. He banished the letters from Guernsey to the waste-paper basket.

Someone knocked on Crouch's door. Both men stiffened and Crouch saw Moody reflexively reach for his wand. The hour was either very late or very early depending on perspective, but either way, there could be only one reason for the interruption.

"Enter!"

A haggard Frank Longbottom appeared in the doorway holding a letter. "Attack on Jersey. Three Muggles dead: William Landry, his wife Colette, and their fifteen-year-old son Louis. They have a daughter, Charlotte, in her second year at Hogwarts."

The family of another Muggle-born child slaughtered. Crouch's gaze moved across the map from London to Jersey where a new emerald was emerging. Jersey was no longer free of the Dark Lord's taint. "Witnesses?"

Longbottom shook his head. There were never witnesses. "None yet. Fortunately, a Ministry employee - Morris Jakes - lives nearby and his neighbour Mr. Bradley saw the Dark Mark. Jakes was able to remove the Dark Mark before any Muggles saw it."

"Longbottom, send an owl to Dumbledore straightaway," Crouch ordered, "We don't want Miss Landry finding out her family is dead from the Daily Prophet. I also want you to take a discrete look into Jakes and Bradley. Moody, I want you to go to Jersey and see if Ketterly remembers how to conduct a proper investigation. Tell him we'll send Pevensey to Guernsey straightaway. Make certain he understands the situation."

The two Aurors left to carry out their assignments and Crouch stared in disgust at the new jewel. It was difficult to believe that he had once thought that emeralds were beautiful.

* * *

We will remember
Whenever we remember...

Every light in the headmaster's office was ablaze, but Albus Dumbledore felt as though a misty black veil shrouded his vision. He put the latest letter from the Ministry into his desk drawer, even the sight of the note made him ill. Another student would be spending Christmas at school, staring morosely into her pudding, unable to focus on anything but the contrast between the happier times of memory and the abyss of loss.

"Another death?" Phineas Nigellus asked sharply from his portrait.

"Charlotte Landry's family."

Phineas nodded, then pretended to return to sleep, as the family was unknown to him. Albus had known the original Phineas and noted in him a man who believed he would witness the destruction of his line, and saw this worry arise with every letter from the Ministry.

Albus glanced past the portrait at the hourglass. It was only half past four in the morning. Charlotte Landry could sleep a little longer before he had to deliver the news that would destroy her childhood.

* * *

The way we were...
The way we were...

Sometime later in the morning, an employee at The Jersey Evening Post prepared a story concerning the tragic deaths of the Landry family from carbon monoxide poisoning along with a plea for people to take precautions.