The Shadowchasers
"Tranquil" had never been the right word for the town. It had been an industrial center for a very long time, becoming more and more frenetic as it churned out ever-increasing quantities of goods. During its recent bombardment, it had lost its brisk, bustling quality, but still had not achieved tranquility. An aura of held breath hung over the streets, as if everyone were waiting for the next blow.
On this June afternoon, however, the worst fighting was elsewhere, and the atmosphere not as dismal as usual. People had ventured out to investigate the meager selection in the shops. A few vehicles moved slowly along the streets. Here and there, the high-pitched voices of playing children drifted out of courtyards and alleyways. Not a postcard scene -- the ruined carcasses of buildings would have spoiled it - but not so very bad. Almost normal.
Almost.
Along the town's southern border, separated from it by a wide ribbon of cultivated land, lay a forest that been there when the town was no more than a collection of huts and dirt lanes, and before that, when there had been no town at all. All sorts of violence had played out beneath its dark canopy over the centuries, as animals and men fought for status and territory. Now, however, something completely unprecedented was going on. Men moved purposefully among the trees; odd-looking men in long, robe-like garments, armed with slender pieces of polished wood instead of guns and knives. None of the town's residents were around to observe them, but any who had come close enough to hear their conversation would have found it as strange as their appearance.
"How many are wizard-owned?"
"Three. We'll move quickly - hit and run. Kill as many as we can and destroy the buildings. No looting. It slowed us down last time."
One of the men pulled something out of the front of his robes - a round, heavy watchcase, tarnished almost black - and squinted at it.
"Plenty of time still," he said. "Think I ought to call the reinforcements yet?"
"I suppose you might as well," allowed his companion. "I'll make certain everyone else is doing what they're meant to be doing."
He walked away, and after glancing back at the tree line, the first man faced the heart of the forest and raised his wand.
"Ventum lupi," he said.
He didn't lift his arms to the skies and bellow the words dramatically, like a magician in a story, but they resonated with power all the same, a low, thrumming power that electrified the air for a moment and made a few birds fly up, startled, from the nearest tree. In the distance, a low moaning noise started and rose into a howl, then tapered off into a sob, as mournful and wrenching as if the creature making it were lamenting the death of the only thing it had ever loved. Another howl began before the first had even ended. Others followed on its tail, each in a different location, each unique in its pitch and timbre.
Grinning, the man tucked his wand out of sight. The pack was coming.
~~~
Minerva stayed in the upstairs corridor for some time reading the report Arabella had given her. When she started to get stiff from standing in one position, she went downstairs still reading, so absorbed in the material that it was a wonder she managed to avoid falling and breaking her neck. She walked past Dumbledore without a word or a glance, went straight into the front room, and settled on a window seat to finish, carefully arranging her robes so she could put her feet up without risking indecent exposure.
Reading this stuff, she thought as she plowed her way through the footnotes and cross-references, was like seeing an ugly accident. No matter how horrified and disgusted you were, you couldn't stop looking, couldn't help wanting to know if it was really as bad as you thought it must be. She felt just that way now. Names, dates, descriptions of attack sites - they all blurred together, and yet details kept leaping out at her, pulling her along inexorably toward whatever awaited at the end. A small pulse of pain began behind her left eye sometime during Appendix I. By the time she got to Appendix II, it had developed into a full-fledged headache.
The very last section of the report was photographs, both of the two victims of werewolf paranoia, and of people who had actually been killed by Grindelwald. Halfway through, she saw a boy she'd known at school - he'd been in seventh year when she was in fourth - and dropped the pages as if insects had suddenly crawled across them. She hadn't been expecting that. How could someone barely older than she, who should by rights have lived another hundred years at least, be reduced to no more than a face in a gallery of the dead? It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.
Feeling sick and shaken, she got up and made her way back to the kitchen, giving the fallen pages of the report a wide berth. Dumbledore glanced up from his own reading as she entered the room.
"Finished?" he asked.
"Yes," said Minerva. She sat down in the chair beside his, a bit more heavily than she had intended to, and pressed the heels of her hands hard against the throbbing in her head. When she took them away again, Dumbledore was watching her with sympathy, but also with an undernote of cool assessment.
"I'm quite all right, thank you," she said before he could inquire. "It was only a headache. It's gone now." But it wasn't, and neither were the feelings that had triggered it. She squashed them down mercilessly. There would be time to deal with them later.
