Seventeen
Dawlish: A Case of Russian Roulette
It had been the most grueling year of John Dawlish's life. And after twenty-some years in the Auror Department, that was really saying something.
Even his memories of Lord Voldemort's first rise to power paled in retrospect. There had been saboteurs within the Ministry’s bureaucracy then as well. Those who had been brought up to believe in pureblood superiority had no trouble sympathizing with the new faction which was calling itself the Death Eaters. Once initiated into their ranks, there was no backing out, however. Dawlish had seen enough men come to an untimely end in just such a manner.
He had not expected the same lunacy to take hold thirteen years later, however. As it spread its tentacles into the hallowed halls of power, many saw the totalitarian rigidity of those like Dolores Umbridge as nothing more that a return to more traditional ways. By the time their wives, husbands, mothers or fathers were hauled before the Muggle-born Registration Commission, it was too late to object.
Still others had resigned their Ministry posts in protest only to find themselves replaced gleefully by those who wholeheartedly approved of the new ideology. Not that Dawlish suspected that Rufus Scrimgeour was a Death Eater; he'd worked too many hours alongside the man to not know otherwise. But the corruption had spread too deeply by the time Scrimgeour took the helm; Fudge's stance with his head firmly buried in the sand had given too many a free rein to establish their own private fiefdoms within the Ministry's walls.
What good would it have done for him to resign his Auror position? Dawlish knew he was shrewd enough to survive in a hostile climate “ and just bland enough that he would pass unnoticed. He had weathered rumors that many Aurors had been Confunded at one time or another. Luckily, the new Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, had been quick to absolve him of any true guilt. Perhaps it was because Dawlish had been the first to point out signs that Pius Thicknesse was being manipulated by dark forces. It may have started with the Imperius Curse, but by the end of his abortive term as Minister for Magic, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that Thicknesse was a confirmed Death Eater.
In the wake of Voldemort's final defeat, Dawlish had been assigned the task of sifting through those who besieged the new government with offers of information. It had been much the same the first time around, he remembered clearly, even though he'd only been a scant year out of training then. This time, his uncompromising detective work would guarantee that guilty parties could not claim that they had been unwittingly Imperiused unless the culprit could be identified. If the controlling party had been killed, then the wand used to cast the curse would have to be subjected for analysis.
It was grueling work, but Dawlish and his team were slowly recreating the individual duels which had taken place during the Battle of Hogwarts. Eyewitness testimonies could only fill in a portion of the chaotic melee which had taken place in the dead of night. The trail of corpses demanded answers, but tracking down the actual wizards who had dealt the killing blows was not so easily accomplished. Minister Shacklebolt had assured him that evidence amassed by Dawlish's squad would be the cornerstone of war crime tribunals.
His first break had been when Narcissa Malfoy mentioned that she'd no idea what transpired with the wand belonging to her sister, Bellatrix Lestrange. “You'd do better to ask Potter's accomplices,” she'd snorted haughtily. “They made off with it when our traitorous house-elf assisted their escape.”
Although her own son, Draco, had also been disarmed in that confrontation, Narcissa had been quick to point out that she later allowed him the use of her own wand.
Recognizing that Ollivander had escaped at the same time, Dawlish theorized that Bellatrix had been unable to procure a replacement wand before the Last Battle. Yet there was no denying that the crazed woman had battled three at once before meeting her doom at the hands of Molly Weasley. Had Bellatrix strong-armed another to loan her a wand much as the Dark Lord himself had done with her brother-in-law, Lucius?
Dawlish turned his attention to those stray wands which had been recovered among the debris. Many of them contained enough traces of dark magic to clearly belong to Voldemort's faction and not the defenders of Hogwarts. With the assistance of the meticulous records kept in Ollivander's wand shop, Dawlish had been able to identify wands carried by Yaxley, Dolohov, Thicknesse, and Travers. Why he'd even found Snape's wand hardening in a pool of dark blood next to the man's lifeless body. A grisly reminder that those who aligned themselves with scorpions “ even if only for appearance's sake -- often got stung in return.
He turned the last wand over in his fingers, the one which refused to give up its secrets. Voldemort's wand. A reddish yew on the surface, its core contained a phoenix feather from the same bird as that of Harry Potter. With his thumb, he traced the barely discernible imprint of rat teeth that marked where Peter Pettigrew had salvaged it from the rubble in Godric's Hollow so many years before. Had the duplicitous rodent known even then that his dark master would one day rise again? Or had he wanted the wand as a gruesome souvenir of his dastardly achievement? Only one thing was clear: as the Potter's Secret-Keeper, Pettigrew would've had no trouble accessing the site despite any lingering remnants of the Fidelius Charm. Of course, no one had questioned why Voldemort's husk had been found at the blasted house but not his wand. They had assumed that its wood was scattered among the matchsticks that remained of the quaint cottage.
Just one of the many assumptions that had been made by one Cornelius Fudge when he arrived on the scene that night. Tied everything up neatly with Pettigrew's ‘murder’ the following day. Dawlish shook his head at the immensity of their folly. He was not about to disregard the convoluted trail of the wands this time. He owed it to Kingsley, to Potter, to Black “ may he rest in peace. Merlin, he owed it to the wizarding population of Britain.
This time, the wand had been found next to the madman's corpse in the shattered remains of the once Great Hall. Nothing should have been simpler to catalog. Yet by numerous accounts, the Dark Lord has used another, different wand for the final confrontation: a strangely carved instrument of sinister grey wood with dark accents. A long, skeletal finger even more colorless than the Dark Lord’s hand itself. Various descriptions of the carvings which ringed the wand’s length had left Dawlish thinking of malignant nodules of the Black Death which had decimated Europe during the Middle Ages.
Nevertheless, a wand whose origin was unclear and which had since disappeared from the scene.
