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Dorian would never admit this to a colleague, he could barely admit it to himself, but there were some days, when he was playing on the floor with his sweet little niece and watching her smile over the most simplistic things, that Dorian considered simply pulling up roots and leaving the UK. You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters seemed to be focused mainly on Britain. He could escape to a distant country and raise Ariel in relative peace away from the horrors this new group of dark wizards was raining down upon them. There was little keeping him here and the few people in his life that he cared about were probably better off without Dorian around anyway, as he seemed to be cursed with something lamely considered bad luck when it came to relationships. He had sworn to keep Ariel safe, no matter the lengths it required, and should that mean leaving the country with his niece in tow then that was what Dorian was prepared to do, though he did wonder whether these far-off plans were for his niece’s benefit or his own. Was he considering running away because it was what was best for Ariel’s safety and happiness or because he couldn’t handle losing yet another person he loved?

“It was always dangerous,” he countered, though perhaps he said this more for his own benefit than Jasper’s. The Humberts had been kidnapped, tortured, and killed by dark wizards, not Death Eaters or You-Know-Who, just an evil man hellbent on making Dorian suffer for locking the wizard’s boss away in Azkaban. It had been some of the goriest work Dorian had experienced in his time in the department, until now, but danger had always played a part. That much was nothing new. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you any longer.” Dorian nodded to his once-friend and turned to begin the small trek back to his own desk.

Someone worth dancing with. Dorian had that once. It seemed so long ago and yet he could remember it as though it were yesterday. “Paris and I used to dance,” he sighed wistfully, his thoughts falling out of his mouth without much consideration. Paris would share her favorite records with him, and his with her. They would dance under the stars on his rooftop garden, the light and noise of the city banished with a complex charm Dorian had used to shut out the eternal hum of the busy city below. There had been a few missteps at first, coupled with polite apologies and gentle laughter, but they easily fell into a rhythm together. His rooftop in the city, her garden in the countryside of Hogsmeade; Dorian loved dancing with Paris whether it was slow and romantic or more fast paced and completely out of his comfort zone.

They still danced in his dreams. He and Paris still did everything they had done when she was alive when he dreamt. They went to the cinema and she rested her head on his shoulder trying silently to get him to pay more attention to the film than the exits and the people coming and going in the dark. They ate Chinese take away in her cottage with the windows open to let the smoke out from the fire she’d started in the kitchen trying to impress him with a home cooked meal. They sat in the garden and read silently, enjoying each other’s company without needing to speak. And they made love in a tumble of white sheets in the early morning light as he kissed her soft skin and he whispered his affections into her ear. They were happy in his dreams, usually. Sometimes, on difficult nights, he would see Paris’ face illuminated by a green light and he would wake in his bed in a cold sweat to the cries of his infant niece in the cot near his bed, but mostly they danced.

His glass clinked as he set it down on the coffee table in front of Dorcas, having taken one large sip before considering letting go of his drink, and extended his hand to her. “Perhaps you’ll consider me worthy for tonight?”

“They could use with a bit of scaring, this lot.” A few of the younger trainees, while clearly passionate about becoming Aurors and helping people, were a little too foolish for Dorian’s liking. Playing pranks on each other in the locker room and making jokes that no one else understood while sparring. Dorian did not want the recruits to lack a personality, but he had a feeling this new lot would not stand up well to the horrors of what the Ministry was currently dealing with. “Dark Wizards come and go, but this Death Eater group…” Dorian sighed.

Voldemort and his terrorist group of racist murderers was most unlike anything Dorian had experienced in his time as an Auror. The older agents likened it to something in the history books; Grindelwald, but the rumors surrounding the infamous dark wizard put him at Voldemort’s heels. Voldemort on his own was just a man, even if he was as talented as they claimed him to be. He had a way of moving the people, and that was truly where he became a threat to the safety of the United Kingdom. Dorian was certain they could track Voldemort and apprehend him, charge him with his crimes and throw him away in Azkaban to rot. Maybe even Nurmengard, for a sense of poetic justice. Those certainties hinged on Voldemort himself and despite the many boastful remarks in the leaflets that littered the streets from time to time threatening innocent citizens if they did not side with him and fight for him, but Voldemort was not alone. He had amassed an army of hateful wizards and witches who carried out Voldemort’s evil plans. Combined efforts between the MLE departments had resulted in the capture of a handful of Death Eaters but the information gained from such arrests was minimal.

