Everyone in the room nodded except Mr. Quizling.
"Can we please get on with it," he said, raising his eyebrows impatiently.
"May I have the prisoner requisition number?" Blunt asked, turning to Harry.
Harry nodded. There was an exchange of formal parchments, which Blunt peered at for barely a moment. Then, deftly, he turned back toward the stone wall. He tapped it once again with his wand. The etching of the elaborate stone door unfurled. The carven lines rearranged, flowed together, and formed the shape of a large frame. Within the frame were three numbers: 0-0-0. Blunt touched the first number with his wand.
"Six," he said. The etchings that formed the first zero began to dissolve and swirl, reshaping into an ornate number six.
"Two," Blunt said, tapping the second zero, and then, "Nine."
The numbers resolved. They glowed faintly for a moment, pulsing purple in the bright white of the room. Then, the entire wall began to shift. With a grating rumble that James could feel in the soles of his feet and the pit of his stomach, the stone slid sideways, taking the etched frame and numbers with it. A moment later, a door slid into view. It was heavy iron, with a tiny barred window set into it. In the centre of the door, the numbers 001 glowed bright purple. The door shuttled past as James watched.
Another door followed, moving slightly faster. This one had the number 002 emblazoned on its centre.
James' father leaned close to him. "Our man is rather near the top, I believe," he said quietly.
James nodded speechlessly. The doors in the stone wall began to pass by with increasing speed. As they did, the rumbling grate rose in pitch. The floor seemed to thrum with the noise. James' fancied he could feel his very eyeballs vibrating in their sockets. Soon enough, the doors were flickering past in a blur, their glowing numbers forming an indecipherable purple streak. James' sensed that the doors were not just spinning past, but lowering slightly, as if the interior of the great tower was a sort of bolt, screwing itself into the depths of Azkaban's foundation.
James waited for the doors to begin to slow, but they never did. He wanted to ask his father just how deep the cell tower could go, but knew that he probably wouldn't be heard over the grating roar. Then, shockingly, the tower's wall simple slammed to a halt. It clanged, stone on stone, so deafeningly that James clapped his hands to his ears. By the time he touched them, however, both the motion and the noise were over. Silence rang in the stale, bright light of the hall. Standing prosaically in the centre of the stone wall was one last iron door. The purple numbers on its front read 6-2-9.
The door opened silently, swinging outward.
James peered into the cell beyond. It was quite small, barely as deep as the thin bed that lined the right wall. There was no window, and the stone that formed the cell walls was utterly seamless. James felt another twinge of claustrophobia just looking into the tiny space. Sitting against the rear wall on a straightbacked metal chair was a small man. He was thin, balding, and wore tiny rimless spectacles, with which he seemed to be reading a book. He did not look up.
"Inmate number six two nine," Blunt announced stoically. "Identified as Ratimir Worlick, citizen of the United States, apprehended this twentieth of August in Peckham, England, charged with attempted manufacture and distribution of potions of warfare and dark magic."
There was a long silence as the occupants of the viewing hall studied the man in the tiny cell. Worlick paid them no attention whatsoever. His eyes were magnified behind his spectacles as he stared down at the book in his hands. After a moment, he languidly licked one finger and turned a page. James noticed the title of the book, emblazoned in tarnished gold foil on black leather: POWERS of the BLACK ALCHEMIES.
"These are simply abominable conditions," Quizling said flatly. "I demand to be granted a private interview with my client to ascertain his mental state."
"His mental state is just fine," Hardcastle commented through gritted teeth. "You might instead consider the mental state of the three aurors that were wounded during his apprehension. Of course, there's only two of them left to interview now, seeing as Jakob died this last evening."
"That's enough, Titus," Harry instructed, although James sensed that his father was holding back his own anger. James had eavesdropped on his parents as they had discussed the raid on Worlick's laboratory. He hadn't heard all the details, but he'd learned enough to know that the wizard had been concocting some seriously dangerous dark magic, and that he had murdered more than a few Muggles to get the ingredients he needed. He had very nearly escaped from his father's raid, unleashing a vicious powdered curse upon the aurors to slow them down. James didn't know what the curse had done, except that it had horribly wounded two professional aurors, and killed one, Andrea Jakob, one of his father's best young recruits.
