The Magical War Detective I: The New Protector

The Magical War Detective I: The New Protector

Chapter Three: First Impressions

Wednesday, November 13, 1974
Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Guernsey Office

Alice deposited her trunk in her rented room above the Knarl and Griffin. She ran a brush through her hair and smoothed her robes before setting off to find the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Guernsey Office.

She frowned at her reflection in her small hand mirror. First impressions mattered and the last thing she wanted was to appear before her new boss looking like a scruffy schoolgirl. As she tried to unsnarl a tangle, her comb slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.

Alice winced; dropping a comb while combing hair was a sign of a coming disappointment. As she knelt to pick up the comb, Alice wondered if this were a portent or mere superstition. There were many customs regarding hair among wizards. Some, like burning cut off hair were merely sensible, but others were simply bizarre like the threading a strand of hair through a frog's throat for luck before a wedding. Alice had pitied the frog when her sister Dorothea did it.

Finding the Office proved to be a challenge despite the Magical community of St. Peter Port occupying only one winding street. She was not accustomed to the steepness of the streets and was exhausted after ten minutes. Eventually one of the locals took pity and directed her to a tiny office squeezed in beside a photography shop.

Alice paused to consider her appearance outside the photography shop under the guise of examining the window display.

"You must be mindful of the image you present to the world!" her Aunt's Opal's' disapproving words thundered through Alice's mind. No matter what Alice thought of that particular aunt, she acknowledged the woman had a point.

Unfortunately, the image she currently presented was not her best. Her hair was decidedly windblown and lank, though combing her fingers through it seemed to remedy the worst of the mess. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her brown eyes were bright. Alice sighed. She was still wearing her Hogwarts cloak, albeit without the school crest and with a different clasp, and if she had worn her school robes underneath she would have stood a good chance of being mistaken for a fourth year. She had always had a sweet face more suited to a little girl than a grown witch, but there was little she could do about that now. Maybe her mother's suggestion of make-up had some merit; but in this damp, it would probably have smeared so she would look like a fourteen-year-old clown.

Once she was paid, Alice resolved to find a new cloak. And some different robes in a better cut would not be amiss; perhaps even a few cosmetic potions. After all, just because she seldom bothered with such things did not mean she had no idea how to use them.

She adjusted her scarf and gave her hair a final pat. She could stand there by the window all day or she could go into the office, and she knew which she had to do. She took a deep breath and reached for the door. After a moment of fumbling with the handle, she got the door open and stepped over the threshold. It was warmer inside the office; whether that was the result of heating spells or simply being out of the cold November air was impossible to say.

"May I help you?" asked an old man in violet robes seated behind a desk. She though she saw him slide the Daily Prophet society page into a drawer, but couldn't be sure.

"I was sent here from London," Alice said, trying not to sound breathless as she produced a sheath of papers from her cloak pocket. "Alice Pevensey, I believe I'm expected."

The wizard stared at her, his expression switching from bored to suspicious in under a second. "Miss Pevensey." He pronounced her name with extreme distaste.

Alice bit her lip. Even here, practically in France, she could not evade her family's reputation. She wondered how much the Guernsey Office knew.

The wizard seemed to be expecting something from her. She felt her gaze slip down to her shoes before she caught herself and focused just behind the his left ear. She refused to allow herself to slide back into childish habits.

"I don't know your name," she said hopefully.

"Basil," the man said. Alice wondered if Basil was his given or family name, but before she could ask, Basil steered her into another room where there were two battered wooden desks, only one of them filled. The wizard at the occupied desk had his feet propped up on the top of a filing cabinet and seemed to be half-listening to a programme on the Wizarding Wireless Network.

"Pevensey's here," Basil announced before leaving Alice to fend for herself. He hadn't even told her who the wizard was, but she suspected he was Ketterly, her new boss.

"Andrew Ketterly," the wizard said gruffly, confirming her guess. He did not stand to shake her hand. "I'm Chief Protector here."

Ketterly studied her carefully under hooded blue eyes. Alice felt as though she were a bug pinned on a card.

"I petition London for seven years for help and they send you. Fortunately, for you, I'm accustomed to being the sole Protector in these islands, and it'll stay that way since it will take time to train you up. You will be learning the basics for a while," Ketterly said. "I hope you don't have any romantic notions of investigating murders any time soon. This isn't Baker Street."

"Baker Street?" Alice finally found her voice.

"Sherlock Holmes? Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?" Ketterly looked at her expectantly. "I suppose those don't ring any bells."

