[W9] Hell is empty and all the devils are here [Gaius]

‘Ah, you seem to be good spirits, Amos. Does that mean your bollocks were finally returned to you?’

And with those words, the air turned stagnant, the lively conversations wilting into silence. Even the handsome scented teaks and verdant calabash seemed to still the rustle of their leaves. Eyes turned and froze, as if waiting for permission to react.

Jonathan Emerson, Sr, stood patiently after asking his question, calmly sipping a cool glass of Irish Buck as he looked straight onto an increasingly nervous wizard. He hadn’t intended to be heard so widely, but his voice naturally carried, and at this point he wasn’t overly concerned about all the eavesdroppers.

‘I...I beg your pardon, sir?’ Amos, however, began to sweat, and not just from the humidity.

Jonathan Sr arched a brow, his tone of voice eerily casual, as if he were simply asking about a common acquaintance. When Amos couldn’t string words to respond, Jon Sr nodded and decided to help him along. ‘Your bollocks Amos. Testicles. Gonads. Cajones.’ He drew out his wand, dangling it about in case Amos, the Interim Head of the DIMC, needed a visual aid. ‘I simply ask, because, from the moment we began our meetings here, you’ve had a face that looked as if you were being neutered. I was growing ever so concerned for you with each passing day, the way you whimpered your way through our first bilateral agreements, how your voice seemed to shrink back to a prepubescent’s when were were negotiating our export limits and duty fees with the Brazilians. So here’s to my astonishment and relief that you’ve seemingly found the audacity to join this little celebration of our accomplishments here and toast along as if you had a hand in their making!  Tell me Amos, how many meetings and panels had you been scheduled since the beginning of the Conference?’

‘Fo-fourteen, sir,’ Amos responded, surprised he had the number and the voice left to utter it.

‘And of those fourteen, Amos, how often was I called to be present?’

‘A-all of them, sir.’

‘All of them! My, my. And here I thought I was finally able to take a few leisurely strolls for my old bones, because my original itinerary only had me penned for eight. Do you know why you were assigned those meetings? Oh, don’t worry Amos, this isn’t trivia night. I can provide the answer. Because you were slated to be the next Department Head! So we made the assumption that you. Were able. To do. Your. Bloody. Damn. Job. Instead, I witness your insipid pleadings like a common harlot in the street, whoring out our Ministry for any token coin someone was willing to throw. The next time I see you digging yourself into a grave, I’ll be sure to quickly put you out of your misery and have you proper buried.’

The rest of the British delegation stood like stone, as if victims of a Gorgon. Just earlier, they had spilled onto one of the private gardens after the farewell dinner, allowing some of the committee leaders to say a toast and thank them for their hard work during the W9 Conference. It had been a heated few days, to be sure, but by this evening, there was a general attitude of qualified success. They traded some of the quips and quirks that transpired over the course of the event, and most were in a good mood as they tied up loose ends before the conclusion of the Conference. But any buoyant spirits were now shot down like skeet.

‘And don’t think I’ve forgotten about the rest of you lot!  Like you, Copeland!’ Jon Sr turned now to a young, frail looking witch, like a wisp that could vanish in the slightest breeze. Her eyes widened, unable to control anything else in her frightened body.

Jon Sr eyed her for a moment, then lifted her glass toward her. ‘Seven no-bid contracts with the Russians and a fifty-year patent exchange with both the Nigerians and the Japanese? Come to my office on Tuesday and let’s sign off on that holiday of yours. And while we’re at it, let’s have the Bursar move you to the next pay band.’ He gave her a nod and took a sip of his drink.

‘Well, then. Hope to see you all bright and early! Enjoy your youthful revelries.’ He patted Amos on the shoulders as he walked past. ‘Ah, it appears Amos has lost his jewells again. Someone come and help the poor man find them again before the morning session.’

He sighed deeply as he walked back into the main corridors of the Palace, turning toward the quarters marked for the British Ministry, but detouring into a narrower hall. It wound past the eastern wing of the Palace, leading him to a filigreed gate that opened to a small garden alcove. It was cooler here. Better yet, it was out of the way of all the other Ministries housed in the Palace. He noted that a silver tray was set on the small table, upon which were a curated selection of Jon Sr’s preferred nightcaps, as he’d requested each evening while he was stationed in Ibadan.