"Ratimir Worlick," Harry said loudly, addressing the small man in the cell. "Do you know who we are?"
Worlick finally looked up. His face was nearly expressionless. He blinked owlishly but said nothing.
"You are accused of crimes against Muggle and Magical humanity," Harry went on. "You are suspected to be involved with the Wizard's United Liberation Front, a known enemy of the Ministry of Magic and twelve other magical governing bodies. You may be tried on the charge of accomplice to murder for the death of American Senator Charles Hyde Filmore. These are your charges. Do you wish to invoke your right to formally admit or deny them?"
Worlick blinked at Harry Potter as if he were a rather interesting insect.
Quizling spoke up. "You don't have to answer that question, Mr. Worlick. I am Monroe Quizling, the Arbiter assigned to oversee your trial. You have received my official correspondence, I trust." As he finished speaking, he turned his gaze on Mr. Blunt, who nodded once.
Harry touched his son's shoulder. James could feel the heat of his father's anger through his fingertips.
"Make him stand up," he said to Blunt.
Blunt nodded again. He raised his wand and called sternly into the cell, "Stand up and approach the door. Place the book on the bed and keep your hands lowered."
Worlick looked at Blunt speculatively, and then sighed. He closed the book and laid it carefully on the ratty mattress next to him. A moment later, he stood and moved toward the open door of his cell.
"That's far enough," Blunt announced. Worlick stopped.
Harry lowered his voice and leaned close to his son. "This is it, James. Take a good hard look. Tell us the truth."
James nodded. He frowned at the small man opposite him. Worlick stood illuminated in the harsh light of the hall. James studied him furiously, trying hard to remember.
It was hopeless, of course. He had known it even when his father had first asked him to come to Azkaban with him to see if he could identify this odious man from that horrible night months earlier. It had come to be called the Night of the Unveiling. Everyone remembered it—it was the event that had, by any measure, completely changed the world—but for James the entire night was just an awful blur: the trip into the World Between the Worlds, the death of his cousin Lucy, the final portal into the twin cities of Muggle New York and Wizarding New Amsterdam, where Petra Morganstern, with the aid of her sister Izabella, had torn away the veil of secrecy that hid the one from the other. James culled through his memories as carefully as he could, trying to conjure every detail. Had this man, Worlick, been there anywhere? Was it possible? He seemed so small and weak. Could he have been one of the wizard assassins who had attempted to kill his father? They'd all been wearing cloaks, hiding their every feature. There was just no way to tell for sure.
"I…" James began, screwing up his face in concentration. "I can't quite…"
"The witness does not recall seeing my client," Quizling stated firmly. "Let the record officially show—"
"Wait," James interrupted. He leaned forward, peering at the small man in his grey Azkaban robe. The robe was ill-fitting, emblazoned with his prisoner number in black stitching. The sleeves were rather too short, showing th
e man's thin, pale forearms. His left arm was marked with a faded sigil, barely visible beneath the frayed sleeve.
"The tattoo on his arm," James said, pointing. "I recognize it, I think."
Quizling narrowed his eyes. "His tattoo, you say. Are you quite sure, young man? There were many thousands of people present on the Night of the Unveiling, most of whom were rather far away from you. If my client was among those allegedly preparing to attack your father's transportation, they were quite high up, out of the light of the street. I find it difficult to believe you could have seen a tattoo from that distance, in that light, much less be able to identify it now."
James shook his head and glanced up at his father. "No, I don't recognize it from that night. I saw it earlier, when we first arrived in New Amsterdam. It was when we were on the train, the Lincoln Zephyr. Do you remember, Dad?"
Harry nodded. "Of course. We were attacked by members of the W. U. L. F. We were barely able to fight them off."
"They were on brooms," James clarified, speaking a bit louder. "They were wearing cloaks and masks, like they always do, but the wind made their sleeves push up on their arms. One of them had a marking on his forearm, in the same place as the one on him, right there. I can just see it beneath his sleeve. Make him show it to us."
