Anomie

Chapter Seven: Manipulations

Questions, if posed to a more foolish person than Voldemort, were instruments of power. But he already knew what he intended to tell Rue - the trick was making her think she'd asked for it.

She was thinking. The relative slowness of others' minds was a constant frustration, but he tried to be patient, as he had learned to be in the past few tedious years. Finally Rue asked, 'I want to know what really happened when that Auror - von Rot - was killed here.'

Voldemort stamped down a sudden surge of panic. No; surely she hasn't figured it out, he realized - her gaze was curious, not accusatory. She knew nothing.

'That's morbid of you,' he answered cautiously. His face was a mask of reluctance, as though it wasn't pleasant for him to recall that day. Hopefully she would apologize for the question entirely or get defensive about being called morbid; either way, Voldemort could deflect her attention to something else.

But to his surprise, Rue did not speak. She stared at him expectantly, unwilling to budge, and Voldemort recalled that she must have taken an Interrogation Methods class in Auror training.

The best option left was to lie.

'I won't say I'm proud of it,' he said, biting the inside of his lip to make himself look concerned about her opinion - which of course he was, but in an entirely different way. 'I admit I am a murderer, and an unrepentant one at that -' denying that would be laying it on too thick '- but I genuinely prefer less gore. It was a disgustingly Muggle murder, wasn't it? The less said about it, the better.

'Suffice to say that I was being treated badly, and von Rot simply had to go. I was, I admit, desperate.'

There. It must have been luck that the girl stumbled onto such a potentially revealing question. Even Aeron Vale, the most trustworthy of his guards (or the least, depending on one's perspective), didn't know the truth of it.

He thought he saw sympathy. Forgiving him for one transgression was a significant step toward forgiveness for, or blindness to, the rest.

'Is there anything else you wanted to ask?' he prompted her. They didn't have all day.

'I...well...why...I mean, why did you kill all those people? Why did you decide to be evil?'

How pedestrian, and how amateurish to ask him two questions at once. Now Voldemort had her on track (or rather off it) and took control. Pleasantly, he said, 'I killed whenever it suited my purposes to do so. As for why I decided to be evil -' and here he added a sprinkle of bitterness to the mixture '- well, it wasn't a decision, not precisely...'

People fit in boxes. Rue was female, young, naïve, and all she would need to turn her into a blubbering mass of pity was a nauseating sob story. He hardly needed to add anything: vague hints of abuse at the orphanage, an underplayed impression of isolation instead of domination of his schoolmates, a lust for knowledge and justice instead of power that led him to the Dark Arts.

It was too easy.

But it was also slow and delicate; this first strand in his web of deceit was only to draw her closer. Next he would build dependence by destroying her connection to others. It was a formula he'd followed before with tweaks here and there.

And for a brief instant, the thought of doing it again was tiring.

***

Ron was ready to give it up as a bad job.

The cassette tape from the Muggle's body was sitting ineffectually in the ugly brown machine that was supposed to make it go. It had taken Ron several minutes to get it in right, and now nothing was happening when he pressed the triangle. If Hermione was right, and she always was, there should be some sort of noise coming out of the ruddy thing.

But every time he depressed the triangle, the machine "clicked", and the triangle popped up again. It was infuriating, and he'd have thrown it by now if the tape wasn't (maybe) a vital piece of evidence in a murder.

'Come on, damn it,' he muttered, pressing the triangle down for the umpteenth time. The same thing happened: click, pop, nothing. Ron was going to go mental. McLaggen was bound to demand an update on the case soon, so he'd have something to tell the press, but Ron wouldn't have much to tell him unless he got the tape working.

Ron heard the telltale squeak of the archivist's cart coming to a halt a few cubicles away. Distracted and hopeless, he didn't block out the quiet conversation, especially when he heard his own name mentioned.

'...then Weasley got the good case,' grumbled Dawlish. 'Lucky bugger, I bet he's not filling out paperwork right now...'