But as he walked toward the table, Jon Sr frowned. Two glasses were set on the tray. He looked around the periphery, and sighed again as he sat down. He began to pour himself a Sazerac. He hesitated, looking at the second glass, then proceeded to pour into it as well.

‘I wasn’t intending on having company.’

@Gaius Purcell

Nathalie Wilkins, the British Ministry’s Press officer, was leaning against one of the cool stone columns lining the portico of the interior private garden that the British delegation had been assigned to, sipping Veuve Clicquot from a champagne flute. The rumour was that Senior Undersecretary Emerson had provided the vast selection of alcohol from his own personal collection. The palace itself, a veritable maze of marble corridors, unknown stairwells and secret green areas, had been carefully subdivided into regions for each of the countries present at the conference. Britain had been lucky, as their private garden was, on its western side, surrounded by only one storey and therefore each evening was blessed with a wash of warm sunshine. Apparently the French had been cursed with their garden deep in the centre of the palace, which meant that it has to be near constantly lit, to Nathalie’s amusement.

Tonight’s little soiree was a thank you to the delegation; dessert and drinks provided by the Ministry for the staff who had spent the weekend trying to keep the Union Jack flying amidst the scandal and trading regimes and tax exclusion agreements. Which was how the evening had been progressing, until Jon Emerson had decided to question the whereabouts of Interim Department Head Amos’s testicles. She raised a pale eyebrow and smirked. Amos was a fool, risen far beyond his level of ability in the DIMC and had had an absolute shambles of a conference, in one case single-handedly causing the Brazilians to raise their import taxes on dragon hides, which, had it not been the interjection of Emerson, would have nearly destroyed the industry in Britain. The British phalanx at W9 was naturally led mostly by the Department of International Magical Cooperation, with assistance from other departments where required, of which Jon Emerson was perhaps the most vital. Whilst a flutter of polite embarrassment coursed through the majority present, Nathalie rather enjoyed Amos' public dressing-down. Jon, the highest ranking member of the delegation present (Shacklebolt dropping in and out when required; in general his lack of presence having not helped his current situation, according to the published hysterics of the Daily Prophet) was never afraid to call a spade a spade. He had kept them all under a tight leash, and it did not take a genius to realise that anything good that had come Britain’s way at this W9 conference had at least a touch of his handiwork.

Nicholas MacAndrew, department head of the Ministry’s Public Information Services, made an attempt to engage the blonde in banal conversation, but when Jon left the portico, she made her excuses and followed him.

——

“Nathalie, hello, can I borrow you for one moment.” Jessica’s opening statement, not a question.

Nathalie is standing at the door of her room, toothbrush in hand, wrapped in an oversized bathrobe, face scrubbed and not in any fit state to have to talk with Miss Jonasson. It takes her a moment to answer.

“You’re not supposed to be here. Didn’t I tell you to fuck off already?”

Jessica smiles that strange, photographically-prepared grin. “Oh Nathalie, you are very funny. This is why I like you. Have you forgotten that we are friends now?”

Nathalie’s face remains impassive. “I doubt that, but if it makes you leave me alone, then fantastic.”

Jessica laughs, girlish and prepared, probably in the way Nils likes her to. Nathalie wants to punch her very hard in her beautiful face.

“Nathalie, the Swedish Minister for Magic needs a favour from you.”

“Oh you have to be fucking joking.”

“No, Nathalie, please, we need just a little assistance. It will take you only one minute.”

“To do what? Increase trade tariffs against us like you did today? That was nice, by the way. Very elegant. Congratulations on that one, we didn’t see it coming.” She does not disguise her venom.

“No, this is for our mutual benefit. You see, I was told you are the person who can help.”

“What are you talking about?”

Nathalie has her arm against the door in such a way that she can slam it in the Swede’s face if required. Jessica, very carefully, raises her hand and places her fingertips momentarily upon Nathalie’s forearm, simply the lightest of touches, and smiles again.

“Do you understand?”

Nathalie’s blood runs cold, because she does.

——

She met Jessica and Gaius Purcell in a corridor off the Swedish sector of the palace. Jessica made the introductions, as though she was about to sell them an expensive pair of shoes. Everything was “exquisite”, and “a pleasure”, and represented a “the beginnings of a fantastic relationship between two important allies”. Nathalie shook Gaius’ hand, and it felt dry and rough to the touch. He looked immaculate, and was taller than she had imagined from the photographs. He smelled very pleasant.

