The Loudest Break In Ever

"MAREK."

One job. He had been given one job while she went about her business of trying to confirm or deny his story. His job was to not screw it up. And what had he turned around and done, practically the second she made her hesitant agreement?

He had screwed it up.

There was no reason she should be allowed into the cells after hours like this. But she had just been checking one last file on her desk before the news came in. Between her qualifications, which she could flash in an instant, and access to the entire Department of Mysteries, she was not at all worried getting caught. She was worried Simon wouldn't think she meant business.

"MAREK, YOU DIPSHIT."

Yeah, that wasn't going to be a problem.

The guards rushed her right as she reached his cell. To one, she showed her I.D. badge before muttering, "I'm basically his lawyer. I'm not letting him out, but we need to talk."

It was ever so reluctantly that the guards let her in, but they couldn't argue with an Unspeakable-level clearance. The bars slid closed behind her and she looked at Simon Marek in his pitiful glory. Rumor had it, he might still be hungover.

"Loud enough for you?" she said, her voice still raised.

The young aurors had had a grand time, flaying him alive with their words, and now Simon sat in the far corner of his holding cell, perched on the pathetic excuse for a bed that had been provided. When Jack showed up, he wasn't relieved. Maybe he should have contacted someone else, but he didn't know anyone who would be able to get in to see him like she could. And then what good would come of it?

Jack's voice was too loud. Simon had turned down the coffee offers, not trusting that they wouldn't have Veritaserum mixed in. Because even if he hadn't done the crime they wanted to charge him for, he had done many others, more recently, that could lead to the same awful place. No thank you.

He muttered in Polish, ensuring that Jack wouldn't receive the full strength of his ire towards the world, but he knew she had a right to be angry. So he lifted his chin, and let his dark, lifeless stare bore into her. "I don't know. Maybe try going up a few decibels. Or in pitch, perhaps. That would be fun."

Deadpan was the word of the day, brought to you by a hangover and the knowledge that she wouldn't be able to prevent his fate after this.

"It's like I said, Jack. It's over. They've got me on more than the old one and even if that's their main reason, they're shipping me back at dawn. Dramatic, if you ask me, but so be it. Don't trouble yourself," he warned almost genuinely. "It isn't like you would've figured me a way out anyway, is it? You don't even believe that I'm telling you the truth. Most people don't. I get that. But I can't sit there and imagine you coming to get me out when it won't ever happen. So don't get my hopes up."

Jack was not in the mood for Simon to think he was funny.

Illegal potions and public drunkenness. Caught by none other than the Goddamn Minister of the Mother Flippin' Ministry. Yes, he was shaping up to be exactly the sort of person she should stake her reputation on. Of course, she had put her faith in people with far worse crimes attached to their names, but she had never gotten a promise from any of them to be in their best behavior, either.

These cells were miserable, but Jack also cared little. No one stayed here long and it was certainly better than the alternative. But it also made it so she had no choice but to loom over him, as there were no chairs.

She probably would have made that call anyway.

He spoke, though, and beneath his words Jack found more than self pity and irony. There was a true sense of loss, a sense of finality. Simon had actually given up. Given up, not given in. The guilty could only do the latter.

She sighed and turned back to the door. "'Ey. Bottle of water and a chair. Now."

They were conjured up and forked over quickly, and Jack set up the chair in front of him, handing the bottle of water across to him. "Drink," she said, her voice calmer but certainly no less firm.

Free of the bottle, her fingers flexed and flooded together, to keep herself from shaking him. "Okay. Look. Forget hopes for a second, let's talk facts. Alright? Why did this happen? What... I mean, what the hell, man?" Her voice was accusatory, sure, but it was also sincere in need to understand. Because, right now, it didn't make sense why he would jeopardize all the work they had done.

Simon extended his feet farther out in front of him along the cot. He couldn't call it much else, now that he thought about it. Joy of joys, the Ministry had great facilities. Maybe they reserved the better stuff for people who just stole. But someone's supposed to be a murderer and they get a crappy room. That was fair, he supposed.

He eyed Jack warily but opened the bottle she handed to him anyway. "I had a job. They were late. So I thought they weren't coming and decided to have a drink. Have you noticed?" He inclined his head and lifted an eyebrow at her sarcastically. "I left, and..."

Simon hesitated, not wanting to admit that his own mind had played tricks on him. He wasn't sure it was the first time that had happened, though.

"He looked like Kosta," Simon muttered, clenching his jaw before running his tongue between his upper and lower rows of teeth. He couldn't look at her, so he stared down at the bottle in his hands, letting it blur in front of him. "I didn't know what to do. So I ran. And now I'm here. And soon I'll be there instead. And there's nothing either of us can do, because if they don't hold me on this alone, they'll add it to what they think I've done. And there's no getting out after that."

Jack was having a hard time understanding this frayed camaraderie between them, her sudden involvement with a former rival accused of crimes that she should take a vested interest in punishing, rather than absolving. Perhaps it was the small streak of honesty, or the steady decline that warranted some buffering. Whatever the reason was, it was hard to simply write off Simon Marek's fate and leave him to the dementors.

After all, she had been there. She knew it was not a place to be sent to lightly.

"And there's nothing either of us can do."

It was a statement she resented, not only because she liked to believe she could do anything, but because of the truth of the matter, that her hands were relatively tied. She had nothing to prove on his behalf, and she was venturing farther and farther from the projects she had already committed to.

"There is nothing we can do," she said slowly. "But I know someone who can do something. If I could arrange it, would you meet with the Chief Warlock? I can get him in here. There's no reason you should be sent straight off to Azkaban. He can make sure you're heard."