Promises Unbroken

Promises Unbroken

Chapter Eleven: Salute to the Fallen

It wasn't quite the Quidditch locker room, but for some reason, he was reminded of those days. Of course, he'd only played during his sixth year (the combined pressure of studying for the N.E.W.T.s and being Head Boy had kept him off of the team during his seventh) but the memories were still pleasant and strong. Memories...there were many of them, some bitter and others sweet, because much had changed since those days. The dreams he'd had at Hogwarts had faded, now, driven under by the weight of duty in dark times. Once, Bill Weasley remembered wanting to be a Gringotts curse-breaker. Now he was an Auror.

The ready room wasn't quite the Gryffindor locker room at Hogwarts, and the atmosphere was different. His companions here were much more serious than his teammates had ever been, even in the aftermath of losing the Quidditch Cup to Slytherin his sixth year. Here, there was more than House points or prestige at stake--theirs was a game of life and death, and in a profession with a death rate of almost seventy percent, one couldn't afford lapses in concentration. As such, there was little banter while they prepared for missions; there was only silent and solemn preparation. In other situations they were more friendly, but even considering that, Aurors were professionals and formed few deep friendships. Few lasted long enough to become more than just casual acquaintances and co-workers.

Bill Weasley had been on the job for seven years, which was five years longer than the average Auror. It was a statistical fact that most Aurors died during their first six missions. Fully a third of the ones who made it past that point never lived through the mandatory six month long Mentorship. After that, survival rates went up--but so did the number of Death Eaters who held a personal grudge against you. Experience was a double-edged sword, and it cut both ways. Bill Weasley wasn't quite yet what the others considered an "old timer," and that was a fact he was very glad of. Most of the old timers were dead.

Unwillingly, his eyes drifted to the far wall with that thought. Over the past decade, that area had become known as the Wall of Heroes. Soon, he knew, they would have to create a second of that kind, though, because the bronze wall was three-quarters covered with the names of the fallen. Bill's eyes drifted down the list, recalling those who had gone before him. Many names had joined the list when he'd still been in school, but there were others whose loss hit closer to home. Foremost amongst those was five rows from the left: Charlie Weasley.

That one still hurt. Burned, more like. Charlie had been his baby brother, his best friend. Years might have separated them (although very few, when taken in the greater context of the Weasley family), but they had always been close. Despite that, or perhaps because of that very closeness, Bill had been horrified when his brother had followed him into the Aurors--but he'd also been very proud. Charlie had graduated at the very top of his Basic Training class, and then had gone on to be Mentored by none other than James Potter himself--Charlie had created a sensation in the Aurors, bringing the reflexes and work ethic that had made him such a great Quidditch seeker into the field. Charlie had the potential to be one of the best, and he'd been good. He'd burned bright...but in the end he'd burned short. After three and a half years as an Auror, Charles Weasley had been killed when walking down a street in Muggle London--struck down by a Death Eater who had never been found.

The loss could still tear him apart, and Bill swallowed furiously, struggling to bring his mind back on track. The time for grieving was over; he had a job to do--and revenge to gain. Perhaps that was a sad fact, but it was no less true. Charlie's death had made the war personal for the Weasley family; now, every victim of Voldemort's wore Charlie's face. Bill knew that stopping Death Eaters wouldn't bring his brother back, but if there was any hope, any way, that he could prevent that from happening to anyone else--especially one of his other siblings--he would do so. Even at the cost of his own life. Some things, he knew, were simply worth dying for.

And the other names on that bronze coated wall had been men and women who felt the same. Their numbers were legion and their names were legends; beside each was a date. They ranged from Edgar Bones on March 7, 1971--the name at the top of the far left hand column belonged to the first Auror to fall as the Dark Lord came to power--to the most recent of the fallen. Reading the newest name at the bottom of the last column necessitated taking another deep breath. Estella Cardiel had been a good friend, only a year behind Bill out of Basic Training. Had the world been a little different, Estella might have become more than a friend, but Bill had never investigated those possibilities, and now it was too late. The date next to name read December 2, 1991--yesterday.

Shaking his head, Bill tore his eyes away from that name, too. But there were others there to catch his eye, such as the legendary Dennis Montague (July 7, 1976); his classmate, Warren Stormchaser (January 23, 1985); or his Mentor, Alastor Moody (May 15, 1988). He had seen too much death, lost too many friends...but even as he tried to look away, one other name caught his eye. It was different than the others, at the top of the fourth row from the right: Sirius Black (UNKNOWN, 1981).