"No," Quizling countered quickly. "The boy is clearly inventing this story to falsely accuse Mr. Worlick. If he is so certain of what he saw, then let him describe the tattoo. If it matches that on my client's arm, then his testimony may stand, not that it means anything conclusive. Many people have tattoos."
Harry nodded reluctantly. "All right, then. James? I myself do not remember seeing any such markings on that night, so we must rely entirely on your recollection. Can you describe the tattoo you saw on our attacker's arm?"
James held his breath, thinking hard. His memory of that night was a wild jumble of images-- the Zephyr leaping from its tracks, careening down a crowded New York street, flashes of wand-fire, shattering glass. He concentrated on the figures that had chased them, zooming over the train like hornets. He remembered the pale forearm, clutching onto a black broom. He'd barely registered the markings tattooed there at the time.
"Perhaps we should consider Legilimens," Titus suggested quietly. "You could do it yourself, Harry."
"Not admissible," Quizling stated. "The American wizarding court does not recognize the validity of memories obtained via such subjective means."
"I remember it," James said faintly. "I only saw it for a second, but... it was just a symbol. It looked sort of like a circle with a slash through the middle of it."
As James finished speaking, he sensed a change in the atmosphere of the room. He glanced aside and saw Hardcastle looking at his father. They exchanged a meaningful look.
Blunt stepped forward once more. "Prisoner," he called firmly. "Raise your left arm and draw back your sleeve."
Worlick stared at James. He almost looked amused. Slowly, he raised his left arm so that his sleeve fell back. The tattoo was plainly visible in the bright light. It showed a calligraphic circle, cut in half by a tapered slash. The slash might have been a wand, or a dagger.
"The Phi of Balance," Hardcastle stated, unsurprised.
"What's it mean?" James asked, still frowning.
"It is the universal marker of those who believe magical balance requires the extermination of all nonmagical species," Hardcastle explained in his gravelly voice. "They are murderers with no remorse. The worst of all villains, for they do not kill out of anger or revenge, but for their perverted concept of purity. They do not believe that those they kill are even human."
"May I lower my arm now?" Worlick asked. It was the first time he had spoken, and James was surprised at the lazy indolence of the man's tone. The look on his face was one of weary indulgence, as if he were humouring a gaggle of disagreeable children.
"Of course, Mr. Worlick," Quizling answered. To the others, he said, "This means nothing, of course. Such tattoos are common enough among a certain class of revolutionaries. Most likely Mr. Worlick acquired the marking in his youth, not knowing what it even meant. Furthermore, it does not amount to proof that Mr. Worlick was among those who attacked you."
"No," Harry agreed. "I admit, he doesn't strike me as the warrior type. Still, it is enough for us to detain him for trial. I am afraid Mr. Worlick will not be released to his home country anytime in the near future."
Quizling accepted this grudgingly. "Be that as it may, I will require a private meeting with my client to instruct him of the upcoming proceedings. If you will excuse me."
Quizling moved past the others, approaching the open cell door.
"You have five minutes, Arbiter," Blunt announced. Quizling did not respond. He stepped into the cell as Worlick made room for him. The two sat down on the narrow bed and Quizling pulled the cell door to behind him, leaving it slightly ajar.
"Pompous fool," Hardcastle grated under his breath. "Perhaps Worlick will save us some trouble and curse him somehow."
Harry sighed. "Unlikely, Titus. Let's try to be professional about this. At the very least, we got what we came for. Nice work, James."
James nodded. "I really wasn't very sure. I was grasping for straws."
"Sometimes that is what it takes," his father said.
"But dad," James said, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "I really don't think it was him on that night, when they attacked the train. He's just too little and wiry. The man I saw was bigger. I can tell that even though he was wearing a robe and hood."
"I know, son," Harry agreed. "But this is good enough to keep him for now. Soon enough, we'll connect him to his network, the people he was working for. With any luck, we'll capture them as well, and they will all stay here in Azkaban for a long, long time. We have you to thank for that."