“Well, alright, come with me.”

She used her wand to allow them to enter into the British sector. They walked together silently along a first floor corridor; she could see down through the large windows to the small alcove below, where Jon would be. They descended a small dark stairwell to the ground level, and she could hear the distant echoing laughter from the British party.

“I could lose my job over this,” she spoke to the shadows, but it was not meant for anyone in particular.

“I promise never to mention your name, Ms Wilkins,” came his response. “But, thank you for the access. You have done very well.”

They stopped at the little doorway to Jon’s private alcove. Few people knew of its existence, but Nathalie had nightly presented the Senior Undersecretary with options for his statements to the press based upon the day’s proceedings, and on two occasions he had allowed her to sit with him in his private alcove during his digestif to do so. She turned to her new guest. “He sits here, alone, before bed.”

Gaius gave one nod, and thanked her again. He moved to the door, but the blonde stood in his way, concern upon her pale visage.

“You won’t . . . hurt him, will you?”

Gaius considered the question for a moment, the anxiety in the woman’s voice almost amusing, and he gave her half a smile.

“Ms Wilkins, there is a much greater risk that Senior Undersecretary Emerson will cause me an injury, I can assure you of that. But no, I shan’t harm a hair upon his wise old head.” And with that, he strode past her.

——

He stood by the edge whilst watching Jon enter. Of course, the old opponent would see the second glass almost immediately. Of course, he would check the corners; his flanks. Those old habits could never die; an old soldier never loosens; never forgets the old weak points. He would, naturally, see Gaius stood there, dressed in his tailored grey suit, the light blue shirt, the dark silk necktie, casually observing him from the shadows. And of course, he would be welcoming. That was Jonathan Wellesley Emerson in a nutshell.

Jon seated himself, and carefully prepared the drinks. He looked healthy; strong. The old adversary was doing well, and Gaius enjoyed seeing him like this. Content with the scenario, the Death Eater strode across the little old patch of grass and took his place on the other side of the small table.

“Such an American drink for you Jon, but I remembered that you were always fond of it. I’m afraid I also have quite a weakness for it myself. It’s the gentian, I believe. Nothing settles the stomach quite like it.” He had provided the rather decent Cognac himself, which he knew would be appreciated by his drinking partner.

Once Jon had finished pouring, Gaius raised the crystal tumbler and examined the caramel-coloured contents. It was perfectly prepared. “To the future, Jon,” and he clinked glasses with his companion.

He took a sip, enjoying the warmth of the cognac and the faint ghost of the absinthe in the back of his throat. Night was falling and washed the little alcove in a warm dark blue. Crickets chirped somewhere, and the temperature, previously vicious and humid, was now more comfortable.

“My apologies for the rude interruption, please take the cognac as a gift from myself to you. But I feel we are in need of a good old chinwag, don’t you think? Just like old times, back when things were more . . . black and white. You’re looking well, Jon. It’s good to see, really. Different times, though, now. A new world, for all of us. Soon we can put our feet up. None of the stresses of the past, and that truly is a wondrous thing. You and I, well, we know how it once was. Not healthy for anyone.”

He took another sip, and for the first time turned to his old adversary, meeting his eyes. “And where do you see this all ending, Jon? For Britain. For the people. For you and I. Do you have an endgame?” A pause.

“I think I do.”

Jonathan Sr felt like a child at the moment, petty, trying his best not to give his most unwelcome of companions any satisfaction. But he couldn’t help but note that Gaius wore his freedom exceedingly well. In the short period since his release, the Death Eater’s sharp features were softened by his seemingly healthier weight. His suit was enviably well-made.

Jon Sr toyed with the idea of stunning Gaius on the spot. One, because the bastard deserved it. But if he were to choose a reason among the many, the driving motivator at present was his urge to peek at the inner lining for the designer without having to actually ask the man.

When Gaius sat down, Jon Sr’s eyes darted quickly to the back of the Death Eater’s neck and his cuffs, hoping against hope that Purcell was the gaudy sort who paraded his status by keeping the displays of designers’ labels. No luck. Ah, lackaday. Perhaps it was better not to know.

