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Frans signed off the last report and leaned back in his chair, rubbing both hands down his face and exhaling an exhausted breath. Work had stretched inconspicuously into overtime - as it too often did. Keeping his hands over his closed eyes, he let the warmth from his palms ease the strain of a too-long day and too many reports.
The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds somnolently, punctuated by the occasional murmur of voices outside his office.
The back of his neck prickled abruptly. There'd been no noise, no indication that anything out of the ordinary had happened. Nothing but the faint shift of air in the room and the quiet sound of someone else breathing. Frans had become unwillingly familiar with these sudden appearances over his years as the police commissioner, and somewhat resignedly, he lowered his hands to the desk and gave his unexpected guest a look.
Gawain Robards was a deceptively soft-looking man. He was dressed immaculately in trousers and a waistcoat, his robes folded on the crook of his arm. His dark hair was neatly combed, the few errant strands falling around the sharp angles of his face. He regarded Frans with cold, dark eyes, his smile amiable and thoroughly affected.
He was the second-in-command of the Auror Office, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Frans had first become aware of them at his inauguration when his predecessor had taken him aside and told him about the entire underbelly of the wizarding world in hushed tones. He hadn't quite met Frans' eyes during the vague explanation, beads of sweat gleaming on his upper lip.
Frans had understood. It wasn't something that could be easily explained. That there was an entire nation within Britain - a nation with a complete disregard for their people, customs, and laws.
"Good evening, Mr Doyle," Robards said briskly.
"Evening," said Frans, at length.
Seemingly unaware of his tone, Robards pulled out a photograph from the pocket of his waistcoat and placed it delicately on the desk. "I've come to request your cooperation with a certain case."
Frans gave the man in the photograph a grim look. The man looked back equally grimly, his eyes hollow and his gaunt face surrounded by a tangle of unkempt hair. Robards regarded him expectantly, an almost mocking tilt to his mouth. "His name?" Frans asked because he didn't have a choice, and they both knew it.
"Sirius Black. I'm afraid we've... momentarily misplaced him. We have a reason to suspect he'd be hiding in the Muggle world." The corners of his mouth tilted ever so slightly upwards. "I'm sure this goes without saying, but he's extremely dangerous, even without a wand. The hotline to our office is still the same."
Frans kept the anger off his expression, but he couldn't quite stop the agitated drumming of his fingers on his knee. He hated these requests - not just because they were troublesome. He always felt uneasy that some overenthusiastic police officer would find out that the convict they'd put out a report on hadn't been to any of Britain's prisons, that they didn't have any records, that they didn't seemingly exist at all.
But that wasn't what made him lose sleep at night.
Now and then, they stumbled into cases that were clearly for the Aurors. Cases of people going missing without a trace. Cases of distraught people coming in with marks all over their bodies, and the memories of the past months completely gone. Cases of people who'd been murdered in such depraved ways that they made Frans chase the bottom of a bottle years later. He'd seen people blown up all over the walls in locked rooms, people with their skin turned inside out or their blood boiled inside their bodies, people with their eyes, tongues, nails and internal organs missing.
He'd worked with the Aurors on a few of those cases. He'd seen the way they treated witnesses. How they gave them drinks that made their eyes glass over and monotonously spill their every secret. How they wiped their memories after each interrogation, all the while smiling charmingly and chatting away blithely.
Frans had seen what the wizards were capable of. He'd seen what they did to those they called Muggles.
It turned his stomach, made his skin crawl, and his palms clammy. He didn't want to expose his men or the civilians he'd sworn to protect to either of them.
His gaze fell to the wand holstered to Robards' thigh, the dark polished surface gleaming like decayed wood in the light. Frans had no illusions about his position. Sometimes, in the darkness of the night, he wondered if he even helped the Aurors with the facade of willingness he'd been granted or if he'd simply been charmed into it years ago. In his most existential moments, he wondered if he was Frans at all or if he was simply a puppet with enchanted memories the Aurors had placed in a position of power.
"I'll make sure the report is out by next week," Frans said, and Robards smiled brilliantly.
"Thank you for your cooperation. Have a good evening, Mr Doyle."
Then, without so much as a whisper, he was gone.