"I'm very glad to hear it," said Dumbledore. He relaxed his scrutiny and began hunting through the various pockets of his robes, fishing out coins and crumpled bits of paper. Minerva had seen him do this at least a thousand times, and knew that it was the prelude to an offer of sweets - every time she'd come to his office raging or sobbing about something during her school years, he'd quieted her with an Everlasting Gobstopper or Chokecherry Chew before settling down to discuss the problem. Surely he didn't think she still needed that sort of coddling?
"I was wondering about something," she began, hoping to forestall him. "The attacks in the report - they've mostly been on wizard homes, haven't they?"
"Correct," he said. Having found nothing, he left off his search and swept all the detritus back into his largest pocket.
"Why has nothing happened in Hogsmeade, then? With so many magical people all living together there, I should think it would have been attacked long ago."
"On the contrary,” he said. “The concentration of magic is what keeps it safe. A few years ago, when Grindelwald was first rising to power, a good score of his followers came out of the Forbidden Forest, accompanied by a pack of wolves, and threatened some of the houses on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. When the village elders saw what was happening, they raised such a defense that the attackers retreated. Since then, Grindelwald has focused on smaller settlements - the places where one or two wizard families live surrounded by Muggles - where his people will meet with less resistance. But he has grown stronger, and no one knows when he might dare to try his luck in Hogsmeade again. We have sent emissaries to the werewolves in the Forbidden Forest, begging them to help us, or at least warn us if he appears there, but I'm afraid they haven't been very receptive to either idea."
"I suppose they think he’ll reward them if he wins,” said Minerva scornfully.
"Very likely," said Dumbledore, "though if they considered the way he treats their cousins, they might think otherwise. Grindelwald’s use of wolves is one of his connections with the Muggle dictator, by the way. Hitler likes to refer to his human agents as wolves and his under-sea ships as wolf packs, and to give his camps names like 'Werewolf' and 'Wolf's Lair.' His given name, Adolf, is derived from an older one that means 'noble wolf,' a fact of which he is said to be quite proud."
That raised half a dozen more questions in Minerva's mind - but before she could begin asking them, the kitchen fire flashed a poisonous green, and the head of Monsieur Beaufort, the French Minister of Magic, appeared in it. Dumbledore was already out of his chair by the time she recognized who the visitor was, mingled anticipation and worry written all over his face as he leaned toward the great stone fireplace.
"What is it, Leon?" he asked, and Beaufort launched into rapid-fire French that Minerva hadn’t a hope of following. When she'd heard she would be going on this assignment, she'd spent several unfruitful hours with a French phrase book, finally conceding that even she could not learn an entire language in one sitting. Dumbledore had promised to translate for her while they were away, but appeared to have forgotten his promise as he absorbed the Minister's news.
Beaufort noticed that Minerva was in the room and switched to lightly accented English.
"My apologies, mademoiselle," he said to her. "I was telling Monsieur Dumbledore that I have received a message from your own Minister of Magic. There has been another attack. Madame Figg had said she was on her way to meet you -"
"She arrived earlier this afternoon," Dumbledore said.
"Excellent," said Beaufort. "Minister Hathaway has requested that she return immediately, and I have told him I will send the two of you back with her. Since you are unoccupied, I see no reason to keep you sitting idle here. I am sure the Aurors need all the help we can supply."
"I agree," said Dumbledore. His expression had gone very grave. "We will leave as soon as possible. You have a new Portkey for us, I assume?"
Beaufort's head nodded, and the next moment a small, heavy object flew out of the fire and skidded across the floor. Minerva stopped it with her boot and picked it up. It was a disk-shaped silver paperweight.
"Thank you, Minister," Dumbledore said, taking it from her.
"Thank you, Monsieur," replied Beaufort. "I shall wait for your report. And I wish you the best of luck." With that, he vanished. The fire flashed again and died down, leaving a lacework of ash studded with glowing orange embers.
For a few seconds, Dumbledore stared into it as if mesmerized. Then he glanced over at Minerva and managed a small smile.
"We'll be in no danger," he assured her. "The attack is already finished. This is only the aftermath, though I should warn you that it is likely to be unpleasant. Your talent will come in very useful, however. They employ Animagi at these sites whenever possible."
"How?" Minerva asked.