By all accounts, Harry too had been using a ‘borrowed’ wand; namely, the hawthorn one he had taken from Draco Malfoy in order to make his escape. But somehow in the wake of the Final Battle, Harry had managed to repair his original holly wand and then personally returned Draco's to him while the Malfoy family huddled in a corner. Minister Shacklebolt had attested to this personally, adding, “Potter was the only one to approach that group. Everyone else treated them as pariahs.”
A sentiment that made perfect sense to Dawlish. He couldn't quite bring himself to fully trust the Malfoys, despite all the cooperation Narcissa and Lucius had only been too keen to provide to his department. He found himself double-checking those facts with another source whenever possible. Outward appearances aside, that Lovegood girl had been a wealth of information about the goings on at Malfoy Manor “ quite on par with a Ministry mole. He'd just had to learn how to keep her rambling down to a minimum.
Yet many unanswered questions still plagued Dawlish. Why had Harry not mended his own wand before? Kingsley had simply explained that the lad required the unique wand he'd won from Voldemort to do so, but had refused to elaborate further. In Dawlish's opinion, there was considerably more to that story; he could see it swimming in the depths of Shacklebolt's dark eyes. But there was no way to compel the Minister for Magic to divulge state secrets, either.
So it came to be that Dawlish found himself dodging the crowds in Diagon Alley that fine August morning. The sound of tireless workmen mingled with the chatter of throngs of shoppers who wove in and out among the scaffolding. He wisely avoided the roundabout where the new spa, Beauty At Any Cost, had recently opened amid much manufactured fanfare. He recoiled involuntarily as a break in the crowd revealed the freshly peroxided head of Rita Skitter just exiting the gilded doors.
There was no denying that the warm city air was tinted with optimism as a record number of families were outfitting their children for school. Hogwarts was bracing for a veritable onslaught of first years as those who had prudently stayed away during the past year would need to be accommodated. The Ministry itself had assisted the Headmistress in locating all the Muggle-born witches and wizards who had turned eleven in the past two years and issuing them apologies along with specially drafted invitations. Rumor was that McGonagall herself had visited an unprecedented number of families to offer special assurances and newly created vouchers to cover school supplies. Anything to convince those wary parents who were just coming to terms with the wizarding world.
No one took notice of the graying Auror as he worked his way past cages of hooting owls and youngsters braying for the newest Quidditch equipment as ice cream cones melted in their hands. He was not surprised to see a long queue outside of Ollivander's wand shop; he'd been warned of such in reply to his owl and directed to the employee entrance at the rear.
His knock was answered swiftly by a youngish clerk who immediately thanked him for his punctuality. Then in the same breath, he directed Dawlish to a private office before excusing himself to tend to the bustling counter in the front room.
At the urging of Dawlish's wand tip, the stack of long boxes that were piled atop the sole chair rearranged themselves neatly against the wall. He settled to wait for the fabled wandmaker to extricate himself from those seeking assistance with their child's first major magical accessory.
“Forgive me,” Ollivander heaved not fifteen minutes later. “Too many parents remember their own first experiences in my shop and insist that I be the one to see to the rest of their family.”
“Such loyalty is an asset,” Dawlish remarked pleasantly after the standard greeting.
“But it is the wands themselves that select the wizard,” Ollivander crooned. “My assistants have been well trained for the occasion.”
“Then you won't mind that I, too, came to see you about a wand?” Dawlish ventured.
“Replacements for the Department or just yourself?”
“Neither. A mystery I'm trying to unravel,” the Auror clarified as he removed the bundled wand from the pocket of his dark robes.
With studied care, Ollivander placed the object in the center of his hastily cleared desk. As he removed the last layer of protective silk, his eyes grew in intensity as well as recognition.
“Why this is no mystery at all. This is the wand I sold to a young Tom Riddle; I remember that day as if it were yesterday.”
“Yet it was not the wand he was holding at the time he fought Harry Potter for the last time.”
The wandmaker hesitated briefly before he uttered in a bare whisper, “No, I expect not. Voldemort had long been seeking another wand, one which would not react to the twin core within Potter's own.”
“Potter was using Draco Malfoy's wand in the battle. Since he helped you to escape Malfoy Manor, I suspect you knew that firsthand.”
“Yes, Harry's own wand was beyond repair. The wand he captured from Draco served him well in its stead. How unfortunate that I was too weak to fashion a new one for him myself.”
“Don't trouble yourself, Potter has gone back to using his original wand. The one that you yourself matched him with seven years ago.”
If he had expected Ollivander to question how, he was sorely disappointed. Instead the wandmaker issued an inscrutable smile. “More evidence that the wizarding world is returning to normal,” he commented enigmatically.
“And you have no idea how this was possible?”
“I have a cauldron's worth of ideas, but no real facts.”
“Any theories on why Voldemort went to the trouble of securing another wand when he would not be facing off against Potter's original one?”
“The simplest explanation of all: he did not anticipate it. He was too focused on how his previous encounter with Potter had resulted in cracking asunder the wand he'd procured from Lucius Malfoy.”
“But surely his followers told him that Potter and his gang had Disapparated with captured wands in hand?”
“So I would surmise. And the adventures of Harry's phoenix core wand were waiting to be read from the two wands his friends left behind. Hermione fretted endlessly about this while I regained my strength at Shell Cottage.”
“Then by your own admission, Voldemort's actions make no sense!”
“Only one madman can make sense of the actions of another,” Ollivander supplied cryptically.
“Don't expect to satisfy me with worn platitudes!” Dawlish rebuked.
“Would it surprise you that the original wands belonging to Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Dean Thomas were burned in the fireplace at Malfoy Manor? After being snapped in two, of course. Standard procedure for prisoners you wish to incapacitate; they had done much the same to me when I arrived many months earlier.”
“How do you know this so conclusively?”
Ollivander placed a long finger alongside his nose for emphasis. “Even in the dungeon, I could smell the fragrant mixture of wood smoke.”
“Why then was Potter's wand not burned with the others?”