Somehow, that one always got his attention. Perhaps that was because Bill had always enjoyed solving mysteries, and the name stood out from the rest, for there was no date. They did not know the truth. Even in the Book of the Fallen, the official Auror record of every death of their own while on active duty, there was no date. There was no cause of death, even, for they did not really know. It was the one name in the book for which there hadn't even been the mangled parts of a body found or a witness to the end; yet all the same, Sirius Black had become the epitome of how an Auror should die. Their motto was simple: Mors Ante Infamia. It embodied what they were, everything they prayed to be or do: to die without revealing secrets and to go to the grave without betraying trusts. In simpler terms: "Death Before Dishonor." It was an age-old axiom, but tragic stories like Sirius Black's drove home the truth inherent in the Auror's ancient maxim. In the end, Bill only hoped he could be so strong.

And he hoped that end would not come today.

Suddenly, the ready room door opened, and even as his head turned to see who it was, his mind was clicking back into gear. Distractions were gone. Grief was set aside. Feelings were irrelevant--it was game time. Without a conscious effort, Bill Weasley had shut the human part of himself away as he slammed his locker's door shut. It would be there waiting for him when he got back.

"It's time, ladies and gentlemen," James Potter said evenly, standing alone in front of the "drawing board," which showed every detail of their target and every line of their planned assault. The assembled team had already been briefed twice in depth, but it was customary to do so again before departure. No one minded the repetition. As they all knew, it saved lives. Then the head of their Division smiled somewhat wearily and launched into the mission orders without hesitation. "All right. This one is fairly straightforward, but it's got every chance to become complicated when we least expect it. There was a rather bright Muggle named Murphy who once said 'Everything that can go wrong will go wrong,' and he's certainly right in this situation.

"What we are looking at is a raid in the classical sense of the word. The reason why we're going in with two teams of eight each is because intelligence has revealed that there is a meeting of a group of Death Eaters, under the leadership of the Lestranges, who as we all know, are two of Voldemort's most dangerous supporters. They're also at least a little insane. They were released after the fall of Azkaban five years ago and have been responsible for some of the worst atrocities committed in this war. I don't think I need to point out the positive effect that their capture, or even their deaths, would have for our cause.

"That said, I don't want anyone taking stupid chances. Intelligence tells us that there are at least a dozen Death Eaters who will be at this meeting, and even though we'll outnumber them, there's no room for error. Stick to your roles, and we'll do fine." Potter's hazel eyes burned out from behind his battered glasses, sweeping over the gathered Aurors with an intensity that made a chill run down Bill's spine. There were some people who simply had a presence, some special quality more felt than seen. James Potter was one of those.

"I'll be leading Alpha Team through the front door," he continued after a moment. "Due to a last minute change in plans, Ernie Jordan will not be leading Bravo Team--unfortunately, he's needed elsewhere right now, and he can't be with us today. Therefore, Minister Figg will be rejoining us for the duration of this mission, and she will be Bravo Leader, coming through the back way. Are there any questions?"

A whisper of surprise charged its way around the room, and Bill could feel the excitement. But no one argued; there wasn't an Auror in the Division who would ever doubt the capabilities of that sharp-eyed old lady standing off to one side. They'd wondered why she was present for this pre-mission briefing, but they had always trusted her. Head of Magical Law Enforcement though she might be, Arabella Figg was one of their own. For better or worse, she was still an Auror, and she definitely belonged in that small group of witches and wizards whom the Division called "old timers." Arabella Figg had been there, done that, and seen it all. Today, it seemed like she was aiming to do it one last time.

There were the usual questions: layout, specifications, angles of attack--all things that experienced Aurors asked without a second thought. As the final preparations were made--a check of wands, a quick glance at a partner--Bill couldn't help but notice the newbies out of the corner of his eye. Poor kids, he thought. There were two of them for today's mission, one barely out of Basic and the other just free of Mentorship. He didn't remember the name of either, but he could see Virginia Wilson standing close to the newest one's side, watching with the careful eyes of a Mentor. She was one of the "old timers," incredibly talented and probably too practiced in the field, but Bill could only hope that translated over into having a talented student.

"Apparation point in five," Potter called, and the time for worries was over. On cue, Bill lifted his wand, and with the others, Apparated.

------------

"There's been another attack, Hagrid," Dumbledore said quietly, and the half-giant frowned.

Rubeus Hagrid completely dwarfed the chair in the Minister's office; had he not carefully reinforced it with magic ahead of time, Dumbledore might have encountered a rather embarrassing instance of his old friend shifting and breaking the antique chair without meaning to. Of course, in Albus' learned opinion, the chair itself was a rather ugly piece of work, and he'd have been glad to be rid of it--but Hagrid would have been devastated by such an accident. So, despite his own feelings about the chair (which had probably been around as long as there had been a Minister of Magic), Dumbledore had cast the strength spell even as Lily told him that Hagrid was on his way in. She played the roll of "assistant" nicely, he thought with a smile. Few ever remembered how smart and powerful she really was.