As he mixed and poured the drinks, Jonathan Sr wondered if Gaius had always been this chatty about little nothings, or perhaps his years in Azkaban—which were farcically short—made his lips looser, running quickly in case an Auror were to appear at any moment and cut his conversations short. So Jon Sr may as well indulge the man. After all, with any luck, Gaius Purcell would soon be back to more prescripted schedules.

‘I had originally planned to have simply the rye whisky, but I shan’t refuse a good Cognac. And it is a fitting drink, as the French and the Americans have been a lovely salve to my nerves these past few days.’ Jon Sr also raised his glass up, musing at its contents. How strange that so many of them—himself included—willingly welcomed poison into their bodies, believing them to be beneficial. But ethanol could be easily moderated, and easily expelled. If only Gaius and those like him were as easily filtered out by society as ethanol was from their systems, Jon Sr might have been more apt to entertain them and their views now and again. But it wasn’t like the Emerson's side stayed clean as virgin drinks. Poison ran among his kind as well, dulling their morals to believe their ends justified the means. There were no angels here, just monsters among men.

His fine moustache shifted as Jon Sr allowed himself a wry smile, and joined in the toast. ‘Mm. To the future, and to whomever it may belong.’

He took his sip along with Gaius, enjoying the velvety mouthfeel and the playful aromas of citrus and anise. And as he enjoyed the cooling evening with a fine drink and a Death Eater for a companion, somewhere, the gnawing and gnashing of despair rang like the crickets in the brush.

At Gaius’s mention of his gift, Jon Sr waged a brief inner battle, tempted to tossing his entire drink or hoarding it all to himself. He held his impulses in check. After all, the poor lovely Cognac had no fault of its own. He held the course, and listened with ever-growing amusement as Gaius took a nostalgic detour, sharing his hopes of a more leisurely future. Jonathan Sr let out a hearty chuckle, a smooth baritone peal ringing in air.

He looked up as the dusk gave way to the wash of night, his light grey eyes catching the fire of starlight. The hazy, light-polluted skies of London rarely ever gave such vista of the stars. Here, even in this little pocket of green within a behemoth of stone and steel, Jon Sr felt the vast expanse of the firmament, how they gave their light to both idealists and cynics, the boons and banes of society. There was always a temptation to get swallowed up in the existential mockery of the heavens. What were their pathetic little struggles to the grand design of the universe? They were nothing. Fleeting drops in the vast ocean of time. Why engage in these Sisyphean struggles at all?

An image of a petite young woman, with glasses too large for her face and laid frustratingly askew, swept across his mental vision. The image of his wife, still as beautiful as moonlight, flashed soon after. And then his children, his brother and sister-in-law, his family, and the many faces of the people he met over the years, whom he’d made the solemn oath to serve to the utmost of his capacity, all their visages blazing in succession. Then like the flash of creation, Jonathan’s vision gave way again to the cosmos.

The sky was beautifully clear now. To the north, Draco and Hercules were present, forever fixed in battle. A gentle reminder: even stars engage in struggle. And so, to the world of the individual, perhaps so insignificant to grand world of worlds itself, lay within it all the things Jon Sr—in this lifetime and hopefully all the others—cherished and carved into his soul. Until he became starlight again, it was in this little alcove of existence that he sought to make his mark.

The experience was but a few seconds of his given reality. After all, he was painfully aware that Gaius was still there, chin wagging away and not collapsing to a heap of dust. But Jon Sr wondered how many little deaths and revivals did a person experience, should they be open to receiving them?

Revived and respawned, in essence if not in body, he turned to lock eyes with the man beside him.

‘The endgame has always been there, my dear Gaius. Long before I took up my wand and chose to point it in your direction all those years ago. Before Dumbledore took me into his fold, before the ancient line of Emersons chose to become so-called blood traitors.’

He took another sip of his drink, appreciating its bitterness and bite to relish the slight sweetness that hid within its many notes. So he wanted a chin wag, did he?

‘You and I are men of law. We should know some rules run beyond our purview. Magic has given itself to those it finds worthy, regardless of their blood. So the ideal end is when you and I and all the purebloods like us become curious footnotes, quaint products of quaint beliefs, more more as interesting as being left-handed.’ He looked back to the northern constellations, wondering who between them was to be the hero and who was the beast to be slain.