“There was a fourth wand; blackthorn, I believe, by the acrid after-scent. Although I do not believe its original owner was present… Likely Harry was using it while the pieces of his broken holly wand were tucked away for safekeeping.”
“Then the Death Eaters would've known that they had failed to destroy the wand that was so problematic to their master along with the others,” Dawlish concluded.
Ollivander returned a sad smile. “Surely if Voldemort had shifted through the ashes. Snakes have a highly developed sense of smell.”
Dawlish took a minute to reconsider his next question. In light of the uncertain facts, Voldemort’s use of an alternate wand would've still seemed a prudent precaution. “So this wand before us just fell out of Voldemort's robes? Is that the best explanation we can devise for its presence at the Last Battle?”
Ollivander shrugged. “Considering how many of his followers had been disarmed by then, it’s likely he loaned its use to another. After all, he could no longer depend on torturing me to craft new wands like I did in Pettigrew’s case. By then, I had slipped through his greedy fingers as well.”
What a ruddy Devil’s Snare! Near-sighted jugglers couldn’t have made a bigger mess of it! Dawlish grumbled for the hundredth time. It just made him that much more determined to get to the bottom of things. With so many eyewitness accounts of the climatic events in Hogwarts Great Hall, it should have been a simple matter. “Bugger that!” he groused under his breath as his weary eyes zeroed in on the portion of his notes that were flatly refusing to conform to established facts.
Wielding Wizard
Details of Wand
Acquisition
Voldemort
pale/black trim
?/verified by multiple witnesses
??
yew, found next to Voldemort's dead body
Purchased from Ollivander by Voldemort himself
Harry Potter
hawthorn
belonged to Draco Malfoy, won by disarmament
Ron Weasley
chestnut
belonged to Peter Pettigrew, won by disarmament
Hermione Granger
walnut
belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange, won previously by Ron, loaned to Hermione
Draco Malfoy
silver birch
belonged to Narcissa Malfoy, loaned by mother
Bellatrix Lestrange
??
none found, witnesses attest she was armed
Dawlish's mind reeled from the implications. It just couldn't be! Yet he'd ruled out all the other wands, hadn't he? He was not about the jump to the most obvious conclusion à la Fudge, he reminded himself forcefully.
Without realizing he'd voiced his thoughts aloud, Dawlish muttered, “But why would Voldemort have rewarded his minions in such a manner when they'd failed him yet again?”
“I have no doubt that the punishment exacted on the residents of Malfoy Manor was grave indeed. By all accounts, it was Bellatrix Lestrange who summoned him to witness their triumphant capture of the Chosen One himself.”
“So, by all counts, she should’ve been punished the most severely,” Dawlish argued.
Ollivander's voice was a dry as a tomb as he replied, “She was.” As if he could read the very questions streaming through the Auror's mind, he elaborated, “Your mistake is to think that wielding the Dark Lord's own wand would be considered a sign of favor. Quite the contrary; it had already been established as a flawed weapon, especially when used against Potter. So Bellatrix was sent to do battle with a wand that could not be used against their greatest enemy.”
“Could it have been his intent that she fall to Potter?” Dawlish considered as a whole new vista opened up before him.
“Possibly. Certainly the irony would’ve seemed fitting. Or perhaps Voldemort just wanted to ensure that, in her zeal, Bellatrix didn't accidentally cut down the ultimate prize.”
“Then why won't this wand reveal its last spells to me like all the others have?”
It took a mere moment for Ollivander to address the question which had burned in Dawlish's gut for weeks. “Perhaps because this particular wand succumbed to the Priori Incantatem so spectacularly in the past. Its secrets must now be unlocked by someone who's won its favor.”
Ollivander's references to wands as living beings was unsettling even in the best of times, Dawlish considered inwardly. Aloud, he tendered a more politic response, “I'm not certain I follow.”
“If you assume Bellatrix was burdened with this wand, who defeated her in battle?”
“Molly Weasley.”
“Then that is the person whom the wand now recognizes as its true master. The spell will likely work for her alone.”
With hurried words of thanks, Dawlish grabbed the disgraced wand and its wrappings in one hand as he quietly exited into the side alley.
He was surrounded by an ocean of molten gold as he dropped the spent Portkey in the dusty lane. Before him was the most peculiar structure, rather like a beehive that had been cobbled together by drunken drones. Yet the multiple chimneys identified it as a wizarding habitat, at least in Dawlish’s estimation.
The worn wooden gate opened at his touch. Placing his heavy work shoes carefully on the moss-draped stones, he made his way towards the front porch. As he drew nearer, a mad flapping of wings turned out to be nothing more than an ordinary clothesline. His nostrils could still recall the fresh scent of sun-dried linens from boyhood visits to his grandmother. The Auror found himself smiling unconsciously as he raised his hand to knock.
He could hear noises through the open sheers as a harried voice called out, “Back already, girls? Weighed down with purchases?”
He considered his response as a soft gust carried with it the briefest hint of autumn. Just as the burnished amber of the tall field grass proclaimed the end of the growing season, fall
would soon be upon them this far upcountry. Climbing the length of a weathered rain pipe, the tangled trellises were determined to hold onto their fat blossoms until the very end.
An auburn head was visible through the gauzy glass for an instant before the door cracked open. “Excuse my appearance,” Molly Weasley issued pleasantly as she rubbed her wet hands upon her apron. “We don’t often get visitors out here in the West Country.”
“Forgive my intrusion,” Dawlish replied formally as he held out his Ministry credentials for her review. “I was hoping you could assist me with an ongoing investigation, Mrs. Weasley.”
Molly gulped as she looked up at him apprehensively. “Did something happen to Arthur? My husband tends to get rather preoccupied at times… and accidents, well…”
He cut her off gently before she worked herself up with worry. “I’m sure he’s fine --”
“But you’re not certain,” Molly cut across. “Oh, sweet Merlin…. Why don’t you come inside while I check? That wouldn’t be too much of a bother, would it?”
