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The State of Things


The Marauders were not the only ones who were left broken after the incidents that occurred. In fact, the state of things were quite terrible overall.

Alastor Moody was still in St. Mungo’s over a week later, his leg giving him phantom pains that left him crying out in the night and cursing any and all who tried to heal him. They had to take his wand away and strap his wrists to the bed to keep him from lashing out, and though Dumbledore spent a good deal of time there talking him down, Albus could not stay for extended periods as he was needed for other reasons as well. One of which had been to sneak the Prewett brothers out of St. Mungo’s and back to Hogwarts before the Ministry could reapprehend Fabian Prewett, whose charges were not dropped simply because the Minister who had accused him had turned out to be a fraud.

Nobody knew where the real Harold Minchum was. They’d searched houses of every known and suspected Death Eater and turned up with nothing to show for it. The Minister was simply missing, hidden as well as the Dark Lord himself, and until they found him the entire Wizarding World was subjected to the heady power being wielded by the interim Minister for Magic.

In the absence of the real Minister and of Alastor Moody, who had previously been named by Minchum to be the next in line to take control of the Ministry in the event of some catastrophic event like this, the interim Minister for Magic title fell upon the shoulders of Bartemius Crouch Sr., whose hatred for Death Eaters made him eager to uphold the changes that the fake Minchum had installed. Dementors remained in place at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, as well as in Hogsmeade, the Ministry, and other important Wizarding locations that were vulnerable to attacks from the Dark Lord. He also upheld the current warrants for arrest against the Scamanders, and, upon learning Fabian Prewett had left the care of St. Mungo’s without consent in the dead of night, Bartemius Crouch issued a new warrant for his arrest, as well as that of his brother, Gideon, who was now suspected of assisting in the escape.

The only good that had come from the whole thing, it seemed, was the rescue of Lucy Minchum, for which James Potter still needed to be properly thanked, but then of course even the rescue was tinged by the loss of Maryrose Jenkins, who was assumed dead by everyone except James Potter himself and Regulus Black, who refused to accept she could’ve been killed, even as time marched on without any word from Kreacher about the girl’s location. But Lucy, at least, had been returned home - or as close to home as she could without her grandfather. She’d been set into the care of distant relatives until such a time as the Minister could be found.

But who knew how long it would take to find him?

Dumbledore sat in his office a week after the incident, the snows falling across the grounds of Hogwarts. He stared out the window at the dark forms of dementors, sweeping the air outside the dome of protective charms he’d set over the castle, their cloake dark against the swirling snow clouds. Dumbledore rubbed his forehead.

There came a knock upon the door. “Come in,” Albus called, though he was in no mood for visitors.

It was Pomfrey who entered, carrying a tray of vials and a small sack hung from her wrist. “I’ve the things that Mr. Scamander has requested,” she informed Dumbledore.

Dumbledore waved her on and she went to the suitcase, which lay on an old steamer trunk from Dumbledore’s younger years, and she knocked upon the top of the case - three short raps, followed by a pause, and then two more longer knocks. This was the signal it was safe to open the case, and after a pause, the case lid opened up and Newt Scamander rose up from within, looking about the office. His eyes lit upon Pomfrey, “Ah - yes - thank you P-poppy,” he stammered as she handed him the sack and the vials. “Most - most appreciated.”

“How is little Bradley healing up?” Poppy asked. For the first full moon had been quite rough on the tiny boy, whose tiny wolf form had gnawed one of his legs nearly clean of fur and skin, leaving long scars across his human skin on his left arm.

“Fairly well,” Newt said sadly. He sighed, “I will be glad when we can leave the case. The boy desperately needs help in coping and I’m - I’m afraid I’m not - not the best at it.” He glanced down into the laboratory as he spoke, then turned back to Pomfrey, glancing over at Dumbledore. “Per-perhaps we could bring Remus Lupin into the case for the - the next moon?” Newt suggested hopefully.

Albus nodded, “An excellent idea, Mr. Scamander. I shall send to him so he knows to prepare.”

“I think that - that is precisely what our - our Bradley needs,” Newt nodded, looking into the sack of food that Poppy had brought along, “As well as these biscuits. Thank you Poppy for - for bringing them. And the rest of this - this food as well. Bradley’s been going on about the - the biscuits for - for s-some time now.” Newt hurriedly put the vials of potions she’d brought along into the sack as well, then looked about at the two of them again, “Is the - the Ministry still --?”

“Still looking for you? Yes, I am afraid so, Mr. Scamander,” Dumbledore replied. “I have tried to talk reason into Bartemius Crouch, but he is a ruthless seeker for justice and sadly cannot see that it is he himself whom is obscuring it.”

