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ACT4CH21 - Conspiracies In Action Part 1
🕑 Added 2024-05-18 17:56:43 +0000 UTC“How does it look?”
Albus Dumbledore didn’t bother to glance back at Dawlish. He was too enraptured with trying to stabilise and deconstruct the massive floating enchantment that encircled St. Mungo’s from above, while the ward-breakers kept attempting to tear openings into the barrier. It had already been five minutes since Harry Potter and Sirius Black had gotten through the barrier, and neither had established contact or sent any signal, direct or otherwise.
Meanwhile, the temperature inside the barrier kept increasing.
“Professor Dumbledore,” asked Dawlish for a second time. “How does it look?”
“Complicated,” he admitted without shame. “I am certain I can destroy the runic circle with little help from your team, but it is the effects of said destruction that stay in my hand.”
He did not say that he didn’t even need the help if he used the Deathstick, but Albus had always avoided using it in public if he could help it. Wands in general, were notoriously immune to transfiguration, even if it was just their outermost bark that was transfigured to look differently, and the Elder Wand was sentient enough to simply neuter any and all illusions placed upon it to make it appear different. It was like the wand wanted to be seen, be recognized, and be won, continuing its bloody trail across the pages of wizarding history.
“I will admit,” he went on. “In all my hundred and fifty two years, this is the first time I have seen something like this. Not even during the last war, or my war with Grindelwald did I see anything of this magnitude. Whoever built this, I would very much like to meet that person.”
He wasn’t joking. Despite all his grand positions, he was first and foremost, an academic. Someone that had always found the greatest pleasure in unravelling the mysteries of magic and furthering his understanding of the nature of Reality itself. Unlike his mentor Nicholas Flamel or Tom Riddle or.. as much as it bothered him to admit it, Harry Potter, Albus had safely stayed away from the deeper mysteries of the Anima, and stayed within the realms of standardised magic. Not because he lacked the affinity for it, but because he was never quite comfortable enough to surrender control to Magic, and let himself be carried away in its current across waters hitherto unknown and uncharted, the kind of magic people very loosely defined as Abstract.
There was another reason for this fear too. Albus would never admit it out loud, but from the very first moment he had witnessed his sister Ariana transform into an Obscurial, he had grown to fear what Magic could do to a person. It was why he was so obsessed with control, it was what drove him to a seventh-tier Occlumens, and what kept him from getting twisted by the Deathstick he owned for several decades.
“Maybe you should ask Potter,” said John Dawlish bitingly. “The brat seemed to know an awful lot about this. My personal take on this is that Potter is responsible for putting this up in the first place. I have several eyewitnesses right here that claimed Potter was inside the hospital, and that he was responsible for the destruction inside it. Potter has already been associated with unexplainable, unnatural magic that he used to kill those purebloods that night, and his knowledge of this ritual only paints him as a potential suspect.”
And that, Albus decided, was the reason why he did his best to stay away from Ministry bureaucracy. John Dawlish was one of those blessed people who genuinely believed that the world was a rational place. Despite being repeatedly exposed to the acts of dark wizards, by virtue of his profession as an Auror, Dawlish somehow remained impervious to Reality, or at least gave every outward appearance of doing so. He, much like Cornelius Fudge, truly believed that everything fit inside the nice little boxes they had created in their minds.
Dawlish wasn’t stupid. You couldn’t be entirely dim and manage to be where he was. His denial was less a function of intelligence than a complete lack of moral courage necessary — a paralysing inability to face hard truths that he personally found terrifying.
Like the truth that the Dark Lord was back.
Or the truth that Harry Potter was only trying to help.
Or that just because one was knowledgeable of a form of magic didn’t automatically mean he was the one to cast it. That sometimes, more than one conspiracy could take place at a time.
John Dawlish was a coward.
“Regardless of your presumptions, John,” said Albus softly. “I will remind you that the ‘brat’, as you put it, is the Defence Instructor of Hogwarts. As Headmaster, I will be forced to take any further slander against one of my most distinctive professors personally.”
“Dawlish,” said Shacklebolt. “We have enough problems to deal with right now. If you cannot be useful, do not make it worse.”
“The Minister —”
“Can read all about it from the official report that I will send him after this issue is resolved. Maybe you should pop back to the Ministry to see if the Undersecretary requires a cup of tea or something.”