I almost wish I was, thought Ron. He hadn't felt this much pressure for results in ages.

'I'm sure that Mr Weasley will solve the case in no time,' said Phi, voice brimming with confidence.

Ron wondered what Phi was doing in the Auror Office again that day; he thought the junior archivists took turns with the dull work of paper collection. Phi did seem to end up with the unpleasant job more often then the others, though. It was just as well, because Ron needed a break from the damn tape, and Phi was always ready and willing to talk.

'Hey Phi,' Ron greeted him even before the cart was quite at Ron's cubicle. 'Having a good day?'

Phi's eyes shone excitedly, as though talking to Ron was the highlight of his day. Even if it was just Phi, Ron couldn't help but feel complimented.

'Mr Weasley!' he said in a dramatic whisper. 'How's the case going?'

Ron grinned lopsidedly as he realized that this probably was the highlight of Phi's day. He'd wheedle whatever information he could out of Ron and then gossip it back to the rest of the office. But Ron couldn't fault him for it, having used his service so often in the past.

'Pretty crummy,' admitted Ron. 'I can't get this thing -' he jabbed at the tape player '- to work.'

Phi looked as though he might burst as he said, 'I know how to work one of those! I could help you if you'll let me!'

Ron was surprised; he'd never pegged Phi as a Muggle-born. There wasn't any reason for him not to be, Ron supposed. 'That would be great.' And it would save Ron a lot of embarrassment.

Phi popped the tape machine open and took out the tape. Then he turned the tape over and pressed it back into the machine. He closed it and pressed the triangle down, and for once, it stayed down.

'That's it?' Ron felt like a complete idiot.

'Yes, but there doesn't seem to be anything on it. It's supposed to make noise when you turn it on. Let me check the volume...no, the volume's up all the way. I think the tape must be blank, Mr Weasley.'

Ron stared. 'Blank? Are you sure? Maybe you just didn't do it right.'

'I'm certain I did, sir. Look, the reels inside are spinning, but nothing's happening. There's nothing but static.'

'That's stupid. Why would a Muggle be carrying it with him, then?'

Phi didn't answer; he set the tape player back down. 'Sorry,' he said, eyes downcast. 'I really wish I could have helped more.'

'S'okay...' said Ron, sighing. What a waste of time. 'Hey, wait, before you leave...'

If Phi was a Muggle-born, maybe he would know something about Ron's other clue. Ron opened the desk drawer that he'd stuck the evidence in and pulled out the pen he'd found on the victim's body. He showed it to Phi, pointing at the words on the side. 'Have you ever heard of RASP Europe?'

Phi seemed to consider the pen carefully; Ron was surprised by his thoughtful expression. He'd never considered Phi to be the sharpest knife in the drawer, and he guiltily admitted to himself that it was probably because of his gimped legs.

'I can't say that I have,' Phi replied after a moment, 'but if you go down to the Hall of Records, you can look it up through the Muggle computer network.'

'The what?' asked Ron. Even though it was just Phi he was talking to, he felt a little stupid for having to ask an archivist how to examine his evidence.

Animatedly, and without any condescension in his voice, Phi explained, 'Muggle computers can access almost any Muggle information there is. I don't really know how it works, but there's a really helpful girl who keeps it all running somehow.

'I could show you...er, that is, if you want me to...I don't mean to bother you, if you'd rather...'

Ron doubted he would even find the "computers" without help - the Hall of Records was enormous - and the other junior archivists were irritating snots. There was no question in Ron's mind that he wanted Phi to come along. 'Nah, you're no bother. Thanks a lot for the help.'

Phi's pale face managed to turn a little pink at the praise.

The trek to the Hall of Records was always agonizing. It was located on the first floor with all the other administrative sections, only a floor above Ron's office, so in theory it shouldn't take long to get there. But the door was far from the elevator, and the hallway was constantly jammed with the shuffling underlings of the Minister for Magic. It was too loud for conversation, so Ron was forced to trudge along like a reanimated corpse.

