Chapter Text
The hospital room was only comfortable when Dawlish closed his eyes. Green-robed healers and their wide-eyed apprentices had already made their morning rounds twice— once to actually check on him, and again to let the apprentices practice running their diagnostic spells. The sticky, red residue of four hasty diagnostic spells clung to his skin in a four-layered buzzing film. Like the buzzing of flies.
It was difficult not to be morbid. St. Mungo’s was a special kind of hell.
Dawlish would kill for a fag. It was a garishly muggle habit, to be sure, but there’s something to be said for the integration of the human races. He’d been in hospital for almost a month and they had a strict no-muggle-vices policy. If he tried to get his granddaughter to sneak a pack for him, it’d only turn to ash in her pocket the moment she crossed St. Mungo’s threshold.
He knew from experience how costly magical security wards could be. That was his job, once upon a time.
The poor old sod in the bed next to Dawlish had died overnight. They’d packed up his bed quick, leaving Dawlish alone to stare, impotently, at the foggy London skyline beyond his singular window. There was no one to stare at, or to speak to. There was no muggle TV to entertain him. There was nary even a book, lest some written word give Dawlish a fright and send his heart into another deadly conniption.
Dawlish caught sight of a Prophet in the pocket of a healer’s robe that morning. Potter Cracks Corrupt Collusion Case, the front page feature had read, with a moving picture of the named Harry Potter holding a press conference outside the Ministry, one arm raised to greet the crowd. The healer clicked his tongue and shoved the paper away, out of sight, when he caught Dawlish looking at it.
Merlin. To be treated like a damned child.
Dawlish had seventy-one years to his name. His health was in poor condition, that much was clear. He could debate the cause— the stress he’d suffered, the poor diet he’d indulged, the firewhisky, the muggle cigarettes, the line of work he’d devoted his entire adult life to— but he couldn’t deny the obvious effects. He’d suffered a heart failure so massive it had taken six adrenaline spells and a bit of experimental necromancy for him to survive it.
Ach, well. A day above ground is a day well spent, as his old Commander used to say.
No one was due to bother Dawlish until half twelve at the earliest. Green-robed healers would return with more apprentices to torture him with more ridiculous diagnostic spells and vitals charms that would all give the same report: Dawlish’s recovery, though miraculous, meant he was now living on borrowed time. It meant his clock was ticking.
Defying death was tiring work. Dawlish could stare out the unchanging window some more, or he could rest his eyes.
He rested his eyes. He always did, these days.
When Dawlish awoke, he was no longer alone. There were two people in his room with him, one by the door and the other at the foot of his hospital bed. They both stood stock-still, utterly silent, and stared at him. Their shoulders didn’t so much as rise and fall with breaths. Their faces were as expressionless as muggle mannequins and their skin shone under the harsh light of the flameless lanterns, unnaturally white like shiny, hard plastic.
They wore green robes. The robes were the correct length, the correct shade of green, they had all the right pockets and sigils and runes of a bonafide, official, St. Mungo’s uniform.
But these were no healers. These were no apprentices, either. Dawlish’s sixth sense told him so. It told him they shouldn’t be here, that they didn’t belong.
The one nearest the door tilted her head as if she’d heard his private assessment. The one at his feet started tapping her fingers against the cold iron of his bedframe. Clink. Clink. Clink.
Dawlish’s feet twitched away.
Their eyes were black as pitch.
Dawlish was in danger. He knew it. He felt it as keenly as would a pack of goblins that had been ambushed by a hippogriff. The cold, red tang of iron on Dawlish’s tongue wasn’t fear. It was mortal terror.
His wand was still where the nurse had stowed it, wrapped up in his personal belongings and shoved inside the holster of the trousers he’d worn when he’d been admitted a month ago. The bin bag of all of his personal effects had been tied round the foot of his hospital bed, a habit held only by a war-trained healer.
It was only two arms-lengths away.
He could reach it.
Dawlish lunged for the bin bag. It was a clean movement. Quick, fluid, smooth, and the product of decades of careful training.
The woman was faster. She snatched the bag away just as Dawlish’s fingertips ghosted over it, and tossed it carelessly onto an empty hospital bed behind her.
His wand wouldn’t perform for her, Dawlish knew, but it’s just as likely she was carrying her own. It was more than likely that they both were. His eyes, wide with panic, quickly roved over their green robes. There were too many pen pockets, too many tools, he couldn’t tell what was likely to be stowed there and what wasn’t. Legitimate St. Mungo’s robes have shrinking and expanding charms on the pockets, too. There was no telling what weapons the women might have.
Dawlish felt his heart tremble and seize in his chest. He heard a strange sound, like the pang of a tuning fork. It came from his left hand. The magical heart monitor a student healer had stuck to his ring finger began to chirp and clang, sending out another obnoxious organ-pipe note.
