The Daily Prophet, 16 August 1971
Ministry Hit Wizard Missing
Ministry Hit Wizard Bernie Callaghan has been reported missing in the south of England. There has been some concern that Mr Callaghan may have fallen over a coastal cliff in Dorset, where he was known to be visiting family in the wizarding community of Hesterton. Magical rescue squads are currently searching the area.
While Mr Callaghan does have family in Hesterton, his reasons for travelling specifically to an area of the Dorset coastline known as Black Ven, where he was last seen, are as yet unknown. Black Ven is some twenty miles from Hesterton. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement informs The Daily Prophet that Mr Callaghan, 42, has worked as a Hit Wizard at the Ministry for eighteen years, specializing in investigations into Muggle-baiting activities. He is understood to have been working on a number of cases at present, but the nature of these cases has not been confirmed.
Mrs Clarinda Aswinder, a Senior Hit Wizard, commented that while the Ministry would be carrying out enquiries to ensure that Mr Callaghan’s disappearance was not related to his caseload, it was not likely that Mr Callaghan’s low-level investigational work would have made him a target for reprisal.
Any witch or wizard who may have seen Mr Callaghan, at Black Ven or elsewhere, is urged to contact Ministry authorities as soon as possible. The search continues.
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The sound of footsteps echoed like stones in the tight back alley, bouncing from wall to wall in a pitter-patter of disjointed ricochets. It was not one set of shoes that created this tiny cacophony of taps and scuffs, but two, perhaps even three. Here there was the tinny scrape of an old can dislodged and there the tinkle of glass trod upon, but always the quick rhythm of footsteps across the wet pavement. And then, a man.
The shadows of the buildings that formed the alley obscured his face, but old-fashioned black robes with a high collar billowed about his person as he trotted quickly through the thin passageway, glancing behind him at intervals to check the dim light for signs of the footsteps that followed him. Yet though the echoes continued to dance between the walls, there came no sign of their source. The man in the old-fashioned robes came abruptly to a corner “ another alley, this one even smaller than the first “ and ducked into it without hesitation. It was virtually devoid of light, so tall and close together were the buildings.
Abruptly, a thin beam of light cut through the murky darkness, revealing two dark forms as a mouldering heap of rubbish and a prowling cat. The cat skittered away as the beam of light fell upon it. Halting and turning in place, the man lifted his wand above his head and pointed it back in the direction from which he had come. He could see the end of his light playing across the far wall of the alley which he had just left behind, knew that it must be visible to the pursuers who could now be heard hurtling closer. And just as abruptly as it had appeared, the light extinguished itself, plunging the two alleys once more into the shadowy half-light of the obscured sunlight above.
The pursuing footsteps slowed. A hiss of whispers reached the black-robed man and then the footsteps stopped entirely. Silence fell. In the sudden hush, the man extended his wand and seemed to trace an invisible picture in mid-air, his lips moving noiselessly as if recreating a silent movie. The prowling cat slunk past his leg.
Suddenly there was a scuffle of movement at the corner joining the two alleys, a pair of shadows emerged, and two twin jets of red light lit the darkness like fireworks. There followed a series of snaps and crackles, an alarmed yowl, more flashes of red light, a man yelling, and then quiet abruptly descended.
This time the silence seemed to drip, as if trickling into the ear in anticipation of another loud disturbance, yet none came. A few seconds crept by, then a few more, and finally a rustle of cloth broke the stillness and the single beam of light once more gave sharp definition to the shadows in the alley. Two men lay very still at the corner of the two passageways, as did the no-longer prowling cat a few feet away from them. One of the men was bleeding profusely at the nose in addition to being quite still, while the other was now breaking out in what appeared to be violently orange pimples.
“Merlin’s beard,” said the man in the old-fashioned robes, very much unharmed and now approaching his two immobile pursuers. “You Ministry saps keep getting younger, don’t you? Must not be serious this time if they’re practically sending teenagers after me. It’s that powdered erumpent horn I got in from Tanzania last week, isn’t it? Barry never could much keep his mouth shut.”
Crouching down beside them, he shook his head sadly, though clearly half amused. He gave a pointed sigh, than tapped the bleeding nose of the first Ministry official with the tip of his wand. Instantly the flow of blood dried up.
“You, I’m afraid,” the man directed at the second official, “will have to live with your little hex. Look what your Stunner did to that poor cat, after all.” Even as he spoke, the tip of his wand now tapped the cat, which sprang suddenly to life as if from a stiff sleep, gave a disgruntled hiss, and bolted away. “But never you worry. Find yourself a bottle of Eiris’s Exceptional Expunger and those spots should clear up in a month or so. You’ll find it at any apothecary.”
