InsaneJournal

Though he could pin his shoulders back and walk with the defiantly straight spine of an unrepentant man, Gideon was pathetically grateful for the early hour that left only the skeleton crew on hand at the Ministry to witness his reappearance in its corridors. It wasn’t a humiliating parade through the Atrium, at least, and from the corner of his lowered gaze, he only vaguely recognised a few faces of former colleagues as he was marched through the DMLE proper in magical bindings -- everyone too bleary eyed and caffeine deprived to put two and two together.

There wasn’t much fanfare to it, he’d at least give Bulstrode that much: led to a cold holding cell, perhaps to stew sleeplessly for several hours, and then wordlessly brought to a familiar interrogation room with only a table, two chairs and a magical mirror spread across one wall. They didn’t, at least, shackle his wrists to the table like they had the first time.

The minutes ticked by -- he found himself counting each and every one of them, knowing it was a slow but steady progression until the 1440 minutes would be up and he’d be home again. Bilius (his lips, his clever hands). The animals (the white tuft of a pointed feline ear, the abundant fur he could gather around him from one sheepdog alone). The endless, open skies. He resisted the urge to stand and pace like a caged animal himself. Stillness. Steady heartbeat. Hands splayed flat on the cool metal table. Not trembling. Good.

Cambina knew it wasn't going to be easy. She knew Gideon's record as an Auror, had paged through it even before she'd been told to bring him in. It was after all, the Aurors turned vigilantes that most intrigued her and infuriated her. How could they throw all that away and just take the law into their own hands? She didn't understand, she couldn't. The Ministry is what grounded her. It kept her sane. It wasn't perfect, but she had high hopes for the new Minister, whoever it might be. But that was in a hypothetical future. Today was about getting all the information she could out of Gideon Prewett. And hopefully impressing Scrimgeour and Moody. Regardless, she planned on making the most of her time with Prewett.

It started with a few hours of letting him stew before she finally came into the room. No file because she knew it all by heart.

"Mister Prewett, how are you?"

The sound of the door opening (rusty hinges, metal scraping against metal; it had been bad in his day and now it was only worse) broke the seeming trance his mind had fallen into. Gideon turned his head, just slightly, and caught the undefined edges of her figure at the corner of his vision: a halo of blond hair, half shaved, the stark spread of ink across her shorn skull. She could have been the quintessential image of an anti-establishment, anti-authoritarianism revolution, but here she was, the long, strong arm of the law itself.

He blinked. Beneath his hands, the metal had warmed until he could barely discern the difference now, his hands, that table. “Would the answer even matter?”

He was tired. That was good. She pulled the chair out sharply and sat opposite him. "Everything matters, Mister Prewett. Surely you remember that from your time as an Auror. What are your feelings towards Rodolphus Lestrange?"

Unbidden, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile and he huffed out a note of laughter, shaking his head as his gaze slid back down to his hands. She presented such stark contrasts in the fluorescent lighting, he could see her reflection, just slightly, in the dinged up, warped surface of the table.

"I'm afraid laughter does you no good. You know what liberties Aurors have during interrogations, Mister Prewett. The question is how much you want me to take advantage of those?"

Finally, at last, he looked up at her, meeting her gaze dead on, eyes glittering in crystalline mirth. Only one corner of his mouth turned up now. The effect was wry, edging into some darker note. “Do you think the worst you can do to me is the worst thing I’ve ever experienced?”

"Not in the least," Bina replied honestly, her eyes meeting his. There was no mirth in hers, only sheer determination. "But you know as well as I that I can legally make your life -- and your lover's -- a living hell if I so choose. I believe he is involved in an open investigation. Now, a former convict involved with the victim of an attack? It was you who brought him to St. Mungo's wasn't it? Remorse for what you'd done? There's enough there for suspicion."

“A weak theory that doesn’t explain why the victim of said attack would then go home and live with his alleged attacker,” he said grimly, all lingering traces of humour now gone.