Dawlish went purple. “Shacklebolt —”
“Gentlemen,” said Albus. “We need to focus. John here is one of our best Aurors, and we need every able hands we can get. Something tells me that this isn’t the end of it. This construct is miraculously well done, and while I lack young Harry’s ability to see magic, I can say for certain that if both sides, inner and outer, are not properly insulated while they are neutered, it could lead to a cataclysmic explosion that could cause irreparable damage to the entire alley, if not more.”
“I don’t see how,” complained Dawlish. “Potter claimed that if all of us destroyed the runic circle from above, then he would neuter it from below. Why are we wasting time?”
Albus took a moment to marvel at the man’s hypocrisy. On one hand, he was both quick to condemn Harry Potter as the perpetrator of this massive abstract enchantment at the same time. And now, he was quick to jump ahead on what Harry had suggested, despite just having demeaned him as an insignificant brat some moments ago.
“As glad as I am to see you trusting my Defence professor’s suggestion,” said Albus with a disturbing mildness. “I will remind you it’s a risk I am not prepared to take with young Harry’s life. Not to mention Sirius Black.”
“Two lives versus everyone else?” demanded Dawlish. “Every second we waste here, the temperature grows hotter. There might not even be a single person alive if we choose to wait until a schoolboy and a hitwizard can do anything. You yourself said that the ritual could explode and contaminate the entire area. We have to take action, Professor Dumbledore, whether you want to or not. It’s for the Greater Good.”
“Do not lecture me on the Greater Good, John Dawlish. I have seen what that phrase has done to the world. I have walked through blazing cities, civilization turned to ruins because of one madman that decided it was for the Greater Good.”
His voice remained genial and mild, but it was laced with steel and reverberated with raw magical power that reminded everyone present that this was the defeater of Gellert Grindelwald. Every single Auror, hit-wizard, healer and other Ministry personnel cowered and stepped back, unable to so much as look at him.
“This… this is sedition, Albus Dumbledore,” snarled Dawlish, or at least attempted to. That he was stuttering the entire time didn’t help. He raised his wand shakingly against the Headmaster. “Aurors! By the authority invested in me by the Minister, I order you to take Albus Dumbledore into custody for sedition against the Ministry. And then we destroy that circle.”
“Dawlish,” snapped Kinglsey. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Have I lost my mind?” snarled Dawlish. “Just whose side are you on? Or has this old fool even convinced you to join his merry band? Aurors, take both of them into custody right now, I —”
The rest of his words died in his throat, as John Dawlish found himself facing something far more threatening than anything he had faced in his miserable life.
Facing Albus Dumbledore’s wand.
“I am well aware of your position as the Minister’s Guard, Auror Dawlish,” Albus said authoritatively. “As well as the special privileges it gives you. But I urge you not to attempt anything, and more importantly, refrain from drawing your wands against me. Or else I might forget myself and relieve you of you, along with whatever extremity happens to be holding it.”
The time for peaceful negotiation was long past. He was past deciding if Cornelius Fudge was acting out of his paranoia or Malfoy’s influence. For all he knew, Dawlish here was an indirect agent of Lucius Malfoy, and thus, Lord Voldemort, attempting to damage things further.
Gasps and murmurs fluttered throughout the alley as everyone absorbed his words.
“This… this isn’t the end, Dumbledore,” said Dawlish in a mix of fear, rage and defiance. “When the Minister hears of this….”
“I’m sure he will,” said Albus softly but firmly. “For now, I believe it’s best if you leave this place and let people who are actually capable of helping do their job.”
With one last glare, Dawlish apparated away.
“What an absolutely irritating fellow,” remarked Albus. “I cannot even think of him and the John Dawlish that served as Hogwarts Headboy.”
“He will go to Fudge, or worse, Umbridge,” commented Kingsley, probably with another decree to override your authority.”
“As much as I’d like to argue otherwise, I can’t. I can only hope that Harry and Sirius will be able to send us a signal soon.”
I swear,” said Shacklebolt. “If Harry Potter ever goes rogue and becomes a dark wizard, it will be because he has had enough of people like Dawlish and Fudge.”
“Trust me on this, Kingsley,” murmured Albus. “If Harry Potter truly went rogue, him becoming a dark wizard will be the last of our problems.”
Kingsley gave him an odd, questioning gaze.
“But there is something else that greatly worries me, Kingsley,” admitted Albus. “If Lord Voldemort is indeed behind this,” he ignored the gasps around him at the mention of the name, “then it must have been for a reason. To go through such a complicated setup just to destroy a hospital and kill its inmates slowly and horrifically… I’m afraid there is more happening here that we can foresee.”
“Potter did say about the ritual being a gateway for something.”