“And now, gentlemen, I’m afraid I have to go.” The man rose and, as he did so, a dim beam of sunlight fell across his face, revealing a short beard the colour of pepper, a deeply lined face with grinning eyes, and a tousle of slowly receding silver hair. “I will of course make sure the Ministry is informed of your whereabouts. But truly, you may inform your superiors that if they only wish to apprehend me so much as to send a pair of tenderfoots, then really they ought not to bother. Very unfair to you. But now at least you have a bloody nose and a case of Poxa Gingeritis to show for your efforts; much better than if I’d simply Disapparated from the off, don’t you think?”
And with a grin, Charlie inclined his head to the two stunned Ministry officials and vanished with a resounding crack.
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“He is an old friend of your grandfather’s,” Abraxas Malfoy explained to his son, crossing his legs as he reclined in a tall, straight-backed lounge chair.
It was early evening and the light of the westward summer sun was turning orange outside the windows of The Green House. The restaurant was gradually becoming busy with its usual evening clientele, yet it was a refined, gentlemanly sort of busy, manifested in the quiet murmur of conversation, the gentle chink of crystal glasses, and the self-approving sniff of the very rich. Plum and green tapestries depicting great witches and wizards in centuries past draped the walls and dark wood partitions that divided each dining table from the next. The whole place had a confident, enclosed feeling. It was the ideal setting for discussing matters about which one did not wish to be overheard.
At the very rear of the establishment were several private parlours for the most important guests of The Green House and it was in one of these that Mr Malfoy and his son now sat. Abraxas Malfoy was a well-built man, broad of chest, but with a stature that made him appear really quite regal. Rich, dark blond hair fell like a mane over the back of his head and sprouted into side whiskers that joined a thick moustache at the centre of his pointed face. He was dressed in luxurious, flowing robes of dark blue. His son was thinner and lacked some of his father’s powerful build, but his pointed face and shoulder-length, white blond hair closely imitated Abraxas’s majesty and proud air. The young man was perhaps seventeen.
“And you don’t know his real name?” he returned to his father, clearly perturbed at being denied this piece of information.
Abraxas looked annoyed, his lips pressing together. “His name is Charlie and that is how you will address him, Lucius. Your grandfather knew his real name, but he has not used it for many years and you will be respectful enough not to press him for it.”
“Why does he not use it?”
“Because his business does not earn allies in the Ministry. Do not worry the issue.”
Lucius quieted, sinking into a sulky silence at his father’s rebuke. He crossed his legs in imitation of Abraxas and took a sip of raspberry wine from the crystal goblet he held. His eyes drifted around the parlour, small but richly embellished. A dark wood fireplace crackled with a fire in the grate, around which a number of plush lounge chairs circled a low table of the same dark wood. Lucius gave a bored sigh and glanced at the gleaming clock on the mantle.
“He’s late,” the young man sniffed.
“In fact he isn’t,” said a sudden voice. “He has arrived precisely when he meant to.” The voice came from the door, which was now ajar, though Lucius had not heard it open. Abraxas, on the other hand, looked both pleased and unsurprised.
The man known as Charlie pushed into the room, beaming smugly at Lucius. “Some great wizard said that, I imagine, or should have done. Forgive me, I was rather delayed by a trivial little matter involving the Ministry’s ever younger star pupils. Well now, I hope you haven’t finished the firewhiskey.”
Lucius could not mask the disdainful smirk that now crept onto his face. Charlie certainly did not cut a terribly imposing figure, especially when Abraxas rose to greet him and threw the smallness of his person into sharp relief. Although he was quite solidly built and a slight pudginess protruded around his mid-section, Charlie was undeniably short, standing fully a head shorter than Abraxas. His old black robes were painfully out of date and his stooped shoulders and unruly hair gave him an altogether scruffy appearance.
Yet Abraxas, usually so satisfying condescending to such people, seemed hardly to notice Charlie’s appearance and re-seated himself with a silky smile. “Of course not. Please, have a seat, Charlie. You have not met my son yet, I believe. This is Lucius. He will be entering his seventh year at Hogwarts this year.”
Charlie threw himself into the chair next to Lucius and immediately reached out to pour himself a crystal glass of firewhiskey from the low table. With an abruptly appraising stare at the young man, he said, “Which house, son?”
“Slytherin,” Lucius replied curtly, as if offended.
“Ah, good!” Charlie nodded, now grinning smugly. “Keeping up the family tradition, I see. My own house too. Excellent, excellent. And now being schooled in the intricacies of Malfoy business and politics also, it would seem.”
Lucius looked mildly affronted at Charlie’s blunt appraisal, but Abraxas smirked. “Yes, he is a quick learner”“
“”Clearly inherited,” Charlie interjected smoothly.