"Which excuse would you like? Imperius? Potions? Blackmail?" Bina asked. The change in his demeanor let her know she was on the right track. It was playing dirty, but sometimes that's what you needed to do. "He was signed out against medical orders. Surely someone who cared for his partner would do his best to make sure he was cared for by the best."

She leaned back and leveled her gaze at him. "I don't need to convict you, Gideon. I can make the case that would get this dragged through the courts. Is that really what you want to put him through. Make him doubt and wonder about each of your intentions and actions?"

“It wouldn’t be a very long trial when the victim’s own testimony wouldn’t corroborate that charming portrait you’ve painted of me. I daresay it has a snowball’s chance in hell of making it to trial at all.” But the thought of that magnifying lens on their lives, of the Ministry digging in deep, uncovering, maybe not Gideon’s great crimes, but perhaps Bilius’s (and by extension, the rest of the Order’s), made him feel cold all over. Would Bilius, with his already diminished opinion of himself, sit here beneath these lights, at this table, and withstand this withering gaze? Would he begin to doubt?

"Sometimes a snowball's chance in hell is all you need," Bina replied, giving him a look. "One would say there would have been a snowball's chance of hell of sending an Auror to Azkaban, but that's what happened. I suppose the question is, how lucky do you feel? After all, purebloods as well as muggleborns have been killed. No one's hands are clean."

“And I’ve washed my hands of all of it many years ago. I’ve done my time and paid my debt to society. Why would I jeopardise the life, the good life, I’ve managed to make for myself again?” Why would anyone, he often wondered, and indeed, it was the dividing question that lay within the growing faultlines in his relationships.

"A life of secrecy? Apart from society? That sounds like a man who's hiding something."

Bina got to her feet and headed for the door.. "I never understood how a man like you, how a brilliant Auror, could take the law into his own hands. But the why doesn't matter, Gideon. The Ministry is desperate to make some sort of progress. A few words to some people and the Prophet would run a story, not bothering to check facts. The point remains, I can make your life miserable. All I want is information, Mister Prewett."

“You’re a true credit to your employer, Bulstrode. Style over substance, much like the tattoos on your head.” The words bitten out, the last, with an edge of teeth. The tips of his fingers biting into medal now, whitened.

Her hand had been on the door handle before and she left without answering, the words rolling off her. She was in full on Auror mode and there was little that could shake her (although seeing the dead body of a three year old had been one of those things). Now it was time to let him stew once more.

It was over an hour before she returned, caffeinated and fed, and sat down opposite him, looking as sweet as someone with her appearance could be. "Your family and associates are rather colourful, wouldn't you say? Maybe I ought to bring them in for questioning. I'm not talking about your brother, we all know about him, but your sister's husband - Arthur, isn't it? Such a predisposition to borrow muggle objects and artefacts. I'm sure a search of his home would reveal things that might make his continued employment at the Ministry… questionable, to say the least."

The stretch of time in which he was left alone in that featureless grey room, his exhaustion an increasingly heavier burden to bear (he was not so young, not anymore), could have been minutes or hours -- he knew not. Only that a headache had settled within his temples and his eyes stung. A curdle of nausea ached in his stomach. He found himself more slumped over the table than not when he heard the door open again. It woke him right up, though his reaction time was far slower.

It took longer moments for the implication of her words to sink in and he couldn’t keep the ripple of fury from flickering over his features, clenched jaw, gritted teeth, depthless stare. “You’d take away an innocent man’s only means to support his family for your empty power games?”

She leaned over the table and leveled her glare at him. "Make no mistake. I will do everything in my power to get all the information I can. You would do the same in my shoes, don't deny it. There are murderers on the loose, and I will not let this develop into the war that caused you to forsake your duty. If there is anything I can do to get more information to help bring criminals to justice, I will. I don't give a bloody damn what side you claim to be fighting for."

Bina sat back and held up her hand. Within minutes someone entered. "Draft up a warrant for the arrest of Septimus Bilius Weasley. I have a few questions I want to ask him about the attack in Diagon Alley and the murder of Liam Mallory."