Alice shook her head. "I'm sorry. Is that a Muggle film?" Alice knew that Muggles sometimes knighted their actors.

"Books, actually, though many films have been made from them."

"Muggle books can turn into films?" Alice was very impressed.

"Not in the way you are thinking," Ketterly allowed himself a small smile.

* * *

Andrew spent the afternoon showing Alice how to fill out some of the simpler forms. There was no better way to disabuse a trainee of unrealistic expectations than by introducing them to paperwork. By day's end they had made their way through a good portion of the paperwork Andrew had been putting off.

The next morning, Ketterly decided to take Alice along when he interviewed Morris Jakes' neighbour Mr. Bradley.

Bradley was an elderly wizard who still walked with a limp from a youthful duel gone awry. When Andrew identified himself the old man invited them in and offered tea. There was no surprise in his face - he had clearly spoken to Jakes and knew to expect investigators - but more importantly, there was no hint of anxiety or deception. If anything, Bradley seemed to regard the visit as a welcome change from his routine.

Bradley invited them into his home and offered tea. Andrew was pleased to note that Alice looked at him questioningly before she took a sip. He nodded; the tea was safe, a bit weak for his taste, but safe.

"I must ask what you were doing when you saw the Mark," Andrew asked after taking another drink. He set his enchanted quill to record the conversation exactly, even if it insisted upon adding marginal notes during lulls in the conversation.

"I'm a poor sleeper these days, curse causes me leg to dance sometimes," Bradley explained stoutly. "I went to make tea and looked out me kitchen window and there was that thing plain as daylight. I called Morris, as he works for the Ministry."

"Did you see anyone when you looked outside?" Andrew asked.

"I thought I saw movement, maybe figures in dark cloaks moving about the garden. At least two, but without my glasses on it was hard to tell for sure," he made an apologetic gesture. Witnesses often wished they could offer more.

Out of the corner of his eye Andrew saw Alice shudder at the mention of the Death Eaters. "Have you seen any odd characters or things in the area?"

"Other than Mrs. Randall's apple crumble?" Bradley forced a grin. "I wish I could tell you more, Protector Ketterly, but there isn't anything to tell."

Ketterly realized there wasn't much more to be had from Bradley and so asked him a few more procedural questions before standing to leave. They thanked him for the tea and collected their cloaks.

"Death Eaters often scout ahead," Ketterly explained as they left Bradley's house and approached a Muggle residence. "They like to be in and out as quickly as possible on a raid."

Alice nodded. "It doesn't sound as though they were here long."

"No," Andrew said. That it took only a few minutes to murder three innocent people and turn a little girl into an orphan was a chilling thought. He had heard that an aunt and uncle in Essex would take in Charlotte Landry. "It doesn't."

Posing as Muggle detectives looking into a burglary in the neighbourhood - a good ruse since there almost always had been at least one theft within the last few months - they moved quickly down the street.

It was only when they interviewed a retired accountant called Mr. Phelps who lived three doors down from the Landry cottage that Andrew and Alice heard anything substantial. Mr. Phelps recalled seeing a supsicious character.

"One was a woman," Phelps said. "Sure of it. She wore this queer dress. It looked like something a monk might wear except it was green and lilac. The get-up some folks wear these days."

"Hippies," Andrew declared with authority. Sometimes planting a false suggestion without magic worked better than any Memory Charm. "What did she look like?"

"Skinny as a rail, sandy hair. I didn't look at her face as much as that outfit."

"We'll look into things," Andrew said. He pressed a special card into the man's hand. It contained a charm that would discourage Phelps from speaking to his neighbours for a few days. Andrew hated doing it, but he had to uphold the Statute of Secrecy and it was better than modifying his memory.

"Hippy?" Alice shook her head as they left the street in search of a good place to Apparate. "I though Phelps said she had the rain thin. Are Muggle rails shaped differently than ours?"

Andrew sighed. Purebloods. "He meant he thought her one of those young Muggles who are rebelling against...well everything established. They wear odd attire and Muggles call them 'hippies.'"

Alice paused in mid-step. "They rebel against everything established?"

It seemed a bit much to Andrew as well. The establishment was flawed but overthrowing it would be worse. "Just about."

Alice shook her head, obviously unable to comprehend that much rebellion.