Albus frowned. That was another bit that annoyed him. As much as he trusted Harry, his knowledge about the Abstract had grown, almost exponentially since the start of the term. And nothing, not the workshop, nor Sirius or Severus’s tutoring sessions, nor the texts sent to him from the Department of Mysteries explained his growing familiarity and knowledge of his craft. His only clue was this Ignotus Peverell — one of the three Peverell brothers and original masters of the Hallows, with whom Harry had been communing in his sleep.
Was he perchance, imbibing knowledge from his ancestor through these communing moments? Albus had heard of Spiritual Invocation, a way to gain knowledge from spirits of the departed, and given how both were Vessels of the same Family Magic, perhaps something like magical osmosis was at work?
Ordinarily, he would have pursued his mystery and found out what was happening, but Harry had proved multiple times that his heart lay in the right place. Whatever was the source of his knowledge and his familiarity about the Abstract, Nicholas Flamel seemed to know about it, and that must have sparked his interest in his boy.
It was like the more he sought answers regarding the mystery of the Boy-Who-Lived, all he got were more questions.
For now at least.
“Gateway or not,” he murmured. “I cannot help but agree that Dawlish had a point. That young Harry had a knowledge of this particular brand of esoteric magic is too wild to be a coincidence.”
“Albus,” said Kingsley, scandalised. “You cannot possibly be inferring that Harry Potter caused this.”
“Certainly not,” said Albus, dismissing the idea. “But whoever did this, must have had a good idea of what Harry, or rather, his unique thaumaturgy is capable of. And if my hunch is correct, they knew Harry would see through this Circle, or worse…”
“Knew he would go into it?” Kingsley breathed. “You think this is… a trap? For Harry Potter?”
A grim smile was all he got as an answer.
“We need to hurry up,” said the auror. “Gentlemen, any ideas?”
“Can we temporarily stabilise the circle even when cut off from the source so that it doesn’t blow up?” asked a ward-breaker.
“Perhaps,” said Albus. “But again, I cannot be of much help here. Non-Futhark matrix based ritual circles are not my specialty, and we don’t have enough time to summon an expert.”
‘Then we just need to find a way to bleed it off,” said Kingsley.
“Unless we receive word from the inside with more news, I’m afraid bleeding the magic out is the only way forward,” Albus agreed. “If we could have tied the barrier with the hospital’s wardstones, then the energy could be contained, or if not, redirected.”
“I can set up a temporary runic wardstone if you can draw the energy out,” suggested the ward-breaker. “Perhaps an energy-intensive transfiguration, professor?”
“It has merit,” said Albus. “But channelling this much energy using transfiguration would be like draining water from the ocean. I’d need to transfigure half of this alley itself if not more, and who knows how that might interfere with existing enchantments. Transmutation on the other hand, is a possibility. I know a spell or two that gobbles magic like nothing else.”
Aquas Veritas — alchemic purification of water, came to mind. That the runic circle heavily embodied the aspects of Kenaz — the rune of transformation helped. Kenaz could be likened to the flames of the forge that heated metal so that it took on many varied hues and could be transformed into objects of beauty or weaponry. Dark magic, more often than not, relied on intense negative emotions, which belonged to the Fire elemental spectrum. If used properly, he could perhaps twist the attributes of Kenaz from concentrating the dark magic of the ritual into pure flame, and use it to alchemically purify water.
“The only issue is the sheer amount of energy flooding through my body could very well poison my insides.”
Especially when the energy flooding through belonged to a ritual employing dark magic.
“You’re forgetting,” suggested the other ward-breaker to the former. “This isn’t standard magic. There’s no way to monitor the influx into the wardstone. It could just detonate in our faces the moment we begin.”
“There is… one option,” Albus mused. He looked at Kingsley. “Go to Hogwarts. Ask Minerva to exercise her discretionary power as Deputy Headmistress, and release the Hogwarts elves from their bonds, and bring them all here.”
Shacklebolt’s eyes flashed. “I see. Yes, that might work.”
And then he apparated.
Albus looked at the magical dome separating them from the hospital. “Quickly Harry,” he murmured as the barrier thrummed loudly for the seventh time. “Time is against us, as is stupidity.”
Kingsley’s words resounded in his mind. Just why would Tom Riddle go through this elaborate setup? Make a statement by destroying St. Mungo’s? Trap Harry Potter and attempt to kill him without anyone else interfering? Or something even worse? All of it… seemed a bit too big, even for that. Why gather the hit-wizards here, along with Harry and himself, unless…
His eyes widened. Whipping his wand out, he quickly cast a patronus. “Go to Arthur Weasley. Alert everyone. Get to the Ministry, NOW!”