James shrugged. He wasn't sure that he had done anything especially difficult, but he hoped his father was right. Worlick was certainly evil, although not at all in the way that James had expected. Rather than vicious and vengeful, the man exuded a brand of detached hate that was so cold it was almost clinical. Here, James knew, was a wizard who felt absolutely no remorse or regret for what he had done. He would do it again, and worse, if he had the chance. Fortunately, he had been captured and imprisoned. And for now, he would stay that way.
Shortly, the cell door swung open again. Quizling stepped out, straightening his cloak and adjusting his arbiter's hat. Behind him, Worlick lay reclined on the mattress, only his feet visible, his black alchemy book held open on his stomach. The man's lazy indifference was truly creepy.
"Are you quite through?" Harry asked.
Quizling nodded in a business-like manner. He huffed past James and the rest, striding purposefully into the darkness of the outer hall.
"It seems we are finished here," Hardcastle commented.
Blunt nodded. He flicked his wand toward the cell door, which slammed shut with a clang. Almost immediately, the door and the stone wall began to shuttle back the way they had come, accompanied by the rumbling roar of the cell tower. A minute later, the cycling doors shuddered to a halt once again, revealing the engraved stone wall. Blunt tapped the wall with his wand, unveiling the tiny stone door that safeguarded the entrance flame. He returned the flame to his torch and led James, Harry and Hardcastle back out into the main hall, where Quizling was waiting impatiently.
No one spoke during the return trip down the winding staircase. James followed his father again, with Hardcastle in the rear. Quizling stalked along next to Blunt, apparently fuming to himself and anxious to be on his way.
Back in the watery cavern, the ghost ship was nowhere in sight. The lantern buoys bobbed silently in the darkness, painting their bright reflections onto the inky water.
"The ferry will return shortly," Blunt explained. "Mr. Quizling, I will return your broom to you forthwith."
Harry turned to Quizling in the darkness. "I assume you will instruct your embassy of what transpired here today. Can we expect no
unnecessary interruptions as we proceed with Worlick's trial?"
Quizling neither turned to Harry nor responded to his question. He merely stared out over the dark water, awaiting the return of his broom. Blunt stood at the edge of the pier and held both his wand and the entrance torch high overhead. He fired a single green flare toward the distant cavern ceiling. It painted moving shadows among the stalactites.
"Mr. Quizling?" Harry said, frowning slightly. "Is everything all right?"
Quizling still did not respond. Out of the darkness, a long dark shape lofted toward the pier. Blunt caught it deftly. It was, of course, Quizling's broom. Blunt turned toward Quizling and held it out. Quizling's arm jerked forward to grasp it.
James gasped. As Quizling reached forward, the sleeve of his cloak pulled back, revealing his forearm. A dark tattoo marked his skin. It was the Phi of Balance, the exact same one that James had seen minutes earlier on Worlick's arm.
"Dad!" James called out, scrambling for his wand, but Quizling was too fast. He spun around, his own wand already in his fist, and fired a red bolt directly at Hardcastle, who was nearest. Hardcastle leapt to dodge the spell, which seared through his robes, barely missing him. An instant later, both Harry's and Hardcastle's wands were out and firing. Red light flickered throughout the cave, but Quizling was gone. The flap of his robes and whistle of his broom echoed over the water, along with a gust of mad laughter.
"Damn!" Hardcastle cried in fury. "He's gone daft"
Harry shook his head, swiftly pocketing his wand. "Not daft," he said. "Escaped."
"But Quizling was no prisoner here," Blunt said, scowling severely.
"James saw it a split second before I did," Harry explained, shaking his head. "The tattoo, same as the one on Worlick's arm. Quizling had no tattoo when we arrived here."
James clutched his own wand, having not fired a single spell. "So how did it get there? Was he in league with Worlick the whole time?"
"No," Harry said, turning toward Blunt. "They are not in league. And that was not Quizling. The man that just escaped had the same tattoo as Worlick because he was Worlick. Mr. Blunt, I trust that you keep a few brooms here for emergency use?"