Newt sighed.

There came another knock at Dumbledore’s office door and Newt dropped quickly into the case, which Madam Pomfrey slapped closed and flicked the locks upon to Muggle Worthy and held her empty tray behind her back. Dumbledore glanced over to be sure everything was hidden, and then called out, “Come in.”

It was Horace Slughorn that came in.

“Horace!” said Dumbledore, “What a pleasant surprise. What brings you this far up in the towers of the castle?”

Slughorn said, “I have a student who is failing in one of my Fifth Year classes and is in need of Remedial Potions Lessons if he is to pass his O.W.L.”

Dumbledore frowned then nodded to Madam Pomfrey, granting her good day as she motioned that she was going to leave, having delivered her wares to Mr. Scamander. She ducked out the door and Dumbledore waved to the chair opposite his desk. Horace sat. “Who is the student, Mr. Slughorn?”

“Sirius Black,” replied Slughorn.

“Ah. Yes, Mr. Black has been coming up in complaint from a good many people lately.” Dumbledore frowned.

“I should like to request your approval for private lessons with Mr. Black to be added to his required class schedule, as well as special permissions for a tutor to be arranged.”

“And who is the tutor?” Dumbledore asked.

“I was considering Lily Evans,” Slughorn said, “She’s a prefect, from his house and year, and they get along as far as I have ever seen. She’s very bright, very good at potions, and has been most excellent in class. Highest grades in the year, actually. Of course I’ll need her agreement, but I doubt very much whether Miss. Evans would say no to helping one of her friends in need. Do you, Albus?”

“I agree completely, Horace. A most excellent choice. Tell Miss. Evans that the school will provide her a small payment for her time as well as supply the required ingredients she will need for the additional brews.”

Slughorn had clearly been hoping for such a thing and he smiled widely, “Yes, Headmaster. Thank you very much.”

Dumbledore nodded as Slughorn stood and left.

The office silent once more, he stood up and went to the window and watched the dementors flying once more...




Harold Minchum -- the real Harold Minchum -- lay on a small pile of straw, his wrists manacled to the wall above his head. He was sorely bruised and a cut over his right eye had been gashed and left to bleed, the dried blood caked across his eyebrow and temple and he breathed shallowly as he half slept, one eye fluttering open, always on alert.

The door at the top of the stairs opened and Minchum’s eyes opened fully. He puffed his chest to be as dignified as he could given the position he was forced to lie in, and stared at the crack of light that sliced across the mangy stone floor. A pair of bandy elf legs appeared on the stairs and Minchum relaxed. There were three house elves that lived there in the basement and they were always going in and out, rushing to serve their masters. This was the youngest, a clumsy little thing that the other two seemed terribly annoyed with, whose eagerness often outweighed his intelligence. He was apparently less than a year old, and he had a tendency to be very loud, not yet trained up properly in the ways of a house elf. He was the elf that came back most often crying after a punishment - as he was doing now - and he threw himself into the straw and buried beneath the strands so that only his toes showed as he thrashed his way through to make himself a little nest.

“What’s happened now, Dobby?” Harold Minchum asked, his voice thick with disuse. He only ever spoke to the house elves - and usually only Dobby, this young elf. The other two often refused to answer him. He had a feeling they may have been under strict orders not to, but Dobby didn’t seem to hold as much regard for the orders that the Masters gave them.

“Dobby isn’t good at serving his masters,” he squeaked from beneath the straw. He lay there, shivering so that the straw quaked. “Dobby is being punished all of the time.”

“What did they do Dobby?”

Dobby climbed out from the straw and he walked over slowly and held out his hands. They were shaking, puckered ‘round the tips and pink, blistering. They looked like they’d been pressed with an iron or closed into a stove or something. Harold Minchum felt sick at the cruelty and he closed his eyes as Dobby drew his hands away. “Dobby dropped the teapot again, sir,” he explained. He hung his head.

This was the third time in as many weeks that the elf had dropped the teapot.

“Oh Dobby. You need to be more careful with the tea,” Harold said gently, in a tone he had often used speaking to his grand daughter. He felt terrible for the little elf and he wished there was something he could do to help the tiny little fellow. But there wasn’t a thing to do. He couldn’t even help himself.

“Dobby is being careful! Dobby is being careful,” he sobbed.

“C’mere.” Harold flapped his elbow as best he could and the little elf raced over and tucked under his arm so that he ended up in as close to a hug as Minchum could give in his manacles and Dobby splayed across Harold’s chest, crying loudly.

