September, 2016- Elkhart, Indiana
Ticking of a timeworn analog clock was the only sound that could be heard throughout the library, a rundown structure in the middle of small-town Indiana. The chipped hour hand had been yearning to dislodge from its spot for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, it had found its rightful place, fashioned over the painted nine, indicating that it was now closing time.
The employees began locking up cabinets, shutting off lights, grabbing their coats. They waved goodbye, wishing one another a blessed Sunday and promising to see each other bright and early Monday morning. Dust particles were dancing in the dim streetlight that streamed through the blinded windows, and the few straggling readers in the room began to make their way towards the door and into the unseasonably cold night.
Two librarians remained. The woman was just preparing to leave, buttoning up her cardigan and straightening the pair of glasses perched on her freckled nose. She loaded a stack of books into her threadbare knapsack, pacing meekly toward the exit and offering a tentative wave to the man behind the front desk. She was met only with a forced grin.
The man was in his early forties, but the thinning of his hair and atrocious state of his teeth made him seem quite a bit older. He glanced around apprehensively, and as soon as he was sure his last remaining colleague was out of sight, he ducked beneath the desk and dug his fingers under the tongue of his workman boot. After a moment or two, he began to extract what appeared to be a small tree branch from the place by his ankle where it was situated. He twisted the wand between his fingers, closely eying the back door as he waited.
A string of commanding knocks came sooner than he had expected, and they thundered louder than he thought they would throughout the library walls. The man yelped at the sound, trotting over to answer the door as quickly as possible, stopping just as he fixed his hand around the knob. Into the darkness of the night, he whispered.
"Lumos."
White light surged from the tip of his wand, and he held the instrument in front of him defensively. With great caution, he twisted the knob and peered around the door to confirm he was being met with the right set of faces.
"Ryszard?"
"Nah, it's the fucking president of the MACUSA," croaked a man's voice from the dark, "Get that piece of shit wand of yours out of my face, Callahan. We're wasting time." At that, the librarian took a step back and opened the door as widely as possible to allow the small crowd of men to pour in.
Leading the horde was a wiry man, whose muscular arms were adorned in enough tattoos to entirely shroud his reddish skin. His eyes were a sharp and daring green, his face roughed by a masculine grizzle. The man seemed relatively young, late thirties at most, but he had been perceptibly hardened by the world. Furthermore, despite his age, he seemed to have command over every person in his presence.
"What are you waiting for, you half-breed? The room!"
Ryszard cackled while he said this, framing his cutting words as nothing more than playful jab, an outburst the librarian answered with a nervous chuckle. With his balding head lowered, Callahan led the group over to the set of shelves across from them in the small room, which was fixed firmly against the back wall of the library.
Shooting a reaffirming glance back to Ryszard, the older man raised his wand to the books, tapping a sequence of spines with great consideration before motioning the group of men to take a few steps back. Within seconds, the wall began to produce a low rumble, each book vibrating almost imperceptibly in its place on the shelf. In front of their eyes, the books began to crumple in on themselves, each becoming no thicker than a few sheets of paper. Gradually, the dwindling of texts created a space in the shelves, all the way through to the other side of the wall.
A room opened up before them: one that was occupied only by a long table and its surrounding chairs, all traditional and fashioned from oak. The chair positioned at the head of the table was clearly designated for Ryszard, as it was the largest and most extravagant; although from the lack of ornament in the room, that wasn't saying much. The pack shuffled in, taking care to claim seats in an arrangement that the leader would approve. Ryszard's right hand man confidently seized a chair near the head, whereas Callahan accepted his place towards the back of the room. The wall had soon closed up again, sealed by the blue glow of a protective charm.
"Welcome all," the leader announced with outspread arms as he smiled upon the room, "I must say, it's been awhile." The group of men nodded without emotion, listening intently to what the man had to say.
"I regret to announce that things have gotten far worse since the last time we've gathered," sighed Ryszard, "That son of a bitch they've put in office has successfully managed to implement some of the harshest forms of punishment I've seen in years for any wizards that expose magic, or harm his precious No-Majs." Scoffs arose amongst the room's occupants, chiefly from Thorn, the leader's best friend and most fervent supporter. As the sneers died down, the young man continued.
"Quahog has further made a mockery of our heritage by placing No-Maj scum into places of high power within the MACUSA," he reported, seemingly holding back vomit, "Meanwhile, this shameful movement to abolish the few remaining laws of separation between wizards and No-Majs is gaining influence among the filthy blood-traitors that run our congress."
"These Maj-less pussies have gone too far this time, Ed," Thorn growled to Ryszard, who nodded solemnly in concurrence, "How long are we supposed to hide? Do they expect us to just keep up centuries of this bullshit?"
"That's exactly what they expect, Sebastian," Ryszard replied, laughing dangerously as he met his friends eyes, "And that's exactly why they can't be trusted. Furthermore, that's why we're here: because it's our responsibility to our people all over America to do right by wizardkind."
