Anomie

Chapter Eight: Reminiscence

Two Days Later:

Hermione was hugging Harry tightly like a choking vine. She was worried about something, he could tell. He hoped it wasn't him and returned her embrace with stiff limbs.

It was a small outdoor Muggle cafe in London, a cheerful place with small glass tables and metal-backed chairs warmed by sunlight. They met here for lunch on Thursdays often during the summer months, whenever Harry couldn't find a suitably good excuse to avoid the encounter.

Hermione ordered for them both - their usual - with a pleased look, and smiled at Harry too broadly for him to trust.

'What a week,' she said, sighing. 'I'm exhausted. I can't believe it's only Thursday.'

Harry wasn't any more or less exhausted than usual, but he didn't work as hard as Hermione. He nodded and looked sympathetically at her.

'Do you know how hard it is to get the Ministry to obey its own rules?' she continued. 'Three formal complaints from house elves this week, and you know how bad things have to be for them to speak out about the way they're treated...honestly, sometimes it feels like things haven't changed at all...'

Harry nodded slowly, sipping at his cool drink as soon as it was brought to the table. Hermione seemed to realize the absurdity of her final statement, spoken rashly as it was, for she went oddly quiet a moment and turned her attention to an ordinary Muggle couple walking by.

When Harry was finished drinking, he said, 'I agree,' though he knew that even she didn't agree with what she'd said.

Hermione looked ready to contradict him, but she let the matter drop into the ever-thickening fog of unspeakable subjects that separated them.

'How are things with Ginny?' she asked, apparently deciding to switch from one uncomfortable topic to another. Harry couldn't recall when he'd last talked about a comfortable topic with Hermione.

Were there any comfortable topics with Hermione?

'Fine,' he replied, knowing damn well that she wanted more than a one-word answer. 'What about Ron?' Harry had every right to change the subject too.

Her expression turned sour, and he was pleased, because it meant she had an opinion on the matter that she couldn't stop herself from sharing - no matter how much she wanted to push Harry into discussing Ginny. 'Awful. The Prophet's been lambasting him - and it doesn't help that McLaggen's kept him occupied with paperwork and interviews. It's as if he doesn't want Ron to find the culprit...'

She scowled at her glass. 'I've been wondering about McLaggen, to be frank...'

'Wondering about him how? Why?' Harry felt a little guilty that he didn't really care, but anything to keep her going. He resisted the urge to look at his watch to see how much longer he had to take this.

Hermione shook her head in consternation. 'Oh, never mind, I don't have proof of anything at all. I don't even have an accusation of anything in particular. He's just so serially incompetent that it's hard not to wonder if he's holding up the investigation on purpose - but it's probably just McLaggen being McLaggen...'

McLaggen being an idiot was something they could both agree on; maybe there was a safe topic after all. 'Never was the fastest broom in the shed, was he?' Harry commented in an offhand way before he took a sip of tea.

'Ron's come home exhausted the past couple of nights,' she continued, worried, 'but I haven't seen him so driven in years.'

Hermione looked at him askance; they both knew exactly when the last time Ron had been driven was, and it wasn't a pleasant remembrance. They could never keep from stumbling into some awful recollection for long; there was too much history between them and no alcohol.

A broken, demented scream, shards of a windowpane on the floor, thin lines of blood across her face -

'I'm sorry, Harry, you were saying?'

Harry hadn't been saying anything at all. Hermione was dazed, not being nearly so practiced as Harry at recovering from slips down memory alley. He felt a blossoming empathy and sense of understanding that caused him to reply, gently, 'I was saying how Ginny and I are doing. I haven't done anything to change things since the last time we talked about it. I know I should, but...'

That was as far as his honesty could extend, even to himself.

She seemed to appreciate his effort, since she didn't scold him as she sometimes did for his lack of progress. 'You two should set aside some time together to talk,' she said, her expression showing her good intentions.

'I know. I know.'

Their lunch orders arrived then. The understanding between them dissipated into the ether as they ate, and after several minutes Harry could tell that Hermione was already concocting something else by the way her brow furrowed as she picked at her food. He couldn't blame her; she knew, and he knew, that despite any good intentions at the moment, he wouldn't take the difficult step to turn them into action.

Unlike Harry, though, Hermione thought she could do something about it. She had become more and more insistent in her attempts to fix him lately, as if he were one of her projects getting near its deadline.

The shoe finally dropped. 'I've been meaning to ask a favour of you.'

For Hermione, there wasn't much Harry could say to that except, 'Anything.'

She took a deep breath like she was about to blow into a horn. 'I've been hoping to help Ron relax a bit - forget about work for a while - and I'm wondering, unless you and Ginny have plans, maybe you could watch the children tomorrow night? I know we've never asked you to before '

She could never keep that shrewd gleam out of her eyes when she'd thought of something clever. Harry had the distinct feeling he was being set up; he'd never been asked to watch their children before, which was odd in itself when he thought about it. 'Can't you get Fleur to do it?' he asked probingly.