* * *

Andrew had Alice copy his notes from the interviews with Bradley and Phelps into the file. Writing legibly was a challenge for him, and he was relieved to have a trainee with a fair hand. Fortunately there had not been too many pauses in the conversation so there were only a few comments from his quill ('Protector-Trainee Pevensey should not gulp down her tea...' 'Looks like rain this afternoon...') in the margins. Then Ketterly quizzed Alice on regulations and finally sent her home with some more reading.

After she left, Basil opened his desk drawer and removed a letter bearing a Ministry seal. He brought it over to Andrew.

"This came while you were out, for your eyes only," Basil said. Andrew noticed a scorch mark on the inside of the secretary's sleeve.

"You're lucky there wasn't a more fearsome spell on this letter," Andrew remarked. Basil suffered from an insatiable curiosity.

Basil scowled at him. "I'm going home. Take care."

Andrew opened the letter. As he had half-expected, it was from Crouch asking him to meet a Ministry agent at a Muggle pub in London.

He had wanted the Department Head's attention. He had it now.

* * *

Despite the inconvenience of travelling to London, Andrew could see the wisdom of meeting outside Guernsey. People knew him by sight in the Channel Islands. In Britain, he was just another face in the crowd.

The Ministry agent was a tall, black-haired man whose bland features would easily melt away into any gathering. Andrew doubted this was his actual appearance as his slightly awkward strides hinted that he was unaccustomed to his height. Polyjuice Potion. Andrew kept his wand just up his sleeve.

The wizard took the empty seat next to Andrew. "I'm told you support the Cannons."

Andrew well remembered how to play this game. "I've heard you're an Arrows fan."

"This will keep anyone from listening in on our conversation." The agent held up a small pink lighter. "It also lights cigarettes. Do you smoke?"

Andrew shook his head.

The Ministry wizard appeared disappointed that he would not be able to use the lighter. "Do you have any leads on the Landry murder?"

At least the agent was willing to get to the point quickly. "A Muggle saw a witch in the neighbourhood before the murder."

"I'm sure that narrows the suspect list a little."

Andrew smiled bitterly. "Thousands of wizards in Britain, half female. And none of them would inspire trust in Mr. Phelps."

The agent shrugged. "Trustworthy and suspicious are relative."

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "Very profound. Do you study philosophy?"

"Yes," the wizard said simply.

"Odd interest, especially in times like these."

"I don't admire warriors," the agent said. "It's a sad day when such professions are called for. It means we have failed."

"I see," Andrew said. And he did. There was not a wizard in the Ministry who recalled the days before Voldemort who did not regret having done something to stop him before the trickle of deaths and disappearances became a raging river. "Any other advice?"

"Be careful whom you trust. These days that advice cannot be repeated too often."

"Indeed," Andrew said. This meeting was proving more interesting than the dull report he had expected. He wondered at the identity of the Ministry agent; his interest in philosophy hinted at a Muggle background while his disappointment at not being able to use the lighter spoke of magical blood. "And how would you evaluate Miss Pevensey?"

The agent gave him a bemused look. Physically the other man looked to be in his late thirties, but his attitude told Andrew he was dealing with a younger man. "I thought that was what I was supposed to ask you."

"She hasn't been trouble so far," Andrew said honestly; he was surprised to feel protective of Pevensey. "But then again, she hasn't been given any opportunity."

"When will that be changing?"

"I plan to take her to view the Landry family before they are released for burial. Louis Landry was only a few years younger than she is."

"Will you warn her beforehand?"

Andrew shook his head from side to side. "My instincts tell me Pevensey is trustworthy, but my mind won't rest until I've tested her. Her response to Muggles is more one of curiosity than of hate or suspicion, but I need to see her raw response to their deaths."

* * *

The St Peter Port morgue was not a place Andrew Ketterly cared to frequent. His visits here were a duty he tried to execute as quickly as possible.

"This place smells odd." Alice sniffed the air disdainfully. Andrew supposed this was her first exposure to chemical disinfectants. "Where are we?"

"The smell is from the Muggle cleaning potions and we're in the morgue," he said as he led her into the room. The last time he had been here was when Olivia Baker had passed.

He flicked on the lights.

"How did you do that?" Alice asked, her eyes as wide as a child presented with some marvellous new toy.

"There's a switch right here." Andrew demonstrated how to work the lights but nothing would do but Alice trying out the Muggle lighting herself. Perhaps out of guilt for what he was about to do, he allowed her to continue for a minute.

