Legend
Clouds On The Horizon

Arthur Weasley secured the padlock on the heavy steel chest and shuddered.  “I'm glad you called us in without touching anything, Mrs Snape,” he remarked.  “There was some really dangerous stuff in there, mostly booby-trapped Muggle items.”

Narcissa snorted.  “Lucius considered them a hobby,” she replied with a scowl.

The Auror accompanying the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts recovery and disposal team looked thoughtful.  “We have reason to believe that the safe might have been opened at some point in the last few years,” he added.  “There was certainly relatively little in the way of outright Dark items, aside from your late husband's Death Eater garb and a few controlled potions.  If you could give us some idea of what he normally kept in there…”

Narcissa shook her head.  “I'm sorry, constable, but I'm afraid I can't help you very much there.  Lucius was extremely cagey about the safe's very existence; I only became aware of its exact location just before I called the Ministry, and it took me the better part of a day of searching.  I do recall overhearing him claiming to some friends -boasting really- that he had been entrusted with some volumes of the Dark Lord's journals, but frankly I didn't give it much credence.  As for someone accessing the safe, this place has been lying empty for nearly a decade, and I left without bothering to activate any of the security wards or even lock the front door.”

The Auror shrugged.  “Not to worry, Mrs Snape; the trail's stone cold anyway, though I'll be asking for someone from Forensics to see what they can turn up.  Besides, I've no doubt whatever he kept in there will turn up sooner or later,” he added grimly.

“Journals?” Edward snorted.  “That's a new one on me.”

“Well, rumour has it that he was an avid diarist in his youth,” Scrimgeour replied.  “It's not unlikely that he continued the practice into adulthood if that's accurate.”

“Bears following up, that's for certain,” agreed the head of the DMLE Special Taskforce.  “If they really exist, I daresay we could tie up a lot of loose ends from a read of them.  And given what Ray and I saw…”

Scrimgeour nodded.  “My thoughts exactly.  The Department of Mysteries have a few theories about that, but without some empirical data there's not much they can tell us.  Which means I've got bugger all to take to the Wizengamot; most of them are so busy grinning about how much tax revenue they're saving by letting the DMLE go to wrack and ruin that it'll probably take Voldemort holding a damn press conference to get them to do anything constructive.”

“Wonderful,” Edward groused.  “Alright, guv'nor, I'll put the word out about these journals; if we turn anything up, you'll know as soon as I do.”

“Much obliged.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a morning briefing with the Minister.”  Scrimgeour's head vanished from the fireplace.  Edward finished his tea, then unlocked the heavy steel safe under his desk and took out a nondescript address book, which he paged through for a moment before turning back to the fireplace and reaching for the Floo Powder.  He tossed in a small handful and read out the address, whistling a few bars of an old song while he waited for an answer.

“Ello?” it came at last.  “Oh, morning Eddie.”  His expression most emphatically did not match his tone.

“Morning Fletch.  Got an interesting tip off the boss just now, and need you to beat the bushes for me.  Bit of a long shot, but the payoff'll be pretty substantial if it works out.”

“Oh yeah?”  Mundungus Fletcher tried and failed to keep the resignation out of his voice; for all the man's high-minded insistence on leading from the front, DI Grey seldom contacted his department's extensive network of informants directly unless it was for something extremely important, usually involving people who could be very definite about having their dealings reported to the authorities.

“Yeah.  It's probably nothing, but it's just possible we're going to be seeing someone claiming to have Voldemort's diaries for sale.”

Fletcher winced.  One one level, this wasn't as bad as it might have been; anything involving the antiques trade was relatively safe, as hardly anyone he was reporting on would be doing anything definitely illegal.  On the other hand, if this was the real McCoy then the race to acquire the diaries would get political in short order, and getting caught up in the middle of it would involve more excitement than he really wanted at his time of life.

Edward saw his expression.  “Yeah, I know.  Just let us know if you hear they're coming up for auction anywhere; we can take it from there.  It's probably a load of bollocks anyway, so don't stick your neck out over it.”