"I haven't time to explain, but you'll see soon enough. Now, a change of attire is in order." He drew his wand and spoke a few words, and his robes loosened, billowed around him and became dark blue with silver edging and insignia - an Auror's uniform. After studying this costume briefly, Minerva produced an identical one for herself.
"Very good. Just a few alterations -" At the touch of his wand tip, the rising-sun badge on the breast of her robe dimmed subtly, and one of the two braid loops around her left shoulder disappeared. "Rank markings," he explained. "You and I are both special liaisons to the Ministry at the moment, but you rank slightly lower than I." She nodded mutely, thinking how strange it was to see Albus, the gentle scholar, behave in such a brisk, military manner.
As always, he seemed to pick up on her thoughts. With a slightly self-deprecating wink, he said "We mustn’t go without our fearless leader, of course. Will you fetch Arabella, please?"
Minerva went. She was prepared to spend some time coaxing the older woman awake - she didn't think she would have appreciated being roused from sleep so suddenly - but AraArabella woke without a hint of grogginess or confusion and listened to Minerva's explanation on the way downstairs, Transfiguring her sleek black robes into uniform as she went.
Dumbledore held up the silver paperweight as they approached him.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready," Arabella said. She turned to Minerva.
"Remember," she said, "the first time's the worst."
If that had been meant to make Minerva feel confident, it hadn't worked. Fortunately, she didn't have to dwell on it for long. They touched the now-activated Portkey together and disappeared.
~~~
The next thing she was aware of was smoke, black smoke and stench hanging so thickly in the air that if she'd believed in a Hell, she would have thought she'd found it. As her watering eyes adjusted to the atmosphere, she saw what must have been an ordinary city block not long before. Three adjacent buildings, reduced to heaps of flame-eaten timbers and shattered stone, were still burning fiercely, while a fourth stood precariously, a blasted shell of its former self. Broken glass littered the ground like the aftermath of an impossible summer ice storm. Whatever Grindelwald had done here, it had been brutal, but effective.
Throughout the mess lay pale, bloodied forms both large and small, too still to give any hope that they would ever rise again. Minerva could see robed witches and wizards moving from body to body, examining each carefully and documenting its position with pictures and scribbled notes. This, she realized, was how Arabella's team had come by the terrible photos in their report: they had taken them in places like this one.
Half horrified, half fascinated, she took a few steps toward the nearest building and was caught in a plume of drifting smoke that made her throat close up with revulsion. It was acrid, like the smoke she'd smelled during the Muggle air raid she and Dumbledore had experienced the winter before last, but it also contained unmistakable hints of decaying flesh and other nasty things.
Dark magic. Instinctively, she covered the lower half of her face with a fold of her robe sleeve. She wasn't going to let that stuff work its way inside her lungs if she could help it. Just the gritty, greasy feel of it was enough to make her skin crawl.
Someone had already spied them and called to Arabella, and the older woman was striding obeyed in that direction, telling her two companions to wait a moment. Minerva waited, still trying to keep the smoke out of her nose and mouth, fanning it away with her free hand so she could get a better look at what was going on. At last, she devised a small negative-pressure spell to dissipate it, and immediately noticed a group of wizards in identical cloud-grey robes. They were arranged in a neat outward-facing formation between the wrecked buildings and the street, wands drawn and eyes scanning restlessly.
"Those are the Obliviators," Dumbledore explained. "They modify the memories of Muggles who come too near and see too much. Not many do, now; with their war going on, they take violence and destruction almost as a matter of course. A terrible thing, but it does work in our favor. Look --"
He pointed to a dark-haired Muggle woman who had just appeared at the north end of the street, holding the hand of a little girl perhaps three years old. She cast a curious glance at the crumpled bodies and robed people, and one of the Obliviators began to step forward - but before he could lift his wand, the woman shook her head in sorrow and resignation and shepherded her daughter quickly in the other direction, pointing at something ahead to divert the girl's attention.
Without a word, the Obliviator melted back into formation.
"You see," Dumbledore said quietly, and Minerva nodded. They stood watching together a little longer, until Dumbledore saw someone he knew near one of the burning buildings and raised a hand to signal that he was coming over.
"Minerva, I hate to leave you, but I really must speak to her. I won't be a moment. Just wait here for me, or for Arabella." He hurried away.
Wonderful. Now I'm standing here alone like a complete fool. Isn't there anything I can do? she wondered unhappily as she watched him go. Everyone who was already there and working seemed so busy, and so aware of what needed to be done, that she didn't want to approach any of them to offer her assistance. Even if she'd dared to try pitching in on her own initiative, the place was in such chaos that she wouldn't have known where to begin.