The woman by his feet grabbed his hand and pulled the glittering, charmed ring off his finger and hastily slung it onto her own. The device calmed, the chirping stopped. Dawlish’s hospital room filled with the slow, steady beat of the woman’s deadly-calm heart.
One, two, three, four, five— Merlin, Dawlish realised with horror as he ran a quick calculation. Fifty-five beats per minute. She was deadly calm, indeed. He pulled in a sharp breath and the air wouldn’t come, his lungs refusing it. His heart lagged, skipped a beat, and twisted in his chest. His fingers curled up and twitched, death starting to invade his extremities as blood stopped flowing there.
“Apologies,” the woman at his feet spoke. She had a posh accent, but her voice was surprisingly meek and child-like. “We did not intend to startle you. We will ask you two questions. Answer them, and you will never see us again. Do you understand?”
Dawlish’s eyes slid toward the door, down the corridor to where healers and apprentices were watching his heart monitor. Did they…?
“Pesky things,” the woman by the door spoke suddenly, and Dawlish jumped. “They fall off of fingers all the time, only to be shoved right back on. Any healer or student who heard the alarm will assume that is what happened to you. Now, answer our questions.”
Dawlish’s mouth was dry. Clink, clink, clink, the woman’s nails on the iron footboard. He unhinged his jaw to call for help the old-fashioned way, but all that came out was a pathetic, pained wheeze.
The woman at his feet grabbed for his wrist. His pulse was too fast, too weak. She waved her hand and a photograph appeared between her gloved fingers. Dawlish realised, distantly, that he had been right. She did have a wand somewhere within reach.
In the photograph, a white hand held up a copy of the Daily Prophet— April 17, 2021— today’s date, Dawlish realised with mute horror, and behind the photographed paper was a woman and a gaggle of children.
Dawlish recognized them even through the blur of tears. “No,” he gasped. “Please.”
“Calm, now, Mr. Dawlish,” the woman by the door spoke. “We do not wish to hurt them, or you. Answer our questions and your afternoon— and theirs— will go quite pleasantly.”
Dawlish gave a defeated nod and slumped against the iron headboard. His heart slowed to the speed of syrupy molasses, barely able to keep beating at all.
“You are to meet with a journalist tomorrow,” the woman said. “What information are you planning to give her?”
Dawlish’s mouth was dry. So, so dry. The flameless lanterns tilted and blurred. “How do you know—?”
“Do not waste our time,” said one woman, and the other followed up with, “Answer the question.”
“There is no information,” Dawlish wheezed out, his voice barely audible. Black spots began to invade his eyes, tunneling his vision. “We were just going to have a chat.”
“No journalist would believe a whistleblower without physical evidence.”
“Whistleblower?” Dawlish stuttered. “No, she’s— she’s a friend’s daughter. It’s a junky little paper, the Quibbler, just useless drivel— no one reads it. She’s interested in my recovery, that’s all, the healers say it’s miraculous. She had questions about— you know, what magic they used to pull me through, what it was like being dead for four minutes. It’s a junk interview, I swear it.”
“Heart failure,” the woman at his feet said dryly. “That is what you wish to tell the papers? When you have a much more interesting story to tell?”
Dawlish slumped forward. “I don’t—“
“Bihar Province, India, December, 1979.”
Dawlish’s heart stopped.
It started again. It beat slowly, weakly, lagging for a frighteningly long moment between each echo from the back chamber. “Who are you?” He gasped out blindly. “How do you know…?”
“We know what you did,” the woman at his feet said. “We know what all of you did.”
Her accomplice nodded. “Tell us what you plan to tell this reporter friend of yours.”
“I don’t—“ Dawlish’s head spun. “I never— I would never tell, please, I’ve never told anyone— I’ll never tell anyone, I swear it—“
“Stand up.”
“What?” Dawlish’s voice sounded foreign even to himself.
“If you do not plan to tell this reporter friend of yours about the company incident, then you are not hiding any documents or photographs in this room. Stand, so that I may check your bed.”
“Seriously?”
“As the grave.”
Dawlish lurched forward with all the strength he had. He stumbled blindly upward, his vision coming in and out. His heart dropped into his stomach and then jumped in his throat.
“I’m an old man,” he wheezed. “Can’t I at least sit down?”
The woman at the bed wriggled the fingers of her left hand. “The proximity spell on your heart monitor does not reach so far. If you wish to sit, use the windowsill.”
Dawlish plopped down miserably. The distant lights of London twinkled through the glass. He wondered, vaguely, where his daughter and grandchildren were in that mess of London lights. His weak heart lurched.
“There is nothing in the bed,” one woman said to the other.
The woman at the door handed over a short parchment scroll. It contained a list of names. The script was uncertain and saline-smeared, but the handwriting was unmistakable. He always did that odd loop on his O’s.