Fletcher smiled wryly.  “Do I ever, guv?”

“True.  Still, you're on danger money for this one, plus your usual cut if we get something to flog on.”

Fletcher cackled.  “I knew there was a reason I put up with you!”

“You mean it's not my winning personality or the undoubted justice of our cause?”  Edward laughed.  “Well, got to run.”

“Eyeball South, all clear.”  Danny sighed and lowered his binoculars, rubbing weary eyes.  “Inevitably,” he added under his breath.

Surveillence duty on Diagon Alley in the run-up to the start of term was something of a Special Taskforce tradition, going all the way back to when they were nothing but ‘concerned citizens’.  Two pairs of officers were occupying vantage points overlooking most of the street, equipped with binoculars and high-powered rifles, and the Tactical Response Unit were currently on standby in the upstairs function room of the Leaky Cauldron and the break room at Gringotts, by kind permission of their respective managements.  In addition, it was something of an open secret that several officers who were technically off duty and doing their children's own Hogwarts shopping had surreptitiously drawn sidearms from the armoury just in case; nobody seemed to know if the letter of Home Office regulations explicitly permitted this practice, or even applied to the DMLE for that matter, but if DI Grey's superiors knew anything about it they had chosen to keep their own counsel on the matter.

Of course, even back in the bad old days it had been pretty dull.  Voldemort had judged a large-scale attack on Diagon Alley to be more trouble than it was worth; too many wealthy purebloods whose tacit backing he desperately needed owned property there, or were present frequently enough that they might get caught in the crossfire.  The surveillence teams had spent most of their time cataloguing known faces, looking for a routine that could be exploited; more than one Death Eater had turned up dead in an alleyway thanks to intelligence they had developed.  The possibility of some last desperate gamble on Voldemort's part had been considered as the tide of the war began to turn, but never materialised, and the surveillence was continued solely to support the uniformed Aurors patrolling the area and provide some on-the-job training.  Last year's dramatic and politically embarrassing raid on Gringott's had occasioned something of a reevaluation on that score.

But the fact that it suddenly seemed important again didn't make the job any less tedious, enlivened only by spotting the odd pickpocket or watching couples having it off through upstairs windows.  For DC Maxwell this was only exacerbated by having lost the toss over whether the transistor radio should be tuned to Capital Radio or the Test Match on Five Live, though he had to admit the smooth drone of the cricket commentator's voice was soothing in its own way.

“Heads up, everyone, Gilderoy Lockhart's advance party just turned up,” someone warned.

“Oh, happy feckin’ day,” Danny growled, accent deepening in annoyance.  “Reckon you can pick him off, lads?”

“Oh, lead me not into temptation!”  Sgt Moran laughed bitterly.  “My brother-in-law's out of pocket for a week's bloody rent over that tosspot's booklist.”

“Temper temper, Sharps,” Edward interjected via his own radio.  “Give the man a little credit; he only plagiarises the very best!”

“With hindsight, I suppose the live reenactment of ‘Kitten Kong’ might not have been the best idea I ever had.”

“Hah!  ‘Not the best idea you ever had’?  Is that all you can say?  I'm still getting official letters from Improper Use of Magic about it!  Honestly, as if the Ecky Thump Academy wasn't enough of a disaster…”

Severus regarded the two couples with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.  Aletha wiped the tears from her eyes and looked up.  “Can we help you, Severus?”

“Might I borrow your husband for a moment, Mrs Black?  We have something to discuss.”

“I have no secrets from these three, Severus,” Sirius replied coolly.

“Then no doubt they are all aware that on the morning of his twelfth birthday, my stepson received a package from your ward containing a copy of Sir Boris Bastable's Comprehensive Compendium of Sex Magic, which eventuality has an unmistakeable air of you about it.”

“I'm sure he'll let you borrow it if you ask nicely, Severus,” Padfoot replied affably, pretending not to notice Aletha's expression.

