The high loud crackling from the great emerald flames that just flared up in the gilded fireplace on the left side on level eight, the Atrium that was located in the headquarters of the British Ministry of Magic in Whitehall, England, echoed from the walls of the deserted entrance to the magical government in the UK. Dawlish came out of the flames and brushed ash from the sleeves of his long coat and peered around him where he was situated at the present time. He was standing in a very long and splendid hall with a highly polished, dark wood floor. The peacock-blue ceiling was inlaid with gleaming golden sybols that were continually moving and changing like some enormous heavenly notice board. The walls on each side were paneled in shiny dark wood and had many gilded fireplaces set into them. On daytime, there would most certainly emerge a witch or wizard every few seconds from one of the left-hand fireplaces with a soft whoosh; on the right-hand side, short queues of wizards would with out any doubt be forming before each fireplace, waiting to depart. However, it was late. Dawlish scanned the hall. He had not expected many to be here, but - he had not expected the hall to be completely empty either. He snatched up his wand so fast that someone had been there, they would have missed the movement if they had so much as blinked.

In relation to what he would call "under normal circumstances", the Atrium would be full of ministry workers. In fact, he missed the environment of this famous place. Every morning there would be sound of the tinkling hiss of falling water from the large fountain close to the golden gates, adding to the pops and cracks of the Apparators and the clatter of footsteps as hundreds of witches and wizards, most of whom wore glum, early-morning looks, as they was stroding towards the set of golden gates at the far end of the hall. Some of whom would be carrying tottering piles of parchment, some would be carrying brooms, others battered briefcases; still others usually read the Daily Prophet while they walked.

Dawlish sighed, before turning his attention to the matter at hand. The abnormal, suspicious deafening silence and the apparent lack of workers, not to mention the obvious absence of interministerial security measures and general professional competence and routines. Dawlish's gaze turned towards the golden gates in the far-end of the hall. His eyes moved towards a corner where he knew would lead whoever went in that direction to the headquarters of the Department of Security, which was located merely a flight of stairs from the Atrium itself that is responsible for the implementation of wizarding Great Britain defence policy. But there was no one behind the Security Desk, no Security Wizards patrolling the area.

One moment there was only dimly lit, and the next it appeared something that looked like a blinding ball of light at the tip of Dawlish's wand, and it looked almost like half a meter around him bathed in shimmering silver.  Then he lifted his right arm, and with a quick flip of his wand, and an elegantly executed circular wrist movement, he said in a gruff voice: "Homenum Revelio!"
Nothing happened. It seemed that the human-presence-revealing spell did not bear fruits, and it did not look as if Dawlish expected it to, as he already was pocketing his wand and moving swiftly towards the golden gate, before stopping and face the entrance, standing like a guard, his wand in a firm grip, as if he expected some unwanted guest to appear. However, he also expected the Auror he had meet on the pub to follow him.

Zora did follow only about a minute later.  She erupted from one of the many fireplaces in a flare-up of green fire.  The Atrium was deserted at this time of night, but she knew the Ministry wasn't completely asleep.  There would be workers (and certainly Aurors on a night shift) tucked away below them in their various offices and departments, doing the tasks their duties required of them.  Zora's wife did hate it how Zora's schedule often required she work those late shifts, but it was something they all had to adjust to.  Zora more than made up for it when they were home. 

Thinking of that made her wonder how long she'd spend with this strange old man.  Wondered if he actually had any information or if he'd been cracked in the head one too many times.  Even though Dawlish was much admired around the Auror office for his experience, he wasn't known to always be a perfect example.

Zora came walking down the Atrium towards Dawlish who was standing like a sentry near the gates to the rest of the Ministry.  There wasn't much to say as she led the way down to Level Two.

---

Arriving in Level Two, Zora led the way back to past the foyer and hung a left to the interrogation rooms.  They really needed a nicer place to have meetings... It was a running joke that the Aurors didn't have a conference room or other likely place.  Perhaps the Ministry was built well before conferences existed...

Anyway, the room had two chairs and she pulled hers away from the table and sat down.

"So," she asked him.  "What have you got for us about Terrence Dawlish?"