‘Alas, you seem to have some machinations running counter to those ends. And with a bit of help it seems from people who should stick to making meatballs instead of meddling in our Ministry.’

Jon spoke, his voice low and precise, with all the weight of a man who had not simply traversed unthinkingly and unaware through history, like the vast majority of men, but had rather created and moulded it for himself and for others. A pioneer, and a leader. Gaius, sipping his drink calmly, nodded in thoughtful appreciation. Jon had a way with words, a delicate accuracy that could both put men at ease, and bring them to attention on the turn of a sixpence.

Of course, Jon was a man of fairness. His soul required nothing short of absolute equality and integrity. And such a noble endeavour was fitting to man of his character. If anyone could, singularly as a person, represent true greatness in a Wizard, it was Jon Emerson. A more nobler sort could not be found. Unfortunately, from Gaius’ perspective, the man was also delusional. Too much time spent with the wrong sort could do that to even the greatest of men.

Gaius allowed the older wizard to finish speaking, and decided to join him in glancing upwards to the newly visible stars, slowly emerging from the murk of the sapphire blue firmament above them. He wondered if the organisers had charmed the dome above the palace, as there seemed to be no bleed through of the awful artificial muggle lighting that ruined the sky everywhere else in the city - above the two men the heavens were perfectly balanced in their sombre hue.

“Indeed, Jon. The sanctity of magical blood is immutable, I can give you no argument there. I think many would agree with us on that point. But like everything, there are filters and there are gradients. Perfection and pollution are both points on the same continuum. Unfortunately that spectrum runs in only one direction. The polluted cannot revert; there can be no reassembly of the shattered cup. That is cold reality. I wish it was very different, I truly do. Perhaps that has always been the one, essential difference between you and I. You have always been the optimist. And I, the realist.”

He cast a glance at his companion's strong profile. It would always evade the Death Eater; the obsession of perfectly good Wizards of Jon’s kind who would build their careers and their purposes; their very lives, in fact; upon the defence of those others who would rid the planet of them in the blink of an eye. To be so corrupted in their putrescence that they would wish for their own destruction; their own removal from history. And all for some illusional Arcadia where every witch and wizard, no matter their blood or their level of pollution, could live in peace forever and ever. The greatest trick the mudbloods had ever pulled was encouraging the naivety of those decent and gracious purebloods with bleeding hearts. The more uncouth would refer to them as blood-traitors, but Gaius preferred to see them for who they really were; all-too obliging.

“Your end could very well come to pass, I will give you that. With enough political clout and energy, even that is indeed possible. Unfortunately, some would consider it a manufactured violation of the natural order. It’s not me you need to convince, Jon. I am nothing, merely a wizard growing old, and I understand your logic. It is consummate and romantic. The others; those with history and purpose; they may not see it the same way. They may feel that they have something eternal to defend. And you know how people have a tendency to get, when they feel their existence is threatened. But, I do wish you well in your endeavour.”

The Death Eater had always seen their battle drawn along these lines; the frailty of history against the vicious tread of the future; preservation against dilution; existence against bondage. And if the past thirty years has taught him anything, it was that there were many purebloods who would die rather than allow their lineage to be wiped away. It had already provided Tom Riddle with enough voluntary manpower to wage two armed conflicts. This significant minority would never stand down, nor cede to the pipe dreams of Jon Emerson and his Ministry.

He took another generous sip of his drink; warm and precise, Jon had done an absolute stand-up job of mixing it. The man had a talent. “This is a damn fine Sazerac, Jon, I must say. Perhaps you missed your calling,” and he gave the Ministry official a sly smile.

“Alas, Jon, I have no further machinations. I think my days of conspiracy and intrigue are well in the past, are they not? A man gets tired of living a life filled with conflict. One sees too much of death; takes it within his embrace, makes it his all-too frequent acquaintance. That’s not good for the soul, I would say. No, I think I played my part. As for the Swedes, well I can honestly tell you I am completely in the dark regarding the game they are playing. They aren’t half interesting though, are they? That @Nils Nyström is an interesting chap. I did some work with him back in the eighties, and again in ninety-eight. Ambitious sort. A man of the future, perhaps. You should meet with him, in fact. Perhaps you could find that you have one or two things in common with him . . . perhaps we all do.”