Everyone looked up sharply as a tremendous explosion echoed across the alley.  A cloud of purple smoke dispersed to reveal none other than Gilderoy Lockhart, striking a gallant pose as confetti showered down around him.  Edward, who had been leaning not-so-casually against a nearby wall, fished a rose petal out of his styrofoam cup of tea and watched with a rather pained expression as Lockhart was mobbed.  “Tosser,” he muttered darkly.

“Ah, Detective Inspector Grey!”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Lockhart walked straight up to him an extended his hand.  With poorly-concealed reluctance, Edward shook it.  “A pleasure to meet you at last,” Lockhart exclaimed.  “You and your Special Taskforce are making quite the name for yourselves, even by my standards.  And that's saying something!” he added with a hugely exaggerated wink.

“Indeed,” Edward said in a very, very carefully controlled tone of voice.  “I for my part have followed your career with… some interest.”  If Lockhart grasped the meaning behind the significant pause he didn't show it.  “I'm most flattered.” he replied enthusiastically.  “Come on, the two of us together is worth the front page!”

“Hey-!”  Edward angrily broke free of Lockhart's grip on his arm.  “If you don't mind,” he snapped, “I am on duty, and heartily dislike appearing in the papers anyway.  And just for the record,” he added in lower tones, “I have read all your books and am very curious as to how you can be in Prague taking down a rogue pack in Wanderings with Werewolves and putting together some defensive wards at the behest of the Gringotts representative to the Bank of England as described in your autobiography on the same day.”

Lockhart blinked a few times, but rallied magnificently.  “Probably a typographical error of some sort,” he replied.  “Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Inspector.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have things I must be getting on with.  Good day.”  He scurried off.

“You know, I've been meaning to ask him about that myself,” a familiar and not entirely unwelcome voice drawled.

“Rita, if you're suggesting we gang up on him, I'm afraid I must decline; not only would it be a gross misuse of both public funds and my position, it would also be highly unsporting.  Oh, and I'd appreciate it if my remarks stayed out of the public domain for the time being,” he added.

“Just for the time being?”  Rita enquired with what she probably thought was an angelic smile.

Edward regarded her for a long moment.  Rita Skeeter and he were not exactly allies, but nor were they exactly enemies, and they shared mutual grudging respect for the professional skill of the other.  She was also honourable by her own admittedly unique code, and had rarely given an evasive answer without a good reason, a courtesy he reciprocated.   “Look, officially, my office regards Lockhart as nothing but a flamboyant raconteur with a tendency towards self-aggrandisement; the practical advice in his books is actually pretty good, he's never said one word about himself that anyone can prove is a lie and this kind of thing's way out of our remit anyway.  Unofficially, though… There's been occasional rumours that there might be more to it than him just stealing the credit for other people's achievements.  All of them have been vague, some of them are obviously malicious and I certainly don't have anything substantial enough to justify opening a criminal investigation, but it's something I've been keeping a weather eye on for a while now.”

Rita nodded thoughtfully.  “I'm in about the same situation.  I have noticed one other thing, though; he's been pretty aggressive about silencing anyone who's called him on this stuff before.  You're not the first one to notice some suspicious overlaps, but the last person to point it out in print got slapped with a libel lawsuit.”

“Which just makes him a bit of a prima donna as well as a braggart, which is why I've been soft-pedalling it.  Until and unless you turn up some positive proof of a criminal offence being committed, it's the Fourth Estate's problem.  If you do, however-”

“You know I can't compromise my sources,” she pointed out.

“I understand,” Edward replied, meaning it; doing right by your informants was an important part of his own code of professional ethics, one of the points of commonality upon which his fragile truce with Rita had been built.  “But if you think they might be onto something, tell them I can promise them a fair hearing in strict confidence, with legal representation if they want it.”

“I'll keep that in mind.  Thanks, Ed.  If you ever decide you can do more good on this side of the fence, use me as a reference.”

“Same goes for you.”