The words might has well have been a physical blow for their impact -- his breath caught painfully in his throat, the bottom seemed to all but drop out from the bottom of his stomach. “You wouldn’t dare.”

"It's just questioning, Mister Prewett. If he's innocent, you have nothing to fear."

As if well familiar with how these things went, the other man in the room merely waited, hands folded neatly behind his back, face set to neutral patience save for his expectant, smug gaze, because they had little to lose, ultimately, with such tactics. And Gideon? Gideon now had everything.

Innocence would have little to do with it. They both knew it. The thought of Bilius in his place, being confronted with the painful weight of his own past, one vulnerability after another gleefully dragged out into the light and exploited merely because they could, was unbearable.

“My feelings towards Rodolphus Lestrange are the same as towards any other Death Eater.”

There was movement of Bina's fingers and with a silent nod, the other Auror left. Whether or not she still intended to bring Bilius in was anybody's guess, but it wouldn't hurt to have a warrant drawn up regardless. It was about being prepared and being ruthless, but it was within the law. It didn't necessarily make her feel good, but this wasn't about feelings, this was about getting information. At least now she had his cooperation. The question was how long it would last and whether she'd need to make good on her threat.

"I'm afraid I'll need a bit more information than that, Mister Prewett. I wouldn't dare assume what your feelings are towards any of the Death Eaters. By your own admission, you've changed since your time in Azkaban."

He could still recall Rodolphus as he had once been in Azkaban, fallen from grace, haggard and sickly thin as the rest of them, eyes gleaming with the sheen of madness. Prisoners didn’t have much time much less inclination to talk to one another, but the man’s cell had been adjacent to his, and in rare moments of mutual sanity, they had reached out to each other.

They say Death is the great equaliser for sinner and saint, Prewett, had once come his roughened voice through the cracks in the stone walls, followed by an unhinged bout of laughter. I guess prison too, eh? He had laughed again. Gideon had joined in.

“We weren’t friends.”

"So you're happy he's dead, then?" It was a simple enough question. Merlin knew that the Aurors were glad of Lestrange's death, but there were still limits to what she could say on and off the record. Not that Lee wouldn't try to get the whole story out of her. Sometimes she wished she could give it to him, make people see that the Ministry wasn't the bad guy. If the stupid Order members would just lend their support to the Ministry, maybe there would be room for dialogue.

A single blonde eyebrow arched as she waited for his response. She was fairly confident he was innocent of Lestrange's murder, it didn't seem to be his style, but still, there was protocol to follow. And, according to Scrimgeour, a point to be made.

He merely lifted a shoulder. It would have been careless, but the weariness dragged the action out. “Society would consider his death, overall, to be a net good. If you’re trying to ask if I personally am responsible for his death, I’ll save you the time: the answer is no.”

"That wasn't my question." Though she did appreciate his answer. "What do you know about his death?"

“No more nor less than anyone with access to the Daily Prophet. Where are you going with this?” A hint of impatience, even as he caught himself pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Surely you're not that out of practice that you can't figure it out," Bina said, that slim eyebrow arching again. "A known death eater murdered, members of the Order are logical suspects."

She refrained from commenting on the accuracy of what was present in the Prophet. "And what do you know of Lady Noir?"

“Need me to do your job for you? Wouldn’t be the first time.” He asked, arching a brow right back. Finally, at least, he sat up straighter, brought up by a second wind born on the spiking levels of his irritation. “I know Rodolphus Lestrange was found dead within his own home, with nothing else disturbed or missing, and wards intact. What was the last spell from his wand? Something domestic? If it were a spell issued in defence, I’d have been hauled in a hell of a lot sooner. So, mundane spell, which would indicate whoever killed him was a known associate and welcomed into his home. He knew his killer and was most likely good friends with him or her. Now, if you think that person could be any former member of the Order, then the magical world has grossly overestimated the reasoning capabilities of its protectors and keepers of the peace.