“Not at all,” Dawlish concurred with an indulgent smile.
He expected her to turn towards the kitchen hearth just visible through the doorway and made as if to assist her with the Floo pot resting atop the mantle. Instead Molly hustled past him into the main sitting room, setting the foil trimmings of a basket of chocolate frogs trembling in her wake. Only a faint dusting of cake flour floated in the spot where she had been standing seconds before.
“Oh, dearie me,” she fretted as she gazed into the face of an ancient grandfather clock. “I don’t have hands for all of them!”
The experienced Auror barely stopped himself from chuckling at an image lifted from his own childhood in Dartmoor. “Forgive me for staring, but I haven’t seen one of these in years.”
“Fallen out of favor, they have.” Molly clearly relaxed as she noted that none of the golden hands were pointing to ‘mortal peril.’
“You have a rather large family,” Dawlish commented as he approached the specialized clock. Arthur’s hand was pointed to ‘work’ while hers was clearly labeled ‘home.’
Warming to the subject, Molly elaborated with a hint of pride, “Percy works at the Ministry also, executive branch. Bill’s at Gringotts Bank. George has premises in Diagon Alley where my youngest son, Ron, is helping him out today.”
Peering closely, Dawlish could just make out four slightly shorter hands clustered next to their father’s. “What about this one? Charlie, is it?”
“He’s a dragon handler in Romania.”
Which explained why his name was nestled securely between ‘work’ and the next designation which read ‘abroad,’ Dawlish thought to himself.
As an afterthought, Molly added, “Bill’s marker used to rest right next to Charlie’s when he was working in Egypt. He’s a curse-breaker, see. Settled for a home post when he got married.”
Seeing another pointer which lay, unused, near the base of the glass, he ventured, “So the extra marker is for your new daughter-in-law.”
Molly’s hands bunched her apron convulsively in reply.
Too late, Dawlish realized his mistake as he read the faint tracings of a name on the lifeless hand: Fred.
“Forgive me for being an insensitive clod,” he beseeched into Molly’s swimming eyes. “I should’ve made the connection when you mentioned Diagon Alley. Everyone knows Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. A true success story.”
“We’ll see,” Molly returned wetly. “Innovation is not so easy to come by these days. George isn’t used to going at things alone.”
Trying to turn things in a less sensitive direction, Dawlish inquired, “So your daughter, Ginny, is shopping today?” He nodded towards the remaining indicator that was firmly planted at ‘errands.’
“Yes,” Molly returned as if she relished the opportunity to shake off her sadness. “She’s invited to the seashore and needs to get some presentable clothing. She’s too grown up to show up in the shabby playthings she wears at home.”
“Did I come at an inconvenient time?”
“No, no. She’s with a girlfriend. They’ll be gone for hours.”
“Unless they buy out the store.”
“Hermione will just pull her towards the Muggle shops,” Molly chortled. “You know how girls are.”
“Not personally, no,” he admitted with self-effacing charm.
“No? You don’t have any children of your own, Mr. Dawlish?”
“It’s John, please. That way I won’t be breaking Auror protocol by admitting that I have two sons. But my wife and I haven’t lived together for years.” To Molly’s sympathetic gaze, he found himself adding, “The strain of the Auror Department took its toll, I’m afraid.”
“Of course. You came to ask me about a case. Oh my, it isn’t about Harry, is it? Harry Potter?” She flashed an agonized glance at the clock face once more, frowning slightly when the reassurance she sought wasn’t there.
“Only indirectly,” Dawlish soothed. “Would it help if I could confirm Mr. Potter’s continued good health?”
“Yes…but how?” Her luminous eyes were uncertain and hopeful at the same time.
“May I?” he indicated the extra hand and waited for her permission before picking it up. “My Nan had a clock just like this and she was always adding new grandchildren in favor of other relatives. It’s a simple spell, really.”
He instructed Molly to bring the golden hand bearing Fred’s name to her lips while picturing whom she wished it to represent. The carved letters faded into the shiny background as Dawlish commanded it towards the clock cabinet with a peculiar wand motion. As the letters to Harry’s name rose from the depths of the metal, the new marker swung towards an unoccupied position marked as ‘on holiday.’
“Ooooh,” Molly crooned as she heaved a noticeable sigh of relief. “We haven’t used that since Arthur took the entire family to visit Bill in Egypt! That was a few years back “ when he won the Grand Prize Galleon Draw.”
Not wanting her to dwell on how unlucky they’d been in the intervening years, Dawlish smiled reassuringly to indicate that times were on the mend.
“How ever will I explain to Bill’s wife that she’s been passed over, though?” Molly countered with an impish grin.
“Just blame it on me. Interfering brute and all that.”
Affirming that such a compact required them to share a convivial glass of lemonade, Molly ushered him towards the kitchen table. A hint of movement caused Dawlish to take one last look over his shoulder. The hand with Harry Potter’s name had inched itself nearer to the adjacent designation which was ‘abroad.’
No wonder Kingsley had stressed that Dawlish’s investigation should be conducted without the lad’s input if at all possible. Not that he could blame Harry for taking a bit of extra time to sort himself out, he mused inwardly. The last year had been traumatic for all concerned.
Molly set out the glasses with a practiced whoosh of her wand. Before she could upend the icy pitcher, though, a chorus of warbling bluebirds fluttered into a ring about her head. With a start, she bustled over to the oven and Levitated a number of golden tarts onto the open windowsill to cool.
Dawlish laughed openly. “Your family certainly has a number of unique timepieces.” He nodded towards the one on the kitchen wall that just specified daily chores. Its single hand was firmly planted on ‘something’s in the oven.’ The bluebirds were chirping as they resettled themselves within a small nest atop the wooden frame.
“One of Arthur’s passions, I’m afraid,” Molly provided as she set a plate of strawberry crumpets before him.
“From his days in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?”