Rufus was starting to feel rather like Sisyphus might, had he taken it into his head to try and talk the rock into doing its share of the work.  “Minister, I don't think you're listening to me,” he said wearily.  “I can't paper over the cracks much longer; the situation looked bad enough before it came to light that half our divisional commanders have been cooking the books by counting front desk and custody officers twice.  We've had all of six constables and an acting sergeant to keep a lid on the whole magical quarter of London every evening for the last three months; our own guidelines say the absolute bare minimum is ten, and anything below that is an officer safety issue.  DI Grey's people probably deserve a bloody medal for the way they've been trying to take up the slack, but they're fewer than eighty men; the Police Federation isn't going to stand for this much longer.”

“Rufus, I do understand where you're coming from,” Cornelius replied, “but please try to see this from my point of view.  All the Police Federation can do is grumble; the same cannot be said for the large and powerful faction within the Wizengamot that's just about advocating making the whole blasted DMLE redundant and having the old houses raise their own yeomanry again.  I've been horse-trading like hell to stop those miserly old reactionaries making your predicament any worse, with Merlin only knows what long-term consequences, and if I push back any harder you're liable to find one of them in this office.  If you think you've got problems now, imagine the mess you'd be in then!”

“I know, I know.  But we have to do something, and soon.  Vandalism and petty theft are already on the rise, and it's Knuts to Galleons that worse crimes are liable to follow that trend as it starts to dawn on everyone just how badly overstretched we are.  And God help us if the Death Eaters stage a comeback of some sort; we're lucky they're still mostly keeping their heads down right now.”

“I'd think that was fairly unlikely, seeing as You-Know-Who is-”

“A potent figurehead, even now,” Scrimgeour cut in irritably.  “Something is keeping the status quo in place, power vaccuum or none, and we know it is because the pureblood-supremacists would've made the streets run red with each other's precious claret by now if it wasn't.  And it's common knowledge that Voldemort was one of the most talented necromancers for a hundred years, possibly even longer; there's credible evidence to suggest he succeeded in unlocking at least a small part of the Codex of Circe.”

“You don't actually believe Dumbledore's alarmist rubbish, do you?” Fudge protested, visibly unnerved at his subordinate's casual use of the Dark Lord's name.

“I believe that there's insufficient evidence either way to dismiss the suggestion as completely impossible.  But it doesn't really matter what you or I believe, Minister,” Scrimgeour said grimly.  “What matters is that a large percentage of his followers are so certain that their old boss will claw his way back out of Hell in the end that they've yet to turn on one another.  That makes them only marginally less dangerous than they were before whatever happened at Godric's Hollow.”

On that rather gloomy note, the meeting broke up.  Rufus returned to his office in a decidedly troubled frame of mind.  It wasn't that Cornelius Fudge was a bad man, or particularly foolish; he was simply a good bit less clever than he thought he was, and had badly underestimated the scale of the task he'd set for himself with a strongly reformist platform for election, yet was unwilling to admit even to himself just how badly out of his depth he was.  He also shared the tendency of the general public to deal with the legion unanswered questions surrounding the momentous events of over a decade ago by very carefully not thinking about them.  That was not a luxury that Scrimgeour permitted himself, or anyone under his direct authority.

Judging by the society headlines over the past few weeks, however, it seemed that the same could not be said for the Hogwarts Board of Governors.  That was something else he probably needed to chase up, as even Dumbledore had privately expressed some very grave doubts about the veracity of Gilderoy Lockhart's teaching credentials.  It wasn't exactly a DMLE matter, but an Exceeds Expectations in DADA was a requirement for entrance to the Auror Academy and he'd be damned if he'd even contemplate lowering the bar any further than that; if Lockhart was the Walter Mitty his critics claimed him to be, new recruits were going to be pretty thin on the ground, compounding the already chronic manpower shortage.

Not that anyone sane wants to take the Queen's Shilling right now anyway, Rufus added sourly to himself, regarding the small mountain of parchment on his desk.  To think I used to moan about all the paperwork I had to do back when I was on the beat…

He turned on the intercom.  “Janice, would you be so kind as to send up for a pot of coffee and maybe some biscuits?  I think I'm going to need them.”

This had all the hallmarks of being a very long year.