In hindsight, it was clear why he hadn’t been able to sense things despite being in the heart of it.
It was the same reason that an ant can’t perceive the person holding the magnifying glass between itself and the sun.
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“Visitors to the Ministry of Magic,” said the cool voice. “Please state your name and purpose.”
“How can I help you, sir?” asked the receptionist at the helpdesk, looking up and freezing at the sight of the man and his wife that had just strolled in. She knew both of them quite well, hardly anyone in Wizarding Britain didn’t, but somehow, the man’s features looked sharper, deadlier… like he was more.
Tall, white-haired, coldly elegant in black robes of the finest quality. One hand gripping a silver-handled cane which took on the character of a deadly weapon just by being in that hand. His eyes regarded the room with the dispassionate quality of an executioner, a man to whom killing was not painful, or even deliciously forbidden, but just a routine activity like breathing.
“Lo— Lord Malfoy,” exclaimed the receptionist, automatically standing up, before her eyes shifted to his wife. “And Lady Malfoy.”
“Here to meet the Minister of Magic,” spoke the man in a cultured, Wiltshire accent. “Malfoys are far above the common rabble to have our wands tested. Let us in, now.”
The receptionist swallowed a mouthful of fear. A whirring sound later, the machine in front of them produced two badges that she handed to them.
“Visitors,” said the cool voice again. “Kindly pin your badges on for the duration of the visit.”
“Lucius Malfoy: Conference with the Minister of Magic,” said the badge, as the man smirked, and pinned it on over his chest pocket, and glanced at Narcissa who wore something similar, as the two of them moved towards the elevators, her hand threaded around his.
“You make a better Lucius than Lucius himself, my Lord,” said Narcissa softly.
“Indeed?” asked the Dark Lord. “Perhaps it is because we share contempt for all living things, or perhaps neither of us suffer fools.”
“Perfectly,” said Narcissa,nodding with satisfaction, her expression utterly regal as she held onto his arm. The lift doors opened for them and a large number of wizards and witches came bustling about. Flyers flew around the entire place, buffeting the heads of hapless Ministry personnel that walked around listlessly, as the duo stepped into the elevator.
“It’s been quite some time since I’ve had to engage in the Slytherin traits of misdirection and subterfuge. I assume our plans are in motion?”
“They are, my lord,” said Narcissa, a genuine smile on her face. After the devastating blow that Harry Potter had dealt to the Malfoy name in the aftermath of the Rosier-Santos wedding, vengeance was all that she had been able to think about. They had destroyed the Malfoy pride and reputation, and made them look like mutter fools in front of the entire world, crippled their fortune, and the worst part, shamed her in front of both Houses Black and Rosier — the two names that Narcissa took immense pride in. Her sister Andromeda had cast Draco out of House Black, and imposed heavy penalties that had not only further depleted the Malfoy wealth, but had ended up with them getting cast out of the Dark Alliance like lepers, an alliance that her husband had led for all these years.
In one clean stroke, Potter and that Greengrass girl had taken everything from her. Everything.
But vengeance would be hers. And it had only just begun.
“Lucius found a useful tool in that woman,” said the Dark Lord silkily. “She will prove to be a most useful tool in the Minister’s office. I am assuming Lucius is taking care of our plans as we speak?”
“He is, my Lord,” said Narcissa, as she pressed the button that led them directly to Level-One — Office of the Minister of Magic.
“Good.”.
The elevator stopped, and the duo stepped in front of the Minister’s office, and after a knock, stepped in.
“Ah, Lucius… perhaps if you had fixed an appointment, Lady Malfoy, it’s always a pleasure to see you…” Fudge sputtered.
And then Lucius Malfoy hissed, his eyes glowing a malevolent crimson.
Cornelius Fudge stiffened instantly, and sat down, a glaze forming over his eyes, a confundus charm at play. Amplified by parseltongue. Narcissa had heard of the Dark Lord’s immense mastery over the serpentine language, as well as the recent displays that Harry Potter had done in public.
“I want unmonitored access to the Prophecy Hall, Department of Mysteries,” said the Dark Lord. “You will make that happen.”
Cornelius Fudge silently wrote down a writ that Narcissa grabbed from his hands, as the two of them left the office without wasting any more time. Narcissa noted that her ‘husband’s’ face was beginning to distort, and pulled out a vial from her purse and handed it to him, which he drank, his features settling down once more.
