Arthur arrived at Auror Headquarters, hoping to ask Kingsley about last night's Muggle casualties, but was told that the Aurors had yet to return.
He wanted to take a look near the Department of Mysteries, but discovered that the elevator to the ninth floor had been temporarily sealed off. Even the stairs were guarded by staff, on the grounds that "the site is still under investigation; unauthorized personnel are prohibited from entering."
In a daze, he arrived at the door of his new office. The nameplate was brand-new and gleaming. The office was indeed small, and apart from the basic desk, chairs, and filing cabinet, it was completely empty.
There was no assistant, no pile of pending paperwork. It was terrifyingly quiet.
Arthur sat in the cold chair, staring at the deserted corridor beyond the window. He could almost still hear the shriek of spells, Voldemort's roar, and Vincent's steady, heartbreaking footsteps as he left.
That child had borne everything himself, while Arthur, one of the people who knew the truth, could only sit here and accept honors built on lies and a hollow promotion.
The Daily Prophet lay spread across the desk, its headline glaringly conspicuous.
He could imagine how many wizards across Britain were pointing at the newspaper, talking about Dark Lord Vincent Wayne's "cruelty" and "madness," celebrating the Ministry of Magic's "decisiveness" and "victory."
They would never know the truth about last night. Perhaps they never would know that the Dark Lord slandered beneath an overwhelming tide of lies was, in fact, the real hero.
Arthur slowly closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
The air, so full of the scent of "victory," was astonishingly foul and suffocating.
The long nightmare of Christmas Eve had passed, but his own nightmare seemed to have only just begun.