although this story was put together by me, it is based on the scorched ire forum, which is headed by the unwritten vacancy. the following is the list of people who posted in the forum and thereby co-wrote this story:

- the unwritten vacancy
- riseha
- galesynch
- outside the crayon box
- giselle satomi
- urau
- angelic fluffle
- delusionalfun
- he-who-shall-live
- chase 'a' winter

please read, review, and i hope you enjoy!

~ joyana ~

It has been said that a person's personality and actions are dependent upon the soul they receive, but Angelo Vance knew differently.

If, per say, someone looked in the mirror at this second, what would they see? Perhaps a tiny scar, unnoticeable but to the one who owned it, protruding from the corner of the lip? Possibly the newly formed crinkles in their forehead? Maybe the twisted tissues on the mouth were formed during a particularly harsh argument with a younger brother, and the recently created wrinkles were the result of being a forty nine year old mother of a newborn fifth child.

Humans were not their souls. Humans were their experiences. Take a person's background away, and they would be nothing more than plain clay awaiting a talented sculptor.

In other words, everyone was the same, until the day comes that they were not.

As Mr. Vance gazed upon the weary face of his boss, he wondered what gruesome trials the man must have faced to gain such a dismal air.

Mr. Browne's entire being radiated sorrow, from his pale eyes to the droop of his feathering lips. His glasses were perched precariously on his nose, threatening to slip to the ground and shatter any second. But even though he appeared weak, he had not given up.

The glasses, however, were surprising. Mr. Vance, who had never met this particular superior of his, was mildly surprised to see them. In this day and age, it was highly uncommon for a wizard, especially a highly successful head of the Department of Mysteries, to bother himself with such petty Muggle ideas, when it was all too easy to repair one's sight with a simple flick of the wand. Mr. Vance knew that he was not one to speak, as his tastes coincided almost perfectly with the preferred style of wealthy Muggle men, but at least he had the sense to entertain his customs only when he was alone.

"Vance." The voice was low, with a strong British accent and a touch of condescension. "I welcome you, but I cannot help but wonder what follies are important enough to be brought to my attention."

The insult was nicely worded, sprinkled with enough multi-syllable words as to be confusing.

"Not follies, sir, but rumors," Mr. Vance replied, keeping his tone quiet but pleasant.

"Rumors?" Mr. Browne smirked. "Ah, but surely a man of your great capability must be aware of the unreliability of such types of remarks."

Mr. Vance pasted a smile across his cheeks, nodding acquiescently but remaining firm. "Sir, I am sure you understand that I would not be inclined to say something had these comments been nothing but falsity. However, I am afraid that it would be a mistake not to alert you that these rumors indeed hold at least a few grains of truth. You see, people are talking of a prophecy, one that was fulfilled twenty two years ago."

Mr. Browne's sightless eyes flashed, and for a split second his hands clenched into fists. "You are speaking, I presume, of the prognostication involving Harry Potter and He Who Must Not Be Named?"

"I am, sir. My fellow Unspeakables claim that they have found the prophecy seated on its original shelf, whole and undamaged. I cannot comment on the veracity of this statement, having not seen for myself the situation, but I do know for a fact that the container was destroyed barely a year before the beginning of the second Wizarding war."

"That is physically impossible," Mr. Browne declared, but his voice shook slightly. "Once annihilated or carried out, a prophecy cannot be recreated nor replaced."

"I suggest you see for yourself, sir. After all, as you know, news of new Death Eater attacks has been spreading across the nation. It may be possible that they are regrouping under a new leader, who may very well take up his former master's name in an effort to introduce a new reign of terror in the hearts of the people who never have and never will forget the war."

Mr. Browne barely concealed his contempt for the topic as he snarled, "The Death Eaters are simply not capable of returning to power, Vance. Good day to you."

Obeying the man's order for obvious dismissal without question, Mr. Vance strode towards the door to Mr. Browne's office and let himself out. As he gripped the silver knob to pull it closed behind him, a sliver of a smile snaked across the man's face. He had done what he meant to do: planted a seed of fear inside the Ministry. Soon, the people would panic, and they would be needing a new beacon of hope in dark times. Mr. Vance, along with the rest of the Order of the Phoenix, would provide that light, and gain power.

And Angelo Vance knew exactly what he was going to do with it.