But at least Phi's slowness wasn't an issue here. Ron had been a little antsy on the way to the elevator, forced to move at a third of his normal speed just so Phi could keep up. But it wasn't as if Phi could help it, and even Ron, not known for his tact, wouldn't think of complaining.

The Hall of Records itself was a tall, arching set of rooms and corridors with several floors. Its existence was made possible through advanced magical expansion of the otherwise office-sized space it was squeezed into. Though there were a handful of people coming and going, there was far less activity than in any other section of the administrative floor, and the atmosphere was relaxed.

As they passed to the left of the help desk, under the sign marked "ENTER", the fellow manning the desk grabbed Phi by the shoulder. 'The wicked witch is after yeh,' said the moustached man.

Ron didn't have any idea what the man meant. Phi smiled back cheerfully. 'Thank you for the warning,' he replied. The moustached man shook his head and let them pass.

'Wicked witch?' Ron asked. They were moving toward the Archive for Phi to dump off the cart of papers he'd taken from the second floor.

'He means the Head Archivist,' said Phi, not seeming worried at all by the warning he'd been given. 'She can be irritable at times, but she's really a very nice person once -'

'BRECHT!'

The howling voice sounded like a cross between a human shout and the squawk of a crow. A quill-thin matron stalked toward them, face purple and eyes glaring from behind her spectacles.

'Hello, ma'am,' said Phi calmly. 'How can I help you?'

Phi's unflappable expression only seemed to make her more furious than ever. 'Mister Brecht!' she said icily. 'Where have you been all this time?! How long does it take for you to do a simple thing?'

'I've been on the second floor, ma'am, picking up papers to add to the archives. It usually takes me less time, but I stopped to chat more than usual.'

Ron's eyes bugged out as he stared at Phi. Didn't he have any common sense? Everyone at the Ministry goofed off a great deal of the time, but they didn't just admit it baldly to their bosses...at least not if they wanted to keep their heads. He felt obliged to step in. 'It's my fault, ma'am,' he said. 'Phi - er, Mr Brecht - has been helping me out with a case for the Auror Office.'

Ron hadn't even known Phi's last name until now, and calling him Mr Brecht was very weird.

'Oh no, it's not your fault, Mr Weasley. I was terribly late before I even got to the Auror Office,' said Phi blithely. 'It was the Improper Use of Magic office that slowed me down the most. I spent over half an hour there.'

Are you insane? Ron wondered. One look at the matron told him that she was going to blow her top any second. 'Phi!' he hissed through his teeth, smiling falsely.

Phi was already talking again to the matron. 'I'm sorry if I was needed here instead. Do you want me to stay late to make up for it?'

Ron was certain he was about to witness a very nasty firing. Then, out of nowhere, the matron's anger deflated, as if she just couldn't stay furious anymore. 'Oh Phi, no...just...' she sighed. 'You're the only one who can file the Animagus applications properly, and we got three in today out of nowhere...our quarterly review is coming up this week, and there's no telling if we'll get a surprise inspection...'

She grabbed the cart from the other side and took it out of Phi's grasp. 'Just...please, for a few days, let someone else go round collecting reports, I beg of you.'

'Yes, ma'am,' said Phi. Although he was calm and collected, Ron thought he caught a little disappointment in his voice.

'Come on, Mr Weasley. I'll introduce you to IT.'

Ron didn't know what IT was, but he took his place next to Phi again and they kept walking. 'Wait, you volunteer to collect reports? I thought you people hated the job.'

Phi grinned. 'Most of us do, but I enjoy the change of scenery and the people. I'd do it every day if they'd let me, but sometimes they need me here too much to let me go.'

An archivist who liked talking to people was almost an oxymoron - they all liked stuffy, dark rooms with no windows and as little conversation as possible. Ron wondered if Phi was in the wrong line of work.