She looked around, feeling helpless and hating it, and suddenly heard a faint, anguished noise, like the whimper of a child in pain. At first she couldn't pinpoint the source of the sound - with all the distractions surrounding her, it was a miracle she'd heard it at all - but then she saw a flash of movement near one of the piles of rubble.
”Who’s there?” she called. “Are you hurt?”
There was no reply. Wood popped and crackled in the burning ruins behind her. A fresh blast of heat struck her in the back. Drawing her wand, she moved closer to the pile and peered cautiously around a broken piece of beam - and gasped. A boy of perhaps ten or eleven stood there, white and trembling, eyes glued to a man’s body sprawled at his feet. Deep gashes were raked across the body’s chest, and its torn throat was still leaking blood. Though its arms were flung up in a posture of self-defense, its face was clearly visible. The mangled features bore a pitiful resemblance to the blanched, rigid ones of the boy.
Gods above. I've seen this before. No, that's not right. I've lived this before. My father - my father - She clenched her hands into fists. The room had been silent, her father lying as if asleep, but not asleep. There hadn't been a mark on him, but she had been just as horrified as this child looked, had been frozen to the spot in just the same way.
"Minerva,” someone called behind her. It was Arabella's voice - she recognized it dimly - but it seemed far away and unimportant. She ignored it.
"Minerva, I need you to - oh. Oh, dear."
"It's his father," Minerva said flatly, without turning around.
"Yes, I see that," Arabella said. "The poor boy. Don't worry; the Protectors will fetch him away soon. They're part of the Ministry; they come to all the attack sites. Wonderful with children, they are. They'll take good care of him till relatives can be found. Really. Now, if you could come and help me ..."
Help her? Minerva thought, tearing her gaze away from the boy for a minute and staring down into Arabella's soot-grimed face. The black stuff had settled in all the lines there, etching them even deeper than they had been back at the Ministry house. Arabella looked a thousand years old at the moment, and more than a little frightening. She can't be saying what I think she's saying.
"You don't mean we should just leave him here by himself?" she asked incredulously. "Standing over his father's body, waiting for people he doesn't even know are coming?"
From Arabella's harried, I-don't-have-time-for-this expression, Minerva suspected that she wasn't too far off the mark. But looking at the small, wretched figure before them, the Auror softened and said "No, no, of course not. We can find a better place for him to wait, at least." She glanced back in the direction from which she had come. "I've got to go - why don't you see what you can do for him? I'll be right over there. Come and meet me when you're finished. Try to be as quick as you can, though, I do need your help." She turned and walked away, absentmindedly slapping at a drifting ember that had landed on the front of her robes.
Now Minerva and the boy were alone together again. Having a task to carry out was an immense help - it cut through the shock and helped to stabilize her - but she found herself feeling unaccountably nervous about approaching the boy. How would he react? What would she have done if someone had come upon her just after she'd discovered her father's body? She couldn't imagine. She certainly hadn't been pleased to see Albus when he'd turned up months later - had, in fact, done her utmost to get rid of him.
This boy is not you, she reminded herself. This is a different situation. Someone has to help him, and you're the only one who can. Her head began to pound again, a dull, miserable throbbing that made her want to retch. She ignored it and touched the boy on the shoulder.
"You can't stay here," she said as gently as possible.
The boy didn't jump or flinch, only turned a pair of wide, shocked, tearless brown eyes up to her.
"He was right next to me," he said. "They knocked him over. They bit him. He was right next to me."
"I know," Minerva said. Her fingers closed on the sleeve of his shirt - the father was wearing torn and bloodied wizard robes, but the boy was dressed as a Muggle. "Come with me - there are people to help you -"
"I don't want to go," he said, pulling away from her. "I can't leave him alone."
A painful lump started to form in her throat. This, too, was familiar. Why do we think the dead will be lonely? she wondered. Why, when we're the ones who have been left behind?
"He won't be alone. I'll come back for him. I'll bring him to you. Just come with me now. Please."
She was worried that he would argue further, but this idea seemed to soothe him, and he reached up to put a hand into hers.
"Do you promise?" he asked.
"I swear," she said.
As she led him away through the false twilight of smoke, she silently cursed Grindelwald with every curse she knew.