“Now, Auror Dawlish “ John,” she replied to his teasing. “It’s not contraband when wizards fashion items inspired by the Muggle world for their own use. Especially when they’re not used for ‘Muggle-baiting’, as the expression goes.”
“Wireless transmissions and magical cameras come to mind almost immediately.”
“Exactly.”
“How did you come about the unique kitchen timer? I’ve never seen that for sale in Diagon Alley.”
Molly gave him her most disarming smile. “My family’s never been much for store-bought items. Arthur had a number of parts left over from some jinxed cuckoo clocks that were just gathering dust in his workshop. The boys helped him to rework the pieces into a useful gadget and gave them a more cheerful coat of paint in the process. That was the first Christmas after the twins learned to walk unaided; I think they took pity on their poor mother whose attention was often so divided that she burned a dinner or two.”
“Very ingenious.” The sweet, buttery aroma was mouthwatering. “What type of pies?”
“Coconut custard. They’re a friend’s favorite.”
“Don’t let me hinder you from your guest preparations then.” Dawlish made as if to get to his feet.
“Nonsense,” Molly decried. “I’ll just take her a few in time for afternoon tea. That’s hours away.”
“Nonetheless, I should get down to business. I have to account for how I spent my hours away from the office.”
“Quite right,” Molly affirmed as she sat up a little straighter. “You said you were in the midst of an enquiry.”
Briefly, the senior Auror outlined the progress and stumbling blocks he’d encountered in his analysis of the Last Battle.
“Ask away then,” Molly urged. “I was present myself -- although I gather you already knew that.”
“It’s about your encounter with Bellatrix Lestrange. We can’t seem to trace the wand she was using. She’d been disarmed by your son, Ron, as he and his friends escaped from enemy clutches at Malfoy Manor. Her original wand, a walnut model, was later used by Hermione Granger when she impersonated Madam Lestrange in order to access her Gringotts vault.”
“I’m fairly certain Hermione turned over the walnut wand to the Ministry. Mr. Ollivander was kind enough to carve replacement wands for both her and Ron. Brought them here himself not too long after the memorial service.”
“I’m actually more concerned about the wand Bellatrix used during her duel with you. Do you think you could identify it?” Dawlish tentatively unwrapped Voldemort’s wand and placed it on the table. It seemed strangely out of place among the bucolic surroundings.
Instantly on alert, Molly examined the wand from all angles without actually touching it.
It’s as if she can sense the aura of evil that clings to that wooden stick, Dawlish mused to himself.
Finally she looked up with a small frown. “I’m afraid I can’t rightly say. My attention was focused on protecting my daughter, Ginny. Bellatrix didn’t look like she was out-numbered as she defended herself against three at once.”
“Understandably. Still this wand has refused to release its secrets.”
“Not even to its owner?”
“Its owner is dead, I’m afraid. But if it’s indeed the one you won in battle, it may respond to you.”
With a grim nod, Molly followed Dawlish’s careful instructions and placed her wand tip to tip with the other. “Prior Incantato,” she intoned with careful diction.
There was a short pause wherein the defeated wand trembled for a moment before deciding it had met its match. Brief flashes of multicolored spells darted in all directions to recreate Bellatrix’s duel against Ginny, Hermione and Luna. With repeated uses of the incantation, they methodically peeled back the past to uncover the last successful spell.
“Here it comes,” Dawlish warned as a wisp of silvery smoke rose as if from an oversized cigarette.
Molly gasped as the wraithlike form of Tonks was so distinct that even her hair was rendered a vague pink color. “Oh, sweet Merlin and his divine cohorts!” Molly moaned. “That lunatic cut down her own niece. This is going to kill Andromeda. Her very own sister…”
“I can’t say it comes as a total surprise,” Dawlish allowed as he placed a comforting hand over Molly’s trembling one.
“Tonks herself said that her aunt had been intent on bringing her down when she helped Harry escape to safety.”
“Around the time of his seventeenth birthday?” Dawlish clearly remembered having to lie low during those days. His pretense at absent-mindedness had so aptly mirrored the Confundus Charm that he was left to his own devices with his mental faculties fully intact.
Molly gave a shaky nod. “Hard to discount when Ron told the same story, though. He was partnered with Tonks during that mad flight.”
Dawlish pressed his lips into a straight line as he considered Narcissa’s testimony. Bellatrix had been unhinged with joy when the Dark Lord expressly assigned her to trim the diseased branches on her family tree. Knowing that would distress Molly further, he wisely kept silent.
“I won’t impose upon your hospitality any longer, Molly. I’m truly sorry such a pleasant visit had to end on such a jarring note.” Dawlish hastily stuffed the guilty wand into his Auror robes and rose to his feet.
“Just one moment!” Molly protested.
Dawlish gave a polite bob of his head. “Of course, how could I forget? I trust you’ll keep our conversation confidential.”
He raised his wand to impose the Confidentiality Constraint but Molly caught his wrist sharply.
“Standard procedure,” he explained into her fiery eyes.
“Until you inform the next of kin, right?”
“It’s understandable,” he rejoined as he glanced past the edge of his sleeve. If anything, Molly’s fingers were digging even deeper into his flesh.
“She’s my friend,” Molly hissed.
“Please don’t suggest that I shirk my duty…”
“Yet you ask that of me!” Molly cried with pent up venom.
In one fell swoop, Dawlish understood: Molly was begging for a compromise. “You wish to be present?” he relented. A bit unorthodox; but as long as he was there himself, it really didn’t matter.
“No, Auror Dawlish,” Molly insisted. “It is I who will allow you to tag along when I join Andromeda for afternoon tea. She won’t object if we arrive early. Especially if I bring her some of my lamb curry as an excuse.”
With a determine flick of her free hand, Molly caused the lip of the simmering pot to pour a generous portion into a smaller flask. The redolent smell of apples and exotic spices teased Dawlish’s nose as he stared at the tiny powerhouse before him. Allowing that Molly Weasley’s fortitude was more indefatigable than his own, he submitted to Side-Along Apparition to the Tonks residence.