And like Lily, Hagrid was much more than he seemed. Most thought him stupid--which was far from true--and others still wrote him off as useless. He was only the Hogwarts' gamekeeper, of course. What importance could the apparently inept and abnormally large man be? Dumbledore smiled to himself again. What importance, indeed. But he erased the smile as his former student frowned deeply, obviously trying to figure out why he of all people had been called into see the Minister of Magic.

"I'm sorry ter hear that, Professor--I mean, Minister," the big man replied. Suddenly, though, fear colored his features. "They don't think that I have anything ter do with it, d'they?"

"No, they do not," Albus answered calmly. "I asked you to come here for another reason, actually. I need to ask you for a favor."

"A favor? 'Course you can, Profess--Minister!" The gamekeeper's round face lit up, making Albus smile at the innocent enthusiasm that so defined Hagrid.

"You can still call me Professor if you wish, Hagrid," he said gently. "It makes no difference to me."

"But I don't wan' ter sound disrespectful or anything, sir," was the answer.

Albus chuckled. "I don't find it disrespectful at all. In fact, I believe that it sometimes helps people to remind them of the past...especially in days like this. My time at Hogwarts was the finest of my life, and I sincerely hope that I will always be 'Professor Dumbledore' to you."

"But yer the best headmaster Hogwarts ever had!" the half-giant burst out, and then blushed. "I mean, no disrespectin' Professor Lupin an' all; he's a fine gent, but we miss yer, Professor Dumbledore."

"Why, thank you, Hagrid." At his age, it was hard to be embarrassed--but some people, such as one Rubeus Hagrid, could still do that. And even a heart that had seen the horrible things that his had could still be touched. It was a good thing to remember.

The half-giant blushed even redder, making Albus further resist the urge to laugh, something that Hagrid would misunderstand. He mumbled, "I was jus' tellin' the truth, Professor."

"We all tell truths in our own ways, my friend," he replied softly. "But sometimes we must do more than that. I must ask you, Hagrid: can I rely on you?"

"'Course you can, Professor!" Hagrid looked mildly offended that he might ask, and Albus softened the blow.

"I know that I can depend upon you," he responded. "But any secrets I tell you are not fully my own--if you reveal what I tell you tonight, many lives will be at risk."

"Oh." The other sobered immediately. "Yer secrets are safe with me, Professor. An' so are any others."

Albus nodded. "Hagrid, have you ever heard of the Order of the Phoenix?"

"No, sir. I haven't."

"Good." He smiled slightly. "In short, the Order is a group of witches and wizards dedicated to defeating Voldemort. For the most part, the Order works outside of official Ministry channels, although there are certain key members who are highly placed in both the Order and the Ministry of Magic."

"Like you." No one had ever said Hagrid was stupid.

"Like me," the Minister of Magic nodded. "The reason I am telling you this is because the favor I have to ask you has nothing to do with the Ministry. If you accept the mission I propose, you won't be working for the Ministry. You'll be working for the Order of the Phoenix."

"Mission, Professor Dumbledore?" Hagrid regarded him seriously for a moment, his eyes focused and calm. "I'll do it fer ya."

Dumbledore chuckled. "You haven't even asked what it is, Hagrid."

"I don' have ter, Professor. I trust ya."

For one short moment, Albus Dumbledore's heart threatened to seize up in his chest. Even at his age, he could still be surprised. And it was in moments like this that he really and truly believed that the war could be won. "Thank you," he replied quietly. "But you are still free to refuse once you know what it is, Hagrid."

"I won'. What 'tis it?" Hagrid smiled, and Albus knew he would succeed. With a heart so large, how could he fail? He took a deep breath, and then replied:

"I want to send you to see the giants, Hagrid."

------------

Alpha Team appeared in a nondescript street in front of an innocent-seeming building. Ostensibly, it was a restaurant named the Dragon's Tail (Fine Steaks and Enchanting Dining), owned by one Francis Travers. In actuality, the restaurant was a meeting place for Death Eaters, although the Ministry had never been able to prove it. This time, however, was different--a source had told them exactly when this group was to meet, and it was rumored to include not only the Lestranges, who were Voldemort's personal "specialists" (otherwise known as expert torturers), but also Travers and Mulciber, two targets very near the top of the Ministry's list. Heart pounding, Bill glanced around, but the street was quiet--abnormally quiet, in fact, for just before sunset.

Alarms went off in his head.

Something was wrong. So very wrong--on instinct, he spun towards James Potter, but the other man's hazel eyes met his, and even as Bill opened his mouth, he got a minute shake of the head in reply. He felt his own eyes widen in surprise, and he stared at their leader without understanding, but Potter only said, very quietly:

"We go."