“Lady Noir: I know she’s following in the grand tradition of Voldemort in adopting a ridiculous nom de guerre; that she’s probably, in fact, a she, young, comes from money and privilege because she’s breathlessly ignorant in many ways -- indirect, the silly game with the roses, the newspaper advertisement, having no real defined useful strategy -- and startlingly knowledgeable in others -- the sophistication of the poison used against those with muggle ancestry which means she has access to expensive and scarce dark resources. She is most likely motivated by the notion of finishing a job that’s incomplete. The fact she’s pure of blood need not even be mentioned. Most likely a young female close relation of a purist, probably a Death Eater. One killed or convicted.”

As the last word rang out, he realised he was sitting up, leaning forward, as if energised once more by the old habits, drawing up criminal profiles, diagnosing motivations and methods. He may have been stripped of his Auror rank and title, but his mind would forever work like one. He turned in his chair and directed his next words to the magical mirror and whomever it hid. “So why don’t you start there if you want to actually start being useful?”

Bina sat back, a smug smile on her face. If it wasn't for his association with the Order, Bina might have even found his outburst attractive.

"Good to know you haven't lost your skills, Mister Prewett."

Without anything further, she got to her feet and left the room. there were more questions she could ask, certainly, but those would wait till he was a bit more tired and hungry.

This time, Gideon stood up, finally giving in to the restless need to move, hands locked behind his head, circumnavigating the edges of the room while never failing to give the damned mirror a scathing look as he passed. He wondered who stood behind it. An Order member? Frank? Alice? Bloody Scrimgeour himself?

The headache increased in severity and area, he kept his face bowed to the omnipresent lights, feet taking on the steady thudding of the drum resounding at his temples.

It was a few hours before Bina returned, this time not saying anything as she slipped inside the room, a folded up piece of paper in her hand. She simply watched him, the way a cat might watch a mouse, waiting for him to fall into her trap. Or perhaps a lioness and a bedraggled tomcat would be more apt.

Gradually, awareness of her returned presence came to him. His feet slowly came to a stop and he looked over to her, eyes bloodshot, bruised beneath, set against a waxen pallour. “You’ve asked me questions you already knew the answers to. So what the bloody hell do you really want?”

"Where should I begin? What do you know of the Order's or Death Eaters operations the last few months? Have you had any interactions with Lady Noir?" She didn't move from her spot on the wall as she peppered him with questions. This was only the first volley.

“No.” One syllable, short, nearly barked. Let it encompass as little or as much as she liked.

"If that's the way you want to play it," Bina said, playing with the folded up parchment held between her fingers. "Perhaps I should be asking Bilius what you've been up to."

He hadn’t even noticed the paper, and would of taken himself to task for it had he not, in that moment, suddenly felt on edge. “I have no idea what you’re implying.”

"Nothing more than the simple premise that your bed partner might be more forthcoming with information than you are," she said, fixing him with a stare that would make weaker men shrink away from her. om her. "You're a smart man, Gideon. You know more than you're telling and you've been in my position. And I don't think you want me to bring in your friends and family and put them through this."

For several moments, he said nothing. She shined with a steady resolve that promised to make good on each and every one of her threats. It wouldn’t even be out of some petty sense of vengeance. It would be thoroughness, it would be with a great sense of moral justification. Cambina Bulstrode was not only an Auror but a reverent one at that. “Tell me, Auror Bulstrode, what do you think of Albus Dumbledore?”

One foot was propped on the wall behind her as she studied him. Technically, she was supposed to be asking the questions. But she was fairly certain they'd reached the point where Gideon knew what cards she was willing to play. And he would do anything to protect others. It was noble, really, in that way that got noble Gryffindors killed while Slytherins survived. Besides, answering his question wouldn't hurt. She'd tell as much to anyone in a bar. "I think he was a smart and manipulative man. He did what he thought was necessary to achieve his goals. I'm not opposed to his ideals, but I think he went about them the wrong way. Do you think he would have gotten you and your friends out of Azkaban? Or just let you stay there as 'the cost of war'?"