'She's...not available.'

He knew Hermione was lying, but he couldn't imagine why. Trying to figure it out would probably take more energy than babysitting anyway, so he answered, 'I guess so. I don't have plans.'

Except drinking, but she'd just lecture him again if he mentioned that. He'd still have time for a pint or two after the children were in bed.

Hermione jumped on his assent at once. She was altogether too excited. 'Great! I know you'll have a wonderful time! I'll tell them to be on their best behaviour!'

The rest of their discussion was no more than neutral pleasantries about the weather and home decorating. Harry attributed this to Hermione being overly pleased about the babysitting, because normally she'd not have let him get off so easily about Ginny.

A boring conversation was better than a quarrel.

***

'Now just so you know, we haven't touched anything since the police left - and our story is the same, no matter how crazy you think it is. Maybe you people will just have to start believing in things outside what's considered "normal" to solve this case!'

When Ron had entered the headquarters for the Researchers of Astonishing Supernatural Phenomena, he hadn't expected it to be another crime scene. But he'd played along, pretending to be an inspector sent by the Muggle authorities, and he now found himself investigating a thorough ransacking of the office - one that had occurred despite an untouched locked door and no damage to the windows.

Devices that looked like Muggle "computers" were blown to bits, other gadgets were smashed beyond recognition, and the desks were covered in the ashes of burned papers. He'd nearly stepped on a pen as he walked in, broken in two, identical to the one found on the body.

The man showing him around - a pear-shaped, bespectacled fellow with slick hair and a quiet voice, whose name Ron hadn't found out yet - looked at him in an unfriendly way. 'I know you people think we're mad, but you can't explain it, can you?'

'It is mysterious,' he acknowledged casually, still playing a clueless Muggle. 'Nothing seems to have been stolen...does your group have any enemies?'

'No...at least, I didn't think so, but our boss has been missing for days now. His wife filed a missing person report, but we haven't heard anything since. He went to London for a meeting and never came back...personally, well, I and some of the others think he was murdered.'

Ron thought so too, but tried not to let it show. 'Why do you think that?'

'Come on, you must have heard of that murder - the one in the middle of the day, no gunshots fired? It was a wizard or witch who did it, we're sure of it.'

'Hmm,' muttered Ron noncommittally. 'So you believe this break-in has something to do with the disappearance of your superior...why is that?'

The man directed his eyes toward the floor. 'What's the point?' he asked bitterly. 'You won't believe me.'

'Try me.'

Unconvinced, he agreed curtly, 'Fine. Mr Creevey was -'

'Mr Creevey?'

'My boss.'

'Ah.'

'...Anyway, what our group does is put together all the evidence we can to show that magic exists.'

He waited a moment, looking intently at Ron as though expecting an objection, but Ron stayed quiet, so he continued, 'Everyone who works here has seen it with their own eyes - Mr Creevey's got some cousins who are wizards, even though they don't admit it because of their secrecy law. We usually collect interviews from people who've seen magic firsthand to get a better idea of what magic society is like.

'The rest of us still do the interviews, but Mr Creevey started on something else last year. He was getting all kinds of information on the magical world from somewhere, more than ever before - lots of us were pissed that he wouldn't share much - and he said something vaguely about being hired to calculate a date. Mr Creevey's got a degree in maths, see, and he had all this data plotted out on a downward curve that dropped off straight down at the end on a particular day. Sometime next year, I think - I didn't get a close look, and all his work is burned to a crisp now.

'But he finished his job a few weeks ago. Most of us think the wizard or witch he was working for must've decided to off him and cover up the evidence of what was going on. But we both know you think I'm a loon, so...'

'No, no, this is very helpful, really,' said Ron sincerely. It was true - now he had some idea of the motive behind the murder. 'Do you know who the, er, wizard hiring Mr Creevey was? Any idea at all?'

The man shook his head regretfully. 'I wish I knew. We're a little worried he'll come back to finish the job; we'll probably move headquarters as soon as our lease ends and our next funding jolt comes in.'

'Who funds you?'

Ron asked the question unthinkingly, more because he was curious than because he thought it important, but the uncomfortable reaction of the man made him pay close attention.

'I...we...well...no one, right now. Our founder funded us out of his own pocket for ages, but he left about, oh, seven years ago, and none of us have seen him since. We've managed to make due since then, but money's been tight. We try to interest people, but it's hard to be convincing without our really brilliant piece of evidence - besides, people are so sceptical nowadays, they think it's all special effects.'

Ron frowned in confusion. 'What "brilliant" evidence?'

The man's face - Ron really had to get his name at some point - lit up with interest. 'You want to see? It's nothing much now, but before it was amazing! We keep it in the vault still - too sentimental to give it up - so it hasn't turned to ash like everything else.'