While Alice flicked the lights on and off, Andrew moved to the refrigerated section where the bodies were kept. He read the labels on the outsides of the drawers that at the moment resembled nothing more than a wall of oversized filing cabinets. Then he found the ones he needed. When Alice moved to join him, he pulled one out. He uncovered the body and waited for Alice's reaction.

She went a half step forward, trying to determine if what she was seeing was indeed what she thought it was. Then she went pale and her hand flew to her mouth.

"He's dead," she whispered. From her face Andrew knew this was the first dead person she had ever seen. The thought reassured him.

"They all are." Andrew indicated the other drawers. "You and I are the only living souls in this room."

* * *

There were over a dozen drawers and inside was a person, a dead person. Alice had to brace herself not to faint, and she noticed a peculiar humming coming from behind the drawers.

"William Landry, age 41," Andrew began in a mechanical tone. For some odd reason sounds seemed to echo. Andrew's voice, the strange humming noise she couldn't quite place... She had initially dismissed it, but now it seemed as annoying as a fly buzzing her ear. "A solicitor. Husband to Colette Landry, father to Louis and Charlotte. His daughter is a second year at Hogwarts. Cause of death is the Killing Curse."

The memory of the red-eyed little girl she had glimpsed at the Ministry floated in front of her. She heard Andrew close the drawer with a thud that almost made her jump. It was such a final sound.

He opened another drawer. "Colette Landry, 38, housewife. Married for eighteen years to William Landry, mother of Louis and Charlotte. Also killed by the Killing Curse."

He closed the second drawer. Alice tried to remember how many Muggles had died in the attack, but the humming distracted her and made it hard to think. She thought there were three victims; if so there was one more body to view.

Andrew did not look at the face of the final victim. "Louis Landry, 15, student. Son of William and Colette Landry. Brother to Muggle-born witch Charlotte Landry. Murdered using the Killing Curse."

Alice could not help but stare at the dead boy. He was only four years younger than she was. The humming seemed almost deafening.

"What do you notice about the bodies?" Andrew might have been Professor Slughorn quizzing her on the reasons for the success or failure of a potion.

"They don't move," Alice found herself saying. It was a barmy thing to say about the dead.

"The dead are usually still unless a Dark wizard chooses to animate the corpse," Andrew said with black humour. Alice had read of Inferi and shuddered. The motionless dead were unnerving enough.

"They look so pale and wax-like," Alice whispered. "They almost might have been asleep except for their stillness."

Apparently she had stumbled upon whatever observation Ketterly wanted from her. "The Killing Curse leaves no visible mark, but it can be distinguished from other causes of death in two ways: first, there will be no physical reason for the death. Second, the victim doesn't decompose at the normal rate."

Alice nodded. She remembered that much from school; the lessons on the Unforgivable Curses remained etched in her mind.

"The slowing of physical decay is built into the curse," her instructor wheezed. He was her sixth teacher in as many years. For some odd reason, no Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher ever lasted more than a year. "It permits the castor to make use of the body in various Dark rituals for a longer period of time."

Alice paused in the middle of her notes; she had never considered herself especially squeamish but she hoped Professor Hargrove would not elaborate on the 'various Dark rituals'. Still, the subject exerted in her a kind of horrified fascination. A covert glance at her classmates proved that they too were hanging on Hargrove's every word.

"In fact, initiation into many Dark Arts cults culminates with the commission of a murder with the Killing Curse. Not only is it a demonstration of one's power and ruthlessness, but it is a point from which there can be no return. The Unforgivable Curses are not so-called because they control, torture, or kill - there are a multitude of other spells and potions that accomplish the same thing. Nor are they Unforgivable because they require hatred, enjoyment of another's agony. No, they are thus named because of what they do to the castor." Hargrove paused for dramatic effect. He knew he had the full attention of his students for this lesson and relished it. "The Cruciatus Curse and Imperius Curse twist and stain the soul. The Killing Curse is the worst of the lot not so much because of its outcome but because it actually splits the castor's soul for a single moment."

"Why would someone use such a spell?" her classmate Marian asked. Only that morning word had come of the death of a classmate's grandfather, a retired Ministry worker, due to the Killing Curse. It was the weapon of choice of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers.

Hargave regarded her carefully over his bifocals and said simply: "Because they can."

As she stared at the quiet features of a boy who would never become a man, Alice remembered how inadequate an explanation Hargrove offered. And time had brought her only more questions.

I'll never understand why people murder, Alice realized as she trailed after Andrew, relieved to at last leave that lifeless, noisy room. And I'm glad I won't.