Dorian’s jaw tensed and he shook his head defeatedly, pushing thoughts of terrorists from his head. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry that file was not located sooner. I feel responsible for how my trainees perform and I will be certain they have learned their lesson tenfold.” They had to be better. All of them. Dorian could not raise his niece in a world such as they lived in. Ariel deserved a happy childhood, not one marred by fear and anguish. She had already lost her parents to these heathens, Dorian would not allow them to steal her innocence, too.

A pet cat. Yet another creature to love and bond with, that will ultimately die before anyone is ready for it to happen and leave Dorian, and this time Ariel, heartbroken. He did not like the sound of owning a cat at all, but of course if Ariel wanted one he had no real objections behind his own selfish insecurities and history of lost loved ones. Ariel was still an infant and unable to make decisions about whether or not she wanted a pet. She looked equally as transfixed at her own reflection as she did at the animals in cages along the walls of the tiny wizarding pet shop. “Having pets is somewhat inevitable when raising children, I imagine. They sort of go hand in hand, don’t they? I will just count myself lucky she hasn’t shown an interest in something wilder than a housecat.” Ariel let out a happy squeal as she shook her octopus around and banged it on the edge of her buggy. Dorian looked down at her and smiled. “Did you have any animals growing up? River, as much as she liked to chat, had not mentioned anything about pets. I suspect she would have given her daughter anything she wanted, though, and I am prepared to do the same.”

Dorian did not mean to insinuate that Ariel would be staying with him now that Julian had come into her life, however suddenly and, frankly, unexpectedly. Except that, yes, he did. River and Bert had been dead for four months and without any updated contact information for her rightful next of kin, Julian, Ariel had risked being sent to an orphanage. Dorian had fought hard to gain custody of his niece to ensure she never felt cast aside or unwanted as most orphans did. It was a task which had not been easy, but luckily River’s work at the hospital had already afforded them medical proof of their relation, and Dorian had been able to use that to prove he was Ariel’s uncle and petition for adoption. The ink on her adoption papers was barely dried, even as they spoke now. Dorian had no intention of keeping Julian away from Ariel, unless he proved himself truly unworthy of being in her life, but he also had no intention of readily giving her away to a werewolf with a history of viewing family as a flippant construct to be used whenever it pleased him and disregarded when inconvenient.

The waiter wrote their order on a notepad and disappeared toward the kitchen. Almost immediately a serving tray appeared, on it there was sugar, milk, and complimentary biscuits. A few moments later two teacups popped up, followed by a pot to tea. The service was incredibly lively at this little café.

The face. Dorian was completely unaware that he made “the face” that Dorcas found so entertaining. For a man so aware of his surroundings and so observant of everyone else, he really was rather obtuse when it came to things about himself that others saw easily. Dorcas enjoyed when Dorian’s jaw tensed, his lips pursed slightly, and he ran his tongue over his front teeth in annoyance. Paris had made mention of the fact that he played with the ring he wore on his right hand whenever he thought or spoke of his mother and father; the ring having been his father’s wedding ring. Was he always so easily read? Clearly his little tells had not interfered with his undercover work, but then Dorian was fairly methodical when it came to going undercover. He had yet to be partnered with Dorcas on a case of any significant length, but if the opportunity ever came up she would certainly make a point of mentioning any of his little idiosyncrasies should they emerge. “Are you trying to turn on the dark wizards with that face, or just me?” he could hear her saying. She claimed to enjoy “the face” but Dorian was certain she was simply trying to get a rise out of him. He tried his damnedest not to play into her games.