Another shaft of light sliced the stair well and there were heavy steps on the stairs, much heavier than any elf, and Minchum hissed, “Go, Dobby.”

Dobby raced back to his own pile of straw and slid beneath it once more, twisting in his little nest so his ears stuck out and his big lamp eyes stared across the room as Lucius Malfoy appeared at the bottom of the steps, his wand drawn.

“The Dark Lord has need of you,” he said roughly and he waved his wand so that the manacles loosed from the wall, but stayed connected to Minchum himself. “Come.”

Harold Minchum hadn’t been able to stand since they’d brought him here and it took him several long moments to struggle to his feet. “Even if you tried, I doubt you could be slower, Minister,” Lucius hissed, impatiently. Minchum winced as his legs, unused to bearing his weight tingled from disuse and he staggered across the room to Malfoy, who turned and went up the stairs. Harold Minchum followed, feeling Dobby’s bulbous eyes watching him as he left.

Upstairs, sunlight streamed through the windows of the house and Lucius led Harold Minchum through it, even as he winced, his eyes unused to anything brighter than the dim torches in the house elves basement quarters. They walked through the house, past ornate furnishings and over plush rugs, to the dining room. Death Eaters lined the seats of the long wooden table and the Dark Lord, Voldemort, sat at the head at the far end, the fireplace glowing behind him. Lucius waved Harold Minchum through and with a flick of his wand, Harold’s manacles secured themselves to the narrow end of the table opposite Voldemort so that he was forced to stand, half bowed, facing the Dark Lord. Lucius Malfoy walked around and sank into the empty seat next to his father, two down from Voldemort.

“Very good,” the Dark Lord hissed, “Very good. Welcome to our table, Mr. Minister.”

A quiet cackling went around the table.

“We are very pleased you could join us,” Voldemort continued.

Harold Minchum raised his chin to stare into Voldemort’s eyes coldly, and replied, voice quite steady, “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

Evan Rosier laughed at the sass, but a glare from Voldemort silenced him instantly and his father sneered at him so that Evan hung his head, flushed.

“Still trying to fool the world with your fake Minister and your fake Lucy?” Minchum demanded.

Voldemort hissed, “Actually, now that you’ve mentioned it, we have hit a bit of a snag in our plans. Which is why we require your… assistance… today. In order to regain control over the Ministry for Magic, we need to provide proof that we have possession of their precious Minister.” He nodded to Yaxley, who was sitting in the seat nearest to the Minister. He turned and drew his wand, sneering at Minchum, then reached for his hand and used his wand to sear off the Minister’s right pinky finger.

Harold Minchum let out a cry of pain as the bone severed, the wound already closed by the spell that Yaxley had used to sever the finger. The Minister’s forehead wrinkled as he held back further cries, his teeth grit and hands shaking, making the manacles clunk against the table. Voldemort smiled as Yaxley levitated the finger across the table to a small box the Dark Lord held up and the finger was laid inside. Voldemort closed the box, grinning evilly down the table to the wincing Minister. “There, quite elegant, really. Minimal damage to you… and yet severe enough that they know we are not playing about.” Voldemort put the box on the table, staring at Minchum. “It’s a shame, really, that you can’t just give in to the imperius curse, Mr. Minister, it would have been so much less painful for you.”

“Where is my grand daughter?” he hissed through his grit teeth.

Voldemort stared blankly at him. “Take him back to the cellar.”

“You won’t get away with this. The Ministry will find us, my aurors will find us. When Alastor Moody --”

“Alastor Moody has also suffered loss of limb, my dear Minister,” Voldemort said coolly as Lucius Malfoy stood up and came ‘round the table to collect the Minister. “And the aurors have already attempted to find you here, but were unable to. It seems my concealment charms are more powerful than their detection charms. You really have chosen the weaker side, Mr. Minister. Perhaps in the future you will think twice before publicly taunting the most powerful wizard in the world.”

Harold Minchum stared into Voldemort’s eyes - even as Malfoy started to lead him away - and he said, his voice low and level, “I did not taunt the most powerful wizard in the world. I taunted a mediocre wizard, whose fear drove him to madness.”

Voldemort sneered. “You’re lucky that my plans require you to be alive,” he whispered, “Or else I would kill you now.”

“And your aurors will not find your grand daughter,” Voldemort said levelly, truthfully. He stared at Minchum for a long moment. “And none shall find the place where I have buried the dead that have tried.”

Minchum was led away.

The Dark Lord looked down at the box on the table.