“Shhh!” Andromeda cautioned as she opened the door. “Just got Teddy to settle down. I think he’s got a tooth coming in already!”
“Forgive us for coming a bit early…” Molly began but was interrupted when Andromeda noticed the other visitor.
“I’m Andromeda Tonks,” she issued as she held out her hand in greeting. “Welcome.”
“John Dawlish. From the Auror Department.” He left Molly standing open-mouthed as he added, “I’ve come to pay my respects. Long overdue, I’m afraid. Your daughter was a colleague.”
“Thank you,” Andromeda accepted with solemn grace as she led them towards the formal sitting room.
Catching the scent of dust from the disused rooms, Molly interjected, “Why don’t we sit in the kitchen, Andromeda?”
“Please, don’t alter your routine because of me,” Dawlish insisted.
The kitchen walls immediately reminded him of his grandmother’s apricot jam. The tea things were already arranged on a round table embraced by a sunny window seat. Obviously, Molly was a frequent visitor, Dawlish concluded silently. A tap of Andromeda’s wand caused the kettle to boil immediately and water for the tea arched magically into the waiting pot. The calming aroma filled their nostrils as they seated themselves before a neatly arranged platter of ginger biscuits.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble of baking,” Molly protested, but her friend’s throaty laugh made her back down.
“I didn’t,” Andromeda’s rich voice lilted in return. “They’re from the corner bakery. The bright red buttons attracted Teddy’s attention and I didn’t have the heart to refuse.”
“Gingermen are one of my faves.” Dawlish accepted a biscuit with a genuine smile. “You ladies are determined to revisit the pleasant scenes from my childhood.”
“That’s what grandmothers are for,” Molly whispered as she indicated Andromeda with a flick of her eyebrows.
“Forgive me, Auror Dawlish --” Andromeda ventured as they settled to their first sips of tea.
“John, please,” he corrected amicably.
“Fine. John, then,” she began anew. “I can’t rightly recall my daughter mentioning you.”
“It’s a large department. I was probably included among the brainless blighters in her tender musings.”
Molly chuckled unabashedly as Andromeda issued a bittersweet smile. “How could I ever doubt that you knew her?”
“We didn’t always see eye to eye,” Dawlish allowed light-heartedly. “But that’s to be expected in a disciplined environment. The constraints that keep the idiots from harming themselves tend to infuriate the capable.”
“Then you considered my daughter an accomplished Auror?” Andromeda pondered.
“She had talents the others could only dream of. But Aurors who thinks themselves infallible pose a danger to all. Even Moody, who was rumored to have more lives that a whole colony of cats, met an untimely end. Consequently, it was often necessary to hold Nymphadora back just to maintain the peace.”
“Arthur’s always grousing about the petty jealousies in his department,” Molly interjected. “Almost makes him nostalgic for the easy-going pace when it was just him and Perkins in Muggle Artifacts.”
“Then you can just imagine what a time I had with these two ‘traditional’ types who were assigned to me. Nymphadora rounded out my elite squad that was assigned to Hogsmeade Village.”
Grasping her teacup tighter, Andromeda pressed, “Was that two years ago?”
Dawlish nodded wordlessly as his thoughts drifted back to those miserable months spent patrolling themselves into dizzying circles and achieving little more than getting on each other’s nerves. Cursed objects, poisonings, and mind control. Crimes committed in their very midst while they were powerless to identify the guilty party -- hardly surprising when three-quarters of the possible suspects were off-limits in Hogwarts castle. Dumbledore had been so determined to guard against outside threats when the true danger had walked his very halls with impunity the entire year.
“Everyone was in poor spirits, I’m afraid,” he elaborated to his listeners. “The role of chief cheerleader was not one that suited me very well.”
“Tonks shared some of her frustration when she stopped by for tea during those long months,” Molly volunteered.
“Glad she found an outlet,” Dawlish affirmed. “The other members of my squad were intent on deriding her just because she was a woman.”
“Then it was only Dora’s professionalism that prevented her for hexing them into oblivion,” Andromeda harrumphed. “They should consider themselves lucky.”
“Right shame that,” Dawlish chortled. “Might have made for an amusing interlude during those dreary days.”
“Scottish winters can be downright depressing,” Molly commiserated. “Only a child would consider an ocean of snow a thing of joy. To adults, plowing through the slushy muck is the very definition of misery.”
“I thought the bitter rains in London would’ve prepared me, but I was wrong,” Dawlish supplied. “Not to mention that I was already uncertain of whom I could fully trust.”
“Surely you didn’t doubt my daughter’s loyalty?”
“Loyalty to whom or what became the issue,” Dawlish clarified. “The unspoken tone in the Ministry was already shifting, so to say one upheld those values could just as easily mean someone was buying into the new rhetoric the Death Eaters were subtly introducing.”
Molly nodded sagely. “I think we all felt unsettled during those months. As if a storm was brewing on the horizon and things would improve if it would just break.”
Dawlish gave a rueful smile in acknowledgement. “Only the deluge threatened to wash us away in the wake of Dumbledore’s murder.” Catching Andromeda's eye, he affirmed, “I’m truly sorry your daughter and son-in-law are no longer with us. They will be sorely missed by all of us who knew them.”
“Thank you,” Andromeda mumbled with downcast eyes.
Trying to ease the sudden tension in the room, Molly put forth, “I didn't know you were acquainted with Remus.”
“I wasn't, not in the general sense,” replied Dawlish. “I was always careful to keep a professional distance.”
“Yet you observed....” Molly urged.
“It's what Aurors are trained to do. Trust their instincts and the nuances that they perceive for themselves. Truth isn't carved into stone tablets for easy accessibility.” To his captive audience, he expounded on theories which he had heretofore kept to himself, “Lupin was questioned a number of times concerning Sirius Black. He always acknowledged the personal betrayal he'd felt at the hands of a close friend, but little else.”