“That is not the way to get ahead in life, Dorcas,” he replied, looking over his shoulder at her. He quietly prayed she was joking but he had a sinking feeling that she was not. It was not uncommon for people to use manipulative tactics in the Ministry to get what they wanted, whether it be promotions, pay raises, or a suspiciously timed lost file but Dorian would never sink so low as to participate in such behavior. Rules were rules, and laws were laws. Manipulating either to one’s benefit was wrong, no matter the reason. He would not judge anyone, Dorcas include, for playing into office politics as they were but would not partake and he could only hope that the people he respected at work had enough decency to do the same.

Dorcas let out a swear of shock which pulled Dorian’s attention away completely from the radio stations, leaving the channel to play an old jazz instrumental that sounded like something from the forties. “What is it?” he asked curiously, not able to see what she was looking at from his position. Dorian moved around the chair then the coffee table to stand at her side as the mortifyingly embarrassing picture came clearly into view. Well, it would have been mortifyingly embarrassing, had he any insecurities about that sort of thing. “The day I interviewed at the Ministry and enrolled in the Academy. I wore one of my father’s suits.” His father was a tad larger than Dorian was at the time, and even now were the man still alive. Dorian was leaner, muscular but not overly bulky. Karl Humbert had much wider shoulders and he stood a good two or three inches taller than Dorian did now. “Handsome chap, wasn’t I?” he asked, the humor evident in his tone. It was, by all accounts, not his best look. Before that day Dorian had been in the habit of wearing his school uniform and on weekends and school holidays he was far more relaxed in his attire than he is now. A nice button down top, jeans or a more casual trouser. He even wore sneakers and, yes, in the sixties he had long hair. Times were different then. Dorian was different. The lad in the photograph, standing proudly in his father’s suit and smiling at Dorcas was far from the man who was two bottles into a prematurely interrupted wine-soaked depressive state.

There had been another murder, a family this time. The Netherlys. Dorian had not known them personally but there were a few in the department who seemed more shaken by the family’s deaths than others. It was strange how so many agents and officers seemed to be in the same little social circles outside of the office but then Dorian had once been a part of that world, too. It seemed like ages ago when he would meet with a group of mates and go out after work on the weekends. He was never truly the wild type, but he had been fun once. Deaths like the Netherlys were just another reminder of why it was too dangerous to let people into your life in their line of work.

Despite the warnings, personal history, and the numerous loses, Dorian was becoming more social again – against every fiber of his being. He blamed Paris for his reintroduction into the world of friendships and relationships, it was both a blessing and a curse, but the cons could not outweigh the love he still held for her. He had lost Paris along with his biological mother, his half-sister, and his brother-in-law all within the last year. In return he had gained dear friends in the Meadowes, a gorgeous niece which he had adopted as his own, and a half-brother of whom he was still uncertain but hopeful. The gains could not and did not negate his recent loses but they did force him to see what Paris had worked so hard in getting him to see; the good that came in having bonds with other people. There were old friendships that had not been rekindled, nor hardly thought of in all this time as horrible as that may sound, but even if Dorian had decided to make a conscious effort to reach out to those few he had once called friends, he was not sure how they would respond after being shut out for so long.

Tensing his strong jaw and pursing his lips slightly, Dorian looked over the board where the Netherly’s photos had been tacked up, scraps of parchment underneath with information pertaining to each victim. The Netherlys were just another in a long list of people murdered by the Death Eaters and while Dorian had yet to prove it, he had a sneaking suspicion that they were a part of the vigilante group known as the Order of the Phoenix. Their intent might have been righteous, but they were breaking the law in taking on these killers themselves and where did they inevitably end up? A pine box, six feet under; leaving their teenaged daughter an orphan in a terribly cruel world. Dorian sighed and turned to face his desk.