“Merlin,” Dawlish said shakily. “Savage— but how—?”
James Potter.
Xenophilius Lovegood.
Gideon Prewett.
Fabian Prewett.
Edward Theodore Tonks.
Kingsley Shacklebolt.
John Dawlish.
Then, a question mark.
“A name is missing,” one of the women said, though Dawlish couldn’t tell which. His vision had blacked out to nothing and it hadn’t returned. “Who is the eighth?”
Dawlish’s heart no longer felt like sludge. It was suddenly racing again, beating out of his chest, shallow and rapid like that of a struck, dying bird.
Dawlish felt like a dying bird. He felt like a dying bird that had been struck by a quidditch player and sent spiraling, vomiting all the way down until it broke its neck on the unforgiving pitch.
He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t. Doing so would violate every oath he’d ever made, break every Unbreakable Vow. He swore he would never speak of it, not ever. They had all sworn it, back in ‘79, once the dust settled and it had become clear what they’d done. What they’d done—
Dawlish lurched forward, nearly falling off the window sill.
What they’d done.
Bihar Province, India, 1979. The company. The incident. The incidents.
They swore to never tell, never, and they were all very good at keeping secrets. Secret-keeping was their job. Especially with the stakes that had been set before them by their bosses at the time, especially with most of the eight being dead now.
The more Dawlish thought about it, the sicker he felt.
Merlin, Savage, what did you tell them?
One of the woman accio’d another photograph into her hands. It was his daughter and grandchildren in a crosswalk in muggle London, taken from behind the windshield of a muggle car. Raindrops smeared the windshield, but his daughter’s face was unmistakable.
“No,” he wheezed. “No—“
The eighth name was the flakiest on the list. The most trigger-happy of them all. The most paranoid, the most dangerous, the most vindictive. If anyone ever caught wind of what they’d done— if they ever caught wind of what the eighth name had done, or worse, if anyone saw those damned pictures…
“Perhaps you are not understanding,” the woman by the door said.
“Perhaps the driver will be distracted,” the other said.
“Or drunk.”
“Asleep.”
“You have seen child coffins, yes? They will look unbearably small next to that of your adult daughter.”
Dawlish put every effort into breathing, and to gripping the window sill’s edge. He reached for every muscle fiber he still had control over. His body was failing him. It was giving up, shutting down, dying.
What harm could come from telling her? He wondered desperately. Plenty, the answer rang in his head. Plenty of harm would come.
If these cunts didn’t kill his family, someone else would. One of the many he’d sworn his eternal silence to.
Bihar, India, 1979.
“I can pay you,” Dawlish threw out, desperately. “Whatever your salary, whatever mercenary racket, I can pay double. Triple. I can buy you out, I swear it.”
“Perhaps there will be enough left of your daughter to bury,” the woman by the door said. “Or, perhaps not.”
“Please,” Dawlish wheezed. “Don’t— I swear I don’t know. I don’t know of any other names. Those are all the men who were there when it happened, I swear it—“
“Your friend, Mr. Savage, disagreed.”
Dawlish’s voice was faint, horrified. “What did you do to him?”
Savage wouldn’t have revealed the existence of the eighth without undergoing serious torture. Severe, horrible, unimaginable torture. He must have suffered pain that would’ve made the Cruciatus curse feel like a happy-ending massage.
Dawlish was growing paler by the minute.
The woman was nonplussed. “He was uncooperative and he shit himself to death. Perhaps the two were related. Perhaps not.”
“The name, Mr. Dawlish,” the other woman said. “Tell us the name. Or, do as your late friend did, and kindly write it down for us.”
Dawlish slumped over in defeat. “Savage was wrong,” he gasped out. “There is no eighth name. There were seven of us. Only seven. Savage came after, in the cover-up. To kill the story. He’s the eighth.”
The woman at the foot of his bed leaned past him and pushed his window open. A biting London wind swept into the room like a cold draft, a cold-humid draft, the kind wherein water droplets condensed into crystals mid-air. Dawlish gave a shuddering, lurching breath.
“You asked who we are,” the woman by the door said. “I am Daphne Greengrass. She is my sister, Astoria Greengrass. Gareth Greengrass was our father. It is important that you know that.”
Gareth Greengrass.
An echo from the past, and a very unwelcome one.
It took one moment too long for the significance of that name to reach Dawlish’s oxygen-deprived, panic-addled brain. He tried to push off the wall, to climb down from the window sill, but he never stood a chance. He was too frail. The window alcove was too cramped, and the seat of the sill was angled just slightly to his disadvantage.
Astoria Greengrass gave him one hard shove in the chest, while Daphne grabbed the back of his calves and lined him up with the open window. Astoria pushed, but Dawlish kicked and thrashed like a rabid animal. Astoria pushed again. And again, and again, once more, to ensure there was no error.
She let gravity do the rest.