"How?" uttered a deep voice from the middle of the table. The large, formidable man immediately glanced down to the floor like an embarrassed schoolboy, "I'm sorry, sir. I know how strong we've become. But what if we can't take back all that's ours? What if these blood-traitor bastards seize everything first?"
"We all share in your fears, Wolff," Ryszard soothed, observing as every head at the table began nod in agreement, "That's why the coming months are crucial. Our numbers are stronger than ever. Our influence has spanned throughout the country, and soon, I promise you, we will conquer the Earth. But you all must follow my instructions exactly if you hope to reclaim what belongs to you. Otherwise, our kind is doomed."
Suddenly, the room was silent. Every head at the table had turned to face a man who was sitting towards its far end. He was red-faced, bearded, and just on the cusp of elderly, and he was attempting to dislodge the cap from a flask he had retrieved from beneath his cloak. Ryszard cleared his throat, to which the older man peered upwardly to meet his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Higgins, is it?" the leader asked, feigning civility, "You know the rules don't you? No eating or drinking during our congregations." Higgins replied with a hearty chortle, much to the surprise of other men in the room, who seemed to consider the situation with much more severity.
"My apologies, sir, it's just my throat," the elder wizard explained, "I think my son may have given me the mumblemumps. The healer said if I hope to keep my ability to breathe, I'm supposed to drink the concoction every hour or so." The bearded man seemed to believe that he had clarified the matter, and he waited for Ryszard to continue to speak. However, the younger man simply stared back at him with the austere eyes of a hawk.
"I frankly don't care if you have the black plague, Higgins," the leader spat, unamused, "Our organization has rules for a reason." The room filled with silence, and Ryszard could detect desperation growing in his follower's eyes.
"Please, sir," Higgins pleaded gutturally, "My throat will close up if I don't. I won't be able to breathe." Wordlessly, Ryszard shook his head.
"I'm not going to ask you again," replied the younger man, extending an unapologetic hand towards the objector, "Hand over the flask."
The room went quiet. The flask remained in Higgins' clenched fist, trembling along with the old man's fingers. He stared Ryszard in the eyes, almost daringly in spite of his apparent terror. As their leader waited to be given the bottle, Higgins didn't move; he simply stared. Then, with a quick jerk of his elbow, he went in for a swig.
Before Higgins could reach his lips or even comprehend what had happened, the flask was knocked out of the old man's hands, its contents erupting around them. Beige, vomit-like liquid expanded across the planked floor, filling the room with a rather nasty odor.
"Holy shit, Ed," one of the men exclaimed, "This fucker's drinking Polyjuice potion."
At the wizard's outburst, Higgins leapt onto the table, throwing a small stone with all the force he could muster to the hardwood floor. Within seconds, the room filled with a teal-colored fog, and as the smoke cleared, the surrounding men had all fallen to the floor, each sinking into a deep trance.
Ryszard remained standing, however. He removed the protective charm that he had cast around himself, eyeing the man he had thought was his follower, looking up now to meet the eyes of the wizard who scaled the table. Higgins challenged his stare, keeping his wand outstretched.
"Clever. I didn't even notice that you had switched," Ryszard sneered, almost sounding impressed, "I knew it was the real Higgins who had entered the library with me; I have my methods of ensuring that everyone is who they say they are. You must have jumped him before we entered the room."
The man perched on the table could feel his own paltry patch of hair begin to thicken as he stared down the group leader. His nose burned as it shrunk in size, and his skin tingled as it began to tighten across his face and body. Ryszard, however, was unmoved.
"Actually, I'm willing to bet you've infiltrated us more than once," the leader pressed on, seemingly unconcerned with the metamorphosis taking place before him, "I suppose there was a little miscalculation on the Polyjuice concentration this time around, huh? You must be one cocky bastard to bring that shit into my meeting room."
The hair atop the transforming man had ceased to grow at about shoulder length, changing from a tuft of grey to a mop of reddish-brown. He had lost nearly a foot in height, pained from the immense stress coursing through his condensing limbs. As the person wearing Higgins' face continued to return to her original form, Ryszard had suddenly become intrigued.
"But who are you?"
The woman that remained stepped closer to the group leader, wand pointed directly between his dark, mocking eyes. Higgins' clothes hung ridiculously off of her scrawny frame, but nevertheless, she held her ground. It took Ryszard only a moment to recognize her as the young librarian who, after close, always seemed so slow to leave.
"I am Auror Rosalind Warner, MACUSA.," she bellowed, pressing her wand to the criminal's forehead, "And I feel I must tell you this up front, Ryszard: there isn't a chance in the world that you're leaving this room alive."
At her statement, Ryszard began to chuckle, which soon grew into an unruly howl. The auror had to exercise restraint to keep from using the killing curse at that very moment.
Not yet, Ro, she reminded herself, There's still more you need to find out.
Ryszard's harsh laughter soon faded, and he responded to her claim with a simple, knowing smile. A smile, and a few mocking words.
"Ah. That, little Rosie, is where you are dead wrong."