“Indeed,” Abraxas nodded, smiling. “Now, I do not wish to draw this out. Let us come to the point. I have a number of things that I need, chief among which is the Vanishing Cabinet I mentioned before. I appreciate this may be difficult to procure and quite expensive, but I insist upon it, whatever the cost.”
Abraxas pulled a scroll from his robes and handed it across to Charlie, who had already dug from his mess of robes a scrap of parchment and a battered grey QuickNotes Quill, which he set on the low table. It immediately began scratching away. In a flash, he had unfurled the scroll and his dark eyes were cutting from side to side as he quickly read through it. As he did so, he also spoke, not looking up at Abraxas.
“Expensive certainly, but difficult, I shouldn’t think so. For me, I mean.” His eyes flicked up briefly at the correction. “Cost is probably around three thousand galleons. What kind of wood would you like? Or iron perhaps? There are some very nice black and gold ones available, newest fashion.”
Barely blinking at the immense projected cost, Abraxas nodded. “Black and gold. How soon?”
“Ooh, two weeks? The rest of your list is straightforward enough, give me a week. I assume it is Carolinian fluxweed you will be wanting? The stuff that comes out Virginia is rubbish.” Abraxas inclined his head and Charlie returned the nod. “Then yes, a week for everything but the Vanishing Cabinet. If you are satisfied with it when you see it, I can also assist in finding a safe place for its partner. For a fee, of course.”
“Of course,” Abraxas sniffed.
Asking no questions about the intended use of Mr Malfoy’s Vanishing Cabinet, Charlie curtly nodded with an air of finality, rolled up the scroll once more, and then tapped it with the tip of his wand. It burst into flame and he let it drop to the floor. As if on cue, his QuickNotes Quill instantly ceased its scratching and threw itself down upon the table, lifeless. Charlie scooped quill and parchment up and tucked them back into his robes.
His air of business vanished as he swirled the remnants of his firewhiskey. “So,” he said casually, grinning at the still silently disdainful Lucius beside him. “What do you plan to do once you have left school, young Lucius?”
The scorn in Lucius’s expression unexpectedly subsided and he leaned forward, unable to keep his eyes from lighting up or his voice from rising. “I intend to join the Dark Lord.”
“Oh ho, well now,” Charlie returned, chuckling. He said it with such a maddening air of knowingness that Lucius again found himself sneering at the old man, irritated that he had failed to impress Charlie.
“You may laugh, but the Dark Lord will be triumphant in all that he does. I would be proud to be a part of his vision.”
“Actually, I believe you’re right about the triumphant bit, you know,” Charlie said, still smiling. “Seems a clever one, him. Very good at creating a shadowy cult of personality, I would say. I suppose his mystery and dark aura impress you, do they?”
Lucius bristled. “He deserves the respect that others pay him! His cause is noble and just, as the best witches and wizards of our time have realised.”
“Ah, so the theatrics are, I take it, purely coincidental.”
Abraxas stopped his son with a look before Lucius could shoot back another agitated response. “Enough, Lucius,” the elder Malfoy said. “I do believe that Charlie is, in his own way, expressing a certain approval of the Dark Lord.”
“Quite right,” Charlie nodded, smirking. “In fact, I confess myself rather impressed with him. Had you asked me a few years ago what I thought of Voldemort, I’d have said he was simply another angry young man with an agenda “ young being relative, you understand. Ah, but he has proved himself quite adept. Gathering supporters among the oldest and most respected wizarding families, paying handsomely for information from a wide array of sources, and all the while keeping quiet enough that the Ministry has hardly taken notice. Oh yes, young Master Lucius, I think he is doing a much better job than most who have come before him. I can only fault him for failing as yet to come to me for information, but then I suppose there are many who have made, and rectified, that mistake in the past. I shall simply have to be more patient.”
Lucius said nothing, but seemed mildly placated by the compliments paid to his idol. Abraxas leaned forward again. “And tell me, Charlie, do you agree with his goals?”
“Abraxas,” Charlie replied, in a tone that was mildly reprimanding. “Do you truly ask me such a question? The man stands up for wizarding rights and you ask me if I agree with his goals? Naturally I do.” He grinned, then shook his head, adding wistfully, “Ah, but passion is a young man’s game.”
He drained the last of his firewhiskey as Lucius snorted, frowning. “What you mean by that? You agree with the Dark Lord’s aims, but will do nothing to support him?”
“I mean precisely what I said,” Charlie smirked, standing. “You thumb your nose at me, Master Lucius, but I imagine my own contribution will simply be more...subtle than your own.” At Lucius’s bemused expression, Charlie adopted a look that was half amused, half condescending, but said nothing more to the young man. “Abraxas, until next week.”
Nodding to father and son, he gathered his outdated robes about him, gave a comical bow, and trotted from the parlour as quietly as he had come. On the table behind him, he left a shiny green marble with a line of silver through the centre.