Molly added an observation of her own, “At some point, he must’ve substituted his feelings about Pettigrew's dark lies.”
“Exactly,” Dawlish affirmed. “Only no one suspected. The interrogators got a few meaningless tidbits to whet their appetites that always led to dead ends. I watched Lupin play out his hand with ultimate patience and skill. So much so, that I didn't fully comprehend what he had been doing until Black was revealed as the victim and Pettigrew, the traitor.”
“Remus never felt that he could trust the Ministry,” Andromeda supplied.
“Can you blame him?” Molly concurred. “After Sirius was practically railroaded into Azkaban.”
“It's regrettable that he always considered the Ministry to be his enemy,” Dawlish acknowledged. “His basic integrity and intelligence would’ve been a great asset to Kingsley's administration. I'm sorry I never got the chance to tell him so.”
“I so wish his lycanthropy hadn’t hung like a proverbial millstone about his neck,” Andromeda considered.
Dawlish felt compelled to share some of his other musings, “Have you ever stopped to consider why Lupin's status as a werewolf was not commonly known? The Death Eaters knew; Fenrir Greyback was part of their group. And don’t forget, Lupin’s resignation from Hogwarts was precipitated by his affliction being revealed to the entire student body.”
With a slight grimace, Molly provided, “I always found it irrelevant to the man that he was.”
Dawlish gave a curt nod. “Noble sentiments, but hardly in line with public sentiment.”
After a moment’s consideration, Andromeda weighed in, “Remus was a very popular teacher despite everything. Hogwarts instills tolerance in their students as part of their education.”
“True about everyone but the Slytherins,” Molly contended. “After all, it was their Head of House who made it was his duty to unmask poor Remus. Intolerance was more in keeping with Severus' style.”
“Dumbledore kept the story from leaking to the press,” Andromeda countered. “That's what Dora always believed.”
“Possibly,” Dawlish considered, “if the Headmaster had that much influence. I have a much more startling interpretation.” At the expectant faces turned in his direction, he pronounced, “The rumors were squashed by the Death Eaters themselves.”
Molly gave a strangled laugh. “That's just plain barmy -- as my son, Ron, would say. They would’ve delighted in unveiling the monstrous half-breed in our midst.”
“Quite the contrary,” Dawlish argued. “Lupin was the absolute antithesis of Greyback. Kind and considerate, compassionate and cerebral. To expose him as a werewolf would’ve laid waste to the Death Eaters' claims of pureblood superiority. He would've stood as a testament that a werewolf is just as capable as an ordinary wizard “ if not more so, in this case.”
Andromeda’s eyes grew wide as the implications dawned on her. “You're thinking that they targeted him specifically.”
“I have no evidence to support that,” Dawlish clarified. “Not yet, at any rate. Just being a known member of the Order of the Phoenix made him a target.”
“He was so afraid that Dora’s association with him would endanger her,” Andromeda fretted.
“No more than in her usual role as an Auror,” Dawlish established. “I dare say she didn’t take it well when I recommended her termination to my superiors.”
There was a loud gasp not unlike steam escaping from a whole stove full of kettles.
“Auror Dawlish, I thought you were her friend!” Andromeda rasped. She pulled the tray of ginger biscuits out of his reach as his hand drew near. “We offered you hospitality and you turn out to be a viper in disguise.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Molly clucking her tongue reproachfully.
“Please, ladies….” Dawlish held his hands out before him in a gesture of supplication. “I did what I thought was best for all concerned.”
“Best for the Ministry and its narrow-minded views, you mean!” Andromeda accused as she pushed away from the table.
“So I wanted my superiors to believe,” Dawlish stipulated as he gazed up at her angry features. “Pius Thicknesse was still Head Auror then. Need I remind you of whose side he was on?”
“Rationalize your behavior in whatever way you will,” Andromeda fumed. “You put an expectant mother out on the street. You must have known that Remus was unable to secure steady employment. Without Dora’s paycheck, they had to give up their flat.”
Dawlish returned a doleful expression. “I hoped that would send the two of them into hiding.”
“Perhaps we should hear him out, Andromeda,” Molly interjected diplomatically.
With a huff, the stately woman sat down heavily and leveled a suspicious look at her guest.
“It was a simple matter, really. All I had to do was to present a copy of the marriage certificate and Lupin’s file from Werewolf Registry. Both offices are located within the Ministry itself. Nymphadora barely uttered the words that she was requesting desk duty, as is required of all pregnant Aurors, and Thicknesse slammed the folders on his desk and sacked her on the spot.”
“Forgive me for not understanding the serpentine methodology of the Auror Department,” Andromeda noted in a sullen tone.
“Don’t you see?” Dawlish implored. “If I hadn’t, how long before Nymphadora was dragged before Umbridge's tribunal and strong-armed into turning her father over to the Muggle-born Registration Commission?”
“She would've never done it!” Andromeda spat.
In a spectrally quiet voice, Dawlish tendered, “Do you think those fanatics had any compunction about using torture?”
Andromeda paled. “On a pregnant woman?”
“They wouldn't have let such an insignificant detail get in their way,” Dawlish returned.
“That's monstrous,” Andromeda railed.
“The dementors they used to maintain order are just that: soulless monsters,” Dawlish concurred with a grim set to his lips. “But at least they can be seen for what they are on the surface. Umbridge hid behind fake smiles and dubious legislation.”
“But to subject an expectant mother to dementors could’ve proved fatal to the unborn child,” Molly gasped.
“So much the better, these zealots would’ve told themselves. They would actually be doing her a favor my ridding her of…” At the last minute, he decided against the term ‘profane hybrid’ that Thicknesse had employed. Instead, he finished, “…a deplorable mistake.”
Even so, Andromeda’s outrage hung like daggers in the air before them. “My grandson is no mistake!” she seethed. “He was conceived by two people who loved each other very much!”