Then the senior Auror was in motion, gliding towards the restaurant with a grace that Bill could only envy. "Careful, ladies and gents," Potter called over his shoulder. "They may know we're here."

A half-dozen fast steps brought them to the front door. Potter, as team leader and on point, had his left hand on the knob, wand raised in his right; Bill, as the team's anchor, was right behind him. Breathe in, breathe out. This was the short pause that Aurors called the moment of truth. He ran a mental check on his personal shield, ensuring that an unexpected curse couldn't catch him off guard, and then Bill chanced a look around. To his left and right, he saw both teams on the wings, heading for the Dragon's Tail's two largest windows. Their movements, like his glances, were quick and practiced; the team had done raids like this so often, both in drill and reality, that they could find their positions in their sleep. The plan was kept simple, always, to eliminate mistakes--then the signal came, and they burst through the door.

Potter went right; Bill broke left, his wand up and ready even as he watched their team leader deflect a well-aimed curse. The Death Eaters were standing and ready, facing them and firing curses at them immediately. From the left wing, he heard Virginia Wilson swear, but there was no time to figure out why. His shield deflected an Impediment Curse cast hurriedly by Mulciber, and Bill dodged Travers' Incinerator Curse, hearing it sizzle and burn as it hit the wall behind him even as he spoke the counter to Bellatrix Lestrange's Reductor Curse.

Two more steps carried him further into the fray, and a quick "Stupefy!" took care of a Death Eater who had been facing Bravo Team as they came in the back way. Suddenly, on the far side of the room, he heard the tell tale beginning, and felt a cold chill race down his spine.

"Ava--"

But the enemy in question went down, unable to finish, felled by James Potter even as the famous Auror avoided Rodolphus Lestrange's attempt to stupefy him. Something prickled in the back of Bill's mind, and he realized, They want him alive. Deadly curses were the norm for Death Eaters; they had no qualms with killing, but it was becoming very clear that the Killing Curse was not to be aimed at James Potter. As several more seconds ticked by, Bill's suspicion was confirmed--until something else happened to make him forget all about that.

Leading Bravo Team through the back way, Arabella Figg went down.

For a moment, the world seemed to freeze, and Bill's mind clicked into overdrive. Arabella Figg was the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. She was a hero in the Wizarding world for her courageous and clear-headed guidance during the war. She hadn't been an active-duty Auror for years, but she was still a legend. She was important. She was loved--and the cupboard of heroes had been getting bare with a disturbing steadiness, especially with the recent loss of good men like Frank Longbottom. They couldn't afford to lose her.

Without thinking, Bill bolted forward, taking down a Death Eater who was in the process of levitating the Minister's unconscious body. Figg fell to the floor with a thunk, limp and not moving. The Auror next to her reacted quickly, though, bending down to awaken their department head, only to collapse with a scream as Mulciber threw the Cruciatus Curse his way. Seeing no one else close enough and aware that there was no time to spare, Bill took three quick steps along the perimeter of the dining room, dodging a Suffocation Spell as he went. His focus was so narrow that he almost missed Potter's command.

"Fall back!" the senior Auror called. "Plan Zulu!"

Plan Zulu was the bug-out command, the worst-case scenario. It was the signal to get out however you could and Apparate individually, meeting at the prearranged rally point. Plan Zulu usually meant that Murphy had reared his ugly head and it was time to cut the Division's losses and get out. Confused, Bill stole a glance around the room--he usually had good situational awareness, and he hadn't thought that things were that bad yet. Oddly enough, his eyes confirmed what he had sensed; it was getting messy, but the raid was still salvageable. In fact, the only major hiccup in the plan had been the Minister going down...a few others had been struck, true, but no one was dead. In fact, everyone but Figg was still standing, though a few were indeed bloody and bruised.

But Potter was the boss.

Bill knew there was little time to spare; within seconds, they would all be gone. Another Auror reached for Figg, only to be blasted backwards by Travers--the Death Eaters definitely wanted to capture her, because the Head of the DMLE would be the highest ranking person Voldemort had ever been able to hold--and they couldn't allow that to happen. He knew Arabella Figg well enough to know that she'd rather die than be captured. Bill felled a Death Eater with a quick Freezing Charm and dashed to her side. Neither death nor capture was going to happen while he could help it--he felt power sizzle, and breathed a sigh of relief as his shield ate up a Stunning Spell. Unfortunately, his shield collapsed in doing so, and he was left naked. That was never a pleasant feeling.

There was no time for prettiness or technique; only sheer power. As his Mentor had taught him long ago, Bill channeled all his raw energy and anger into his magic, and grabbed Figg's limp arm. Apparating another was always tricky, but her unconsciousness ought to have made it easier--at least there was one less factor to worry about. To his right, Bellatrix Lestrange raised her wand, the Killing Curse on her lips--

And they were gone.