“He looked me dead in the eye as he handed me my life sentence. Everyone says he always has that twinkle in his, but in that moment when I searched for it or some sort of recognition, there was nothing. No hint of apology or guilt or regret.” For a moment, Gideon saw only the past, the interrogation room around him transformed into a courtroom in the Wizengamot, Dumbledore at its centremost place of prominence and authority, his heavy gaze bearing down upon him in judgment. The force of the betrayal would have sunk him had not two of his former colleagues been holding him up between them. “He was content to publicly condemn us all the same in front of the public, the Ministry, our family and friends, so I guess we’ll never know. Now everyone remembers him as a hero and saviour. We were his foot soldiers who had believed in him and carried out his orders. We made sure nothing touched him. Now everyone thinks we’re criminals. Funny how that works out.”

Though a parody of a smile briefly twisted across his features, his eyes grew cold, hard. “So believe me when I tell you I have nothing nor do I want anything to do with the Order these days, whatever has or has not begun. I loathe every single thing about it.”

The betrayal was visible on his face and Bina couldn't quite imagine how it felt. How she felt that way about an idea, an institution, could excuse the current Minster or any number of incompetent fools by reminding herself that they were only people. But the DMLE, the Ministry, stood for something. It had too, after all. Or else, why was she doing this? She felt bad for him in a way, but she was fairly confident her pity - or sympathy - would not be welcome. Even her standard 'it served you right' reply was lost on her lips. After a long pause, she finally spoke.

"Did you receive a rose from Lady Noir?"

“A dead one,” he admitted grimly. “So did Bilius. So did Arthur and Molly. It didn’t come as a surprise. Our families are blood traitors. The roses have all long since been destroyed. At the time, we had other, more pressing concerns than some girl’s silly mind games.”

She wasn't surprised by his dismissiveness, though it made her wonder all the more why she had received a live one. What was it about her. "Lady Noir's actions do not concern you then? Neither roses nor the murder of children?"

His hands opened, splayed wide, as if he were giving himself up. “I’m out of the game entirely -- I can’t really afford to be concerned, lest I drive myself mad with my inability to do anything or be compelled to take action. I think we can both agree neither of those options are desirable or feasible.”

She almost wanted to say that there was a way for him to do something, but her own admiration of his Auror record was neither here nor there. And really, what chance did he have of being reinstated under Scrimgeour. Part of her wasn't sure what else she could get out of him, but regardless, she was going to keep him as long as she could. That was the plan. And there were few times Cambina Bulstrode did not follow a plan, at least when it was given by the DMLE.

"Some might say you are already mad, living such a reclusive life."

"And what do you think?" he asked, tilting his head curiously. Perhaps it was foolhardy, inviting her open assessment. He wasn't much more than a shadow of whatever he had been, and though he had recovered much of the ruin dealt to him by Azkaban -- lost weight, colour and a functional if not perfect sanity -- prison had left its indelible traces: an indefinable frailty, a deep suspicion of permanence, a gaze that would always bear those hollow, haunted ghosts.

"Your mind is perfectly sound, whatever people might say about your seclusion." She circled the room, critically examining him, though whether assessing him or looking for a weakness to exploit was anybody's guess. Perhaps it was a bit of both. "No, I think you're capable of much more, and should you choose to involve yourself, in legal or illegal means, you would still be a threat to be reckoned with."

He might not claim to be the same man as before, and perhaps he wasn't, but Bina was fairly certain that Gideon Prewett hadn't lost his fire or his talent. "You are far from mad, Mister Prewett. Perhaps that's why we need to keep an eye on you. You are controlled and calculating and while you seem to have washed your hands of things, well, if you do strike, I would wager you might be successful in your endeavors."

He met her sharp gaze keenly, felt every inch of her critical eye raking over and through him like finely honed blades. With her pronouncements, something within him, the dark thing that slumbered in the shadows, stirred, and he was the first to look away. "Then let us hope, for both our sakes, that day never arrives."