It was confusing. Polyjuice Potion was supposed to last for an hour, but somehow, its effects were wearing off in less than fifteen minutes. She didn’t doubt Severus’s ability with potions, nor believe he was foolish enough to hand the Dark Lord an inferior potion in an insane attempt to sabotage things, which meant that the Dark Lord’s innate magic was somehow countering the effects of the potion.
The Dark Lord staggered just for a moment —
“My Lord —”
The man raised a hand, and Narcissa fell silent.
“Everything is alright, Narcissa. Everything is working just fine. Let us proceed.”
Narcissa took a moment to note once again that ever since his resurrection, the Dark Lord had not once displayed any of his unrefined behaviour that marked his nature before the last war ended. The mad power that had once characterised the man had disappeared, leaving in place a most handsome man seemingly in his late thirties, one of extremely calm and collected mindset. Before the Dark Lord seemed more than human and less than human all at once, something that struck terror in the hearts of everyone that even looked at him. But now…
Narcissa had only heard tales of what the man had been up to ever since the failed attempt to kill the Potter boy, an incident that had gravely hurt the Dark Lord with the death of thirteen members of his Inner Circle. With most of the higher-ranking members still locked away in Azkaban, the Dark Lord had been at a dearth of followers, resources and connections to renew his conquest of Britain. The only thing Narcissa had heard of was that he was somewhere in the continent, searching for something. And the man he had brought back ever since his return, and the things he had done ever since then…
Narcissa didn’t even know what to call them. Her grandmother was Vinda Rosier, once the Right-Hand of Gellert Grindelwald, and her father was Cygnus Black, member of one of the darkest magical families in the entire world. Dark magic was something she was intensely familiar with. But what the Dark Lord had been conducting all this while, and the powers he had been invoking to achieve today’s goal…
Could it even be considered Dark magic?
“Do not fret, Narcissa,” said the Dark Lord, easily picking up her thoughts from her mind. “I know you fear the legendary suffering that I shall inflict upon you and your husband for deserting me. Do not worry. My thinking is far… unclouded from the Haze of the Dark Arts than what it used to be. And no, you will not be tortured either. That would be counterproductive. No, the game we shall play is one of far more significance, and I refuse to cruciate and kill what remaining followers I have left.”
“The… game?”
“Yes,” said the Dark Lord, as they stepped back into the lift, which dropped precipitously down to Level-Nine. “Conquering Wizarding Britain is no longer a priority of mine. As much as it pains me to admit it, I had lost myself to my hubris, becoming so utterly obsessed with defeating Albus Dumbledore and conquering this nation, that I had forgotten my true aims. In fact, I am quite thankful to Harry Potter, for showing me the error of my ways. For that alone, he deserves my respect.”
They stepped through the dungeon-like serpentine corridor, towards the golden knobbed door beyond which lay the Department of Mysteries. Two hooded Unspeakables stood guard on either side of the door, all wearing their long, flowing hooded robes, their wands out and ready.
“This is a restricted area,” said one. “Leave before I forcibly eject you.”
Narcissa wondered if the Unspeakable would have shown the same blatant disrespect if he had known who it was he was speaking.
“We have an issued writ from the Minister,” she said, handing the authorization letter to the Unspeakable who quickly inspected it. She had even heard of the Unspeakables having their personal trained army to take out insurgent forces or take down whatever struck their fancy. Given how the guards were cataloguing their very movements, she surmised they had gone through extreme conditioning and combat training. And unlike Aurors, the Unspeakables only answered to the Department alone, and very few could make them play ball.
Luckily, the Minister of Magic was one of them.
The Unspeakable typed something on the wall next to them, and an array of runescripts appeared before them that made no sense to her.
“There are no known prophecies related to Narcissa or Lucius Malfoy inside the Hall of Prophecy,” said the guard. “Touching an orb that is not meant for you will horrifically curse you. I will advise you to kindly leave. The Department of Mysteries does not believe in wasting time.”
“We have one hour of unrestricted access according to this writ,” said Narcissa. “Unless you’d rather have to explain to the Minister why you refused a direct order, I suggest you let us in.”
Or before the Dark Lord lost his temper and incinerated both of them to ashes. While Narcissa was no stranger to watching people die, she was quite fond of the robe she was wearing. Seeing it soiled would make her unhappy.
“You may enter,” said the man, glaring at her. “Take care that any disturbance will be dealt with by lethal forces.”
“Of course,” she said, and stepped in.
Comments
dragongod0117
As a certain Admiral once said, ITS A TRAP!