'Here we are!' said Phi. He indicated a cheap wooden door hiding around shelves stacked with Ministry paperwork.

It was a typical stuffy, dark room with no windows. There was a woman sitting at a desk facing the door; she looked up briefly to see who was there and then turned back to the glowing box in front of her. 'Oi Phi, what can I do for ya?' she asked, still facing the box.

'Hey Theresa,' greeted Phi. 'Mind if I turn the light on?' He was already doing so as he asked.

'Nope,' she said, continuing on with her work, or whatever she was doing, as if she hadn't noticed.

'This is Mr Weasley. He's an Auror, and -'

Her eyes shot up at his name. 'Oi, you related to Hermione Weasley by chance?'

'She's my wife,' replied Ron.

Theresa got to her feet and walked around the desk. She was wearing entirely Muggle clothes: tight blue jeans and a tight t-shirt. On the front of the t-shirt, it said: There's no place like 127.0.0.1. Ron didn't have a clue what it was supposed to mean.

She shook his hand with a firm grip. 'Hermione's the one who got me this job,' said Theresa, eyes sparkling behind her rimless glasses. 'She finally managed to convince these technology illiterates that they need to get current with the Muggle world - not that she's great shakes with computers herself, but at least she knows someone ought to be, unlike those idiots on the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee who haven't picked up a Muggle Studies book in three decades...'

'It's great to meet you,' stated Ron once he could get a word in. He'd never heard of Hermione supporting anything like this, but it wasn't as though she told him about everything she did. They both liked to leave work at the office most of the time. 'I'm hoping you can help me find out what this might stand for.'

He brandished the pen, and she took it from him, inspecting the writing on the side. 'RASP? Hmm...'

She shuffled back around the wires and humming metal boxes around her desk and started making quick-paced tapping noises again. 'If it's a Muggle acronym, I'll find it. I suppose since it's written on a pen it must be some organization or other, so that leaves out all the technical terms...should I assume it's in English?' Theresa looked up at him, waiting for a reply.

Ron hadn't thought that RASP could be in another language, but it didn't seem likely. 'Let's stick with English for now,' he decided.

Phi and Ron stood by while Theresa tapped and clicked on the Muggle machines - commuters, if Ron remembered it right. He took a look around the room: it was barely possible to move without kicking over a box or stepping on scattered red and black wires and Muggle things that Ron wouldn't even try to identify.

There were posters and pictures all over the walls, most of which were as confusing as Theresa's t-shirt, and a desk like a student's from a classroom. The desk was topped with several old mugs and a coffee pot, along with a large tin of coffee that was open and three-fourths empty. A large yellow sticker on the front of the desk, which Ron identified immediately from one of Hermione's civil rights campaigns, read 'I'M A SQUIB...AND PROUD OF IT!'

That campaign to integrate Squibs more fully into the magical community hadn't gone overly well. Ron had told Hermione from the start that it wouldn't take off, because hardly anyone would even admit to being a Squib, and those that would certainly didn't want to be paraded around as examples, but it looked like Theresa had benefited from it.

'Come on, you bloody thing!' she cursed. 'Damn magic is always interfering with the signal strength...all right, here we are...hmm...RASP could stand for the Reusable Avionics Software Project, but that wouldn't have its own pen...or it could be the Register of Accredited Service Providers, but since that's only in the UK it doesn't make sense for the pen to say "Europe" too...

'Oh, I bet it's this one! Researchers of Astonishing Supernatural Phenomena! That makes much more sense, doesn't it? I'll check if they've got a European branch...'

Soon they not only confirmed the existence of a European branch but that the European branch was actually the organization's headquarters. Theresa gave Ron an address in Manchester for the headquarters, told him to say hello to Hermione for her, and he was off and running.

...Until McLaggen stopped him on his way out of the Auror Office and demanded a progress update, and then insisted that he write up a summation to present to the media the next day...