“Just be glad you didn't have to argue that before Madam Umbridge,” Dawlish sighed.
Seeking to smooth ruffled feathers, Molly suggested, “Did it not occur to you to warn Tonks of your subterfuge?”
Dawlish ran stubby fingers through his curly grey mop. “Too big a risk; I was sitting on a powder keg as it was. Better that she proclaim undying hatred and be safely out of their clutches by the time those tyrants had second thoughts.” Dawlish recalled the indignation that had burned in Nymphadora’s eyes that day, her lips pressed so tightly they shone like ice. Her hair had treated them to a fireworks display of her unspoken feelings.
“What kind of second thoughts?” Andromeda wanted to know.
“Predatory nature aside, the Death Eaters often reacted from the gut; and Thicknesse was hardly known for his abstract thinking. I wanted your daughter long gone before they snatched at the opportunity to turn her into their pawn.”
Ever the peace-maker, Molly inquired, “How could you work alongside such senseless abusers of power, John?”
“It wasn't always easy,” Dawlish admitted. “But if I could help a few to avoid persecution, I felt I was accomplishing my bit for the resistance. I just had to do it in a very circumspect manner and according to their twisted rules.”
“It’s been a difficult year for everyone,” Andromeda allowed.
“Please tell me the two of them were happy in the few months they had together,” Dawlish insisted.
Andromeda gave a perfunctory nod as she mopped the corner of her eyes with a tissue. “All this hatred reaching a boiling point. Try as I might to draw my immediate family away from it, Fate seemed compelled to punish me for the sins of my parents and sisters.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Andromeda,” Molly soothed as she wrapped a comforting arm around her friend’s shoulders. “Everyone has choices.”
Andromeda returned a tearful nod. “I always dreaded the path my sisters were set to walk. Bella was so determined to blaze a new and glorious trail. All she managed was to sacrifice her own sanity in the process.”
“Surely, a stint in Azkaban was enough to push anyone into the abyss,” Dawlish sympathized.
“There’s no need to make excuses for her, John. I came to terms with the soulless shell my sister had become when she gleefully tortured those poor Aurors into insanity.”
Dawlish shut his eyes tightly against the memory. “I remember the Longbottoms well.”
“I’m long past the point where I can pretend that Bella was just rebelling against authority,” Andromeda asserted.
Dawlish caught Molly’s eye significantly to indicate that the moment had come. “I believe John has some news about your sister,” she began.
Despite Molly’s soothing tone, Andromeda jumped in her chair. The eyes that were turned in the senior Auror’s direction were haunted with misery.
The silence in the suddenly joyless room hung like an icy curtain between them.
“I’ve been trying to recreate the duels from the Battle of Hogwarts,” he began hesitantly. “So many deaths were unwitnessed in the gloom of night.” He could feel Andromeda’s eyes burning into him as he concentrated on the crumbs remaining on his plate. “Just today, I isolated the wand that Bellatrix “ your sister “ used that night.”
“The walnut wand was presented to Narcissa by the Minister himself. In memory,” Andromeda posited through strained vocal cords. “I wouldn’t have it myself.”
With quick brush strokes, Dawlish outlined how Hermione had been in possession of the walnut wand at the Last Battle, using it briefly against Bella herself before Molly had taken over. Hermione relinquished it directly into Kingsley’s hands after everything was over.
“We believe Bellatrix was using a wand that had been entrusted to her by Voldemort himself.” Dawlish waited for a look of shock to steal over Andromeda’s face, but she maintained a stoic stance instead. “Analysis of that wand revealed that your daughter, Nymphadora, was cut down by Bellatrix. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such grim tidings.” With a heavy sigh, Dawlish allowed his head to fall forward into his hands. He felt like a careening balloon that had finally run out of hot air.
In a hushed whisper, Andromeda commented, “As much as I’d like to say I’m shocked, Bella’s actions no longer surprise me. I don’t even hold the sister I once knew responsible, John. That young woman died long ago, consumed in the crucible of her devotion to a sadistic overlord. She was manipulated as much as someone under the Imperius Curse. She was mentally unbalanced, a regular bedlamite.”
“I’m so sorry,” Molly crooned as she held her friend’s hand more tightly. “I wish it had been otherwise.”
Looking up into Molly’s swimming eyes, Andromeda proclaimed, “I, too, wish my daughter was alive. But Bella’s finally at peace; no one can take advantage of her anymore. I told you as much when you blubbered that you’d had no choice but to defend Ginny and the other girls. At least you had the opportunity to defend your own daughter…” Andromeda’s chest heaved with a mighty sob, but she didn’t allow herself to succumb. Turning towards Dawlish, she added, “Please don’t think me heartless, John, but I’ve been mourning my sister, Bella, for years now. I’m grateful that she was granted a quick death; Molly knows I don’t blame her. I’m doubly glad that Molly didn’t have to sacrifice herself in the same manner that Lily Potter did so many years ago.”
Dawlish nodded solemnly, awed by the strength that radiated from the majestic woman before him. Despite her unmistakable resemblance to Bellatrix, Andromeda’s eyes shone with intelligence and life. Clearly, she had cast the Black family’s bitterness aside in favor of carrying her forth in her own right.
With a quick glance at the kitchen clock, she slowly rose to her feet and gave Molly’s shoulder a gentle squeeze of appreciation. “John, why don’t you come upstairs and meet my grandson, Teddy?” she offered. “He’ll be waking up from his nap now. You’ll be surprised how much he already takes after his parents.”
Her hand skimming the banister, Andromeda slowly led the way upstairs. Despite the casual slacks she wore, Dawlish was reminded of a long, regal robe trailing behind her as she took each step.
The fragile vulnerability of family ties hit him full force. As the bright blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore twinkled from the cheerful wall border, Dawlish vowed to himself that he would Floo his sons that very evening. He surprised himself by adding that perhaps things were not as estranged with his wife as he’d previously imagined.