Dorian had been advised that looking into the Order of the Phoenix was a waste of time, but there were too many similarities in the recent murders for Dorian to ignore. There were too many people in the Ministry that seemed personally affected, without ever having had made mention of a friendship with the victims or some familial relation. Dorian suspected a number of agents were also Order members, renegades, but he couldn’t prove anything definitively and without the blessing of the Head of the department, he wasn’t likely to get any support in his investigation down this path. The goal of the Ministry was to find You-Know-Who and his followers, apprehend them, set them on trial and hopefully lock them away for good. Apparently some in the department thought the Order of the Phoenix was of some use in that regard but if Dorian’s hunch was correct, then it would appear that the Order was no better prepared for an attack than the Ministry was and they were simply opening themselves up to more loses.

There was a stack of files, neatly organized on his desk, each with the name of a person or group of persons who had been recently targeted by the Death Eaters. He fanned the files on his desk to look at them when he noticed one file seemed to be thicker than it ought to be. “Unbelievable,” Dorian said exasperatedly as he shook his head. Opening the unusually large file he found a second file tucked inside, clearly by accident. “If those interns cannot organize a bloody filing cabinet they certainly are not ready to become Aurors.” He was talking to himself, a habit he had taken up some years ago after shutting out his friends and colleagues. Dorian had always preferred to work alone, but there were times when two heads were better than one and he did not waver in asking a colleague for their advice or opinion on a matter. Since his self-imposed isolation, the little chit-chats had been kept mostly as an internal monologue, but from time to time they would slip out, particularly when he was shut up at his desk buried in reports.

A cursory look at the file told him it was not a case they had linked with the Death Eaters, though not completely separate from the sort of people who associated with such disgusting ideals. Muggle traffickers. Jasper was heading the muggle trafficking cases. There were actually some sick wizards who thought muggles were theirs to buy and sell like cattle, and the evidence of what they were being sold into was none too pleasing to see. Setting the file aside, Dorian organized the rest of his desk and stuffed the Death Eater files into the top drawer of his desk, then stood and grabbed the trafficking file and headed toward Jasper’s cubicle. “I believe you might be missing this,” he said upon seeing his once best friend. Dorian extended his hand and offered the file to the older wizard. “Sloppy filing by an intern, I imagine. Looks like we’ll be going over how to use a filing cabinet at our next session.” Humor was not Dorian’s forte but he was no stranger to a joke every now and again, but then again, he might not be joking at all. Misfiling of evidence could greatly hinder due process of the law, and this would not be the first time that someone got away with something so heinous because of inter-office disorganization.

Dorian looked on at the photos, albeit upside down, as Dorcas flipped slowly through the pages reading the inscriptions his mother had so carefully and lovingly included. He smiled slightly at some of the more fond memories on display. A young Dorian, maybe 8 or so, helping his mother in the garden as they planted flowers that would soon enough become the bed for old Mrs. Nezbit’s large calico that liked to dig up the Humberts’ yard and flatten the flowers by napping on them. Dorian, 10, with a clearly false smile on his face, dancing with his elderly neighbor in her living room, surrounded by at least a dozen housecats, all of whom were clearly not littler trained. Another photograph showed Dorian and his father working in the garage, rebuilding a muggle motorbike together. Dorian would have been about 13 then, and home from school on summer holiday. His date for the Yule Ball, Marissa Macklehorn, making a face a he pinned her corsage on her dress and accidentally stabbed her in the chest with the pin; his mate had been a sneak and sent that picture off to his mum as payback for Dorian giving him a detention for being out past curfew a few weeks later. There were so many happy memories, and while Dorian could usually look over them all with a fond smile, tonight he wore a saddened version. If it weren’t for Dorcas clearly having a good time, he would have put the album away. Instead, he finished his drink and got up to fiddle with the radio again.

“Not for lack of trying,” Dorian retorted when Dorcas asked, most likely rhetorically, why he wasn’t head of the department. That was Dorian’s ultimate goal but he clearly was not up to the task if a bloody Beatles song could throw him into a depressive state. Plus, the department had a fine Head already and Dorian was not the sort to play dirty inter-office politics just to get a promotion. He had already been given command of the Auror Academy training program and that was a perfectly respectable job.