He followed the man to a picture hanging in the deceased Mr Creevey's office, and he tilted it to the side to reveal a vault built into the wall. While blocking Ron's view, he turned the combination lock until the vault popped open.

Then, with gentle care, he reached inside and took out a glass box, which he brought over to Ron.

Inside the box was a copy of the Daily Prophet dated July 18th, 1943. It was folded so the front headline was visible: Grindelwald Losing Ground to Soviets. But there was something "off" about it, and Ron spotted it immediately.

The picture wasn't moving.

'It's a magic newspaper! The pictures in it used to move!' the man insisted in time with Ron's observation. 'They don't anymore...haven't even twitched for five years...I guess the spell stopped working.'

Judging by his tone, you'd think the man was talking about a death in the family.

Ron didn't know a lot about the magic that made wizarding pictures move, but he'd never heard of it wearing off before. It was disturbing to see a still, dead photo of a line of Russian wizards. 'Where did you -'

'We got it from the founder,' he interrupted, as though he'd said it dozens of times before, 'Dr Dennis Bishop, and he got it from the trash at the orphanage he grew up in. One of the other children could do magic, he said.'

Ron stared at the paper, particularly the date, feeling as though he'd been unexpectedly kicked in the gut.

No. It couldn't be. The world wasn't that small...was it?

Thin lines of blood across her face. Dead, dead eyes wide with fear. Her bloody, separated arm lying at his feet, his own scream coming from far, far away...

The memory smacked Ron so hard he swayed on his feet, but the man seemed not to notice. With a note of nostalgia, he added, 'This paper was what convinced me I really wasn't seeing things when I saw my second cousin turn into a rat.'

Ron's eyes bulged. 'What was your name again?' he questioned, his voice high and his heart beating quickly.

'Oh, sorry, didn't say, did I? Vincent Pettigrew.'

A double kick, then.

Ron had a Harry-like urge to get as drunk as he could.

And then he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a dull grey rectangle peeking out from the vault, nearly ready to fall to the floor. The sight of it was uplifting, a light of salvation.

Another cassette tape.

***

It was seven fifty two in the evening, and Voldemort was waiting.

If Aeron didn't get it to him today, he wouldn't have it until Monday. He knew, rationally, that it didn't matter if he acquired it a few days late - but it was a precious source of new information, of new thoughts to free him from circular contemplations of the past and directionless depression about the future.

'May I have your fives, please?' asked Ajit.

Voldemort had two fives in his hand. 'Go fish.'

'There's only one card left, and I have two fives. And you're going to win anyway.'

'Go. Fish.'

Ajit sighed, but picked up the remaining card.

'Fives,' said Voldemort. Ajit handed them over without comment. 'I win.'

'Congratulations,' replied Ajit calmly.

Voldemort threw his cards down on the table. Cheating was much more entertaining with Fairfax. He liked to assign point values to the different shades of red Fairfax turned when he caught him at it.

Then the door miraculously opened, and in walked Aeron, whom Voldemort had never been more pleased to see.

'You can head out now,' said Aeron to Ajit, smiling a little too widely - the man would never master subtle manipulation or even reach novice level. 'Ramsden is with Quigley and Edgecomb. They'll be up in a minute for the night shift.'

Ajit was reluctant, no doubt torn between the oh-so-important rule, constantly broken, about never leaving anyone alone with him and the chance to get home five minutes early. 'You're sure?'

'Yes,' said Aeron, annoyance showing through. 'Go on, I'll be fine.'

'Very well,' Ajit acquiesced. 'Good night,' he said to Voldemort. 'I'll see you on Saturday. Be good.'

'Aren't I always?'

Ajit shook his head as he left, though with a smile on his face. Voldemort immediately turned his attention to Aeron, who just as immediately took the tape out of his pocket.

'Zero was late,' Aeron said by way of explanation for his own tardiness.

Voldemort didn't even acknowledge that he'd heard him. The fingers of his left hand tapped the arm of his chair as he waited for Aeron to get on with it; soon he did, producing his wand.

Voldemort did not like letting someone else cast a spell on him, and had to battle his instincts just to let it happen.

'Cogitare simulo,' said Aeron. A snaking blue light wound itself into the tape, spinning the wheels, and then flew into Voldemort's head through each of his temples. The wheels in the tape spun rapidly, and Voldemort tried to ignore the sound being fed into his mind. Soon the contents of the tape would be part of his memory, and he could access them at will, but for now a fast, incomprehensible, and above all irritating squeak was all he could hear.

It was done in minutes, and Aeron managed to destroy the tape about ten seconds before Quigley and Edgecomb walked in.

***

In his mind, a sexless, slow voice spoke:

Three will be the first to leave the table...remove him by whatever method you choose...destroy all evidence of his association with the Organization...

Count two more off in threes by the end of the ninth month...

The threads are twisting slowly...I see it written in the sky...

The twentieth of May is the day the world will break...magic will shake and snap...

It will spiral through the gap between their souls...and it will be gone.