The moment John Dawlish saw the female move towards the lifts in his corner of his eye, he followed. With his arms clasped behind his back, the Warlock went with her. He said nothing. As they reached the small hall of the twenty gilded elevators, he stopped to wait for the transport to turn up. With a great jangling and clattering a lift descended in front of them; the golden grille slid back and Dawlish stepped into the lift with his ental welcome committee. The grilles slid shut with a crash and thelift ascended slowly, chains rattling, and Dawlish narrowed his eyes. The sorcerer simply did not hide the fact that he found the deafening silence extremely suspicious, his eyes flickered back and forth, back and forth as if he half expected that the lift would be filled with a poisonous gas that Ms. Roh was immune and unaffected by, or that sharp knives every moment that anything could be shot out of small secret rooms in the elevator walls, and be aimed at his throat. But nothing of the sort happened.
Then suddenly, the same cool female voice Dawlish had heard so may times before, ring out: "Level Seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club and Ludicrous Patents Office."

The lift doors opened. Dawlish glimpsed the untidy-looking corridor, with various posters of Quidditchteams tacked lopsidedly on the walls. The doors closed, thel ift juddered upwards again and the woman's voice announced: "Level Six, Department of Magical Transportation, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office and Apparation Test Centre."

It soon became clear that Dawlish grew impatient. Clearly he was irritated by the lifts automatically stopping at each level when they were almost up, thus wasting precious time, in addition to that he saw one of the usual representatives from the Department of Magical Maintenance overlooking journey by means of transport, which further stressed that the administrative leadership in the current, so called so-called Reformed Ministry of Magic does not values or emphasize interministerial safety, security or good old regular routines and safety procedures.
Once again the lift doors opened, he backed away to the wall behind them when he heard a sudden noice, his hand moving imperceptibly towards the pocket in which he had put his wand for safe storage, but stopped with his hand half-way there as he saw what was causing the noice. "Ah, good old inter-departmental memos," Dawlish muttered to her. "I believe it was before you began here, we used to use owls, but the messwas unbelievable ... Droppings all over the desks..." As they clattered upwards again, the memos flapping around the lamp and swaying from the lift's ceiling. And finally: "Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services." He stepped out, and I followed the witch out of the lift into a very familiar corridor lined with doors. As they moved through the corridors, and then through the heavy oak doors with the sign that identified the next office area as the Auror Headquarters. As he saw the good old cubicals, he could not help but giving off a slight smile. He had indeed missed the place.

He accompanied the younger Auror into one of the interrigation rooms, and did not move when she tried to attract his attention by addressing him verbally. Nor did he answer right away, his pale eyes moved slowly across the room, and sucked in as much detail as his very excellent and analytical mind had the capacity to accommodate. Then he drew breath, sat down on a chair opposite to her and exhaled. It looked as if he did not feel clean little disappointed, as facial expression in the rough, slightly wrinkled face expressed a certain unmistakable resentment and dissatisfaction.

"An almost better question is," he growled, not taking his eyes away from her face. "Why the lack of security on the premises of the magical goverment of Great Britain? Don't tell me that good old Shackbolt has become soft in this relatively peaceful moment of time?"

What?

Zora was an Auror, trained in combat, the law, and had seen and heard a great many horrible and startling things in her life.  And so being taken off-guard, in itself, put her off.  If only for a second.

He'd totally ignored her question and was asking about...?

"Kingsley Shacklebolt is gone, sir," she said slowly at first and then continued on briskly. "He was replaced by Minister Annwyl and then by Persepolis Zephyr.  I can assure you, security's fine.  You were in fact escorted here by an Auror; that's not something to overlook. Look."

She was going to get firm with him now.  The John Dawlish or no, she had work to do.  This wasn't a tour for old time's sake.

"Look, sir.  Either you have something to tell me about your nephew that will help us solve his murder, or you don't.  I understand this is all probably a bit jarring, but you need to answer my questions or I shall escort you out again.  Alright?"

Zora was getting impatient now, feeling like he was taking her for a ride.  Was he just paranoid? Old? Addled? Had he not looked at paper in seven years?

The older man sighed heavily, and looked at her with a glance dissatisfaction. When he heard that Kingsley Shackbolt no longer held office, he snorted, and there was something almost mocking the voice as he growled the comment: "Indeed? Well, that explains a lot."  But then he smiles, as if smile he finds the request amusing.  Dawlish leaned forward in the chair when she said that she thought she would be capable to boss him around.

"Please, feel welcome to try." he said lightly, "However, before you decide to put to life a losing battle you are either physically nor magically capable to win, I believe that it would interest you to know that my dear nephew was observed repeatedly in Knockturn Alley the on occasions last month before he died ."

He leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows, "nasty place," He said causually. "Notoriously known to accept every practitioner of dark magic with open arms." He frawned. "Now, I have no doubt that Terrence was a thoroughly honest man. But it is - unlike him. He was not a regular customer at any of the shops.  He was a theorist, not a practicak man. He would not have been able to lift a wand to severely harm someone even if he had wanted to. Which suggests that he somehow got involved with the wrong people."

And there.  Zora needed little more evidence to turn her mind round to accepting and being thoroughly comfortable with the fact that she did not care one bit for this John Dawlish.  War-addled or not, Zora very nearly took him up on his offer to show him exactly the authority she had in this world.

Only after threatening her did he finally decide it appropriate to divulge anything useful, and Zora was barely able to listen.  Their night's strange interactions only caused her to doubt what he said - it was all either a paranoid mistake or some deliberate posturing of a long-retired Auror. 

"I see.  Knockturn," she repeated blandly, clearly no longer impressed. 

"Well, I do thank you for coming in.  I'll pass along your information and perhaps it will be of some use."

She pushed back from the table and stood.  "It's late.  I can arrange for someone to take you home if you like." 

He noticed how the atmosphere changed. The whole atmosphere in the room was suddenly somehow darker, and he noticed that he apparently had offended her. He had really meant it as a joke, however, his somewhat limited precence with familiar surroundings, subjects and colleagues had done his sense of humor had become somewhat rusty. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, and stood up. "I'm sorry if you were offended, Auror Roh." he said quickly, and he gave her a gentle smile that was completely different than before. It was natural, almost friendly.

"It was meant as a joke - old habit. As you've probably heard, I had a period where I had a tendency to -"

Jonh stopped and thought for a moment, as if to find the best way to describe it properly according to his own view of the matter.

"To have a bit of bad luck, to say it as it is, and I and Robards and the rest of the gang had a kind - a kind of internal humor where we ridicule these instances and I joked about threatening to jinx them. I have a lousy sense of humor, and it came out wrong at the wrong place at the wrong time, and I sincerely apologize. "

John hesitated for a moment, and then he added:

"I have also been informed that He Who Must Be Named had some Belgian fans. A nasty little fanclub who fled from Belgium when their Council of Sorcery sent representatives from the Committee of Magical Justice Management to apprehend them. This organization goes by the name of Heres Resurrectionis Consortium, it's latin and mens 'The Society of the Heir's Resuccection'. Undoubtedly this is a reference to the Heir of Slytherin. In other words, He Who Must Not Be Named. They were not Death Eaters, but they believed in his cause. My sources tells me that they did not like his fall from power."

His pale face darkened as he spoke, and the bright eyes glittered in the pale light of the lamp that hung from the ceiling.

"It can not be confirmed, as there have merely been rumours  about one of the members being observed in Wales recently, and even if they were involved, it is not likely that they got unnoticed across the borders of England, but I've seen enough in my life to believe that there are those who would gladly take a life if they thought the crime was committed on the basis of loyalty. And there are those who would look at Terrence as a blood traitor. "

A joke?  Zora was unsympathetic and not entirely convinced.  She'd soured on the man and for the moment there'd be little to be done about it.  Especially not one-on-one when her shift was well over.  Perhaps it had been a mistake to let her partner Ed Pratt off this one, to do a Eleor and Trevelyan the favor of tracking Dawlish down.  But it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

She let Dawlish reminisce, and she let him explain about this so-called Society of Whatnot - even wrote it down in her notebook. 

"I see, then," she said as she scribbled a few more notes.  "Belgians... Heir of Slytherin...Wales..."

It wasn't clear if there was a connection to Terrence, but Dawlish seemed to think so.  But at the end of the day (and they were well past that and on into the next) this was Eleor and Trevelyan's case, and this was just a favor.

She flipped the notepad closed and walked towards the door and opened it up. 

"That's all then," Zora said.  "The Aurors on the case will follow up.  Afraid that since all this is confidential - active investigation and all - we won't be able to tell you anything specific."

"This way please," she urged.

John smiled gently and bowed slightly to her, as if to show that despite his somewhat arrogant, inappropriate jocular statements about his own superior magical abilities, he respects her authority. He folds his hands behind his back and followed her benevolent. "It's come to my ears that good old Robards died in service some time ago," he said, his voice trembling with sadness as he said it. Robards had been a few years under him at Hogwarts, and was a most admirable man, not to mention a brilliant Auror. "I hope he did not suffer?" it sounded more like a question than anything else.